 | CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
“Well, my friends,” said the veteran, then seventy, drawing
his figure up to its fullest height, and extending his right arm,
while his left still grasped the muzzle of his ancient rifle, which
he swayed from side to side, the butt resting on the floor—“Well,
my friends, seeing that the night was cl'ar, and there was no
wind, and feeling as how I didn't want for sleep, I called to Clinch
and took the path for Jake Ransom's. I knew that Jake was a
sleepy sort of chap, and if the redskins caught any body napping,
he'd, most likely, be the man. But I confess, 'twarn't so much
for his sake, as for the sake of all,—of my own as well as the
rest;—for, when I thought how soon, if we warn't all together in
the business, I might see, without being able to put in, the long
yellow hair of Betsy and the babies twirling on the thumbs of
some painted devil of the tribe,—I can't tell you how I felt, but
it warn't like a human, though I shivered mightily like one,—
'twas wolfish, as if the hair was turned in and rubbing agin the
very heart within me. I said my prayers, where I stood, looking
up at the stars, and thinking that, after all, all was in the hands
and the marcy of God. This sort o' thinking quieted me, and I
went ahead pretty free, for I knew the track jest as well by night
as by day, though I didn't go so quick, for I was all the time on
the look-out for the enemy. Now, after we reached a place in
the woods where there was a gully and a mighty bad crossing,
there were two roads to get to Jake's—one by the hollows, and
one jest across the hills. I don't know why, but I didn't give
myself time to think, and struck right across the hill, though that
was rather the longest way.
“Howsomedever, on I went, and Clinch pretty close behind me.
The dog was a good dog, with a mighty keen nose to hunt, but
jest then he didn't seem to have the notion for it. The hill was
a sizeable one, a good stretch to foot, and I began to remember,
after awhile, that I had been in the woods from blessed dawn;
didn't go for'ad; but I was more than half way, and wasn't
guine to turn back till I had said my say to Jake. Well, when I
got to the top of the hill, I stopped, and rubbed my eyes. I had
cause to rub 'em, for what should I see at a distance but a great
fire. At first I was afeard lest it was Jake's house, but I considered,
the next moment, that he lived to the left, and this fire was
cl'ar to the right, and it did seem to me as if 'twas more near to
my own. Here was something to scare a body. But I couldn't
stay there looking, and it warn't now a time to go to Jake's; so
I turned off, and, though Clinch was mighty onwilling, I bolted on
the road to the fire. I say road, but there was no road; but the
trees warn't over-thick, and the land was too poor for undergrowth;
so we got on pretty well, considering. But, what with the tire I
had had, and the scare I felt, it seemed as if I didn't get for'ad a
bit. There was the fire still burning as bright and almost as far
off as ever. When I saw this I stopt and looked at Clinch, and
he stopped and looked at me, but neither of us had any thing
to say. Well, after a moment's thinking, it seemed as if I
shouldn't be much of a man to give up when I had got so far, so
I pushed on. We crossed more than one little hill, then down
and through the hollow, and then up the hill again. At last we
got upon a small mountain the Indians called Nolleehatchie, and
then it seemed as if the fire had come to a stop, for it was now
burning bright, on a little hill below me, and not two hundred
yards in front. It was a regular camp fire, pretty big, and there
was more than a dozen Indians sitting round it. `Well,' says I
to myself, `it's come upon us mighty sudden, and what's to be
done? Not a soul in the settlement knows it but myself, and
nobody's on the watch. They'll be sculped, every human of
them, in their very beds, or, moutbe, waken up in the blaze, to be
shot with arrows as they run.' I was in a cold sweat to think of
it. I didn't know what to think and what to do. I looked round
to Clinch, and the strangest thing of all was to see him sitting
quiet on his haunches, looking at me, and at the stars, and not at
the fire jest before him. Now, Clinch was a famous fine hunting
dog, and jest as good on an Indian trail as any other. He know'd
my ways, and what I wanted, and would give tongue, or keep it
he shouldn't bark, but, dang it!—he didn't even seem to see.
Now, there warn't a dog in all the settlement so quick and keen
to show sense as Clinch, even when he didn't say a word;—and
to see him looking as if he didn't know and didn't care what was
a-going on, with his eyes sot in his head and glazed over with
sleep, was, as I may say, very onnatural, jest at that time, in a
dog of any onderstanding. So I looked at him, half angry, and
when he saw me looking at him, he jest stretched himself off, put
his nose on his legs, and went to sleep in 'arnest. I had half a
mind to lay my knife-handle over his head, but I considered better
of it, and though it did seem the strangest thing in the world
that he shouldn't even try to get to the fire, for warm sake, yet I
recollected that dog natur', like human natur', can't stand every
thing, and he hadn't such good reason as I had, to know that the
Indians were no longer friendly to us. Well, there I stood, a
pretty considerable chance, looking, and wondering, and onbeknowing
what to do. I was mighty beflustered. But at last I felt
ashamed to be so oncertain, and then again it was a needcessity
that we should know the worst one time or another, so I determined
to push for'ad. I was no slouch of a hunter, as you may suppose;
so, as I was nearing the camp, I begun sneaking; and,
taking it sometimes on hands and knees, and sometimes flat to the
ground, where there was neither tree nor bush to cover me, I
went ahead, Clinch keeping close behind me, and not showing any
notion of what I was after. It was a slow business, because it
was a ticklish business; but I was a leetle too anxious to be altogether
so careful as a good sneak ought to be, and I went on
rather faster than I would advise any young man to go in a time
of war, when the inimy is in the neighbourhood. Well, as I went,
there was the fire, getting larger and larger every minute, and
there were the Indians round it, getting plainer and plainer.
There was so much smoke that there was no making out, at any
distance, any but their figures, and these, every now and then,
would be so wrapt in the smoke that not more than half of them
could be seen at the same moment. At last I stopped, jest at a
place where I thought I could make out all that I wanted. There
was a sizeable rock before me, and I leaned my elbows on it to look.
were some bushes betwixt us, and what with the bushes and the
smoke, it was several minutes before I could separate man from
man, and see what they were all adoing, and when I did, it was
only for a moment at a time, when a puff of smoke would wrap
them all, and make it as difficult as ever. But when I did contrive
to see clearly, the sight was one to worry me to the core,
for, in the midst of the redskins, I could see a white one, and that
white one a woman. There was no mistake. There were the
Indians, some with their backs, and some with their faces to me;
and there, a little a-one side, but still among them, was a woman.
When the smoke bloke off, I could see her white face, bright
like any star, shining out of the clouds, and looking so pale and
ghastly that my blood cruddled in my veins to think lest she might
be dead from fright. But it couldn't be so, for she was sitting up
and looking about her. But the Indians were motionless. They
jest sat or lay as when I first saw them—doing nothing—saying
nothing, but jest as motionless as the stone under my elbow. I
couldn't stand looking where I was, so I began creeping again,
getting nigher and nigher, until it seemed to me as if I ought to
be able to read every face. But what with the paint and smoke,
I couldn't make out a single Indian. Their figures seemed plain
enough in their buffalo-skins and blankets, but their faces seemed
always in the dark. But it wasn't so with the woman. I could
make her out clearly. She was very young; I reckon not more
than fifteen, and it seemed to me as if I knew her looks very well.
She was very handsome, and her hair was loosed upon her back.
My heart felt strange to see her. I was weak as any child. It
seemed as if I could die for the gal, and yet I hadn't strength enough
to raise my rifle to my shoulder. The weakness kept on me the
more I looked; for every moment seemed to make the poor child
more and more dear to me. But the strangest thing of all was
to see how motionless was every Indian in the camp. Not a word
was spoken—not a limb or finger stirred. There they sat, or lay,
round about the fire, like so many effigies, looking at the gal, and
she looking at them. I never was in such a fix of fear and weakness
in my life. What was I to do? I had got so nigh that I
could have stuck my knife, with a jerk, into the heart of any one
where I was, I cried like a child. But my crying didn't make
'em look about 'em. It only brought my poor dog Clinch leaping
upon me, and whining, as if he wanted to give me consolation.
Hardly knowing what I did, I tried to set him upon the camp,
but the poor fellow didn't seem to understand me; and in my
desperation, for it was a sort of madness growing out of my scare,
I jumped headlong for'ad, jest where I saw the party sitting, willing
to lose my life rather than suffer from such a strange sort of
misery.
| CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin | |