THE RETURN AND DEPARTURE.
Easy and negligent as was the posture assumed by Deerfoot the Shawanoe,
his eyes were never at rest. Resting for a moment on the promontory,
they darted to the right and left down the valley, and even took in the
shifting clouds in the sky above. But it was the peak which riveted his
attention, and which was scrutinized with minute closeness until the
gathering gloom shut it from sight.
It was not fairly dark when he kindled a fire on the very highest point,
and then placing himself so far from it that the glare could not
interfere with his sight, he looked out in the night. The darkness was
such that nothing could be seen beyond his immediate surroundings, but
he knew where to look for that which he expected and yet did not want to
see. For fully an hour the Shawanoe held his motionless attitude, gazing
as fixedly to the southward as ever an eagle stared at the sun. Then
that for which he was waiting appeared.
From the very crest of the distant mountain peak, a flaming arrow
suddenly began climbing toward the stars. Up, up it went, as does the
rocket on a summer night, going slower and slower, like an old man
plodding up hill, until, wearied out, it paused, and, for one instant
remained stationary in the air, as if doubtful whether to push on or to
fall back. The flaming point swung over until it pointed toward the
ground, when it shot downward with ever increasing swiftness until it
vanished. It must have struck within a yard of the spot from which it
had been driven upward.
It was very rarely that Deerfoot showed excitement. He had drawn his
knife and challenged the great Tecumseh to mortal conflict, and he had
faced death a score of times in the most dreadful shapes, but very
rarely, if ever, was his heart stirred as by the sight of the burning
arrow on the distant mountain peak.
He straightened up with a quick inspiration, and his eyes followed the
course of the fiery missile from the moment of its appearance until it
vanished.
"_They have called for Deerfoot!_"
These were the remarkable words which fell from his lips, as he plunged
down the mountain side like one who knew a question of life and death
was before him. Although Deerfoot had formed a friendship for Jack
Carleton and Otto Relstaub similar to that which he had felt for Ned
Preston and Wildblossom Brown, yet it must be admitted that they were
not the only ones to whom he was strongly attached, and in whose fate he
felt as deep an interest as in that of any human being--all of which
shall be made clear in another place and at another time.
It was just one week later that Deerfoot made his appearance near the
settlement, and, pausing at a point which commanded a view of the
collection of cabins, he spent several minutes in surveying them and the
pioneers. He had traveled many miles, and been through some singularly
stirring scenes since he last looked upon Martinsville, but the gracious
Being that had protected him all his life, did not desert him in his
extremity, and the frame was as supple and free from weakness or injury
as when he faced the other way.
When the burning arrow summoned Deerfoot down the mountain side, he was
glad indeed that he had decided the question whether or not he should
hunt for the boys as he did, for, had he done otherwise, the opportunity
that has been described could not have come to him; but, when his duty
was ended, the old doubt came back, until he had been driven to return
in order that he might settle the question forever.
Looking down on the little settlement of Martinsville, he studied the
curious scene, for he was so close that he could identify every person
whom he knew. The settlement, as the reader has been told, consisted of
two rows of log cabins, facing each other. They numbered about a score,
and the street was fifty feet wide. Besides that, each cabin had the
same space between itself and its neighbor, so that, few as were the
structures, they were scattered over considerable ground.
This ground, as well as much of it beyond, had been well cleared, and
the earth cultivated. There were horses and oxen to draw plows and help
bear the burdens. Besides the hunters' cabins, there were storehouses,
barns, and structures made for convenience or necessity. From most of
the soil that had been overturned were sprouting corn, potatoes, and
other vegetables. The time was not distant when the wilderness should
blossom as the rose.
A block-house near the middle of the settlement had been half completed,
when, so far as could be seen, the work was abandoned. The rule with the
frontier settlements was to put up a building in which all could take
refuge, should danger threaten; but often the fort was so hastily and
poorly made that it became a matter of weakness rather than of strength.
Colonel Martin and his brother pioneers reached the conclusion that they
were showing altogether too much haste in rearing the structure, and
they deferred its completion to a more convenient season. Their duty to
their families, as they saw it, justified them in taking such a step,
especially in view of the fact that the Indians of the surrounding
country were not likely ever to cause them trouble.
The cleared land, as it was called, was still disfigured by numerous
unsightly stumps, around which the rude plow was pulled; but here and
there men were working to remove them, and ultimately all would be
uprooted and destroyed.
On the edge of the clearing, three woodsmen were swinging their axes and
burying their keen edges in the hearts of the monarchs of the wood.
Deerfoot looked at them several minutes, noticing as he had done before,
with childish wonder, how long it took the sound caused by the blows to
reach him. When one of the choppers stopped to breathe and leaned on his
axe, the sound of two blows came to the listener, and when he resumed
work, the youth saw him in the act of striking the third time before the
sound was heard.
The scene was one of activity and industry. Even the children seemed to
have work instead of play to occupy them. The women, as a matter of
course, were among the busiest, and rarely did one of them appear at the
door of her cabin. When she did so, it was only for a very brief while.
Deerfoot was looking fixedly at one of the houses near the middle of the
settlement, when a squatty figure, with a conical hat, a heavy cane, and
smoking a pipe, came out and walked slowly toward a cabin only a short
distance off. The Indian smiled in his momentary, shadowy fashion when
he recognized Jacob Relstaub, whom he had frightened almost out of his
wits a week before. No doubt the German had told the incident many
times afterward, and would always insist he escaped by a veritable
hair's breadth.
But Deerfoot was troubled in mind, for among all whom he saw he
recognized neither Jack Carleton nor Otto Relstaub. It was not likely
that, if they had returned from their hunt, both would continue
invisible very long; but when minute after minute passed without showing
either, his heart sank.
The Shawanoe knew a scene would be probable if Jacob Relstaub caught
sight of him, so he avoided the wrathful German. The appearance of the
handsome warrior moving among the cabins, naturally awakened some
interest. Men and children looked at him as he went by, and several of
the latter followed him. Deerfoot saluted all whose eyes met his,
calling out: "Good day; how is my brother?" in as excellent English as
any of them could have employed.
The Indian, it may be supposed, was known to nearly every one by
reputation. Most of the settlers had heard of his exploits when they and
he lived in Kentucky; they knew he guided Otto Relstaub and Jack
Carleton on their perilous journey from the Dark and Bloody Ground into
Louisiana; they were aware, too, that he could read and write, and was
one of the most sagacious and valuable friends the settlers ever had or
could have. The story which Jacob Relstaub told was therefore received
with much doubt, and no one who listened felt any distrust of the
loyalty of the young Shawanoe. More than one declared on general
principles that Relstaub would have been served right had the warrior
handled him roughly, as it was well known he could have done had he been
so minded.
Deerfoot walked quietly along the primitive street until opposite the
door of Widow Carleton's cabin. Without hesitation, he pulled the latch
string and stepped within. There was no start or change of expression
when he glanced about the apartment, but that single glance told him the
story.
Mrs. Carleton was standing at the table on the other side of the room,
occupied with the dishes that had served at the morning meal. Her back
was toward the visitor, but she turned like a flash when she heard the
door open. The scared, expectant, disappointed, and apprehensive
expression that flitted over her countenance, like the passing of a
cloud across a summer landscape, made known the truth to the sagacious
Shawanoe.
"Deerfoot's brother has not come back from his long hunt," he said, in
his usual voice, as he bowed and advanced to the middle of the
apartment.
"O Deerfoot!" moaned the mother, as, with tremulous lip, she sank into
the nearest chair and looked pleadingly toward him, holding her apron
ready to raise to her eyes; "tell me where is my Jack!"
"My friend told Deerfoot that his brother had gone to hunt the horse
that has wandered off."
"But that was more than a week ago; he ought to have come back a good
while since. O Deerfoot----"
"But the horse has wandered many miles, and it will take my brother a
long time to find him," interrupted the visitor, who dreaded the scene
which he saw was sure to come.
"Do you think they are still hunting for him?" she asked with a sudden,
yearning eagerness that went to the heart of the Indian. He could not
speak an untruth, nor could he admit the great fear that almost stopped
the beating of his heart.
"Deerfoot cannot answer his friend; but he hopes soon to take the hand
of his brother."
"Oh, that will never be--it can never be. My poor Jack!"
Her grief could be restrained no longer. The apron was abruptly raised
to the eyes, and as the white hands were pressed against the face her
whole frame shook with emotion. Deerfoot looked steadily at the pitiful
scene, but he knew not what to say or do. It was a vivid illustration of
this strange nature of ours that the youth, who absolutely knew not what
fear was, and who had seen the glittering tomahawk crash its way into
the brain without a throb of pity, now found his utmost self-command
hardly able to save him from breaking down as utterly as did the parent
before him. He hastily swallowed the lump that kept rising in his
throat, blinked his eyes very rapidly, coughed, fidgeted on the bench
whereon he sat, and, finally, looked away and upward at the rude
rafters, so as to avoid the sight of the sobbing woman.
"Deerfoot is a pappoose," he muttered angrily, "that he weeps when he
knows not what for; he is a dog that whines before his master strikes
him."
A brief but resolute struggle gave him the mastery over his emotions,
though for a few seconds he dared not look towards his hostess. When he
timidly ventured to do so, she was rubbing her eyes with the corner of
her apron. The tempest of grief had passed, and she was regaining
mastery of herself, thereby rendering great help to the valiant warrior.
"I know that it may be possible that Jack and Otto have gone on a longer
hunt than before, but they did not expect to be away more than three or
four days, and Jack would not willingly bring sorrow to his mother."
"My brother may have gone so far that he has lost his way, and is slow
in finding it again."
"Do you think so, Deerfoot?"
The Indian fidgeted, but he could not avoid an answer.
"Deerfoot does not know; he cannot think right; he is in sore trouble
for his brothers."
"No one can help them like you. O Deerfoot, won't you find my Jack and
bring him home to me?"
The youthful warrior rose to his feet, and looking her in the face,
spoke the words, "_I will!_" Then he turned and strode out of the door.