THIEVES OF THE NIGHT.
DEERFOOT could be a stern master when necessary. While it would have
been no hardship for him and Mul-tal-la to divide the duties of sentinel
each night, he meant that the boys should bear their part. They were big
and strong enough to do so, and there was no reason why they should not.
He informed them that George was to watch the camp for the first half of
the night, or rather for an hour beyond the turn, when he was to awake
Victor, who would take his place until daylight. This was to be the rule
throughout the expedition, except when some exigency demanded the
services of the elders.
Enough fuel had been gathered to last through the darkness. It was
Deerfoot’s plan to avoid the Indian villages so far as was practical,
although little or nothing was to be feared from meeting those of his
own race. The Blackfoot had come in contact with many tribes on his long
journey eastward, but excepting in two instances nothing of an
unpleasant nature occurred. You have learned that the tribes which
formed the confederacy crushed by “Mad Anthony” Wayne at Fallen Timber
were now so peaceably inclined toward the white settlers that not much
was to be feared from them.
And yet it was not wise to tempt them too far. An Indian loves a horse,
and among the tribes were plenty of thieves who would run off the
animals of our friends if the chance were offered. So the latter did not
mean to offer the chance.
The air was crisp, for the spring was only fairly open, and the little
company that gathered round the crackling blaze called their blankets
into use. The animals were allowed to crop the grass near at hand, and
to lie down when they chose. None was tethered, for they were not likely
to wander off, and if they showed a disposition to do so the sentinel
could easily prevent it.
The four lolled about the blaze after finishing their evening meal,
talking mainly of the long journey and the experiences awaiting them.
Mul-tal-la answered Deerfoot’s questions again, for though the Shawanoe
was well informed, his inquiries were for the benefit of the boys, whose
interest naturally was keen.
When the night was well advanced, Deerfoot, without any preliminary,
drew his little Bible from his hunting shirt, and leaning forward so
that the light fell upon the small print, read the Twenty-third Psalm,
which, you remember, was one of his favorite chapters. His voice was
low, musical and reverent, and no professional elocutionist could have
given the sublime passage more impressively.
The three listened attentively, none speaking during the reading. It
seemed to George and Victor that they had never felt the beauty and
sweetness of the book whose utterances are sufficient for every
condition of man and every state of the human mind. The surroundings,
the great future which spread out so mysteriously before them, the
certain dangers that impended, their utter helplessness and a sense of
the all-protecting care of their Heavenly Father, filled their souls as
never before.
It would be hard to fathom the imaginings and thoughts of the Blackfoot.
He was sitting erect, with his blanket about his shoulders, only a few
paces from the young Shawanoe, and kept his eyes upon the noble
countenance as the precious words filled the stillness, the listener
fearful that some syllable might escape him. He had learned much of the
true God in his talks with the devout youth, and, like him, had fallen
into the habit of praying morning and evening, and sometimes for a few
moments in the busiest part of the day.
The brothers recalled that loved parent who had been lying in his grave
for weeks, and remembered how he had prayed and how triumphantly he had
passed away when the last solemn moment arrived, and both firmly
resolved from that time forward so to live that there could be no
question of the reunion that to both was the dearest, most joyous and
thrilling hope that could possibly fill their hearts.
While the two sat beside each other, silent and listening, George gently
reached out his hand. Victor saw the movement, and, taking the palm
within his own, fervently pressed it. At the same moment the brothers
looked into each other’s eyes. It was enough; volumes could have said no
more.
Deerfoot finished, and, closing the book, returned it to its resting
place over his heart. Then without a word he turned and knelt on the
cool earth. Instinctively the three did the same and all prayed.
Not a word was heard, but heart spoke to heart, and all communed with
Him whose ear is never closed against the petition of his children. Had
either of the boys prayed aloud he would have stammered, for he could
not have shaken off the question as to how his words impressed his
companions. It is the impossibility in many cases of one freeing himself
from this hindrance that makes the sentences of the petitioner halt and
stumbling, because to a certain degree they are addressed to men rather
than directly to the Father. The Blackfoot would have found it almost
impossible to shape intelligently his sentences if he spoke aloud, but
he could talk freely in his own way to his Maker. Deerfoot could have
done far better than any of the others, for he would not have hesitated,
but he preferred the silent petition, and rarely spoke his words unless
he was asked to do so or a special necessity existed.
The others took their cue from him, and when they heard the gentle
rustling which showed that he had resumed his sitting posture they did
the same. Then he nodded to George, who, rifle in hand, walked softly
out in the gloom to where the animals had lain down for the night, in
the midst of the grass and near the rippling brook. As he did so he bade
his friends good night, and they disposed of themselves in the usual
way, each with his blanket wrapped about him and his feet turned toward
the fire. Within ten minutes every one of the three was sunk in sweet,
refreshing slumber.
The night was clear and studded with stars. There was no moon, the gloom
being so deep that the watcher could see only a few paces in any
direction. Often as he had spent the night in the dim solitudes,
sometimes with danger brooding and again when all was tranquil, he could
never cast off the emotions that filled his being when he stood thus
alone, with friends dependent perhaps upon his vigilance. He listened to
the soft rippling of the brook, the hollow stillness of the vast forest,
like the moaning of the far-away ocean which has been called the voice
of silence, the occasional restless movement of one of the horses, and
the gentle stir of the night wind among the bursting foliage overhead
and around him. Then he looked toward the fire at the dimly outlined
forms, partly within and partly without the circle of illumination, and
again his heart was lifted to the only One who could ward off danger
from him and his friends.
The youth marked out a beat for himself parallel with the brook and two
or three rods in length. Sometimes he paused and, leaning on his gun,
peered into the hollow gloom which inclosed him on every hand. He knew
that so long as he kept on his feet he would not fall asleep, but if he
sat down the lapse was inevitable. Better still to walk to and fro, as
is the practice of the sentinel, for while doing so he was safe against
the insidious weakness which steals the senses from the most rugged man
ere he is aware.
George did not believe that any danger threatened the camp unless of the
nature hinted by Deerfoot. It might be that some wandering Miamis or
Wyandots or Shawanoes had observed the little party and their horses and
cast covetous eyes upon the latter. If so, they would not dare to
proceed to violence, but might try to run off one or two of the animals,
hoping to get far enough away with them before discovery of the theft to
make pursuit useless. It was this apprehension which kept the youth
alert and watchful.
George Shelton had paced to and fro for more than an hour without
hearing or seeing anything to excite misgiving. The cry of a wolf in the
distance and the nearer scream of a panther were given scarcely a
thought, for both were too common to cause alarm.
The first disturbance came from the action of his horse Jack, who had
lain down at a point farther off than the others. All the animals seemed
to be resting quietly, when, at the moment the lad was nearest his own
and was about to turn to retrace his steps, Jack raised his head and
emitted a slight whinny, though none of the others showed any disquiet.
The sentinel paused and looked at his pony, dimly outlined in the
darkness. He saw he had raised his head and appeared to be interested in
something on the other side of the brook. George lifted the hammer of
his rifle, suspecting that some prowling wolf or other wild beast was
trying to creep nigh enough to assail the horses. The youth peered into
the gloom and listened, but all remained as silent as the grave.
He held his motionless position for several minutes, in doubt what he
ought to do, if indeed he could do anything. Then with rare courage he
began slowly walking toward the point in which Jack seemed interested,
holding his gun ready to raise and fire on the instant.
He reached the brook and was about to leap lightly across when the
figure of an Indian rose from the grass and stood revealed hardly ten
feet distant. He did not move, and seemed to have come up from a hole in
the earth. The sight was so startling to the lad that he stopped
abruptly and exclaimed in a low tone:
“Helloa! Who are you?”
“Howdy, brudder?” replied the redskin in the same guarded voice.
“What do you want, stealing into our camp like this!”
“Me Par-o-wan—friend of paleface—me brudder.”
“You haven’t told me what you want,” repeated the impatient youth, with
his gun half raised, for he was suspicious, and saw that the other held
a rifle almost in the same position as his own.
“Par-o-wan brudder; sit down—talk wid brudder—lub brudder.”
“Dog of a Miami! leave at once! You have others with you! If you tarry
we shall shoot every one of you!”
It was not George Shelton who uttered this warning, but Deerfoot, who
appeared at his side so suddenly and noiselessly that the lad had no
thought of anything of the kind until he heard the familiar voice.
“Par-o-wan friend ob Deerfoot—he no hunt him—he go away,” replied the
Miami, plainly scared by the words and manner of the young Shawanoe, who
now raised his rifle to a “dead level” and acted as if he meant to fire.
“Deerfoot knows you and those that are with you, Par-o-wan! You are the
thieves who have come to steal our horses. Go quick or I shoot!”
In a panic of fear the Miami wheeled and dashed off so fast that he
threshed through the undergrowth and wood like a frightened wild animal.
Deerfoot waited a minute in the same vigilant attitude, and then quietly
remarked:
“They will trouble us no more. Now Deerfoot will sleep.”
“But tell me what woke you; I didn’t give any alarm,” said the mystified
George Shelton.
“My brother spoke. Deerfoot heard his voice. My brother is watchful, but
he will not be troubled again by the Miamis, for they are alarmed.”
And without anything further the Shawanoe walked silently back to his
place by the camp-fire, drew his blanket around him and five minutes
later was sleeping as peacefully as before he was awakened by the soft
voices of the man and boy.
“Well, that beats all creation!” muttered the grinning lad, as he
resumed his pacing to and fro. “We didn’t make enough noise to wake a
sleeping baby, but he must have been roused by the first word, for he
was at my side in a few seconds. I don’t see the need of putting one of
us on guard when Deerfoot wakes up like that. He’s a wonder and no
mistake.”
So full was George’s faith in the young Shawanoe that he was absolutely
sure nothing more was to be feared from the Miamis who had evidently
stolen up to the camp with the intention of running off one or more of
the horses. He paced regularly over his beat until certain it was well
past midnight, when he went up to the fire, threw more wood on it and
touched the arm of his brother.
You know that when you sink into slumber with the wish strongly
impressed on your mind of awaking at a certain minute, you are almost
sure to do so, or at least very near the time stamped on your brain.
While George Shelton was in the act of stooping to rouse Victor the
latter opened his eyes and rose to the sitting posture.
“I’m ready,” he said softly, coming to his feet, gun in hand. “Have you
seen anything, George?”
The latter quickly whispered the particulars of the little incident
already told.
“Well, if Deerfoot said they won’t be back, they won’t be back; but I
mean to keep a lookout for them.”
With which philosophical decision Victor strolled out to the beat whose
location his brother had made known to him. While gathering the blanket
about him to lie down George glanced at Deerfoot, who lay within arm’s
length. At that moment one of the embers at the base of the fire fell
apart and the flare of light fell upon the face of the Shawanoe.
George saw that his large dark eyes were open, and no doubt he had heard
every word of the cautious bit of conversation between the brothers. He
did not speak, however, and immediately closed his eyes again, no doubt
dropping off to sleep as quietly as before. It was a considerable time
before George slumbered, for the experience of the evening, even though
it amounted to little, touched his nerves. Finally he glided off into
the land of dreams.
Victor did his duty faithfully, as his brother had done, and with his
senses keyed to a high tension, but not the slightest disturbance
occurred. Deerfoot was right in his declaration. If Par-o-wan had
companions they had been too thoroughly frightened to risk rousing the
anger of the Shawanoe.
The latter acted as provider again and furnished his friends with
another meal upon wild turkey, promising to vary the diet in the course
of a day or two, though no one felt like complaining, since there was an
abundance for all, and such meat is not to be despised, even though one
can become tired of it.
Thus early in their venture our friends met with a disagreeable
experience, for though the day dawned with the sun visible, the
temperature fell and a cold, drizzling rain set in, which promised to
last for hours. Deerfoot read the signs aright, and before the rainfall
began conducted his companions to a rocky section a little way off the
trail, where they found shelter for themselves and partial protection
for their horses. Had there been an Indian village within easy distance
they would have made their way thither, being sure of a welcome.
It was not the cheerless day itself that was so trying, for that was
much improved by the fire they kept going, but it was the enforced
inaction. Few things are harder to bear than idleness when one is
anxious to get forward. The boys fretted, but Deerfoot and Mul-tal-la
accepted the situation philosophically, as they always accepted the bad
with the good. No murmur would have been heard from either had they been
halted for several days. Deerfoot, indeed, had reached that wise state
of mind in which his conscience reproved him for complaining of
anything, since he knew it was ordered by One who doeth all things well.
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