A MERRY NIGHT
The long whine, a mingling of ferocity, fear and perhaps of hunger too,
came from a point nearer than before, and Henry was confirmed in his
opinion that Wyatt's main band had been joined by other and smaller
ones, thus enabling them to form a circle practically continuous,
through which the wolves had not dared to break. The pack, moreover, was
steadily being driven in toward the center of the circle which was
naturally the rocky hollow. He foresaw further complications.
Henry was very thoughtful. Affairs were not going as he had expected,
and yet he was not disappointed. He had believed that he would have to
show great activity himself, slipping here and there, and putting in a
timely shot or two, but other factors had entered into the situation,
and, with his normal flexibility of mind, he resolved at once to put
them to the best use.
The wind was blowing from the pack toward him, and, if it shifted, he
meant to shift with it, but meanwhile he made himself as inconspicuous
as possible, finding a small depression in which he stretched his body,
thus being hidden from any eye except the keenest. Although the night
was far advanced, it retained its quality of silky or luminous
brightness, the whole world still swimming in the silver haze which the
full moon and the countless stars cast.
He wondered what had become of the scratched and angry panther. Endowed
with strength, but only with a fitful courage, it too must be lying
somewhere near in the forest, torn by wrath and perplexity. He was quite
sure that like the wolves it was encircled by the Indian ring, and would
not dare the attempt to break it. He was compelled to laugh once more to
himself. It was, in truth, a merry night.
But as the laugh died in his throat his whole body gave a nervous
quiver. A cry came from a point not ten yards distant, a long,
melancholy, quavering sound, not without a hint of ferocity, in fact the
complaining voice of an owl. The imitation of the owl was a favorite
signal with the forest runners, both white and red, but Henry knew at
once that this cry was real. Looking long and thoroughly, he saw at last
the feathered and huddled shape on the bough of an oak. It was a huge
owl, and the rays of the moon struck it at such an angle that they made
it look ghostly and unsubstantial. Had Henry been superstitious, had he
been steeped too much in Indian lore, he would have called it a phantom
owl. Nay, it looked, in very truth, like such a phantom, taking the
shape of an owl, and, despite all his mind and courage, a little shudder
ran through him.
Again the great owl cried his loneliness and sorrows to the night. It
was a tremendous note, mournful, uncanny and ferocious, and it seemed to
Henry that it must go miles through the clear air, until it came back in
a dying echo, more sinister than its full strength had been. The Indian
cast was bringing into the net more than Wyatt or any of the warriors
had anticipated, but the owl at least was hooting its defiance.
The singular combination of the night and circumstance affected Henry's
own spirit. He was touched less by the present and reality than by his
sense of another time and the primordial elements became strong within
him. In effect he was transported far back into those dim ages, when man
fought with the stone axe, and his five senses were so preternaturally
acute to protect his life that he had a sixth and perhaps a seventh. A
whiff came on the wind. It was faint, because it had traveled far, but
he knew it to be the odor of the panther. The big cowardly beast was
crouched in a little valley to his right, and he was trembling,
trembling at the approaching warriors, trembling at the great youth who
lay in the depression, trembling at the unknown and monstrous creature
that had plunged its iron claws into him in the dark, and trembling at
the cry of the owl which it had heard so often before, but which struck
now with a new terror upon its small and frightened brain.
Henry's own feeling of the supernatural passed. It was merely the old,
old world in which he must fight for his life and turn aside the bands
from his comrades and himself. Although the warriors had not called
again to one another he divined that they were closing in, and he
thought rapidly and with all the intensity and clearness demanded by the
situation.
The owl hooted once more, the tremendous note swelling far over the
wilderness, and then returning in its melancholy whine. Instantly
setting his lips and swelling all the muscles of his mighty throat he
gave back the cry, long, full and a match in its loneliness and ferocity
for the owl's own call. Then he crouched so close that he seemed fairly
to press himself into the earth.
He saw the owl on the bough move a little and he knew that it was in a
state of stupid amazement. Like the panther its brain was adapted only
to its own affairs and environment, else it would have made some
progress in all the ages, and the cry of an owl coming from the ground
when owls usually cried from trees was more than it could understand.
Nevertheless it soon gave forth its long complaining note once more, and
Henry promptly matched it. He was thinking not so much of its effect
upon the owl as upon the Indians. Delicate as their senses were, they
were not as delicate as his, and they might think the two notes were
those of challenge indicating that the whole five, reinforced perhaps by
a half dozen stalwart hunters, were within the ring, ready and eager to
give battle, setting in very truth a trap of their own.
He heard presently the cry of a wolf from a point at least a half mile
away, and it was answered from another segment of the circle at an
equal distance. The sounds, as he easily discerned, were made by
warriors, and it was absolutely certain now that the voices of the owls
had caused them to pause and think. Having thus started this train he
felt that he could wait and see what would happen, but he was stirred by
curiosity, and he pulled himself forward until the thicket ended, and
the earth fell away into the deep ravine that ran before the stony
hollow.
He kept himself hidden in the edge of the dense bushes, but he could see
in various directions. The great owl on the bough was quivering a
little, as if it were still amazed and terrified by the answer to its
own calls, coming from the heart of the earth itself and surcharged with
mystery. The moonlight turned it to a feathery mass of silver in which
the cruel beak and claws showed like sharp pieces of steel. Yet the bird
did not fly away, and Henry knew that it was held by fear as well as
curiosity, the dangers near seeming less than those far.
He looked then down into the ravine, and he was startled by the sight of
the wolf pack at full attention. The wolves of the Mississippi Valley
were not as large as the great timber wolf of the mountains, but when
driven by hunger they showed like their brethren elsewhere extreme
ferocity, and were known to devour human beings. Now the wolves like the
owl were magnified in the luminous moonlight, and one at their head
seemed to be truly of gigantic size. He reminded Henry of the king wolf
that had pursued Shif'less Sol and himself, and he had a singular fancy
that he was the same great brute, reincarnated. He shivered at his own
thought, and then chided himself fiercely. The king wolf had been
killed, he was as dead as a stone, and he could not come back to earth
to plague him.
But the beast, like the bird, was truly monstrous. He stood upon a
slight mound at the bottom of the ravine, and his figure bathed in the
glow of the moon and the stars rose to twice its real height. Henry saw
the foam upon the red mouth, the white fangs and the savage eyes, in
which, his fancy still vivid, he read hunger, ferocity and terror too.
Around him but on the lower plane were gathered the full score of the
pack, gaunt and fierce. Suddenly, the leader raised his head and like a
dog bayed the moon. The score took up the cry and the long whine was
carried far on the light wind, to be followed by deep silence.
The voice of the wolf bore Henry even farther back than the voice of the
owl, and his preternaturally acute senses took on an edge which the
modern man never knows in his civilized state. He heard the fluff of the
owl's feathers as it moved and the panting of the wolves in the valley
below. Then he saw the leader walk from the low mound and take a slow
and deliberate course along the slope, with the others following in
single file like Indians. The king was leading them nearer to the rocky
hollow, and Henry suspected they were changing their position because
the ring of warriors was beginning to close in again. He heard a
flapping of wings, and a huge bald-headed eagle settled on a bough near
him, whence it looked with red eyes at the owl, while the owl, with eyes
equally red, looked back again.
The suspicious, not to say jealous, manner with which the two birds
regarded each other, when the forest was wide enough for both, and
countless millions more like them, amused Henry. Both were alarmed, and
it was easy enough for them to fly away, but they did not do so, drawn
in a kind of fascination toward the danger they feared. Meanwhile the
wolves were still coming up the slope, but the black bear in the snug
hollow never stirred.
The warriors signaled once more to one another and now they were much
nearer. Henry retreated a little farther into the thicket, and then his
plan came to him. The Indians were bound to approach him from the east
and he would meet them with a weapon they little expected. The forest
was still in dense green, but the wood was dry from summer heats, the
effect of the great rain having passed quickly, and the ground was
littered as usual with the dead boughs and trunks fallen through
arboreal ages.
He drew softly away toward the mouth of the hollow, and then passed
behind it, where, stooping in the thicket, he produced his flint and
steel, which he put upon the turf beside him. Then, he gathered together
a little pile of dry brushwood, and again took notice of the wind, which
was still blowing directly toward the east and down the ravine, the only
point from which the Indian attack could come. It had been repulsed
there once before, but then Henry's comrades were with him, and five
good rifles and the tremendous voice of Long Jim had prevailed. Now he
was alone, and he did not intend to rely upon bullets. The moonlight
held, clear and amazingly bright, and he distinctly saw the troubled
owl and the vexed eagle, apparently still staring at each other and
wondering what was the matter with the night and the place. The Indian
calls to one another sounded once more, their own natural voices now and
not the imitation of bird or animal, and their nearness indicated that
the circle was closing in fast.
Henry had built up his heap of tinder wood, somewhat behind the mouth of
the hollow, and, kneeling down, he used flint and steel with amazing
rapidity and power. The sparks leaped forth in a shower, the dry wood
ignited, and up came little flames which swiftly grew into bigger ones.
Then he fanned his bonfire with all his might, and the flames sprang
high in the air, roaring as they set a fresh blaze to every dry thing
they touched. In less than two minutes a forest fire was in full and
great progress, sweeping eastward and down the ravine directly into the
faces of Braxton Wyatt and his advancing warriors. A great sheet of fire
in varying reds, pinks and yellows, and sometimes with a blue tint, rose
above the tops of the trees, and, as it rushed forward, it sent forth
showers of ashes and sparks in myriads from its crimson throat.
Henry sprang up behind the fire and uttered terrific shouts, leaping and
dancing as that far dim ancestor of his must have leaped and danced
when he was glowing with a sudden and mighty triumph. The spirit of the
ages had descended upon him too and as he bounded back and forth in the
light of the flames he roared forth bitter taunts in a voice worthy of
Long Jim himself. He told the owl to be up and away, and, rising on
heavy wings and uttering a dismal hoot, it obeyed. Its big body was
outlined for a moment or two against the red, and then it flew away over
the forest. The eagle uttered a hoarse cry, drawn from its frightened
throat, and followed the owl.
Then came another shriek, singularly like that of a human being, and the
huge panther, driven from its covert by the intense heat, leaped madly
forth and raced down the ravine before the pillar of flame. That panther
was in a sorely troubled state even before the fire began, and now the
collapse of its small intellect was complete. It saw the advancing
Indian warriors, but, in its madness, was reckless of them. It advanced
with great bounds straight at the line, cannoned against Braxton Wyatt
himself, knocking him senseless into a thicket, and, magnified to twice
its usual size before the amazed eyes of the Indians, disappeared at
last in a yellowish streak down the ravine.
Terror tore at the hearts of the Indians themselves, brave warriors
though they were. The strange cries of the night, of such varying
character and coming from so many points, had depressed their spirits
and filled them with superstitious awe. There was more in this than the
human mind could account for and the sudden upspringing of the fire,
bringing on its front the monstrous panther, if, in truth, it was a
panther and not some huge and legendary beast, sent them to the verge of
panic.
Their white leader, who might have restored their courage, lay senseless
in the bush, and as the second in command, the big warrior, seized him
to drag him away from the fire, the wall of flame emitted something even
more terrifying than the magnificent figure of the mad panther. Out of
the red glare shot a huge gaunt figure with long white teeth and
slavering jaws, the king wolf, to the warriors the demon wolf. After him
came a full score or more of wolves, almost as large, and howling their
terror to the moon. Behind them was the gigantic figure of a phantom
black bear, rushing with all its might, and through the red wall itself
came the sound of threatening and awful cries.
The Shawnees could stand no more. Uttering yells of fright they fled,
and fortunate it was for Braxton Wyatt that the big warrior slung him
over his shoulder and carried him away in the crush.
Henry heard the cries of the warriors and he knew from their nature that
panic was in complete control of the band. All things had worked for
him. The bear in its fright, and as he had expected, had rushed from the
cave just in time to flee before the flames, and he knew very well that
his own shouts would be interpreted by the Indians as the menace of the
evil spirits.
He followed the flames about a mile down the ravine, and then returned
slowly toward the hollow. He knew that the fire would soon reach a
prairie somewhat farther on, where it would probably die out, but he
knew also that his triumph was achieved. Circumstances and the presence
of the animals and the birds had helped him greatly, but his own quick
wit and infinity of resource had put the capstone on success. He began
to feel now the effect of the immense exertions he had made with both
body and mind, and, before he reached the hollow, he turned aside into
the woods where the fire had not passed and sat down on a rock.
He saw two or three miles away the wall of flame still moving eastward,
but the distance even did not keep him from knowing that it had
diminished greatly in height and vigor. As he had surmised, it would die
presently at the prairie and the night would return to its wonted
silence, lighted now only by the moon and stars. He was weary, but he
had an immense feeling of satisfaction and he sat a while, looking at
the fire, which soon sank out of sight behind the horizon, although its
pathway, the broad swath that it had cut, still glowed with coals and
sparks.
He wondered just where his comrades were. He might have sent forth a
call for them, but he decided that it would be wiser not to do so at
present, since they could reunite easily in the morning, and he
remained, sitting in an easy position, still looking at the luminous
point under the horizon, where the last embers of the fire were fading.
A long time passed, and the stillness was so peaceful that he sank into
a doze, from which he was aroused by a flare of lightning in the west.
The beauty of the night had been too intense to last. The moon and stars
that he had admired so much were going away, and the silky blue robe,
shot with silver that was the sky, was dimmed by a long row of somber
clouds trailing up from the west. The wind that touched Henry's face was
damp and he knew rain would soon come.
He had no mind to have a wetting through and through after his great
strain and labors, and his thoughts turned at once to the rocky hollow.
The bear had rushed out of it madly and there must have been much heat
there for awhile, but it had probably cooled by this time, and would
afford him a good shelter.
He found to his great delight and relief that the interior was free from
smoke, and not damaged at all. Some articles they had left on the
shelves were not even charred, and the leaves that made their beds had
escaped ignition. He would not have asked for anything better, and,
after eating some venison from his knapsack and drinking from the cold
water of the rivulet, he lay down on the bed nearest the cleft, where he
could see the ravine and the forest beyond.
A storm was gathering, but secure in his shelter it soothed and lulled
his spirit. The lightning, now red and intense, flared from every
horizon, and the wilderness was filled with the deep roll of incessant
thunder. The wind ceased to blow, but he knew that soon it would spring
up again, and then the rain would come with it, although he would
remain dry and warm in the stony shelter that nature had provided. An
enormous sense of comfort, even luxury, pervaded him, both body and
mind. He was like his primordial ancestor who had escaped from the
dangers of the monstrous beasts and who now rested at ease in his cave.
The strain upon his nerves departed, and soon he felt fit and able to
meet any new danger, whenever it should come. But he was so sure that no
such danger would appear that he allowed himself to fall asleep, having
first covered his body with the blanket that he always carried at his
back, as the night, under the influence of the wind and rain, was
growing cold.
When he awoke the day had not yet come and it was very dark. The rain
was pouring heavily, but not a drop reached him where he lay on his easy
bed of leaves with the warm blanket drawn around his body. Without
rising he pulled himself forward a little and looked forth. The last
ember from the forest fire had been blotted out long since, and he heard
the wash of the water as it rushed down the slopes, and the sweep of the
torrent in the ravine. The contrast heightened the splendor of his own
situation, which was all that one who was wild for the time could ask.
He thought of his comrades and of what a home the hollow would be to
them too, but he was not troubled about them. Such forest runners as
Shif'less Sol and the others would be sure to find protection from the
storm.
He fell asleep again, and, when he awoke the second time, dawn had come
more than an hour, the rain had stopped and the heavens were burnished
silver. Foliage and grass were already drying fast under a warm western
wind, and Henry, making a breakfast off what was left of his venison,
prepared to go forth. But he was halted by a shambling, dark figure that
appeared on the slope leading down into the ravine. It was the black
bear, and apparently it had some idea of returning to the fine shelter
it had abandoned in such fright the night before. Henry was surprised
that it should have come back. It must have been beaten about much in
the storm, and, either its memory was short, or it had sunk its terrors
in the recollection of the finest den that ever a bear had entered in
the northern part of Kain-tuck-ee.
Henry had a friendly feeling for the bear, which he regarded as an
animal of a companionable disposition, and no enemy, unless driven in a
corner. Since he had to leave the hollow and his comrades would have to
go with him he preferred on the whole that the bear should have it, but
when he stood up in the entrance the animal caught sight of his tall
figure and scrambled away in the forest. His place was taken by the
figure of a huge cat which glared at Henry with yellowish-green eyes,
and then turned back among the trees, filled with rage that the
terrible, strange creature was yet there.
"It seems that I'm still an object of terror," thought Henry, with
amusement. "Now for the eagle and the owl."
A great bird came out of the blue, and sailed on slow wing over the
hollow and ravine. He knew instinctively that it was the bald eagle of
the night before, drawn back with a fascination it could not resist to
the place where it had been frightened so badly. But it did not alight.
Keeping at a good height, it circled about and about and then
disappeared again and for the last time to the eastward.
Henry's eyes searched the opposite slope of the ravine, and at last he
discovered a mournful figure perched on the high bough of an oak. Its
feathers were drooping, its head was bent down until it was almost
buried in the feathers below its neck, and its entire attitude showed
despondency. The owl, too, had come back, but only a part of the way,
and, blinded by the sun, it sat there on the bough, mourning and
mourning.
Henry laughed. He had laughed many times the night before and he could
not keep from laughing that morning. The owl was quite the saddest
spectacle the woods could afford, and he had no mind to disturb it.
"Stay there and grieve, my solemn friend," he said. "Truly, with the sun
on you, your eyes closed and your heart sunk you'll be silent, but
tonight you'll give forth your melancholy hoot, although I won't be here
to hear it."
He looked to his ammunition, and stepped forth into a new and refreshed
world, filled with cool drying airs and the appealing odor of leaf and
grass. He descended into the ravine, the water falling in beads from the
leaves as he brushed by, and followed for a little distance in the bare
trail left by the fire. A mile farther on and a pair of great red eyes
peering at him from a thicket saw in him a terrible beast that even the
master of the wolves should avoid.
The huge leader gave a yelp, and as Henry turned suddenly, he saw the
great wolf flitting away up the ravine, followed by the twenty gaunt
figures of his pack. He could have dropped the big wolf with a bullet,
but there was no need to do so, and he merely watched them until they
disappeared in the forest, concluding that his companions of the night
were as much afraid of him in the day as in the dark. All of them, save
one band, had come back in a frightened way, but he knew that the
Indians would not return. He was sure that they were still on their
terrified flight toward the Ohio, and he followed in the path of the
fire, until he came to the prairie where it had burned itself out.
It was only a little prairie, about two miles across, no other kind
having been found in Kentucky, and, on the far side, he picked up the
trail of the Indian band. He did not see any footsteps that turned out,
and he wondered at their absence. What had become of Braxton Wyatt? His
body had not been found in the path of the flames, and certainly he had
not perished. Henry, after some thought, came to the right conclusion,
namely, that he was being carried. But his hurt could not be any wound
received in battle, and probably he would recover soon, another correct
surmise, as a short distance farther on the trail of toes that turned
out appeared.
All the steps seemed to be long, and Henry judged hence that the band
was going fast, terror still stabbing at their hearts, long after the
night had passed. Braxton Wyatt would be the first to recover from it,
and Henry smiled at the thought of his rage when he should not be able
to persuade the Shawnees that evil spirits, sent by Manitou, had not
driven them from the valley. Their second defeat at the same place, and
this time by invisible forces, would persuade them they must never
return to the attack on the hollow.
Henry dropped the pursuit for the present, knowing that it was time to
reunite his own forces, and he sent forth the cry of the wolf that the
five, in common with the Indians, used so much. No reply and he repeated
it a second and yet a third time before the answer came. Then it was in
the south and it was very faint, but he had no doubt it was the voice of
Shif'less Sol. Call and reply went on for a little while, and then,
after a long wait, he saw the figures of the four appearing among the
trees, the shiftless one leading.
The greeting was not effusive, but joyful. Henry told them in rapid
words, tense and brief, all that had occurred the night before, and the
shoulders of the four shook with silent laughter.
"You certainly scared them good, Henry," said Paul.
"I was helped a lot by circumstances."
"But you used the chances when they came."
"Where did you four hide when the storm broke?"
"We took refuge under the matted trees and boughs of a huge old windrow.
It wasn't like the hollow, and some water came through, but on the
whole we did fairly well, and soon dried out thoroughly this morning. We
were mighty glad to hear your call, but we hardly hoped you would
achieve as much as you did."
"An' havin' routed the first band that came ag'inst us," said Long Jim,
"what do you 'low we ought to do next?"
"We've broken only a piece of the iron ring they're forging about us,
and they'll soon mend that piece. It's a good thing to hit first at
those you see are trying to hit at you, and so I think we ought to
follow up the success fortune has given us."
"An' it 'pears we kin do that best by keepin' right on the trail o'
Braxton Wyatt an' his band," said Shif'less Sol.
"That's the way I see it," said Henry. "How do you feel about it, Tom?"
"Right plan," replied Ross.
Shif'less Sol fixed upon him such a look of stern reproof that Silent
Tom reddened once more under his tan.
"Here you go gettin' volyble ag'in," said the shiftless one. "You used
two words then, Tom Ross, when, ef you'd thought an' hunted 'roun' a
leetle you might hev found one that would hev done ez well."
"And you Paul?" said Harry.
"I'm glad to follow where you lead."
"And you, Jim?"
"I'm uv Paul's mind."
"Then it's settled. Now, we'll have something to eat, and talk it
over."
They soon found a little valley in which a clear rivulet was flowing.
One was never more than a mile from running water in that country--and
Long Jim and Silent Tom produced food from their deerskin pouches.
"Here's some ven'son," said Jim. "It's cold an' it's tough, but I reckon
it'll do."
"I'm thinkin'," said Shif'less Sol, "that after a night like the one
Henry has had he'll be pow'ful hungry fur somethin' better than cold
ven'son."
"Mebbe so," rejoined Long Jim, "an' mebbe it's true uv all uv us, but
whar are we goin' to git it?"
"I'm an eddycated man, Jim Hart, eddycated in the ways o' the woods, an'
one o' the fust things you do when you're gittin' that sort o' an
eddication is to learn to use your eyes. I hev used mine, an' jest
before we set down here I noticed the fresh trail o' buffler runnin' off
to the right, 'bout a dozen, I'd say, an' jest ez shore ez I'm here
they're not more'n a mile away. I kin see 'em now, grazin' in a little
open, an' thar is a young cow among 'em, juicy an' tender. Now I don't
want to kill a young cow buffler, but we must hev supplies before we go
on this expedition."
"Sol is right," said Henry, "and since he is so it's his duty to go and
kill the buffalo. Tom, you'll go with him, won't you?"
"O' course," replied Silent Tom.
Shif'less Sol rose and looked to his rifle.
"I knowed I would hev to do all the work, besides supplyin' the
thinkin'," he said. "Here I tell what's to be done when the others
ain't able to think it out, an' then they tell me to go an' do it. It
ain't fair to a lazy man, one who furnishes the intelleck. The rest o'
you ought to work fur him."
"Go on you, Sol Hyde," said Long Jim Hart, rebukingly, "an' kill that
buffler. Don't you know that when you kill it I'll hev to cook it, an' I
ain't complainin'?"
"Quit braggin' on yourse'f, Jim Hart. You ain't complainin', 'cause you
ain't got sense 'nuff to complain. You're plum' sunk so deep in sloth
an' ig'rance that you're jest satisfied with anythin', no matter how bad
it is. It's men o' intelleck like me who complain and look fur better
things, who make the world go forward."
"Your idea uv goin' forward, Sol Hyde, is to do it ridin' on my
shoulders."
"O' course, Jim. Ain't that what you're made fur? You're a hind--ain't
that the beast, Paul, that carries burdens?--an' I'm the knight with the
shinin' lance that goes forth to slay dragons, an' I go ridin', too."
"You go ridin', too! I don't see no hoss! An' you ain't been astride no
hoss in years, Sol Hyde!"
"You deserve to be what you are, a hind, a toter o' burdens, Jim Hart,
'cause your mind is so slow an' dull. You ain't got no light, no
imagination, no bloom, a-tall, a-tall! Did I say I wuz ridin' a real
hoss? No, sir, not fur a second! But in the fancy, in the sperrit, so to
speak, I'm ridin' the finest hoss that ever pranced, an' I'm settin' in
a silver saddle, holdin' reins o' blue silk, an' that proud hoss o' mine
champs an' champs his jaws on a bit made o' solid gold. Come on, Tom, I
ain't 'preciated here. We'll kill that buffler, ef you don't talk me to
death on the way. Remember now to hold your volyble tongue. The last
time you spoke, ez I told you, you used two words when one would hev
done jest ez well. Don't let your gabblin' skeer the buffler plum' to
the other side o' the Ohio."
He stalked haughtily away, his rifle in the hollow of his arm, and
Silent Tom followed meekly. The admiring gaze of Jim Hart followed the
shiftless one as long as he was in sight.
"Ain't he the most beautiful talker you ever heard?" he asked. "Me an'
him hev our little spats, but it's a re'l pleasure to hear him fetch out
reasons an' prove that the thing that ain't is, an' the thing that is
ain't. That's what I call a mighty smart man. Ef the Injuns ever git him
he'll talk to 'em so hard that they'll either make him thar head chief,
or turn him loose to keep from bein' talked to death."
They heard the sound of a shot, and then a faint halloo from the
shiftless one, and when Henry went to the spot he found that he had
slain a young cow buffalo, just as he had predicted. Long Jim Hart
cooked the tender steaks in his finest style and they spent the rest of
the day preparing for the journey, which they believed would take them
across the Ohio, and which they knew would be full of dangers.
They put out their fire and rested until dusk came. Then they took up
again the trail of Wyatt's band and traveled until midnight, when they
slept until morning, all save the watch. Henry reckoned that they would
reach the river by the next night, and there was a chance that the
warriors might recover sufficiently from their fright to rally at the
stream. But he felt that in any event he and his comrades must strike.
Blackstaffe, Yellow Panther and Red Eagle with their forces would soon
be in pursuit, and to escape the net would test the skill and courage of
the five to the utmost. Yet all of them believed attack to be the best
plan, and, after their sleep, they resumed the trail with renewed
strength and vigor, pressing northward at great speed through the deep
green wilderness.