AT THE RIVER BANK
The days dragged into a week, and the Shawnees still clung to the banks of
the great river, occasionally hunting, but more often idling away their
time in the deep woods near the shore. Paul's wonder at their actions
increased. He could not see any purpose in it, and he spoke several times
to Braxton Wyatt about it. But Wyatt always shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not know," he said. "It is true they build no camp fires, at least
no big ones, and they do not seem to be much interested in hunting; but I
cannot guess what they are about, and I should not dare to ask Red Eagle."
Paul noticed that Red Eagle himself often went down to the bank of the
river, and would watch its surface with the keenest attention. But Paul
observed also that he always looked eastward--that is, up the stream--and
never down it.
Paul and Wyatt were allowed an increasing amount of liberty, but they were
held nevertheless within a ring through which they could not break; Paul
was shrewd enough to perceive it, and for the present he made no effort,
thinking it a wise thing to appear contented with his situation, or at
least to be making the best of it. Braxton Wyatt commended his policy more
than once.
On the morning of the seventh day the chief went down to the bank of the
river once more, and began to watch its surface attentively and long,
always looking up the stream. Paul and Braxton Wyatt and some of the
warriors stood among the trees, not fifty feet away. They also could see
the surface of the river for a long distance, and Paul's eyes followed
those of the chief, Red Eagle.
The Ohio was a great yellow river, flowing slowly on in its wide channel,
the surface breaking into little waves, that crumpled and broke and rose
again. Paul could see the stream for miles, apparently becoming narrower
and narrower, until it ended in a yellow thread under the horizon. Either
shore was overhung with heavy forest red with autumn's touch. Wild fowl
occasionally flew over the current. It was inexpressibly weird and lonely
to Paul, seemingly a silent river flowing on forever through silent
shades.
He saw nothing on the stream, and his eyes came back to the thin,
hatchet-faced chief, who stood upon the bank looking so intently. Red
Eagle had begun to interest him greatly. He impressed Paul as being a
thorough savage of savages, fairly breathing cruelty and cunning, and Paul
saw now a note of expectation, of cruel expectation, in the fierce black
eyes of the Shawnee. And as he looked, a sudden change came over the face
of the chief. A gleam appeared in the black eyes, and the tall, thin
figure seemed to raise itself a little higher. Paul again looked up the
stream, and lo! a tiny dark spot appeared upon its surface. He watched it
as the chief watched it, and it grew, coming steadily down the river. But
he did not yet know what it was.
Now the spirit of action descended quickly upon the whole band. The chief
left the shore and gave quick, low orders to the men, who sank back into
the forest, taking Paul and Braxton Wyatt with them. Two warriors, having
Paul between them, crouched in a dense thicket, and one of them tapped the
unarmed boy meaningly with his tomahawk. Paul did not see Braxton Wyatt,
but he supposed that he was held similarly by other warriors, somewhere
near. In truth, he did not see any of the savages except the two who were
with him. All the rest had melted away with the extraordinary facility
that they had for hiding themselves, but Paul knew that they were about
him, pressed close to the earth, blurred with the foliage or sheltered by
tree trunks.
The boy's eyes turned back to the river, and the black blot floating on
its surface. That blot, he knew, had caused this sudden disappearance of a
whole band of Shawnees, and he wanted to know more. The black blot came
down the stream and grew into shape and outline, and the shape and outline
were those of a boat. An Indian canoe? No; it rapidly grew beyond the size
of any canoe used by the savages, and began to stand up from the water in
broad and stiff fashion. Then Paul's heart thumped, because all at once he
knew. It was a flatboat, and it was certainly loaded with emigrants coming
down the Ohio, women and children as well as men, and the Shawnees had
laid an ambush. This was what the crafty Red Eagle had been waiting for so
long.
It was the final touch of savagery, and the boy's generous and noble heart
rebelled within him. He started up, propelled by the impulse to warn; but
the two warriors pulled him violently back, one of them again touching him
significantly with his tomahawk. Paul knew that it was useless. Any
movement or cry of his would cause his own death, and would not be
sufficient to warn those on the boat. He sank back again, trembling in
every nerve, not for himself but for the unsuspecting travelers on the
river.
The boat came steadily on, Paul saw a number of men, some walking about
and others at the huge sweeps with which it was controlled. And--yes,
there was a woman and a child, too; a little girl with long, yellow curls,
who played on the rude deck. Paul put his hand to his face, and it came
back wet.
Then he remembered, and his heart leaped up. The river was a mile wide,
and the boat was keeping near the middle of the stream. No bullet from the
savages could reach it. Then what was the use of this ambush? It had
merely been a chance hope of the savages that the boat would come near
enough for them to fire into it, but instead it would go steadily on! Paul
looked exultantly at the two warriors beside him, but they were intently
watching the boat, which would soon be opposite them.
Then a ghastly and horrible thing occurred. A white face suddenly appeared
upon the shore in front of Paul--the face of a white youth whom he knew.
The figure was in rags, the clothing torn and tattered by thorns and
bushes, and the hair hung in wild locks about the white face. Face and
figure alike were the picture of desolation and despair.
The white youth staggered to the very edge of the water, and, lifting up
a tremulous, weeping voice, cried out to those on the boat:
"Save me! Save me! In God's name, save me! Don't leave me here to starve
in these dark woods!"
It was a sight to move all on the boat who saw and heard--this spectacle
of the worn wanderer, alone in that vast wilderness, appealing to
unexpected rescue. Fear, agony, and despair alike were expressed in the
tones of Braxton Wyatt's voice, which carried far over the yellow stream
and was heard distinctly by the emigrants. To hear was also to heed, and
the great flatboat, coming about awkwardly and sluggishly, turned her
square prow toward the southern shore, where the refugee stood.
Braxton Wyatt never ceased to cry out for help. His voice now ran the
gamut of entreaty, hope, despair, and then hope again. He called upon them
by all sacred names to help him, and he also called down blessings upon
them as the big boat bore steadily toward the land where two score fierce
savages lay among the bushes, ready to slay the moment they came within
reach.
Paul was dazed at first by what he saw and heard. He could not believe
that it was Braxton Wyatt who was doing this terrible and treacherous
thing. He rubbed away what he thought might be a deceptive film before
his eyes, but it was still Braxton Wyatt. It was the face of the youth
whom he had known so long, and it was his voice that begged and blessed.
And there, too, came the boat, not thirty yards from the land now! In two
more minutes it would be at the bank, and its decks were crowded now with
men, women, and children, regarding with curiosity and pity alike this
lone wanderer in the wilderness whom they had found in such a terrible
case. Paul heard around him a rustling like that of coiled snakes, the
slight movement of the savages preparing to spring. The boat was only ten
yards from the shore! Now the film passed away from his eyes, and his
dazed brain cleared. He sprang up to his full height, reckless of his own
life, and shouted in a voice that was heard far over the yellow waters:
"Keep off! Keep off, for your lives! It is a renegade who is calling you
into an ambush! Keep off! Keep off!"
Paul saw a sudden confusion on the boat, a running to and fro of people,
and a bucking of the sweeps. Then he heard a spatter of rifle shots, all
this passing in an instant, and the next moment he felt a heavy
concussion. Fire flashed before his eyes, and he sank away into a darkness
that quickly engulfed him.
When Paul came back to himself he was lying among the trees where he had
fallen, and his head ached violently. He started to put up his hand to
soothe it, but the hand would not move, and then he realized that both
hands were bound to his side. His whole memory came back in a flash, and
he looked toward the river. Far down the stream, and near the middle of
it, was a black dot that, even as he looked, became smaller, and
disappeared. It was the flatboat with its living freight, and Paul's
heart, despite his own desperate position, leaped up with joy.
From the river he glanced back at the Indian faces near him, and so far as
he could tell they bore no signs of triumph. Nor could he see any of those
hideous trophies they would have been sure to carry in case the ambush had
been a success. No! the triumph had been his, not theirs. He rolled into
an easier position, shut his eyes again to relieve his head, and when he
opened them once more, Braxton Wyatt stood beside him. At the sight, all
the wrath and indignation in Paul's indomitable nature flared up.
"You scoundrel! you awful scoundrel! You renegade!" he cried. "Don't you
ever speak to me again! Don't you come near me!"
Braxton Wyatt did not turn back when those words, surcharged with
passion, met him full in the face, but wore a sad and downcast look.
"I don't blame you, Paul," he said gently, "for speaking that way when you
don't understand. I'm not a renegade, Paul. I did what I did to save our
lives--yours as well as mine, Paul. The chief, Red Eagle, threatened to
put us both to the most awful tortures at once if I didn't do it."
"Liar, as well as scoundrel and renegade!" exclaimed Paul fiercely.
But Braxton Wyatt went on in his gentle, persuading, unabashed manner:
"It is as true as I stand here. I could not take you, too, Paul, to
torture and death, and all the while I was hoping that the people on the
boat would see, or suspect, and that they would turn back in time. If you
had not cried out--and it was a wonderfully brave thing to do!--I think
that at the last moment I myself should have done so."
"Liar!" said Paul again, and he turned his back to Braxton Wyatt.
Wyatt looked fixedly at the bound boy, shrugged his shoulders a little,
and said:
"I never took you for a fool before, Paul."
But Paul was silent, and Braxton Wyatt went away. An hour or two later Red
Eagle came to Paul, unbound his arms, and gave him something to eat. As
Paul ate the venison, Braxton Wyatt returned to him and said:
"It is my influence with the chief, Paul, that has secured you this good
treatment in spite of their rage against you. It is better to pretend to
fall in with their ways, if we are to retain life, and ever to secure
freedom."
But Paul only turned his back again and remained silent. Yet with the food
and rest the ache died out of his head, and he was permitted to wash off
the blood caused by the heavy blow from the flat of a tomahawk. Then he
crossed the Ohio with the band.
Paul was in a canoe with Red Eagle and two other warriors, and Braxton
Wyatt was in another canoe not far away. But Paul resolutely ignored him,
and looked only at the great river, and the thick forest on either shore.
He was now more lonely than ever, and the Ohio that he was crossing seemed
to him to be the boundary between the known and the unknown. Below it was
Wareville and Marlowe, tiny settlements in the vast surrounding
wilderness, it was true, but the abodes of white people, nevertheless.
North of it, and he was going northward, stretched the forest that savages
alone haunted. The crossing of the river was to Paul like passing over a
great wall that would divide him forever from his own. All his vivid
imagination was alive, and it painted the picture in its darkest and most
somber colors.
They reached the northern shore without difficulty, hid the canoes for
future use, and resumed their leisurely journey northward. Braxton Wyatt,
who seemed to Paul to have much freedom, resumed his advances toward a
renewal of the old friendship, but Paul was resolute. He could not
overcome his repulsion, Braxton Wyatt might plead, and make excuses, and
talk about the terror of torture and death, but Paul remained unconvinced.
He himself had not flinched at the crucial moment to undo what Wyatt was
doing, and in his heart he could find no forgiveness for the one whom he
called a renegade.
Wyatt refused to take offense. He said, and Paul could not but hear, that
Paul some day would be grateful for what he was doing, and that it was
necessary in the forest to meet craft with craft, guile with guile.
The days passed in hunting, eating, resting, and marching, and Paul lost
count of time, distance, and direction. He had not Henry's wonderful
instinct in the wilderness, and he could not now tell at what point of the
compass Wareville lay. But he kept a brave heart and a brave face, and if
at times he felt despair, he did not let anyone see it.
They came at last to a place where the forest thinned out, and then broke
away, leaving a little prairie. The warriors, who had previously been
painting themselves in more hideous colors than ever, broke into a long,
loud, wailing chant. It was answered in similar fashion from a point
beyond a swell in the prairie, and Paul knew that they had come to the
Indian village. The wailing chant was a sign that they had returned after
disaster, and now all the old squaws were taking it up in reply. Paul was
filled with curiosity, and he watched everything.
The warriors emerged from the last fringe of the forest, their faces
blackened, the hideous chant for their lost rising and falling, but never
ceasing. Forward to meet them poured a mongrel throng--old men, old
squaws, children, mangy curs, and a few warriors. Paul was with Red Eagle,
and when the old squaws saw him, they stopped their plaintive howl and
sent up a sudden shrill note of triumph. In a moment Paul was in a ring of
ghastly old faces, in every one of which snapped a pair of cruel black
eyes. Then the old women began to push him about, to pinch him, and to
strike him, and they showed incredible activity.
Thoroughly angry and in much pain, Paul struck at the hideous hags; but
they leaped away, jabbered and laughed, and returned to the attack. While
he was occupied with those in front of him, others slipped up behind him,
jabbed him in the back, or violently twitched the hair on his neck. Tears
of pain and rage stood in Paul's eyes, and he wheeled about, only to have
the jeering throng wheel with him and continue their torture. At last he
caught one of them a half blow, and she reeled and fell. The others
shouted uproariously, and the warriors standing by joined in their mirth.
One of the hags finally struck Paul a resounding smack in the face, and as
he turned to pursue her another from behind seized a wisp of hair and
tried to tear it out by the roots. Paul whirled in a frenzy, and so
quickly that she could not escape him. He seized her withered old throat
in both his hands, and then and there he would have choked her to death,
but the warriors interfered, and pulled his hands loose. But they also
drove the old women away, and Paul was let alone for the time. As he stood
on one side, gasping as much with anger as with pain, Braxton Wyatt, who
had not been persecuted at all, came to him again with ironic words and
derisive gesture.
"It was just as I told you, Paul," he said. "I gave you good advice. If
you had taken it, they would have spared you. What you have just got is
only a taste to what you may suffer."
Paul felt a dreadful inclination to shudder, but he managed to control
himself.
"I'd rather die under the torture than do what you have done, you
renegade!" he said.
This was the first time since they crossed the Ohio that he had replied to
Braxton, but even now he would say no more, and Wyatt, following his
custom, shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Then all, mingled in one
great throng, went forward to the village. Paul saw an irregular
collection of buffalo-skin and deer-skin tepees, and a few pole wigwams,
with some rudely cultivated fields of maize about them. A fine brook
flowed through the village, and the site, on the whole, was well chosen,
well watered, and sheltered by the little hills from cold winds. It was
too far away from those hills to be reached by a marksman in ambush, and
all about hung signs of plenty--drying venison and buffalo meat, and skins
of many kinds.
When they came within the circle of huts and tents, Paul was again
regarded by many curious eyes, and there might have been more attempts to
persecute him, but the chief, Red Eagle, kept them off. Red Eagle was able
to speak a little English, but Paul was too proud to ask him about his own
fate. Not a stoic by nature, the boy nevertheless had a will that could
control his impulses.
He was thrust into a small pole hut, and when the door was tightly
fastened he was left alone there. The place was not more than six feet
square, and only a little higher than Paul's head when he stood erect. In
one corner was a couch of skins, but that was its whole equipment. Some of
the poles did not fit closely together, leaving cracks of a quarter of an
inch or so, through which came welcome fresh air, and also the subdued hum
of the village noises. He heard indistinctly the barking of dogs, and the
chatter of old squaws scolding, but he paid little heed to them because he
felt now the sudden rush of a terrible despair.
The Ohio had been the great wall between Paul and his kind, and with the
steady march northward, through the forests and over the little prairies,
still another wall, equally great, had been reared. It seemed to Paul that
Henry and Shif'less Sol and his other friends could never reach him here,
and whatever fate the Shawnees had in store for him, it would be a hard
one. Wild life he liked in its due proportion, but he had no wish to
become a wild man all his days. He wanted to see the settlements grow and
prosper, and become the basis of a mighty civilization. This was what
appealed to him most. His great task of helping to save Kentucky
continually appealed to him, and now his chance of sharing in it seemed
slender and remote--too slender and remote to be considered.
The boy lay long on his couch of skins. The hum of the village life still
came to his ears, but he paid little heed to it. Gradually his courage
came back, or rather his will brought it back, and he became conscious
that the day was waning, also that he was growing hungry. Then the door
was opened, and Red Eagle entered. Behind him came a weazened old warrior
and a weazened old squaw, hideous to behold. Red Eagle stepped to one
side, and the old squaw fell on Paul's neck, murmuring words of
endearment. Paul, startled and horrified, pushed her off, but she returned
to the charge. Then Paul pushed her back again with more force. Red Eagle
stepped forward, and lifted a restraining hand.
"They would adopt you in place of the son they have lost," he said in his
scant and broken English.
Paul looked at Red Eagle. It seemed to him that he saw on the face of the
chief the trace of a sardonic grin. Then he looked at the weazened and
repulsive old pair.
"Put me to the torture," he said.
Now the sardonic grin was unmistakable on die face of the chief.
"Not yet," he said, "but maybe later."
Then he and the old pair left the hut, and presently food was brought to
Paul, who, worn out by his trials, ceased to think about his future. When
he had finished eating he threw himself on the couch again, and slept
heavily until the next day.