When the accidental shaking of the branch disclosed his refuge, Nathan
wished he had taken the easier shelter of a hollow log or the tangle of
a windfall. The more so, when he caught brief, swift flashes of the axe
gleaming up through the dark foliage and felt the tree shiver at every
sturdy stroke. But he had no thought of surrender. The trunk of the
leaning birch, so slender that his arms and legs could clasp it, had
given him access to this coign of vantage and now offered a retreat from
it.
Toombs was intent upon his work, with his back turned squarely toward
the foot of the birch, though barely six paces from it. Escape, if at
all, must be made while the chopper was on this side of the hemlock.
Very cautiously he regained the birch where it hid trunk and lithe
branches in the embrace of the great evergreen, and then worked
downward, with an eye ever on his enemy underneath, making swiftest
progress when the axe fell and its sound overbore the rustle of the
birch's shaggy, yellow mane, that his buttons scraped along. At last his
toes were tickled by the topmost leaves of a low, sprangling hobble
bush, then lightly touched by the last year's fallen leaves and the soft
mould. Then, as a flying chip struck him full on the cheek, he loosed
his hold on the trunk and stole stealthily to the shelter of the nearest
great tree.
The axe strokes ceased, but a glance showed him that Toombs was only
wiping his sweaty brow on his sleeve, as he looked up into the tree and
addressed its supposed occupant. As the futile chopping was resumed,
Nathan crept off through the undergrowth till beyond sight and hearing,
when he ran upright so swiftly that he was a mile away when the roar of
the tree's fall came booming through the woods.
He sat down to get his breath and determine where to go, for so far he
had only thought to escape his stepfather. Should he try for the Fort?
How was he to cross the lake without a boat, and, if there, on what plea
that he could offer was he likely to be harbored, for Toombs was on very
friendly terms with the commander! Not there could he find protection.
His old friend Job was the only one to whom he could look, and in his
secluded cabin he might hope to escape detection.
With this determination he arose and went his way, too well skilled in
woodcraft, for all his youth, to lose it while the sun shone. Pushing
steadily on he saw at last the slanted sunbeams shining golden green
through the woodside leaves, then saw them glimmering on the quiet
channel of Job's creek, and following the shore upstream, presently
emerged in the little clearing. It was as quiet as the woods around it,
and seemed more untenanted, for through them the songs of the thrushes
were ringing in flute-like cadences, while here nothing was astir.
Nathan made his way so silently to the open door that he stood looking
in upon the occupants of the cabin before they became aware of his
presence. Job was squatting before the fireplace engaged in frying meat,
and a great, gaunt, blue-mottled hound sat close beside him, intently
watching the progress of the cooking. Presently his keen nose caught a
scent of the intruder, and he uttered a low, threatening growl that
attracted his master's attention.
"Be quiet, Gabriel; what is't troubles you?" Then seeing his visitor
hesitating at the threshold, "Why, Nathan, come in my boy, come in, the
hound won't hurt you. Ain't he a pictur'? Did you ever see such ears?
Did you ever see such a chest and such legs? And he's as good as he is
harnsome. I went clean to Manchester arter him and gin three prime
beaver skins for him. He's one o' Peleg Sunderland's breed and'll foller
anything that walks, if you tell him to, from a mushrat to a man. And as
for his voice, good land! You hain't never heard no music till you hear
it. That's what give him his name, Gabriel. But what's the matter with
you, Nathan?" when, withdrawing his admiring gaze from his new
acquisition, he noted the boy's wearied and troubled countenance. "You
look clean beat out. There hain't nothin' the matter with your folks?"
Nathan told the story of his treatment since his mother's marriage to
Toombs, and his unpremeditated flight, and all the particulars of his
escape.
"I'd ha' gin a dozen mushrat skins to seen him when he got the tree down
and didn't find you, and him like a fool dog a barkin' up a tree an hour
arter the coon'd left it. You done right to come to me, for he won't
come here to look for ye right off. And then when he's had time to cool
off and git ashamed of himself, you can go home."
"No," said the boy quickly; "I'll never go back till I'm old enough to
lick him and make him sorry I come."
"Oh, well, you think you will. But you won't never. The rough edge'll be
wore off afore you git round to it. Once I swore I'd thrash a
schoolmarster I hed, and when I went to do it we jes' sot down and
talked over old times, like ol' friends. But what'll your mother and sis
do without you?"
"They'll be better off without me. I can't help mother any, nor she me,
yet awhile. Can't you let her know I'm safe some way?"
"Oh, yes, I'll happen round there some day to rights. How in tunket did
she ever come to mate wi' that surly red-haired dog? You know I hain't
seen her since they was married. Women is onaccountable critters,
anyhow, an' I've been marcifully presarved from ever bein' tackled to
one on 'em;" yet he sighed, as he looked about the littered room, that
showed so plainly the lack of housewifely care.
After the supper of fried venison and johnny-cake was eaten, they sat in
the twilight and firelight talking over the past and plans for the
future, till the boy, worn out with the events of the day, was given a
nest of furs in the loft, where he would be safe from detection by any
chance visitor, and Job, after barring the door and carefully covering
the fire, betook himself with the hound to their accustomed couch on the
floor.