THE LEAPING WOLF
Henry came presently into lower ground, where he judged the snowfall had
not been so great, as the amount of standing water was much less and the
streams were not so swollen. The air, too, was decidedly warmer, and
while the forest had been stripped of all its leaves, it did not look so
gloomy. A brilliant sun came out, flooded trees and bushes with light,
and gave to the earth an appearance of youth and vitality that it has so
often and so peculiarly in autumn, although that is the period of decay.
He felt its tonic thrill, and when he came to a clear creek he decided
that he would put himself in tune with the purity and clearness of the
world about him.
He had lain so long in his clothes that he felt he must have the touch
of clean water upon him, and, daring everything, he put his arms aside,
removed his clothing and plunged into the creek. It made him shiver and
gasp at first, but he kicked and dived and swam so hard that presently
warmth returned to his veins, and with it a wonderful increase of
spirits.
When he came out he washed his clothing as well as deerskin could be
washed, and, wrapped in the blanket and painted coat, ran up and down
the bank, or otherwise exercised himself vigorously, while it dried in
the bright sun. It was a matter of hours, but it pleased him to feel
that he was purified again and that he could carry out the purification
in the very face of Indian pursuit itself. When he put on his clothing
again he felt remade and reinvigorated in both body and mind, and,
resuming his weapons, he set out once more upon his northward way.
The day continued warm and most brilliant, as if atonement were being
made to him for the storms of snow and rain. He came to a stretch of
country in which it was obvious that very little snow, if any, had
fallen, as the trees were still thick with leaves in the deep colors of
autumn, and it was satisfying to the eye to look upon the red glow
again.
Late in the afternoon he saw five smokes in a half curve to the south,
and he knew well enough that they were made by his pursuers. They were
much nearer than those he had seen earlier in the day, but it was due to
the long delay made necessary by his swim and the drying of his clothes.
The rapid gain did not make him feel any particular apprehension. The
joy of the struggle came over him. He was matched against the whole
power of the Shawnee, Miami and kindred nations, and if they thought
they could catch him, well, let them keep on trying. They should bear in
mind, too, that the hunted sometimes would turn and rend the hunter.
In order to gain once more upon the pursuit and give himself a chance to
rest later on, he increased his speed greatly and also took precautions
to hide his trail, which was not difficult where there were so many
little streams. When he stopped about midnight he believed that he was
at least ten or twelve miles ahead of the nearest warriors, who must
have lost a great deal of time looking for his traces; and, secure in
the belief, he crept into a thicket, drew about him the blanket and the
buffalo robe, which were now sufficient, and slept soundly until he was
awakened by the howling of wolves. He was quite able to tell the
difference between the voices of real wolves and the imitation of the
Indians, and he knew that these were real.
He raised up a little and listened. The long, whining yelp came again
and again, and he was somewhat surprised. He concluded at last that the
wolves, driven hard by hunger, were hunting assiduously in large packs.
When mad for food they would attack man, but Henry anticipated no
danger. He felt himself too good a friend of the animals just then to be
molested by any of them, and he went back to sleep.
When he awoke again just before dawn he heard the wolves still howling,
but much nearer, and he thought it possible that they had been driven
ahead by the Indian forces. If so, it betokened a pursuit rather swifter
than he had expected, and, girding himself afresh, he fled once more
before the sun was fairly up.
It was the usual rolling country that lies immediately south of the
Great Lakes, forested heavily then and cut by innumerable streams, great
and small. The creeks and brooks were not swollen as much as those
farther south, and Henry judged from the fact that here also the
snowstorm had not passed. Nevertheless, he crossed many muddy reaches
and he was compelled to ford two or three creeks the water of which
reached to his knees. But his moccasins and leggings dried again as he
ran on, and he was not troubled greatly by the cold.
It was a country that should abound in game, but no deer started up from
his path, no wild turkeys gobbled among the boughs, and the little
prairies that he crossed were bare of buffaloes. He assumed at once that
it had been hunted over so thoroughly by the Indians that the surviving
game had moved on. When the warriors found a new hunting ground it would
come back and increase. He believed now that this accounted for the
howling of the wolves deprived of their food supply and perhaps not yet
finding where it had gone.
He maintained a rapid pace, and his wet leggings and moccasins dried
gradually. The morning was frosty and cold, but wonderfully brilliant
with sunlight, and here, where the forest had been free from snow, it
glowed in autumnal colors.
He came to a deep river, but fortunately it flowed toward the northeast,
the direction in which he was willing to go, and he was glad to find it,
as he kept in the woods near its bank, thus protecting his left flank
from any encircling movement. But a strong wind was blowing toward him
and he not only heard the howling of the wolves, but the faint cry of
the savages far behind them. It made him very thoughtful. Something
unusual was going forward, since the wolves themselves were taking part
in the pursuit or were pursued also. He could not understand it, but he
resolved to dismiss it from his mind until it disclosed its own meaning.
He kept near the river, seeing it occasionally through the forest on his
left, a fine sheet of clear water, over which wild ducks and wild geese
flew, although the woods through which he ran seemed to be absolutely
bare of game.
Then the river took a sudden curve farther east and he was compelled to
turn with it. On his first impulse the thought of swimming the stream
came to him, but he dismissed it, lest some swift warrior might come up
and open fire while he was in the water, in which case, being
practically helpless, he might become an easy victim. So he turned with
the stream and, keeping its bank close on his left, he fled eastward.
But he was fully aware that the change in the course of the river
brought to him a new and great danger. The right wing of the pursuing
host, traveling not much more than half the distance, would gain upon
him very fast. Anxious not to be entrapped in such a manner he ran now
at great speed for several miles, but was compelled then to slow down,
owing to the nature of the country, which was growing very marshy.
Evidently heavy rains had fallen in this region recently, as he came to
extensive flooded areas. It annoyed him, too, that the soft ground
compelled him to leave so plain a trail, as often for considerable
stretches he sank over his moccasins at every step. He walked on fallen
timber whenever he could find it, making a break now and then in his
trail, but he knew it would not delay the Indians long.
In order to save his breath and strength he was compelled to go yet
slower, and finally he sat on a log for a rest of five minutes. Then the
wind brought him a single Indian shout, not more than a quarter of a
mile away, and he knew its meaning. The warriors on the right flank,
coming up on a tangent of the curve, had seen his footsteps. They had
not run more than half the distance he had and so must be comparatively
fresh. His danger had increased greatly, but his command over himself
was so complete that, instead of resting five minutes, he rested ten. He
knew now that he would need all his strength, all the power of his
lungs, because the chase had closed in and for a while it would be a
test of speed. So he rested that every muscle might have its original
strength, and he was willing for the Indians to come almost within rifle
shot before he took to flight once more.
So strong was the command of his mind over his body that he saw two
warriors appear among the trees about four hundred yards away before he
rose. They saw him, too, and uttered the war whoop of triumph, but
Henry was refreshed and he ran so fast that they sank out of sight
behind him. Then he exulted, taunting them, not in words, but with his
thoughts. They could never capture him, and once more he said to himself
that he would keep on, even if his flight took him to the Great Lakes
and beyond.
But the swampy ground intervened again, and his progress of necessity
became slow. Then he heard the Indian yell once more, and he knew that
the difficult country was enabling them to close up the gap anew. The
wolves howled also, but more toward the south, a far, faint, ferocious
sound that traveled on the wind like an echo. He did not understand it,
and he had a premonition that something extraordinary was going to
happen. It was curious, uncanny, and the hair on the back of his neck
lifted a little.
He came through the swampy belt and to a considerable stretch of dry
ground, but he heard the Indian yell for a third time, and again not
more than a quarter of a mile away. The fact that this portion of the
band had not run that day more than half as far as he was telling, and
he recognized it. Perhaps the swamps had not been to his disadvantage,
because on the dry ground they could use their reserves of strength and
speed to much greater advantage.
Now he knew that his danger had become imminent and deadly and that
every resource within him would be tested to the utmost. Out of the
south came the Indian cry also, and it was answered triumphantly from
the west. A shudder ran through Henry's blood. He was in the trap. The
Indians knew it and they were signaling the truth to one another.
Now he made a great burst of speed, resolving to be well beyond their
reach before the jaws of the vise closed in, and, as he ran, he longed
to hear the howl of the wolves once more, a sound that he had used to
hate always, but which would come now almost like the call of a friend.
While he was wishing for it, the long whine rose, toward the south also,
but a little ahead of the Indian cry. As before it was strange, uncanny,
and a second time the hair on the back of his neck lifted a little.
Evidently the wolves--instinct told him they were a great pack--were
running parallel with the Indians, but for what purpose he could not
surmise, unless it was the hope of food abandoned by the warriors.
His own feet grew heavy, and he heard the triumphant shouts of the
Indians only a few hundred yards away. He was powerful, more powerful
than any of them, but he could not run twice as long as these lean, wiry
and trained children of the forest. His muscles began to complain. He
had been putting them to the severest of tests, and the effect was now
cumulative. A brown figure appeared among the bushes behind him and he
heard the report of a shot. A bullet cut the dead leaves ten yards away,
but he knew that the warriors would soon come nearer and then their aim
would be better.
Now he called upon the last reserve of strength and tenacity, the
portion that is left to the brave when to ordinary minds all seems
exhausted, and made a final and splendid burst of speed, drawing away
from the brown figures and once more opening the gap between hunted and
hunters. But the shout came again from the south and on his right flank
where fresh warriors were closing in, and despite himself his heart sank
for a moment or two in despair. Was he to fall after so many escapes?
How Braxton Wyatt and Blackstaffe would rejoice!
Despair could not last long with him. There was still another ounce of
strength left, and now he used it, fairly springing through the thicket,
while his heart beat hard and painfully and clouds of black motes danced
before his eyes.
He saw a warrior appear among the bushes on the right, and, raising his
own rifle, he fired. The stream of flame that leaped from the muzzle of
his weapon was accompanied by the death cry of the savage, followed
quickly by a long, fierce yell of rage from the fallen man's comrades.
Then the pursuit hung back a little, but it came on again soon, as
terrible and as tenacious as ever. He reloaded his rifle as he ran, but
he knew that unless some strange chance intervened soon he must turn and
fight for his life. The ground dropped suddenly and he ran down a steep
slope into a wide valley, the trend of which was from north to south.
Here he gained a little, but he heard a shout on his right and saw three
warriors coming up the valley, not thirty yards away. At the same time,
the long, fierce whine of the wolves was registered somewhere on his
brain, but he did not take definite note of it until afterward.
The foremost of the Indians fired and missed, to receive in return the
bullet from Henry's reloaded rifle, but the other two came on, shouting.
He hurled his hatchet and struck down the second, but the third paused
twenty feet away and whirled his tomahawk about his head in glittering
circles. Henry instinctively raised his rifle to ward off the blade in
its flight, but he knew that the guard would not do. The tomahawk would
leave the warrior's hand like a thunderbolt, and it would go straight to
its destined mark. He saw the evil joy in the man's eyes, his
anticipation of quick and savage victory, and then the cloud of motes
before his own eyes increased to myriads. His heart, crying out against
so much exertion, beat so painfully that he thought he could not stand
it any longer, and a veil of thick mist was drawn down between him and
the triumphant warrior. Then he suddenly stood erect and the hair upon
his head lifted once more.
There was a horrible growl and a gigantic wolf, shooting out of the
mist, launched himself straight at the warrior's throat. Henry heard the
man's terrible cry and saw him go down, and then he saw the figures of
other wolves, enlarged by the vapors, following their leader. But that
was all he beheld then. Uttering a cry of his own, wrenched from him by
the appalling sight, he snatched up his hatchet, turned and ran up
the valley, with strength coming from new and unknown sources.
[Illustration: "A gigantic wolf ... launched himself straight at the
warrior's throat"]
The heavy mists that were floating over the low ground enclosed Henry,
but he did not look back. He knew instinctively that he was no longer
followed. Once he thought he heard the horrible growling again, and
shouts, but he was not sure. Too much had impinged upon his mind for him
to distinguish between fancy and reality yet awhile, but a powerful
feeling that another miracle had been wrought in his behalf seized upon
him and would not let go. The wolves, whether it was chance or not so
far as they were concerned, had come in time and their giant leader
himself had cut down the warrior who was about to cleave the fugitive's
head with his tomahawk.
The Indians would stop, appalled, and for a while would be overwhelmed
with superstition. But he knew that the paralyzing spell could not last
long. Blackstaffe and Wyatt at least would urge them on, and it was for
him to use the time that had been granted to him by miraculous chance.
When exhaustion came he had will enough to stop again and remain quite
still until the fierce pains in his chest ceased and there was air for
his lungs once more. He was sure of a quarter of an hour, and a forest
runner such as he could do wonders in that space. A quarter of an hour
meant for him the difference between life and death, and although his
feet strove of their own accord to go on, his mind held them back at
least twothirds of the time. Then he allowed his body to have its way,
and he went down the valley not at a run, but a prudent walk, in order
to give his lungs, heart and muscles a chance for further recovery.
The valley seemed to be about a quarter of a mile wide, heavily
forested, and with a small creek flowing down the center. The hills that
walled it in on either side were high and steep, and Henry thought it
would be wiser to take to them, but, for the present, he did not feel
like making the climb. He was not willing to put any check upon the new
store of strength that was flooding his veins.
Ten minutes more and he heard a fierce whoop behind him. The Indians
evidently had driven off the wolves, and, under the insistence of the
renegades, would renew the pursuit. Another momentary sinking of his
heart came. The numbers of the warriors, who could spread out in every
direction, many of whom were yet comparatively fresh, were an obstacle
that he could not overcome. The wolves had brought delay, but not
escape.
Then his courage came back, not slowly or gradually, but like a leaping
tide. He had seen only half of the new miracle. While he thought it
finished, the other half was coming, was upon hunted and hunters even
now. The veil of mist that had floated between him and the wolf and its
victim was spreading up and down the valley, rising from the wet ground,
dense and heavy, opaque like ink, despite its whiteness. Presently the
great whitish cloud would enclose him and the warriors, hiding them
from one another, and it would be strange if he could not escape them in
the white gloom, where only ears served.
Turning his eyes upward to the skies that he could not now see, he gave
thanks to the superior powers that were guarding him so well. Then he
turned at a sharp angle, crossed the creek, and began to climb the hills
on the east.
All the time the fog, thick and white, was pouring over the valley and
the slopes. Half way up the hill Henry paused and looked back, seeing
nothing but a vast white gulf. Then he heard the warriors in the gulf
calling to one another, and now the spirit to laugh at them came back to
him. They did not know that he was protected by a force greater than
theirs that snatched him again and again from the savage band before it
could close upon him.
He sat down among the bushes and continued to look at the valley, which
reminded him now of a vast white river, all of it flowing northward,
with the signals of the warriors still coming out of its depths, puzzled
evidently, as they had a good right to be. Although they were only a few
hundred yards away, Henry felt that there was little danger. The miracle
was continuing. The great white flood poured steadily down the valley
and rose higher and higher on the slopes. He went to the top of the
hill, where it followed him and spread over the forest.
When he found a comfortable place in a thicket he lay down and drew
around him the painted robe that had served him so often and so well.
He knew the warriors would ascend the slopes, but the chances were a
thousand to one against their finding him in so dense a mist, and the
longer he rested the better fitted he would be for flight. Meanwhile the
fog increased in thickness, rolling up continually in dense masses, and
he inferred that he could not be far from some large stream or a lake or
great flooded areas. Perhaps the creek that flowed down the valley
emptied not far away into a river.
If he had not been so worn by the tremendous tests to which he had been
put he would have gone on, despite everything, in the fog over the
hills, but instead he lay close like an animal in its lair, adjusted
anew about him the blanket and the painted coat and luxuriated. At
intervals he heard the warriors calling in the valley, and once the
sound of footsteps not more than twenty yards away reached him, but he
was not disturbed. The chance that they would stumble upon him was still
only one in a thousand.
He remained at least four hours in the bushes, and throughout that time
he scarcely moved, having acquired the forest art of keeping perfectly
still when there was nothing to be done. Then he saw the fog thinning
somewhat, but he was completely restored. Youth had its way. His nerves
and muscles were as strong as ever, and the great mental elation had
returned. Why not? It was obvious that he was protected by the supreme
powers. Miracle after miracle had occurred in his behalf. They had sent
the wolves just in time, and then they had drawn the fog from the earth,
hiding him from the warriors and giving him a covert in which he could
lie until his strength was restored.
He rose now and began his cautious passage through the white veil over
the hills. The fog was not lifting yet, but it was continuing to thin.
He could see in it ten or fifteen feet, and he was not sorry, as the
distance was enough for the choosing of a path, but not enough for the
warriors to come within sight of him before they were heard.
Twice, the sounds of the searching warriors came to him, but each time
he lay in the bush until they passed, when he would rise and continue
his judicious flight.
Near the close of the day, and going toward the northeast, he was far
from the valley, but obviously was coming to another, as the hills were
sinking fast and he saw the tops of trees below him. The fog had been
thinning until it was mere wisps and tatters, and now a smart wind
seizing all these remnants whirled them off to the east, leaving a
glorious clear sky, suffused in the west with the red and gold of the
setting sun, a deep brilliant light that touched the whole horizon with
fire.
Henry looked upon it and worshiped. He worshiped like a forest runner
and a man of the old, old time, when nothing of heaven or of religion
was revealed. He worshiped like an Indian to whom, as to many other
races, the sun was a symbol of warmth, of light and life, almost the
same as Manitou, that is to say, almost the same as God. Nor did he
forget to be grateful once more. It was not for any merit of his that
protection had been given to him so often, but because he was an
instrument in a good purpose. So thinking, he was full of humility and
meant to continue in the perilous path that he had chosen, the path of
service for others.
The spiritual quality was strong in Henry's nature; in truth, it was
rooted in the characters of all the five, although it differed in its
manifestations, and he gazed long at the western heavens, where the
splendid colors of the setting sun blazed in their deepest hues and then
faded, leaving only a warm glow behind. The night, as the forecast
already showed, would be clear and cold, and he descended into the new
valley, which was much wider than the one he had left. It was
comparatively free of undergrowth, and he saw through the trees the
gleam of water which proved to be a river on his right, and of fair
size.
He believed that the larger valley would receive the smaller one and its
draining creek not far ahead, and a new problem was presented. Unless he
swam the river and kept to the east the warriors would come on anew from
the west and pin him against the stream.
Should he plunge into the cold waters? It was not a prospect that he
liked; but, while he considered it, he became aware that the miracle
created in his behalf was not yet finished. He had thought that it was
done when the wolves intervened, and again that it was done when the
great fog came, but there was yet another link in the lengthening chain
of marvelous events.
A sound from the river and he stepped hastily to the shelter of a great
tree trunk. It was the plash of a paddle, and as he looked, peeping from
the side of the trunk, a warrior stepped from a canoe at the river's
brink and took a long look at the forest. Henry judged that he was an
outpost or sentinel of some kind, or perhaps a member of a provision
fleet. The man tied his canoe with a willow withe to a sapling and
strode away out of sight, doubtless intending to meet the band to which
he belonged. Henry's heart leaped. He was always quick to perceive and
to act, and he saw his opportunity.
Twenty swift steps and he was at the margin of the stream, one slash of
his knife and the willow withe was cut, one sweep of the paddle and the
stout canoe was far out in the stream, bearing with it the brave youth
and his fortunes.
Henry exulted. Truly chance--or was it chance?--served him well! He had
a singular feeling that the canoe had been put there especially for his
use. No more running through the forest. He could call a new set of
muscles into play, and there before him lay the stream, broad and deep
and straight, a clear path for the good canoe that he had made his own.
He did not allow his exultation to steal away his caution, but after the
first few sweeps of the paddle he sent the canoe close to the eastern
bank, under the shadow of vast masses of overhanging willows. Here it
blended with the dusk, and he handled the paddle so smoothly that he
made no splash to betray his presence.
Now he examined his canoe, and he saw that, in truth, it bore supplies
for a band, venison, buffalo meat, wild turkey, and, what he craved most
of all, bread of Indian corn. The supplies were sufficient to last him
two weeks at least, and he felt with all the power of conviction that
the miracle was still working.
He sped down the stream with long, silent strokes, keeping always in the
dusk of the overhanging foliage. The stars came out, and with them a
full, bright moon, which he also worshiped as a sign and an emblem of
the Supreme Will that had saved him. He fell into an intense mood of
exaltation. The powers of earth and air and water had worked together in
a singular manner. Never was his fancy more vivid. The flowing of the
stream sang to him, and the willows over his head sang to him also. The
light from the moon and stars grew. The dusk was shot with a silver
glow. Apprehension, weariness went from him, and he shot down the river,
mile after mile, apparently the only figure in the ancient wilderness.
He did not stop until two or three hours after midnight, when at a low
place in the bank he thrust the canoe into a dense mass of water weeds
and bushes, put the paddle beside him and ate freely of the captured
supplies. The venison and buffalo meat were excellent, and while the
water of the river was not as good as that of a spring, it was
nevertheless cold and refreshing. Fresh warmth and vigor flowed into
his body, and he declared to himself that he had never felt better and
stronger in his life. He looked with satisfaction at his stores, which
would last him so long, and he also saw in the canoe a folded green
blanket, which its owner evidently had left there for future use. He
would use it instead, since the cold was likely to increase and he meant
to be comfortable.
Henry considered the canoe a godsend. It left no trail, and he had been
careful to leave none when he came to the bank for its capture. Perhaps
the Indian would think he had tied it carelessly and the current had
pulled its fastenings loose. In any event, the fugitive was gone and his
pathway was invisible, like that of a bird in the air. He looked up once
more at the cold, blue sky, the brilliant full moon, and the hosts of
shining stars. Cold the sky might be to others, but it was not so to
him. It bent over him like a protecting blue veil, shot with the silver
glow of moon and stars.
The thicket into which he had pushed his canoe was of weeds, reeds and
willows, and very dense. The keenest eyes might search its very edge and
fail to see the fugitive within. There was no view except overhead, and
Henry resolved to remain there the whole of the next day. If the
warriors came pursuing on the river he would be once again the needle in
the haystack, and even if by some chance they should spy him out, he
could escape, refreshed and invigorated, to the land.
Assured of his present safety, he spread his bed in the canoe, a
somewhat difficult task, as everything had to be adjusted with nicety,
but the close wall of reeds and bushes helped him to keep the balance,
and at last he lay on the bottom with the Indian's blanket under him and
his own and the painted robe above him. Then he went to sleep and did
not awaken until the next day was hours old.
A bright sun was shining through the bushes over his head, but he was
glad that his body had been protected by an abundance of covers. The
painted robe was white with frost, which even the hours of day had not
yet melted, and near the edges there was a thin skin of ice on the
river. His breath made little clouds of vapor in the cold morning. He
was so warm and snug under the blankets that he felt the usual aversion
in such cases to rising, and turning gently on his side, lest he tilt
the canoe, he closed his eyes for that aftermath of sleep, a final and
pleasant doze.
When he opened his eyes again he contemplated the sun through the veil
of bushes and reeds. It was great and red, but it had a chilly effect,
and he knew the day was quite cold. The willows began to shake and
quiver and the wind that stirred them was nipping. He did not care. Cold
stimulated him, and, making ready for new endeavors, he dipped for his
breakfast into the captured stores.
Then he took note of the river, upon the surface of which much life was
already passing. He saw a flock of wild ducks swimming strong and true
against the current, and when they were gone a swarm of wild geese came
with many honks out of the air and swam in the same direction. He knew
that presently they would rise again and fly into the far south,
escaping the fierce winter of the north.
The great fishing birds also wheeled and circled over the stream, and
now and then one shot downward for its prey. On the opposite shore two
deer pushed their bodies through the bushes and drank at the river's
edge. On his own shore the puffing of a bear in the woods came to his
ears. Evidently he had come from a region bare of game into a land of
plenty.
The wild geese rose with a suddenness he had not anticipated and sped
southward in a long arrow, outlined sharply against the sky. The great
fishing birds silently disappeared, and Henry was alone on the river. He
knew that the quick flight of his feathered friends was not due to
chance. Undoubtedly man was coming, and he crouched low in his canoe,
with his rifle ready.