SURROUNDED BY PERIL.
This conversation, as will probably be seen, was purposely carried on by
Kingman in order to throw the savage off his guard. An encounter he saw
was unavoidable between them, and Kingman, in his wounded state, was
fearful of the consequences to himself unless he employed some such
stratagem as this.
He glanced at his rifle and saw he had preserved the priming from loss
and moisture.
“I think the woods are full of the whites, Tom. Haven’t you seen any?”
“Only dem shoot in battle. Me no find any in woods.”
“I seed one hid in a tree. Wal, I reckon I did.”
“You kill him?”
“That’s a purty question to ax Pete Johnson. Thought you knowed better,
Tom, than that. Ef Pete didn’t raise thar har bootyful then smash me.”
“Eh! fix ’em did, Pete? Good!” added the savage approaching still
closer.
The two were now within ten yards of each other. Kingman feared a
discovery each moment.
“Would you like to shoot a white, Tom?”
“Eh? wouldn’t Tom serve him so quick!” replied the savage, again going
through the motions of scalping in the air.
“Wal, just look ’cross the river. Don’t you think there is something
there that looks suspicious?”
The unsuspecting Indian turned and gazed in the direction indicated. At
the same moment he heard the click of Kingman’s rifle.
As he turned his alarmed gaze around he received the bullet full in the
heart, and with a wild yell sprang several feet in the air.
The savage saw at once the treachery which had been practised upon him,
and in his death-struggle, as he was, he hurled his tomahawk with
tremendous force at Kingman.
So truly was it aimed, that a mere accident may be said to have saved
his life.
He had only lowered his musket, and the barrel was still before his
breast.
As the weapon whizzed through the air it was driven directly at
Kingman’s body, but in its passage it encountered the gun-barrel,
emitting a stream of sparks at the concussion, and glanced off several
yards into the river, and fell with a loud splash.
“There, Long Tom, I didn’t want to kill you, but I had no choice. I feel
sorry for you,” said Kingman, as he saw the savage clutching the sand in
his agony.
He avoided looking at him, and rapidly passed on, hoping to get beyond
so sickening a sight.
Had the savage been any other than a Shawnee, Kingman would have felt
more pity for him; but he well knew that the whole trouble upon the
frontiers was owing to this same tribe. In fact, it is a question
whether a more villainous tribe of Indians ever existed upon the North
American Continent then than the Shawnees. They had figured in many of
the blackest tragedies of the “dark and bloody ground,” and their very
name for a long time was one of the greatest terror to the settlers.
There was no compact, however sacred, no treaty, however pledged, that
they hesitated to violate.
Then first known, their hunting-grounds were in the everglades of
Florida and the adjoining country. Here their savage, treacherous
disposition became at last so unbearable to the other tribes that the
Choctaws, Cherokees, and most powerful tribes of the South united
together and swore eternal destruction to them.
The Shawnees stubbornly maintained their ground for a number of years,
until, seeing that nothing but decimation or utter annihilation remained
to them, they gathered together and left their hunting-grounds forever.
Journeying northward, they reached the Ohio in time, when they
determined to settle. There were broad, waving prairies, and deep,
glorious forests, where the deer and buffalo ranged in thousands, and
bright, flashing rivers, in which the fish sported in myriads. The
Wyandots (as friendly then, when a mighty nation, as now, when the
miserable remnant of one) welcomed them, spread the deer-skin for them
to sit upon, and smoked the calamut as the token of eternal friendship.
Here the Shawnees grew to be one of the most powerful tribes in the
whole North-west, and at the same time their vindictive, blood-thirsty
disposition seemed to increase. None were more active in the old French
war, and none more difficult to bring into Wayne’s treaty, when forty
years afterward the war on the frontiers was believed to have been
brought to a close.
After the celebrated victory of Mad Anthony, the Shawnees remained
peaceful for a dozen years, when they again broke out in the well-known
war under their renowned Tecumseh. As this is a matter of history, it is
not necessary further to refer to it here.
Of course, it is not to be supposed that this long digression passed
through the brain of Kingman after slaying the Shawnee before him, for
the good reason that one half of the events mentioned had not yet taken
place. It was now only 1780, and the Shawnees were in the fell tide of
their strength, and had received no check from the pioneers. Kingman
only remembered that the Indian he had slain was a Shawnee—his most
mortal enemy.
The moon was now high in the heavens and as he journeyed along the
shore, its light was so intense as to render it quite perilous to remain
so exposed.
Once or twice the long, low howl of the wolf was heard faintly in the
distance, and the shrill, human-like cry of the panther sounded
fearfully nigh. The fact that there were others than human enemies in
the wood made him hesitate about plunging into it. As he had used his
ammunition, he had also thrown his rifle away, so as not to be
encumbered with it, and with no weapon but his knife, he was in no
condition to run into danger.
But at last the low, gravelly beach terminated. The dark overhanging
forest, with its matted undergrowth, reached down to the water’s edge,
and his path must now lead through to this tangled maze.
As he stood hesitating whether in his present exhausted condition it was
best to camp for the night, or to continue his journey, a bright thought
struck him. Directly before him lay a small tree, shivered by lightning.
It was partly decayed, light and buoyant, and could be easily shoved
into the water. This was quickly done, and he once more returned to
congratulate himself upon his success. The water was warm and pleasant,
and as it was a cool summer night, much warmer than the air. The sapling
contained a number of dead branches and knots upon it, and being
considerably lighter than Kingman at first supposed, he was able to
float upon it with scarcely more than wetting his feet.
Fatigued and exhausted as he was, he found a heavy drowsiness gradually
creeping over him. He had had little sound sleep for the past ten
nights, and his exertions had been so great, that he felt certain it
would be impossible to resist the feeling. So, placing his limbs so
securely among the branches as could be done he gave way to the feeling,
and prepared for a pleasant night’s slumber.
Gliding unresistingly along with the smooth current, with nothing but
the gentle, liquid rippling of the river around, and the bright moon
overhead, and the sullen, hollow roar of the forest on shore, no one
could resist the drowsy goddess. Slowly but surely unconsciousness was
creeping over him. Sky, forest, and water were mingling in a delightful
confusion from which he felt no desire to separate them; and as all
things were assuming that blankness which precedes our passing off into
sleep, he was startled and recalled to his senses by a sudden shock.
Starting up, he saw that he had struck against the upper end of a small
sandy island, and the tree had remained fast. It required but a few
moments to free this, and once more he was floating gently with the
current. This time he slept, but he was destined to have a startling
awaking. His wound made him feverish, and all sorts of fantastic visions
were darting through his head. Bears, Indians, renegades, and dying
friends, passed continually before him, and finally, after a fitful
hour’s sleep, he partially awoke. As he lay languidly stretched on the
tree, striving to set things right before him a peculiar clicking noise
sounded in the water. At first, it seemed a part of his dreams, and he
took no further notice of it; but it continued regularly, and was
evidently approaching. He waited a few moments, until thoroughly
awakened—he raised his head and looked about him. The moon was pouring a
flood of light upon the river, so that the slightest object was
discernible. As he turned his eye toward shore, he discovered a canoe,
propelled by a single man, rapidly bearing down upon him. He looked
hurriedly at the person, and was satisfied that it was no other than
Pete Johnson the renegade.
“I’d rather see the bear, or the devil, than you,” was Kingman’s mental
ejaculation as he quietly dropped off the tree, and commenced swimming
toward the opposite shore. He did not believe the renegade was after
him, or had discovered him, but was only crossing the river; and, as he
was likely to pass rather uncomfortably close to the tree, he thought it
best to get out of his way.
But such was not the case. As he turned his head, he saw that the canoe
was pursuing him. Still hoping that he had not been seen, he came up a
dozen feet away, and commenced swimming in an opposite direction. But
the canoe was after him, no mistake.
“No use, ole hoss, I’ve got you this time!” exclaimed he in the boat.
“What do you want of me?” demanded Kingman. “Keep off, or I’ll shoot
you.”
“Wagh! wagh! You will, eh? Blaze away, if _you can_. Come, you might as
well knock under and go ’long docile, for there’s no airthly help for
yer.”
As he said this the canoe shot rapidly ahead again, almost upon him.
The latter again dove, and came up directly under the stern of the
canoe, where he hoped he would not be discovered. He felt he would
rather be shot in the water than fall into the hands of the renegade.
Hearing a movement in the boat, and fearing discovery, he closed his
feet together to sink again; but, before his head disappeared beneath he
was caught by the hair, and in spite of every resistance he could offer,
was pulled into the canoe.
As he was pulled head foremost into the canoe, he fully expected to be
brained upon the spot, and more than once his head rang with the
expectation of the blow. He lay for a moment on his face, without
moving. In his feverish, exhausted condition, what resistance could he
offer to the herculean strength of the renegade? His clothes were wet,
and clinging to his shivering body, and a more miserable being probably
never existed than he was at this moment.
Astonished at the silence of his enemy, he raised his head and looked
up. Instantly one of the loudest, heartiest, most ringing laughs he ever
heard greeted his ears.
“Wal, Kingman, you’re the most doleful-looking rat I ever heard on! Why,
who’d you take me for? Ha! ha! ha!”
“Why, Abram Moffat, is this you?”
“No, it’s me. How are you? Give us your paw for old acquaintance.”
Not the renegade, but Kingman’s old friend was sitting before him. The
very person of all he wished to see.
“Where in the name of creation did you come from?” asked Kingman.
“And where, I may ask, did you start?”
“Why, you known well enough. I was wounded in the battle, and have been
trying to reach home.”
“Trying to swim all the way?” asked Moffat, with a sly look.
“No, only a part of it. I believe I stand a chance of getting a ride the
rest of the way.”
“Yes, a slight chance if you behave yourself, and don’t jump overboard
and try to paddle off.”
“No danger of that, for I am about used up now.”
“Yes, I can see that you are; let’s pull into shore and start a fire.”
So saying, Moffat turned the head of the canoe, which had been floating
down the current all this time, toward shore, and in a few moments its
prow struck the land, and they sprang out. It was now near midnight, and
it was high time that Kingman was in other hands. His exposure in the
water had hastened his chilling fever, and the strain which his system
had undergone now suffered reaction, and his condition was fast becoming
critical. In a few moments Moffat had a bright fire burning down in a
ravine or hollow, where it could not be easily seen until within a few
yards of it. He saw Kingman’s condition, and immediately stripped him
and gave him a most vigorous rubbing, until he was all aglow with the
circulation. He examined his wound, and found that it was not at all
dangerous, but needed dressing. This he hastily did, and then wrapping
him in his own blanket, he laid him near the fire and maintained watch
himself until morning.
Nothing occurred seriously to alarm our two friends through the night.
Once or twice Moffat heard the distant bay of the wolf and the piercing
scream of the panther, and several times, as he looked up, he could see
the fiery eyeballs of some wild beast glaring through the bushes above
him. Then apparently after wondering at the meaning of the unusual
scene, they withdrew, and their retreating steps could be heard, while
the continued footfalls of other beasts were audible until daylight. But
the fire was a life-guard. No denizen of the forest dare cross the
blazing ring, no matter how slight it was; and when the faint streaks of
morning illumined the east, the last hopeful loiterer took his departure
and disappeared in the wood.
Kingman slept sweetly and heavily—so heavily, in fact, that it was broad
day when he opened his eyes and gazed wondering about him.
“How do you feel, George?” asked Moffat.
“Oh!—is that you, Abe? I didn’t know you.”
“How many more times are you going to ask whether I am what I am? But
that ain’t answering my question—how do you feel?”
“Like a new man, as I am,” replied Kingman, springing triumphantly to
his feet.
Not a trace of last night’s fever remained. The restless, bloodshot eyes
were now calm and sparkling; the red, throbbing face was cool and
glowing; and the shivering, exhausted frame was now firm and graceful.
Moffat had taken him just at the proper moment, and the fever had been
broken and the equilibrium of the system restored.
“Wal, you do feel right, eh? Glad to hear it. Hungry?”
“I’m slightly of that opinion. I feel, just at this moment as though I
could eat a Shawnee, tomahawk rifle and all.”