II

All turned now to the duties of the day--Honor to her loom, Polly to her

distaff, and Lydia to her spinning-wheel, for the clothes of the women

were home-spun, home-woven, home-made. Old Jerome and Dave and the older

men gathered in one corner of the stockade for a council of war. The boy

had made it plain that the attacking party was at least two days behind

the three Indians from whom he had escaped, so that there was no danger

that day, and they could wait until night to send messengers to warn the

settlers outside to seek safety within the fort. Meanwhile, Jerome would

despatch five men with Dave to scout for the three Indians who might be

near by in the woods, and the boy, who saw them slip out the rear gate

of the fort, at once knew their purpose, shook his head, and waved his

hand to say that his late friends were gone back to hurry on the big

war-party to the attack, now that the whites themselves knew their

danger. Old Jerome nodded that he understood, and nodded to others his

appreciation of the sense and keenness of the lad, but he let the men go

just the same. From cabin door to cabin door the boy went in

turn--peeking in, but showing no wonder, no surprise, and little interest

until Lydia again smiled at him. At her door he paused longest, and even

went within and bent his ear to the bee-like hum of the wheel. At the

port-holes in the logs he pointed and grunted his understanding and

appreciation, as he did when he climbed into a blockhouse and saw how

one story overlapped the other and how through an opening in the upper

floor the defenders in the tower might pour a destructive fire on

attackers breaking in below. When he came down three boys, brothers to

the three girls, Bud Sanders, Jack Conrad, and Harry Noe, were again

busy with their games. They had been shy with him as he with them, and

now he stood to one side while they, pretending to be unconscious of his

presence, watched with sidelong glances the effect on him of their

prowess. All three threw the tomahawk and shot arrows with great skill,

but they did not dent the impassive face of the little stranger.

"Maybe he thinks he can do better," said Bud; "let's let him try it."

And he held forth the tomahawk and motioned toward the post. The lad

took it gravely, gravely reached for the tomahawk of each of the other

two, and with slow dignity walked several yards farther away from the

mark. Then he wheeled with such ferocity in his face that the boys

shrank aside, clutching with some fear to one another's arms, and before

they could quite recover, they were gulping down wonder as the three

weapons whistled through the air and were quivering close, side by side,

in the post.

"Gee!" they said. Again the lad's face turned impassive as he picked up

his bow and three arrows and slowly walked toward the wall of the

stockade so that he was the full width of the fort away. And then three

arrows hurtled past them in incredibly swift succession and thudded into

the post, each just above a tomahawk. This time the three onlookers were

quite speechless, though their mouths were open wide. Then they ran

toward him and had him show just how he held tomahawk and bow and arrow,

and all three did much better with the new points he gave them.

Wondering then whether they might not teach him something, Jack did a

standing broad jump and Bud a running broad jump and Harry a hop, skip,

and a jump. The young stranger shook his head but he tried and fell

short in each event and was greatly mortified. Again he shook his head

when Bud and Jack took backholds and had a wrestling-match, but he tried

with Jack and was thumped hard to the earth. He sprang to his feet

looking angry, but all were laughing, and he laughed too.

"Me big fool," he said; and they showed him how to feint and trip, and

once he came near throwing Bud. At rifle-shooting, too, he was no match

for the young pioneers, but at last he led them with gestures and

unintelligible grunts to the far end of the stockade and indicated a

foot-race. The boy ran like one of his own arrows, but he beat Bud only

a few feet, and Bud cried:

"I reckon if _I_ didn't have no clothes on, he couldn't 'a' done it";

and on the word Mother Sanders appeared and cried to Bud to bring the

"Injun" to her cabin. She had been unearthing clothes for the "little

heathen," and Bud helped to put them on. In a few minutes the lad

reappeared in fringed hunting shirt and trousers, wriggling in them most

uncomfortably, for they made him itch, but at the same time wearing them

proudly. Mother Sanders approached with a hunting-knife.

"I'm goin' to cut off that topknot so his hair can ketch up," she said,

but the boy scowled fearfully, turned, fled, and scaling the stockade as

nimbly as a squirrel, halted on top with one leg over the other side.

"He thinks you air goin' to take his scalp," shouted Bud. The three boys

jumped up and down in their glee, and even Mother Sanders put her hands

on her broad hips and laughed with such loud heartiness that many came

to the cabin doors to see what the matter was. It was no use for the

boys to point to their own heads and finger their own shocks of hair,

for the lad shook his head, and outraged by their laughter kept his

place in sullen dignity a long while before he could be persuaded to

come down.

On the mighty wilderness the sun sank slowly and old Jerome sat in the

western tower to watch alone. The silence out there was oppressive and

significant, for it meant that the boy's theory was right; the three

Indians had gone back for their fellows, and when darkness came the old

man sent runners to the outlying cabins to warn the inmates to take

refuge within the fort. There was no settler that was not accustomed to

a soft tapping on the wooden windows that startled him wide awake. Then

there was the noiseless awakening of the household, noiseless dressing

of the children--the mere whisper of "Indians" was enough to keep them

quiet--and the noiseless slipping through the wilderness for the

oak-picketed stockade. And the gathering-in was none too soon. The

hooting of owls started before dawn. A flaming arrow hissed from the

woods, thudded into the roof of one of the cabins, sputtered feebly on a

dew-drenched ridge-pole, and went out. Savage war-whoops rent the air,

and the battle was on. All day the fight went on. There were feints of

attack in front and rushes from the rear, and there were rushes from all

sides. The women loaded rifles and cooked and cared for the wounded.

Thrice an Indian reached the wall of the stockade and set a cabin on

fire, but no one of the three got back to the woods alive. The stranger

boy sat stoically in the centre of the enclosure watching everything,

and making no effort to take part, except twice when he saw a gigantic

Indian brandishing his rifle at the edge of the woods, encouraging his

companions behind, and each time he grunted and begged for a gun. And

Dave made out that the Indian was the one who had treated the boy

cruelly and that the lad was after a personal revenge. Late in the

afternoon the ammunition began to run low and the muddy discoloration of

the river showed that the red men had begun to tunnel under the walls of

the fort. And yet a last sally was made just before sunset. A body

pushed against Dave in the tower and Dave saw the stranger boy at his

side with his bow and arrow. A few minutes later he heard a yell from

the lad which rang high over the din, and he saw the feathered tip of an

arrow shaking in the breast of the big Indian who staggered and fell

behind a bush. Just at that moment there were yells from the woods

behind--the yells of white men that were answered by joyful yells within

the fort:

"The Virginians! The Virginians!" And as the rescuers dashed into sight

on horse and afoot, Dave saw the lad leap the wall of the stockade and

disappear behind the fleeing Indians.

"Gone back to 'em," he grunted to himself. The gates were thrown open.

Old Jerome and his men rushed out, and besieged and rescuers poured all

their fire after the running Indians, some of whom turned bravely to

empty their rifles once more.

"Git in! Git in, quick!" yelled old Joel. He knew another volley would

come as soon as the Indians reached the cover of thick woods, and come

the volley did. Three men fell--one the leader of the Virginians, whose

head flopped forward as he entered the gate and was caught in old Joel's

arms. Not another sound came from the woods, but again Dave from the

tower saw the cane-brush rustle at the edge of a thicket, saw a hand

thrust upward with the palm of peace toward the fort, and again the

stranger boy emerged--this time with a bloody scalp dangling in his left

hand. Dave sprang down and met him at the gate. The boy shook his bow

and arrow proudly, pointed to a crisscross scar on the scalp, and Dave

made out from his explanation that once before the lad had tried to kill

his tormentor and that the scar was the sign. In the centre of the

enclosure the wounded Virginian lay, and when old Jerome stripped the

shirt from his breast he shook his head gravely. The wounded man opened

his eyes just in time to see and he smiled.

"I know it," he said faintly, and then his eyes caught the boy with the

scalp, were fixed steadily and began to widen.

"Who is that boy?" he asked sharply.

"Never mind now," said old Joel soothingly, "you must keep still!" The

boy's eyes had begun to shift under the scrutiny and he started away.

"Come back here!" commanded the wounded man, and still searching the lad

he said sharply again:

"Who is that boy?" Nor would he have his wound dressed or even take the

cup of water handed to him until old Joel briefly told the story, when

he lay back on the ground and closed his eyes.

Darkness fell. In each tower a watcher kept his eyes strained toward the

black, silent woods. The dying man was laid on a rude bed within one

cabin, and old Joel lay on the floor of it close to the door. The

stranger lad refused to sleep indoors and huddled himself in a blanket

on the ground in one corner of the stockade. Men, women, and children

fell to a deep and weary sleep. In the centre the fire burned and there

was no sound on the air but the crackle of its blazing. An hour later

the boy in the corner threw aside his blanket, and when, a moment later,

Lydia Noe, feverish and thirsty, rose from her bed to get a drink of

water outside her door, she stopped short on the threshold. The lad,

stark naked but for his breech-clout and swinging his bloody scalp over

his head, was stamping around the fire--dancing the scalp-dance of the

savage to a low, fierce, guttural song. The boy saw her, saw her face in

the blaze, stricken white with fright and horror, saw her too paralyzed

to move and he stopped, staring at her a moment with savage rage, and

went on again. Old Joel's body filled the next doorway. He called out

with a harsh oath, and again the boy stopped. With another oath and a

threatening gesture Joel motioned to the corner of the stockade, and

with a flare of defiance in his black eyes the lad stalked slowly and

proudly away. From behind him the voice of the wounded man called, and

old Joel turned. There was a ghastly smile on the Virginian's pallid

face.

"I saw it," he said painfully. "That's--that's my son!"