THE WARNING
Meanwhile war belts were passing through all the forest, from tribe to
tribe, to Shawnee, Miami, Ottawa, Wyandot--to every band, large or small.
Another great effort would be made to drive back the thin white vanguard
that was now entering the finest hunting ground savages had ever
known--the vast green wilderness of the Mississippi Valley, where the
warriors had roamed and killed game for unknown generations. Northern and
southern tribes had often met and fought in _Kain-tuck-ee_, but always
each retreated after the conflict to north or to south, leaving
_Kain-tuck-ee_ as it was before--a land of forest and canebrake, inhabited
only by the wild beast.
Now, every warrior felt that the coming of the white stream over the
mountains, however slender it might be at first, threatened a change,
great and disastrous to them, unless checked at once. These white men cut
down the forest, built houses that were meant to stay in one place--houses
of logs--and plowed up the fields where the forest had been. They felt in
some dim, but none the less certain, way that not only their favorite
hunting grounds, but they and their own existence, were threatened.
They had failed the year before in a direct attack upon the new
settlements, but these little oases in the wilderness must in time perish
unless the white stream coming over the mountains still reached them,
nourishing them with fresh bone and sinew, and making them grow. A great
wagon train was coming, and this they would strike, surprising it in the
vast, dark wilderness when it was not dreaming that even a single warrior
was near.
A great defeat they had suffered at Wareville the year before still stung,
and the spur of revenge was added to the spur of need. What they felt they
ought to do was exactly what they wanted to do, and they were full of
hope. They did not know that the stream flowing over the mountains, now so
small, was propelled by a tremendous force behind it, the great white race
always moving onward, and they expected nothing less than a complete
triumph.
Active warriors passed through the deep woods, bearing belts and messages.
Their faces were eager, and always they urged war. A long journey lay
before them, but the blow would be a master stroke. They were received
everywhere with joy and approval. The tomahawks were dug up, the war
dances were danced, the war songs sung, and the men began to paint their
faces and bodies for battle. A hum and a murmur ran through the
northwestern forests, the hum and murmur of preparation and hope. Only the
five, on their little island in the lake, yet heard this hum and murmur,
so ominous to the border, but they were ready to carry the message through
the wilderness to those to whom the warning meant the most.
* * * * *
The largest wagon train that had yet crossed the mountains into
_Kain-tuck-ee_ toiled slowly along the Wilderness Road among the
foothills, bearing steadily toward the Northwest. The line of canvas
covers stretched away more than a hundred in number, and contained five
hundred souls, of whom, perhaps, half were men and boys capable of bearing
arms, the rest women and children.
They looked upon mountain, hill and forest, river and brook, with much the
same eyes as those with which Henry and Paul had beheld them not so very
long before, but they were not seeking at random in the wilderness as the
Wareville people had done. No, they moved forward now to a certain mark.
They were to join their brethren at Wareville and Marlowe, and double the
strength of the settlements. Word had come to them over the mountains
that the little outposts in the vast wilderness lived and flourished, and
the country was good. Moreover, they and their strength were needed.
Wareville and Marlowe looked for them as eagerly as they looked for
Wareville and Marlowe.
Spring was deepening, and already had drawn its robe of green over all the
earth, but Daniel Poe, the commander of the wagon train, paid little
attention to its beauty. He was nearly sixty years of age, but in the very
prime of his strength--a great, square-shouldered man, his head and face
covered with thick, black beard. His eyes had their habitual look of
watchful care. They had seen no Indian sign as they crossed the mountains,
but he knew now that they were on the Dark and Bloody Ground, and the
lives of five hundred human beings were a heavy responsibility.
"You are sure the country is entirely safe?" he said to Dick Salter, one
of his guides.
"I don't know no reason to doubt it," replied Salter. "The savages don't
often get down here. The villages uv the northwestern tribes must be close
on to a thousand miles from here, an' besides they were beat off last
year, an' beat badly, when they tried to rush Wareville."
"That is so," said Daniel Poe thoughtfully; "we had word of it. But,
Dick, we can't afford to take all these people into danger here in the
woods. Look at the women and children."
They had just begun to stop for the night, and to draw the wagons into a
circle in a convenient, slightly hollowed, open place. The women and
children were trooping about upon the grass, and the air was filled with
the sound of merry voices. All were browned by the sun, but they were
healthy and joyous, and they looked forward with keen delight to meeting
kin who had gone on before at Wareville. They had no fear of the mighty
forests, when more than two hundred pairs of strong arms fenced them
about.
"That is shorely a pleasant sight," said Dick Salter. "I've seed the same
many evenin's, an' I hope to see it many more evenin's. We'll get 'em
through, Mr. Poe, we'll get 'em through!"
"I hope so," said Daniel Poe earnestly.
They had begun to light the evening fires, and in the west a great red sun
blazed just above the hills. Daniel Poe suddenly put his hand upon Dick
Salter's arm.
"Dick, what is that?" he said, pointing with a long forefinger.
A black silhouette had appeared on the crest of a hill in the very eye of
the sun, and Dick Salter, shading his brow with his hand, gazed long and
anxiously.
"It's a man," he said at last, "an' ef I'm any judge uv a human bein' it's
about the finest specimen uv a man that ever trod green grass. Look, Mr.
Poe!"
The figure, outlined against its brilliant background, seemed to grow and
come nearer. Others had seen now, and the whole wagon train gazed with
intent and curious eyes. They saw in the blazing light every detail of an
erect and splendid figure, evidently that of a youth, but tall beyond the
average of men. He was clad in forest garb--fringed hunting shirt and
leggings and raccoon-skin cap. He stood erect, but easily, holding by the
muzzle a long, slender-barreled rifle, which rested, stock upon the
ground. Seen there in all the gorgeous redness of the evening sunlight,
there was something majestic, something perhaps weird and unreal, in the
grand and silent figure.
"He's white, that's shore!" said Dick Salter.
"He looks like a wilderness god," murmured Daniel Poe, in his beard.
"Look!" exclaimed Dick Salter. "There's another!"
A second figure appeared suddenly beside the first, that of a youth, also,
not so tall as the first; but he, too, stood erect, silent and
motionless, gazing at the wagon train.
"And a third!" exclaimed Daniel Poe.
"And a fourth and fifth!" added Dick Salter. "See, there are five uv 'em!"
Three other figures had appeared, seeming to arise in the sunlight as if
by Arabian magic; and now all five stood there in a row, side by side,
everyone silent and motionless, and everyone holding by the muzzle a long,
slender-barreled rifle, its stock upon the ground, as he gazed at the
train.
A deep breath ran through the crowd of emigrants, and all--men, women, and
children--moved forward for a better look. There was something mysterious
and uncanny in this sudden apparition of the five there in the blazing
light of the setting sun, which outlined their figures in every detail and
raised them to gigantic proportions. On those hills only was light;
everywhere else the mighty curving wilderness, full of unknown terrors,
was already dark with the coming night.
"It is our omen of danger. I feel it, I feel it In every bone of me,"
murmured Daniel Poe into his great black beard.
"We must find out what this means, that's shore," said Dick Salter.
But as he spoke, the first figure, that of the great, splendid youth,
stepped right out of the eye of the sun, and he was followed in single
file by the four others, all stepping in unison. They came down the hill,
and directly toward the travelers. Again that deep breath ran through the
crowd of emigrants, and the chief note of it was admiration, mingled with
an intense curiosity.
All the five figures were strange and wild, sinewy, powerful, almost as
dark as Indians, their eyes watchful and wary and roving from side to
side, their clothing wholly of skins and furs, singular and picturesque.
They seemed almost to have come from another world. But Daniel Poe was
never lacking either in the qualities of hospitality or leadership.
"Friends," he said, "as white men--for such I take you to be--you are
welcome to our camp."
The first of the five, the great, tall youth with the magnificent
shoulders, smiled, and it seemed to Daniel Poe that the smile was
wonderfully frank and winning.
"Yes, we are white, though we may not look it," he said in a clear, deep
voice, "and we have come near a thousand miles to meet you."
"To meet us?" repeated Daniel Poe, in surprise, while Dick Salter, beside
him, was saying to himself, as he looked at one of the five: "Ef that
ain't Tom Ross, then I'll eat my cap."
"Yes," repeated Henry Ware, with the most convincing emphasis, "it's you
that we've come to meet. We belong at Wareville, although we've been far
in the North throughout the winter. My name is Henry Ware, this is Paul
Cotter, and these are Tom Ross, Sol Hyde, and Jim Hart. We must have a
word with you at once, where the others cannot hear."
Tom Ross and Dick Salter, old friends, were already shaking hands. Henry
Ware glanced at the emigrants pressing forward in a great crowd, and
sympathy and tenderness showed in his eyes as he looked at the eager,
childish faces so numerous among them.
"Will you keep them back?" he said to Daniel Poe. "I must speak to you
where none of those can hear."
Daniel Poe waved away the crowd, and then took a step forward.
"We have come," said Henry Ware, in low, intense tones, "to warn you that
you are going to be attacked by a great force of warriors, furnished by
the league of the northwestern tribes. They mean that you shall never
reach Wareville or Marlowe, to double the strength of those settlements.
They would have laid an ambush for you, but we have been among them and we
know their plans."
A shiver ran through the stalwart frame of Daniel Poe--a shiver of
apprehension, not for himself, but for the five hundred human lives
intrusted to his care. Then he steadied himself.
"We can fight," he said, "and I thank you for your warning; I cannot doubt
its truth."
"We will stay with you," said Henry Ware. "We know the signs of the
forest, and we can help in the battle that is sure to come, and also
before and after."
His voice was full of confidence and courage, and it sent an electric
thrill through the veins of Daniel Poe. Henry Ware was one of those
extraordinary human beings whose very presence seems to communicate
strength to others.
"We'll beat 'em off," said Daniel Poe sanguinely.
"Yes, we'll beat 'em off," said Henry Ware. Then he continued: "You must
tell all the men, and of course the women and children will hear of if,
but it's best to let the news spread gradually."
Daniel Poe went back with the messengers to the wagons, and soon it was
known to everybody that the Indians were laying an ambush for them all.
Some wails broke forth from the women, but they were quickly suppressed,
and all labored together to put the camp in posture of defense. The
strangers were among them, cheering them, and predicting victory if
battle should come. Paul, in particular, quickly endeared himself to them.
He was so hearty, so full of jests, and he quoted all sorts of scraps of
old history bearing particularly upon their case, and showing that they
must win if attacked.
"There was a race of very valiant people living a very long, long time
ago," he said, "who always made their armies intrench at night. Nobody
could take a Roman camp, and we've got to imitate those old fellows."
Under the guidance of Paul and his friends, the Roman principle was
followed, at least in part. The wagons were drawn up in a great circle in
an open space, where they could not be reached by a rifle shot from the
trees, and then more than two hundred men, using pick and spade, speedily
threw up an earthwork three feet high that inclosed the wagons. Henry Ware
regarded it with the greatest satisfaction.
"I don't know any Indian force," he said, "that will rush such a barrier
in the face of two or three hundred rifles. Now, Mr. Poe, you post guards
at convenient intervals, and the rest of you can take it easy inside."
The guards were stationed, but inside the ring of wagons many fires burned
brightly, and around them was a crowd that talked much, but talked low.
The women could not sleep, nor could the children, whose curiosity was
intensely aroused by the coming of these extraordinary-looking strangers.
The larger of the children understood the danger, but the smaller did not,
and their spirits were not dampened at all.
The night came down, a great blanket of darkness, in the center of which
the camp fires were now fused together into a cone of light. A few stars
came out in the dusky heavens, and twinkled feebly. The spring wind sighed
gently among the new leaves of the forest. The voices of women and
children gradually died. Some slept in blankets before the fires, and
others in the wagons, whose stout oak sides would turn any bullet.
Daniel Poe walked just outside the circle of the wagons, and his heart was
heavy with care. Yet he was upborne by the magnetic personality of Henry
Ware, who walked beside him.
"How far from us do you think they are now?" he asked.
"Fifty miles, perhaps, and they are at least a thousand strong. It was
their object to fall suddenly upon you in the dark, but when their scouts
find that you fortify every night, they will wait to ambush you on the
day's march."
"Undoubtedly," said Daniel Poe, "and we've got to guard against it as best
we can."
"But my comrades and I and Dick Salter will be your eyes," said Henry.
"We'll be around you in the woods, watching all the time."
"Thank God that you have come," said Daniel Poe devoutly. "I think that
Providence must have sent you and your friends to save us. Think what
might have happened if you had not come."
He shuddered. Before him came a swift vision of red slaughter--women and
children massacred in the darkness. Then his brave heart swelled to meet
the coming danger. The night passed without alarm, but Henry, Ross, and
Shif'less Sol, roaming far in the forest, saw signs that told them
infallibly where warriors had passed.
"The attack will come," said Henry.
"As sure as night follows day," said Ross, "an' it's our business to know
when it's about to come."
Henry nodded, and the three sped on in their great circle about the camp,
not coming in until a little before day, when they slept briefly before
one of the fires. When the people arose and found that nothing had
happened, they were light-hearted. Nothing had happened, so nothing would
happen, they said to themselves; they were too strong for the danger that
had threatened, and it would pass them by. Day was so much more cheerful
than night.
They ate breakfast, their appetites brisk in the crisp morning air, and
resumed the march. But they advanced slowly, the wagons in a close, triple
file, with riflemen on either side. But Daniel Poe knew that their chief
reliance now was the eyes of the five strangers, who were in the forest on
either side and in front. They had made a deep impression upon him, as
they had upon every other person with whom they came into contact. He had
the most implicit confidence in their courage, skill, and faith.
The wagons went slowly on through the virgin wilderness, Daniel Poe and
Dick Salter at their head, the riflemen all along the flanks.
"We'll strike a river some time to-morrow," said Salter. "It's narrow and
deep, and the ford will be hard."
"I wish we were safely on the other side," said Daniel Poe.
"So do I," said Dick Salter, and his tone was full of meaning.
Yet the day passed as the night had passed, and nothing happened. They had
safely crossed the mountains, and before them were gentle, rolling hills
and open forest. The country steadily grew more fertile, and often game
sprang up from the way, showing that man trod there but little. The day
was of unrivaled beauty, a cloudless blue sky overhead, green grass under
foot, and a warm, gentle wind always blowing from the south. How could
danger be threatening under such a smiling guise? But the "eyes" of the
train, which nothing escaped, the five who watched on every side, saw the
Indian sign again and again, and always their faces were grave.
"The train carries many brave men," said Henry, "but it will need every
one of them."
"Yes," said Tom Ross; "an' ef the women, too, kin shoot, so much the
better."
That night they encamped again in one of the openings so numerous
throughout the country, and, as before, they fortified; but the women and
children were getting over their fear. They were too strong. The Indians
would not dare to attack a train defended by three hundred marksmen--two
hundred and fifty men and at least fifty women who could and would shoot
well. So their voices were no longer subdued, and jest and laughter passed
within the circle of the wagons.
Paul remained by one of the fires, Henry and Shif'less Sol suggesting that
he do so because he was already a huge favorite with everybody. He was
sitting comfortably before the coals, leaning against a wagon wheel, and
at least a score of little boys and girls were gathered about him. They
wanted to know about the great wilderness, and the fights of himself and
his comrades with the red warriors. Paul, though modest, had the gift of
vivid narrative. He described Wareville, that snug nest there in the
forest, and the great battle before its wooden walls; how the women, led
by a girl, had gone forth for water; how the savages had been beaten off,
and the dreadful combat afterward in the forest through the darkness and
the rain. He told how he had been struck down by a bullet, only to be
carried off and saved by his comrade, Henry Ware--the bravest, the most
skillful, and the strongest hunter, scout, and warrior in all the West.
Then he told them something of their life in the winter just closed,
although he kept the secret of the haunted island, which was to remain the
property of his comrades and himself.
The children hung upon his words. They liked this boy with the brilliant
eyes, the vivid imagination, and the wonderful gift of narrative, that
could make everything he told pass before their very eyes.
"And now that's enough," said Paul at last. "You must all go to sleep, as
you are to start on your journey again early in the morning. Now, off with
you, every one of you!"
He rose, despite their protests, this prince of story tellers, and,
bidding them good-night, strolled with affected carelessness outside the
circle of wagons. The night was dark, like the one preceding, but the
riflemen were on guard within the shadows of the wagons.
"Do you see anything?" Paul asked of one.
"Nothing but the forest," he replied.
Paul strolled farther, and saw a dark figure among the trees. As he
approached he recognized Shif'less Sol.
"Any news, Sol?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the shiftless one, "we've crossed trails of bands three
times, but the main force ain't come up yet. I guess it means to wait a
little, Paul. I'm awful glad we've come to help out these poor women an'
children."
"So am I," said Paul, glancing at the black forest. "They've got to go
through a terrible thing, Sol."
"Yes, an' it's comin' fast," said the shiftless one.
But nothing happened that night, at least so far as the camp was
concerned. The sentinels walked up and down outside, and were not
disturbed. The women and children slept peacefully in the wagons, or in
their blankets before the fires, and the clear dawn came, silver at first
and then gold under a sky of blue.
The "eyes" of the train had come in as before, and taken their nap, and
now were up and watching once more. Breakfast over, the drivers swung
their whips, called cheerfully to their horses, and the wagons, again in
three close files, resumed the march.
"We'll strike the ford about noon to-day," said Dick Salter to Daniel Poe.
"I wish we were safely on the other side," said Daniel Poe, in the exact
words of the day before.
"So do I," repeated Dick Salter.
The wagons moved forward undisturbed, their wheels rolling easily over the
soft turf, and some of the women, forgetting their alarms, softly sang
songs of their old homes in the East. The children, eager to see
everything in this mighty, unknown land, called to each other; but all the
time, as they marched through the pleasant greenwood, danger was coming
closer and closer.