THE STAG'S COMING
The snow, famous in the annals of the tribes as one of the greatest that
ever fell so early in the autumn, continued to pour down. Where Henry
had sunk to his ankles, he now sank almost to his knees, and the
wilderness stretched away, without offering the shelter of any covert or
rocky hollow. His exertions made him very warm, but he was too wise to
take off the painted coat, lest he cool too fast. To fall ill in the
snowy forest, hunted by savages, was a thought to make the boldest
shudder, and he took no chances.
He fought the storm for hours. Rightly it could be called no storm, as
it was merely the placid fall of snow in huge quantities, but in the
long run it contained more elements of danger than a hurricane. Night
came and he was still struggling among the drifts, not walking now with
firm, straight steps, but staggering. Nearly all of his tremendous
strength was gone, exhausted, fighting against the impassive snowy
depths that always held him back. Once or twice he fell, but his will
brought him to his feet again, and he went on, his mind now directing
wholly the almost inert mass that was his body.
Twilight came, adding a new gloom to the somber heavens. All the animals
themselves seemed to have gone, and he strove alone for life amid the
vast desolation. Then he recalled his courage once more. On this great
expedition, when he was offering himself as a sacrifice for his people,
the miracles were always happening. At the last moment, when it did not
seem possible for him to be saved, he had always been saved, and surely
the miracle would occur once more!
He came to a huge tree, blown down by the wind, but yet projecting above
the snow, and sitting down on the trunk he leaned against an upthrust
root. He closed his eyes, for a moment or two, and the desire to keep
them shut, and sink into happy forgetfulness, was almost more than he
could resist. He made a gigantic effort and pulled himself back to full
consciousness, knowing that the easiest way, which in this case was the
way of yielding, would be the fatal way. Drawing up the last ounces of
his strength he staggered on, remembering to keep his rifle protected by
the painted coat, and clinging also to the turkey.
He looked up at the heavens, but they gave no promise. They were without
a break in the massed clouds, and the snow poured down in an unceasing
white fall. The range of vision was so short that he could not tell the
character of country into which he was coming, and, presently, he struck
marshy ground, into which his moccasined feet sank deep, coming forth
wet and cold. It was a new danger, and he stamped his feet hard and
walked faster in an endeavor to keep the circulation going and to keep
them from freezing. It was a peril that he had not foreseen, and it
would, in truth, be the very irony of fate if, after so many miracles
had intervened to save him from pressing dangers, he should perish in a
premature snow storm.
Usually, one could find shelter of a sort in the wilderness. The forest
of the great valley had become in the course of ages so dense with
thickets and matted tangles of fallen trees that one did not have to go
far before coming to a lair into which he could creep. But now
everything of the kind evaded Henry. His eyes, almost blinded by the
snow, saw only the straight trunks of trees, and open ground that
offered no protection at all. Moreover, the chill from his wet feet, in
spite of all his efforts, was extending and he shivered.
But he would not despair. He might have had such moments, but they were
moments only, and he fought on, as those, whose souls are made of
courage, fight. Yet the wilderness became gloomier, more desolate and
more menacing than ever. The fall of snow was less heavy, but a bitter
wind rose and it came with an alternate shriek and moan. The air grew
colder and the chill of the wind struck into Henry's bones. Nevertheless
he struggled on in the darkening night, going he knew not where, nor to
what.
Courage and will can triumph over most things, but not over all things.
There comes a time when hour, place and circumstances seem to combine
against the individual, and such an hour had come for Henry. He searched
everywhere for some place in which he could lie until the storm had
passed, but it was always nothing, nothing, just the open forest, and
the driving wind, and the creeping chill which was steadily going into
all his bones.
At last, scarcely able to raise a foot, he sank down on a fallen log and
stared into the gloomy woods which gave back not a single ray of hope.
Again he felt the dreamy desire to sink into rest and complete oblivion,
and again he fought it off, knowing that it was the way of death. Then
he looked up at the somber skies, and prayed for one more miracle.
Henry, despite his wild, rough life, had much reverence in his nature.
The wilderness, too, with its varied manifestations, encouraged the
belief in a supreme power, just as it had given birth among the Indians
to a natural religion closely akin to the revealed religion of the white
man. Now, he was hopeful that in the extreme moment help would be sent
to him, and that the last of the miracles had not yet been performed.
Closing his eyes he said his prayer over and over again to himself, and
then opening them he stared as before at the desolate forest, empty of
everything living save his own presence.
But was it empty? Straight ahead of him he seemed to see an outline
through the falling snow, like a dim and dusky figure behind a veil. He
rose, new strength flowing into his veins, and took a step or two
forward, fearful that he had been deceived by one of the fancies or
visions, supposed to float before the eyes of the dying. Then he saw.
The dim outlines on the other side of the snowy veil grew clearer and he
traced the figure of a stag, larger than any other stag that had ever
trod the earth, gigantic and majestic.
The stag, too, was staring at him, and he knew it to be the same that he
had seen earlier in the day, though it had grown wonderfully in size
since then. It showed not the slightest trace of fear, but, instead, the
great luminous eyes seemed to him to express pity.
A thrill of superstitious awe ran through him. But it was awe, not fear.
The stag, gigantic and almost a phantom, did not threaten. It pitied,
and as Henry gazed at it with the fascinated eyes of one in a dream or
in an illusion so deep that it was a twin brother to reality, the deer
turned and walked slowly among the trees. Twenty paces, and, stopping an
instant, it looked back. The human figure was following and the deer
walked on, its stride measured and magnificent.
Henry did not doubt that his prayers had been answered, and that another
miracle had been ordered for his salvation. He became transformed as if
by magic. His head, which had been so heavy that it sagged upon his
shoulders, grew singularly light. The blood, stagnant before, leaped in
his veins like quicksilver, and his steps were straight and firm. The
size of the deer did not decrease for him. It loomed immense and
powerful through the driving snow, and, as it led steadily on, never
looking back now, he followed with equal steadiness.
The stag turned once, going sharply to the right, and, in a few more
minutes, the ground grew quite rough. Then he saw through the veil of
the snow high hills rising on either side, but the stag led into a deep
and narrow valley between them. As they advanced, it narrowed yet
further, and the trees and bushes on the crests above them were so dense
that the snow was not deep there, and the bitter wind was cut off
entirely. Either hope and confidence or some measure of returning warmth
drove the chill from Henry's bones, as he forgot the wet and cold and
pressed forward eagerly when the stag increased his pace.
Henry's mental state became one of exaltation. He did not know to what
he was going, but he knew that life lay at the end of the stag's trail,
and he was willing to follow as long as need be. Nor did he ever know
how long he followed, but he did notice that the cleft was growing
deeper and narrower. After an unknown time he emerged into a tiny valley
that was more like a well, it was set so deep in the hills and its
slopes were so steep, the cliffs in truth overhanging on two sides.
He uttered a cry of joy. This was to be his refuge, and here he would be
saved. Stretches of ground under the hanging cliffs were bare of snow,
and heaped high with dead leaves. Dead wood lay all about. The bitter
wind, with its alternate shriek and whistle, swept overhead, but it did
not touch the floor of the well. The air was still and it did not bite.
The stag turned and looked back for the second and last time, and
Henry, either in reality or in an illusion so deep that it was as vivid
as reality, saw an expression of kinship in the great luminous eyes.
Once more, for him at least, the old golden age when men and animals
were friends had come back to endure an hour or two. Then, lifting its
head very high and seeming taller and more majestic than ever, it passed
out of the valley at a narrow opening on the other side.
Henry, shaking himself violently to bring back his wandering faculties,
concentrated them upon his present needs, which were still urgent.
Crouching in the best shelter that the hanging cliff furnished, he
rapidly whittled shavings from the dead wood, until he had formed a heap
close to the stony wall. Then, with the flint and steel that every
hunter carried and laboring desperately, he managed to extract from the
flint enough sparks to set fire to the shavings, hanging over the tiny
blaze and shielding it with his body lest it go out and leave him alone
in the cold and the dark.
The flame persisted and grew, reached out, and bit into more shavings,
and then into larger pieces of dead wood that Henry presented to its
teeth. Dead leaves helped it along, and he fed to it larger and larger
sticks, until he had a splendid leaping fire, the very finest fire that
was ever built in this world, a fire that sent up many high flames, red
in the center and yellow at the edges, a fire that made great, glowing
coals in beds, capable of keeping their heat all night.
Then Henry knew that in very truth and fact he was saved. Let the wind
whistle and shriek above his head! He cared nothing for it. He took off
his wet leggings and moccasins, and dried them and his feet and legs
before the fire. The spirit of a youth returned to him. He tried to see
how near he could hold his flesh to those wonderful coals and flames
without burning it, and with the fire, which is a twin brother to life,
he felt life itself flowing anew into his body.
His vitality was so great that his strength seemed to return all at
once, and he built another fire as fine as the first, but a little
distance from it. Then he lay between the two, and was warmed on both
sides. Exposed to the double heat also, his moccasins and leggings soon
dried and he put them on again. His feeling was now one of extraordinary
comfort, and warming the turkey on the coals, he ate an abundant supper,
while he listened to the wind overhead and saw snow drop in the valley,
but not on him, where he lay well within the lee of the stone wall.
After resting awhile between the fires he began to gather wood, the
whole valley being littered with it. He did not know how long the storm
would hold him there, and he intended to have sufficient heat. He also
heaped up the wood into a species of rude wall, until no drop of snow
could blow into his cleft under the cliff, and then contemplated his
work with satisfaction. He could stay here as long as the storm lasted,
even for days, nor did he forget to give thanks once more for the
wonderful manner in which the stag had saved him. It was first the
buffaloes, then the bear and now the deer. What would it be next?
Henry let the two fires sink to glowing heaps of coals, and then,
warming thoroughly before them the great painted buffalo coat, he
retreated to the alcove behind his wooden wall and made his bed on the
leaves. He felt for all the world like a bear gone into its snug den for
the long winter sleep, and, as he drew the big coat about his body, he
looked lazily at the fires, which were so placed that the heat from them
warmed his corner despite the wooden barrier.
Then the usual relaxation, after a tremendous mental and physical
struggle came over him, and he began to feel the extraordinary luxury of
lying dry, warm, well fed and in safety. It was all the primitive man
desired, the best he ever received, and Henry, who had been put in their
position, rejoiced as one of those far, faraway men might have rejoiced,
when he, too, attained all his wishes.
The feeling of luxurious ease kept him in a dreamy state a long time.
Although he felt strong and active again, able to cope with any crisis,
he had really been very near the end for the time being to the
extraordinary powers with which nature had endowed him. Now, as his
great vitality flowed back and he knew that he was safe, it was just a
pleasure to lie still, to feel the warmth, and to see dreamily the glow
of the fires, in truth, to feel as his ancestors had felt in like
comfort forty thousand years ago.
Meanwhile the air turned a little warmer, just enough to admit a return
of the heavy snowfall and the big flakes began to pour down again. Some
of them, blown by the wind, fell on the sheltered fires, and hissed as
they melted. But Henry was not troubled. He knew they could not reach
him.
At the same time, but many miles to the south, a great force of Indian
warriors, led by the two wise and valiant chiefs, Red Eagle, the
Shawnee, and Yellow Panther, the Miami, was going into camp. Yellow
Panther had come up with a force also and they had struck again the
trail of the fugitive, but the coming of the storm had hidden it, of
course, and as the snow deepened they were compelled to abandon, until
the next day at least, all thought of catching Henry Ware, taking
instead measures for their own preservation. Among them were men who
knew the country, and they soon found a deep valley, in which they built
their fires and ate their venison.
Red Eagle and Yellow Panther sat with the renegades, Blackstaffe and
Wyatt, by one of the fires, and talked earnestly of the pursuit. The
chiefs did not like the white men who had gone with strangers to fight
against their own, but they respected their knowledge and tenacity. The
chase had been long and arduous, it had drawn off much strength from the
tribes, but they were in unanimous agreement that it should be
continued, no matter how long, until their object was achieved. The
great snow itself, deep and premature though it was, should not turn
them back.
Henry could not see this council through the miles of hills and driving
snow, but had his thoughts been turned in that direction he would have
made to himself a picture just like it, nor would he ever have doubted
for an instant that the chiefs and the renegades would pursue him as
long as pursuit was possible.
It was well into the night, when his eyes closed and the sleep that took
hold of him was far deeper than usual, carrying him into an oblivion
that lasted until far after the sun had risen over a world, still white
and misty with the falling snow.
He was surprised to see that the storm had not yet stopped, but he was
not alarmed. The two fires were still smouldering, and the dead wood
that he had heaped up was sufficient to last many days. It was true that
he had only the wild turkey for food, but he was sure, in time, to
discover other resources. He had seen the proof over and over again,
that, for the time at least, he was a favorite of the greater powers. He
was too modest to think it due to any particular merit of his own, but
it seemed to him that he had been chosen as an instrument, and, for that
reason, he was being preserved through every hardship and danger.
Secure in his belief, which was more than a belief, a conviction rather,
he began to make a home for himself in his tiny valley, which was not
more than fifty feet across, and above which the hills, steep like the
side of a house, rose three or four hundred feet. His first precaution
was to build the fires anew, not with a high flame, but with a slow
steady burning that would make great beds of coals, glowing with heat.
Then he examined the pass by which he had come, to find it choked with
seven or eight feet of snow, and he looked next at the one by which the
deer had gone, to discover that it was much like the first, leading a
distance that was yet indefinite to him, as he did not care to follow it
through the deep snow to its end.
Shaking the snow from the painted robe he came back to the covert and
waited with as much patience as he could summon. Now he missed greatly
his four comrades, and their talk. With them the time would have passed
easily, but since they were not there he must do the best he could
without them. The problem of food which he had resolutely pushed away,
forced itself back again. A big, powerful body such as his was like an
active engine. It required much fuel. There would be no food but animal
food, and he was in no mood for killing an animal now. But he could not
hide from himself the fact that it must be done, sooner or later.
On the second day he went through the pass by which the deer had gone,
beating down the snow under his feet, until it was hard enough to
sustain him, and, after about two miles of such difficult traveling,
came upon fairly level ground. Here, hunting about, he surprised several
rabbits in their deep nests, and killed them with blows of his rifle
muzzle.
The hunt took nearly all day, and, when he returned to the cove with his
game, night was coming. He was surprised to find how welcome the place
was to him and how much it looked like a home. There was his sheltered
alcove, with the wall of dead wood in front of it, and there were two
heaps of coals sending their friendly glow to him through the cold dusk.
It _was_ a home, and it was more. It was a refuge and a fortress. He had
been guided to it by the greater powers, and he should value it for all
it had afforded him, warmth, shelter and protection from his foes. He
was not one to be lacking in gratitude or appreciation, and he sent
admiring glances about his well, for it was more like a well than a
valley. Lonely it might be, but bodily comforts it offered in abundance
to such as Henry.
He cleaned the rabbits and hung them up in the alcove, knowing that
their bodies would freeze hard in the night, and thus would be
preserved, giving him with the wild turkey a supply of food sufficient
for two or three days.
He was awakened the second night by cries, faint but very fierce, and he
knew they were made by wolves howling. The ferocity, however, was not
for him, as during that singular period his feeling of kinship for the
animals extended even to the wolf. He knew that they howled because of
hunger. The deep snow was hard on the wolves, making it difficult to
find or pursue their prey, and they sent forth the angry lament because
they were famished.
Henry merely drew the painted robe more closely about his body, looked
contentedly at the glow from the two fine beds of coals, closed his eyes
once more and went to sleep. He did not look for wolves in his well,
although he heard them howling again the next night, the note plaintive
and fierce alike with the call of intense hunger. The fourth day, he
went out through the pass and killed more rabbits, adding them to his
store. He saw a deer floundering in the deep snow, but he would not
shoot it. The time might come when he would slay a deer, but he could
not do it that week.
Now he began to study the skies. He knew that the premature snow, deep
as it was, could not last long, and, likely enough, it would be followed
by heavy rain. Then the snow would certainly pour in a deluge down the
hillsides, and the water might rage in a torrent in the ravine. His well
would be flooded and he would have to take to flight, but it would be no
harder on pursued than on pursuers.
Two more days passed and the warm weather did not come. The snow ceased
to fall, but it lay gleaming and deep on the ground, and the sound of
boughs, cracking beneath its weight, was almost incessant. Indifferent
to the deep trail he left, he climbed again to the heights and ranged
over a considerable area. A second time, a floundering deer presented
itself to his rifle, and a second time he refused to fire. The deer
seemed to expect no danger, as it gazed at him with fearless eyes, and,
waving to it a friendly farewell, he passed on among the trees, every
one of which stood up an individual cone of white.
Then he heard the howl of wolves and traveling on to a valley beyond he
saw a pack running far ahead. Twenty they were, at least, and whether or
not they chased a deer he could not tell, but the fierce note of hunger
was in their voices, and whatever it was they pursued they followed it
fast.
Then he turned back toward his home, weary with walking through snow so
deep, too deep yet for his further flight northward, and the fires in
the covert seemed fairly to shine with welcome for him. That night he
broiled and ate an entire rabbit for supper, but felt that he must have
a more varied diet soon, if he was to preserve his strength. He looked
again for the clouds which were to bring the great rain, destroyer of
great snows, but the skies were clear, frosty and starry, and his eager
eyes did not find a single blur.
It was evident that he must use all his patience and keep on waiting. So
he set himself to the task of putting his body in the best possible
trim, until such time as he would have to subject it to severe tests. He
exercised himself daily and he always saw that his bed under the ledge
was dry and warm. He never permitted the fires to go out, and gradually,
as the snow about them melted from the heat, the ground there became
hard and dry.
He was still able to procure food without firing a shot, finding plenty
of rabbits in the deep snow on the hills, but he grew intensely weary of
such a diet, and he felt that if he had to linger much longer he would
kill a deer, although he had been saved by one. Every hour he scanned
the heavens looking for the clouds which he knew would come in time,
since the cold could not endure at such an early period in the autumn.
He had been in his retreat a week when he felt a light and soft touch on
his face, the breath of the west wind. It had almost a summer warmth,
and, then he knew that one of the great changes in temperature, to which
the valley is subject, was coming. Throughout the afternoon the wind
blew, and water began to trickle in the ravine. The sound of soft snow
sliding down the hill was almost constant in his ears. Toward dusk, the
clouds that he had expected came floating up from the horizon's rim, but
he did not believe rain would fall before the next day.
Nevertheless, he took precautions, building a rough floor of dead wood
in the alcove, and arranging to protect himself from the downpour which
he considered inevitable. He also put his stores in the place that would
remain safest and dryest, and lying down, high upon the dead wood, he
fell asleep. He was awakened in the night by a rushing sound. The great
rain that was to destroy the great snow had come, several hours earlier
than he had expected it, and it was a deluge.
The trickle in the ravine became a torrent, and he heard it roaring. The
floor of his little valley was soon covered with six inches of water and
he was devoutly glad that he had built his platform of dead wood, upon
which he could remain untouched by the flood, at least for the present.
That it would suffice permanently he was not sure, as the rain was
coming down at a prodigious rate, and there was no sign that it would
decrease in violence.
He did not sleep any more that night, but sat up, watching and
listening. It was pitchy dark, but he heard the roar of distant and new
streams, and the sliding avalanches of sodden snow. He felt an awe of
the elements, but he was not lonely now, nor was he afraid. That which
he wished was coming, though with more violence and suddenness than he
liked, but one must take the gifts of the gods, as they gave them, and
not complain.
Dawn arrived, thick with vapors and mists, and dark with the pouring
rain. From his place under the cliff he could not see far, but he knew
that the snow was dissolving in floods. The six inches of water in his
valley grew to a foot, and he began to be apprehensive lest the whole
place be deluged to such an extent that he be driven out, a fear that
was soon confirmed, as he saw two or three hours after dawn that he must
go.
It would be impossible to keep the lower half of his body dry, but he
was thankful once more for the great painted coat, under which he was
able to secure his rifle and powder against rain. He also fastened in
his belt two of the rabbits that he had cooked, and then with the rest
of his baggage in a pack, he made his start.
He was forced to wade in chilly water almost to his knees, and it was
impossible to leave the valley by either end of the ravine, as it was
filled with a roaring flood many feet deep; but with the aid of bushes
and stony outcrop he climbed the lofty slope, a slow and painful task
attended by danger, as now and then a bush would pull out with his
weight. But, at last, his hands torn, and his face running with
perspiration, he attained the summit, where he turned his face once more
toward the north.
He decided that he would keep to the ridges as the snow would leave them
first, and he could also find some protection in the dense, scrubby
growth that covered them.
He never passed a more trying day. The actual danger of Indian presence
even would have been a relief. The rain beat in an unceasing deluge, and
he was hard put to it to keep his rifle and ammunition dry. The sliding
snow made his foothold so treacherous that he was compelled to keep
among the wet and flapping bushes, where he could grasp support on an
instant's notice.
At noon, though there was no sun to tell him that it had come, he
stopped in a dense thicket and ate one of the rabbits, reflecting rather
grimly that though he had been anxious for the rain to come it was
making him thoroughly uncomfortable. Yet even these clouds covering all
the heavens had at least one strip of silver lining. The harder and more
persistently the rain fell the quicker the snow would be gone, and once
more the wilderness would be fit for travel and habitation.
When he had eaten the rabbit, although he longed for some other kind of
food, he felt better. He had at least furnished fuel for the engine,
and, bending his head to the storm, he left the thicket and continued
his journey, a journey the end of which he could not foresee, as he
never doubted for an instant that the Indian host was still pursuing. He
left no trail, of course, in such a storm, but the rain could not last
forever, and, when it ceased, some warrior would be sure to pick it up
again.
When night came he was thoroughly soaked, save for his precious
ammunition, around which he had wrapped his blanket also. Most of the
snow was gone, but pools stood in every depression, and turbid streams
raced in every gully and ravine. Where he had trodden in snow before he
now trod in mud, and every bone in him ached with weariness. Many a man,
making no further effort, would have lain down and died, but it was not
the spirit of Henry. He continually sought shelter and far in the night
crowded himself into the hollow of a huge decayed tree. He was compelled
to stand in a leaning position, but with the aid of the buffalo coat he
managed to protect himself from further inroads of the rain, and by and
by he actually fell asleep.
The sun was high when he awoke, and he was very stiff and sore from the
awkward manner in which his body had been placed, but the rain had
stopped and for that he was devoutly thankful, although the earth was
sodden from the vast amount of water that had fallen.
It took him three hours to light a fire, so difficult was it to procure
dry shavings, but, in the end, the task was achieved and it was a
glorious triumph. Once more fire was king and he basked in it, drying
his body and his wet clothing thoroughly, and lingering beside it all
the afternoon. But at night he put it out reluctantly, since the
warriors were sure to be abroad now, and he could not risk the light or
the smoke.
He slept under the bushes, but in the morning he saw in the south smoke
answering to smoke, and he did not doubt that it was detachments of the
Indian host signaling to one another. Perhaps they had come upon his
trail, and it was sure, if they had not done so, that they would soon
find it. Watching the signals a little while, he turned and fled once
more into the north.