University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The convulsion was but momentary, and departed
with almost the same suddenness that
marked its accession. Nathan started half up,
looked wildly around him, surveying the bodies of
the two Piankeshaws, and the visage of the sympathizing
soldier. Then snatching up and replacing
his hat with one hand, and grasping Roland's
with the other, he exclaimed, as if wholly unconscious
of what had happened him,—

“Thee has heard it, and thee knows it,—thee
knows what the Shawnees have done to me—
they have killed them all, all that was of my
blood! Had they done so by thee, friend,” he demanded
with wild eagerness, “had they done so
by thee, what would thee have done to them?”

“Declared eternal war upon them and their accursed
race!” cried Roland, greatly excited by
the story; “I would have sworn undying vengeance,
and I would have sought it,—ay, sought
it without ceasing. Day and night, summer and
winter, on the frontier and in their own lands and
villages, I would have pursued the wretches, and
pursued them to the death.”

“Thee is right!” cried Nathan, wringing the
hand he still held, and speaking with a grin of
hideous approval;—“by night and by day, in
summer and in winter, in the wood and in the
wigwam, thee would seek for their blood, and thee

would shed it;—thee would think of thee wife and
thee little babes, and thee heart would be as stone
and fire within thee—thee would kill, friend, thee
would kill, thee would kill!” And the monosyllable
was breathed over and over again with a ferocity
of emphasis that showed how deep and
vindictive was the passion in the speaker's mind.
Then,—with a transition of feeling as unexpected
as it was abrupt, he added, still wringing Roland's
hand, as if he had found in him a sympathizing
friend, whose further kindness he was resolved
to deserve, and to repay,—“Thee is right;
I have thought about what thee has said—Thee
shall have assistance. Thee is a brave man, and
thee has not mocked at me because of my faith.
Thee enemies shall be pursued, and the maid
thee loves shall be restored to thee arms.”

“Alas,” said Roland, almost fearing from the
impetuosity, as well as confidence, with which
Nathan now spoke, that his wits were in a state of
distraction, “where shall we look for help, since
there are none but ourselves in this desert, of
whom to ask it?”

“From our two selves it must come, and from
none others,” said Nathan, briskly. “We will follow
the murdering thieves that have robbed thee
of thee treasure, and we will recover the maid
Edith from their hands.”

“What! unaided? alone?”

“Alone, friend, with little Peter to be our guide,
and Providence our hope and our stay. Thee is
a man of courage, and thee heart will not fail
thee, even if thee should find theeself led into the
heart of the Injun nation. I have thought of this
thing, friend, and I perceive there is good hope
we shall prevail, and prevail better than if we had
an hundred men to follow at our backs; unless

we had them ready with us, to march this very
day. Does thee hear me, friend? The Shawnee
fighting-men are now in Kentucky, assembled in
a great army, scalping and murdering as they
come: their villages are left to be guarded by
women and children, and old men no longer fit
for war. Thee understands me? If thee waits
till thee collects friends, thee will have to cut thee
way with them through fighting-men returned to
their villages before thee; if thee proceeds as thee
is, thee has nothing to fear that thee cannot guard
against with thee own cunning,—nothing to oppose
thee that thee cannot conquer with thee own
strength and courage.”

“And how,” cried Roland, too ardent of temper,
too ready to snatch at any hope, to refuse his
approbation to the enterprise, though its difficulties
immediately crowded before his eyes, “how
shall we follow a trail so long and cold? where
shall we find arms? where—”

“Friend,” said Nathan, interrupting him, “thee
speaks without thought. For arms and ammunition,
thee has thee choice among the spoils of these
dead villains, thee captivators. For the trail, thee
need think nothing of that: lost or found, thee
may be certain it leads to the old Vulture's town
on the Miami: there thee will find thee cousin, and
thither I can lead thee.”

“Let us go then, in Heaven's name,” cried
Roland, “and without further delay; every moment
is precious.”

“Thee speaks the truth; and if thee feels thee
limbs strong enough—”

“They are nerved by hope; and while that
remains, I will neither faint nor falter. Edith rescued,
and one blow—one good blow struck at the

villain that wrongs her;—then let them fail me,
if Heaven wills it, and fail me for ever!”

Few more words were required to confirm Roland's
approval of the project so boldly, and indeed,
as it seemed, so judiciously advised by his
companion. To seek assistance, was, as Nathan
had justly said, to cast away the opportunity
which the absence of the warriors from their
towns opened to his hopes,—an opportunity in
which craft and stratagem might well obtain the
success not to be won, at a later period, and after
the return of the marauders, even by a band of
armed men.

Turning to the corses that still lay on the
couch of leaves where they expired, Nathan began,
with little ceremony, and none of the compunction
that might have been expected, to rob
them of their knives, guns and ammunition, with
which Roland, selecting weapons to his liking,
was soon well armed. The pouches of the warriors,
containing strips of dried venison and stores
of parched corn, Nathan appropriated in the same
way, taking care, from the superabundance, to
reward the services of little Peter, who received
with modest gratitude, but despatched with energetic
haste, the meal which his appearance, as
well as his appetite, showed was not a blessing of
every-day occurrence.

These preparations concluded, Nathan signified
his readiness to conduct the young soldier on his
way. But as he stepped to the edge of the little
glade, and turned to take a last look of the dead
Indians, the victims of his own warlike hand, a
change came over his appearance. The bold and
manly look which he had for a moment assumed,
was exchanged for an air of embarrassment and
almost timidity, such as marked his visage of old,

at the Station. He hesitated, paused, looked at
the bodies again, and then at Roland; and finally
muttered aloud, though with doubting accents,—

“Thee is a man of war, friend,—a man of war
and a soldier! and thee fights Injuns even as the
young men of Kentucky fights them; and thee
may think it but right and proper, as they do, in
such case made and provided, to take the scalps
off the heads of these same dead vagabonds! Truly,
friend, if thee is of that mind, truly, I won't oppose
thee!”

“Their scalps? I scalp them!” cried Roland,
with a soldier's disgust; “I am no butcher: I
leave them to the bears and wolves, which the
villains in their natures so strongly resembled. I
will kill Indians wherever I can; but no scalping,
Nathan, no scalping from me!”

“Truly, it is just as thee thinks proper,” Nathan
mumbled out; and without further remark,
he strode into the wood, following the path which
the Piankeshaws had travelled the preceding
evening, until, with Roland, he reached the spot
where had happened the catastrophe of the keg,
—a place but a few hundred paces distant from
the glade. Along the whole way he had betrayed
symptoms of dissatisfaction and uneasiness, for
which Roland could not account; and now, having
arrived at this spot, he came to a pause, and
revealed the source of his trouble.

“Do thee sit down here and rest thee weary
limbs, friend,” he said. “Truly, I have left two
Injun guns lying open to the day; and, truly, it
doth afflict me to think so; for if other Injuns
should chance upon this place, they must needs
find them, and perhaps use them in killing poor
white persons. Truly, I will hide them in a hollow
tree, and return to thee in a minute.”

With these words, he immediately retraced his
path, leaving Roland to wonder and speculate
at leisure over the singular intermixture of humane
and ferocious elements of which his character
seemed compounded. But the speculation
was not long indulged; in a few moments Nathan's
footsteps were heard ringing along the
arched path, and he again made his appearance,
but looking a new man. His gait was fierce and
confident, his countenance bold and expressive of
satisfaction. “Things should never be done by
halves,” he muttered, but more as if speaking to
his own thoughts than to his companion.

With this brief apology, he again led the way
through the forest; but not until Roland had observed,
or thought he observed, a drop of blood
fall from his tattered knife-sheath to the earth.
But the suspicion that this little incident, coupled
with the change in Nathan's deportment, awoke
in Roland's mind, he had no leisure to pursue, Nathan
now striding forward at a pace which soon
brought his companion to a painful sense of his
own enfeebled and suffering condition.

“Thee must neither faint nor flag,” said Nathan;
“thee enemies have the start of thee by
a whole day; and they have thee horses also.
Truly, it is my fear, that, with these horses and
thee kinswoman, Abel Doe and the man Braxley,
thee foeman, may push on for the Injun town
with what speed they can, leaving their Injun
thieves the footmen, to follow on as they may, or
perhaps to strike through the woods for the North
Side, to join the ramping villains that are there
burning and murdering. Thee must keep up thee
strength till night-fall; when thee shall have good
meat to eat and a long sleep to refresh thee; and,

truly, on the morrow thee will be very well,
though a little feverish.”

With such encouragement, repeated time by
time as seemed to him needful, Nathan continued
to lead through wood and brake, with a vigour
and freshness of step that moved the wonder and
envy of Roland, who knew that, like himself, Nathan
had been without sleep for two nights in
succession; besides, having employed the intervening
days in the most laborious exertions.
Such an example of untiring energy and zeal,
and the reflection that they were displayed in his
cause—in the cause of his hapless Edith—supported
Roland's own flagging steps; and he followed
without murmuring, until the close of the
day found him again on the banks of the river
that had witnessed so many of his sufferings. He
had been long aware that Nathan had deserted
the path of the Piankeshaws; but not doubting
his superior knowledge of the woods had led him
into a shorter path, he was both surprised and
concerned, when, striking the river at last, he
found himself in a place entirely unknown, and
apparently many miles below the scene of conflict
of the previous day.

“He that would follow upon the heels of Wenonga,”
said Nathan, “must walk wide of his
footsteps, for fear lest he should suddenly tread
on the old reptile's tail. Thee don't know the
craft of an old Injun that expects to be followed,—as,
truly, it is like the Black-Vulture may
expect it now. Do thee be content, friend; there
is more paths to Wenonga's town than them that
Wenonga follows; and, truly, we may gain something
by taking the shortest.”

Thus satisfying Roland he had good reasons for

choosing his own path, Nathan led the way to
the verge of the river; where, leaving the broad
buffalo-trace by which he descended the banks,
and diving through canes and rocks, until he had
left the ford to which the path led, a quarter-mile
or more behind, he stopped at last under a grim
cliff overgrown with trees and brambles, where
a cove or hollow in the rock, of a peculiarly
wild, solitary and defensible character, invited
him to take up quarters for the night.

Nor did this seem the first time Wandering
Nathan had sought shelter in the place, which
possessed an additional advantage in a little spring
that trickled from the rock, and collected its
limpid stores in a rocky basin hard by; there
were divers half-burned brands lying on its sandy
floor, and a bed of fern and cane-leaves, not yet
dispersed by the winds, that had evidently been
once pressed by a human form.

“Thee will never see a true man of the woods,”
said Nathan, with much apparent self-approval,
“build his camp-fire on a road-side, like that unlucky
foolish man, Ralph Stackpole by name, that
ferried thee down the river.—Truly, it was a marvel
he did not drown thee all, as well as the poor
man Dodge! Here, friend, we can sleep in peace;
and, truly, sleep will be good for thee, and me,
and little Peter.”

With these words, Nathan set about collecting
dried logs and branches which former floods had
strown in great abundance along the rocks; and
dragging them into the cove, he soon set them in
a cheerful blaze. He then drew forth his stores
of provender—the corn and dried meat he had
taken from the Piankeshaw's pouches,—the latter
of which, after a preliminary sop or two in the

spring, for the double purpose of washing off the
grains of gun-powder, tobacco, and what not, the
usual scraping of an Indian's pocket,—and of restoring
its long vanished juices,—he spitted on twigs
of cane, and roasted with exceeding patience and
solicitude at the fire. To these dainty viands he
added certain cakes and lumps of some non-descript
substance, as Roland supposed it, until assured
by Nathan it was good maple-sugar, and of
his own making. “Truly,” said he, “it might
have been better, had it been better made. But,
truly, friend, I am, as thee may say, a man that
lives in the woods, having neither cabin nor wigwam,
the Injuns having burned down the same,
so that it is tedious to rebuild them: and having
neither pots nor pans, the same having been all
stolen, I did make my sugar in the wooden
troughs, boiling it down with hot stones; and,
truly, friend, it doth serve the purpose of salt, and
is good against hunger in long journeys.”

There was little in the dishes, set off by Nathan's
cookery, or his own feelings, to dispose the
sick and weary soldier to eat; and having swallowed
but a few mouthfuls, he threw himself
upon the bed of leaves, hoping to find that refreshment
in slumber which neither food nor the
conversation of his companion could supply. His
body being as much worn and exhausted as his
mind, the latter was not doomed to be long tossed
by grief and fear; and before the last hues
of sun-set had faded in the west, slumber had
swept from his bosom the consciousness of his
own sufferings, with even the memory of his
Edith.

In the meanwhile, Nathan had gathered more
wood to supply the fire during the night, and

added a new stock of cane-leaves for his own
bed; having made which to his liking, disposed
his arms where they could be seized at a moment's
warning, and, above all, accommodated
little Peter with a couch at his own feet, he
also threw himself at length, and was soon sound
asleep.