IN GREAT PERIL.
Deerfoot the Shawanoe had drawn his arrow to the head and was in the
very act of launching it at the Wyandot who was advancing on Ned
Preston, when he saw that it was unnecessary.
The puff of blue smoke from one of the portholes, the whiplike crack
of the Kentuckian's rifle, the death-shriek of the warrior, as he
staggered back and dropped to the earth, told the startling story too
plainly to be mistaken.
With the faintest possible sigh, the dusky youth relaxed the tension
on the string, but he still leaned forward and peered through the
bushes, for the danger was not yet past. He more than suspected the
needle-pointed shaft would have to be sent after the second Indian who
pressed the lad so close; but, as the reader knows, Ned Preston darted
through the entrance in the very nick of time, just escaping the
tomahawk which whizzed over his head and buried itself half way to
the head in the solid puncheon slabs of the door.
"Deerfoot thanks the Great Spirit of the white men," the Indian youth
muttered, looking reverently upward, "that his brother, whom he loves
more than his own life, is unharmed."
The young Shawanoe felt that no time was to be lost in attending to
his own safety. More than likely some one of the Wyandots had caught
sight of the arrow, as it sailed through the air, with its important
message, and the meeting of the previous day told him he was regarded
with suspicion already.
He saw no Indians near him and he cautiously retreated in the
direction of the river, which flowed only a short distance from him.
The bushes and undergrowth, although they had lost most of their
leaves, served him well as a screen, and, when he had advanced three
or four rods to the northward, he began to feel more hopeful, though,
it need scarcely be said, he did not relax his extraordinary caution
in the least.
His purpose was to follow the river bank, until he had passed beyond
the surrounding Wyandots, after which it would be an easy matter to
make his way to Wild Oaks, with the news of the sore extremity of the
block-house. It was reasonable to believe that Waughtauk and his
warriors would guard every point much more closely than the Licking
directly in front of the station, for the one hundred yards of open
clearing made it impossible for any person to approach or leave the
building in the daytime, without exposing himself to a raking fire,
before reaching a point as close as that attained by Ned Preston and
Blossom Brown, when they were checked by the two warriors.
Deerfoot, therefore, was warranted in thinking he had selected the
least guarded point, though he could not be sure of success, after the
discharge of the arrow through the narrow window.
The few rods were passed as noiselessly as the hand of the clock
creeps over its face, when the Shawanoe became aware that he was close
to several Wyandots. He had not seen them, but that strange subtlety,
or intuition, which in some human beings seems like a sixth sense,
told him of the fact.
He immediately sank flat on his face, and, by an imperceptible effort,
continued to advance toward the warriors, at a much slower rate than
before. Ten feet were passed in this guarded fashion, when he stopped:
he had learned enough.
Between himself and the top of the bank, where it was level with the
clearing, was less than twelve feet. This space sloped irregularly
downward to the edge of the stream, and it was covered in many places
by a rank undergrowth, which, when bearing leaves, would have been an
effectual screen for an Indian or wild animal.
Besides this scraggly vegetation, there were logs, limbs and debris of
freshets that had been brought down the river and had collected along
the shores. This will explain why it was that such extreme caution was
required on the part of any one who sought to avoid detection.
When Deerfoot stopped, he was at a point from which he saw three
Wyandots, each with a gun in his hand, gazing over the clearing in the
direction of the block-house. They seemed to be intently occupied, but
no living person could pass between them and the river, which almost
touched the feet of one, without discovery.
It was utterly useless to look for escape in that direction, and
without a minute's pause, the young Shawanoe worked his way back to
where he was standing when he used his bow, wondering as he did so,
why the twang of the string had not caught the ears of the Wyandots so
near him.
He now turned about, so as to face up stream, and tried what might be
called the only recourse left. If he was shut off in that direction,
he was in the worst dilemma of his life.
An almost incredible experience awaited him, for at about the same
distance as before, he discovered he was near others of his enemies,
as he was compelled to regard the Wyandots. Rather curiously, when he
advanced far enough to look through the bushes, he once more discerned
three of them.
They were bestowing most of their attention on the block-house, and
one of them discharged his gun toward it, their friends further down
the river doing the same.
Deerfoot was somewhat closer to them than to the others, for
fortunately he found a partly decayed log, lying directly across his
path, and he used this as a partial screen, though by doing so, he
increased the difficulty of his withdrawal, should it suddenly become
necessary.
The young Shawanoe had scarcely secured the position, when the
warriors began talking in their own tongue, which was as familiar to
Deerfoot as his own.
He was so close that he did not lose a single word of the
conversation, which, as may be suspected, was of no little interest to
himself.
"The pale-face is a brave youth, and he runs like Deerfoot, the son of
the Shawanoe chieftain Allomaug."
"The Long Knives flee, when the Wyandots leave their villages and hunt
for them."
"The Yenghese are not brave," said the third warrior, who had just
fired his gun, and who used another term by which the Caucasian was
distinguished from his copper-hued brother; "they run like the
rabbits, when the hunter drives them from cover; they fled into the
strong lodge, when they saw the shadow of Waughtauk coming from the
north."
"They will hide behind the logs till their brothers along the Ohio can
haste to help them," observed the first speaker, who seemed to be the
pessimist of the party; "their lodge is strong, and the Wyandot braves
cannot break it down."
Deerfoot, from his concealment, saw the painted face of the other
warrior, as it was turned indignantly on the croaker.
"My brother talks like the squaw who thinks the voice of the wind,
when it blows among the trees at night, is that of the panther and
bear that are pushing their noses under her lodge to turn it over; has
Arawa no heart, that he speaks so like a squaw that is ill?"
Arawa seemed to feel somewhat ashamed of himself and made no reply: he
would doubtless have been glad if the drift of the conversation should
change, but as his companions showed no eagerness to change it, he
launched out boldly himself:
"Why did we not shoot the pale-face youth and him with the color of
the night, when they hastened across the open ground? It was ours to
do so."
"We thought there was no escape for them, and there would not be in
many moons should they run again."
"But they cannot save the Yenghese dogs, for the strong lodge shall be
burned down before the sun shows itself again in the east," observed
the optimist.
"Many moons ago, when the face of the sun was all fire, we tried to
burn the strong lodge, but the flame ran away from us and it will do
so many times more."
This was Arawa the pessimist, croaking once more, and the others
scowled so fiercely upon him, that they seemed on the point of
offering violence with a view of modifying his views; but, if so, they
changed their minds, and one of them tendered some information:
"The sun and the winds and the moon have made the roof of the strong
lodge like the wood with which Arawa makes the fire in his wigwam; it
is not as it was many moons ago."
Arawa seemed on the point of opening his mouth to say that, while the
moon and the winds and the sun had been engaged in the drying out
process, the snows and storms and tempests had been taking part; but
if such was his intention, he changed his mind and made a remark of
still more vital interest to the cowen near the log.
"The pale-face dogs, and he with the countenance of the night, must
have had the serpent-tongued Deerfoot to help them."
This startling statement seemed to be endorsed by the other two, one
of whom said--
"Arawa speaks the truth."
"Arawa reads what he sees aright," added the other, while Deerfoot
himself felt that all three had hit the nail on the head with
astonishing accuracy.
"Deerfoot of the Shawanoes is a dog," observed one of the warriors,
"and he shall die the death of a dog."
The individual referred to was rather relieved to hear this
declaration, because in order to inflict the death of a dog on him, it
would be necessary first to catch him--a condition which implied that
the Wyandots would make every effort to take him prisoner, instead of
shooting him on sight, as they often did with others.
Where such a strong attempt should be made, it gave the young friend
of the white men a much greater chance of eluding his foes.
The Wyandots, while grouped together and occasionally firing a gun at
the block-house, continued their derogatory remarks about the young
Shawanoe, who did not lose a word. He could see them distinctly: one
had his back toward him most of the time, but he turned now and then
so that his profile was visible. The lynx eyes of the youth noticed
the flaming red, which was daubed over his face, crossed with
zebra-like streaks of black, with circles on the forehead and
promiscuous dots here and there; the irregular nose, the bridge of
which had been broken, and the retreating chin,--all of which rendered
this particular Wyandot as ugly of countenance as the imagination can
picture.
The others, however, were not much improvement as respects looks: one
had a projecting underchin, the other a very broad face, and the three
were anything but pleasing in appearance.
Stealthily studying them, Deerfoot knew that, like all the other
warriors surrounding the block-house, they were his deadly enemies,
and would leave no effort untried to capture him the moment they
became aware of his presence.
But to escape, it was necessary to pass beyond them, and desperate as
was the chance, Deerfoot saw a faint hope of success, enough to lead
him to make the attempt.
The Wyandots were further up the bank than were the others, and there
was more vegetation and shrubbery there than lower down stream; but,
for all that, the chance was a forlorn one indeed.
Deerfoot relied mainly on the fact that the interest of the warriors
was absorbed in the block-house itself: if they should continue to
give it their whole attention, he might be able to move by them
undiscovered.
More than once, he had scrutinized the Licking, but with no
encouraging result. Had it been very deep close to the bank, he would
have wished no more favorable conditions. He could swim a long
distance under water and dive so far as to elude almost any kind of
pursuit.
But the stream was too shallow to be of any use in that respect, and
he would have been forced to wade a long way before finding a
sufficient depth to benefit him.
Whether he would have succeeded in flanking the Wyandots, had
everything remained as it was, is an open question, for the conditions
were overwhelmingly against him. But an obstacle appeared of which not
even the acute-minded Shawanoe dreamed.
At the very moment he began moving from behind the rotten log, with a
view of pushing beyond, his trained ear caught a faint rattling noise,
like the whirr of a locust. He knew that it was the warning of a
rattlesnake which he had disturbed by his slight change of position.
Singularly enough it was below the log and close to the water: it must
have been moving toward the side where the Shawanoe was hiding, when
it discovered him. It instantly began drawing itself rapidly in coil
and prepared to strike its enemy.
Deerfoot saw that it was at just the right distance to bury its fangs
in his face. He made the quickest retreat of his life. He did not
become panic-stricken, but slid back several feet, so silently that he
made less noise than did the _crotalus_ itself, which was not heard by
the Wyandots, who were so much interested in the block-house and its
immediate surroundings.
The action of the young Indian seemed to surprise the serpent, which
found its prey beyond reach at the moment it was ready to launch its
needle-pointed fangs into his body. With the tail slightly elevated,
the snake continued vibrating it slowly and giving forth a sound like
the faint chirping of crickets.
Deerfoot extracted a single arrow from his quiver, and, while lying on
his face, supported on his right elbow, drew back the missile as
though it was a javelin which he was about to cast at an enemy.
The distance was short, and he knew what he could do. Like a flash his
left hand shot forward, and the flint of the arrow went directly
through the narrow portion of the rattlesnake's body, a few inches
below its head. So powerful was the throw that the upper portion was
carried backward and pinned to the earth.
The _crotalus_ species is so easily killed that a slight blow is
sufficient to render it helpless. The arrow, which had transfixed the
serpent in front of Deerfoot, destroyed the reptile so suddenly that
it made only a few furious whippings, when it was dead.
The youth felt not the slightest fear of the reptile, but he dreaded
lest its threshings should attract the notice of the Wyandots, whom he
furtively watched, until the rattlesnake lay still.
One of the warriors did look around, as though he heard something
unusual, but he seemed satisfied with a mere glance, and, turning
back, sighted his gun at the block-house and threw away a charge, as
so many of his people were doing around him.
"Now is my chance," thought Deerfoot, as he once more began his
stealthy, shadow-like creeping around the decayed log, from behind
which had glided the venomous serpent that confronted him.
The dead reptile still lay in his path, and Deerfoot reached his bow
forward, thrust one end under it and flung it aside, for he shared the
sentiments of the great generality of mankind, who look upon all
ophidians as the most detestable plagues which encumber the earth.