HOW BIG BLACK BURL FIGURED IN AMBUSH.
Bidding Grumbo follow, our hero once more set his face point-blank to
his adventure. Keeping a sharp eye on the enemy's height, he begun
making his way down the gulley into the valley--screening his movements,
as best he might, where the gulley was too shallow to conceal him, by
walking along in a stooping posture behind the weeds, or creeping along
upon his belly through the grass; Grumbo, with great circumspection,
doing likewise. In a surprisingly short time, considering this somewhat
inconvenient mode of getting over ground, they had made their way to the
hither bank of the river. But here they found themselves once more
brought to a stand. Directly in front, as Burl ascertained by throwing
in a pebble and noting the length of time between its sinking and the
bubble's rising, the stream was almost, if not quite, six feet deep. To
wade across, then go in battle with his garments all soaked and heavy
with water--a serious hinderance, as this must be, to the free and
lightsome play of his limbs--were but to give the nimble foe yet another
advantage over him, desperate being the odds already. To be sure, not
more than a hundred yards below the river was so shallow as to ripple
over the rocks, where he might easily make the fording all but dry-shod.
But there he would be in open view of the Indians, should they chance to
be looking that way; whereas, by making the passage from where he was
standing, he could throw between himself and them a small cane-brake,
which crowned the opposite bank a short distance above. Far rather had
the Fighting Nigger gone into the dance of death, rigged out in all his
martial bravery--his moccasins, his bear-skin leggins, his bear-skin
hunting-shirt, his bear-skin war-cap, and his war-belt with its gleaming
death-steel--guise so well beseeming the Big Black Brave with a bushy
head. But in a game so desperate, with objects so precious and dear at
stake, the indulgence of so small a vanity were another thought not
worth the second thinking. Therefore did the magnanimous Burl dismantle
himself at once. Aware that, in the coming contest, he should barely
have time to let fly the single bullet already in his rifle, when he
must take to his hatchet and knife, and that thereafter his powder-horn
and ammunition-pouch would be but hindering encumbrances, he divested
himself of these appendages, also laying with them his moccasins,
leggins, and hunting-shirt, in a pile together on the river bank. The
next moment, with Grumbo swimming, hand over hand, close at his side, he
was half way across the river, with nothing of him visible above the
dimpled surface but his enormous bear-skin cap, and his right arm
holding Betsy Grumbo high aloft to keep her priming dry.
The passage swimmingly effected, our two adventurers made their
reaeppearance on the opposite bank, with their bulky dimensions brought
down by their wetting to somewhat lanker proportions--Grumbo with his
shaggy coat buttoned close about him, Burl with his buckskin shirt and
breeches clinging clammily to his body and limbs. But of his martial
rigging, the war-belt, with his tomahawk and hunting-knife, still
remained; the bear-skin war-cap, too, which once rammed down firmly upon
his head was never to quit that place, saving with the scalp it covered,
or with the successful winding up of his adventure.
Between him and the mouth of the glen lay a narrow strip of bottom land,
the crossing of which, overhung as it was by the very nose of the
enemy's lookout, would demand his utmost caution and address. Again
availing themselves of gully, weeds, and grass, to screen their
movements, and making their way through them as before, they succeeded
at length in gaining, undiscovered, the shelter of the glen. Here, under
the overhanging hill, Burl could walk upright, and that for the first
time since quitting the opposite rim of the valley, if we may except
when chin-deep in water he was fording the river. Down the glen, with
twisted current winding crookedly among the rocks, came bubbling a
little brook, thus serving to muffle the sound of the black hunter's
footsteps, as now with swift and powerful strides he ascended into the
depths of the hills. When he came to where the two ravines united to
form the larger glen, he took the more easterly one, which, as before
remarked, led up to a dingle just under the height where the Indians
were camped. For some distance back the trees and bushes, reaeppearing,
had grown gradually thicker and thicker, till here they shagged the side
of the hill with deep and tangled shade. So Burl found the covert which
he had promised himself for a place of ambush--a shade profound as
night, through which, with snake-like secrecy, he could crawl to within
hissing distance of the enemy, and before discovery all but bite his
heel.
"Down, Grumbo!" said the black hunter in a deep under-tone to his dog,
not daring to trust him further in the adventure till he had brought it
to the critical edge. "You wait here tell you hears me holler, den come
a-pitchin', an' let yo'se'f in like de bery ol' Scratch, an' no stoppin'
to smell noses. Do you hear?"
The sagacious animal, as if perfectly understanding what was said to
him, and what his part of the work in hand was to be, crouched down like
a lion in the dark shadows of the dingle, there to wait until he should
hear his master's call. Then tightening his belt to make his knife and
hatchet more secure, and reassuring himself that Betsy Grumbo was in
tip-top "bitin' order," our hero addressed himself to the scaling of the
enemy's height. Half the ascent accomplished brought him almost to the
brow of the hill, where its slower slope abruptly ended in the steep
acclivity which he had just scaled, and here he could distinguish a
faint murmur of voices from above. He was slowly bringing himself over
the turn between precipice and slope, when a large stone, from which but
now he had lifted his foot, supposing it to be the projecting corner of
a ledge, slid slowly from its earthly socket, and with resounding din
went rolling down the steep. Whereat the murmur of voices above him
suddenly ceased, but with admirable presence of mind, while yet the
excited echoes were noising the thing from hill to hill, the black
hunter, to mislead the minds of the Indians as to the cause of the
uproar, mimicked the snarling growl of a wolf. Then he lay perfectly
still for several moments, not daring to venture farther till assured
that his cunning device had succeeded. After a brief space of silence,
which seemed to be spent in listening, the murmur of voices above him
recommenced, when he likewise recommenced his stealthy approaches. When
he had advanced so far as to be no longer able to walk upright without
risk of discovery, he threw himself prone on the ground, and like a
black-snake went crawling along on his belly, inch by inch, foot by
foot, yard by yard, warily, noiselessly, slowly--his rifle laid along
the hollow of his back. Thus painfully had he worked his way for more
than forty yards, when he found himself, almost unawares, at the very
edge of his covert. Here, peering through the leafy chinks, he could
plainly see the enemy, whose footsteps he had so long been dogging.
Yes, there they were--the three Indians--not twenty paces from Betsy
Grumbo's muzzle. Breakfast by this time ended, they were composedly
smoking their pipes, and, for Indians, chatting away quite socially, as
if in no hurry to be off on their day's tramp. The giant--for such in
fact he proved to be--whose foot-prints Burl had so gravely scanned
along the trail, was sitting on the ground at the foot of a tree; while
over against him, with the now smoldering camp-fire between, were his
two comrades, seated on opposite ends of a log. A little to one side lay
a slain buck, upon whose flesh they had supped the evening before and
breakfasted this morning. Against the log, leant side by side, between
the two smaller Indians, rested their three rifles; while their
hatchets, of which they had freed themselves to be the more at their
ease, were sticking deeply sunk into the tree above the giant's
head--their scalping-knives being the only weapons retained about their
persons. The giant, a savage of terrible aspect, was dressed in complete
Indian costume--his robe being richly decorated with bead-work and
stained porcupine quills, and where it showed a seam or border was
fringed with scalp-locks, brown, flaxen, and red, as well as
black--taken by his own hand from the heads of his enemies--the last
_agony_, doubtless, as the fashions had it among the swells in his
quarter of the world. Similar to this, excepting the _agony_, and that
it was newer and fresher, was the dress worn by the Indian who occupied
the farther end of the log; and when we add that the heads of both were
all waving with the gorgeous plumage of the eagle, we can easily fancy
that the appearance of these two must have been rather splendid and
imposing. Quite the reverse, however, as regarded the third savage, who
in a recent foray into the white settlements, having contrived to get
his pilfering hands on a new broadcloth coat, with bright metal buttons,
and a ruffled shirt, had added these two pieces of civilized finery to
his Indian gear--thus imparting to his whole appearance, which had else
been wild, at least, and picturesque, an air exceedingly raw,
repulsive, and shabby. To be sure, inharmoniousness of contrast was
beginning to be a little subdued by the dirt and grease of the wearer's
own laying on, the coat being no longer glossy and sky-blue, the shirt
no longer starchy and snow-white. Yet, notwithstanding his love for
Christian finery, the red heathen could hardly have had much love for
Christian people, as was evident from the fairhaired scalps which hung
at his girdle; and altogether he was as ugly and ferocious-looking a
barbarian as you would care to encounter on your war-path, should glory
ever lead you to travel such a road.
But Bushie--where was poor little Bushie all this time? Bound hand and
foot to a tree hard by, with scarcely freedom sufficient to draw his
breath or wink his eyes, his face all blanched with the despair of a
captive awaiting, in agonizing suspense, the hour of final and terrible
doom--all as dismal apprehension had been picturing it for the last
eighteen hours to the distressingly ingenious fancy of Burlman Reynolds?
O by no means! True it was, our little master was there, and a captive.
True, that since our last glimpse of him, where perched he sat on the
topmost rail of the corn-field fence back yonder, he had taken many a
pitiful, heart-broken cry, whenever the loved faces and familiar sights
of home had risen with sudden vividness before his remembrance. But just
at this moment, having followed up a sound night's sleep with a hearty
breakfast of venison, he seemed, like the healthy, stout-hearted urchin
he was, to have made up his mind not only to look, but keep, on the
bright side of things--the best way in the world of dodging the "slings
and arrows of outrageous fortune." Without the mark of a buffalo-thong
on ankle or wrist, to tell of captivity, the little man was running
about the hill, to all appearance as he list--his moving shadow dodging
hither and thither, as if it were a long-legged, short-bodied goblin
quizzically mocking his motions, or playing at hide-and-seek with him
among the trees and bushes. But Burl observed that the dear little
fellow, though left to his freedom, never came nigh the giant, nor the
grim savage in the ruffled shirt and blue coat, but always kept nearest
to him who sat on the further end of the log--the youngest of the three
Indian, quite youthful indeed, and of form and face exceedingly pleasing
and noble. In fact, between the young brave and the little captive a
friendly and familiar understanding seemed to have sprung up already;
for while the giant and other savage talked together, these two kept up
a lively confab between themselves, which, as neither could understand a
word the other was saying, must have been highly entertaining and
edifying to both. A few minutes before, while playing about the hill,
Bushie had found an old stone hatchet, and picking it up, had brought it
to his red friend to have him fit a handle to it, which the young brave,
with mingled pity and good humor, was now busy in doing--the edifying
interchange of thought and sentiment never ceasing for a moment. Had
Burl needed any further proof of the gentle, even indulgent kindness
with which his little master had been treated--at least by the young
Indian--there it was to be seen in the little coon-skin cap, stuck
thicker than even the giant's scalp-lock with the gorgeous plumes of the
war-bird.
All this, that has taken so long to describe, it took Burl but a glance
of the eye to discern, and as quickly to form his plan of attack. In the
first place, he must, with the one bullet already in his gun, dispatch
the two Indians who sat on the log. This advantage gained, he should, he
felt confident, then be able to cope with the giant on equal terms, full
six inches taller though he seemed to be where he sat just there, so
composedly smoking his war-pipe--not to mention his being freshly
victualed withal. But in order to deal this double blow, he needs must
shift his ground, so as to bring himself on a line with the two smaller
Indians--a movement, which to execute under the very skirts of a
quick-eared foe, would put him up to all the cunning and skill he was
master of. Nevertheless, for the sake of the great advantage it might
give him, he would risk the attempt. Between where he was and the point
he must gain the thicket was thin; so, silently, slowly, he backed
himself--feet foremost--into his covert again, thrice his length or
more, then veering away to the right, he began--head foremost--making
his second approach. On regaining the edge of the thicket, he found the
savages as he had left them, five minutes before--the two smaller
Indians on the log, and now on the same dead-line with himself--so
nicely had he calculated the distances. Then taking his gun from his
back--where all this time it had lain--he raised himself slowly to one
knee, and cautiously thrusting his weapon through the leafy twigs before
him, took deliberate aim at the body of the grim savage. His finger was
already on the trigger, ready to give the fatal pull, when Bushie
plumped himself down on the log beside the young Indian, thus bringing
his own little body in the same line with the deadly missile, which in
an instant more would have come whizzing out of the thicket. With a
disappointed shake of the head Burl slowly lowered his piece, to wait
till the little boy, led by his wayward humor, should quit the perilous
seat. But, becoming the more interested in what was doing for his
amusement--now that the hatchet was nearly ready for him--Bushie seemed
in no haste to quit the place. What if the savages should shift their
position?--then indeed the signal advantage he now held, and had been at
so much pains and had run so much risk to secure, would be lost, and the
Fighting Nigger again reduced to desperate straits. Would the boy never
move? And waiting and watching, Big Black Burl lay close in ambush.