Kitabı oku: «Erskine Dale—Pioneer», sayfa 5
IX
Led by Dave, sometimes by the boy, the four followed the course of rivers, upward, always except when they descended some mountain which they had to cross, and then it was soon upward again. The two Virginia lads found themselves, much to their chagrin, as helpless as children, but they were apt pupils and soon learned to make a fire with flint and even with dry sticks of wood. On the second day Harry brought down a buck, and the swiftness and skill with which Dave and the Kentucky boy skinned and cleaned it greatly astonished the two young gentlemen from the James. There Erskine had been helpless, here these two were, and they were as modest over the transposition as was the Kentucky lad in the environment he had just left. Once they saw a herd of buffalo and they tied their horses and slipped toward them. In his excitement Harry fired too soon and the frightened herd thundered toward them.
“Climb a tree!” shouted Erskine dropping his rifle and skinning up a young hickory. Like squirrels they obeyed and from their perches they saw Dave in an open space ahead of them dart for a tree too late.
The buffalo were making straight for them through no purpose but to get away, and to their horror they saw the big hunter squeezing his huge body sidewise against a small tree and the herd dashing under them and past him. They could not see him for the shaggy bodies rushing by, but when they passed, there was Dave unhurt, though the tree on both sides of him had been skinned of its bark by their horns.
“Don’t do that again,” said Dave, and then seeing the crestfallen terror on Harry’s face, he smiled and patted the boy on the shoulder:
“You won’t again. You didn’t know. You will next time.”
Three days later they reached the broad, beautiful Holston River, passing over the pine-crested, white-rocked summit of Clinch Mountain, and came to the last outlying fort of the western frontier. Next day they started on the long, long wilderness trail toward the Cumberland range. In the lowland they found much holly and laurel and rhododendron. Over Wallen’s Ridge they followed a buffalo trail to a river that had been called Beargrass because it was fringed with spikes of white umbelliferous flowers four feet high that were laden with honey and beloved by Bruin of the sweet tooth. The land was level down the valley. On the third day therefrom the gray wall of the Cumberland that ran with frowning inaccessibility on their right gathered its flanks into steep gray cliffs and dipped suddenly into Cumberland Gap. Up this they climbed. On the summit they went into camp, and next morning Dave swept a long arm toward the wild expanse to the west.
“Four more days,” he cried, “and we’ll be there!”
The two boys looked with awe on the limitless stretch of wooded wilds. It was still Virginia, to be sure, but they felt that once they started down they would be leaving their own beloved State for a strange land of unknown beasts and red men who peopled that “dark and bloody ground.”
Before sunrise next morning they were dropping down the steep and rocky trail. Before noon they reached the beautiful Cumberland River, and Dave told them that, below, it ran over a great rocky cliff, tumbling into foam and spray over mighty boulders around which the Indians had to carry their bark canoes. As they rode along the bank of the stream the hills got lower and were densely thicketed with laurel and rhododendron, and impenetrable masses of cane-brake filled every little valley curve. That night they slept amid the rocky foot-hills of the range, and next morning looked upon a vast wilderness stretch of woods that undulated to the gentle slopes of the hills, and that night they were on the edge of the blue-grass land.
Toward sunset Dave, through a sixth sense, had the uneasy feeling that he was not only being followed but watched from the cliffs alongside, and he observed that Erskine too had more than once turned in his saddle or lifted his eyes searchingly to the shaggy flanks of the hills. Neither spoke to the other, but that night when the hoot of an owl raised Dave from his blanket, Erskine too was upright with his rifle in his hand. For half an hour they waited, and lay down again, only to be awakened again by the snort of a horse, when both sprang to their feet and crawled out toward the sound. But the heavy silence lay unbroken and they brought the horses closer to the fire.
“Now I know it was Indians,” said Dave; “that hoss o’ mine can smell one further’n a rattlesnake.” The boy nodded and they took turns on watch while the two boys slept on till daylight. The trail was broad enough next morning for them to ride two abreast – Dave and Erskine in advance. They had scarcely gone a hundred yards when an Indian stepped into the path twenty yards ahead. Instinctively Dave threw his rifle up, but Erskine caught his arm. The Indian had lifted his hand – palm upward. “Shawnee!” said the lad, as two more appeared from the bushes. The eyes of the two tidewater boys grew large, and both clinched their guns convulsively. The Indian spokesman paid no heed except to Erskine – and only from the lad’s face, in which surprise was succeeded by sorrow and then deep thoughtfulness, could they guess what the guttural speech meant, until Erskine turned to them.
They were not on the war-path against the whites, he explained. His foster-father – Kahtoo, the big chief, the king – was very ill, and his message, brought by them, was that Erskine should come back to the tribe and become chief, as the chief’s only daughter was dead and his only son had been killed by the palefaces. They knew that in the fight at the fort Erskine had killed the Shawnee, his tormentor, for they knew the arrow, which Erskine had not had time to withdraw. The dead Shawnee’s brother – Crooked Lightning – was with them. He it was who had recognized the boy the day before, and they had kept him from killing Erskine from the bushes. At that moment a gigantic savage stepped from the brush. The boy’s frame quivered, straightened, grew rigid, but he met the malevolent glare turned on him with emotionless face and himself quietly began to speak while Harry and Hugh and even Dave watched him enthralled; for the lad was Indian now and the old chief’s mantle was about his shoulders. He sat his horse like a king and spoke as a king. He thanked them for holding back Crooked Lightning’s evil hand, but – contemptuously he spat toward the huge savage – he was not to die by that hand. He was a paleface and the Indians had slain his white mother. He had forgiven that, for he loved the old chief and his foster mother and brother and sister, and the tribe had always been kind to him. Then they had killed his white father and he had gone to visit his kindred by the big waters, and now he loved them. He had fled from the Shawnees because of the cruelty of Crooked Lightning’s brother whom he had slain. But if the Indians were falling into evil ways and following evil counsels, his heart was sad.
“I will come when the leaves fall,” he concluded, “but Crooked Lightning must pitch his lodge in the wilderness and be an outcast from the tribe until he can show that his heart is good.” And then with an imperious gesture he waved his hand toward the west:
“Now go!”
It was hard even for Dave to realize that the lad, to all purposes, was actually then the chief of a powerful tribe, and even he was a little awed by the instant obedience of the savages, who, without a word, melted into the bushes and disappeared. Harry wished that Barbara had been there to see, and Hugh was open-mouthed with astonishment and wonder, and Dave recovered himself with a little chuckle only when without a word Erskine clucked Firefly forward, quite unconsciously taking the lead. And Dave humored him; nor was it many hours before the lad ceased to be chief, although he did not wholly become himself again until they were near the fort. It was nearing sunset and from a little hill Dave pointed to a thin blue wisp of smoke rising far ahead from the green expanse.
“There it is, boys!” he cried. All the horses were tired except Firefly and with a whoop Erskine darted forward and disappeared. They followed as fast as they could and they heard the report of the boy’s rifle and the series of war-whoops with which he was heralding his approach. Nobody in the fort was fearful, for plainly it was no unfriendly coming. All were gathered at the big gate and there were many yells and cries of welcome and wonder when the boy swept into the clearing on a run, brandishing his rifle above his head, and pulled his fiery black horse up in front of them.
“Whar’d you steal that hoss?” shouted Bud.
“Look at them clothes!” cried Jack Sanders. And the women – Mother Sanders, Mother Noe, and Lydia and Honor and Polly Conrad – gathered about him, laughing, welcoming, shaking hands, and asking questions.
“Where’s Dave?” That was the chief question and asked by several voices at the same time. The boy looked grave.
“Dave ain’t comin’ back,” he said, and then seeing the look on Lydia’s face, he smiled: “Dave – ” He had no further to go, for Dave’s rifle cracked and his voice rose from the woods, and he and Harry and Hugh galloped into the clearing. Then were there more whoopings and greetings, and Lydia’s starting tears turned to smiles.
Healthy, husky, rude, and crude these people were, but hearty, kind, wholesome, and hospitable to the last they had. Naturally the young people and the two boys from the James were mutually shy, but it was plain that the shyness would soon wear off. Before dark the men came in: old Jerome and the Noe brothers and others who were strangers even to Dave, for in his absence many adventurers had come along the wilderness trail and were arriving all the time. Already Erskine and Bud had shown the two stranger boys around the fort; had told them of the last fight with the Indians, and pointed out the outer walls pockmarked with bullet-holes. Supper was in the open – the women serving and the men seated about on buffalo-skins and deer-hides. Several times Hugh or Harry would spring up to help serve, until Polly turned on Hugh sharply:
“You set still!” and then she smiled at him.
“You’ll spile us – but I know a lot o’ folks that might learn manners from you two boys.”
Both were embarrassed. Dave laughed, Bud Sanders grunted, and Erskine paid no heed. All the time the interchange of news and experiences was going on. Dave had to tell about his trip and Erskine’s races – for the lad would say nothing – and in turn followed stories of killing buffalo, deer, panther, and wildcat during his absence. Early the women disappeared, soon the men began to yawn and stretch, and the sentinels went to the watch-towers, for there had been Indian signs that day. This news thrilled the eastern lads, and they too turned into the same bed built out from the wall of one of the cabins and covered with bearskins. And Harry, just before his eyes closed, saw through the open door Erskine seated alone by the dying fire in deep thought – Erskine, the connecting-link between the tide-water aristocrats and these rude pioneers, between these backwoodsmen and the savage enemies out in the black encircling wilderness. And that boy’s brain was in a turmoil – what was to be his fate, there, here, or out there where he had promised to go at the next falling of the leaves?
X
The green of the wilderness dulled and burst into the yellow of the buckeye, the scarlet of maple, and the russet of oak. This glory in turn dulled and the leaves, like petals of withered flowers, began to drift to the earth. Through the shower of them went Erskine and Firefly, who had become as used to the wilds as to the smiling banks of the far-away James, for no longer did some strange scent make his nostrils quiver or some strange sound point his beautiful ears and make him crouch and shudder, or some shadow or shaft of light make him shy and leap like a deer aside. And the two now were one in mutual affection and a mutual understanding that was uncanny. A brave picture the lad made of those lone forerunners whose tent was the wilderness and whose goal was the Pacific slope. From his coonskin cap the bushy tail hung like a plume; his deerskin hunting-shirt, made by old Mother Sanders, was beaded and fringed – fringed across the breast, at the wrists, and at the hem, and girded by a belt from which the horned handle of a scalping-knife showed in front and the head of a tomahawk behind; his powder-horn swung under one shoulder and his bullet-pouch, wadding, flint, and steel under the other; his long rifle across his saddle-bow. And fringed too were his breeches and beaded were his moccasins. Dave had laughed at him as a backwoods dandy and then checked himself, so dignified was the boy and grave; he was the son of a king again, and as such was on his way in answer to the wish of a king. For food he carried only a little sack of salt, for his rifle would bring him meat and the forest would give him nuts and fruit. When the sun was nearing its highest, he “barked” a squirrel from the trunk of a beech; toward sunset a fat pheasant fluttered from the ground to a low limb and he shot its head off and camped for the night. Hickory-nuts, walnuts, and chestnuts were abundant. Persimmons and papaws were ripe, haws and huckleberries were plentiful. There were wild cherries and even wild plums, and when he wished he could pluck a handful of wild grapes from a vine by the trail and munch them as he rode along. For something sweet he could go to the pod of the honey-locust.
On the second day he reached the broad buffalo trail that led to the salt-licks and on to the river, and then memories came. He remembered a place where the Indians had camped after they had captured himself and his mother. In his mind was a faint picture of her sitting against a tree and weeping and of an Indian striking her to make her stop and of himself leaping at the savage like a little wildcat, whereat the others laughed like children. Farther on, next day, was the spot where the Indians had separated them and he saw his mother no more. They told him that she had been taken back to the whites, but he was told later that they had killed her because in their flight from the whites she was holding them back too much. Farther on was a spot where they had hurried from the trail and thrust him into a hollow log, barring the exit with stones, and had left him for a day and a night.
On the fourth day he reached the river and swam it holding rifle and powder-horn above his head. On the seventh he was nearing the village where the sick chief lay, and when he caught sight of the teepees in a little creek bottom, he fired his rifle, and putting Firefly into a gallop and with right hand high swept into the village. Several bucks had caught up bow or rifle at the report of the gun and the clatter of hoofs, but their hands relaxed when they saw his sign of peace. The squaws gathered and there were grunts of recognition and greeting when the boy pulled up in their midst. The flaps of the chief’s tent parted and his foster-mother started toward him with a sudden stream of tears and turned quickly back. The old chief’s keen black eyes were waiting for her and he spoke before she could open her lips:
“White Arrow! It is well. Here – at once!”
Erskine had swung from his horse and followed. The old chief measured him from head to foot slowly and his face grew content:
“Show me the horse!”
The boy threw back the flaps of the tent and with a gesture bade an Indian to lead Firefly to and fro. The horse even thrust his beautiful head over his master’s shoulder and looked within, snorting gently. Kahtoo waved dismissal:
“You must ride north soon to carry the white wampum and a peace talk. And when you go you must hurry back, for when the sun is highest on the day after you return, my spirit will pass.”
And thereupon he turned his face and went back into sleep. Already his foster-mother had unsaddled and tethered Firefly and given him a feed of corn; and yet bucks, squaws, girls, and pappooses were still gathered around him, for some had not seen his like before, and of the rest none failed to feel the change that had taken place in him. Had the lad in truth come to win and make good his chieftainship, he could not have made a better beginning, and there was not a maid in camp in whose eyes there was not far more than curiosity – young as he was. Just before sunset rifle-shots sounded in the distance – the hunters were coming in – and the accompanying whoops meant great success. Each of three bucks carried a deer over his shoulders, and foremost of the three was Crooked Lightning, who barely paused when he saw Erskine, and then with an insolent glare and grunt passed him and tossed his deer at the feet of the squaws. The boy’s hand slipped toward the handle of his tomahawk, but some swift instinct kept him still. The savage must have had good reason for such open defiance, for the lad began to feel that many others shared in his hostility and he began to wonder and speculate.
Quickly the feast was prepared and the boy ate apart – his foster-mother bringing him food – but he could hear the story of the day’s hunting and the allusions to the prowess of Crooked Lightning’s son, Black Wolf, who was Erskine’s age, and he knew they were but slurs against himself. When the dance began his mother pointed toward it, meaning that he should take part, but he shook his head – and his thoughts went backward to his friends at the fort and on back to the big house on the James, to Harry and Hugh – and Barbara; and he wondered what they would think if they could see him there; could see the gluttonous feast and those naked savages stamping around the fire with barbaric grunts and cries to the thumping of a drum. Where did he belong?
Fresh wood was thrown on the fire, and as its light leaped upward the lad saw an aged Indian emerge from one of two tents that sat apart on a little rise – saw him lift both hands toward the stars for a moment and then return within.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“The new prophet,” said his mother. “He has been but one moon here and has much power over our young men.”
An armful of pine fagots was tossed on the blaze, and in a whiter leap of light he saw the face of a woman at the other tent – saw her face and for a moment met her eyes before she shrank back – and neither face nor eyes belonged to an Indian. Startled, he caught his mother by the wrist and all but cried out:
“And that?” The old woman hesitated and scowled:
“A paleface. Kahtoo bought her and adopted her but” – the old woman gave a little guttural cluck of triumph – “she dies to-morrow. Kahtoo will burn her.”
“Burn her?” burst out the boy.
“The palefaces have killed many of Kahtoo’s kin!”
A little later when he was passing near the white woman’s tent a girl sat in front of it pounding corn in a mortar. She looked up at him and, staring, smiled. She had the skin of the half-breed, and he stopped, startled by that fact and her beauty – and went quickly on. At old Kahtoo’s lodge he could not help turning to look at her again, and this time she rose quickly and slipped within the tent. He turned to find his foster-mother watching him.
“Who is that girl?” The old woman looked displeased.
“Daughter of the white woman.”
“Does she know?”
“Neither knows.”
“What is her name?”
“Early Morn.”
Early Morn and daughter of the white woman – he would like to know more of those two, and he half turned, but the old Indian woman caught him by the arm:
“Do not go there – you will only make more trouble.”
He followed the flash of her eyes to the edge of the firelight where a young Indian stood watching and scowling:
“Who is that?”
“Black Wolf, son of Crooked Lightning.”
“Ah!” thought Erskine.
Within the old chief called faintly and the Indian woman motioned the lad to go within. The old man’s dim eyes had a new fire.
“Talk!” he commanded and motioned to the ground, but the lad did not squat Indian fashion, but stood straight with arms folded, and the chief knew that a conflict was coming. Narrowly he watched White Arrow’s face and bearing – uneasily felt the strange new power of him.
“I have been with my own people,” said the lad simply, “the palefaces who have come over the big mountains and have built forts and planted corn, and they were kind to me. I went over those mountains, on and on almost to the big waters. I found my kin. They are many and strong and rich. They have big houses of stone such as I had never seen nor heard of and they plant more corn than all the Shawnees and Iroquois. They, too, were kind to me. I came because you had been kind and because you were sick and because you had sent for me, and to keep my word.
“I have seen Crooked Lightning. His heart is bad. I have seen the new prophet. I do not like him. And I have seen the white woman that you are to burn to-morrow.” The lad stopped. His every word had been of defense or indictment and more than once the old chief’s eyes shifted uneasily.
“Why did you leave us?”
“To see my people and because of Crooked Lightning and his brother.”
“You fought us.”
“Only the brother, and I killed him.” The dauntless mien of the boy, his steady eyes, and his bold truthfulness, pleased the old man. The lad must take his place as chief. Now White Arrow turned questioner:
“I told you I would come when the leaves fell and I am here. Why is Crooked Lightning here? Why is the new prophet? Who is the woman? What has she done that she must die? What is the peace talk you wish me to carry north?”
The old man hesitated long with closed eyes. When he opened them the fire was gone and they were dim again.
“The story of the prophet and Crooked Lightning is too long,” he said wearily. “I will tell to-morrow. The woman must die because her people have slain mine. Besides, she is growing blind and is a trouble. You carry the white wampum to a council. The Shawnees may join the British against our enemies – the palefaces.”
“I will wait,” said the lad. “I will carry the white wampum. If you war against the paleface on this side of the mountain – I am your enemy. If you war with the British against them all – I am your enemy. And the woman must not die.”
“I have spoken,” said the old man.
“I have spoken,” said the boy. He turned to lie down and went to sleep. The old man sat on, staring out at the stars.
Just outside the tent a figure slipped away as noiselessly as a snake. When it rose and emerged from the shadows the firelight showed the malignant, triumphant face of Crooked Lightning.
