ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS
When Henry looked back a third time and saw that no Wyandot had yet come
into view, he made another spurt, one in which he taxed his power of
muscle and lung to the utmost. He maintained his speed for a half mile
and then slowed down. He had no doubt that he had increased his lead
over them, and now he would use cunning in place of strength and speed.
It was a country of springs and brooks, and he looked for one in order
that he might use this common device of the border--wading in the water
to hide his tracks. But he saw none. Here fortune was not kind, and he
ran on in the long, easy stride like the gallop of a horse.
He still sought to keep a perfectly straight course toward the
southeast. It would not permit that deadly half circle to close in, and
it would carry him toward his friends and the fleet. He reached rougher
ground, low hills with many outcroppings of stone, and he leaped lightly
from rock to rock. His moccasined feet, for a space, left no traces, and
when he came to the softer earth again he paused. They would certainly
lose the trail at the hills, and it would take them five, perhaps ten,
minutes to find it once more.
He leaned against a tree, drawing great breaths and relaxing his
muscles. He permitted everything to give way for a minute or two,
knowing that in such manner he would procure the most rest and
resiliency. Meanwhile he listened with all the powers of those
wonderful, forest-bred ears of his, but heard nothing save a far, faint
call or two.
After about five minutes he resumed his flight, going at the long, easy
frontier lope, and a little later he came to a great mass of tangled and
fallen forest where a hurricane had passed. Fortune that had failed him
with the brook served him with the trees, and he ran lightly along in
the path of the hurricane, leaping from trunk to trunk. He had turned
for the first time from his direct course, but now he could afford to do
so. It would take the shrewdest of the Wyandot warriors some time to
pick up a trail that was lost for a full quarter of a mile, and he did
not leave the windrow until fully that distance was covered.
He passed some low hills again, and just beyond them he came to a large
creek flowing between fairly high banks. This was better luck than he
had hoped. The waters felt cool and fresh, and, hot from his long run,
he drank eagerly. But the creek would serve another and better purpose,
the hiding of his trail. It flowed in the very direction in which he was
going, and he waded down stream for forty or fifty yards. Then he went
over his head. The creek had suddenly deepened, but he came up promptly
and swam easily with the current.
Swimming rested him in a way. A new set of muscles came into play, and
he swam placidly for two or three hundred yards. Then he turned over on
his back and floated as far again. Now, as he floated, he found time to
take thought. He saw that the sun was still shining brilliantly
overhead, and the forest grew in a dense green wall to the water's edge
on either side.
He had come so far. It seemed that he had made good his escape, but he
was able for the first time to take a survey of his situation. He was
alone in the wilderness and without arms. What a ship is to the sailor,
so the rifle was to the borderer. It was his meat and drink, his
defense, his armor, his truest and trustiest comrade; without it he must
surely perish, unless some rare chance aided him, as once in a thousand
times the shipwrecked sailor reaches the lone island.
Henry knew that he was a long distance from the Ohio, and it would be
difficult to locate the fleet. It would have to move slowly, and it may
have tied up several times for weather.
He floated two or three hundred yards further, and then at a dip in the
bank he emerged, the water running in streams from his clothing. He
stood there a minute or two, watching and listening, but nothing
alarming came to his eye or ear. Perhaps he had shaken off the Wyandots,
but he was far too well versed in forest cunning and patience to take it
for granted. He was about to start again when he felt a little pain in
his side. He remembered now the light impact as if a pebble had struck
him, and he knew that the wound had been caused by a bullet. But no
blood was there. It had all been washed away by the waters of the creek.
The cold stream, moreover, had been good for the wound.
He lifted his wet clothing and examined his hurt critically. It might be
serious. It would certainly weaken him after a few hours, although the
bullet had passed through the flesh, and a few hours now were more
precious to him than weeks later. But his pride and joy in life were not
yet diminished. He was free and he would not be re-taken. The country
around him was as beautiful as any that he had ever seen. The banks of
the creek were high and rocky, and its waters were very clear. Splendid
forests swept away from either side, and on one far horizon showed the
faint line of blue hills. The sun was still shining bright and warm.
He re-entered the forest, continuing his flight toward the southeast,
and swung along at a good pace. Exercise restored the warmth to his body
and also brought with it now and then the little stitch in his side. His
clothing gradually dried upon him, and he did not cease his long, easy
trot until he noticed that the sun was far down in the west. It had
already taken on the fiery red tint that marks it when it goes, and in
the east gray shadows were coming.
Henry believed that he had shaken off the pursuit for good now, and he
sat down upon a log to rest. Then a sudden great weakness came over him.
The forest grew dim, the earth seemed to tip up, and there was a ringing
sound in his ears. He looked at his hand and saw that it was shaking. It
required a great effort of the will to clear his vision and steady the
world about him. But he achieved it, and then he took thought of
himself.
He knew very well what was the matter. His wound had begun to assert
itself, and he knew that he could no longer refuse to listen to its
will.
The sun sank in a sea of red and yellow fire, and the veil of darkness
was drawn over the vast primeval wilderness. Henry welcomed the coming
of the dusk. Night is kindly to those who flee. He left the log and
walked slowly toward the horizon, on which he had seen the dim, blue
line of the hills. He would be more likely to find there rude shelter of
some sort.
The reflex from long and strenuous action both physical and mental--no
one fights for anything else as he does for his life--had come, and his
body relaxed. The dizziness returned at times, and he knew that he must
have rest.
He was aware, too, that he needed food, but it was no time to hunt for
it. That must be done on the morrow, and intense longing for his rifle
assailed him again. It would be more precious to him now than gold or
diamonds.
A melancholy note came lonesomely through the forest and the twilight.
It was the cry of the whippoorwill, inexpressibly mournful, and Henry
listened to it a minute or two. He thought at first that it might be a
signal cry of the Wyandots, but when it was twice repeated he knew that
it was real. He banished it from his mind and went on.
A gobble came from a tree near by. He caught the bronze gleam of the
wild turkeys sitting high on the branches. They may have seen him or
heard him, but they did not stir. Something sprang up in the bushes, ran
a little way and stopped, regarding him with great lustrous eyes. It was
a deer, but it was unafraid. The behavior of deer and turkey was so
unusual that a curious idea gripped Henry. They knew that he was
unarmed, and therefore they did not feel the need to run.
He always felt a close kinship with the wild things, and he could not
put aside this idea that they knew him as he now was, a helpless
wanderer. It humiliated him. He had been a lord of creation, and now he
was the weakest of them all. They could find their food and shelter with
ease, but only luck would bring him either. He felt discouragement
because he had suddenly sunk to the lowest place among living things,
and that stitch in his side began to grow stronger. It did not come now
at intervals but stayed, and soon he must lie down and rest if he had
nothing more than the shelter of a tree's outspread boughs.
But he came to the hills and, after some hunting, found a rocky alcove,
which he half filled with the dead leaves of last year. There he lay
down and drew some of the leaves over him. It was wonderfully soothing
and peaceful, and the stitch in his side became much easier. As his
nerves resumed their normal state, he grew very hungry. But he would
have to endure it, and he tried to think of other things.
It was quite dark now, but he heard noises about him. He knew that it
was the night prowlers, and some of them came very near. It was true
that they knew him to be unarmed. In some mysterious way the word had
been passed among them that their greatest enemy, man, could do them no
harm, and Henry saw bright little eyes looking at him curiously through
the darkness.
The boy felt deeply his sense of helplessness. Small shadowy forms
hopped about through the thickets. He fancied that they were rabbits,
and they came very near in the most reckless and abandoned fashion. He
was overwhelmed with shame. That a little rabbit eight inches long and
weighing only two or three pounds should defy him who had slain bears
and buffaloes, and who had fought victoriously with the most powerful
and cunning of Indian warriors, was not to be endured. He raised himself
up a little and threw a stone at them. They disappeared with a faint
noise of light, leaping feet, but in a few moments they came back again.
If he frightened them it was only for an instant, and it took an effort
of his will to prevent an unreasoning anger toward the most timid and
innocent of forest creatures.
The night now was well advanced, but full of dusky beauty. The stars
were coming out, bright and confident, and their silvery twinkle lighted
up the heavens. Henry looked up at them. They would have been to most
people mere meaningless points in the vast, cold void, but they made him
neither lonely nor afraid. The feeling of weakness was what troubled
him. He knew that he ought to sleep, but his nerves were not yet in the
perfect accord that produces rest.
He resolutely shut his eyes and kept them shut for five minutes. Then he
opened them again because he felt a larger presence than that of the
rabbits. He saw another half circle of bright eyes, but these were much
higher above the ground, and presently he made out the lean forms, the
sharp noses, and the cruel white teeth of wolves. Still he was not
afraid. They did not seem to be above four or five in number, and he
knew that they would not attack him unless they were a large pack, but
he felt the insult of their presence. He hated wolves. He respected a
bear and he admired a buffalo, but a wolf, although in his way cunning
and skillful beyond compare, did not seem to him to be a noble animal.
Such contempt for him, a hunter and a warrior, who could slay at two
hundred yards, given his rifle, must be avenged, and he felt around at
the edge of the hollow until his hand closed upon a stone nearly as
large as his fist. Then he closed his eyes all but a tiny corner of the
right one and lay so still that even a wolf, with all his wolfish
knowledge and caution, might think him asleep. By the faint beam of
light that entered the tiny corner of his right eye he saw the wolves
drawing nearer, and he marked their leader, an inquiring old fellow who
stood three or four inches taller than the others, and who was a foot in
advance.
The wolves approached slowly and with many a little pause or withdrawal,
but the youth was fully as patient. He had learned his lessons from the
forest and its creatures, and on this night nothing was cheaper to him
than time. It was another proof of natural power and of the effect of
long training that he did not move at all for a quarter of an hour. The
old wolf, the leader, who stood high in the wolf tribe, who had won his
position by genuine wolfish wisdom and prowess, could not tell whether
this specimen of man was alive or dead. He inclined to the opinion that
he was dead. Certainly he did not move, he could not see a quiver of the
eyelash, and he noticed no rising and falling of the chest under the
buckskin hunting shirt. A doubled up hand--the one that enclosed the
stone--lay pallid and limp upon the leaves, and it encouraged the wise
old leader to come closer. He had seen a dead warrior in his time, and
that warrior's hand had lain upon the grass in just such a way.
The old leader took a longer and bolder step forward. The dead hand
flashed up from the leaves, flew back, and then shot forward. Something
very hard, that hurt terribly, struck the leader on the head, and,
emitting a sharp yelp of pain and anger, he fled away, followed by the
others. The warrior, whom he in all his wisdom had been sure was dead,
had played a cruel joke upon him.
Henry Ware laughed joyously, and turned into a more comfortable position
upon the leaves. He was not in his normal frame of mind, or so small an
incident would not have caused him so much mirth. But it brought back
the divine spark of courage which so seldom died within him. Unarmed as
he was, he was not without resources, and he had driven off the wolves.
He would find a way for other things.
The wind began to blow gently and beneficently, and the murmur of it
among the leaves came to him. He interpreted it instantly as the
wilderness voice that, calling to him more than once in his most
desperate straits, had told him to have faith and hope. He fell asleep
to its music and slept soundly all through the night.
He awoke the next morning after the coming of the daylight, and sprang
to his feet. The sudden movement caused a slight pain in his side, but
he knew now that the wound was not serious. Had it been so it would have
stiffened in the night, and he would now be feverish, but he felt
strong, and his head was clear and cool. Another proof of his healthy
condition was the fierce hunger that soon assailed him. A powerful body
was demanding food, the furnace needed coal, and there was no way just
yet to supply it. This was the vital question to him, but he took
wilderness precautions before undertaking to solve it.
He made a little circle, searching the forest with eye and ear, but he
found no sign that the Wyandots were near. He did not believe that they
had given up the pursuit, but he was quite sure that they had not been
able to find his last trail in the night. When he had satisfied himself
upon this point, he washed his wound carefully in the waters of a brook,
and bound upon it a poultice of leaves, the use of which he had learned
among the Indians. Then he thought little more about it. He was so
thoroughly inured to hardship that it would heal quickly.
Now for food, food which he must take with his bare hands. It was not
late enough in the year for the ripening of wild fruits and for nuts,
but he had his mind upon blackberries. Therefore he sought openings,
knowing that they would not grow in the shade of the great trees, and
after more than an hour's hunting he found a clump of the blackberry
briars, loaded with berries, magnificent, large, black, and fairly
crammed with sweetness.
Henry was fastidious. He had not tasted food for nearly a day, and he
ached with hunger, but he broke off a number of briars containing the
largest stores of berries, and ate slowly and deliberately. The memory
of that breakfast, its savor and its welcome, lingered with him long.
Blackberries are no mean food, as many an American boy has known, but
Henry was well aware that he must have something stronger, if he were to
remain fit for his great task. But that divine spark of courage which
was his most precious possession was kindled into a blaze. Food brought
back all his strength, and his veins pulsated with life. Somehow he
would find a way for everything.
He fixed his course once more toward the southeast. The country here was
entirely new to him, much rougher, the hills increasing in height and
steepness, and he inferred that he was approaching a river, some
tributary of the Ohio.
When he reached the crest of a hill steeper than the rest, he dropped
down among the bushes as if he had been shot. He had happened to look
back, and he caught a passing glimpse of brown among the green. It was
quick come, quick gone, but he had seen enough to know that it was an
Indian following him, undoubtedly one of the pursuing Wyandots, who, by
chance, had hit upon his trail.
Had Henry been armed he would have felt no fear. He considered himself,
with justice, more than a match for a single warrior, but now he must
rely wholly upon craft, and the odds against him were more than ten to
one. He was at the very verge of a steep descent, and he knew that he
could not slip down the crest of the hill and get away without being
seen by the Wyandot, who, he was sure, was aware of his presence.
He lay perfectly still for at least five minutes, watching for the
warrior and at the same time trying to form a plan. He saw only the
waving green bushes, but he knew that he would hear the warrior if he
approached. His trained ear would detect the slightest movement among
grass or bushes, and he had no doubt that the Wyandot was as still as
he.
Luck had been against Henry because the crest of the hill was bare, so
if he undertook to slip away in that direction he would become exposed,
but it favored him when it made the thicket dense and tall where he lay.
As long as he remained in his present position the Wyandot could not see
him unless he came very close, and he resolved that his enemy should
make the first movement.
The infinite test of patience went on. A quarter of an hour, a half
hour, and an hour passed, and still Henry did not stir. If a blade of
grass or a twig beside him moved it was because the force of the wind
did it. While he lay there, he examined the thicket incessantly with his
eyes, but he depended most upon his ears. He listened so intently that
he could hear a lizard scuttling through the grass, or the low drone of
insects, but he did not hear the warrior.
He looked up once or twice. The heavens were a solid, shimmering blue.
Now and then birds, fleet of wing, flashed across its expanse, and a
blue jay chattered at intervals in a near tree. The peace that passeth
understanding seemed to brood over the wilderness. There was nothing to
tell of the tragedy that had just begun its first act in the little
thicket.
After the first hour, Henry moved a little, ever so little, but without
noise. He did not intend to get stiff, lying so long in one position,
and, as he had done when a prisoner in the lodge, he cautiously flexed
his muscles and took many deep breaths, expanding his chest to the
utmost. He must rely now upon bodily strength and dexterity alone, and
he thanked God that Nature had been so kind to him.
He flexed his muscles once more, felt that they were elastic and
powerful, and then he put his ear to the earth. He heard a sound which
was not the scuttling of a lizard nor the low drone of insects, but one
that he ascribed to the slow creeping of a Wyandot warrior, bent upon
taking a life. Henry was glad that it was so. He had won the first
victory, and that, too, in the quality in which the Indian usually
excelled, patience. But this was not enough. He must win also in the
second test, skill.
The stake was his life, and in such a supreme moment the boy had no
chance to think of mercy and kindliness. Nearly all the wilderness
creatures fought for their lives, and he was compelled to do so, too. He
now sought the Wyandot as eagerly as the Wyandot sought him.
He resumed the pursuit, and he was guided by logic as well as by sight
and hearing. The Wyandot knew where he had first lain, and he would
certainly approach that place. Henry would follow in that direction.
Another dozen feet and he felt that the crisis was at hand. The little
waving of grass and bushes that marked the passage of the Wyandot
suddenly stopped, and the slight rustling ceased to come. Nerving
everything for a mighty effort, Henry sprang to his feet and rushed
forward. The Wyandot, who was just beginning to suspect, uttered a cry,
and he, too, sprang up. His rifle leaped to his shoulder and he fired as
the terrible figure sprang toward him. But it was too late to take any
sort of aim. The bullet flew wide among the trees, and the next instant
Henry was upon him.
The Wyandot dropped his empty rifle and met his foe, shoulder to
shoulder and chest to chest. He was a tall warrior with lean flanks and
powerful muscles, and he did not yet expect anything but victory. He was
one of the many Wyandots who had followed him from the village, but he
alone had found the fugitive, and he alone would take back the scalp. He
clasped Henry close and then sought to free one hand that he might draw
his knife. Henry seized the wrist in his left hand, and almost crushed
it in his grasp. Then he sought to bend the Indian back to the earth.
The Wyandot gave forth a single low, gasping sound. Then the two fought
wholly in silence, save for the panting of their chests and the
shuffling sound of their feet. The warrior realized that he had caught a
foe more powerful than he had dreamed of and also that the foe had
caught him, but he was still sure of his triumphant return to the
village with the fugitive scalp. But as they strove, shoulder to
shoulder and chest to chest, for full five minutes, he was not so sure,
although he yet had visions.
The two writhed over the ground in their great struggle. The warrior
endeavored to twist his hand loose, but in the unsuccessful attempt to
do so, he dropped the knife to the ground, where it lay glittering in
the grass whenever the sunbeams struck upon its blade. Presently, as
they twisted and strove, it lay seven or eight feet away, entirely out
of the reach of either, and then Henry, suddenly releasing the warrior's
wrist, clasped him about the shoulders and chest with both arms, making
a supreme effort to throw him to the ground. He almost succeeded, but
this was a warrior of uncommon strength and dexterity, and he recovered
himself in time. Yet he was so hard pushed that he could make no effort
to reach the tomahawk that still hung in his belt, and he put forth his
greatest effort in order that he might drag his foe from his feet, and
thus gain a precious advantage.
The last lizard scuttled away, and the drone of the insects ceased.
Henry, as he whirled about, caught one dim glimpse of a blue jay, the
same that had chattered so much in his idle joy, sitting on a bough and
staring at the struggling two.
It was a titanic contest to the blue jay, two monstrous giants fighting
to the death. All the other forest people had fled away in terror, but
the empty-headed blue jay, held by the terrible fascination, remained on
his bough, watching with dilated eyes. He saw the great beads of sweat
stand out on the face of each, he could hear the muscles strain and
creak, he saw the two fall to the ground, locked fast in each other's
arms, and then turn over and over, first the white face and then the red
uppermost, and then the white again.
The blue jay's eyes grew bigger and bigger as he watched a struggle such
as he had never beheld before. They were all one to him. It did not
matter to him whether white or red conquered, but he saw one thing that
they did not see. As they rolled over and over they had come to the very
brink of the hill, and the far side went down almost straight, a matter
of forty or fifty feet. But this made no impression upon him, because he
was only a blue jay with only a blue jay's tiny brain.
The two monstrous giants were now hanging over the edge of the
precipice, and still, in their furious struggles, they did not know it.
The blue jay, perceiving in a dim way that something tremendous was
about to happen in his world, longed to chatter abroad the advance news
of it, but his tongue was paralyzed in his throat, and his eyes were red
with increasing dilation.
The two, still locked fast in each other's arms, went further. Then they
realized where they were, and there was a simultaneous writhe to get
back again. It was too late. The blue jay saw them hang for a moment on
the brink and then go crashing into the void. His paralyzed voice came
back to him, and, chattering wildly with terror, he flew away from the
terrible scene.