HOW BIG BLACK BURL FIGURED ON THE WAR-PATH BY NIGHT.
By this time the sun was almost down. Since early morning, not a morsel
of food had Burlman Reynolds tasted, excepting the solid inch of bacon
at dinner-time, which, as he had bolted it half unknown to himself at
the moment, and in his trouble of mind had long since forgotten, could
hardly have had more effect in breaking his fast than had he merely
dreamed of eating a meal. A gnawing sensation under his belt now began
to warn him that it was high time he should be ministering to the wants
of the inner man. Aware that while out on the war-path he could not
safely trust to the tell-tale rifle for procuring food, he had, with the
foresight of a true warrior, fortified himself against future need, by
slipping into his ammunition-pouch, on quitting the fort, a double
handful of jerked venison. So, making answer at last to the call of
hunger--sons of Ebony are not wont to be tardy in answering such
calls--he drew out his prog, and without abating his speed, lest time be
lost, ministered to the inner man as he walked along. Nor did his
four-footed comrade-in-arms--who had an inner man also, or rather inner
dog, to be ministered to likewise--fail to receive a liberal share of
the store in hand. What was offered him, Grumbo took and ate grimly,
without any show of relish or satisfaction--merely, so it would seem, as
something not to be well dispensed with under the circumstances; perhaps
as a valuable means to the end they jointly had in view.
Our two adventurers had not finished their pedestrian supper till the
sun was set and twilight stealing on apace, deepening with its
glimmering shades the dusky shadows of the wilderness. Soon it was too
dark for the trail to be seen; nevertheless, they pushed on with
unabated speed, the hunter following his dog, the dog following his
nose. A dog's nose may be followed, and nobody made the victim of
misplaced confidence; and this is more than can be said of a man's nose,
which is always sure to be at fault from a cold, or out of joint in some
way, when the owner has nothing better to guide him.
The black hunter now moved with greater circumspection--lest stumbling
upon the enemy unawares, thus warning them of their danger, he should
cheat himself of the chances of war, which he could hope to hold in his
favor so long as he had concealment and secrecy on his side. So, while
the dog followed the invisible trail, he followed the scarcely visible
dog--kept a sharp lookout about him, expecting every moment to catch the
gleam of the Indian camp-fire from among the trees. But, as if to render
security doubly secure, the savages seemed bent on making a long day's
tramp of it, before allowing themselves to halt for refreshment and
repose.
At length the night was full upon them, with no light to guide them
through those trackless solitudes save the feeble glimmer of the stars
through the openings in the tree-tops; still not a sign of the flying
foe, whose unseen trail went evermore winding wearily on through the
tangled wilds. Now and then, from some distant quarter of the forest,
were to be heard the howling of wolves, abroad on their nightly hunt.
Then from an opposite quarter, but nearer, the dismal whoopings of the
horned owl would send their quavering echoes creeping among the
tree-tops, which, swaying to the night winds, filled the air with
noises, like half-formed whispers in the ear. Then the shrill cry of
the dingle-ambushed panther would ring out through the black stillness,
like the shriek of a terrified woman.
At one time, hardly had these sounds of evil omen died away, when, on a
sudden, there started up before them a tall shape, with long arms
outstretched, and all of a ghastly whiteness. The black giant stopped
short, fixedly staring before him--all in an instant weak as a
limber-jack, the whites of his eyes showing through the dark like
half-moons. The thing, there dimly seen in the dusk of the overhanging
trees, was, as superstitious fancy pictured it to the eyes of Burlman
Reynolds, the ghost of a white hunter who had been murdered and scalped
in that lonely spot by the barbarous Indians, and now, in his cold, cold
winding-sheet, was lingering around his bones, till some kind soul
should come along that way and give the precious relics Christian
burial.
Now, had Burlman Reynolds taken the second thought, he might have known
that, even had a white man been murdered there, and left on top of the
ground, his ghost would hardly be so unreasonable as to choose an hour
so unseasonable for making such an appeal to the living in behalf of the
bones; seeing it would be impossible to find the bones in the darkness,
covered up as they must be by leaves and grass, as bones usually are
under the circumstances--perhaps scattered far and wide by the wolves,
as bones are apt to be, if left exposed to ravenous animals of the kind.
All this, not to mention the slender likelihood that any one should be
coming along that way with a spade and pick-ax, at that time of night,
and so far from the settlements. Further, had Burlman Reynolds taken the
third thought, he might have known that even had the ghost of a slain
hunter been encountered then and there, he should be found taking his
nightly airing in a buckskin hunting-shirt, rather than in a
winding-sheet; woven fabrics of all kinds being still very scarce and
dear in the Paradise, Irish linen especially. Though the saying was
often in his mouth, Burlman Reynolds did sometimes fail to bear in mind
that "dare's reason in all things." But soon bethinking him of his usual
shift for reaessurance on such occasions--his touch-stone, so to
speak--Burl turned to note what impression this grizzly shade of the
night was making on the steadfast mind of Grumbo. The dog was composedly
waiting for him a few yards in advance; his nose, that infallible index
of what was in the wind, turned straight before him in the direction of
real dangers, not of imaginary horrors, which--let them be met with
where they might--were rather to be sneezed at than sniffed at. Whereat
the black giant picked up heart enough to pick up a club and fling it at
the ghastly apparition, half expecting to see the missile pass through
without impediment, as missiles are wont to do under circumstances of
the kind. But the club was cheeked by substance as solid as itself, the
result being a sounding thump. Thereupon, eyes and ears comparing notes,
it was discovered that the thing of dread was nothing more than the
twisted and splintered stump of a storm-felled hickory-tree, the white
sap-wood whereof had been stripped of its bark by lightning.
"Pshaw! what a fool you is anyhow, Burlman Rennuls!" cried the Fighting
Nigger, fetching the individual addressed a heavy blow of the fist on
the breast. "Sich a everlastin' ol' fool, always a gittin' our nose out
o' j'int somehow, you don't know how; an' skeerin' at somethin' you
don't know what, that even a dog won't stop to smell at. Git out an' g'
'long!" And smarting under this stinging rebuke, the unlucky Burlman
Reynolds hastened to rejoin his dog, who, doubtless, was wondering why
his two-footed comrade should all on a sudden become so intensely
interested in a splintered stump.
Just here, I am reminded to say a few words with regard to a certain
trait in our hero's character--a trait not unfrequently to be noticed in
men of his color, but which, so far as I am aware, has never been made
matter of particular comment. Viewing himself from a point within
himself, Big Black Burl was wont to look at himself as made up of two
distinct individuals, who though having their home in the same body,
using the same limbs, and taking their observations of the outward world
through the same senses, were yet in his eyes quite different each from
the other. One of these individuals was called the "Fighting Nigger,"
the other went by the name of "Burlman Reynolds." The Fighting Nigger
was a man of great distinction, Burlman Reynolds a fellow of small
repute. When the two distinguished themselves, the Fighting Nigger
claimed the lion's share of the glory; but when they disgraced
themselves, then Burlman Reynolds must take the dog's share of the
blame. Now, this petting and humoring had spoiled the Fighting Nigger
not a little, making him arrogant and overbearing with his humbler self,
even to the extent at times of a threat to kick him bodily out-of-doors.
But Burlman Reynolds, the best-natured fellow in the world, perfectly
understood what all this fuming and puffing meant, and only laughed in
his sleeve thereat, knowing as well as anybody that after all the
Fighting Nigger was very much of a big humbug.
Hardly had they recovered their wonted balance after this, the mere
shade of an adventure, when the Fighting Nigger and Burlman Reynolds
were again brought to a stand by an apparition of quite a different
complexion. Less than twenty yards above them, on the side of a hill
they were now ascending, stood a dense thicket of low bushes, the ragged
edge of which showed in dim relief against the sky. Suddenly had risen
and vanished, and now suddenly rose and vanished again, what appeared to
be the plumed crests of three Indians, who were watching the black
hunter's approach, by fitful glimpses, from behind their place of
ambush. Dodging to one side behind a tree, the black giant cocked his
gun and planted himself firm and square on his moccasins, this time as
strong and sturdy from head to foot as a black-jack oak. These real
dangers, that might be met and vanquished with powder, lead, and steel,
had far less terrors for the Fighting Nigger than such empty shades of
the night as but now had sprung out at him from the foggy fancy of
Burlman Reynolds. But quickly bethinking himself again of his dog, his
touch-stone in every emergency where his own senses were at fault, he
cautiously peeped out from behind the tree. Perceiving again that Grumbo
was waiting for him with wonted composure, as if there was nothing in
the wind to sniff at, the Fighting Nigger was reaessured, convinced that
the eyes and fancy of Burlman Reynolds had played him another trick.
What he had seen proved in reality nothing more than a leafy shrub,
swayed up and down by the night winds.
For many minutes past, the unseen trail had been leading them up the
brushy side of a long, slow hill, to whose summit a few more weary steps
now brought them. Here, for the first time since the chase had begun,
the brindled dog came to a halt of his own accord--stopping short, with
a deep, heavy growl, scarce louder than the purr of a panther. Burl
looked before him and caught from afar the glimmer of a camp-fire,
burning on the summit of an opposite hill. They had, indeed, at last
come up with the flying foe, but under circumstances far less favorable
to the execution of his plans than he had all along been proposing to
himself. The camp-fire was blazing brightly, as if it bad just been
kindled, or replenished with fresh fuel. Around it the savages were
moving to and fro, as could be seen by the shadows of their bodies cast
by the light, and, so far from having betaken themselves to rest, were
chatting away in high good humor, as might be guessed from their peals
of laughter borne faintly to the ear from over the valley lying dark and
deep between.
Aware that as matters stood at present the odds would be too largely
against him to allow of his bringing his adventure to a crisis just
then, Burl wisely resolved to wait till the savages, overcome at last by
fatigue, should yield themselves up to sleep--when, according to the
plan already cast in his mind, he would steal upon them, and by the
light of their own fire dispatch them with hatchet and knife, as
noiselessly as might be, one after another in quick succession, before
they could awake. But in order to fortify himself against desperate
resistance, should it come, he would himself take a little refreshment
and repose, the need of which, now that the long chase had come to a
pause, he felt beginning to press sorely upon him; accordingly, he
retired within the shadow of a spreading elm, which offered in its thick
foliage shelter from the dews of night, and in its mossy roots pillowing
for his head. Here, placing himself on the ground with his back against
the tree, he ate a few more slices of the jerked venison--Grumbo, of
course, receiving a comrade's share. Then, stretching his huge length
along the ground and bidding his dog stand sentinel while he slept, he
composed himself to rest--not doubting, son of Ebony though he was, but
that he could easily rouse himself before day-break, when, God willing,
he would work deliverance to his little master. And there lay Big Black
Burl asleep on his war-path.