The retreat—Joe makes a mysterious discovery—Mary—A
disclosure—Supper—Sleep—A cat—Joe’s flint—The watch—Mary—The bush—The
attack—Joe’s musket again—The repulse—The starting rally—The desperate
alternative—Relief.
The guidance of Sneak was infallible. Ere long the party reached the
vicinity of the river, which was indicated by the tall trees and the
valleys, and all apprehensions of immediate danger subsiding, they
slackened their pace.
Sneak, though not so much distressed as the panting horses, fell back,
and entered into conversation with Boone relative to the probable
operations of the Indians, while Joe continued some little distance in
advance, apparently wrapped in contemplation of the recent scenes that
had so much astonished him. When he was within about a hundred paces of
his long-wished for home, he thought he saw an object moving about in
front of the palisade. He checked his pony for an instant; but
convinced that the savages could not possibly have arrived already, he
again whipped onward, inclined to believe it to be nothing more than a
phantom of the brain. But when he proceeded a few stops farther, his
pony stopped suddenly and snorted, while a being, which he could not
exactly define, was distinctly seen to rise up and glide swiftly out of
view round the inclosure.
“Who’s that!” shouted he, and at the same time looking eagerly back at
his companions, whose near approach induced him to maintain his
position.
“Go on, Joe! What’s the matter?” remarked Glenn, the head of his steed
having passed over the back of the pony as he stood across the path and
blocked up the way.
“I beg to be excused! As sure as I’m alive, I saw an Indian run round
towards the gate!” replied Joe.
“Foller me,” said Sneak, poising his spear in the air, and advancing.
“Thank Heaven, it’s you!” exclaimed the mysterious object, coming
forward fearlessly, on hearing the men’s voices.
“Dod rot your cowardly skin!” said Sneak, after looking at the
approaching form and turning to Joe, “how dare you to be frightened at
sich a thing as that—a female woman!”
“It was not me—it was my pony, you great—”
“What?” asked Sneak, sharply, turning abruptly round, as they paused at
the gate.
“You great long buffalo tapeworm!” said Joe, alighting on the side of
the pony opposite to his quarrelsome companion, and then going forward
and opening the gate in silence.
“What brings thee hither at this late hour, Mary?” inquired Glenn, on
recognizing the ferryman’s daughter.
“Nothing—only—I”—stammered the abashed girl, who had expected only to
see our hero and his man.
“Speak out, lass, if you have any thing important to say,” remarked
Boone, when they entered the inclosure, placing his hand encouragingly
on the girl’s head.
Mary still hesitated, and Boone was no little puzzled to conjecture
rightly what it was she intended to impart; but he was convinced it
must be something of no ordinary nature that would induce a maiden of
reputed timidity to leave her father’s hut at a late hour of the night.
“Now tell me, Mary, what it was you wished to say,” remarked Glenn,
addressing her in a playful tone, when they were seated in the house,
and a lamp suspended against the wall was lighted.
“I did not expect to find Mr. Boone and Sneak with you—and now—”
“What?” inquired Glenn, much moved by her paleness, and the throbbing
of her breast, which now seemed to be gradually subsiding.
“Nothing—only you and Joe are both safe now,” she replied, with her
eyes cast down.
“Were we in danger? How are we safe?” inquired Glenn, regarding her
words as highly mysterious.
“Everybody is safe where Mr. Boone is,” replied Mary.
“But what was the danger, my pretty lass?” inquired Boone, playfully
taking her hand.
“Why Posin, one of father’s boatmen—”
“Speak on, lass—I know Posin to be an unfeeling wretch, and a
half-blood Indian; but he is also known to be a great coward, and
surely no harm could have been feared from him,” said Boone.
“But I heard him speaking to himself when I was filling my pitcher at
the spring, and he was standing behind some rocks, where he couldn’t
see me, and didn’t think any one was within hearing.”
“What said he?” inquired Glenn, impatiently, and much interested in the
anticipated disclosure, for he had often remarked the satanic
expression of Posin’s features.
“These were his words: ‘The Osages will be here before to-morrow
morning. If Raven, the chief, will go halves with me, I’ll tell him how
much money the young men have, and help to get it!’ Such were his very
words!” continued Mary, her dark eyes assuming a brightness, and her
voice a boldness unwonted on ordinary occasions, as she proceeded: “He
then started off towards the prairie with his rifle, and nobody has
seen him since. I told father about it but he wouldn’t believe there
was any danger; and when night came, he told me not to be uneasy, but
to sleep like a good girl. I did lie down, for I never like to disobey
my father; but I couldn’t sleep, and so I got up and came here to wait
till you returned, to tell you all about it.”
“Thanks, Mary—I shall never forget your kindness,” said Glenn, as much
affected by her simplicity and gentleness as at the threatened danger.
“You’re a sweet lass; God bless you, Mary!” said Boone, kissing her
smooth forehead. “Now run home and go to sleep, child; we will be on
our guard. As for you, your father is respected by all the Indians, and
therefore your own safety will be best secured under his protection.”
“I will accompany you to the hut,” said Glenn, as the girl bid them
good night, and was about departing.
“Oh no—I’m used to going alone,” said Mary, promptly declining the
proposition.
“She speaks truly, and it is unnecessary,” said Boone, as the maiden
bowed and disappeared.
The party then fastened the gate and secured themselves within the
stone house. Joe petitioned Glenn to permit him to bring in the dogs,
and Sneak seconded the motion, proposing to lie with them before the
fire.
After a hearty repast, Boone and Glenn retired to their couches in
quest of repose, so much needed after the exercises of the day. Nor was
it long before they were steeped in that deep and solemn slumber which
throws a mysterious veil over the senses, obscuring from the vision all
objects of an unpleasant nature, relieving the mind of the cares that
may have pressed heavily upon it during the day, and at the same time
by the gentlest process refreshing and reinvigorating the weary
faculties for renewed exertion.
Silence brooded over the fireside scene. The lamp threw a dim ray
around its small flame unruffled by the confined and motionless air.
The fawn was coiled in a sleeping posture under its master’s bed, while
the kitten purred upon its velvet back. On one side of the hearth lay
Sneak, his head pillowed upon one of the hounds, while the other slept
against his back. Joe was the only one present who had not fallen under
the magic influence of slumber. Hitherto he had yielded to a more
powerful impulse—that of the appetite—and he now sat upon a low stool
on the corner of the hearth opposite to Sneak, his back leaning against
the side of the fireplace, holding in his left hand a pewter platter,
and in his right a rib of the deer he had killed, well cooked, which he
raised to his mouth occasionally, and sometimes at very long intervals,
between the approaches of the sleep which was gradually overpowering
him. Once, when his eyelids sank heavily and closed, and the platter
rested on his lap, and his right hand, still clenching the savoury
bone, fell powerless at his side—Ringwood, in his hard breathing,
chanced to snuff up some ashes that caused him to sneeze. Joe started
at the sound, and after rolling his eyes round once or twice and
finding all right, raised the bone once more to his mouth and set his
jaws again in motion.
“Dod, man! are you going to chaw all night?” asked Sneak, awakened by
the motion of Ringwood, and looking up at the face of Joe in
astonishment.
“I had nothing to eat all day,” replied Joe, fishing for a cracker
floating in the greasy platter.
“But ain’t you a-going to sleep some?” asked Sneak, half unconsciously,
the final utterance smothered in a guttural rumble as he again sank
back on his canine pillow.
“Yes, when I’ve got my supper,” replied Joe lazily, and indistinctly,
with one end of the bone in his mouth. But it was not long before he
again nodded, and his hand with the bone in it was once more lowered
softly down at his side. He was soon palpably fast asleep. And now the
kitten, having finished its nap, came with a noiseless tread to the
comfortable fire, humming its low unvaried song; and, rubbing its soft
side against the head of Jowler, finally crouched down before the
embers, with its feet drawn under it, and its eyes apparently watching
the brilliant sparks that ever and anon flew up the chimney. But ere
long it scented the well-flavoured viand that dangled in the vicinity,
and after casting a glance at the face of Joe, and being satisfied that
he was insensible to all external objects, stealthily began to gnaw the
end of the bone that rested on the hearth. As long as it had in mind
the fear of interruption, it was permitted to feast moderately; but
when its ravenous propensity urged it to more active and vigorous
operations, Joe once more opened his eyes, and after looking slowly
around, but not down, again attempted to raise the rib to a is mouth.
“Hello!—augh! scat!” he cried, leaping up violently.
His first impression was that the Indians, about whom he had been
dreaming, were upon him; his next that a rattlesnake clung to his
finger; and finally, finding it to be the kitten bestowing some
scratches on the hand that sought to bereave it of its prize, he
uttered the latter exclamation, first in rage; but pleased that his
condition was no worse, soon after called the poor frightened pet to
him, and with one or two caresses gave it the bone, and then resigned
himself to unrestrained slumber.
They were all aroused in the morning by the snorting of the horses
without, and the growling and sharp yelping of the hounds within.
“What’s the matter with the horses and dogs, Joe?” inquired Glenn,
rising from his couch.
“I don’t know what ails the foolish things. I know that I fed the
horses; and as for Ringwood and Jowler, I’ll soon kick them out. Let go
my ankle!” exclaimed he, turning to Sneak, who caught hold of him as he
rose to approach the door.
“Don’t open the door yet,” said Boone, who had been listening to the
sounds outside, and then continued in an under tone, addressing Glenn:
“They are certainly here; but whether or not with an evil intent I am
unable to determine.”
“Oh goodness! It’s the Indians!” exclaimed Joe, yielding to sudden
alarm, having momentarily forgotten the anticipated danger when he
proposed opening the door.
“Keep your mouth shet!” said Sneak, listening with his ear placed near
the floor behind the door.
“How many do you make them out to be?” inquired Boone, when Sneak had
occupied his position a few minutes.
“It’s all right!” replied Sneak, eagerly; “there is only two or three
of ’em, and old Roughgrove’s out there talking to ’em! How do you open
the door? Let me out!”
The door was opened with reluctance and cautiously by Joe, and Sneak
going foremost all the party sallied out into the fresh air. A snow of
several inches in depth had fallen, and within the circle enclosed by
the palisade not a single track was to be seen. But when the gate was
drawn back, several Osage Indians were observed standing a few paces
distant with their tomahawks hung in their belts and instead of
exhibiting any symptoms of hostility, they approached smiling, and
extended the hand of friendship to the whites.
“How do!” exclaimed the leader, in imperfect English, grasping the
hands held out in salutation, while his actions were imitated by the
others in silence.
“I’m very well, I thank you,” said Joe, bowing and retreating backwards
when they accosted him, unwilling to venture his hand within their
reach, as Glenn and the rest did.
“Shake hands with them, you silly fellow,” said Boone, “or they will
think you are an enemy.”
“Here, Mr. Osage!” said Joe, his teeth chattering as he extended his
hand; and the Indian, perceiving his alarm, squeezed it so tightly for
merriment that he was on the eve of crying out; and when liberated, he
sprang violently back, much inclined to run away, to their great
amusement.
“That is Raven, the chief,” remarked Roughgrove to Glenn, pointing to
the one that first addressed them, and who was now conversing with
Boone, whom he seemed to know, or to have been familiar with his
character, from his animated gestures and the excited expression of his
features. Sneak stood in silence, a convenient distance apart,
apparently gleaning intelligence from the conference. The chief (as are
the members of this tribe generally) was extremely dark, tall,
athletic, and wore a ferocious aspect, while the few followers with him
manifested a curiosity to examine the apparel and accoutrements of the
whites, but without betraying any signs of an evil disposition.
“Are there not more of them in the vicinity?” inquired Glenn.
“Yes—quite a large party,” said Roughgrove; “but Raven said he did not
wish to intimidate the whites by showing them, without first extending
the hand of friendship himself. They profess to entertain the kindest
feeling towards us, and propose through their chiefs to traffic their
furs and moccasins for such goods as we may be disposed to give them in
return.”
“I do not see your oarsman, Posin,” remarked Glenn, the disclosure of
Mary occurring to him—and then accosted Mary herself, who now joined
them with her eyes cast down in apparent bashfulness.
“His absence is a mystery to me,” replied the old ferryman, “though I
do not attach the same importance to it that Mary does.”
“Father”—uttered his daughter, and pausing in mingled timidity and
dread, as if some undefinable forebodings of harm oppressed her.
“I’ll be shot if I understand all this to my liking,” said Sneak,
staring at the great number of moccasin tracks that had been made round
the enclosure, which truly indicated that more than the four chiefs
present had been prowling there before daylight.
“Hush, Mr. Sneak!” said Joe; “they hear every word you say.”
“Jest let me alone a minute,” replied Sneak, getting down on his knees
and examining the various foot-prints with great minuteness. When he
rose he made some signs to Boone, which the others did not comprehend.
At this juncture several other Indians were seen to approach from the
valley above, where the party had encamped. These painted visitors
likewise came forward with sundry nods and gesticulations of
friendship, at the same time exhibiting several furred articles of
curious workmanship, and a few precious stones, as samples of what they
wished to barter. A short conference then ensued between them and the
head chief, which terminated in a pressing invitation for the whites to
accompany them to their encampment.
“You may all do as you like—I shall stay here,” said Joe, stepping back
towards the gate.
“You are a coward, Joe!” said Glenn; “you may remain, however, to
prevent them from pilfering any thing while we are away,” and he turned
towards the Indians for the purpose of accompanying them.
“Stay!” said Mary, in a distinct and startling tone.
“Why should we not go? We are armed, and could as easily withstand an
attack in their encampment as elsewhere. If it be their determination
to do us harm, their numbers will enable them to accomplish their
purpose notwithstanding all the opposition we can offer,” said Glenn.
“There is no danger,” said Roughgrove, endeavouring to extricate his
arm from the grasp of Mary, who strenuously held him back.
“I have a secret for thee, child,” said Boone, beckoning the trembling
girl to him.
“Oh, what is it? You will not let him—I mean my father, go among them,
will you? _You_ know that Posin is away—perhaps in some ambush —”
“Hush child!” said Boone, in a low tone, and employing gestures that
led the savages to believe he was quieting her fears, while he
whispered a message in her ear that had a singular effect. Though very
pale, the girl now smiled playfully, and returning to her father, said,
in tones so low that no one else could hear, “Father, he says you must
instantly cross the river for assistance—I will be safe, under _his_
protection, till you return.”
“I’ll do it!” replied Roughgrove, setting off towards the ferry. But
when he departed, the chief evinced much anger, and was only appeased
by the assurance that the old ferryman was gone for some article
desired by his child, and would return ere long.
The footprint which had so much attracted Sneak was recognized by some
peculiar marks to be that of Posin, and when the discovery was
communicated to Boone, he at once surmised that danger lurked in the
vicinity; and the subsequent impatience on the part of the Indians to
urge the whites to visit their camp, convinced him that some foul
treachery had been concocted between the half-breed and the savages. He
had also caught a glimpse of several armed Indians behind some bushes
at no great distance from where he stood, notwithstanding Raven had
asserted that the rest of his party were in their encampment; and when
the chief grew angry, and almost menacing, on the withdrawal of the old
ferryman, he resolved to adopt the surest means of safety without
delay. No sooner was the ferry-boat seen to shoot out from the land
than Boone motioned the whites to enter the inclosure. As they turned
towards the gate, the chief made a movement to intercept them; but
Boone drew forth a brace of pistols that had been concealed under his
hunting-shirt, one of which he pointed at Raven, and with the other
intimidated the rest who had advanced likewise, until his friends were
all within the palisade.
Boone drew forth a brace of pistols.
Boone drew forth a brace of pistols that had been concealed under his
hunting-shirt, one of which he pointed at Raven, and with the other
intimidated the rest who had advanced on himself, until his friends
were all within the palisade.
Boone did not wish to be the first to shed blood, and in their own
language asserted as much to the savages; but at the same time he
warned them not to commit any violence in the settlement at their
peril. The chief had not thought there would be any necessity for
bloodshed so soon, and perhaps not at all, if Glenn could be enticed
from his house, while Posin and his comrades might obtain his money.
Nor did he expect to meet with Boone, (renowned among all the tribes
for his wisdom and prowess,) much less to be anticipated on the very
threshold of the enterprise. His rage grew intense on finding himself
outwitted and defied. He drew forth his tomahawk, and though not
venturing to throw it, (for he perceived Glenn and Sneak behind, with
their guns in readiness to fire,) he shook it threateningly at Boone as
he closed the gate, and then strode away sulkily in the direction of
the bushes, where some of his followers had been seen partially
concealed.
When the gate was secured, the inmates of the little fort crowded about
Boone and overwhelmed him with questions.
“Do you think they can get over the posts?” inquired Joe.
“Will they come before father returns?” asked Mary.
“Do you think they will attack us at all?” interrogated Glenn.
“There can be no doubt of it,” replied Boone; “but if we do our duty, I
think we shall be able to resist them. We must be ready to defend
ourselves, at all events—and in the mean time we must watch through the
loopholes on every side to prevent a surprise.” This was hardly spoken
before an arrow whizzed over their heads, and, striking against the
stone wall of the house, fell at the feet of Joe.
“Ugh! look at that!” cried he, leaping some ten feet away.
“Go in, child—and the rest to their posts!” remarked Boone, first to
Mary, and then addressing the men.
“Yes—_do_ go in, Miss!” cried Joe, forcing Mary into the house, where
he also seemed determined to remain himself.
“Come out here!” cried Sneak, going to the door.
“Wait till I screw a flint in my musket,” said Joe.
“You can see better out here,” replied Sneak.
“But I haven’t found the flint yet,” answered Joe.
“He’s a coward!” said Sneak, turning away and going to his post, whence
he could watch the valley below.
Boone’s station was on the opposite side, in the direction of the
supposed encampment of the Indians. But not a savage could now be seen,
and the arrow that fell among them had evidently been discharged from a
great distance above.
“Shall we fire if any of them come within the range of our guns?”
inquired Glenn, from his position on the east, which overlooked the
cliff.
“Certainly,” replied Boone; “the arrow was their declaration of war,
and if they are again seen, it will be in a hostile attitude. Watch
close, Sneak!” he cried, as another shaft flew over the palisade from
the valley below, and penetrated the wood but a few feet above his
head.
“Come out to your post, Joe!” cried Glenn, impatiently.
“I will presently—as soon as I get my gun fixed,” replied Joe.
“If you do not come forth instantly, I’ll thrust you out of the
inclosure!” continued Glenn, somewhat fiercely.
“Here I am,” said Joe, coming out, and making an effort to assume a
bold bearing: “I’m ready now—I only wanted to fix my gun—who’s afraid?”
saying which, he strode in a stooping posture to the loophole on the
west of the inclosure.
While the whole male force of the garrison was required to act as
sentinels, Mary, whose trepidation had been succeeded by deliberate
resolution, was busily employed moulding bullets.
An hour passed, and no Indians had yet been seen, although an
occasional arrow assured the besieged party that the enemy still
remained in the immediate vicinity. They cleared away the snow at their
posts, and placing dry straw to stand upon, prepared to continue the
watch throughout the day and night. Nor were they to suffer for food;
for Mary, though she had not been requested so to do, ere long, to
their joyful surprise, came forth with a dinner handsomely provided,
which she placed before them with a smile of satisfaction playing on
her lips, and entirely unmindful of the shafts that continued to fly
overhead, which either pierced the wood and remained stationary, or
fell expended and harmless at her feet.
Affairs thus remained till night, when the arrows ceased to fly. There
was not a cloud in the heavens, and the moon rose up in purest
brightness. A breathless stillness pervaded the air, and no sound for a
great length of time could be heard but the hooting of owls on the
opposite side of the river, and the howling of wolves in the flats
about a mile above.
“I’m not a bit cold—are you?” said Joe, addressing Sneak.
“Dad! keep an eye out!” replied Sneak, in a low tone.
“There’s nothing out this way but a bush. But I declare it seems to be
bigger and nigher than it was in the daytime,” said Joe.
“Don’t speak so loud,” remarked Boone, crossing to where Joe stood, and
looking through at the bush.
“It’s nothing but a bush,” said Joe.
“Do you wish to kill an Indian?” inquired Boone.
“I wish they were all worms, and I could get my heel on them!” said
Joe.
“That would be cruel—but as any execution we may now do, is in our own
defence, you may fire at that bush if you like,” continued Boone.
“Well,” said Joe; and taking deliberate aim, discharged his musket as
directed, and was knocked down on his back in the snow by the rebound.
“Plague take the gun!” said he, recovering his feet; “but I remember it
had two loads in—I forgot it was charged, and loaded it again. Ha! ha!
ha! but what’s become of the bush?” he continued jocularly, not
thinking he had fired at an Indian.
“Look for yourself,” replied Boone.
“Hang me if it ain’t gone!” exclaimed Joe.
“Ay, truly it is; but had you hit the mark, it would have fallen. It
was rather too far, however, even for your musket,” said Boone,
returning to his former position.
“You are the poorest marksman that ever I saw, or you’d ’ave killed
that red rascal,” said Sneak, coming up to Joe, and finding where the
bush had been.
“I didn’t know it was any thing but a bush—if I’d only known it was an
Indian—”
“You be hanged!” replied Sneak, vexed that such a capital opportunity
should be lost, and petulantly resuming his own station.
An intense silence succeeded the discharge of Joe’s gun, after the
tremendous report died away, in successive reverberations up and down
the river, and over the low wood land opposite. The owls and wolves
were hushed; and as the watchful sentinels cast their eyes over the
snow, on which the calm rays of the moon rested in repose, there was
not the least indication of the presence of a dangerous foe.
Joe leant against the palisade, holding with one hand the breech of his
gun, while the barrel was thrust through the loophole, and seemed to be
indulging in a peculiar train of reflections.
“Now, I’d much rather be in Philadelphia,” said he, in a voice but
little louder than a, whisper, and unconscious of giving utterance to
his thoughts—“a great deal rather be there—in some comfortable
oyster-cellar—than standing out here in the lone wilderness, up to my
knees in snow, and expecting every minute to have a poisoned arrow shot
through my head. Hang it all! I wonder what pleasure Mr. Glenn can
enjoy here? Suppose, now, while I’m standing here thinking, an arrow
should dart over the, other side, and stick five or six inches into me?
I hope they keep a careful look-out. And that reminds me that I ought
to keep an eye out myself, for fear some one may he pinked from my
side.” He applied his eye to the hole, and continued in the same
strain: “I don’t see a single living thing; maybe they’ve all gone off.
If they have, I’ll deserve all the credit, for I’m the only person that
shot at them. And I don’t think that long hatchet-face Sneak will think
that I’m a coward any more. But these savages are strange beings; I had
no more idea that the bush hid an Indian than that there’s one not ten
feet off now, under the snow. And if we hadn’t found him out he might
have crawled up and shot me in the eye through this hole. I won’t hold
my eye here all the time!” said he, rising, and to his astonishment
Sneak stood at his elbow, whither he had glided softly, his quick ear
having caught the hum of Joe’s soliloquy, and his curiosity leading him
to find out the meaning of the mysterious jargon of his
companion-in-arms.
“Of all the men I ever saw you are the dod-rottedest!” exclaimed Sneak,
after staring at him a few moments in silent wonderment, and then
striding back to his post.
“I should like to hear that sentence parsed,” said Joe, looking after
him.
The hours wore on in peace, until midnight, when a low chattering, like
that of a squirrel, was heard in the valley below; while a shrill
whistling, resembling that of quails was distinguished above.
“Come hither!” exclaimed Boone in a whisper to Glenn.
“Do you see any of them?” inquired Glenn, joining his friend.
“Not yet—but we will see enough of them presently. The sounds in the
valleys are signals, and they will attack us on these sides. You may
abandon your watch on the east, and assist me here.”
“And you may come and spell me,” said Sneak to Joe.
“I must not desert my post,” said Joe.
“If you stay there, you’ll be dead sure to be shot!” replied Sneak.
“You don’t think they’re coming back, do you?” inquired Joe, gliding
swiftly to Sneak’s side.
“They’ll be on us in no time. Is your gun loaded?
“I declare I have forgotten whether I loaded it again or not!” said
Joe.
“You’re, a purty feller, to watch with an empty gun, now ain’t you?
Never mind blowing in her—run down a cartridge as quick as you kin; it
makes no odds how much you have in; a big noise will do as much good as
any thing else,” said Sneak, hurriedly, evidently expecting to see the
savage enemy every moment, while Joe did his bidding, asserting all the
time that he believed his musket was already loaded, and expressing a
decided dislike to being kicked over every day from overcharging.
As Boone predicted, but a very short time elapsed before a series of
startling and frightful yells were heard below, which were answered by
similar horrid sounds above. Joe first ran towards Boone and Glenn, and
then sprang back to his place at the side of Sneak, fully convinced
there were no means of retreat, and, being effectually cornered, at
length evinced an ardent desire to fire. When the yells died away in
the distance, a flight of arrows from the north south poured upon the
besieged party. Many of them pierced the outer side of the palisade,
while others, flying over, penetrated the opposite timbers, and
quivered above the heads of the men; and some rattled against the top
of the house, (the snow having melted from the roof,) and fell harmless
to the earth.
There having been no shot yet fired in the direction whence the arrows
came, (for such was the order of Boone,) the savages, emboldened by the
absence of any demonstrations of resistance, and thinking their foes
were shut up in the house, or killed by their numberless shafts,
charged upon the premises simultaneously from both sides, shooting
their arrows and yelling as they came. When they had approached within
a hundred paces of the inclosure, Boone and Sneak fired with deadly aim
at the foremost of the party, and the next moment Glenn followed the
example, while Boone reloaded his gun.
“Now fire!” exclaimed Sneak, shaking Joe by the shoulder, having seen
the savages pause when one of their party uttered the death-howl and
fell.
“Here goes!” said Joe, pulling the trigger and falling over on his back
in the snow from the rebound, for the musket had been truly twice
charged.
“Split me if you didn’t accidentally throw a handful of bullets among
their legs that crack!” said Sneak, observing the now discomfited and
retreating Indians, as they endeavoured to bear off their wounded, and
then firing on them again himself as they vanished down the valley. The
like result was witnessed above, and again in a very short time there
was not a savage to be seen.
“What’s the matter? Why don’t you get up?” asked Sneak turning to Joe,
who still remained prostrate on the ground.
“My mouth’s bleeding—I don’t know but I’m wounded. Didn’t an arrow come
through the hole when I was shooting?” asked Joe, rising partially up
and spitting out a quantity of blood on the snow.
“It was nothing but the gun kicking you like it did in the bear hunt.
If it was an arrow you must have swallered it, for I don’t see the
shaft. But maybe you did—you’re sech a gormandizer,” said Sneak.
“Hang it all, I don’t believe I’m much hurt!” exclaimed Joe, jumping up
suddenly. “Get from before the hole!” he continued, ramming down a
cartridge hastily, and thrusting out the muzzle of his gun.
“Why don’t you blaze away?” asked Sneak, laughing, observing that he
hesitated.
“Why, they’re, all gone!” cried Joe, joyfully, “and it was my old
cannon that swept them off, too.”
Once more silence pervaded the scene. Boone, after the repeated
solicitations of Mary, partook of another bountiful repast, and the
others in turn likewise refreshed themselves, and then resumed the
watch.
Nor was it long before the Osages were once more heard to howl like
fiends, and the sound had hardly ceased to vibrate through the air
before a singular and unexpected assault terrified the besieged party
for a moment. This was a shower of _blazing arrows_ coming from below,
(where all the savages now seemed to be collected,) which ignited the
palisade in many places where the snow had fallen off. But the fire was
easily extinguished, and all, with the exception of Boone, were
disposed to attach but little importance to any further device of the
enemy. Boone, on the contrary, was unusually grave, and requested his
companions to be on the alert, or they would yet be the victims of the
savages.
“I like these kind of arrows the best,” said Joe, “for I can see how to
dodge them.”
“But the wooden slabs can’t dodge—dod! they’re afire on the outside
now!” cried Sneak, truly discovering a flame reaching above the
inclosure from without.
“Watch well from the loopholes!” cried Boone, throwing open the gate
and rushing out, and running round to where the fire was crackling.
“Come, Sneak!—I want your assistance—quick!” he exclaimed, finding the
flames making rapid progress.
“Keep your eye skinned now!” said Sneak, as he left Joe alone to watch
for the Indians, and ran out to aid in subduing the fire.
The savages could evidently see what was transacting, although unseen
themselves, for most of their arrows now seemed to be directed at those
without.
“Look sharp!” said Boone to Joe, through the loophole.
“Let me assist!” cried Glenn, imprudently leaving his post in his
eagerness to share the danger, and coming out with a spade.
“Go in, my friend—we are sufficient here,” said Boone, addressing
Glenn.
“Come in! come in! come in!” cried Joe.
“I see no Indians,” remarked Boone.
“The house is on fire! Fire! fire! fire!” screamed Joe, falling into
his old habit when in the city.
Glenn ran back in this emergency, but when he arrived within the
inclosure, he found that this service had been anticipated by Mary, who
had quietly thrust her hands into the snow, and with balls thus made,
easily extinguished the fire on the roof.
When Boone and Sneak had effected their purpose, they repaired to their
former positions, assured that the utmost caution must be observed to
prevent a surprise from some unexpected quarter, while their attention
was naturally directed to one particular point. But they had hardly
resumed their stations before their ears were saluted by the joyful
report of rifles in the valley. Relief was at hand. Roughgrove had
recrossed the river, with a party of recruits, and fallen upon the rear
of the savages, at a moment when success seemed to smile on their
sanguinary purpose. Their shouts of exultation at the prospect of
firing the premises were now changed to howls of despair, and they fled
in all directions. But Roughgrove, aware of the impolicy of pursuit,
led his men directly to the gallant little garrison; and the victorious
huzzas of his band were answered in like manner by the besieged, who
came forth and gave them a cordial welcome. Never, perhaps, when they
met, did hand grasp hand more heartily. But Mary, who had hitherto cast
aside all the weaker fears of the woman, no sooner beheld her aged
father in safety than she rushed into arms and fainted on his breast.