University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BACK TRAIL.

Stealthily and silently gliding away together,
as if one unspoken thought were actuating both, our
two friends put some fifty yards between them and
the Indians; and then Tom stopped, threw his
brawny arms around Henry, and almost hugged the
breath out of him.

“You done it glorious, boy, and I'd like to yell out
my feelings!” he whispered.

“Don't do it, Tom! for why incur needless risk?”
returned Henry, warningly.

“Risk be blowed,” rejoined Tom, “with us he-yar
in the woods and so much the start of them niggers!
I arn't afeard of risk; but I've got another reason.
We've got to hev a couple of guns and some hosses.
Whar's the use agwine afoot, like a couple of white
beggars, hey?”

“Oh, Tom,” said Henry, somewhat nervously, “do
not forget the fearful danger we must incur if we
attempt such a thing! We have recovered our
liberty almost by a miracle, and it would be flying
in the very face of Heaven not to make use of it
now!”

“That's jest what I thinks!” answered Tom, with

the perverseness of a bold, stubborn fellow. “Ef
we cl'ars out now, and don't use our chances, whar's
the use of heving'em? Harry, you done it glorious!”
he pursued, giving the young man another regular
bear hug; “and ef ever I says ary thing more
agin your fool finikies, jest feed me on turkey buzzards
till I get sense. Wagh! woofh! wagh! How
you tickled up the old paint-faces! Lord! ef I
only could squat down he-yar and yell it out!”

“Tom, Tom, my dear friend,” said Henry, in a reproving
tone, “you seem to forget where we are, and
what dangers still surround us!”

“No, I don't, Harry; but I never knowed you so
skeered afore.”

“Because you never saw me, Tom, when I felt
such a weight of responsibility resting on my soul.
Think of Isaline, Tom—think of Isaline!”

“That's a fact, Harry, and I guvs up the laughing
business to onct.”

“Come, then, let us hasten away from here before
the Indians miss us.”

“What! without guns or hosses? and them so
near?” returned Tom. “No, sir, younker—I can't
do it! See he-yar, lad—why didn't I cut the throats
of them devils as I war bound to, arter I'd got the
knife, hey?”

“Because you would have periled the safety of us
both!” replied Henry. “I hope you did not even
contemplate anything so rash!”

“I'd a done it,” pursued Tom, “only for one thing

—I knowed we'd git the hull camp up arter us,
and we'd not git nary hoss, and you knows I has a
hankering that way.”

“Tom, my dear friend,” returned Henry, “do not,
for Heaven's sake, drive me wild with any insane
freak of yours now! You have seen me suffer—but
you know little of what I have suffered after all. How
I have retained my senses, is more than I can understand;
but the good God has spared me and given
me my freedom, and you should be the last person
in the world to peril it!”

“Look a he-yar, Harry,” returned Tom, “I sees
you is making a mistake about me, and I'm agwine
to put you right. You've got your freedom, haint
you?”

“So far I have—yes.”

“Wall, what else you got?” queried Tom.

“I do not understand you, Tom.”

“No, I sees you don't; and I'm agwine to make
you, ef I kin. How does you s'pect we is agwine to
make our tracks through the wilderness, and come
it over the devils we is arter, ef we don't hev some
way to ride as well as them? and so'thing to fight
with and kill game with, hey?”

“But we had better make use of our freedom, and
trust the rest to that kind, watchful Providence that
has so far protected and preserved us!”

“I've not got nothing to say agin Providence and
all that,” returned Tom, in a matter-of-fact way; “but
ef Providence haint got no objection, I'd rayther hev

a gun in my hand and a good hoss under me—yes,
sir! Woofh! whar's the use?”

“So would I rather have a gun and a horse, Tom,
if we could get them, but I fear the attempt would
result in our destruction.”

“You didn't use to be afeard, Harry.”

“Nor am I now, Tom, afraid for myself merely;
but, for Heaven's sake, remember what we have at
stake! and what we are periling every moment we
remain here! Think, my dear friend—only think
for a moment—what will become of the colonel's
daughter—of poor Isaline Holcombe—if we be captured
again!”

“That's jest what I does think on,” persisted the
other, “and I don't intend the niggers shall hev us
ag'in—no, sir! See he-yar, Harry—ef you don't want
to risk it, let me try it alone! I'll be powerful keerful;
and ef I haps to raise the camp, jest you put out
and make long tracks, and leave me to sarcumvent
the Injuns in my own style!”

“No, Tom,” said Henry, firmly, “I will not desert
you like a coward. If you are resolved to go back,
I will go with you and share the danger, for danger
there will be. And now tell me, plainly and briefly,
what you hope to accomplish?”

Tom explained in a few words. As the Indians
were all asleep, and sleeping soundly, he thought he
could venture back to the nearest and abstract a
couple of their guns, which were lying on the ground
along side of them, and get off without waking them.

Then he and Henry could repair to where the horses
were tethered, select two of the best, mount them,
and escape in the darkness, even should the whole
camp then become alarmed.

“The most dangerous part of the exploit will be
in securing the guns,” said Henry; “but if you are
resolved upon the venture, so be it, and let us set
about it at once!”

“That's your tork!” returned Tom; “and jest you
come along, nigh up and handy like, so's I won't
miss you, and leave me to git the guns; and ef I
haps to raise a skeer, we'll put off together as we is
and let the rest go. I don't see no extra danger in't,
Harry.”

With this our two friends began, slowly, stealthily
and noiselessly, to creep up to the nearest Indians,
Tom taking the lead. The night, in the wood where
they were, was very dark. This would favor their
escape in case of alarm, but at the same time it rendered
it very difficult for them to distinguish the
forms of the sleepers. When near enough for his
purpose, Tom laid his hand upon the arm of Henry,
as a signal for him to stop, and then crept forward
alone. For a minute or two Henry held his breath
in fearful expectation; and then, to his great relief
and joy, he perceived the dim, shadowy figure of
Tom creeping back to him, with two muskets resting
on his shoulder.

“I could hev killed the sleepy dorgs easy,” he
said, in the lowest possible whisper—a whisper that

could not have been heard a foot from the ear of the
listener—“but I thought as how they mought
screech, or so'thing, and so I didn't, though the old
knife war itching to be into 'em!”

“No, no, Tom, let us do nothing rash!” returned
Henry, in the same low, guarded manner. “God be
thanked you have got away so far with all you
sought! and now let us steal off to the horses.”

“Not quite yit, Harry,” rejoined Tom; “I've forgot
so'thing. Wagh! shagh! fool that I war!
Whar's the use of the guns without powder and ball,
hey? I've got to go back for them.”

“Oh, Tom, be contented with what you have, and
not risk your life again!” said Henry, fairly trembling
at the thought of another perilous venture into
the very jaws of death as it were.

“Whar's the use?” grumbled Tom, with dogged
determination; “guns won't shoot without powder
and ball. I'll fotch 'em, never you fear. The niggers
has got thar horns and pouches fastened to 'em
—but I've got a knife as kin cut 'em cl'ar in two
jiffies. You stay he-yar, and take keer of the guns,
and I'll be back in no time.”

Henry would have remonstrated further, only
that he knew it would be useless, and so he merely
said:

“Be careful then, Tom! oh, for the love of God,
be careful!”

Tom crept away again, and for another two or
three minutes Henry awaited his return with his

heart in his mouth. He listened intently, breathlessly,
for every sound; and once, when the sudden
howling of a neighboring wolf came borne to his
ear, he started and trembled with the first impression
that it was a noise in the camp. All grew still
again, and shortly after he was rejoiced at seeing the
dark figure of Tom creeping back to him.

“I've done it, younker!” was the triumphant
whisper of the old woodman; “he-yar they is; and
now we're ready to put out for the hosses and let
these yere devils snooze on. When they wakes in
the morning and finds we arn't thar, they kin take
thar mad out o' Hampton, and be — to the hull
caboodle of 'em!”

Only for prudential reasons, Tom would have
indulged in a loud, boisterous laugh, at his wonderful
success in what he called his “sarcumvintion of
the snoozing niggers;” and even as it was, the
thought of the trick he had played them, caused
him to lie down and shake his sides, though no
sound issued from his lips. Henry, as we know,
was, for many urgent reasons, most fearfully anxious
to be gone, and to him the present mirth of Tom
appeared ill-timed and almost cruel.

“Come,” he said, bending down and putting his
mouth to the ear of his rough friend, “are you not
forgetting, in your unseemly mirth, that the colonel's
daughter is even now in the hands of cruel, murderous
villains?”

“Right, Harry?” returned Tom, at once starting

up in a serious mood; “I'm a rigerlar beast to forgit
that poor gal! Now then for the hosses, younker,
and then we'll make some tracks as these yere
devils can't foller!”

He rose to his feet, with all due caution, took one
of the guns, and glided away in the direction of the
tethered animals, Henry following close behind him.

The horses were found all near together, about a
stone's throw from the Indian camp. They had fed
to their satisfaction on the rich, rank grass of the
charming spot, and most of them were now lying
down. Unknown to our friends, two savages had
been set to watch the animals; but these fellows,
overpowered with drowsiness, had fallen asleep at
their posts. Fortunately both Tom and Henry proceeded
here with the same silent caution which had
already given them so much success. Most of the
beasts had been ridden with halters instead of
bridles; but there were some half-a-dozen of the
latter, which had been stolen from the whites; and
these were found in the general pile, where all had
been thrown down together, and which our friends
happened to stumble upon at the very first. Selecting
two of the best bridles, which they did rather
by feeling than sight, they glided in among the
horses, some of which started up and began to snuff
and snort in a rather alarming manner. The noise
woke up the guard, who spoke to the animals in
their native tongue, and was the first intimation our
friends had of their dangerous proximity. Henry,

in view of the vital importance his escape might be
to Isaline—still thinking of her rather than of himself,
except in so much as his own safety might affect
hers—now trembled like an aspen; but Tom remained
perfectly cool, though he was not a little
alarmed. Fortunately our friends were already
among the horses, where the Indians could not perceive
them in the thick darkness, and both had the
judgment and presence of mind to keep perfectly
still, till the nearest animals, having smelt of them
to their satisfaction, ceased to show any signs of
fear. Then Tom quietly and noiselessly cut the
tethers of all near him, and slipped the bridles upon
two that he judged to be the best for a race, for
speed alone was what he now required. This done,
and with the bridle-reins of both in his hands, he
began to feel secure, and, as he afterward expressed
it, “didn't keer a continental copper how soon the
red-nigger camp mought git its back up.”

“Harry,” he whispered, “I'm agwine to hev a
lettle fun he-yar, and do so'thing for our safety too.
Jest you hold these yere hosses, whilst I cuts all the
ropes; and when we goes, we'll skeer off the hull
caboodle, and let the cussed imps hev a hunt for
'em!”

“Be careful that the Indians don't see and fire on
you then!” returned Henry, who knew from experience
how useless it would be to remonstrate with
his companion against one of his whims.

Tom immediately set about his design; and though

the space occupied by the horses was not large, it
was nearly a quarter of an hour before he returned
to the side of the impatient Henry and announced
that all was completed.

“Now then, younker, we're ready to guv'em the
dodge—so up with you!” he said.

Henry, as may readily be believed, was not slow
to obey an order he had so long and tremblingly
waited for, and almost the next moment he was
upon the back of a high-mettled beast and beginning
to feel as if he were really breathing the air of freedom.
Tom was longer in mounting, for his animal
suddenly became very restive; but he shortly succeeded
in throwing himself upon his back; and then,
as if he could no longer restrain his pent-up feelings,
he gave one of the loudest and wildest yells ever
heard in that region—a yell that was enough to scare
the living if not to waken the dead—and which
went echoing and re-echoing far away among the
surrounding hills. It frightened the beasts, alarmed
the guard, and roused up the camp; and the next
minute there was a scene of the wildest confusion—
horses running, Indians yelling and firing at random,
and Tom shouting and laughing, as with his companion
he dashed swiftly away.

For the first five minutes the flying fugitives
might have been traced by the shouts, yells and
laughter of Tom, who could not contain himself.

“Go it, old paint-faces—waw! haw! waw!” he
shouted; “go it, you infarnal old sculp-locks—waw!

haw! waw! How does you like finikies by this
time? Didn't we come it over you beautiful! you
— lazy, cantankerous, snoozing old hounds!
Thought you'd got us, didn't ye? and then wakes
up to find we'd got you—waw! haw! waw! Burn
us, will ye? Make red-niggers o' us, will ye? Not
ef we knows ourselves—no, sir! Thar's that beauty
Hampton for ye, that went to ye for the love o' the
thing—s'pose you tries it on to him! Whoop! wagh!
shagh! whar's the use?”

Thus he continued, while dashing away through
a rather open wood, till the stumbling of his horse
pitched him off over the animal's head and put an
abrupt termination to his excessive hilarity.

“Good heavens, Tom! are you hurt?” cried Henry
in alarm, who was riding close enough to be aware
of the accident almost as soon as it happened.

“S'pect my skull arn't smashed nor my neck
broke!” muttered Tom, in a rather doleful tone, as
he slowly gathered himself up, and tried his limbs, to
see if they were all sound and whole; “but this yere
arn't the best way to git off a hoss, I'll sw'ar.”

“You may be thankful it is no worse!” returned
Henry, reprovingly; “and I hope it will be a warning
to you, not to conduct yourself in so wild and
boisterous a manner!”

“Ef you is agwine to preach,” growled Tom, “I'll
go back and stop with the Injuns till you gits
through. Whar's the use? Who put the finikies

into your head, to use 'em agin the savage imps,
hey?”

“Come, come, my brave friend, don't be angry
with me now!” said Henry, in a tone calculated to
allay the irritation of the rough borderer. “I admit
I owe my liberty, if not my life, to you; but there
is so much at stake even yet, that I must be pardoned
for asking you to be serious and reasonable
now and assist me with your advice.”

“Wall, thar, younker,” rejoined the mollified Tom,
“it's all right—straight as a loon's leg—and we'll
not say no more about it. I war tickled though,
Harry, and I couldn't help it, to think o' how we'd
sarcumvented them hellyuns, and how the old
greasy paint-faces ud look at one and t'other, and
sw'ar in Injun about the way we'd put out without
axing leave.”

“Well, now then, Tom, that we are away, what
is best for us to do?” anxiously queried Henry.
“What I want to do is, to rescue Isaline Holcombe
in the shortest possible time; but how to find her—
how to seek for her—that is the point! Where
shall we begin? Oh, God! to think how many unknown
miles stretch between us! and what an awful
demon has her in his power! I must not think—I
must not—or I shall go mad! I must act, act, act—
all the time act—but how? Oh, Tom, my dear
friend, aid me with all your experience, your wisdom,
your knowledge! for I am almost as helpless as

when I was a bound prisoner in the hands of the
savages.”

“Harry,” replied Tom, penitently, coming up to
Henry and grasping his hand, “it war right down
beastly in me to be a laughing, like a old fool, with
you in sich misery; and ef I does it ag'in, may I
choke with a green persimmon! I'll do all I kin
fur you and the colonel's darter—God bless her
sweet, purty face! but afore we kin make a start
arter her, I s'pects we've got to wait fur daylight.”

“That is hours, Tom—hours!” cried Henry, with
a lover's wild impatience; “and every minute is an
age while she remains in such hands! Oh, Heaven
of mercy! can nothing be done to-night? Think,
Tom—think—and suggest something! something!
something!”

“Look-a he-yar, Harry, my poor feller, and see
how things stand!” said Tom. “The poor gal war
tuk away last night at dark—”

“Oh, God preserve her!” ejaculated Henry.

—“And sence then,” pursued Tom, “we've ben
tramped over a heap o' country.”

“Nobody better than I knows every painful step!”
groaned Henry.

“Wall, we've got to go back over that thar same
ground ag'in—foller the trail back'ard—else how'll
we come to the p'int whar she war stole off?”

“True! I see!”

“And how's we agwine to do that when it's so
dark a feller can't tell hisself from a burnt stump?”

“Can we not find the right direction, and make
some progress toward the last night's camp?”
anxiously inquired Henry.

“I don't reckon as how we kin, Harry. I'm some
in the woods, I'll allow; but I don't exactly know
whar we is now, and I can't see the p'ints of the
hills to make it out. You see we left rayther sudden
and come he-yar—but whar? We're not fur
off from the Injun camp, but I've got to hev daylight
to find our back trail.”

“Then nothing can be done till morning?”
groaned Henry.

“I'm afeard not,” answered Tom, “'cept we goes
on a bit and gits furder off from the Injuns.”

“Do you think they will attempt to pursue us?”

“I reckons not—leastways they can't do it hossback
till they cotches thar runaway beasts—and it's
my opine they won't try it he-yar: on thar own
stamping ground it mought be different.”

“Well, my friend,” sighed Henry, “you must do
what you think best. However painful it may be
to wait, I must bow to fate and submit all to your
superior judgment.”

“It won't be a great while till morning,” said
Tom, “though it'll seem a good while to wait; but
I don't know nothing better. I reckon we'd best
go on a piece furder and stop—for ef we gits too
fur, it'll bother us to know whar we is and find the
trail we want.”

In pursuance of this plan, Tom again mounted

his horse, and the two proceeded slowly through the
wood for about a mile, descending into a valley and
ascending a steep hill, on the summit of which they
came to a halt, and there remained through the
hours, that seemed like ages to Henry, till light
once more banished darkness from the scene.

As soon as it was light enough to see clearly, our
friends took an eager survey of the landscape spread
out before them.

“I knows whar we is now,” said Tom, “for I
al'ays notes the p'ints when I travels. D'yer see
that ar' tallest hill over yon, with a big rock on top,
and a few trees standing up cl'ar agin the sky?”

“Yes, yes, Tom—I see!”

“Wall, in the holler this side, ar' whar we come
along yesterday, purty much down in the mouth,
and thar we'll find the trail.”

“But the Indian camp, Tom—where is that?”

“Can't see it from he-yar, case it's down in a
holler, right over behind that ar' hill you sees to
the right o' us.”

“Then we were going right away from our former
trail?”

“Some'at; and ef we hadn't a stopped, we'd a got
twistified round, so's we'd a had a good deal of
bother to git ourselves right.”

“Well, now then to get upon that trail—which of
course will be as easily followed as a road, on
account of so many horses having passed over it—
and then to fly back to our previous camp with all

possible speed!” said Henry, preparing to remount
the horse which he already held by the bridle.

“I s'pect that's the tork!” replied Tom, examining
his musket and ammunition, and calculating the
chances of being able to find and kill some game
for food—for he was one of your fellows who had
no partiality for travelling far on an empty stomach.
“I wonders ef this yere old thing 'll go off and hit
a beast right afore your nose!” he pursued. “Agh!
ef I'd only thought to go over to the pile whar the
niggers had put our rifles, I'd a done so'thing decent
and Christian-like! Shagh! whar's the use?”

“No use now, Tom, in wasting these precious
moments in regrets for what we did not do!” returned
Henry, impatiently; “but rather let us be
thankful to God for what we did accomplish, and
make the best use possible of our present circumstances!
Come, come—why delay another moment
here?”

“That's a fact,” replied the other, “and I'm with
you to the death!” He quickly remounted his
horse, and added: “Foller me, and I'll take you
round so's we'll strike the trail about three mile
from this.”

“You will not miss it, Tom?”

“I never misses nothing, younker, when I knows
the p'ints!” was the sententious rejoinder of the
experienced hunter and scout.

Away they dashed, on their high-spirited beasts,
riding as swiftly as the rough nature of the ground

would permit. In less than an hour they struck
the trail of the previous day, and rapidly followed
it back toward the camp from which Isaline had
been taken.

As the day wore on to noon, Tom began to think
seriously of his empty stomach; but Henry, lover-like,
thought only of the rescue of the fair being
who was all the world to him. What was food to
him—what was life even—unless Isaline could be
saved from a fate worse than death? He would
have gone on, and on, day and night, if necessary
and possible, with never a thought for himself, until
it should have been forced upon him by sinking nature;
but Tom was no lover, and had no intention
of feeding on air, for even one entire day, if he could
possibly find anything more substantial. He was
anxious to rescue Isaline, and would have risked his
life for her against any living foe with a bare chance
of success; but he had no idea of starving himself
in advance, merely for the hope of reaching her a
few minutes sooner. The horses, too, from having
been ridden fast over rough ground, were now sweating
and panting and showing signs of fatigue, and
Rough Tom Sturgess was not the man to forget his
beast. So at last, on reaching the foot of a steep
hill, the only one that now divided him and his companion
from the camp-ground they were seeking, he
pulled up his horse and said:

“Harry, hold up, and say ef we're agwine to noon
this side of the hill or t'other?”

“Noon, Tom?” repeated Henry, with a look of
surprise.

“In course we've got to stop and rest a bit, younker,
and me and the hosses has got to hev so'thing
to eat; ef you kin live without it, you kin beat us;
but I've got a holler in me you could dance a jig in,
and I wants to fill it.”

It was finally agreed that they should continue on
to the camp-ground, for Henry was eager to see if
the trail left by the horse of Methoto, and subsequently
by Blodget and his Indians, was still clear
enough to be easily followed, as much of his hope of
successful pursuit would depend upon that.

In less than an hour they reached the eventful
place, and Henry fairly trembled with emotions excited
by a return to the spot which he had first
beheld as a bound and helpless prisoner, and where
he had seen the idol of his soul borne away from
him by a human beast. His first act, on reaching
this scene of such painful remembrances, was to leap
from his horse and make an eager search for the trail
of Methoto and Blodget; and when he found it, and
saw it was possible to follow it, he became so much
affected, that he leaned against a tree and shed tears,
the first that had filled his eyes since parting from
her he so devotedly loved.

“Don't cry, Harry!” said Tom, sympathetically.

“Thank God that I can!” returned Henry; “for
my brain has all along been on fire, and my heart
ready to burst, and this is the first relief I have felt.

Oh, Tom, this trail can be followed, and who knows
but we shall find her yet?—find her and save her!”

“In course we shall, my lad—in course we shall
—or else whar's the use of guving the cussed savages
the dodge and coming back he-yar in sich a hurry?
In course we'll find her and save her—for haint I all
along told you thar'd so'thing turn up and fotch it
out all right?”

On further examination of the trail, it was found
to be too obscure for following on horseback; and
then the question arose as to what was to be done
with the animals, for Tom did not want to lose them
altogether. It was finally decided that they should
be unbridled and set free, and the chance be risked
of finding them again in case they should be needed.
This being settled, and the horses led away to a
quiet, grassy spot, and the bridles concealed in an
old hollow log, our two friends immediately set off
on the trail of the villains—Tom remarking that, as
he was now afoot, he would be as likely to find game
in that direction as any other. The trail not being
fresh, was in many places so obscure that it became
slow, tedious work to make it out; and the impatient
Henry, who would have flown on the wings of
the wind to the rescue of the being he so devotedly
loved, was compelled to toil on at a snail-like pace.
Once, where it entered a small stream and was lost,
an hour was consumed in finding it; and just at the
point where it was recovered, Tom was so fortunate
as to get a shot at a deer and kill it. Then more

time was lost in kindling a fire and cooking a portion
of the animal—for Tom declared he would not
go another step till he should have “filled his
holler.”

Thus the day wore away, and Henry groaned in
spirit when at last another night shut in the scene
and put an end to his search for many a long hour.

“Oh, Father in Heaven, support me and aid me,
and deliver her into my hands who is more to me
than life!” he prayed.