OVER THE MOUNTAINS
When I opened my eyes a young man was surveying the clearing through a
chink above the door. This morning vigilance was customary in every cabin
along the frontier and revealed the settler's realization of the ever
present danger. No wonder those first men grew to hate the dark forest and
the cover it afforded the red raiders. A reconnaissance made through a
peephole could at the best satisfy one that no stump in the clearing
concealed an Indian.
It was with this unsatisfactory guarantee that the settler unbarred his
door. He could never be sure that the fringe of the woods was not alive
with the enemy. And yet young men fell in love and amorously sought their
mates, and were married, and their neighbors made merry, and children were
born. And always across the clearing lay the shadow of the tomahawk.
Now that I am older and the blood runs colder, and the frontier is pushed
beyond the mountains, I often wonder what our town swains would do if they
had to risk their scalps each time a sweetheart was visited!
The man at the door dropped back to the puncheon floor, announcing: "All
clear at my end."
A companion at the other end of the cabin made a similar report, and the
door was opened. Two of the men, with their rifles ready, stepped outside
and swiftly swung their gaze along the edge of the forest. The early
morning mists obscured the vision somewhat. A bell tinkled just within the
undergrowth. Instantly the fellows outside dropped behind stumps, while we
inside removed the plugs from loopholes.
"All the cattle is in," murmured a youth to me, so young his first beard
had barely sprouted. "Injun trick to git us out there."
Several minutes passed, then Davis loudly called from the fort:
"It's all right! Hodge's critter wa'n't fetched in last night."
Even as he spoke the cow emerged from the bushes.
Smoke began issuing from the cabin chimneys and the women came from the
fort to warm up the remains of the pot-pies, to bake corn bread and
prepare mush. The men scattered through the clearing. Some chopped down
bushes which might mask a foe's stealthy advance, others cleared out logs
which might serve as breastworks for the raiders.
Labor did not appeal to the four killers, and their part was done when
they slipped into the forest, each taking a different course, and scouted
for signs and bagged some game. As my business demanded an early departure
I was not expected to participate in any of these precautions.
I saw that my horse had his feed and water and led him back to the cabin,
and gave my weapons their daily overhauling. Mrs. Davis paused in her
labors long enough to remind me of her message to Patricia Dale. I
reassured her so earnestly that she turned from her corn-bread baking in a
flat pan before the open fire and stared at me rather intently. There was
no dodging her keen eyes.
"See here," she exclaimed; "you've met Patsy already, I 'low."
I hesitated between the truth and a lie, and then nodded my head. She
brushed a limp strand of hair from her face, and in so doing left a
smut-streak across her nose, and half-closed her eyes while a smile tugged
at the corners of her mouth.
"I can't say yet whether you're lucky, or just the opposite," she demurely
remarked.
A loud call from the forest relieved my answering this insinuating remark,
and I stepped outdoors to find the men leaving their work and the women
leaving their cooking. "White man coming!" bawled a young man.
"Ain't any of the scouts," said Davis. "Better gather the children in.
White man sure enough, but it may be one of the renegade breed. Surveyors
from the Kanawha say Tavenor Ross is out with the reds ag'in."
There was no haste or confusion in preparing for this possible attack led
by a white man. The children scuttled to their mothers; the men slowly
fell back to fort and cabins. The fact that four Indian-haters were
carefully scouting the woods satisfied us that no enemy could get very
close without being fired upon. The white man called again. This time he
was answered from two directions.
"It's all right," shouted Davis. "Ike Crabtree answered him. So did Lige
Runner. Crabtree never would 'a' yipped till sure there wa'n't no Injun
waiting to be shot down. Prob'ly some one from the Holston."
"Hooray!" howled a seventeen-year-old lad, who painted his face in
addition to wearing Indian leggings. "It's Jesse Hughes!"
His endorsement of the passionate, reckless man evoked more enthusiasm
from the younger men than from their elders. So implacable was Hughes in
his hatred of the natives that he was incapable of any self-restraint. His
participation in the massacre of the Bulltown families had made him a
well-known character wherever Indian-fighters met.
Crabtree loved to kill Indians, but he always weighed his chances and
never scorned an advantage. Hughes killed on sight, whether in a
settlement or in the woods, whether the act brought one or a score of
dusky avengers on his trail. Nor did it matter if the Indian be friendly
to the whites and known to be perfectly harmless. His skin condemned him.
Although a master of woodcraft and possessing a knowledge of western
Virginia equaled by few men, Hughes was never asked to lead a command of
rangers sent to rescue prisoners, or punish a village. He was too
irresponsible. He would imperil the lives of a score of friends bent on a
surprise attack by firing upon the first savage he saw.
The young men saw in him the successful killer. Their elders preferred to
travel the forests without him. His presence in a settlement once war came
to the frontier, however, was always desirable, as in case of a fight he
would do the enemy much damage.
When he rode from the forest the four scouts came with him; and there was
no question as to their admiration of the fellow. Greetings were called
out by men and women. He saw me mounted and some one told him of my
journey. He rode up to me and warned me to be watchful as he had found
tracks a few miles south of the mountain-trace I proposed following.
His errand at Howard's Creek was to secure a few men and attempt to cut
off this band. Eager queries for news induced him to say he had just come
from Clinch River, and that Captain William Russell, in charge of the
rangers along the Clinch, had started Daniel Boone and Michael Stoner for
the Falls of the Ohio to warn the surveyors along the river that the
Indians were out and would soon be attacking the frontier and combing the
Kentucky country clean.
With much gusto he added that three Cherokees had been killed recently at
the head of the Clinch. The thoughtless, in unison with Hacker and his
companions, cheered this announcement most lustily. The men with families
looked very grave. Of Baby Kirst, Hughes had seen no signs.
His report of Indian-signs near my route over the mountains influenced me
to return to the cabin and check up my ammunition more carefully. I spread
a double handful of small bullets on the table, running seventy to the
pound, and let each slip through my fingers to make sure none was
irregular. Only those which were round and smooth were returned to the
pouch.
My flints and greased linen patches were examined a second time. An aged
man, known as Uncle Dick, came in and watched me curiously, and grinned in
approval of my caution. It was seldom a man reached his advanced age on
the frontier. I had never heard Uncle Dick's last name, nor do I believe
there was any one on the creek who had heard it.
According to rumor he had gone against some law in South Carolina and had
fled to the frontier. Despite his many years he was sturdy and strong, but
his failing eyesight made him dependent upon knife and ax. Much travel in
wet weather had crippled him with rheumatism, and he remained close to
whatever settlement he happened to visit.
"Fill the breast o' yer shirt with hunks o' corn cake, younker. Be sure
yer ax is hitched so it won't be snagged from the loop when ye ride
hellitiflicker through the bushes," he warned me.
I nodded, and he seated himself on a three-legged stool and whetted a long
knife against one of the fireplace stones, and mumbled:
"Don't make no differ about me, but for the sake o' these younkers here
such men as love killin' Injuns oughter keep clear o' the settlements an'
do their stent on t'other side the Ohio. Old Cornstalk's powerful keen to
git them fellers. When he hears they're here at the creek he's likely to
strike quick an' mighty pert. Wal, if they come an' I can make it
hand-grips with 'em I 'low there'll be some new Injuns in the Happy
Huntin'-grounds."
When I bid the people good-by and received their kindly wishes for a safe
journey, Uncle Dick was still at the fireplace, trying to improve the
razor-edge of his blade.
I rode through the woods without spending any time in looking for signs.
Runner and his mates had scouted a circle around the clearing in a
thorough fashion, and I could spare my eyes until I reached the first
slope of the mountains. When the path began to ascend and I was afforded a
better view of the heavens, thunder-clouds were piling in sullen
massiveness above the western horizon.
The heat was very oppressive. The dull rumble of thunder came across the
valley behind. It was as much of a vibration as a sound, something to be
felt as well as heard. The song-birds were keeping close to the thickets
and fluttering about nervously. By the time I was well committed to the
first rugged ascent, a yellowish gray wall filled the western sky. Across
this the lightning played.
As the curtain of rain drove in toward the Greenbriar I knew that any
savages lurking west of Howard's Creek would be bothered to keep their
priming dry. No rain fell on my path, however, and at no time did I lose
the early morning sun. On gaining a higher elevation I could see the storm
was following the valley down to the head waters of the Clinch.
I had not neglected Uncle Dick's advice in regard to provisions, and the
front of my loose hunting-shirt held a bag of corn cakes and some cooked
venison. On reaching the first slope I had watched carefully for the
tracks Hughes had seen south of the trace, but found none.
There could be no question of Hughes' ability to read Indian-signs; and
his warning recalled the Grisdols to my mind. These people--two brothers
and two children--had their cabin in a hollow close by a tumbling brook
and to one side of the trace. I planned to make a slight détour and pass a
word with them and to warn them to be watchful.
The fact that Hughes had found signs near the mountains would indicate the
Indians had planned a raid against some isolated home, and as there was no
footing in the trace I followed, it might easily be that the enemy had
entered lower down.
Along toward the noon hour I topped a ridge and decided I would halt and
eat at the first spring or brook I came to. My horse, an old campaigner in
wilderness work, pricked his ears as we began dipping down the gentle
slope. I studied the path ahead and the timbered slopes on both sides to
discover the cause of this attention.
The animal was intelligent. I knew it could be no wild creature as there
was no suggestion of fear in the attentive ears. Dissatisfied at remaining
in ignorance, I reined in to investigate more carefully. Almost at once
the horse swung his head to the right and gazed curiously. On this side
the space was bordered by a beech grove. Owing to the rank bush-growth
lining the path, little could be seen of the grove from any point below
where I had halted until a brook, which cut the path, was reached.
I leaned forward and looked between the horse's ears and discovered a bear
down in the hollow, nosing about for nuts and grubs on the bank of the
brook. A bear was always acceptable meat to a settler, and I at once
decided to stalk the brute and pack his carcass to the Grisdol cabin.
After the first moment he passed behind some trees, but as I continued to
glimpse him I knew he had not taken alarm. I slid from my horse and
started him down the trace, and then ducked into the grove and rapidly
descended toward the brook. I had no fear of my horse losing himself, as
he would make for the stream where I would join him within a few minutes.
As I flitted from tree to tree I repeatedly sighted the animal as he poked
his nose about in search of ants or grubs, and yet when I reached a point
within sixty or seventy-five yards of where he should have been feeding I
could not locate him.
A half-formed suspicion popped into my mind from nowhere. My horse had
shown no nervousness in drawing nearer to the bear. The bushes prevented
my seeing the horse, but I could hear him as he quickened his pace to
reach the tumbling brook. Now for a second I saw the bear again, and my
suspicion grew stronger.
The brute impressed me as being very lean, whereas the season was enough
advanced to have grown some fat on his bones. I was fairly startled next
to behold the creature emerge from behind a tree and walk upright toward
the opening made by the brook, cutting across the trace. Had I not been
partly primed for the surprise I should have been astounded at my second
discovery; the bear was armed with a gun.
Expecting to behold me on the horse when the animal reached the brook the
fellow's only thought was to remain unseen by any one in the trace. He
halted behind a tree, but in full view of me, and standing with his left
side exposed to me. Had I the instincts of a killer I would have shot him
forthwith, and as he was obviously stalking me, having discovered I was
traveling over the trace, I would have been justified. As it was I
whistled shrilly.
Like a flash the bearskin fell back and a painted Shawnee wheeled to face
me. Even as he turned his smoothbore banged away and half a dozen buckshot
rained through the branches over my head. He was slipping behind the tree
when I fired.
He went down with a foot and part of his leg exposed. Controlling an
impulse to close in I reloaded, taking great care in wrapping the greased
patch about the bullet. I believed I had done for him, but to make sure I
sent another pellet through the exposed foot. It twitched, as a dead limb
will, but without muscular reaction. Reloading, and circling warily to
avoid being taken by surprise by any companion, I reached the beech. My
first shot had caught him through the base of the neck, killing
instantly.
He wore a necklace of bear's claws and was hideously painted. He had the
snake totem on his chest and was nude except for his breech-clout and
moccasins. Fastened to his clout were four awful exhibits of his
predaceous success--four scalps. One was gray, another streaked with gray,
and two--oh, the pity of it--were soft and long.
I removed them and placed them in the roll of buckskin that I carried for
moccasin-patches. And my heart being hardened, I scalped the murderer with
never a qualm. No warning was longer needed at the Grisdol cabin. The
Indians had struck.
Furtively scanning the grove, I stole to the trace where my horse stood
fetlock-deep in the brook. The dead warrior had known of my coming, or of
some one's coming, and had had time to masquerade as a bear. He had
thought to catch his victim off his guard.
The four scalps proved the raiders were out in numbers, for a small party
would not venture so far east. But the dead warrior's attempt to ambush me
in a bearskin also proved he was working alone for the time being. Yet
gunshots carry far, and I might expect the Shawnees to be swarming into
the hollow at any moment.
Mounting my horse, I turned north, left of the trace, and picked a course
where no trail ran, and from which I could occasionally catch a glimpse of
the path some fifty feet below. I discovered no signs of the enemy, and
there was no way of telling whether they were ahead or behind me. That
they must have heard the roar of the smoothbore and the whip-like crack of
my Deckhard was not to be doubted. Nor would they fail to guess the truth,
inasmuch as the rifle had spoken last.
It became very difficult to keep along the side of the slope and I
dismounted and led the horse. The prolonged howl of a wolf sounded behind.
My horse was greatly afraid of wolves, yet he did not draw back and
display nervousness. I increased my pace, then halted and half-raised my
rifle as there came a shuffling of feet above me, accompanied by a tiny
avalanche of forest mold and rotten chestnuts. I rested the rifle over the
saddle and endeavored to peer through the tangle of beech and inferior
growth which masked the flank of the slope.
The sliding, shuffling sound continued with no attempt at concealment that
I could discover; and yet there was nothing to shoot at. Suddenly the
noise ceased. I was still staring toward the spot where it had last
sounded when a calm voice behind me called out:
"They're after you."
It was Shelby Cousin, with the hate of the border making his young face
very hard and cruel.
"I've been scouting 'em," he informed me. "I seen you take to the side o'
this ridge. I seen 'em streamin' down the trace. They picked up your trail
mighty smart. Now they're scattered all along behind you."
I opened the roll of buckskin and disclosed the terrible trophies. He
straightened and threw his head back, and for a moment stood with his eyes
closed, his slight figure trembling violently. Then he fiercely
whispered:
"How'd you git these from the devils?"
There was an expectant glare in his gaze. I showed him the hair of the
Shawnee.
"Good! Good!" he repeated exultantly as he gloated over the repulsive
thing. Then gloomily:
"But why couldn't I 'a' took it? Luck's been ag'in' me for days. Found a
burned cabin after I quit you on the Cheat, an' 'lowed to ambush the party
when they made for the Ohio. 'Stead o' goin' to their villages they fooled
me by strikin' across to here. Now they've made this kill! Who be they?"
"The Grisdols. Only a short distance from here. Two men and the two
children. No women. I knew them. I must go there and bury them and these
scalps."
"I'll help," he mumbled. "I ain't heard no discovery-yell yet. They're
still huntin' for your signs along this ridge." Trailing his double-barrel
rifle, he took the lead and began a diagonal descent to the trace I had
abandoned. I murmured a protest, but he assured me:
"They're all behind us. We can make quicker time in the trace. They'll hop
on to your trail sure's shootin'. Speed is what we hanker for."
His woodcraft was remarkable. He seemed to possess the gift of seeing that
which was concealed. With a glance he would observe land formations and
the nature of the growth, and confidently circle a heavy grove and tell me
what would be the nature of the traveling beyond, and whether wet or dry.
"We could slide down into the trace in a minute any time, but I don't want
to take to it till we round the bend ahead; then we'll be out o' sight o'
the reds strung along the ridge."
He had halted as he explained this and I was almost abreast of him, and he
startled me by whipping up his rifle and firing. As the shot rang out he
rejoiced:
"One!"
I had heard nothing, seen nothing, and yet he had both heard and seen, and
had made his kill.
"No use coverin' up any longer," he said. "They're closin' in. Make for
the trace shortest way. Hold back once you hit it for me to come up.
There's not more'n two or three close at hand, but the whole kit an'
b'ilin' know we're here."
The spiteful _spang_ of his rifle barely interrupted the woods life close
about us. Only for a moment did the squirrels cease their chatter. A
grouse drummed away in alarm, but only for a short flight. No cries of
rage, nor war-whoops, warned that the enemy were closing in on us. Had I
been new to the border I should have disbelieved my companion's statement.
Leading the horse, I started down the bank while Cousin climbed higher.
It was not until my horse slid down a ten-foot bank that I heard a hostile
sound--the rush of many feet through last year's dead leaves. I heard the
Deckhard fired once, and instantly the side of the ridge was as quiet as a
death-chamber. Then came the scream of a panther, Cousin's way of
announcing a kill.
They must have attempted rushing him, thinking his rifle was empty; for he
fired again, and once more gave voice to his war-cry. Then the old eternal
quiet of the forest dropped back in place. Until I heard a Shawnee
scalp-cry I could rest easy as to my companion. I slipped into the trace
and mounted, and pushed ahead.
The Indians were abreast of me and there was the danger of their cutting
into the trace ahead. That they had not followed at my heels made me
believe they were concentrating all their energies on making a surround
and killing, or capturing their much feared enemy. They would prefer to
dance Cousin's scalp than to dance a dozen of men of my caliber.
There were no more shots up the ridge, and I found it hard to decide just
what gait I should permit my horse to take. I could not leave the boy
behind, nor did I care to risk being intercepted. I was worrying my mind
into a fine stew over this point when the bushes stirred ahead. I dropped
to the ground behind the horse, but it was young Cousin. He motioned for
me to hurry.
"You dodged them!" I said.
"Black Hoof's band. They're hard to dodge," he whispered, striding rapidly
along and swinging his head from side to side. "How far to the Grisdol
cabin?"
"Two miles."
"Then ride for it. I'll run at your stirrup. We'll need that cabin if it
ain't been burned. I 'low it'll be a close race."
There was no sign of pursuit. I was no novice in Indian warfare, but in
this instance I scarcely believed the Shawnees would draw near enough to
make the chase interesting. So far as I could observe Cousin had succeeded
in stealing away from them, and there was no Indian who could overtake
him, especially if he ran at my stirrup.
"They've took four sculps on this side the valley," he murmured as he
loped along at my side. "I bagged three on 'em. You fetched one. Black
Hoof is too big a chief to call it quits. He's back there leadin' the
chase. So I 'low it'll be close."
A curious little thrill chilled my spine. Catahecassa, or Black Hoof, was
one of the most redoubtable and resourceful savages to be found in the
Shawnee nation. If below Cornstalk's intellectual plane he made up for
much of any such discrepancy by his fiery courage and deep cunning.
The long-drawn howl of a wolf sounded up the slope on our left and was
soon answered by a similar call directly in our rear. For a third time the
signal menaced us, on our right and at a considerable distance.
"They're still scoutin' the ridge for me," murmured Cousin, his lean face
turning to the left. "The heft of 'em are comin' along the trace behind
us. Those over to the right are hustlin' to find out what's up. We must
git along faster!"
My mount responded eagerly, for he sensed the danger. And it was wonderful
to observe how Cousin kept up, with one hand on my stirrup, the other
holding the rifle. We were well beyond the brook where I shot my Shawnee,
and within half a mile or less of the Grisdol cabin, when our flight was
interrupted for a few moments by the behavior of my horse.
It was just as we turned from the main trace to strike into the path
leading to the cabin that the animal bolted sidewise, crowding Cousin deep
into the bushes. I reined in and stared down on a terrible sight--that of
the four Grisdols. They lay in the path, head to head, in the form of a
cross. I felt my stirrup shake as Cousin's hand rested on it. He gave a
little gasping sob and whispered:
"How near to the cabin now?"
"Less than half a mile," I told him as I soothed my horse and permitted
him to pick his way around the dead.
Once more we were off, but now Cousin ran behind, for the way was winding
and narrow, and at places the overhanging boughs tried to brush me from
the saddle.
There was no need of glancing back to make sure my companion was keeping
up, for his impatient voice repeatedly urged me to make greater speed.
"If the cabin ain't standin' we've got to have 'nough of a lead to let us
lose 'em in the woods," he reminded.
The path completed a détour of some tangled blackberry bushes and ended in
a natural opening, well grassed.
"There it is! The roof is partly burned!" I encouraged.
"The walls stand. The door's in place. Faster!"
Across the opening we raced. From the woods behind arose a ferocious
yelling. The Shawnee were confident they had driven us into a trap. We
flashed by two dead cows and some butchered hogs, and as yet I had not
seen an Indian except the one masked in a bear's pelt. The cabin roof was
burned through at the front end. The door was partly open and uninjured.
It was simple reasoning to reconstruct the tragedy even while we hastened
to shelter. The family had offered resistance, but had been thrown into a
panic at the first danger from fire. Then it was quickly over. Doubtless
there had been something of a parley with the usual promise of life if
they came out. The fire crackled overhead, the victims opened the door.
Cousin said they had been conducted to the main trace before being
slaughtered. As I leaped from my horse a fringe of savages broke from
cover and began shooting. Cousin dropped the foremost of them. I led the
horse inside the cabin and my companion closed and barred the door.
The interior of the place mutely related the tragic story. It is the
homely background of a crime that accents the terrible. On the table was
the breakfast of the family, scarcely touched. They had been surprised
when just about to eat. An overturned stool told how one of the men had
leaped to bar the door at the first alarm. I spied through a peephole but
could see nothing of our foes. A low cry from Cousin alarmed me. He was
overcome at the sight of a small apron.
"I wish I'd stuck to the open," he whispered. "The air o' this place
chokes me."
"If we can stand them off till night we can send the horse galloping
toward the woods to draw their fire. Then we can run for it."
"There won't be no darkness to-night," morosely replied Cousin. "They'll
make big fires. They'll try to burn us out. We're well forted till they
git the roof blazin' ag'in. We'll 'low to stick here s'long we can. They
won't dare to hang round too long."
He took a big kettle from the fireplace and thrust it through the hole in
the roof. Bullets whistled overhead, with an occasional _whang_ as a piece
of lead hit the kettle and ricochetted. After the first volley the Indians
refused to waste their ammunition, either realizing it was useless, or
suspecting the kettle was some kind of a trick.
"I 'lowed they'd git tired," muttered Cousin, sticking the top of his head
into the kettle and lifting the edge a crack so he could scrutinize the
forest. After a minute of silence his muffed voice called down to me: "Had
a notion that cow we passed nearest the woods was dead. Try a shot that'll
just graze the rump."
I fired and a Shawnee began rolling toward the bushes. The iron kettle
rattled to the ground, and young Cousin, with head and shoulders thrust
through the roof, discharged both barrels of his rifle. The Indian stopped
rolling. I was amazed that Black Hoof's men had not instantly fired a
volley. I exclaimed as much as he dropped to the floor.
"Here she comes!" he cried as the lead began plunging into the thick logs.
"If they keep it up we can dig quite a lot o' lead out the timbers. It
took 'em by surprise to see me comin' through the roof, an' it surprised
'em more to see two shoots comin' out of a gun that hadn't been reloaded.
Mighty few double barrels out here. Huh! I 'low somethin' cur'ous is goin'
to happen."
I could discern nothing to warrant this prophecy. No Indians were to be
seen. Cousin called my attention to the sound of their tomahawks. I had
heard it before he spoke, but I had been so intent in using my eyes that I
had forgotten to interpret what my ears were trying to tell me. There was
nothing to do but wait.
Cousin discovered the horse had drunk what water there had happened to be
in the bucket, leaving us scarcely a drop. Half an hour of waiting seemed
half a day; then something began emerging from the woods. It resolved
itself into a barrier of green boughs, measuring some fifteen feet in
length and ten feet in height.
Its approach was slow. The noise of the axes was explained. The Indians
had chopped saplings and had made a frame and filled it with boughs.
Behind it was a number of warriors. About half-way across the clearing
were half a dozen long logs scattered about.
"They're thinkin' to make them logs an' while hid by their boughs yank 'em
together to make a breastwork. Then they'll pepper us while 'nother party
rushes in close. New party will pelt us while the first makes a run to git
ag'in' the walls where we can't damage 'em from the loopholes. That Black
Hoof is a devil for thinkin' up tricks."
I fired at the green mass. Cousin rebuked me, saying:
"Don't waste lead. There's three braves with long poles to keep the
contraption from fallin' backward. They're on their feet, but keepin' low
as possible. There's t'others pushin' the bottom along. There's t'others
huggin' the ground. You'll notice the ends an' middle o' the top stick up
right pert, but between the middle an' each end the boughs sort o' sag
down. If the middle pole can be put out o' business I 'low the weight of
it will make it cave in. Loaded? Then don't shoot less you see
somethin'."
With this warning he fired at the middle of the screen, and the middle
support developed a weakness, indicating he had wounded the poleman. He
fired again, and the whole affair began to collapse, and a dozen warriors
were uncovered. These raced for the woods, two of them dragging a wounded
or dead man.
For a few seconds I was incapable of moving a muscle. I was much like a
boy trying to shoot his first buck. Or perhaps it was the very abundance
of targets that made me behave so foolishly. Cousin screamed in rage. My
bonds snapped, and I fired. If I scored a hit it was only to wound, for
none of the fleeing foe lessened their speed. "Awful poor fiddlin'!"
groaned Cousin, eying me malevolently.
"I don't know what was the matter with me. Something seemed to hold me
paralyzed. Couldn't move a finger until you yelled."
"Better luck next time," he growled, his resentment passing away.
He loaded and stood his rifle against the logs and began spying from the
rear of the cabin. Whenever he glanced at the apron his eyes would close
for a moment. No women had lived there. One of the Grisdols, the father of
the two children, had brought it as a reminder of his dead wife. Cousin's
great fight was not against the red besiegers, but against his emotions. I
knew he was thinking of his sister.
"Come here!" I sharply called. "They want a pow-wow. One's waving a green
bough."
Cousin climbed to the hole in the roof, holding his rifle out of sight by
the muzzle. He yelled in Shawnee for the man to advance alone. The warrior
strode forward, the token of peace held high. So far as I could see he did
not have even a knife in his belt. Overhead Cousin's rifle cracked and the
Indian went down with never a kick.
"Good God! You've fired on a flag of truce, after agreeing to receive it!"
I raged.
He stood beside me, a crooked smile on his set face, his eyes gleaming
with triumph, his shapely head tilted to enjoy every note of the horrible
anger now welling from the forest. "You fired----"
"I 'low I did," he chuckled. Then with awful intentness, "But the folks
who lived here an' was happy didn't fire on the Injun fetchin' 'em a
bundle o' peace-talk. They believed the Injuns meant it. Do you reckon I
treated that dog any worse than the Shawnees treated my father and mother
and little sister ten years ago? If you don't 'low that, just keep shet.
When a Injun sends you a flag o' truce you want to tie your scalp down, or
it'll blow off."
The chorus of howls in the forest suddenly ceased, then were succeeded by
sharp yelps of joy. Cousin stared at me in bewilderment. Darting to the
back of the cabin, he peered through a chink. "Come here," he softly
commanded. I joined him and took his place at the peephole. There was a
haze of smoke in the eastern sky.
"That's why Black Hoof an' his men are hangin' round here," he sighed. "He
sent a small band farther east. They've made a kill. That's a burnin' over
there."
"That would be Edgely's cabin," I decided. "But they moved back to
Dunlap's Creek three months ago."
"Thank God for that!" he exclaimed. "But we'll have more Injuns round us
mighty soon. I wish it was dark."
"They've stopped their yowling. Look out for fresh deviltry!"
He nodded and walked to the front of the cabin. The horse neighed shrilly.
The call was repeated in the forest. The Indians continued silent. I heard
it first; that is to recognize it. For I had heard it the day before. The
voice of a man shouting fretfully, much as an angry child complains.
Cousin understood it when a whimpering note was added.
"Baby Kirst!" he softly cried. "Black Hoof will 'low his medicine is
mighty weak. Baby's out there an' in a bad frame o' mind. Somethin' is
goin' ag'in' the grain. It's good medicine for us that he wandered up this
way."
I began sketching the happenings at Howard's Creek, but before I could
finish the bushes on the hem of the woods were violently agitated and Baby
Kirst rode into the clearing, his horse in a lather. When he beheld the
dead cows and hogs he yelled like a madman and plucked his heavy ax from
his belt, and turned back to the woods. He disappeared with a crash, his
hoarse voice shouting unintelligible things.
"Now you can go," quietly said Cousin as he unbarred the door. "Be keerful
o' the Injuns to the east. They'll be a small band. I 'low I'll foller
Kirst. If he don't drive 'em too fast there oughter be good huntin' for
me."
That night I rode into the Greenwood clearing on Dunlap's Creek without
having seen any Indians along the way.