ON TO ANNAPOLIS
Both Dave and his uncle awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in the
shelter of brush. The fire had died down so that they could see but
little around it, the moon had gone behind a dense mass of clouds.
“What was that?” cried the youth, as he reached for his gun, which had
been placed close at hand.
“I heard a snort of some kind,” answered Joseph Morris. “Perhaps some
wild beast has attacked the horses.”
He, too, caught up his weapon, and a bound took him outside. Then he
ran with all speed to where the steeds were tethered.
When Dave reached the side of the camp-fire he paused. He had been
about to follow his uncle, when a snort of pain, followed by a cracking
of bones, reached his ears. The sounds did not come from the direction
of the horses, but from a glade on the opposite side of the camp-fire.
Catching up a burning fagot, he hurried in the direction. The noise
continued, and soon he made out the form of the struggling deer as the
head and antlers were waved from side to side in an endeavor to pierce
the panther’s side.
“This way, Uncle Joe!” he cried. “A deer is fighting with some other
wild animal. I can’t make out what it is, it’s so dark.”
“The horses are safe!” came in reply from Joseph Morris. “Where is the
deer?”
“This way! I’m going to shoot the other beast.”
“No! wait! I am coming.”
Dave had raised his gun, but at the latter words he lowered his weapon.
In less than a minute his uncle was at his side.
“A painter!” ejaculated Joseph Morris. “And a big fellow at that. This
is a fight to the death. Let them have it out.”
“Do you suppose there are others around?”
“No. There might have been more deer, but they have taken to their
heels long ago. So far as I know, painters never travel together.”
“I suppose the painter has the best of it.”
“He hoped to have, or he wouldn’t have tackled the deer. But he may get
more than he bargained for.”
All this time the battle was going on furiously. In the semi-darkness
they could see little more than a turning over of first one body and
then another. Suddenly the panther shifted its hold from the deer’s
shoulder to its throat. But the movement, quick as it was, gave the
deer time to shift also and one of its sharp prongs was caught under
the panther’s hind legs, piercing the flesh for several inches and
causing the blood to flow freely.
Having turned over twice, the deer started to toss off its assailant.
It failed, and then attempted to run, hoping to dash the panther
against a nearby tree. But the panther clung as tightly as ever to
the deer’s throat, and before the tree was reached, it staggered for
want of wind and loss of blood, for its shoulder was horribly mangled.
Failing to reach the tree, it gathered itself up for a last effort
and struck up with its hind hoofs, gashing the panther deeply in the
lower portion of its body. Following this despairing kick it gave a
convulsive shudder and fell back lifeless.
For a few seconds after the deer breathed its last, the panther held
on. Then slowly its grip relaxed and it fell back, but with its stony
gaze still fixed upon its victim.
“The deer is dead,” cried Dave. “And see, the painter is sneaking away!
Shan’t I give him a shot now?”
“Wait! I don’t think he’ll go far,” answered Joseph Morris. “The deer
cut him up pretty well.”
The sounds of human voices now for the first time attracted the
attention of the panther, and taking its gaze from its lifeless prize
it looked in the direction of Dave and his uncle. Then it gave a snarl
of rage and dismay, and did its best to stand erect on its four short
legs. But the effort was too much and it collapsed almost immediately.
“He’s done for,” said Joseph Morris. “The deer must have ripped him
through and through. See, he can’t get up.”
Mr. Morris spoke the truth, the panther tried in vain to rise, at the
same time gasping for breath and snarling with pain and rage. Once it
took something of a step and Dave brought his gun up on a jump, but
before the weapon could be leveled the panther was down on its side and
stretching itself at full length.
“He is done for now,” said Joseph Morris. “It would be a waste of
powder and ball to fire on him. It was a battle royal, and it’s a pity
it wasn’t light enough for us to witness it in detail. Such a sight
isn’t to be met with every day, even in such a wilderness as this.”
Saying he would watch the panther, he sent Dave back to replenish the
fire and this the youth did so effectively that soon the glade was
nearly as light as day. By this time the panther was almost gone, yet
it was allowed to lay undisturbed for nearly half an hour before Joseph
Morris came up behind it and cut its throat with his hunting knife,
thus putting it out of its misery.
“I am glad the painter attacked the deer instead of us,” said Dave, as
he took a close look at the great cat-like creature and shivered. “What
a powerful beast, and what awful claws and teeth!”
“He’s an old one. If he had been younger the deer would never have been
able to turn on him. I think this is the first painter you’ve seen,
isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“They are getting thinned out around here, so Sam Barringford told me.”
“Do they generally attack such big game as deer?”
“Very often, although they usually feed on smaller animals. They lie
on the limbs of trees and drop down on anything passing beneath. Zeph
Tassot had a hand-to-hand fight with one, and he’s got that long scar
on his left cheek to show for it. Zeph jammed the painter in the throat
with his knife and they fought for ’most half an hour, when the beast
turned tail and hid among the rocks. Zeph ran for his life and didn’t
stop till he’d covered two miles or more. He says he never wants to set
eyes on a painter again.”
Uncle and nephew dragged the dead deer and the dead panther close to
the camp-fire, and then it was decided that one should remain on guard
while the other slept.
“The smell of blood may attract other wild beasts to the vicinity,”
said Joseph Morris. “We’ll keep an eye open for them, and also keep the
fire burning brightly.”
Dave turned in and slept for three hours. Then his uncle aroused him
and slumbered for the same length of time.
In the morning they skinned the deer and the panther and hung the pelts
in the rising sun to dry. For breakfast they tried a steak from the
panther and found it not unlike coarse beef to the taste. The remainder
of the panther meat was left behind, but they took with them all of the
deer meat they could conveniently carry.
That day saw them through the mountains and by nightfall they struck
a trail over which horses and wagons had traveled. They now pushed on
faster than ever, and did not rest until an hour after sunset, when
they had gained a small collection of houses called Berry’s Post. Here
they met a trader who willingly relieved them of their skins at a fair
price.
They were now coming into “civilization,” as Joseph Morris expressed
it. Plantations were to be seen on every hand, and they frequently
encountered the overseers and their slaves, for in those days half the
population of Virginia were colored people who were in bondage. Yet the
darkeys were a happy set and often they could hear them singing at a
distance as they worked in the corn and tobacco fields, or around the
immense barns and warehouses.
A storm had been brewing and the next day Joseph Morris and Dave lost
no time in riding straight on to Georgetown, on the beautiful Potomac.
The river was scarcely reached when it began to rain furiously and so
strong was the wind that to ferry across the stream was impossible.
Consequently they remained where they were until the afternoon of the
day following. By this time the wind went down sufficiently for them
to be ferried to the east bank of the stream, and then they set out
directly for Annapolis.
Riding was now easier than ever and they frequently met horsemen and
ladies out for pleasure, and occasionally a chariot would roll by with
the family arms blazoned on its side and its horseman and footman in
resplendent livery.
“That was the governor’s turnout,” whispered Joseph Morris once, after
a brilliant chariot drawn by four horses had swept by, sending a shower
of dust and dirt over them. “I can tell you he lives well.” Dave turned
around to catch a good look at the show, but a bend in the road already
hid it from view.
Not long after this came a yelping of hounds and a great pack burst
into view and behind them half a dozen hunters, including several city
dignitaries whom Joseph Morris knew by sight. With the gentlemen were
several colored servants, and all seemed to be in the highest spirits.
As they swept by, the Morrises learned that they were bound for the
woods beyond South River, on a grand fox hunt.
“They’ll have sport,” said Dave, gazing after the crowd. “But it won’t
be anything as thrilling as that deer and painter tussle in the dark.”
At last they came to the city gate and passing through made their way
to a respectable enough hostelry where accommodations were not high
priced. The tavern was a low, two-story affair, with many windows, all
filled with tiny panes of glass no larger than one’s hand. In front was
a low stoop, with a heavy railing, and above this stoop hung a rudely
carved wooden plough painted yellow, and underneath the sign, “Golden
Plough Inn, Kept by Theophilus Mangot. Good Fare at Reasonable Prices.”
Behind the tavern was a wide yard and a large barn, and from here came
several negro hostlers to take charge of their steeds.
“Right welcome, sirs,” said the host, coming out in shirt sleeves to
meet them. “Right welcome and just in time for the best of the rooms.”
“The best will depend upon the price you ask,” answered Joseph Morris
cautiously. “We want that which is good without being extravagant.”
“And I can give it you, sirs,” said Theophilus Mangot. “Come, I will
show you what I have, and then we’ll settle upon the price to your
satisfaction,” and he led the way inside.