My first three weeks in the woods were weeks of heaven. Never had I
seen the forest so beautiful, never had the soft velvet lights clothed
the wilderness with such exquisite mystery. Along the stony beds of
lost ravines I passed and saw the frosty bowlders lie like silver
mounds in the dawn, glimmering through steaming waters. I passed at
eventide when the sunset turned the cliffs to crumbling crags of gold,
and I saw massed mountain peaks reflected in pools where the shadows
of great fish moved like clouds.
I ate and drank and slept in the dim wood stillness undisturbed; I
waked when my guide, the sun, flamed through the forest, and I
followed in his lead, resting when he hung circling in the noonday
heavens, following again when he resumed the sky-trail towards the
west, seeking my couch when he lay down below the world's blue edge to
fold him in the blanket of the night.
Twice came the rain, delicately perfumed showers shaking down through
a million leaves, leaving frail trails of vapour errant through the
trees, and powdered jewels on every leaf.
And I lived well on that swift trail where the gray grouse scuttled
through the saplings, and in every mossy streamlet the cold, dusky
troutlings fought for the knot of scarlet yarn on my short hand-line.
Once I saw bronzed turkeys, all huddled in a brood at twilight,
craning and peering from their tree-perch; but let them go, as I had
meat to spare. Once, too, at dawn, I heard a bull-moose lipping
tree-buds, and lay still in my blanket while the huge beast wandered
past, crack! crash! and slop! slop! through the creek, his hide all
smeared with clay and a swarm of forest flies whirling over him. Lord,
how rank he did smell, but for all that I was glad the wind set not
the other way, for it is sometimes the toss of a coin what your
bull-moose will do, run or fight at sight; nor is it even doubtful in
September, when the moose-cow wallows and bawls across the marshes for
her antlered gallant on the ridge.
I saw but one moose, for there are not many in our forests, though
they say the Canadas do swarm with them, and also with elks and
caribous.
There were few birds to be seen except near rivers: a blue-gray
meat-bird here and there whining in the hemlocks, a great owl huddled
on a limb, and sometimes a troop of black-cheeked chickadees that came
cheerfully to hand for a crumb of corn. Squirrels were everywhere--that
is, everywhere except through the pine belts, and there I had to make
out with the bitter flesh of those villain partridges which feed on
spruce-tips. I'd as soon eat a hawk in winter or dine on slices of
fried spruce-gum, for truly there is more nourishment in a moccasin
than in these ignoble birds dressed up like toothsome partridges.
I had not met a soul on the trail, nor had I found any fresh signs
save once, and that was the print of a white man's moccasin on the
edge of a sandy strip near the head-waters of the Ohio, which is
called the Alleghany, north of Fort Pitt.
This foot-mark disturbed me, although it was three days old and
pointing north. But that signified nothing, for the man who made it
had come in a canoe, yet I could find no sign that a canoe had been
beached there, nor, indeed, any further marks of moccasins, and I made
moderate haste to get under cover, as I am timid about things I cannot
account for.
Reason enough, moreover, for if there were no signs except that single
imprint, it was clear that the man who left that mark was wading the
river because he wished to leave no trail. And who is not suspicious
of those who appear to be at pains to conceal their tracks?
There is something terrifying in the sudden apparition of a
fellow-creature in the woods. When one has been living alone in the
forest solitude, day after day, perhaps even craving company, I know
nothing so shocking as the unexpected sight of another man in the
wilderness.
Why this is so, why fear, caution, and anger are invariably the primal
instincts, I do not fully understand.
Sometimes, lying perdu, I have seen the tasselled ears of a wild-cat
flatten at first sight of a stranger cat; I have seen the wolverine
snarl hideously as he winded a strange comrade; I have seen the
solitary timber-wolf halt, hair on end and every hot fang bared, where
a brother wolf had crossed his trail an hour before.
So I; for as I slunk away from that foot-mark in the sand-willows, I
found myself priming my rifle and looking behind me with all the
horror of a Robinson Crusoe, though I had miles of country to avoid
the unknown man withal.
Early that morning, having crossed, as nearly as I could make out, the
boundary between our Province of New York and the Province of
Pennsylvania, I had approached, somewhat nearer than I meant to, the
carrying-place on the Alleghany, which lies directly in the Fort Pitt
trail.
Now, at mid-day, the sun heating the forest, I found my pack very
heavy and my shirt wet with exertion, but dared not halt until I had
circled around that carrying-place. So I toiled on, the very rifle in
my hand heavy as lead, and my eyes nearly blinded with the sweat that
poured from my hair and neck, bathing me in a sort of stinging
coolness. My stomach, too, was asking the hour, and the green-eyed
deer-flies whirled over me, fierce for blood, for I durst not lag even
to wash my face in oil of pennyroyal.
It was only when at last above the trees in the east I perceived the
blue peak of a mountain that I knew I was safe enough; for the peak in
the east belonged to the Alleghany range, and I had steered a fine
circle without losing a mile.
However, I jogged on along a runway made hard by the hoof of countless
deer herds, until I came to a thread of water curving through the moss
like a sword-blade on green velvet. Here I knelt, let go my pack, and
rolled over on the moss, dog-tired.
Hands clasped on my empty stomach I lay looking up at the sky through
the matted leaves that thatched my forest roof, too tired even to
drink. But the accursed deer-flies drove me to water as they drive the
deer, and I drank my fill and smeared me with pennyroyal and tallow,
face and wrists.
For the first time since I had entered the wilderness I made no fire,
but munched a cold breast of partridge and drove it into my stomach
with bits of ash-cake, drinking a mouthful between bites to moisten
the dry cheer. I ate very slowly, my eyes making their mechanical
circuit of the silent trees, my ears ever flattened for a noise behind
me.
Silence breeds silence; man's movements in the woods are soft and
cat-like where caution is an instinct. I speak of true woodsmen--those
who know the solitary life--not of loud and careless men who swagger
into God's woodland mysteries as to a tavern tap-room.
Now, as I sat there, crumbs on my knees yet unbrushed, a sudden
instinct arose in me that I had been followed; nay, not so sudden,
either, for the vague idea had been slowly taking shape since I had
seen that sign in the river-bed among the willows.
I had absolutely no reason for believing this; the foot-print was
three days old and it pointed north. Yet, at the mere thought, the
skin on my neck began to roughen and my nose gave little twitches.
Unconsciously I had already risen, priming my rifle, and for a moment,
I stood there, ankle deep in moss. Then, moved by no impulse of my
own, I swear, I lifted my pack and passed swiftly along the little
brook towards the main trail. Presently, through the willows to the
right, I caught a glimpse of a shallow stream rushing noiselessly over
a sand bottom, and on the other side of the stream I saw a notched
tree, the Fort Pitt trail!
Now I deliberately made a string of plain foot-tracks along the sandy
stream, pointing towards the shallowest spot. Here I forded, and made
more tracks in the mud, entering the Fort Pitt trail. I ran down this
trail till I came to a brier, and on the thorns of a spray which
crossed the broad, hard trail, I left a few strings from my fringed
hunting-shirt. Then I began to walk backward till I reached the spot
where I had entered the trail from the sandy stream. I backed down
this bank, forded the shallows, then, instead of coming out on the
sand, I waded up stream to my little thread of a brook, and up that
brook till I found a great log choking it. And behind this log I
squatted, panting, and astonished at my own performance.
Yet, even now, I could not find reason to blush at my timid
precautions, for that feeling of being followed still haunted me. It
was neither a coward's panic nor a cool man's alarm; it was something
that drove me to cover my tracks. The white hare does it when
unpursued by hounds; the grouse do it when no pointer follows--why? I
know no more than the white hare or the grouse.
From my form among the ferns, rabbit-like I huddled with palpitating
flanks and nose atwitch in the wind. Nothing stirred save those sad,
deformed leaves that drift earthward, dead ere spring is fled. Bubble!
bubble! dripped the stream, its tiny waterfall full of voices, now
clear, now indistinct, but always calling sweetly, "Michael! Michael!
Michael!" And if your name be not Michael, nevertheless it will call
you by your name. And the voice is ever the voice of the best beloved.
Alert, sniffing the air, I still could hear the voice of Silver Heels,
down under the waterfall, and sometimes she called through laughter,
"Michael!" and sometimes far away like a wind-blown cry, and sometimes
like a whisper close to my face.
So rang her voice as an old song in my ears, the while my eyes scanned
the dappled tree-trunks of a silvery beechwood, east and west, and
through a long vista where, across a sunny streak of water, the Fort
Pitt trail ran southwest.
The sun had spanned an hour's length on the blue dial of the sky, yet
nothing moved in the woods. Still, strangely, I felt no impatience, no
desire to chide myself for good time lost in groundless watchfulness.
One by one the tall trees shed young leaves too early dead; the voices
in the waterfall made low melody; the white sun-spots waned and
glowed, mottling the silvered tree-trunks, lacing the water with a
paler fretwork.
I sat now with my cheek on the cool, moist log, my rifle in my lap,
watching the trees along the Fort Pitt trail. And, as I watched, I saw
a man come out on the sandy bank of the stream and kneel down where my
tracks crossed to the water's edge.
I was not astonished, but all over me my flesh moved, and without a
sound I sank down behind my log into a soft ball of buckskin.
The man was Walter Butler. I knew him, though God alone knows how I
could, for he wore the shirt of a Mohawk and beaded leggings to the
hips, and at that distance might have been an Indian. He bore a rifle,
and there was a hatchet in his beaded belt, and on his head he wore a
round cap of moleskin under which his black, coarse hair, freed from
the queue, fell to his chin.
He crouched there, examining my tracks with closest attention for full
a minute, then rose gracefully and followed, tracing them up to the
Fort Pitt trail.
Here I saw two other men come swiftly through the trees to meet him,
but, though they gesticulated violently and pointed down the stream,
they spoke too low for me to hear a single whisper.
Suddenly, to my horror, a canoe shot across my line of sight and
stopped as suddenly, held by the setting-pole in midstream. It
contained a white man, who leaned on the setting-pole, silently
awaiting the result of the conference on the bank above.
The conference ended abruptly; I saw two of the men start south
towards Fort Pitt, while Butler came hastily down to the water's edge
and waded out to the canoe.
He boarded the frail craft from the bow, straddling it skilfully and
working his way to his place. Then the two setting-poles flashed in
the sunshine and the canoe shot out of sight.
My mind was working rapidly now, but, at first, anger succeeded blank
perplexity. What did Captain Butler mean by following me through the
forests? The answer came ere the question had been fully formed, and I
knew he hated me and meant to kill me.
How he had learned of my mission, whether he had actually learned of
it, or only suspected it from my disappearance, concerned me little.
These things were certain: he was Lord Dunmore's emissary as I was the
emissary of Sir William; he was bound for Cresap's camp as was I; and
he intended to intercept me and kill me if that meant the winning of
the race. Ay, he meant to kill me, anyhow, for how could he ever again
appear in Johnstown if I lived to bear witness to his treachery?
I must give up my visit to the Cayugas for the present. It was to be
a race now to Cresap's camp, and, though they had their canoe to speed
withal, the advantage lay on my side; for I was seeking no man's life,
whereas they must soon find that they had over-run their scent and
would spend precious time in ambushes. Besides, they doubtless
believed that somewhere I had a canoe hid, and that would keep them
hanging around the carry-trails while I made time by circling them.
One thing disturbed me: two of them had gone by water and two by the
Fort Pitt trail, and this threw me hopelessly into the wilderness
without the ease of a trodden way.
Slowly I resumed my pack, reprimed my rifle, and turned my nose
southward, bearing far enough west to keep out of earshot from the
river and the trail.
At first I had looked upon Fort Pitt as a hospitable wayside refuge,
marking nine-tenths of my journey towards Cresap's camp. But now I
dared not present myself there, with Walter Butler hot on my trail,
armed not only with hatchet and rifle, but also doubtless with some
order of Lord Dunmore which might compel the officers at Fort Pitt to
hand me over to Butler on his mere demand.
For, although Fort Pitt was rightfully on Pennsylvania soil, it had
long been claimed by Virginia, and it was a Virginia garrison that now
held it. Thus, should I stop there, I should be under the laws of
Virginia and under the claw-thumb of Dunmore or anybody who might
claim authority to represent him.
There is, I have been told, a vast region which lies between the
Alleghany Mountains and the Mississippi, a desolate wilderness save
for a few British garrisons at Natchez, at Vincennes, and at Detroit.
These troops are placed there in order to establish the claim of our
King to the region lately wrested from the French. Fort Pitt commanded
the gateway to this wilderness, and the Ohio flowed through it; and
for years Virginia and Pennsylvania had disputed for the right to
control this gateway. Virginia held it by might, not right. Through it
Daniel Boone had gone some years before; now Cresap had followed; and
who could doubt that the Governor of Virginia had urged him on?
But the march of Cresap not only disturbed Sir William in his
stewardship; it angered all Pennsylvania, and this is the reason:
The Virginians under Cresap went to settle, and to keep the Indians at
a distance; the Pennsylvanians, on the other hand, went only to trade
with the Cayugas, and they were furious to see Cresap's men spoil
their trade. This I learned from Sir William on our evening walks
about Quider's hut; and I learned, too, that Fort Pitt was a Virginia
fortress on Pennsylvania soil, guarded not only against the savages,
but also against the Pennsylvanians, who traded powder and shot and
rifles with the Cayugas, and thus, according to my Lord Dunmore
practically incited the savages to resist such philanthropists as
himself.
Clearly then, no emissary of Sir William would be welcomed at
Pittsburg fortress or town; and I saw nothing for it but to push on
through the gateway of the west, avoiding Butler's men as best I
could, and seeking the silly, deluded Cresap under the very nose of my
Lord Dunmore.
My progress was slow; at times I sank between tree-roots, up to the
thighs in moss; at times the little maidens of the flowering briers
bade me tarry in their sharp, perfumed embrace. Now it was a wiry
moose-bush snare that enlaced my ankles and sent me sprawling, pack
and all; now the tough laurel bound me to the shoulders in slender
ropes of blossoms which only my knife could sever. Tired out while yet
the sun sent its reddening western rays deep into the forest, I knelt
again, dropped my pack under a hemlock thicket, and crawled out to a
heap of rocks which overhung a ravine.
The sunlight fell full in my face and warmed my body as I crept
through a mat of blueberry bushes and peered over the edge of the crag
down into the ravine.
A hundred feet below the Alleghany flowed, a glassy stream tinted with
gold, reflecting forest and cliff and a tiny triangle of cobalt sky.
Its surface was a mirror without a flaw, save where a solitary
wild-duck floated, trailing a rippled wake, or steered hither and
thither, craning its green neck after water-flies and gnats.
How still it was below; how quiet the whole world was--quieter for the
hushed rumour of the winds on some far mountain spur.
The little blue caps which every baby peak had worn all day were now
changed for night-caps of palest rose; the wild plum's bloom dusted
every velvet mountain flank, the forest was robed in flowing purple to
its roots, which the still river washed in sands of gold.
Below me a brown hawk wheeled, rising in narrowing spirals like a
wind-blown leaf, higher, higher, till of a sudden its bright eye
flashed level with mine and it sheered westward with a rush of
whistling feathers. I watched it drifting away under the clouds into
the sunset, with a silly prayer that wings might be fastened to my
tired feet, as Minnomonedo, leaning out from the centre of heaven,
dipped the first bird in Mon-o-ma, the Spirit Water, which was also
I-os-co, the Water of Light. "_Te-i-o! Te-i-o!_" I murmured,
"_On-ti-o_--_I-e nia_, oh, _Mon-a-kee_!"
For God knows--and forgives--that, at sixteen, I was but an Algonquin
in superstition, fearing Minnomonedo and seeking refuge in that God
whom I did not dread.
In towns and cities the savage legends which I had imbibed with my
first milk vanished from my mind completely, leaving no barriers to a
calm worship of the Most High. But in the woods it was different;
every leaf, every blossom represented links in those interminable
chains of legends with which I had been nourished, and from which
nothing but death can entirely wean me.
To me, the birds that passed, the shy, furry creatures that slipped
back into the demi-light, the insects, the rocks, water, clouds, sun,
moon, and stars were comrades with names and histories and purposes,
exercising influences on each other and on me, and calling for an
individual and intimate recognition which I cared not to disregard in
the forest, though I might safely forget them amid the crowded wastes
of civilization.
I do not mean to say that I credited the existence of such creatures
as the wampum bird, nor did I believe that the first belt was made of
a quill dropped to earth from the fearsome thing. This was nonsense;
even at night I dared mock at it. But still every human being knows
that, in the midnight wilderness, strange things do pass which no man
can explain--strange beasts move, strange shapes dance by elf-fires,
and trees talk aloud, one to another. If this be witchcraft, or if it
be but part of a life which our vast black forests hide forever from
the sun, I know not. Sir William holds that there are no witches, yet
I once heard him curse a Huron hag for drying up his Devon cattle with
a charm. We Christians know that a red belt lies ever between God and
Satan. And I, as a woodsman, also know that, _if_ there be demons in
Biskoona, a thousand bloody belts lie for all time twixt _Minno_ and
_Mudjee_, call them what you will, and their voices are in the passing
thunder and in the noises of the eight great winds.
Sprawling there on the warm rocks like a young panther in the sun,
ears attuned to the faintest whisper of danger, I gnawed a strip of
dried squirrel's flesh and sucked up the water from a dripping mossy
cleft, sweet cheer to an empty belly.
As for fire, that was denied me by my sense, though I knew that the
coming night would stiffen me. But I cared little for that: what
occupied my thoughts was how to obtain food when a single shot might
bring Butler and his trackers hot on the scent ere the rifle smoke had
blown clear of the trees.
It was not always that one might knock down a stupid partridge with a
stick, nor yet were there trout in every water-crack. I looked down at
the darkening river, where the wild mallard still circled and darted
its neck after unseen midges; and my mouth watered, for he was passing
plump, this Southern lingerer, fresh from the great gulf.
"If he be there in the morning," thought I, "perhaps I may risk a shot
and take to my heels." For had I not thrown Butler and his crew from
my trail as easily as I brush a bunch of deer-flies from my
hunting-shirt? And if I could do it once, I could repeat the trick in
a dozen pretty ways of my own knowledge and of Thayendanegea's
invention. Still I knew he was no forest blunderer, this Butler man;
he had proved that in the Canadas; and I did not mean to be
over-confident nor to rock caution to sleep in my first triumph.
And Lord!--how I hated him and wished him evil, waking, sleeping, in
sickness and in health, ay, living or dead, I wished him evil and
black mischance on his dark soul's flight to the last accounting. So,
with thoughts of hatred and revenge, I saw the cinders of the sun go
out behind the forest and the web of night settling over the world.
Wrapped in my blanket, curled up in a bed of blueberry, I folded my
hands over my body like a chipmunk and said a prayer to the God whom I
did not fear. After that I reprimed my rifle, covering flint and pan
to keep out the dew, settled the stock in a crevice near my head, and
lay down again to watch for the full moon, whose yellow light was
already soaring up behind a black peak in the east. And all night long
I lay on that borderland of sleep which men in danger dare not
traverse lest a sound find them unready. Slumbering, again and again I
saw the moon through slitted lids, yet I rested and slept a sweet
wholesome sleep which renewed my vigour by its very lightness.
Long before the sun had done painting the sky-scenes for his royal
entry, I had brushed the dew from cap and blanket, primed my rifle
afresh, and cautiously crawled to the cliff's brink.
Mist covered the river; I could not have seen a canoe had it been
floating under my own crag; neither could I see my wild duck, though
at times I heard his drowsy quack somewhere below, and the answering
quack of his mate, now rejoining her lord and master. Perhaps a whole
flock had come in by night.
Now, the intense stillness of early morn did not reassure me, nor did
the careless quacking of the ducks convince me that the river and
shore were untenanted save for them. Many a drowsing mallard has been
caught by a lean fox or knocked on the head with a paddle. I had no
mind to creep down and risk a shot at a shadow on the misty water, not
knowing what else that mist might conceal. However, I was fiercely
hungry, and I meant to have a duck. So, shivering, I undressed, and,
stark naked, I picked my way down the clefts to the base of the cliff
and slipped into the water like a mink.
The water was warmer than the air; I swam without a splash, straight
towards the quacking sound, seeing nothing but the blank fog as yet,
but meaning to seize the first duck by the legs if he were asleep, or
by his neck if he dived.
Now, although I made no sound in the water, all around me I felt the
presence of live creatures stirring, and soon there began a peevish
sound of half-awakened water-fowl, so that I knew I was near to a
flock of them.
Suddenly, right in my face, a duck squawked and flapped; I grasped at
the bird, but held only a fistful o' feathers. In an instant the mist
around me rang with strong wings beating the water, and with a
whistling roar the flock drove past, dashing me with spray till I,
smothered and choked, flung up my arm towards a floating tree-trunk.
To my horror the log rolled completely over, and out of it two men
fell, shrieking, on top of me, for the log I had grasped was a bark
canoe, and I had spilled out my enemies on my own head.
We all went down, but I sank clear of the unseen men and rose again to
swim for my life. They came to the surface behind me; I could see
their shadowy heads over my shoulder, for the mist was lifting.
They were shouting now, evidently to others on the opposite bank, but
my way led not thither, and I swam swiftly for the foot of my cliff,
missing it again and again in the fog, until I found it at last, and
ran panting and dripping up the cleft.
When I reached my rifle I leaned over the crag to look, but the river
gorge remained choked with vapour, though here above all was bright
gray dawn. The shouting below came clearly to my ears, also the
splashing. I judged that the two men had thrown their arms over the
capsized canoe, and thus, hands clasped, were making out to keep
afloat; for in this manner only can a capsized canoe serve two men.
Drying my bruised feet and dripping skin in my blanket, I hastened to
dress and strap on my pack, keeping a restless eye on the gulf below.
When I was prepared, the sun, pushing up behind the peaks in the east,
was already scattering the mist into long, thin clouds, and at
intervals I made out the canoe floating bottom up, close inshore, and
I heard the wrecked men paddling with their hands.
Presently Walter Butler's voice sounded from the bank, cautioning the
swimming men to proceed slowly, and inquiring what was the cause for
their upsetting.
They replied that a deer, swimming the river, had planted one foot in
their bow while they slept, and so overturned the canoe. But I knew
that Walter Butler would not be long in discovering the tracks of my
naked feet in the shore-sands where I had landed while searching for
my cliff, so I prepared to leave without further ado, though angrily
tempted to make a target of the phantom group below.
So, with a stomach stayed with a mouthful of corn and water, I started
silently westward, meaning to make a circle, and, hiding my tracks,
recross the river to take advantage of their sure pursuit by
travelling on the Fort Pitt trail until again hunted into the forest.
Munching my corn as I plodded on, I still kept a keen lookout behind,
though in the forest one can seldom see but a rod or two, and
sometimes not even a yard except down the vista of some woodland
stream.
It was useless to attempt to cover my tracks, for I could neither
avoid breaking branches in the tangle, nor keep from leaving
foot-prints on the soft moss which even a Boston schoolmaster might
read a-running. But I could trot along the tops of fallen logs like a
partridge, and use every watercourse that wound my way, so breaking my
trail for all save a hound or an Indian. And this I did to check the
pursuit which I knew must begin sooner or later.
It began even sooner than I expected, and almost caught me napping,
for, resting a moment to scrutinize a broad stretch of barren ground,
around which I had just circled in order to keep cover, I saw a man
creeping among the rocks and berry-scrub, doubtless nosing about for
my trail. A moment later another man moved on the eastern edge of the
mountain flank, and at the same time, far up the river, I saw the
canoe floating.
That was enough for me, and I started on a dog-trot down the slope and
along the river-bed, plunging through willows and alders till I came
to a bend from which the naked shoulder of the mountain could not be
seen.
Thayendanegea had taught me to do what people thought I would be
likely to do, but to accomplish it so craftily that they would
presently think I had done something else.
When at length those who pursued me should find my trail on the
southern border of the open scrub-land, they would have no difficulty
in following me down the long incline to the river where I now stood,
ankle-deep in icy water. I had halted exactly opposite to the mouth of
a rocky stream, and it was natural that I should ford the rapids here
and continue, on the other bank, up that stream to hide my trail. They
would expect me to do it, so this I did, and ran up the bed of the
stream for a few rods, carelessly leaving a tiny dust line of
corn-meal on the rocks as though in my headlong flight my sack had
started a seam.
Then I turned around and waded down the brook again to the river, out
to the shallow rapids, and so, knee-deep, hastened southward again to
put the next bend between me and the canoe.
I was making but slow progress, for my sack galled me, the slippery,
wet buckskin leggings chafed knee and ankle raw, and my soaked
hunting-shirt glued its skirts to my thighs, impeding me at every
stride. My drenched moccasins also left wet tracks on the Fort Pitt
trail, which I knew the sun could not dry out for hours yet; but I did
not believe that Butler and his crew would come up in time to see
them.
I was mistaken; scarcely half an hour had passed ere their accursed
canoe appeared bobbing down the rapids, paddles flashing in the sun;
and I took to the forest again at a lively gait, somewhat disturbed,
though my self-confidence permitted no actual anxiety to assail me.
I now played them one of Brant's tricks, which was to change moccasins
for a brand-new pair of larger size, and soled with ridged bear-hide.
I also reversed them, toe pointing to the rear, and they made a fine
mark on the moss.
Every twenty paces I stooped to brush up the pile of the velvet moss
and so obliterate my tracks for the next twenty paces.
In this manner I travelled for three hours without sign of pursuit,
and had it not been for my pack I could have jogged on till night. But
my galled shoulders creaked for mercy, and I struggled out once more
into the Fort Pitt trail and stood panting and alert, drenched with
sweat.
The trail had been trodden within the hour; I saw fresh sign of two
different moccasins, and of a coarse boot of foreign style, all
pointing southward. The moccasins were like one pair I had in my
pack, of Albany make; the wearer of the boots toed in. These things I
noticed quicker than I could relate them, and instinctively I changed
my moccasins for the third time, and ran on, stepping carefully in the
tracks of him who wore the Albany moccasins, and keeping a sharp eye
ahead.
I had run nearly half a mile, and was beginning to look about for a
vantage spot to rest on, when a turn in the trail brought me out along
the river.
I scanned the stream thoroughly, and discovered nothing to balk at,
but I could not see the opposite bank very plainly because the forest
rose from the water's edge, and all was dusky where the low-arched
branches screened the shore.
Under this a canoe might lie, or might not; there was no means of
telling. I sniffed at the dusky screen of leaves, but had my sniffing
for my trouble, as nothing moved there.
It was clear I could not remain in the Fort Pitt trail with at least
two of the Butler crew behind me. Should I take to the tangled forest
again? My shoulders begged me not to, but my senses jogged me to the
prudent course. However, at certain times in men's careers, when body
and mind clamour for different answers, a moment comes, even to the
most cautious, when a risk smacks as sweet as a banquet.
One of those moments was coming now; I knew the risk of traversing
that open bit of trail, but the hazard had a winy flavour withal, and
besides it was such a few feet to safety--such a little risk. And I
trotted out on the open trail.
Instantly a shot echoed in the gorge, and the pack on my back jerked.
I never made such a jump in all my life before, for I had cleared the
open like a scared fawn, and now stood glued to a tree, peering at the
blue cloud of smoke which trailed along the opposite shore.
There it was!--there came their accursed canoe like a live creature
poking its painted snout out of the leafy screen, and I cocked and
primed my rifle and waited.
There were two men in the canoe; one paddled gingerly, the other had
reloaded his rifle and was now squatting in the bow. But what
astonished and enraged me was that I knew the men, Wraxall the barber,
and Toby Tice, perfectly well. They were, moreover, tenants of Sir
William, living with their families in Johnstown, and their murderous
treachery horrified me.
I had never shot at a man; I raised my rifle and held them on the
sights for a moment, but there was no fever of the chase in me now,
only a heart-sick horror of taking a neighbour's life.
In a choked and shaky voice I hailed them, warning them back; my voice
gave them a start, for I believe they thought me hard hit.
"Go back, you clowns!" I called. "Shame on you, Toby Tice! Shame on
you, Wraxall! What devil's work is this? Are you turned Huron then
with your knives and hatchets and your Seneca belts? Swing that canoe,
I say! Au large! Au large!--or, by God, I'll drill you both with one
ball!"
Suddenly Wraxall fired. Through the blue cloud I saw Tice sweep au
large, and I stepped out to the shore and shot a ripping hole through
their canoe as it heeled.
Wraxall was reloading desperately; Tice started to send the canoe
towards me once more, but suddenly catching sight of the leaking
bottom, dropped on his knees and tried to draw the ripped flaps
together.
Behind my tree I tore a cartridge open, rammed in a palmful of
buckshot, primed, and fired, tearing the whole bow out of their flimsy
bark craft. The canoe stood up like a post, stern in the air, and
Wraxall lay floundering, while Tice shrieked and fell sprawling into
the river, head first, like a plunging frog, paddles, poles, and rifle
following.
They were swimming my way now, but I shouted to them to sheer off, and
at rifle point warned them across the river to land where they might
and thank God I had not driven them to the bottom with an ounce of
buck.
I was still watching them to see they landed safely, and had half
turned to take the trail again, when, almost under my feet, a human
hand shot up above the river-bank and seized my ankle, tripping me
flat. The next moment a man leaped up from the shore where he had been
crouching, but as I lay on my back I gave him a violent kick in the
face and rolled over out of reach. Before I could grasp my rifle, his
hatchet flew, pinning one flap of my hunting-shirt to the ground; and
I wrenched the hatchet free and hurled it back at him, so that the
flat of the blade smacked his face, and he dropped into the water with
a scream.
Shaking all over, I rose and lifted my rifle, instinctively repriming.
But the sight of the man in the mud, crawling about, gasping and
blowing bloody bubbles, made me sick, and the next moment I turned
tail and ran like a rabbit.
As I sped down the trail, over my shoulder I saw Walter Butler,
planted out in the shoals of the river, taking steady aim at me, and I
seized a tree and checked my course as his bullet sang past my face.
Then I ran on, setting my teeth and vowing to repay that shot when my
life was my own to risk again.
It was late in the afternoon when I turned once more from the trail
and limped into the forest; and I was now close enough to exhaustion
to feel for the first time in my life a touch of that desperation
which makes a fury out of a cornered creature, be it panther or mouse.
For I had not been able to shake off pursuit, double and twist as I
might. They were distant, it is true, but they plodded tirelessly,
unerringly. Again and again I saw them on the rocks, on the vast arid
reaches of the mountains, heads down to the trail, jogging along with
horrid patience.
Once I doubled on them so close that I could see one of the band with
his face tied up in a rag, doubtless the fellow who had tasted of his
own toothsome hatchet. Walter Butler I could also distinguish, ever in
the lead, rifle trailing. Only one among the others bore a rifle. I
had certainly upset their canoe to good advantage. But now I began to
repent me that I had not shot them in the water when I had the chance;
for truly I was in a sorry condition to proceed farther, through
forest or on trail; my limbs at times refused their service, and a
twig tripped me when I needs must leap a log.
I fired my first long shot at them as they were entering a ravine
below me, and I missed, for my hands were unsteady from my labouring
breath. Yet I should have marked a deer where I pleased at that range.
This shot, however, delayed them, and they now advanced more slowly
and cautiously, alert for another ambush. An hour later I gave them a
second shot. My aim was wavering; my bullet only made one man duck his
head.
I was fighting for time now. If I could keep on until dark I had no
fear for the morrow. To tell the truth, I had no actual fear then; it
seemed so impossible that these Johnstown yokels really meant to take
my life, even if they caught me--this ass of a Toby Tice whom I had
tipped for holding my stirrup more than once. And Wraxall, the
red-headed barber sot, who had shaved me in the guard-house! How many
times had he snatched off his greasy cap to me, as he loafed in tavern
doors, sweating malt like a hop-vat!
But the nearness of Walter Butler was a very different affair. Even
when I was but a toddling child at Mistress Molly's knee the sight of
Walter Butler ever sent me fearfully hiding behind the first apron I
could snatch at. Year by year my distrust and aversion deepened, until
I had come to look forward serenely to that mortal struggle between us
which I knew must come. But I had never expected it to come like this.
As I crept once more into the forest my hatred for this man gave me
new strength, and I staggered on, searching for a vantage coign where
I might take another shot at the grotesque crew. Up and up I crawled,
faintly alarmed at my increasing weakness, for now, when a vine
tripped me, I could scarce make out to rise again. In vain I whipped
and spurred my lagging strength with stinging memories of all the
scores I should wipe out with one clean bullet through Butler's head;
it was nigh useless; I could barely move, and how was I to shoot with
my brier-torn hands shaking so I could neither hold them still nor
close my swollen fingers on the trigger? I needed rest; an hour would
have sufficed to steady the palsy of exhaustion. If only the night
would come quickly! But there were two hours of daylight yet, two long
hours of light in which to track my every step.
I caught a distant glimpse of them far below me, searching the ravine
and river-bank. How they had been lured off to the river I know not,
but it gave me a brief chance for breath, though not for a shot; and I
rested my face on my rifle-stock and closed my eyes.
I had been kneeling behind a granite rock in a bare waste of
blueberry-scrub, close to the edge of the woods; and presently as I
attempted to rise I fell down, and began to claw around like a blind
kitten. Stand up I could not, and worst of all, I had little
inclination to attempt it, the bed of rough bushes was so soothing,
and the granite rock invited my heavy head. All over me a sweet
numbness tingled; I tried to think, I strove to rouse. In vain I heard
a sing-song drowsing in my ears: "They will kill you! They will kill
you!" but there was no terror in it. What would it be, I wondered--a
hatchet?--a knife at the throat like the deer's coup-de-grace? Maybe a
blow with a rifle-stock. What did I care? Sleep was sweet.
Then a quiver swept through me like an icy wind; with a pang I
remembered my mission and the wampum pledges, the boast and the vow to
Sir William. Darkness crowded me down; my head reeled, yet I rose
again to my knees, swaying and clutching at the rock which I could
barely see. All around a thick night seemed to hem me in; I groped
through a chilly void for my rifle; it was gone. Panic-stricken I
staggered up, drenched with dew, and I saw the moon staring at me over
a mountain's ghostly wall.
Slowly I realized that I had slept; that death had passed me where I
lay unconscious in the open moorland. But how far had death gone?--and
would he not return by moonlight, stealthily, casting no shadow? Ay,
what was that under the tree there, that shape watching me?--moving,
too,--a man!
As I shrank back my heel struck my rifle. In an instant I was down
behind the rock to prime with dry powder, but to my horror I found
flint missing, charge drawn, pan raised, and ramrod sticking
helplessly out of the barrel. The shock stunned me for a moment; then
I snatched at knife and hatchet only to find an empty belt dangling to
my ankles.
In the impulse of fury and despair, I crouched flat with clinched
fists, trembling for a spring; and at the same instant a tall figure
rose from the bushes at my elbow, laughing coolly.
"Greeting, friend," he said; "God save our country!"
Speechless and dazed, I turned to face him, but he only leaned quietly
on a long rifle and pinched his chin and chuckled.
"There are some gentlemen yonder looking for you, young man," he
said. "I sent them south, for somehow I thought you might not be
looking for them."
Weakness had dulled my wits, but I found speech presently to ask for
my knife and hatchet.
He laid his head on one side and contemplated me in mock admiration.
"Now! Now! Let us go slow, friend," he said. "Let us converse on
several subjects before you begin bawling for your playthings. In the
first place your manners need polish. I said to you, 'Greeting,
friend; God save our country!' and you make me no polite reply."
Something in the big fellow's impudence and careless good-humour
struck me as familiar. I had heard that voice before, and under
pleasant circumstances, it seemed to me; somewhere I had seen him
standing as he was standing now, in his stringy buckskins and his
coon-skin cap, with the fluffy tail falling like a queue.
"If you please," I said, weakly, "give me my hatchet and knife and
receive my thanks. Come, my good fellow, you detain me, and I have far
to travel."
"Well, of all impudence!" he sneered. "Wait a bit, my young cock o'
the woods. I don't know you yet, but I mean to ere you go out
strutting o' moonlight nights."
"Will you give me my hatchet?" I asked, sharply, edging towards him.
Before the words left my lips he snatched my rifle from me and stepped
back, putting the rock between us.
"Now," he said, grimly, "you come into camp and take supper with me,
or I'll knock your head off and drag you in by the heels!"
Aching with fatigue and mortification, I stood there so perfectly
helpless that the great oaf fell a-laughing again, and, with a shrug
of good-humoured contempt, handed me back my rifle as though I were an
infant.
"Don't grind your teeth at me," he chuckled. "Come to the camp, lad. I
mean no harm to you. If I did, there's men yonder who'd slit your
pipes for the pleasure, I warrant."
He took a step up the slope, looked around in the moonlight
encouragingly, then abruptly returned to my side and passed his great
arm around me.
"I'm dog-tired," I said, weakly, making an effort to walk; but my
knees had no strength in them, and I must have fallen except for his
support.
Up, up, up we passed through the foggy moonlight, he almost dragging
me, and my feet a-trail behind. However, when we reached the plateau,
I made out to stumble along with his aid, though I let him relieve me
of my rifle, which he shouldered with his own.
After a minute or two I smelled the camp-fire, but could not see it.
Even in the darkest night a fire amid great trees is not visible at
any considerable distance.
My big companion, striding along beside me, had been constantly
muttering under his breath, and presently I distinguished the words he
was singing:
--"One shoe off, one shoe on,
Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John--"
"I know you," I said, abruptly.
He dropped his song and glanced around at me.
"Oh, you do, eh? Well, I mean to know you, too, so don't worry, young
man."
"I won't," said I, scarcely able to speak.
Presently I saw a single tree in the darkness, all gleaming red, and
in a moment we entered a ruddy ring of light, in the centre of which
great logs burned and crackled in a little sea of whistling flames.
I was prepared to encounter the other coureur-de-bois, and there he
was, ferret-face peering and sniffing at us as we approached. However,
beyond a grunt, he paid me no attention, and presently fell to
stirring something in a camp-pot which hung from cross-sticks over a
separate bed of coals.
There was a third figure there, seated at the base of a gigantic pine
tree; a little Hebrew man, gathering his knees in his arms and peeping
up at me with watery, red-rimmed eyes; Saul Shemuel!--though I was too
weary to bother my head as to how he came there. As I passed him he
looked up, but he did not appear to know me, though he came every
spring to Sir William for his peddling license, and sometimes sold us
children gaffs and ferret-muzzles and gilt chains for pet dogs.
He bade me good-evening in an uncertain voice, and peered up at me
continually; and although I doubted that even Sir William could have
recognized me now, I feared this Jew.
The big man brought me a bowl of broth and spread a blanket for me
close to the blaze. I do not recollect drinking the broth, but I must
have done so, for shortly a delicious warmth enveloped me within and
without, and that is the last I remembered that night.