THE TWO SCOUTS.
On this same morning another fire had been kindled for the preparation
of breakfast. This one is, at least, a mile below the Indian encampment,
and, unlike the latter, is close to the bank of the river, where the
rufescent flames cast a reddish light upon the water. Hemmed in on three
sides by a semi-circular ledge of rocks, this fire can not be seen
from any other point than the river in front, or its opposite shore.
And the author of it has shown his slyness, and knowledge of Indian
perspicacity, by using the material that causes the smoke to become
very nearly invisible by the time it reaches the hight of the rock. As
we have intimated, the fourth side of the glen opens toward the river,
and the least experienced in wild life could not but be struck with the
appropriateness for a camping-ground, or a place of concealment from the
savages.
It is used for both this morning. There is but one man in the glen, a
grizzled old hunter, whose stature and general appearance approach the
gigantic, and he sits quietly by his fire, busily engaged in roasting a
wild duck. The man is Kirby Kidd. This we instantly observe as we look
upon his honest brown face, with its clear, penetrating eyes, long,
shaggy beard, and its expression of candor, simplicity and good humor.
A disposition of kindness and plain truthfulness is one of Kirby Kidd’s
characteristics, and it is ever reflected, not only in his countenance,
but also in his words and deeds, winning the love of all whom he meets on
a friendly footing. As he sits on the ground with his trusty rifle lying
across his lap, preparing his morning meal with that skill that can only
be the result of experience, he frequently lifts his head and darts a
glance at the opening in the rocks, so searching that nothing within its
scope escapes notice. True, he might do this at any other time, through
force of habit, but on this occasion a keen observer would detect more
than ordinary anxiety in his look.
“Time Wapawah was back,” mutters the ranger, at last. “He went away
before daylight, an’ said he wouldn’t be gone long, but the sun’s up now,
and still he don’t show his noddle. Mold me into buckshot ef ’tain’t
beginnin’ to look a trifle suspicious! Maybe the cuss have poked his mug
into some sort of a diffikilty, an needs the ’sistance o’ these arms,
while I’m a-setting hyur as cool as a cowcumber in Jinawary, toastin’
this duck fur the good o’ my stummick. A cuter red don’t walk the ’arth,
I allow, but thar’s times when the oldest on ’em gets hauled in. Bah! I
might gab in that strain from now till the world comes to an eend, an’
I’d never make myself believe the cuss could be so blind as to put his
foot in a trap. In course thar’s Injun sign ev’rywhar jest now, but that
don’t signify danger to him. Sunkthin’ different from that keeps him
away, bet my skulp on’t, an’ when he does kum he’ll have a chapter o’
news to relate, or I miss my guess. I wonder whar Nick Robbins are, ’bout
this time? He! he! ho! That ’ar coon’s sharper’n a steel-trap, an’ he’s
did first rate so fur, but I’m a leetle afeard he’s goin’ too fast to
succeed. Time’ll show, howsomever, an’ ef I ain’t powerful mistook the
thing will kum out all right in the eend. Wish the Injun ’ud return. I
ain’t oneasy, ’cause he knowed the woods wur full o’ _sign_ ’fore he went
out, an’ it don’t stan’ to reason ’ut he’ll be keerless; but then I want
to hear what he’s l’arned.”
The fowl being by this time well roasted, the scout now removes it from
the ramrod, which serves for a spit, and falls to devouring it with a
keen relish.
But he had scarcely commenced this when, with the quickness of thought,
he drops the duck and snatches up his rifle. At the same time he turns
his piercing eyes toward the river, as if trying to see something that is
not there. What he hears is only a low ripple in the water—or a sound,
rather, as of a fish leaping above the surface—but the experienced
ear of Kirby Kidd does not recognize it as such. He sits still and
listens, with his gun pushed forward ready to leap to his shoulder on a
second’s notice. Soon the smothered croak of a bull-frog, three times
in succession, comes from the water’s edge. Instantly the hunter’s face
brightens up with a gleam of recognition, and, running his fingers across
his lips while he whistles, he thrills forth a soft imitation of the
robin’s song.
Now a tufted head rises slowly into view, followed by the body of
an Indian. The savage slips lightly up on the bank, without further
hesitation, and walks toward the fire with a graceful, dignified step,
exhibiting a form of faultless mold and muscular development.
It is Wapawah, the friend and companion of the white hunter.
“Wal, chief,” says the ranger, “ye’ve been gone long ’nough to l’arn how
the ground lies outside o’ this hole. Cuss me, ef I hadn’t begun to think
some bloody cuss had tuck a notion to them feathers o’ yourn.”
“Me busy,” replied the Wyandott, briefly.
“Sartin ye wur. Mought knowed nothin’ else ’ud keep you away, arter
sayin’ ye’d be back in a hurry. Thar’s Injuns around, but ye’re an Injun
yerself, an’ sharp enough to keep out o’ thar clutches, I take it. But
how did ye succeed, chief? I s’pose the party reached the island in
safety long ’fore mornin’?”
“Yes—dey all dere.”
“Did ye go over to the island?”
Wapawah nods his head.
“Did, eh? Found ’em all safe, too? How many be they?”
Wapawah holds up both hands with the fingers extended, signifying ten.
Then, by doubling down all but the index finger on the left hand, he
reduces the number to six.
“Sixteen in all,” says the ranger, who understands the Indian’s signs
perfectly, “sixteen in all. Thar’s jest one more’n I thort they wur.
Who’s the sixteenth pusson?”
“He the Yankee,” replies the Indian, the faintest shadow of a smile
flitting across his dusky visage.
“The Yankee!” repeats the white man, in some surprise. “He! he! ho! are
_he_ with ’em?”
“Yes.”
“Wal, that’s more’n I s’pected he’d do. Don’t like to see the chap git so
bold. Did ye tell ’em we wur goin’ to j’ine ’em?”
“Yes; told we stay with ’em all day.”
“Guess we’d better about it, then. D’ye see this roasted bird, chief? Big
’nough to fill us both, ain’t it? Help yerself, an’ let us be off ’thout
any unneedcessary waste o’ time.”
“Wait,” interrupts the Indian. “Got more to tell—let Kidd listen.”
“Got more to tell!” The scout drops the duck again. “Out with it, then.
What more have ye see’d?”
“Injuns,” is the calm reply. “Me see band of Injuns—on war-path—all hab
guns—some hab pale-faces’ scalp.”
“Whar did ye see ’em?”
The warrior points up the river.
“Now, mold me into buckshot, ef this ain’t gittin’ interestin’. D’ye know
what tribe the Injuns belong to?”
“Wyandott.”
“Some o’ yer own fellers, be they? What are they ’way down hyur fur?
Reckon, though, they’ve come down on one o’ thar maraudin’ tramps, durn
thar ugly picters.”
“De chief, he no Wyandott,” continues the Indian; “he not red-man, ’tall.
He long-knife.”
“Led by a white man, be they?”
“Yes—Simon Girty!”
“Mold me into buckshot!” Kirby Kidd rises to his feet with this
ejaculation. “Yer don’t mean ter tell me Simon Girty are the leader o’
the war-party ye’re talkin’ ’bout?”
“Dat what Wapawah say—Wapawah know Simon Girty well—see him much time at
Sandusky.”
Kirby Kidd made no reply to this, but, relapsing into a thoughtful mood,
leans on his rifle and gazes fixedly into the fire. At length he arouses
himself from his reverie, and says:
“Chief, yer knows as well as I that them folks on the island are in a
powerful sight o’ danger, ef that renegade, Girty, are circ’latin’ in
these parts on the war-path.”
“Wapawah knows,” affirms the Indian.
“Wal, then, the sooner we add our two selves to the party the better
it’ll be for them. How many reds did yer see, countin’ Girty?”
The Indian explains with his fingers, signifying thirty-two.
“The number o’ our enemies is less’n I s’posed,” the ranger resumes, “but
we’ll do no harm by j’inein’ of ’em, so’t we kin help ’em git ready to
meet an attack. Reckon the reds know they’re thar?”
“No, t’ink not. Hear dem talk—dey say nothing ’bout long-knives—t’ink dey
don’t know where dey be.”
“Then ye may bet yer moccasins ’ut they won’t be long findin’ out.
They’ll cross the river in the vicinity o’ the island, won’t they?”
“No; dey ’bove de island—heap ’bove it—half mile, guess.”
“So fur? Maybe they will miss it, then. If they does, so much better fur
our friends, but, in any case, I can’t help thinkin’ we ort to be among
’em. Come, chief; let’s eat quick an’ be off.”
When the two scouts have done justice to the roast duck, they at once
enter their bark canoe, which they always keep concealed at this place,
and begin to guide it toward the island, that lies about half a mile
distant up the river.