THE MARCH OF THE TRAIN
The train made an imposing appearance with its sixty wagons and its
horsemen, numerous and well armed. It was commanded by a middle-aged
trader of experience, Thomas Woodfall, who had already made several
trips to Santa Fe, and the hopes of all were high. They carried, among
other things, goods that the senoras and senoritas of Santa Fe would be
eager to buy, and much gain might be obtained. But every one of the
four who rode so closely together thought most in his heart of that for
which he sought, and in no instance was the object of search the same.
But they were cheerful. Whatever were past griefs or whatever might be
those to come, the present was propitious and fair. The Southern spring
was not yet advanced far enough to drive the cool tang out of the air by
daylight, while at night fires were needed. It rained but little, and
they marched steadily on through crisp sunshine.
"I trust that the good Sir Roland is pleased," said Bill Breakstone to
Phil. "Fresh air in the lungs of youth produces exhilaration."
"It's fine," said Phil, with emphasis.
"But we may yet come to our Pass of Roncesvalles. Bethink you of that,
Sir Roland. They say that it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and
I say that it's a good wind that blows nobody ill. The rain will rain,
the snow will snow, the wind will blow, and what will poor rabbit do
then?"
"Get into his little nest, cover himself up warm and dry, and wait until
it passes," replied Phil.
"Right, Master Philip. Go up to the head of the class," said Bill
Breakstone in his usual joyous tones--Phil always thought that Bill had
the cheeriest voice in the world--"I'm glad to see you taking thought
for the future. Now our good friend Hans, here, would not have made
such an apt reply."
"Perhaps not, and I do not mind your saying so, Herr Bill Breakstone,"
said Arenberg, smiling broadly. "No harm iss done where none iss meant."
"A fit answer from a loyal representative of the Hohenstauffens, the
Hohenzollerns, and the Katzenellenbogens," chanted Bill Breakstone.
"Ah, Herr Breakstone, it iss that you are one happy man," said Arenberg.
"I wonder that you go to find something, when you have the joy of living
anywhere."
"But I do go to find something," said Breakstone, suddenly becoming
grave. Phil noticed that he puckered up his eyes and gazed far into the
West, as if he would see already that for which he sought.
They traveled for several days among plantations in a low damp country,
and then they passed suddenly beyond the line of cultivation into a
drier region of low hills and small prairies. Phil was pleased with the
change. If they were going into the wilderness, he was anxious to reach
it as soon as possible, and this, beyond a doubt, was the edge of the
unknown. The first night that he heard the scream of a panther in the
woods he felt that they were leaving all civilization behind, and that,
save for the train, the world of men was blotted out.
Yet it was very pleasant as long as the weather remained dry, and the
early spring was certainly doing its best. It was a succession of crisp
days and cool nights, and Phil liked the steady advance by day through
new lands, and the rest in the evening, when they built fires for the
cooking and to fend off the chill. They usually drew the wagons up in a
circle in one of the little prairies, and then went to the forest near
by for wood that belonged to whomsoever took it. Phil and Bill
Breakstone were always active in this work.
"It gives me an appetite for supper," said Breakstone. "I would have you
to know, Sir Philip of the Forest, that sitting long hours on a horse
which carries me luxuriously along, the horse doing all the work and I
doing none, tends to laziness and fat. I need this exercise to put me
in proper trim for the luscious repast that awaits us."
"I don't need anything to whet my appetite," replied Phil, as he
laughed. "To tell you the truth, Bill, I'm always hungry."
"Do not grieve or have fears for the larder, Sir Philip of the Hungry
Countenance. There is an abundance of food in the wagons, and we also
shall soon be in a good game country. Unless my eye and hand have lost
their cunning, a fat deer shall speedily be roasting over the coals."
The four kept close together, and they usually gathered around the fire
at which Thomas Woodfall, the leader, sat. Woodfall had shown a decided
respect and liking for Middleton, and, following the custom which
Breakstone had established, always addressed him as Cap, short for
Captain. Phil and Breakstone had been particularly active gathering
wood that evening, and it had been Phil's task and pleasure, when it was
all put in a heap, to light it. Now he was watching the little flames
grow into big ones, and the yellow light turn to blazing red. He
listened, also, as the flames hissed a little before the wind, and the
dry boughs snapped and crackled under the fiery torch. Middleton
regarded him with kindly approval.
"A good boy," he said to Woodfall. "A lad with fine instincts and a
brave spirit."
"And a mighty handy one, too," said Woodfall. "I've noticed how he
works. He's as big and strong as a man, and I never saw anybody else
who was just prized down like a hogshead of tobacco, crowded full of
zeal."
"I think it likely he will need it all before our journey is over," said
Middleton.
"It's probable," repeated Woodfall, "but I'll ask you, Cap, not to speak
it. It may be that this expedition was begun at the wrong time. I had
heard, and the owners had heard, that the troubles with Mexico were
quieting down, but it seems that, instead of doing so, they are getting
livelier."
"I shall certainly say nothing about it to our people here," replied
Middleton. "Cheerful hearts are the best, and we may have trouble with
neither Mexicans nor Indians."
Phil himself was not thinking at that moment of either yellow or red
foes. His fire had grown into a mighty pyramid, and, as the dead wood
burned fast, it soon sank down into a great mass of glowing coals. Then
he, Breakstone, and Arenberg boiled coffee in big iron pots, and cooked
bread and many slices of bacon. The night was cool and nipping, but the
coals threw out an abundance of heat. A delicious aroma arose and
spread far. Everybody came forward with tin cup and tin plate, and
helped himself. Phil took his filled plate in one hand, his filled cup
in the other, and sat down on a fallen log with Breakstone and Arenberg.
"In my time, and as an ornament to the stage," said Bill Breakstone, "I
have eaten some bountiful repasts. I have feasted as a prince, a duke,
or some other lordling. I have been the wrestler in the Forest of Arden
with _Rosalind_ and _Celia_. I have had my head deep in the mug of
sack, as _Sir John Falstaff_, but most of those magnificent repasts
depended largely upon the imagination. Here I am neither prince nor
duke, but the food is real, and the air is so good that one might even
bite a chip with a certain pleasure. Excuse me, Sir Philip of the
Forest, while I even drain the coffee-cup."
He took it all down at one draught, and a beatific glow overspread his
face. Arenberg regarded him with admiration.
"Ach, Mein Herr Breakstone, but you are one cheerful man!" he said.
"You never do any harm, because none iss meant. When you drink the
coffee you make me think of the German in the old country drinking beer,
and you like it as well."
"I snatch the joys of the flying day, or, rather, night, and think not
of the ills of the morrow," replied Breakstone. "Somebody somewhere
said something like that, and, whoever he was, he was a good talker.
To-morrow, Phil, I think I may get a chance to show you how to shoot a
deer."
"I hope so," said Phil eagerly. He, too, was luxuriating, and he was
fully as cheerful as Bill Breakstone. The great beds of coal threw a
warm, luminous glow over all the circle enveloped by the wagons.
Everybody ate and felt good. The pleasant hum of pleasant talk arose.
Outside the wagons the tethered horses cropped the short young grass,
and they, too, were content. Not far away the forest of magnolia,
poplar, and many kinds of oak rustled before the slight wind, and the
note that came from it was also of content.
Phil, after he had eaten and drunk all that he wished, and it was much,
lay on the ground with his back against the log and listened to the
talk. He heard wonderful tales of adventure in the West Indies and on
the South American coast, of fights in Mexico and Texas, when the little
bands of Texans won their independence, of encounters with raiding
Comanches, and of strange stone ruins left by vanished races in the
deserts of the Far West. He was fascinated as he listened. The spirit
of romance was developed strongly within him. It was, indeed, a most
adventurous search upon which he was embarked, and this spirit, strong,
enduring, hardened to meet all things, was what he needed most.
As the fires died down, and the warmth decreased, he wrapped his blanket
around himself, and now and then dozed a little. But he still felt very
content. It seemed to him that it was uncommon fortune to have joined
such an expedition, and it was a good omen. He must succeed in his
great search.
"Well, Sir Roland, what is it?" said Bill Breakstone at last. "Do you
want to sleep in the wagon or on the ground here? The good Knight
Orlando, who for the present is myself, means to choose the ground."
"No stuffy wagon for me on a night like this," rejoined Phil sleepily.
"I am going to sleep just where I lie."
He settled back more comfortably, put his arm under his head, and in a
few moments was in the deep, dreamless sleep of youth and health. Bill
Breakstone quickly followed him to that pleasant land of Nowhere. Then
Arenberg and the Captain were soon entering the same region. The fires
sank lower and lower, the sound of breathing from many men arose, the
horses outside became quiet, and peace settled over the wilderness camp.
Phil slept far into the night, he never knew how far, but he believed it
was about half way between midnight and morning. When he awoke it was
very dark, and there was no noise but that of the breathing men and the
rustling wind. Just why he, a sound sleeper, had awakened at that time
he could not say. But he had eaten largely, and he was conscious of
thirst, a thirst that could be quenched easily at a little spring in the
wood.
The boy rose, letting his blanket drop to the ground, and glanced over
the sleeping camp. Despite the darkness, he saw the forms of recumbent
men, and some coals that yet glimmered faintly. Around them was the
dark circling line of the wagons. No regular watch was kept as they
were yet far from dangerous country, and, passing between two of the
wagons, Phil went toward the spring, which was about three hundred yards
away.
It was a nice cold spring, rising at the base of a rock, and running
away in a tiny stream among the poplars. Phil knelt and drank, and then
sat upon an upthrust root. The desire for sleep had left him, and his
mind turned upon his great search. He took the paper from the inside
pocket of his coat, unfolded it, and smoothed it out with his fingers.
It was too dark for him to read it, but he held it there a little while,
then folded it up again, and returned it to its resting place. He was
about to rise again and return to the camp, but something moved in the
thicket. It might have been a lizard, or it might have been the wind,
but he was sure it was neither. The sound was wholly out of harmony
with the note of the night.
Phil remained sitting on the upthrust root, but leaned against the trunk
to which the root belonged. His figure blended darkly against the bark.
Only an eye of uncommon acuteness would note him. The slight stirring,
so much out of tune with all the wilderness noises, came again, and,
despite his strength and will, both of which were great, Phil felt ice
pass along his spine, and his hair rose slightly. That uncanny hour at
which evil deeds happen held him in its spell. But he did not move,
except for the slipping of his hand to the pistol in his belt, and he
waited.
Slowly a dark face formed itself in the bushes, and beneath it was the
faint outline of a human figure. The face was malignant and cruel, a
reddish copper in color, with a sharp, strong chin, high cheek-bones,
and black glowing eyes. These eyes were bent in a fierce gaze upon the
circle of wagons. They did not turn in Phil's direction at all, but the
face held him fascinated.
It seemed to Phil that he had seen that countenance before, and as he
gazed he remembered. It was surely that of Black Panther, the Comanche,
but what a startling change. The crouching, fuddled lump of a man in
tattered clothes, whom he had seen in New Orleans, had been transformed
when the breath of the wilderness poured into his lungs. He fitted
thoroughly into this dark and weird scene, and the hair on Phil's head
rose a little more. Then the head, and the figure with it, suddenly
melted away and were gone. There was no strange stirring in the
thicket, nothing that was not in accord with the night.
The ice left Phil's spine, the hair lay down peacefully once more on his
head, and his hand moved away from the pistol at his belt. It was like
a dream in the dark, the sudden appearance of that Medusa head in the
bushes, and he was impressed with all the weight of conviction that it
was an omen of bad days to come. The wind whispered it, and the quiver
in his blood answered. But the men in the train might laugh at him if
he told that he had merely seen an Indian's face in the bushes. The
thing itself would be slight enough in the telling, and he did not wish
to be ridiculed as a boy whose fears had painted a picture of that which
was not. But he walked warily back, and he was glad enough when he
repassed between two of the wagons, and resumed his old place.
Middleton, Arenberg, and Bill Breakstone all slept soundly, and Phil,
wrapped in his blanket, sought to imitate them. But he could not. He
lay there thinking until the low band of scarlet in the east
foreshadowed the day. He rose and looked once more over the camp. The
last coal had died, and the dark forms, wrapped in their blankets,
looked chill and cold. But the red dawn was advancing, and warmth came
with it. One by one the men awoke. The horses stirred. Phil stood up
and stretched his arms. Middleton, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg awoke.
They had slept soundly and pleasantly all through the night.
"'Tis a fine couch, this Mother Earth," said Bill Breakstone, "finer
than cloth of gold, if it be not raining or snowing, or the winds be not
nipping. Then, in such event, I should take the cloth of gold, with a
snug tent over it."
"I have slept well, and I awake strong and refreshed," said Arenberg
simply. "It iss all I ask of a night."
"I have not slept well," said Phil, "at least I did not during the
latter part of the night."
There was a certain significance in his tone, and the others looked at
him. Only they were near, and Phil said in a low tone:
"I awoke in the night, and I was restless. I walked down to the spring
for a drink, and I saw a face in the bushes, the face of a man who was
watching us."
"Ah!" said Middleton, a single monosyllable, long drawn. But his tone
expressed interest, not surprise. He looked at the boy as if he expected
to hear more.
"I saw the face clearly," continued Phil. "It was changed, wonderfully
changed in expression, but I knew it. I could not be mistaken. It was
that Comanche, called Black Panther, whom we saw in New Orleans. He was
dirty and degraded there, but he did not seem so last night."
"I am glad that you told this, Phil," said Middleton. "It was a lucky
chance that awakened you and sent you to the spring."
"Once I thought I would not speak of it at all," said the boy. "I was
afraid they would say it was only a dream or a creation of my fancy."
"I'm sure that you really saw it," said Middleton, "and I will speak
with Mr. Woodfall. The time has come when we must be cautious."
The camp was now wholly awake, and the men began to light the fires
anew, and take their breakfasts. Middleton talked with Mr. Woodfall,
and, as the latter kept it no secret, the news soon spread throughout
the train. Philip Bedford, prowling about in the dark, had seen an
Indian in the woods near by, an Indian who seemed to be watching them.
The news was variously received, because there were many kinds of men in
this train. Some took it seriously; others were disposed to laugh, and
to hint, as Phil had feared, that it was fancy or a dream; and others
cared nothing about it. What was a single wandering warrior to them?
But the leader compelled a more careful advance. Scouts were sent
ahead, and others rode on the flanks. Phil and his comrades shared in
this duty, and that very day he and Bill Breakstone and Arenberg were
among those who rode ahead.
It was not an easy duty, because they were now in thick forest, with
much swampy ground about. Dark funereal cypresses abounded in the
marshy soil, and gloomy moss hung from the live oaks. A deer sprang up,
and Phil pulled down his rifle, but Breakstone would not let him shoot.
"Not now, Phil," he said. "We must not shoot at chance game when we are
scouting. My talk may not sound like it, but I know something of
wilderness life. One can never be too cautious, whether on the plains or
in the woods. Things may happen. Wait for them. As the poet saith,
'One crowded hour of glorious life is worth a world without a name.'"
"Say that again," said Arenberg.
"One crowded hour of glorious life is worth a world without a name."
"It sounds good. It iss good. I will remember it," said the German.
But as two or three days passed with no sign of trouble, the face that
Phil had seen in the bushes was forgotten or ignored. It was a
light-hearted crowd, used to wild life and adventure, and these men,
drawn from different parts of the globe, occupied with to-day, took
little thought of to-morrow's dangers. The weather remained beautiful.
Days and nights were dry, and they were again on good firm earth, which
made the way of the wagons easy. Phil, instructed by Bill Breakstone,
stalked and shot a deer, a fine, fat buck, which gave a slice for
everybody in the train, and which brought him compliments. In fact, he
was already a general favorite, and he did not mind when they jested now
and then about the face in the bushes, and told him that he was a seer
of visions. He was rapidly becoming an adept in the forest life, to
which he took naturally, and in Bill Breakstone he had no mean tutor.
Breakstone soon showed that he was a scout and trailer of the first
quality, although he did not explain why he had spent so many years in
the wilds.
"It's partly gift, and partly training, Sir Philip of the Youthful
Countenance and of the Good Blue Eye," he said. "If you just teach
yourself to see everything and to hear everything about you, and never
forget it, you've got most of the lesson. And you, Phil, with good
eyes, good ears, a quick mind, and a willing heart, ought to come fast
toward the head of the class."
Phil flushed with pleasure. In the task that he had set for himself he
greatly needed forest lore, and it was a keen satisfaction to know that
he was acquiring it. He redoubled his efforts. He always noted
carefully the country through which they passed, the configuration of
the earth, and the various kinds of trees and bushes. At night he would
often ask Bill Breakstone to question him, and from his superior
knowledge and longer training to point out a mistake whenever he might
make it. Bill was a severe teacher, and he criticised freely whenever
Phil was wrong. But he admitted that his pupil was making progress.
Arenberg was smoking his pipe at one of their sittings, and, taking it
out of his mouth, he remarked:
"No harm iss done where none iss meant. Now what I wish to ask you,
Herr Breakstone, and you, young Herr Philip, would you remember all your
lessons if you were on foot on the prairie, unarmed, and a wild Comanche
warrior were riding at you, ready to run his lance through you?"
"I don't know," replied Phil frankly, "but I hope such a time will never
come."
"That's the rub," said Arenberg meditatively. "It iss good to know all
the rules, to do all you can before, but it iss better to think fast,
and act right when the great emergency comes. It iss only then that you
are of the first class. I say so, and I say so because I know."
Only Phil noticed the faint tone of sadness with which his words ended,
and he glanced quickly at the German. But Arenberg's face expressed
nothing. Once more he was pulling calmly at his pipe. Bill Breakstone
gave his words hearty indorsement.
"You're right," he said. "The Grand Duke of Germany speaks the truth.
I've embodied that piece of wisdom in a little poem, which I will quote
to you:
"You may lead a horse to the water,
But you cannot make him drink.
You may stuff a man with knowledge,
But you cannot make him think.
"Part of that is borrowed, and part of it is original, but, combining
the two parts, I think it is a little masterpiece."
Arenberg took out his pipe again, and regarded Bill Breakstone with
admiration.
"It iss one great man, this Herr Bill Breakstone," he said. "He makes
poetry and tells the truth at the same time."
"Thanks, most puissant lord," said Breakstone, "and now, the lesson
being over, Phil, I think we might all of us go to sleep and knit up a
few raveled sleeves of care."
"We might take to the wagon," said Middleton. "If I'm any judge of
weather, Phil, the beautiful spell that we've had is coming to an end."
"You're right, Cap," said Breakstone. "I noticed that when the sun set
to-day it looked redder than usual through a cloud of mist, and that
means rain. Therefore, Orlando deserts his little Forest of Arden, and
betakes himself to the shelter of the curved canvas."
Phil deemed it wise to imitate him, and the four found places in the
large wagon among their goods, where they had the shelter of the canvas
roof, although the cover was open at either end to allow the clean sweep
of the air. Phil, as usual, slept well. Five minutes was about all he
needed for the preparatory stage, and to-night was no exception. But he
awoke again in the middle of the night. Now he knew full well the
cause. Low thunder was rumbling far off at the edge of the earth, and a
stroke of lightning made him wink his sleepy eyes. Then came a rush of
cold air, and after it the rain. The big drops rattled on the curving
canvas roof, but they could not penetrate the thick cloth. Phil raised
himself a little, and looked out at the open ends, but he saw only
darkness.
Meanwhile the rain increased and beat harder upon the roof, which shed
it like shingles. Phil drew his blanket up to his chin, rested his head
and shoulders a little more easily against a bag of meal, and never had
a greater sense of luxury in his life. The beat of the rain on the
canvas was like the patter of the rain on the roof of the old home, when
he was a little boy and lay snug under the eaves. He had the same
pleasant sense of warmth and shelter now. The storm might beat about
him, but it could not touch him. He heard the even breathing of his
comrades, who had not awakened. He heard the low thunder still
grumbling far off in the south-west, and the lightning came again at
intervals, but he sank gently back to slumber.
When he awoke the next morning the rain was still falling, and the whole
world was a sodden gray. The air, too, was full of raw chill, despite
the southern latitude, and Phil shivered. It was his first impulse to
draw the blanket more tightly, but he resolutely put the impulse down.
He threw the blanket aside, slipped on his coat and boots, the only
apparel that he had removed for the night's rest, and sprang out into
the rain, leaving his comrade still asleep.
Not many of the men were yet up, and Phil went at once into the forest
in search of fallen wood, which was always abundant. It was not a
pleasant task. For the first time he felt the work hard and
disagreeable. Mists and vapors were rising from the wet earth, and the
sun did not show. The rain came down steadily, and it was cold to the
touch. It soaked through the boy's clothing, but he stuck to his task,
and brought in the dead wood by the armful. At the third load he met
Bill Breakstone, who hailed him cheerily.
"Well, you do make me ashamed of myself, Sir Knight of the Dripping
Forest," he said. "When we awoke and found you already up and at work,
we concluded that it was time for us to imitate so good an example.
Ugh, how cold this rain is, and we five hundred miles from an umbrella!"
Phil was compelled to laugh, and then the laugh made him feel better.
But it was a morning that might well oppress the bravest. The wet wood
was lighted with extreme difficulty, and then it smoked greatly under
the rain. It was hard to do the cooking, and breakfast was not
satisfying. But Phil refused to make any complaint. With the rain in
his face, he spoke cheerfully of sunshine and warm dry plains.
"We ought to strike the plains of Texas to-morrow or the next day," said
Bill Breakstone. "I've been through this region before, and I don't
think I'm mistaken. Then we'll get out of this. If it's a long lane
that has no turning, it's one just as long that has no end."
They started late, and deep depression hung over the train. The men no
longer sang or made jokes at the expense of one another, but crouched
upon their horses or the wagon seats, and maintained a sullen silence.
Phil was on horseback, but he dried himself at one of the fires, and
with the blanket wrapped around his body he was now fairly well
protected. It was hard to maintain a pleasant face, but he did it, and
Middleton, whom all now usually called Cap, looked his approval.
They advanced very slowly through thickets and across email streams,
with mists and vapors so dense that they could see but little ahead.
They did not make more than seven or eight miles that day, and, wet and
miserable, they camped for the night. The guard was still maintained,
and Phil was on duty that night until twelve. When midnight came he
crawled into the wagon, depressed and thoroughly exhausted. But he
slept well, and the next morning the rain was over. The mists and
vapors were gone, and a beautiful sun was shining. All of Phil's good
spirits came back as he sprang out of the wagon and looked at the drying
earth.
The whole camp was transformed. The cooking fires burned ruddily and
with a merry crackle. The men sang their little songs and made their
little jokes. They told one another joyously that they would be out of
the forest soon and upon the open prairies. They would be in
Texas--Texas, that wonderful land of mystery and charm; Texas, already
famous for the Alamo and San Jacinto. The fact that this Texas was
filled with dangers took nothing from the glow at their hearts. Phil
shared in the general enthusiasm, and cried with the others, "Ho for
Texas!"
Arenberg's face became very grave.
"Do not be carried away with the high feelings that run to the head," he
said. "No harm iss done where none iss meant, but it iss a long road
across Texas, and there iss no mile of it which does not have its
dangers. Who should know better than I?"
"You speak the truth," said Middleton. "I often think of that Comanche,
Black Panther, whose face Phil saw in the thicket."
"You are right to speak of it," said Bill Breakstone. "I have been in
the West. I have spent years there. I have been in places that no
other white man has ever seen, and just when you think this West, beyond
the white man's frontier, is most peaceful, then it is most dangerous.
_Hamlet_, Prince of Denmark, was a dreamy kind of fellow, but when the
time came he was a holy terror."
Phil was impressed, but in a little while it seemed to him that it could
scarcely be so. The threat contained in Black Panther's face was fading
fast from his mind, and danger seemed to him very far. His exuberance
of spirit was heightened by the easy journey that they now had through a
forest without any undergrowth. The wagons rolled easily over short,
young grass, and the thick boughs of the trees overhead protected them
from the sun.
"Do you know the country, Bill?" asked Middleton.
"I think so," replied Breakstone. "Unless I'm mightily mistaken, and I
don't think I am, this forest ends in four or five miles. Then we come
right out on the genuine Texas plain, rolling straight; away for
hundreds of miles. I think I'll take Phil here and ride forward and see
if I'm not right. Come, Phil!"
The two galloped away straight toward the West, and, as the forest
offered no difficulties, they were not compelled to check their speed.
But in less than an hour Breakstone, who was in advance, pulled his
horse back sharply, and Phil did the same.
"Look, Phil!" exclaimed Breakstone, making a wide sweep with his hands,
while face and eyes were glowing, "See, it is Texas!"
Phil looked. None could have been more eager than he was. The hill
seemed to drop down before them sheer, like a cliff, but beyond lay a
great gray-green waving sea, an expanse of earth that passed under the
horizon, and that seemed to have no limit. It was treeless, and the
young grass had touched the gray of winter with fresh green.
"The great plains!" exclaimed Phil. He felt an intense thrill. He had
at last reached the edge of this vast region of mystery, and to-morrow
they would enter it.
"Yes, the great plains," said Bill Breakstone. "And down here, I think,
is where our wagons will have to pass." He turned to the left and
followed a gentle slope that led to the edge of the plains. Thus, by an
easy descent, they left the forest, but when they turned back Phil's eye
was caught by a glittering object:
"Look, Bill!" he exclaimed. "See the arrow! What does it mean?"
An arrow with a deeply feathered shaft had been planted deep in an oak
tree. Evidently it had been fired from a bow by some one standing on
the plain, and it was equally evident that a powerful hand had drawn the
string. It stood out straight and stark as if it would stay there
forever. Bill Breakstone rode up to it and examined it critically.
"It's a Comanche arrow, Phil," he said, "and, between you and me, I
think it means something:
"An arrow I see
Stuck in a tree,
But what it does mean
Has not yet been seen--
"Especially when it's coupled with the fact that you saw Black Panther's
face in the thicket. I may have an imaginative mind, Sir Philip of the
Forest, soon to be Sir Philip of the Plain, but this arrow I take to be
our first warning. It tells us to turn back, and it may have been fired
by Black Panther himself, late Knight of the Levee and of Strong Drink."
"Will we turn back?" asked Phil somewhat anxiously.
Bill Breakstone laughed scornfully.
"Do you think a crowd like ours would turn back for a sign?" he asked.
"Why, Phil, that arrow, if it is meant as a threat, is the very thing to
draw them on. It would make them anxious to go ahead and meet those who
say they must stop. If they were not that kind of men, they wouldn't be
here."
"I suppose so," said Phil. "I, for one, would not want to turn back."
He rode up to the tree, took the arrow by the shaft, and pulled with all
his might. He was a strong youth, but he could not loosen it. Unless
broken off, it was to stay there, a sign that a Comanche warning had
been given.
"I knew you couldn't move it," said Bill Breakstone. "The Indians have
short bows, and you wouldn't think they could get so much power with
them, but they do. It's no uncommon thing for a buck at close range to
send an arrow clear through a big bull buffalo, and it takes powerful
speed to do that."
They rode back, met the advancing line of wagons, and told what they had
seen, to which the men themselves, as they came to the edge of the
prairie, were able to bear witness. Yet they were not greatly
impressed. Those who believed that it meant a challenge gayly accepted
it as Breakstone had predicted.
"Let the Comanches attack, if they will," they said, shaking their
rifles. Even the face of the quiet Middleton kindled.
"It's a good spirit our men show," he said to the three who were his
chosen comrades, "but I knew that they would never turn back because of
an Indian threat."
The train advanced slowly down into the plain, and then began its march
across the vast, grayish-green expanse. The traveling was very easy
here, and they made seven or eight miles over the rolling earth before
they stopped at sunset. Phil, looking back, could still see the dark
line of the hilly country and the forest, but before him the prairie
rolled away, more than ever, as the twilight came, like an unknown sea.
The camp was beside a shallow stream running between low banks. They
built their fires of cottonwood and stunted oaks that grew on either
side, and then Phil saw the darkness suddenly fall like the fall of a
great blanket over the plains. With the night came a low, moaning sound
which Bill Breakstone told him was merely the wind blowing a thousand
miles without a break.
Phil took his turn at guard duty the latter half of that night, walking
about at some distance from the camp, now and then meeting his comrades
on the same duty, and exchanging a word or two. It was very dark, and
the other sentinels were not in the best of humor, thinking there was
little need for such a watch, and Phil by and by confined himself
strictly to his own territory.
Although his eyes grew used to the darkness, it was so heavy that they
could not penetrate it far, and he extended his beat a little farther
from the camp. He thought once that he heard a light sound, as of
footsteps, perhaps those of a horse, and in order to be certain,
remembering an old method, he lay down and put his ear to the ground.
Then he was quite sure that he heard a sound very much like the tread of
hoofs, but in a moment or two it ceased. He rose, shaking his head
doubtfully, and advanced a little farther. He neither saw nor heard
anything more, and he became convinced that the footsteps had been those
of some wild animal. Perhaps a lone buffalo, an outlaw from the herd,
had been wandering about, and had turned away when the human odor met
his nostrils.
He returned toward the camp, and something cold passed his face. There
was a slight whistling sound directly in his ear, and he sprang to one
side, as if he had narrowly missed the fangs of a rattlesnake. He heard
almost in the same instant a slight, thudding sound directly in front of
him, and he knew instinctively what had made it. He ran forward, and
there was an arrow sticking half its length in the ground. The impulse
of caution succeeded that of curiosity. Remembering Bill Breakstone's
teachings, he threw himself flat upon the ground, letting his figure
blend with the darkness, and lay there, perfectly still. But no other
arrow came. Nothing stirred. He could not make out among the shadows
anything that resembled a human figure, although his eyes were good and
were now trained to the work of a sentinel. Once when he put his ear to
the earth he thought he heard the faint beat of retreating hoofs, but
the sound was so brief and so far away that he was not sure.
Phil felt shivers, more after he lay down than when the arrow passed his
cheek. It was the first time that a deadly weapon or missile had passed
so close to him, fired perhaps with the intent of slaying him, and no
boy could pass through such an experience without quivers and an icy
feeling along the spine.
But when he lay still awhile and could not detect the presence of any
enemy, he rose and examined the arrow again. There was enough light for
him to see that the feathered shaft was exactly like that of the arrow
they had found in the tree.
He pulled the weapon out of the ground and examined it with care. It
had a triangular head of iron, with extremely sharp edges, and he
shuddered again. If it had struck him, it would have gone through him
as Bill Breakstone said the Comanche arrows sometimes went entirely
through the body of a buffalo.
He took the arrow at once to the camp, and showed it to the men who were
on guard there, telling how this feathered messenger--and he could not
doubt that it was a messenger--had come. Woodfall and Middleton were
awakened, and both looked serious. It could not be any play of fancy on
the part of an imaginative boy. Here was the arrow to speak for itself.
"It must have been the deed of a daring Comanche," said Middleton with
conviction. "Perhaps he did not intend to kill Phil, and I am sure that
this arrow, like the first, was intended as a threat."
"Then it's wasted, just as others will be," said Woodfall. "My men do
not fear Comanches."
"I know that," said Middleton. "It is a strong train, but we must
realize, Mr. Woodfall, that the Comanches are numerous and powerful. We
must make every preparation, all must stay close by the train, and there
must be a strict night watch."
He spoke in a tone of authority, but it fitted so well upon him, and
seemed so natural that Woodfall did not resent it. On the contrary, he
nodded, and then added his emphatic acquiescence in words.
"You are surely right," he said. "We must tighten up everything."
This little conference was held beside some coals of a cooking fire that
had not yet died, and Phil was permitted to stand by and listen, as it
was he who had brought in the significant arrow. The coals did not give
much light, and the men were half in shadow, but the boy was impressed
anew by the decision and firmness shown by Middleton. He seemed to have
an absolutely clear mind, and to know exactly what he wanted. Phil
wondered once more what a man of that type might be seeking in the vast
and vague West.
"I'll double the guard," said Woodfall, "and no man shall go out of
sight of the train. Now, Bedford, my boy, you might go to sleep, as you
have done your part of a night's work."
Phil lay down, and, despite the arrow so vivid in memory, he slept until
day.