Boone—The interment—Startling intelligence—Indians about—A
skunk—Thrilling fears—Boone’s device.
Ere long Joe was on his way back to the cave-spring, with several
spades on his shoulder, accompanied by Boone, (who had just crossed the
river on a visit to Glenn,) and Roughgrove, with his two oarsmen.
“Is Glenn at the spring with Sneak?” asked Boone, in a very thoughtful
and grave manner.
“Yes, sir, I left him there, and I now hear him with the hounds chasing
a fox,” replied Joe, in true native style.
“If he is with the hounds, he is certainly not at the spring,” remarked
Roughgrove.
“I meant that he was there, or _thereabouts_” replied Joe.
“Who found the dead man?” inquired Boone.
“I did—that is, when the dogs scented him—and it almost frightened me
when I dug out his foot,” said Joe.
“No doubt!” observed Boone.
The party now moved along in silence, still permitting Joe to lead the
way, until they suddenly emerged from the thicket in the immediate
vicinity of the spring, when an unexpected scene attracted their
notice. Sneak was composedly seated on the body of the dead man, and
very deliberately searching his pockets!
“Well! that beats all the mean actions I ever beheld before!” said Joe,
pausing and staring indignantly at Sneak.
“You’re a fool!” replied Sneak.
“What for? because I wouldn’t rob the dead?” retorted Joe.
“Do you call this robbing the dead? Hain’t this traitor stoled this
lump of gold from the Injins?” said Sneak, displaying a rough piece of
the precious metal about the size of a crow’s egg.
“Is it gold?” asked Joe, with some anxiety.
“Sartainly it is,” answered Sneak, handing it to him to be examined;
“and what good could come of burying it agin? I’ll leave it to Mr.
Boone to say if I ain’t right in taking it myself.”
“Oh, any thing worth this much ought to be taken,” said Joe, depositing
the lump of gold in his pocket.
“See here, my chap,” said Sneak, rising up and casting a furious glance
at him, “if you don’t mean to hand that out again, one or the t’other
of us must be put in the ground with the traitorious Posin—and if it is
to be you, it’ll be a purty thing for it to be said that you brought a
spade to bury yourself with.”
“Didn’t I find the body?” said Joe.
“But burn me if you found the gold,” said Sneak.
“Shall I decide the matter?” interposed Roughgrove.
“I’m willing,” said Sneak.
“And so am I,” replied Joe.
“Then give it to me, and I’ll cut it in two, and give a half to each of
you,” said Roughgrove.
The decision was final; and seizing the spades, Joe, Sneak, and the
oarsmen began to prepare a resting-place for the dead body. Boone
continued silent, with his eyes steadfastly gazing at the earth which
the workmen began to throw up.
“Posin’s done ferrying now,” said Dan Rudder, one of the defunct’s old
companions in the service of Roughgrove.
“No he ain’t,” said Sneak, throwing up a spadeful of flint stones.
“I’ll keep some of these for my musket,” said Joe.
“Why ain’t he?” demanded Dan.
“Because he’s got to cross the river—the river—what do they call
it?—the river Poles,” said Sneak.
“Styx, you dunce,” said Joe.
“Well, ’twas only a slip of the tongue—what’s the difference between
poles and sticks?”
“_You_ never read any thing about it; you only heard somebody say so,”
said Joe, pausing to listen to the hounds that ever and anon yelped in
the vicinity.
“If I didn’t, I don’t believe the man that wrote that book ever
crossed, or even had a squint at the river himself,” replied Sneak.
“Whereabouts is the river?” asked Dan.
“In the lower regions,” said Joe, striking his spade against a hard
substance.
“What’s that you’re scraping the dirt off of?” asked Sneak.
“Oh, my goodness!” cried Joe, leaping out of the grave.
“Let it remain!” said Boone, in a commanding tone, looking in and
discovering a skull; “I once buried a friend here—he was shot down at
my side by the Indians.”
“Fill up the hole agin! Posin shan’t lay on top of any of your
friends!” exclaimed Sneak, likewise leaping out of the grave.
“It matters not—but do as you please,” said Boone, turning away and
marking the distressed yelping of the hounds, which indicated, from
some unusual cause, that they did not enjoy the chase as much as was
their wont.
“Split me if he shan’t be buried somewhere else, if I have to dig the
hole myself,” said Sneak, filling up the grave.
“I’ll stick by you, Sneak,” said Dan.
“Dan and me ’ll finish the job; all the rest of you may go off,” said
Sneak, releasing the rest of the party from any further participation
in the depositing of the remains of Posin in the earth.
“Glenn does not yet understand Ringwood and Jowler,” said Boone, still
listening to the chase.
“I never heard the dogs bark that way before until to-day,” said Joe;
“only that night when we killed the buffalo.”
“Something besides the buffalo caused them to do it then,” replied
Boone.
“Yes, indeed—they must have known the fire was coming—but the fire
can’t come now.”
“Sneak,” said Boone, “when you are done here, come to Mr. Glenn’s
house.”
“I will, as soon as I go to my muskrat trap out at the lake and get my
rifle.”
“Be in a hurry,” said Boone; and turning towards the chase, he uttered
a “Ya-ho!” and instantly the hounds were hushed.
“Dod!” exclaimed Sneak, staring a moment at Boone, while his large eyes
seemed to increase in size, and then rolling up his sleeves, he delved
away with extraordinary dispatch.
In a very short space of time, Ringwood and Jowler rushed from the
thicket, and leaping up against the breast of their old master, evinced
a positive happiness in once more beholding him. They were soon
followed by Glenn, who dashed briskly through the thicket to see who it
was that caused his hounds to abandon him so unceremoniously. No sooner
did he discover his aged friend than he ran forward and grasped his
hand.
“I thought not of you, and yet I could think of no one else who might
thus entice my noble hounds away. Return with me, and we will have the
fox in a few minutes—he is now nearly exhausted,” said Glenn.
“Molest him not,” said Boone. “Did you not observe how reluctantly the
hounds chased him?”
“I did; what was the cause of it?” asked Glenn.
“The breeze is tainted with the scent of Indians!” whispered Boone.
“Again thou art my preserver!” said Glenn, in a low tone.
“I came to give you intelligence that the Osages would probably be upon
you in a few days,” said Boone; “but I did not think they were really
in the neighbourhood until I heard your unerring hounds. Col. Cooper,
of my settlement, made an excursion southward some ten days ago to
explore a region he had never visited; but observing a large war-party
at a distance, coming hitherward, he retreated precipitately, and
reached home this morning. Excessive fatigue and illness prevented him
from accompanying me over the river; and what is worse, nearly every
man in our settlement is at present more than a hundred miles up the
river, trapping beaver. If we are attacked to-night, or even within a
day or two, we have nothing to depend upon but our own force to defend
ourselves.”
“Should it be so, I doubt not we will be able to withstand them as
successfully as we did before,” said Glenn.
“Let us go with Roughgrove to his house, and take his daughter and his
effects to your little fortress,” said Boone, joining the old ferryman,
whom a single word sufficed to apprize of the state of affairs.
“I must prepare for the worst, now,” said Roughgrove; “they will never
forget or forgive the part I acted on the night of their defeat.”
Boone, Glenn, and Roughgrove proceeded down the valley, while Joe
seemed disposed to loiter, undetermined what to engage in, having cast
an occasional curious glance at Boone and his master when engaged in
their low conversation, and rightly conjecturing that “something wrong
was in the wind,” as he expressed it.
“Why don’t you go home?” asked Sneak, rolling the dead body into the
grave, and dashing the mingled earth and snow remorselessly upon it.
“I’ll go when I’m ready,” replied Joe; “but I should like to know what
all that whispering and nodding was about.”
“I can tell you,” said Dan; but his speech was suddenly arrested by a
sign from Sneak.
“I wish you would tell me,” continued Joe, manifesting no little
uneasiness.
“Have you got a plenty to eat at your house?” asked Sneak.
“To be sure we have,” said Joe; “now tell me what’s in the wind.”
“If I was to tell you, I bet you’d be frightened half to death,”
remarked Sneak, driving down a headstone, having filled up the grave.
“No! no—I—indeed but I wouldn’t, though!” said Joe, trembling at every
joint, the true cause, for the first time, occurring to him. “Ain’t it
Indians, Mr. Sneak?”
“Don’t call me _Mister_ agin, if you please. There are more moccasins
than the one you found in these parts, that’s all.”
“I’ll go home and tell Mr. Glenn!” said Joe, whirling round quickly.
“Dod rot your cowardly hide of you!” said Sneak, staring at him
contemptuously; “now don’t you _know_ he knowed it before you did?”
“Yes—but I was going home to tell him that some bullets must be
run—that’s what I meant.”
“Don’t you think he knows that as well as you do?” continued Sneak.
“But I—I _must_ go!” exclaimed Joe, starting in a half run, with the
hounds (which had been forgotten by their master) following at his
heels.
“Let me have the hounds, to go after my gun—the red skins might waylay
me, if I go alone, in spite of all my cunning woodcraft,” said Sneak.
“Go back!” cried Joe, to the hounds. They instantly obeyed, and the
next moment Joe was scampering homeward with all the speed of which his
legs were capable.
When he reached the house, his fears were by no means allayed on
beholding the most valuable articles of Roughgrove’s dwelling already
removed thither, and the ferryman himself, his daughter, Boone and
Glenn, assembled in consultation within the inclosure. Joe closed the
gate hurriedly after him, and bolted it on the inside.
“Why did you shut the gate? Open it again,” said Glenn.
“Ain’t we besieged again? ain’t the Indians all around us, ready to
rush in and take our scalps?” said Joe, obeying the command
reluctantly.
“They will not trouble us before night,” said Roughgrove.
“No, we need not fear them before night,” remarked Boone, whose
continued thoughtful aspect impressed Glenn with the belief that he
apprehended more than the usual horrors of Indian warfare during the
impending attack.
“They will burn father’s house, but that is nothing compared to what I
fear will be his own fate!” murmured Mary, dejectedly.
“We can soon build him another,” said Glenn, moved by the evident
distress of the pale girl; “and I am very sure that my little stone
castle will suffice to preserve not only your father and yourself, but
all who take shelter in it, from personal injury. So, cheer up, Mary.”
“Oh, I will not complain; it pained me most when I first heard they
were coming once more; I will soon be calm again, and just as composed
when they are shooting at us, as I was the other time. But _you_ will
be in a great deal more danger than you were that night. Yet Boone is
with us again—he _must_ save us,” said Mary.
“Why do you think there will be more danger, Mary?” asked Glenn.
“Yes, why do you think so?” interposed Joe, much interested in the
reply.
“Because the snow is so deep and so firm, they will leap over the
palisade, if there be a great many of them,” replied Mary. Glenn felt a
chill shoot through his breast, for this fact had not before occurred
to him.
“Oh, goodness!—let us all go to work and shovel it away on the
outside,” cried Joe, running about in quest of the spades. “Oh, St.
Peter!” he continued, “the spades are out at the cave-spring!”
“Run and bring them,” said Glenn.
“Never—not for the world! They’d take my scalp to a certainty before I
could get back again,” replied Joe, trembling all over.
“There is no danger yet,” said Roughgrove, the deep snow having
occurred to him at the first announcement of the threatened attack, and
produced many painful fears in his breast, which caused a sadness to
rest upon his time-worn features; “but,” he continued, “it would not be
in our power to remove the snow in two whole days, and a few hours only
are left us to prepare for the worst.”
“Let them come within the inclosure,” said Glenn, “and even then they
cannot harm us. The walls of my house are made of stone, and so is the
ceiling; they can only burn the roof—I do not think they can harm our
persons. We have food enough to last for months, and there is no
likelihood of the siege lasting a single week.”
“I’ll make sure of the deer,” muttered Joe; and before any one could
interpose, he struck off the head of the doe with an axe, as it still
lay bound upon the sled. And he was brandishing the reeking steel over
the neck of the fawn, that stood by, looking on innocently, when a cry
from Mary arrested the blow.
“If you injure a hair of Mary’s gift,” said Glenn, in anger, “you shall
suffer as severe a fate yourself.”
“Pardon me,” said Joe to Mary; “I was excited—I didn’t hardly know what
I was doing. I thought as we were going to be pent up by the Indians,
for goodness only knows how long, that we’d better provide enough food
to keep from starving. I love the fawn as well as you do, and Mr. Glenn
loves it because you gave it to him; but its natural to prefer our own
lives to the lives of dumb animals.”
“I forgive you,” said Mary, playing with the silken ears of the pet.
“Say no more about it,” said Glenn; “but as you are so anxious to be
well provided with comforts, if we are besieged, there is one thing I
had forgotten, that is absolutely necessary for our existence, which
you can procure.”
“What is it? Be quick, for we havn’t a moment to lose,” said Joe.
“Water,” replied Glenn.
“That’s a fact—but—its way off at the spring, by the ferry,” said Joe,
disliking the idea of exposing himself without the inclosure.
“True, yet it must be had. If you can get it nearer to us, you are at
liberty to do so,” said Glenn.
“Here comes Sneak,” said Mary; “he will assist you.”
Sneak readily agreed to the proposition, and he and Joe set out, each
with a large bucket, while the rest of the party, with the exception of
Boone (who desired to be left alone,) retired within the house.
When Sneak and Joe were filling their buckets at the spring the second
time, the hounds (which attended them at Joe’s special request)
commenced barking.
“What’s that?” cried Joe, dashing his bucket, water and all, in Sneak’s
lap, and running ten or fifteen feet up the hill.
“Dod rot your cowardly heart!” exclaimed Sneak, rising up and shaking
the cold water from his clothes; “if I don’t pay you for this, I wish I
may be shot!”
“I thought it was the Indians,” said Joe, still staring at the small
thicket of briers, where the hounds were yet growling and bounding
about in a singular manner.
“I’ll see what it is and then pay you for this ducking,” said Sneak,
walking briskly to the edge of the thicket, while the water trickled
down over his moccasins.
“What is it?” cried Joe, leaping farther up the ascent with great
trepidation, as he saw the hounds run out of the bushes as if pursued,
and even Sneak retreating a few paces. But what seemed very
unaccountable was a _smile_ on Sneak’s elongated features.
“What in the world can it be?” repeated Joe.
“Ha! ha! ha! if that ain’t a purty thing to skeer a full-grown man into
fits!” said Sneak, retreating yet farther from the thicket.
“What makes _you_ back out, then?” inquired Joe. The hounds now ran to
the men, and the next moment a small animal, not larger than a rabbit,
of a dark colour, with long white stripes from the nose to the tail,
made its appearance, and moved slowly toward the spring. Sneak ran up
the hill beyond the position occupied by Joe, maintaining all the time
a most provoking smile.
“Who’s scared into fits now, I should like to know?” retorted Joe.
“I wish I had my gun,” said Sneak.
“Hang me, if I’m afraid of that little thing,” said Joe. Still the
hounds ran round, yelping, but never venturing within thirty feet of
the animal.
“I’ll be whipped if I understand all this!” said Joe, in utter
astonishment, looking at Sneak, and then at the hounds.
“Why don’t you _run_?” cried Sneak, as the animal continued to advance.
“I believe you’re making fun of me,” said Joe; “that little thing can’t
hurt anybody. Its a pretty little pet, and I’ve a notion to catch it.”
“What are you talking about? You know you’re afraid of it,” said Sneak,
tauntingly.
“I’ll show you,” said Joe, springing upon the animal. The polecat (for
such it was) gave its assailant a taste of its quality in a twinkling.
Joe grasped his nose with both hands and wheeled away with all possible
expedition, while the animal pursued its course towards the river.
“My goodness, I’ve got it all over my coat!” exclaimed Joe, rolling on
the snow in agony.
“Didn’t I say I’d pay you for spilling the cold water on me?” cried
Sneak, in a convulsion of laughter.
“Why didn’t you tell me, _you rascal_?” cried Joe, flushed in the face,
and forgetting the Indians in his increasing anger.
“Oh, I’ll laugh myself sore—ha! ha! ha!” continued Sneak, sitting down
on the snow, and laughing obstreperously.
“You long, lopsided scoundrel, you. My Irish blood is up now,” said
Joe, rushing towards Sneak with a resolution to fight.
“I’ll be whipt if you tech me with them hands,” said Sneak, running
away.
“Oh, what shall I do?” cried Joe, sinking down, his rage suddenly
subdued by his sickening condition.
“If you’ll say all’s square betwixt us, I’ll tell you what to do. If
you don’t do something right quick, they won’t let you sleep in the
house for a month.”
“Well. Now tell me quick!”
“Pull off your coat before it soaks through.”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Joe, obeying with alacrity, and
shivering in the cold air.
“Now twist a stick into it, so you can carry it up to the house,
without touching it with your hands, that is, if none of it got on
’em,” continued Sneak.
“There ain’t a bit anywhere else but on the shoulder of my coat,” said
Joe, acting according to Sneak’s instructions. Filling their buckets,
they at length started towards the house, Joe holding a bucket in one
hand, and a long pole, on which dangled his coat, in the other. When
they entered, the company involuntarily started; and Glenn, losing all
control over his temper, hurled a book at his man’s head, and commanded
him not to venture in his presence again until he could by some means
dispense with his horrid odor.
“Foller me,” said Sneak, leading the way to the stable, and taking with
him one of the spades he had brought in from the burial; “now,” he
continued, when they were with the horses, “dig a hole at this end of
the stall, and bury your coat. If you hadn’t took it in the house, like
a dunce, they’d never ’ave known any thing about it.”
“Oh, my goodness! I’m sick!” said Joe, urging the spade in the earth
with his foot, and betraying unequivocal signs of indisposition.
However, the garment was soon covered up, and the annoyance abated.
But no sooner was Joe well out of this difficulty, than the dread of
the tomahawk and scalping knife returned in greater force than ever.
Boone remained taciturn, his clear, eagle-eye scanning the palisade,
and the direction from which the savages would be most likely to come.
Joe approached the renowned pioneer for the purpose of asking his
opinion respecting the chances of escaping with life from the expected
struggle, but was deterred by his serious and commanding glance. But
soon a singular change came over his stern features, and as sudden as
strange. His countenance assumed an air of triumph, and a half-formed
smile played upon his lip. His meditations had doubtless resulted in
the resolution to adopt some decisive course, which, in his opinion,
would insure the safety of the little garrison. His brow had been
watched by the inmates of the house, and, hailing the change with joy,
they came forth to ascertain more certainly their fate.
“How much powder have you, my young friend?” asked Boone.
“Five kegs,” answered Glenn, promptly.
“Then we are safe!” said Boone, in a pleasant and affable manner, which
imparted confidence to the whole party.
“I thought—I almost _knew_ that we were safe, with _you_ among us,”
said Mary, playing with Boone’s hand.
“But you must not venture out of the house as much as you did before,
my lass, when arrows begin to fly,” replied Boone, kissing the maiden’s
forehead.
“But I’ll mould your bullets, and get supper for you,” said Mary.
“That’s a good child,” said Roughgrove; “go in, now, and set about your
task.”
Mary bowed to her father, and glided away. The men then clustered round
Boone, to hear the plan that was to avail them in their present
difficulty.
“In times of peril,” said Boone, “my knowledge of the Indian character
has always served me. I first reflect what I would do were I myself a
savage; and, in taking measures to provide against the things which I
imagine would be done by myself, I have never yet been disappointed.
The Indians will not rashly rush upon us, and expose themselves to our
bullets, as they storm the palisade. Had they the resolution to do
this, not one of us would escape alive, for they would tear down the
house. It is a very large war-party, and they could begin at the top
and before morning remove every stone. But they shall not touch one of
them—”
“I’m so glad!” ejaculated Joe.
“Hush your jaw!” said Sneak.
“They will be divided into two parties,” continued Boone; “one party
will attack us from the west with their arrows, keeping at a respectful
distance from our guns, while the other will force a passage to the
palisade from the east without being seen, for they will come under the
snow! We must instantly plant a keg of powder, on the outside of the
inclosure, and blow them up when they come. Joe, bring out a keg of
powder, and also the fishing rods I saw in the house. The latter must
be joined together, and a communication opened through them. They must
be filled with powder and one end placed in the keg, while the other
reaches the inclosure, passing through an auger hole. You all
understand now what is to be done—let us go to work—we have no time to
spare.”
It was not long before every thing was executed according to the
directions of Boone, and at nightfall each man was stationed at a
loophole, with gun in hand, awaiting the coming of the savages.