THE COUNTRYMAN.
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.
SHAKSPEARE.
The crackling of the bushes continued, while the Rifleman compressed
his lips and stood like a tiger at bay. In a moment he saw a man making
his way through the tangled shrubbery, and almost immediately he
lowered his rifle with an expression of disappointment. The individual
before him was so different from what he expected, that a fuller notice
of him is necessary, especially as he now takes his place as one of the
_dramatis personae_ of this tale.
He appeared to be an awkward countryman, cowardly, ignorant of
wood-craft, and completely bewildered by the dangers that beset him.
His dress was half-savage and half-civilized, torn and disfigured, as
if he had been running at the top of his speed through a thicket of
briers and brambles. The only weapon he carried was a large knife
firmly grasped in his hand. His face was blank and expressionless, save
that it bore the impress of great animal fear, now mingled with
surprise at confronting our two friends so unexpectedly. His head was
round, bullet-like, with sandy hair, while the face seemed stained and
begrimed with dirt and perspiration. He stood a moment with both hands
stretched stiffly downward, his mouth wide open, apparently unable to
find words to express his astonishment.
"Well, young man, good-day to you," said Dernor, advancing toward him.
"Good-day--good-day; fine weather for corn," he repeated, as if anxious
to gain the good opinion of the hunter.
"How came you in these parts, my friend?"
"Heaven save you, I _run_ here. The Injins have been after me."
"They didn't catch you?"
"No, sir," replied the young man, bursting into a loud guffaw. "I run
too fast."
"What might be your name?"
"Zeke Hunt, but I'm derned 'fraid it won't be any name at all if I stay
in these parts much longer. Oh, dear," whined the young man, "I wish I
was back in Pennsylvany, on the farm."
"What made you leave it?"
"The old man whipped me, and I run away."
"Why don't you go back?"
"I'd rather meet all the painted Injins in the woods than him. He'd
whip me all through the town."
"No doubt you deserve it."
"Boo-hoo! you ain't going to lick me too, are you?" plead the man,
gouging one eye with his finger.
"No, no; don't make a fool of yourself. What would I wish to hurt you
for?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. I'm 'fraid of everybody."
"See here, Zeke, was there any Injins chasing you, just now?"
"Yes--no. I've been clear of them a long time, I run so fast; but I'm
just as afeard, as I s'pose the Injins are all over the woods."
"Not so bad as that, though we'd be willing to get along if there was a
few less."
"Yes, that's so. Got any thing to eat?"
"No, but we'll soon have something."
"Can I go 'long with you?" asked the frightened fellow.
"If you wish to, provided you do what I want you to."
"Oh, I'll do any thing for you. Who's that with you?" he questioned,
peering around the hunter, who, although he had advanced a few steps,
still stood in front of Edith.
"A young friend, Miss Edith Sudbury."
"Glad to see you," said the young man, with an awkward bow.
"But see here," pursued the Rifleman, "how comes it you are in these
woods at all? You didn't come all the way from Pennsylvany alone?"
"Oh, no--oh, no. I came down the Ohio in a flat-boat."
"How is it that you are here, then?"
"The other day we stopped along the shore a while, and I went off in
the woods, and got lost. When I found my way back, the flat-boat had
gone, and I was left alone. I've been wandering around ever since, and
am nearly starved to death. Be you two hunting?"
"No, we are making our way to a settlement some miles off. Do you wish
to go with us?"
"Yes, anywhere to get out of these derned woods. Gracious! what a big
job it'll be to cut all these trees down," said young Hunt, looking
above and around him, as though absorbed with this new idea.
"A big job, certainly; but there'll be a big lot to do it when the time
comes. There don't appear to be any reason why we should wait, and so
we'll move ahead."
"Which way are you going?"
"Right ahead."
"Over the same ground that I come over?"
"I s'pose so."
"Oh, heavens! you are lost if you do. Don't do that."
"What's the matter? Any danger?"
"The woods are chuck full of Injins, I tell you. There must have
somebody passed that way and they looking for them, there are so many."
Dernor turned and spoke to Edith:
"No doubt he is right. It is but what I suspected. What shall I do?
Take a longer way home, and a safer one, or the short route?"
"Take the _safest_, whichever that may be."
"That is the longest. Come on, friend."
"I'm follerin'," replied that worthy, striding after him.
It was considerably past the hour of noon, and the brisk walk through
the woods had given the Rifleman an appetite something akin to that of
his new-found companion, so that he did not forget the expressed wish
of the latter. He had no difficulty in bringing down another turkey and
cooking it. There was one peculiarity which did not escape either
Dernor or Edith. On the part of the latter it occasioned no concern,
but it was the subject of considerable wonder and speculation with the
former. Zeke Hunt, as he called himself, professed to be ravenously
hungry; but when the tempting, juicy meat of the turkey was placed
before him, he swallowed but a few mouthfuls. This was a small matter,
it was true, and with any one except the Rifleman, would have escaped
notice but this sagacious hunter considered it of so much importance as
to ask an explanation.
"You appeared to be dying with hunger, and now, when food is offered,
you hardly touch it. What is the meaning of that?"
"I don't know," said Zeke, wiping his fingers on the hair of his head.
"Yes, you do know. Tell me the meaning of it."
"S'pose I ain't hungry."
"Isn't the bird cooked well enough?"
"Wouldn't hurt if 'twas cooked better."
The Rifleman at first was disposed to resent this insult, but, on
second thought, he set the man down as a fool, and one unworthy of
notice. There is no disguising the fact that his action had given the
hunter an unpleasant suspicion, which, however, was dissipated by the
perfect coolness with which he met his inquiry.
"I guess yer ain't used to cookin', be you?" he asked, perfectly
unabashed by the frigid manner of the hunter.
"I've done considerable, sir, in the last few years."
"Don't say so. Shouldn't have thought it, from the way that thing
looks."
"What is the matter with this cooking, I should like to know; eh?"
"Oh, nothin', as I knows on. The gal appears to like it well enough."
"Indeed I do," said Edith, unable to restrain a laugh at the manner of
their new companion, who, seeing it, rolled his head back and gave an
answering "horse-laugh" that could have been heard a half-mile distant.
"Don't let me hear that agin," said the Rifleman, rising to his feet.
"Why don't you want to hear it?" asked Zeke, in blank astonishment.
"It's no wonder the flat-boat left you, if you were in the habit of
making such noises as that. It's enough to wake every sleeping Injin in
these woods."
"It'll scare 'em, I guess, won't it?"
"I should think it would, so don't try it agin."
"Done eatin'?"
"Yes, of course."
"Thought it was about time."
"We will not reach home to-night," said the Rifleman, speaking to
Edith. "I'm sorry, for they'll be worried about us."
"I am sorry, too, for I dislike to remain in the woods so long."
"This fellow will be of little use to us, as he doesn't appear to know
any thing. I can't understand how he has come this far. He's been
lucky, I s'pose, but whether we're going to be, with him along, is more
than I can tell."
"Of course you won't turn him off. It would be cruel," said Edith,
sincerely commiserating the helpless situation of the young man.
"As long as he behaves himself, and it doesn't make it any more
dangerous for you, he can stay with us; but he mustn't open that big
mouth of his as wide as he did just now."
"Hello! how long afore you're goin' to start?" called out Zeke, as our
two friends stood talking together.
"Follow behind us, and make no noise, if you want to save your
top-knot."
"Hope there ain't no danger of that happening, after I've come as far
as this all right."
The three moved forward once again, the movements of the Rifleman
characterized by his usual caution, while Zeke Hunt straddled along at
a most awkward gait, kicking up the leaves, and breaking and bending
the undergrowth in such a manner as to make the care of the hunter
entirely useless. In this manner they traveled until nightfall, when
they reached the banks of a small brook, beside which it was decided to
encamp for the night. During the latter part of the day it had been
steadily growing colder, so that, after some deliberation, Dernor
concluded to start a fire.
"You don't s'pose the Injins will see it, do you?" asked Hunt.
"I'm sure I can't tell. Why do you ask?"
"'Cause, if _they_ are goin' to see it, I want to get out the way. I
don't s'pose you've traveled the woods much, have you?"
"Probably as much as you have."
"You have, eh?"
There was something in the tone in which this was uttered that made the
hunter turn and look at Zeke Hunt. As he did so, he saw an expression
of his greenish, gray goggle-eyes that made him feel certain, for the
minute, that he had seen him before. It may have been a fancy, for the
expression was gone instantly, and succeeded by the same blank,
half-idiotic look.
This was the second time the same unpleasant suspicion had entered the
mind of the Rifleman, and he was resolved, at the least, to keep an eye
upon Zeke Hunt. While it was not at all impossible that the story he
had told was true in every particular, still there was an air of
improbability about it, which could not escape the notice of so
quick-sighted a man as Dernor, and, from this time forward, every
action or word of the awkward countryman was watched with a jealous
eye.
The fire which was kindled was carefully screened, so that it would not
be apt to catch the eye of any one in the neighborhood. After some
conversation between the hunter and Edith, the latter wrapped his
blanket over her own, and, thus protected, lay down upon the ground.
The weariness and fatigue brought on by the day's travel soon
manifested itself in a deep, dreamless, refreshing sleep.
"Are you going to stay up all night?" asked Dernor of the countryman.
"I don't know whether I am or not."
"Ain't you sleepy?"
"Don't feel much so jest now; s'pose I mought after a while."
"You have traveled enough. Why don't you feel sleepy?"
"Haw! haw! haw! what a question. How do I know why I ain't sleepy? You
don't appear so yourself."
"I ain't, either."
"You've done as much tramping as I have."
"That may be; but I'm used to it, and you ain't."
"Don't know 'bout that. Used to do good 'eal of it up on the farm. Say,
you, did you ever hear of the Riflemen of the Miami?"
"Yes, very often. They are sometimes seen in these parts."
"I'd like to jine them 'ere fellers."
"You jine 'em!" repeated Dernor, contemptuously. "You'd be a pretty
chap to go with them. Them chaps, sir, is _hunters_!" he added, in a
triumphant tone.
"Jest what I s'posed, and that's why I wanted to jine 'em."
"Can you shoot?"
"Ef you'll lend me your iron there a minute, I'll show you what I can
do."
"It is dark now. There is no chance to show your skill. Wait till
morning."
"Very well, don't forget. I've done some shootin', fur all I ain't used
to Injins. But, I say, do you know the head feller of them Riflemen?"
"I'm very well acquainted with him."
"What sort of a chap is he?"
"Good deal such a man as I am."
"Haw! haw! great man to be the leader. Hope you're never taken for him,
be you?"
"Very often--because _I am_ the leader of the Riflemen myself."
"Get out," said the countryman, as if he expected to be bitten. "You
can't make me believe that."
"It makes no difference to me whether you believe it or not. If you
make much more noise, like enough you'll find out who I am."
"Be you really the leader of the Riflemen?" queried Zeke Hunt, not
noticing the warning which had just been uttered.
"I've told you once, so let's hear no more about it."
"My gracious! you don't look much like one. 'Pears to me you and I look
a good deal alike. Don't you think so?"
"Heaven save me, _I hope_ not."
"Oh, I'm willing that it should be so. I ain't offended."
The impudence of the countryman was so consummate that Dernor could not
restrain a laugh at it.
"They always considered me good-looking down hum," he added; "and there
wasn't a gal I wasn't able to get if I wanted her."
"I should think you would be anxious to get back again."
"Would be, if it wasn't for the old man. He was _awful_ on me. Didn't
appear to be proud of me at all."
"Queer, sure. I don't see how he could help it."
"Me neither. Dad was always mad, though, and used to aboose me
shameful. The fust thing in my life that I can remember was of gettin'
a lickin'."
"What was it for?"
"Nothin' worth tellin'. I was a little feller then, and one day heated
the poker red-hot, and run it down grandmother's back. But there!
didn't he lam me for that! Always was whippin' me. School-teacher was
just as bad. Licked me like blazes the fust day."
"Did he lick you for nothin'?"
"Purty near. Didn't do any thing except to put a handful of gunpowder
in a dry inkstand, and then touch it off under his chair. Haw! haw!
haw! didn't he jump? and oh gracious!" he added, in a solemn tone,
"didn't I jump, too, when he fell on me."
"You seem to have been about the biggest scamp in the country. Why did
he whip you this last time when you run away?"
"Hadn't any more reason than he had at other times. I tried to take Ann
Parsons home from singing-school, and she wouldn't let me. That was the
reason."
"He couldn't have whipped you for that."
"Well, it all come from that. I followed her home, and jest give her my
opinion of her, and when her old man undertook to say any thing, I jest
pitched in and walloped him."
"You had a sensible father, and it's a pity he hasn't got you now, for
I don't care any thing about your company."
"You going to turn me off? You said you wouldn't."
"And I shan't, I tell you agin, as long as you behave yourself. If you
cac'late to go with me to the settlement, you must not have too much to
say. Remember that we are still in dangerous territory, and a little
foolishness by either of us may bring a pack of the red-skins upon us."
"Just what I thought. I'm sleepy."
And without further ceremony, he lolled over on the ground, and in a
few minutes, to all appearances, was sound asleep. Intently watching
his face for a time, the Rifleman now and then saw his eyelids partly
unclose, as if he wished to ascertain whether any one was scrutinizing
him. The somewhat lengthy conversation which we have taken the pains to
record, had about disarmed the hunter of the suspicions which had been
lingering with him for a long time. He believed Zeke Hunt an ignorant
fellow, who had been left along the Ohio river, as he had related, and
who had not yet learned that trait of civilized society, carefully to
conceal his thoughts and feelings when in conversation. The impression
which he first felt, of having met him before, might easily arise from
his resemblance to some former acquaintance.
Still, the Rifleman was by no means so forgetful of his charge as to
indulge in slumber, when there was the remotest probability of danger
threatening her. Inured as he was to all manner of hardships and
suffering, it was no difficult matter for him to spend several nights
in succession without sleep. He therefore watched over her through the
second night, never, for a single moment, allowing himself to become
unconscious. Several times he saw the countryman raise his head and
change his position, and when spoken to, heard him mutter something
about it being "derned hard to sleep with his head on the soft side of
a stone, and one side toasted and the other froze."
The hours wore away without any incident worth mentioning, and at the
first appearance of day Edith was astir and ready to resume the
journey. Enough of the turkey, slain on the day before, remained to
give each a sufficient meal, and with cheerful spirits upon the part of
all, the three again took up their march through the wilderness.
The route which the information of the countryman led the hunter to
adopt was such that he expected to reach the settlement in the course
of the afternoon. It will thus be seen that it was a very circuitous
one--they, in fact, being already several miles north of their
destination. As yet, the eagle eye of the hunter had discovered no
danger, and their march was continued without interruption until noon,
when they halted for a few minutes' rest.
"If you haint no 'bjection, I'll try a shot with your gun," said Zeke
Hunt, "bein' as you thought I couldn't shoot any."
"I'd rather not have my rifle fired at present, youngster, as ears that
we don't fancy might hear it."
"You're only afeard I might beat you, that's all."
This remark so nettled the hunter that he resolved to gratify his
disagreeable companion.
"Put up your mark, then," said he, "and as far off as you choose."
The countryman walked to a tree somewhat over a hundred yards distant,
and with his knife clipped off a small piece of bark, leaving a
gleaming spot, an inch or two in diameter.
"You fire first," said he, as he came back.
The hunter drew up his rifle, and pausing hardly a second to take aim,
buried the bullet fairly in the center of the target.
"Whew! that's derned good; don't believe I can beat it much; but I'll
try."
The gun was quickly reloaded, and, after taking aim and adjusting it
nearly a dozen times, Zeke Hunt fired, missing the tree altogether. As
he ran to ascertain the result of his shot, instead of handing the
rifle to Dernor, he carried it, apparently without thinking, with him.
When he had carefully examined the mark, he proceeded to reload it,
before returning. This was so natural an occurrence, that the hunter
received his weapon without noticing it.
"Want to fire again?" asked the countryman.
"No, it isn't worth while."
"I give in, but think I'll be up to you after a little practice."
About half an hour afterward, as they were walking along, Dernor, by a
mere accident, happened to look at the pan of his rifle and saw that
the priming had been removed. A moment's reflection convinced him that
this had been done by Zeke Hunt, not accidentally, but on purpose. The
hunter managed to reprime without being noticed, and he made a vow that
this apparent lubber should henceforth be watched with a lynx-eye.
They had gone scarcely a half-mile further, when the latter came up
beside Edith, and remarked that he had been taken sick.
"Don't you feel able to walk?" she asked.
"I'm dreadful afeard I shall have to ax you to pause for a while," he
said, manifesting that peculiar repugnance to receiving kindness,
which, singularly enough is manifested more or less by every person in
similar circumstances.
"What's the matter?" gruffly asked Dernor, who was still meditating
upon the incident we have mentioned above.
"Sick," groaned Zeke Hunt, apparently in great misery.
"What has made you sick?"
"I don't know; allers was considered delicate."
"How do you feel?"
"_Jest as though I wanted to whistle!_" was the curious reply and
placing his finger in his mouth, the fellow gave a sound that would
have done credit to an ordinary locomotive.
"If you make that noise again I'll shoot you," said the Rifleman, now
fairly convinced that mischief was intended. Without heeding his
threat, the sick man arose to the upright position, and with flashing
eyes, repeated the sound.
"I gave you warning," said Dernor, raising his gun, pointing it at his
breast, and pulling the trigger. It missed fire!
"I guess you'll have to fix up that load a little," said Zeke Hunt,
"and afore you can do that, you're likely to have visitors."
The Rifleman clubbed his gun and advanced toward the man. The latter
drew his knife, and said:
"Keep off, Lew Dernor; don't you know me?"
"I've been a fool," said the hunter. "Yes, I know you through your
disguise, _Simon Girty_. I see what you have been trying to do, but you
will never take one of us alive. I hear the tramp of the coming Indians
that he has signaled," he added, addressing Edith, "and there is not a
minute to lose."
So saying, he placed his arm around her waist, and started off at a
rapid run.