WHAT A RIFLE-SHOT DID
The moment the young Kentuckian assumed this attitude, he became
aware that the cougar had determined upon hostilities.
With a rasping snarl he buried his claws in the shaggy bark,
pressing his body still closer to the limb, and then shot downward
straight toward Jack, who was too vigilant to be caught unprepared.
Leaping backward a couple of steps, he brought his gun to his
shoulder, like a flash, and fired almost at the moment the animal
left his perch. There could be no miss under the circumstances, and
the "painter" received his death wound, as may be said, while in
mid-air. He struck the ground with a heavy thump, made a blind leap
toward the youthful hunter, who recoiled several steps more, and
then, after a brief struggle, the beast lay dead.
During these moments, Jack Carleton, following the rule he was
taught when first given his gun, occupied himself with reloading the
weapon. A charge of powder was poured from the hollow cow's horn,
with its wooden stopper, into the palm of his hand, and this went
rattling like fine sand down the barrel. The square piece of muslin
was hammered on top until the ramrod almost bounded from the gun;
then the bullet which the youthful hunter had molded himself, was
shoved gently but firmly downward, backed by another bit of muslin.
The ramrod was pushed into its place, and the hammer, clasping the yellow,
translucent flint, was drawn far back, like the jaw of a wild cat,
and the black grains sprinkled into the pan. The jaw was slowly let
back so as to hold the priming fast, and the old fashioned rifle, such
as our grandfathers were accustomed to use, was ready for duty.
Jack surveyed the motionless figure on the ground and said:
"I don't think you'll ever amount to anything again as a painter; at
any rate, you ain't likely to drop on to a fellow's head when he is
walking under a tree."
And, without giving him any further notice, he turned about and
resumed his walk toward the Mississippi.
It was vain, however, for him to seek to suppress his anxiety. The
trail of the flying horse still indicated that he was going on a
dead run, and some unusual cause must have impelled him to do so.
Jack could not doubt that his friend Otto was driven to such severe
effort by the appearance of Indians, but it would seem that the
terrific gait of the Steed ought to have taken him beyond all danger
very speedily, whereas, for more than a mile, the pace showed not
the slightest diminution.
At the most, Otto was not more than an hour in advance, and his
friend, therefore, had good reason to fear he was in the immediate
vicinity of the dreaded red men.
The young hunter was brave, but he was not reckless. He had refused
to turn aside to avoid a collision with the cougar, but he did not
hesitate to leave the trail, in the hope of escaping the savages who
were likely to be attracted by the report of the gun.
From the beginning the lad had stepped as lightly as possible,
bringing his feet softly but squarely down on the ground, after the
fashion of the American Indian, when threading his way through the
trackless forest. He now used the utmost care in leaving the trail,
for none knew better than he the amazing keenness of the dark eyes
that were liable to scan the ground over which he had passed.
Not until he was several rods from the footprints of the flying
horse did he advance with anything like assurance. He then moved
with more certainty until he reached a chestnut, whose trunk was
broad enough to afford all the concealment he could desire.
Stepping behind this, Jack assumed a position which gave him a view
of the trail, with no likelihood of being seen, unless the suspicion
of the Indians should be directed to the spot.
"If they are coming, it is time they showed themselves."
The words were yet in the mouth of the youth, when something seemed
to twinkle and flicker among the trees, in advance of the point
where he had turned aside from the path. A second look allowed that
two Indian warriors were returning along the trail.
He recognized them as Shawanoes--one of the fiercest tribes that
resisted the march of civilization a century ago. It may be said
that they corresponded to the Apaches of the present day.
The couple were scrutinizing the ground, as they advanced with heads
thrown forward and their serpent-like eyes flitting from side to
side. Manifestly they were expecting to discover certain parties
along the trail itself. There may have been something in the
peculiar sound of the rifle, which raised their suspicions, though
it is hard to understand wherein the report of two similarly made
weapons can possess any perceptible difference.
Be that as it may, that which Jack Carleton feared had taken
place--the shot which killed the cougar brought far more dangerous
enemies to the spot.
The lad would have had no difficulty in picking off one of the
warriors, but he had not the remotest intention of doing so. There
could be no justification for such a wanton act, and the consequences
could not fail to be disastrous to himself. He was never better
prepared to support the creed of the frontiersmen who would willingly
leave the red men unmolested if they in turn sought to do them no harm.
The Shawanoes soon passed by, making no pause until they reached the
carcass of the panther. They quickly saw the bullet-wound, between
his fore legs, and understood that his heart had been pierced while
in the act of leaping from his perch upon the hunter beneath. A
brief scrutiny of the ground brought to light the impressions of the
calf-skin shoes of him who had fired the fatal shot.
They understood at once that the party was a white person, and,
judging from the size of the footprints, he clearly was an adult-one
who, it was safe to conclude, was able to taking good care of
himself; but it must have been a relief to the warriors when their
examination of the earth showed that only a single member of the
detested race had been concerned in the death of the cougar.
That which followed was precisely what the watcher expected. The
moment the red men were certain of the direction taken by the hunter
they started along the same line. The foremost looked down for an
instant at the ground, and then seemed to dart a glance at every
visible point around him. The other warrior did not once look down,
but guarded against running into any ambush for it need not be said
that the task on which they were engaged was most delicate and
dangerous.
The American Indian cannot excel the white man in woodcraft and
subtlety, and no Kentucky pioneer ever stood still and allowed a
dusky foe to creep upon him.
It will be conceded that a point had been reached where Jack
Carleton had good cause for alarm. Those Shawanoe were following
his trail, and they had but to keep it up for a short distance when
he was certain to be "uncovered."
"I wish there was only one of them," muttered the youth, stealthily
peering from behind the tree; "it will be hard to manage two."
The coolness of Jack was extraordinary. Though he felt the
situation was critical in the highest degree, yet there was not a
tremor of the muscles, nor blanching of the countenance, as it would
seem was inevitable when such a desperate encounter impended.
There was a single, shadowy hope; it was fast growing dark in the
woods, and the eyes of the Shawanoes, keen as they were, must soon
fail them. The sun had set and twilight already filled the forest
arches with gloom.
Peering around the bark, Jack saw the leading Indian bend lower,
leaving to the other the task of guarding against mishap. He walked
more slowly; it was plain his task was not only difficult, but was
becoming more so every moment.
Jack followed the movements with rapt attention. Knowing the
precise point where he had left the path, his heart throbbed faster
than was its wont, when he saw his enemies close to the tingle in
his course. A half minute later they were beyond--they had overrun
his trail.
A short distance only was passed, when the warriors seemed to
suspect the truth. They came to a halt, and the trail-hunter sank
upon his knees. His head was so close to the ground that it looked
as if he were drawing lines and figures with his curving nose, which
slowly circled around and back and forth. At the same time the palm
of his right hand gently moved over the leaves, touching them as
lightly as the falling snowflakes, and with as wonderful delicacy as
that of the blind reader, when his fingers are groping over the
raised letters of the Book of Life.
The young Kentuckian from his place of concealment smiled to
himself.
"There are some things which even a Shawanoe, cannot do, and that's
one of them."
Such was the fact; for, with that care which the trained pioneer
never permits himself to forget or disregard, the lad had adopted
every artifice at his command to add to the difficulty of
identifying his footsteps.
The warrior straightened up with an impatient "Ugh!" which brought
another smile to the face of the watcher, for it proved beyond
question the failure of his foes.
The Shawanoe, however, had established one fact--the overrunning of
the trail. The one for whom they were searching had left the path
at some point behind them. Scant chance was there of learning the
precise spot.
"Follow me if you can," was the exultant thought of Jack, who
carefully lowered the hammer of his rifle. "I'm glad that as the
painter was determined on picking a quarrel with me he did not do it
earlier in the day--helloa!"
While speaking to himself, he became aware that the warriors were
invisible. They may have believed they were acting as oscillating
targets for some hidden enemy, who was likely to press the trigger
at any moment; and, unable even to approximate as they were his
biding-place, they withdrew in their characteristic fashion.
Jack thrust his head still further from behind the tree, and finally
stepped forth that he might obtain the best view he could. But the
red men had vanished like the shadows of swiftly-moving clouds.
Nothing more was to be feared from that source.
But with the lifting of the peril from his own shoulders, there
returned his distressing anxiety for his absent companion. No doubt
could exist that when he put his horse to his hurried flight, he had
done so to escape the Indians. Whether he had succeeded remained to
be learned, but Jack felt that every probability was against it.
He might well debate as to his own duty in the premises. His one
desire was to learn what had become of Otto, the German lad, with
whom he left the Settlements a couple of days before. Neither had
ever visited this section, but they were following the instructions
of those who had, and the young Kentuckian knew the precise point in
their journey that had been reached.
Standing as motionless as the trees beside him and amid the
darkening shadows, Jack Carleton listened with the intentness of an
Indian scout stealing into a hostile camp.
The soft murmur which seems to reach us when a sea-shell is held to
the ear filled the air. It was the voice of the night--the sighing
of the scarcely moving wind among the multitudinous branches, the
restless movements of myriads of trees--the soft embrace of millions
of leaves, which, like the great ocean itself, even when the air is
pulseless, is never at rest.
Jack Carleton had spent too many days and nights in the woods to be
greatly impressed with the solemnity and grandeur of his
surroundings. That which would have awed his soul, if noted for the
first time, had lost the power to do so from its familiarity; but
while in the attitude of listening, he became conscious of another
sound which did not belong to the vast forest, the throbbing air,
nor the gathering darkness.