LOST SISTER
Patsy stood in the doorway of the Davis cabin when I approached to pay my
respects. She was wearing a linsey petticoat and a short gown for an
overskirt. Her mass of wonderful hair was partly confined by a calico cap,
and on her feet were my gift moccasins. She believed she was conforming to
the frontier standard of dress, but she was as much out of place as a
butterfly at a bear-baiting. Before I could speak she was advancing toward
me, her hands on her hips, her head tilted back, and demanding:
"What do you say now about the influence of trade and the trader?"
She did not ask that she might learn my opinion; she firmly believed there
was but one thing I could say. She was in an exultant mood and happy to
parade her triumph. Of course she was proud of her father and was viewing
him as the deliverer of the settlement. Without waiting for me to answer
she excitedly continued:
"And your long rifle! And the rifles of all these other men! What good
would they have done? They spoke night before last, and the Indians kept
up their attack. Then my father spoke and the Indians have gone! John
Ward, who was out scouting when the Indians attacked, says they greatly
outnumbered us and were led by Black Hoof, one of their greatest chiefs.
He says they would have captured or killed us if not for my father. Now,
Mr. Rifleman, what do you think about the influence of an honest trader?"
I would not have shaken her pride in her father even had that
accomplishment been possible. To convince her--which was not
possible--that her father's success was no success at all, that Black
Hoof's behavior was simply an Indian trick to lull us into a foolish sense
of security, would mean to alienate even her friendship, let alone killing
all chance of her ever reciprocating my love.
While not deeply experienced with women, my instinct early taught me that
my sex is most unwise in proving to a woman that she is wrong. She will
hold such procedure to be the man's greatest fault. It is far better to
let her discover her own errors, and even then pretend you still cling to
her first reasoning, thereby permitting her to convince you that she was
wrong.
On the other hand there was, I sensed, a peril in the situation, a peril
to Howard's Creek, that made my seeming acquiescence in her opinion very
distasteful to me. I had no proof of my suspicions except my knowledge of
Indian nature and my familiarity with frontier history. A red man can be
capable of great and lasting friendships. But to judge him, when he is at
war, by the standards of the white race is worse than foolish.
Cornstalk, according to his blood, was a great man. Under certain
conditions I would trust him with my life as implicitly as I would trust
any white man. Under certain conditions I would repose this same trust in
him although he was at war with my race. But when placed among the
combatants opposing him, I knew there was no subterfuge even that great
warrior would not use to attain success.
So I said nothing of my doubts, nothing of my vague suspicions concerning
John Ward. I felt a strong antipathy toward the fellow, and I realized
this dislike might prejudice me to a degree not warranted by the facts. To
put it mildly, his status puzzled me. If he were an escaped prisoner then
he had committed one of the gravest sins in the red man's entire
category.
To be taken into the tribe, to be adopted after his white blood had been
washed out by solemn ceremony, and then to run away, meant the stake and
horrible preliminary tortures should he be recaptured. As a prize such a
runaway would be more eagerly sought than any settler. And yet the fellow
was back on the fringe of imminent danger and ranging the woods
unconcernedly. His captivity must have taught him that every war-party
would be instructed to bring him in alive if possible.
"What's the matter with you, Basdel?" demanded the girl sharply as she
turned and walked by my side toward the Davis cabin. "You act queer. Do
you begrudge giving my father his due? Aren't you thankful he was here to
stop the attack?"
"If he were here alone, yes. But I am terribly worried because you are
here, Patsy."
"But that's doubting my father's influence!" she rebuked, her eyes
lighting war-signals.
"When one has loved, one stops reasoning," I quickly defended. "I can not
bear to see even a shadow of a chance of harm come to you."
"That was said very pretty," she smiled, her gaze all softness.
Then with calm pride she unfastened several strings of white wampum from
around her slender waist and holding them up simply said:
"My father's belts."
Among the strings was a strip some seven or eight rows in width and two
hundred beads long. It was pictographic and showed a man leading a
pack-horse along a white road to a wigwam. The figures, like the road,
were worked in white beads, the background being dark for contrast.
Refastening them about her waist, she said:
"There is no danger for me here so long as I wear my father's belts. There
are none of the Ohio Indians who would refuse to accept them and respect
them. When they see the Pack-Horse-Man walking along the white road to
their villages they will lift that belt up very high."
"When one sees you, there should be no need of belts," I ventured.
She smiled graciously and lightly patted my fringed sleeve, and ignoring
my fervid declaration, she gently reminded:
"Even if I had no belts I am no better than any of the other women on the
creek. Don't think for a moment I would hide behind my father's trade
wampum. The belts must protect all of us, or none of us. But there is no
more danger for me than there is for them even if I threw the belts away.
Not so much; because I am Ericus Dale's daughter. Basdel, it makes me
unhappy to fear that when we leave here the danger may return to these
people. I carry my safety with me. I wish I could leave it for them. I
wish a general and lasting peace could be made."
"God knows I wish the same," I cried. "As for being no better than these
other women, I agree to that." And she became suddenly thoughtful. "In
judging from a Howard's Creek standpoint you are not so good in many ways.
Rather, I should say, not so valuable."
"You measure a woman's value as you do your guns and horses," she
murmured.
Her calmness was rather ominous, and I feared I had bungled. Yet my
meaning should have been transparent even to a child. To make sure she had
not misconstrued me I explained:
"You know what I mean, no matter how I appear to measure you. In making a
new country a woman on the edge of things must have certain qualities that
the town woman does not possess, does not need to possess. It's because of
these qualities that the new country becomes possible as a place to live
in; then the town woman develops. Two hundred miles east are conditions
that resulted from the rugged qualities of the first women on the first
frontier.
"Those first women helped to make it safe for their children's children.
Now it's behind the frontier and women of your kind live there. In other
words"--I was growing a trifle desperate, for her gaze, while persistent,
was rather blank--"you don't fit in out here. I doubt if you know how to
run bullets or load a gun or throw an ax. I'm sure you'd find it very
disagreeable to go barefooted. It isn't your place. Your values shine when
you are back in town. That's why I'm sorry you're here."
"I haven't shot a rifle, but I could learn," she quietly remarked.
"I believe that," I heartily agreed. "But could you take an ax and stand
between a drove of children and what you believed to be a band of Indians
about to break from cover and begin their work of killing? I saw the Widow
McCabe do that. I saw the little Moulton woman, armed with an ax, run to
meet the attack."
"It's hardly sensible to ask if I could have done this or that. Who knows
what I could have done? I shall never have to deal with what is past. And
there was a time, I suppose, when all these women were new to the
frontier. At least I should be allowed time to learn certain things before
you apply your measuring-rod, sir!"
"That's right," I admitted. "I was rather unjust, but the fact remains
that just now you are out of place and not used to this life and its
dangers."
"I feel very cross at you. You pass over my father's great work for the
settlement with scarcely a word. You complain because I am here and look
different from Mrs. Davis. I can't help my looks."
"You are adorable. Already see the havoc you've wrought among the
unmarried men. Observe how many times each finds an errand that takes him
by this cabin door. How slow they are to scout the woods and seek signs.
No; you can't help your looks, and it results there are few men who can
resist loving you. There's not a youngster in this settlement who's not up
to his neck in love with you already. And there's not one of them who does
not realize that you would be the poorest mate he could pick so long as he
must live on the border."
"I'm glad to hear just what you believe about me," she muttered. "But
you're bewildering. It seems I'm a rare prize for any man and a most
uncomfortable burden."
"Oh, dash it all, Patsy! You understand that what I've said applies to
Howard's Creek. If we were standing two hundred miles due east I should
say directly the opposite."
Of course she understood my true meaning, and of course in her heart she
agreed with it. She was town-bred and therefore was intended for the town.
Yet so strangely stubborn and eccentric is a woman's reasoning that she
can feel resentment toward a man because he has brains enough to
comprehend the same simple truth that she comprehends.
Had there been no danger from the Indians I could have scored a bull's-eye
with her by baldly declaring her to be the most valuable asset the
frontier ever had received; and she would have dimpled and smiled and but
faintly demurred, knowing I was a rock-ribbed liar for asserting it, and
yet liking me the more for the ridiculous exaggeration. That is one reason
why it is more sensible and much more satisfactory to quarrel with a man
than a woman.
With the tenacity which her sex displays when believing a male is trying
to avoid some issue, she coldly reminded:
"Talk, talk, but not a word yet as to what my father did two nights ago."
"It was one of the most splendid exhibitions of faith and moral courage I
ever witnessed."
Her gaze grew kindly again and she halted and stared up into my eyes,
flushed with pleasure, and waited to hear more encomiums.
"I never before saw one man rush out and confront a war-party. Then his
going out alone last night and prowling about through the dark forest!
That was magnificent. Your father is one of the bravest men I ever saw."
She rubbed a pink finger against her nose and tilted her head and weighed
my words thoughtfully. Obviously I had omitted something; for with a
little frown worrying her fair forehead she began:
"But--but there's something else you haven't said. What about his
influence over the Indians? You thought him foolish to take me over the
mountains. You now admit you were foolish to think that?"
She was waiting for me to complete my confessional. If the element of
danger had been absent how gladly I would have lied to her! How quickly I
would have won her approval by proclaiming myself the greatest dolt in
Virginia and her father the wisest man in the world! But to accede to
everything she said and believed would be an endorsement of her presence
on the creek. I had had no idea of ousting myself from her good graces
when I went to find her that morning. Now the test had come, and her
welfare was involved; to be true to her as well as to myself I was forced
to say:
"I still think it was most dangerous for you to come here. I believe your
father acted very unwisely, no matter how much be believes in his
influence over the Indians. And I would thank God if you were back in
Williamsburg."
Her hands dropped to her side. The smiling eyes grew hard.
"Go on!" she curtly commanded.
"I've damned myself in your opinion already. Isn't that enough? Don't make
me pay double for being honest."
"Honest?" she jeered. "You've deliberately dodged my question. I asked you
what you thought of my father's power with the Indians. You rant about his
wickedness in bringing me here. For the last time I ask you to answer my
question and finish your list of my father's faults."
As if to make more steep the precipice down which from her esteem I was
about to plunge there came the voice of her father, loudly addressing the
settlers.
"You people ought to wake up," he was saying. "Was it your rifles, or was
it trade that stopped an attack on these cabins night before last? When
will you learn that you can not stop Indian wars until you've killed every
Indian this side the mountains? Has there ever been a time when you or
your fathers could stop their raids with rifles? Well, you've seen one
raid stopped by the influence of trade."
As he paused for breath the girl quietly said:
"Now, answer me."
And I blurted out:
"I don't have any idea that Black Hoof and his warriors will hesitate a
second in sacking Howard's Creek because of anything your father has said
or could say. I honestly believe the Shawnees are playing a game, that
they are hoping the settlers are silly enough to think themselves safe. I
am convinced that once Black Hoof believes the settlers are in that frame
of mind he will return and strike just as venomously as the Shawnees
struck in the old French War and in Pontiac's War, after feasting with the
whites and making them believe the red man was their friend."
She straightened and drew a deep breath, and in a low voice said:
"At last you've answered me. Now go!"
I withdrew from the cabin and from the group of men. Dale's heavy voice
was doubly hateful in my ears. The settlement was a small place. Patsy had
dismissed me, and there was scarcely room for me without my presence
giving her annoyance. I went to the cabin where I had left my few
belongings and filled my powder-horn and shot-pouch. I renewed my stock of
flints and added to my roll of buckskins, not forgetting a fresh supply of
"whangs" for sewing my moccasins. While thus engaged Uncle Dick came in
and began sharpening his knife at the fireplace.
"Why do that?" I morosely asked. "You are safe from Indian attacks now the
trader has told the Shawnees you are under his protection."
He leered at me cunningly and ran his thumb along the edge of the knife
and muttered:
"If some o' th' varmints will only git within strikin'-distance! They sure
ran away night before last, but how far did they go? Dale seems to have a
pert amount o' authority over 'em; but how long's he goin' to stay here?
He can't go trapezin' up 'n' down these valleys and keep men 'n' women
from bein' killed by jest hangin' some white wampum on 'em."
"What do the men think?"
"Them that has famblies are hopin' th' critters won't come back. Younger
men want to git a crack at 'em. Two nights ago th' younkers thought Dale
was mighty strong medicine. A night or two of sleep leaves 'em 'lowin' th'
creek may be safe s'long as he sticks here. Some t'others spit it right
out that Black Hoof is playin' one o' his Injun games. If that pert young
petticoat wa'n't here mebbe we could git some o' th' young men out into
th' woods for to do some real scoutin'.
"If my eyes was right I'd go. As it is, th' young folks keep runnin' a
circle round th' settlement, lickety-larrup, an' their minds is on th'
gal, an' they wouldn't see a buf'lo if one crossed their path. Then they
hustle back an' say as how they ain't seen nothin'. I 'low some o' th'
older men will have to scout."
"I'm going out. I'll find the Indians' trail and follow it," I told him.
"That'll be neighborly of you. If they chase you back an' git within
stickin'-distance I'll soon have their in'ards out to dry."
I decided to leave my horse, as the travel would take me through rough
places. Shouldering my rifle, I struck for the western side of the
clearing. Dale had disappeared, gone into the Davis cabin, I assumed, as
John Ward was lying on the ground near the door. I hadn't seen much of
Ward for two days. Davis and Moulton were drawing leather through a tan
trough, and I turned aside to speak with them. They noticed I was fitted
out for a scout and their faces lighted a bit.
"Ward's been out ag'in and says the reds went north toward Tygart's
Valley. He follered 'em quite some considerable. If you can find any new
signs an' can fetch us word----"
"That's what I'm going out for, Davis. How do you feel about the doings of
night before last?"
He scratched his chin and after a bit of hesitation answered:
"Wife's cousin is a mighty smart man. Powerful smart. I 'low he knows a
heap 'bout Injuns. Been with 'em so much. But we're sorter uneasy. More so
to-day than we was yesterday. This waiting to see what'll happen is most
as bad, if not worse, than to have a fight an' have it over with. Once a
parcel of Injuns strikes, it either cleans us out or is licked an' don't
want no more for a long time. Still Dale has a master lot of power among
the Injuns. But we'll be glad to know you're out looking for fresh
footing. Their trail oughter be easy to foller, as there was a smart
number of 'em had hosses."
"I'll find the trail easy enough, and I'll satisfy myself they are still
making toward the Ohio or have swung back," I assured him. "While I'm gone
keep the young men in the woods and post sentinels. Don't get careless.
Don't let the children wander from the cabins. I'm free to tell you,
Davis, that I don't believe for a second that you've seen the last of
Black Hoof and his men. Have all those living in the outlying cabins use
the fort to-night."
After reaching the woods, I turned and looked back. Dale was standing in
the doorway with one hand resting on the shoulder of John Ward. Ward was
talking to Patsy, whose dainty figure could not be disguised by the coarse
linsey gown.
The man Ward must have lost some of his taciturnity, for the girl was
laughing gaily at whatever he was saying. I observed that Dale was still
feeling very important in his rôle of protector, for as he stepped from
the doorway he walked with a swagger. Well, God give that he was right and
that the menace had passed from Howard's Creek.
I found the trail where it turned back toward Tygart's Valley, even as
John Ward had reported, and followed it up the Greenbriar. The country
here was very fertile on both sides of the river and would make rich farms
should the danger from the Indians ever permit it to be settled. Farther
back from the river on each hand the country was broken and mountainous
and afforded excellent hiding-places for large bodies of Indians, as only
rattlesnakes, copperheads, wolves and wildcats lived there.
My mood was equal to overdaring, and all because of Patsy Dale. When the
sun swung into its western arc I halted where a large number of warriors
had broken their fast. I ate some food and pushed on. After two miles of
travel I came to a branching of the trail. Two of the band had turned off
to the northeast. My interest instantly shifted from the main trail to the
smaller one, for I assumed the two were scouting some particular
neighborhood, and that by following it I would learn the object of their
attention and be enabled to give warning.
That done, the footing would lead me back to the main band. The signs were
few and barely sufficient to allow me to keep up the pursuit. It was not
until I came to a spring, the overflow of which had made muck of the
ground, that I was afforded an opportunity to inspect the two sets of
tracks. One set was made by moccasins almost as small as those I had given
to Patricia Dale.
But why a squaw on a war-path? It was very puzzling. From the amount of
moisture already seeped into the tracks I estimated the two of them had
stood there within thirty minutes. My pursuit became more cautious. Not
more than twenty rods from the spring I came to a trail swinging in from
the east, as shown by a broken vine and a bent bush.
The newcomer had moved carelessly and had fallen in behind the two
Indians. I stuck to the trail until the diminished sunlight warned me it
would soon be too dark to continue. Then I caught a whiff of burning wood
and in ten minutes I was reconnoitering a tiny glade.
My first glance took in a small fire; my second glance dwelt upon a scene
that sent me into the open on the jump. An Indian sat at the foot of a
walnut-tree, his legs crossed and his empty hands hanging over his knees.
At one side crouched a squaw, her long hair falling on each side of her
face and hiding her profile. In a direct line between me and the warrior
stood Shelby Cousin, his rifle bearing on the warrior.
My step caused him to turn, expecting to behold another native. The man on
the ground made no attempt to take advantage of the interruption; and in
the next second Cousin's long double-barrel rifle was again aiming at the
painted chest.
"Don't go for to try any sp'ilin' o' my game," warned Cousin without
looking at me.
"They're scouts from a big band of Shawnees now making toward Tygart's
Valley," I informed him. "Can't we learn something from them?"
"I'm going to kill this one now. The squaw can go. Crabtree would snuff
her out, but I ain't reached the p'int where I can do that yet."
"You coward!" cried the squaw in excellent English.
Cousin darted a puzzled glance at her. His victim seemed to be indifferent
to his fate; nor did the woman offer to interfere.
"She's a white woman!" I cried. For a sunbeam straggled through the growth
and rested on the long hair and revealed it to be fine and brown and never
to be mistaken for the coarse black locks of an Indian.
"White?" faltered Cousin, lowering his rifle. "Watch that devil, Morris!"
I dropped on a log with my rifle across my knees. Cousin strode to the
woman and caught her by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet. For a
long minute the two stared.
"Shelby?"
The words dropped from her lips in a sibilous crescendo as her blood drove
her to a display of emotion.
Cousin's hands slowly advanced and pushed back the long locks. He advanced
his face close to hers, and I knew his slight form was trembling. Then he
staggered back and jerkily brought his arm across his eyes.
"God! It's my sister!" I heard him mutter.
I leaped to my feet, crying out for him to be a man. He remained
motionless with his arm across his face, helpless to defend himself. I
turned to the woman. Whatever light had shone in her eyes when memory
forced his name from her lips had departed.
Her face was cold and immobile as she met my wild gaze. There was a streak
of yellow paint running from the bridge of her nose to the parting of her
brown hair. Her skin was as dark as any Shawnee's, but her eyes held the
blue of the cornflower.
I tried to discover points of resemblance between her and the boy and
succeeded only when she turned her head in profile; then they were very
much alike. He lowered his arm to look over it, and she watched him
without changing her expression.
With a hoarse cry he straightened and answering the impulse in his heart,
sprang toward her, his arms outstretched to enfold her. She gave ground,
not hastily as though wishing to avoid his embrace, but with a sinuous
twist of her lithe body, and she repulsed him by raising her hand. He
stared at her stupidly, and mumbled:
"You remember me. You called my name. You know I am your brother. You know
we lived on Keeney's Knob. You remember the creek----"
"I remember," she quietly interrupted. "A very long time ago. Very long. I
am a Shawnee now. My heart is red."
Her words stunned him for a bit, then he managed to gasp out, "Who is this
man?" And he glared at the warrior seated at the foot of the tree.
"My husband."
The boy's mouth popped open, but without uttering a sound he stooped and
grabbed for his rifle. I placed my foot on it and seized his arm and
pleaded with him to regain his senses before he took any action. During
all this the warrior remained as passive as the tree-roots against which
he half-reclined.
After a brief hysterical outburst Cousin stood erect and ceased struggling
with me. And all the time his sister had watched us speculatively, her
gaze as cold and impersonal as though she had been looking at a rock. It
was very hideous. It was one of those damnable situations which must end
at once, and to which there can be no end. For the boy to kill his
sister's husband was an awful thing to contemplate.
I pulled the lad back and softly whispered:
"You can't do it. The blood would always be between you two. She has
changed. She believes she is red. Take her aside and talk with her. If she
will go with you make for the mountains and get her to the settlements."
"An' him?"
"I will wait an hour. If you two do not return before an hour--Well, he
will not bother you."
At first he did not seem to understand; then he seized my free hand and
gripped it tightly. Taking his rifle, he approached the girl and took her
by the arm.
"Come," he gently told her. "We must talk, you and I. I have hunted for
you for years."
She was suspicious of us two, but she did not resist him.
"Wait," she said.
She glided to the savage and leaned over him and said something. Then she
was back to her brother, and the two disappeared into the woods.
I drew a line on the savage and in Shawnee demanded:
"Throw me the knife she gave you."
Glaring at me sullenly, he flipped the knife toward the fire and resumed
his attitude of abstraction. I had never killed an unarmed Indian. I had
never shot one in cold blood. The office of executioner did not appeal,
but repulsive as it was it would not do for the boy to kill his savage
brother-in-law. Lost Sister and the savage were man and wife, even if
married according to the Indian custom.
Nor would it do for a woman of Virginia to be redeemed to civilization
with a red husband roaming at large. No. The fellow must die, and I had
the nasty work to do. The glade was thickening with shadows, but the
sunlight still marked the top of an elm and made glorious the zenith. When
the light died from the heavens I would assassinate the man.
This would give him a scant hour, but a dozen or fifteen minutes of life
could make small difference. Then again, once the dusk filled the glade my
impassive victim would become alert and up to some of his devilish tricks.
He did not change his position except as he turned his head to gaze
fixedly at the western forest wall. One could imagine him to be ignorant
of my presence.
"Where does Black Hoof lead his warriors?" I asked him.
Without deflecting his gaze he answered:
"Back to their homes on the Scioto."
"The white trader, the Pack-Horse-Man, spoke words that drive them back?"
It was either a trick of the dying light, or else I detected an almost
imperceptible twitching of the grim lips. After a short pause he said:
"The Shawnees are not driven. They will pick up the end of the peace-belt.
They will not drop it on the ground again. Tah-gah-jute (Logan) does not
wish for war. He has taken ten scalps for every one taken from his people
at Baker's house. He has covered the dead. The Pack-Horse-Man spoke wise
words."
"This white woman? You know she must go back to her people."
Again the faint twitching of the lips. When he spoke it was to say:
"She can go where she will or where she is made to go. If she is taken to
the white settlements she will run away and go back to the Scioto. Her
people are red. After the French War, after Pontiac's War, it was the
same. White prisoners were returned to the white people. Many of them
escaped and came back to us."
His voice was calm and positive and my confidence in the girl's
willingness to return to civilization was shaken. She had been as stolid
as her red mate in my presence, but I had believed that nature would
conquer her ten years' of savagery once she was alone with her brother.
The light had left the top of the elm and the fleecy clouds overhead were
no longer dazzling because of their borrowed splendor. I cocked my rifle.
The savage folded his arms as he caught the sound, but his gaze toward the
west never wavered. To nerve myself into shooting the fellow in cold blood
I made myself think of the girl's terrible fate, and was succeeding
rapidly when a light step sounded behind me and her low voice was saying:
"My brother is at the spring. You will find him there."
I rose and dropped the rifle into the hollow of my left arm and stared at
her incredulously. It had happened before, the rebellion of white
prisoners at quitting their captors. Yet the girl's refusal was
astounding.
"You would not go with him?"
"I am here. I go to my people," she answered. "He is waiting for you. The
squaws would laugh at him. He is very weak."
With an oath I whirled toward the Indian. Had he made a move or had he
reflected her disdain with a smile, his white-red wife surely would have
been a widow on the spot. But he had not shifted his position. To all
appearances he was not even interested in his wife's return. And she too
now ignored me, and busied herself in gathering up their few belongings
and slinging them on her back. Then she went to him, and in disgust and
rage I left them and sped through the darkening woods to the spring where
I had first seen the imprints of her tiny moccasins.
Cousin was there, seated and his head bowed on his chest, a waiting victim
for the first Indian scout who might happen along.
I dragged him to his feet and harshly said:
"Come! We must go. Your white sister is dead. Your search is ended. Your
sister died in the raid on Keeney's Knob."
"My little sister," he whispered.
He went with me passively enough, and he did not speak until we had struck
into the main trail of the Shawnees. Then he asked:
"You did not kill him?"
"No."
"It's best that way. There're 'nough others. They'll pay for it."
I abandoned my plan of following the war-party farther and was only
anxious to get my companion back to the protection of Howard's Creek. We
followed the back-trail for a few miles and then were forced by the night
to make a camp. I opened my supply of smoked meat and found a spring. I
did not dare to risk a fire. But he would not eat. Only once did he speak
that night, and that was to say:
"I must keep clear o' the settlements. If I don't I'll do as Ike Crabtree
does, kill in sight o' the cabins."
In the morning he ate some of my food; not as if he were hungry, but as if
forcing himself to a disagreeable task. He seemed to be perfectly willing
to go on with me, but he did not speak of the girl again.
When we drew near the creek he began to look about him. He at once
recognized the surroundings and made a heroic effort to control himself.
When we swung into the clearing there was nothing in his appearance to
denote the terrible experience he had passed through.
Now that we were back I was beset by a fear, that the sight of Patricia in
all her loveliness would be an overwhelming shock to his poor brain. It
was with great relief that I got him to the Moulton cabin without his
glimpsing Patsy.
"You can tell 'em if you want to. S'pose they'll l'arn it some time," he
said to me as we reached the door and met Mrs. Moulton and her little
girl. With that he passed inside and seated himself in a corner and bowed
his head.
I drew Mrs. Moulton aside and briefly explained his great sorrow. With
rich sympathy she stole into the cabin and began mothering him, patting
his shoulders and stroking the long hair back from his wan face.
My own affairs became of small importance when measured beside this
tragedy. I had no trepidation now in facing Patricia. I walked boldly to
the Davis cabin and thrust my head in the door. Only Davis and his wife
were there.
"Where are the Dales?" I bruskly asked.
"Gone," grunted Davis in disgust.
"Gone back home?" I eagerly asked.
"What do you think!" babbled Mrs. Davis. "Cousin Ericus has took that gal
down toward the Clinch. He 'lows now he's goin' to keep the Injuns out of
that valley--"
"Good God! Why did you let them go?"
Davis snorted angrily, and exclaimed:
"Let 'em go! How ye goin' to stop her? 'Twas she that was bound to be
movin' on. Just made her daddy go."
"When did they start?"
"Right after you lit out. Seems 's if th' gal couldn't git shut o' this
creek quick 'nough."
I ran from the cabin to get my horse and start in immediate pursuit. By
the time I reached the animal, well rested during my absence, I became
more reasonable. After all Black Hoof was traveling north. There would be
small chance of another band raiding down the Clinch for some time at
least. I needed rest. Night travel would advance me but slowly. I would
start early in the morning.