How Somebody was Lost in the Paradise.
For an hour or two the plowing and singing went cheerily on; Bushie, the while, shifting his perch upon the fence to keep himself on a line with the furrow next to be run. When the plow was not in sight he amused himself by watching the squirrels at play, or the birds at nest-building, or the crows where they still kept their station on the blasted limb of the oak. By this time the assembly had grown more noisy and obstreperous than ever, till finally, all order and decorum lost, the big talk broke up in a big row, the radicals turning tails upon each other and flying away to the north and the south; the conservatives, understanding each other no better, flying away to the east and the west.
Each time, as he neared the end of his furrow, Burl cutting short his singing the moment he spied his little master, would send forward at the top of his stentorian lungs his wonted greeting, "I yi, you dogs!" This was a favorite expression with him, and variously to be understood according to circumstances. Treading the peace-path barefooted and shirt-sleeved, he was wont to use it as a form of friendly greeting, in the sense of "hail fellow well met," or "Good-morning, my friend," or as a note of brotherly cheer, equivalent to "Hurrah, boys!" or "Bully for you!" But treading the war-path, moccasin-shod and double-shirted, with rifle on shoulder and hatchet in belt, he used the expression in an altogether different sense. Then it became his battle-cry, his note of defiance, his war-whoop, his trumpet-call to victory and scalps. Taken by the Indians, who never heard it but to their cost, it was understood as the English for "Die, die, red dogs!"
While making his turns between rounds, Burl, glancing complacently up at his little master, would make some remark about the squirrels and the birds who seemed to be in a "monstrous" fine humor that morning, or about the crows who seemed to be in a "monstrous" bad humor: "De corn now gittin' too tall an' strong for 'em to pull up—de black rogues!" Once or twice it was a sympathetic inquiry about "our little legs," with a comment upon the efficacy of spit for drawing out "de smartin' an' stingin' of brier-scratches." Oftener, however, than any thing else, it was the assurance that by the time the plowing should reach a certain shell-bark hickory that stood near the middle of the field the dinner-horn would be blowing, when the little man should go home "a-ridin' ol' Cornwallis;" the little man always answering this with a grin of glad anticipation. The turn by this time fairly made, the plowing and singing would recommence:
"Come, come! come, corn, come!Burl a-plowin' in de fiel',A-singin' fur de roasin'-ear to come."Come, come! come, corn, come!Burl a-plowin' in de fiel',A-singin' fur de johnny-cake to come."Come, come! come, punkin, come!Burl a-plowin' in de fiel',A-singin' fur de punkin-pie to come."
On nearing his eighth or ninth round, Burl was on the point of shouting forward the accustomed greeting, when he saw that his little master had vanished from the fence. At this, however, he was not surprised, naturally supposing that the boy having grown weary with waiting so long, and lonesome, had returned to the fort. Now the fact was, Burl had gone to the field that morning before Captain Kenton had called at the station with the intelligence of having seen fresh Indian traces in the wood but a few miles from the place. This circumstance was therefore unknown to him, else had the faithful fellow never lost sight of his little master until he had seen him safe back home. So, without any suspicion of danger, he went on singing at his work as before:
"Wher' now is our Hebrew childern?Wher' now is our Hebrew childern?Wher' now is our Hebrew childern?Safe in de promis' lan'.Dey went up frum de fiery furnace,Dey went up frum de fiery furnace,Dey went up frum de fiery furnace,Safe to de promis' lan'.By an' by we'll go an' see dem,By an' by we'll go an' see dem,By an' by we'll go an' see dem,Safe in de promis' lan'."
Thus questioning, answering, promising, the song, or perhaps hymn it might be called, went on through several stanzas, telling in dolorous cadences how our good "ol' Danel went up frum de den uf lions;" how "our good ol' 'Ligy went up on wheels uf fire;" how "our good ol' Samson went up wid de gates uf Gaza;" how "our good ol' Noah went up frum de mount uf Areat;" how "our good ol' Mary went up in robes uf whiteness," etc., all "safe to de promis' lan'," the comforting assurance over and over repeated that "by an' by we'll go an' see dem, safe in de promis' lan'." Long as it was, the song was much too short for Big Black Burl, as indeed was every song that he sung. But being a "dab" at improvising words, as well as music, he could easily spin out his melodies to any length he pleased. So, on getting to the end of his hymn, ignoring the fact, he went right onad libitumuntil he had sent up, in some manner, scriptural or not, or from some locality, scriptural or not, every good old Hebrew he could think of, safe to the promised land, winding up thus with our good old Jonah:
"Wher' now is our good ol' Jonah?Wher' now is our good ol' Jonah?Wher' now is our good ol' Jonah?Safe in de promis' lan'.He went up frum—I don't know wher' frum;He went up frum—I don't know wher' frum;He went up frum—I don't know wher' frum,Safe to de promis' lan'.By an' by we'll go an' see him;By an' by we'll go an' see him;By an' by we'll go an' see him,Safe in de promis' lan'."
Having got to the end of his Hebrew rope, the singer, pausing but long enough for a "Gee up, Corny," to his slow-paced plow-horse, passed recklessly from sacred to profane, and fell to roaring "Ol' Zip Coon," from which to pass in turn, by a cut as short, to "Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound."
When the dinner-horn blew, he unhitched old Cornwallis from the plow and, mounting him, rode leisurely home. Having tied his horse to a long trough set on two wide red-oak stumps just outside the gate of the fort, and throwing in a dozen ears of corn, he went on into Miss Jemima's kitchen to get his own dinner. Drawing a puncheon-stool up to the puncheon-table, he sat down to his noonday meal with an appetite which had been sharp enough from his morning labors, but to which his singing had lent an edge keen as a tomahawk. He had cut him a long, thick slice of bacon and was in the act of conveying the first solid inch of the savory fat to his lips when the fork thus loaded was stayed midway between plate and open mouth by the voice of his mistress, who came to the kitchen-door to inquire if Bushie had not come in with him. Burl looked quickly round, saying with a tone of surprise: "Why, Miss Jemimy, hasn't Bushie come home?"
"No; nor has he been seen in or about the fort for more than three hours," replied the mother.
Bolting the solid inch of bacon which the while he had held poised on his fork, he rose quickly from the table and was hurrying out of the house when his mistress, with more alarm at heart than look or tone betrayed, inquired of him whither he was going.
"Jus' back to de fiel' ag'in to git Bushie. Come out to de fiel' whar I was plowin', he did; staid a good smart bit, settin' on de fence, waitin' fur de dinner-horn to blow, when he was to ride ol' Corny home. He's shorely laid down on de grass in de fence-corner an' went to sleep. But I'll go an' bring him home right away."
And with this explanation Burl was off to the field again, though with but the slightest hope of finding his little master out there asleep on the grass in the fence-corner, as he had suggested. On reaching the spot where he had last seen the boy he made a careful examination of the ground, and it was not long before his keen and practiced eye discovered in the crushed leaves and bruised weeds the traces of three Indians. The savages had evidently crept upon the child and made him their captive before he could cry for help, while he who would have rescued him or perished was blithely singing at his work on the other side of the field. For several moments Big Black Burl stood as if dumbfounded, gazing fixedly down at the hated foot-prints in the leaves. But when he raised his eyes and beheld the cabin where, deserted and lonely, it stood in the midst of the waving green, another look came into his face—one of vengeful and desperate determination right terrible to see.
Speeding back to the fort, he found his mistress standing in her cabin door-way waiting and watching his return. No need to be told the afflicting tidings, she read them in his hurried gait and dismayed countenance. She uttered not a cry, shed not a tear, but, with lips and cheeks blanched as with the hue of death, she sunk down upon a wooden settee that stood close behind her. And there, at the door of her desolate house, the widowed mother sat—continued to sit through the long, sad, weary hours of absence and suspense, waiting and watching, her eyes turned ever toward the perilous north. Fortunately about a dozen of the hunters belonging to the station had just come in from the forest, who, upon learning what had happened, promptly volunteered to set out at once in pursuit of the savages and rescue, if possible, the unlucky Bushie, the boy being a great favorite with everybody at the fort.
No more work in the field that day for Big Black Burl—he must now leave the peace-path to tread the war-path. But, before setting out, he must touch up his toilet a little, for, though careless enough of his personal appearance as a field-hand, our colored hero took a great pride in coming out on grand occasions like the present in a guise more beseeming his high reputation as an Indian-fighter. So, going at once to his own cabin, where he kept all his war and martial rigging perpetually ready for use in a minute's notice, he dashed through the process with a celerity quite astonishing in one who was usually so heavy and deliberate in his motions. First, he drew on his moccasins, each of which was roomy enough to hide a half-grown raccoon; then, over his buckskin breeches he tied a pair of bear-skin leggins, hairy and wide; then, he drew on over his buckskin under-shirt a bear-skin hunting-shirt ample enough for the shoulders of Hercules, securing it at the waist with a broad leathern belt, into which he stuck his sheathed hunting-knife and his tomahawk, or battle-ax it might be called, it was so ponderous. His ammunition-pouch and powder-horn—that on the left-hand side, this on the right—he then slung over his shoulders by two wide leathern straps, crossing each other on breast and back. Last, he doffed his coon-skin cap and donned another of bear-skin, more portentous still in its dimensions; and with Betsy Grumbo—his long, black rifle; the longest, so said, in the Paradise—gleaming aslant his shoulder, the Fighting Nigger sallied from his cabin, completely armed and rigged for war. Giving a loud, fife-like whistle, he was instantly joined by a huge brindled dog of grim and formidable aspect. As he passed by the door where his mistress sat, in her mute, tearless, motionless grief, he turned to her for a moment, cap in hand, and with terrible sublimity said: "Miss Jemimy, you see me come back wid Bushie, or you neber see yo' ol' nigger no mo'."
He then joined the white hunters, who by this time were ready likewise, and led the way to the spot where he had last seen his unfortunate little master.
How Grumbo Figured in the Paradise.
The brindled dog, until his part of the work in hand should be made known to him, stalked on with an air of grim, consequential indifference, keeping his muzzle close under the shadow of his master's hunting-shirt, content for the time with the little that might be seen ahead from between the moving legs before him. Now, Grumbo—for such was the name of the brindled dog—was a personage of consequence in his day, and is to play a rather prominent part in our story. Therefore, it were but due him, in memory of his great exploits, and of the signal service which on this particular occasion he rendered the settlement, that we draw a full-length portrait of our canine hero likewise.
Had you met his dogship in the fort, you would, at first glance, have put him down in your mind as an uncommonly large, well-conditioned wolf, whose habits and tastes had been so far civilized as to admit of his tolerating the companionship of man and subsisting on a mixed diet; but at the second glance, noting his color, and the shape of his head, with a certain loftiness of mien and suppleness of backbone—neither of which is ever to be found in the wolf—you would have pronounced him a little lion, shorn of his brindled mane. On further acquaintance, however—I cannot say intimate acquaintance, his excellency being of far too reserved a turn for that—you would have discovered him to be a most remarkable dog, whose character was well worth your study, made up as it was of every quality deemed most desirable in the larger breeds of his race.
He had the obstinacy of the bull-dog, the fierceness of the blood-hound, the steadiness of the stag-hound, the sagacity of the shepherd-dog, and the faithfulness and watchfulness of the mastiff, with the courage and strength of them all combined. To this imposing array of canine virtues, those who enjoyed his more intimate acquaintance—the few—would have added the affectionate docility of the Newfoundland, and the delicate playfulness of the Italian greyhound. It must be owned, however, that he displayed little enough of the last-named qualities, excepting to Burlman Reynolds, Jemima Reynolds, and little Bushie, in whose society only would he now and then deign to unbend—i.e., untwist and wag his iron hook of a tail—and, for a few moments snatched from the press of public business, play the familiar and agreeable. If he ever caught any one railing at Grumbo—any colored individual, that is, in bad odor with his dogship—and cursing him for a misbegotten wolf, Big Black Burl would be all afire in the flash of a gun-flint, and ready to pulverize the false muzzle that dared dab the fair name of his four-footed chum with a slur so foul. Sometimes, though, the white hunters, also, would curse Grumbo—denouncing him as a dog too wanting in the milk of human kindness to be allowed a place in human society, unmuzzled, excepting when on duty. Too mindful of what was expected of him as a man of color to give his white superiors the denial flat, Burl would, nevertheless, hasten to disprove the charge, by citing some act of signal service rendered by the injured one to his master at some moment of sore, besetting need. For example:
One day the Fighting Nigger was out in the forest "a Injun huntin'," his trusted dog on a hot scent far in advance, his trusty gun, Betsy Grumbo, in "bitin'" order, on his shoulder. On a sudden, with no other warning than a rough chorus of growls at his very heels, he found himself set upon by a whole family of bears, who spying him, as he passed unawares too near the door of their domestic den, had sallied out, higgledy-piggledy, to give the intruder battle. To step to one side and with the bullet already in his rifle lay the old he-bear, who led the onslaught, dead on the spot was easy enough; so would it have been as easy to dispatch the old she-bear, had she but allowed him time to reload his piece. But enraged at the sight of her slain lord, and afflicted at the thought of her fatherless cubs at her heels, the dam, rearing upon her hind legs, bore down upon him at once, at the same time growling out to her litter to fall, tooth and nail, on the enemy in flank and rear.
So sudden was the charge that the unlucky Burl had barely time to thrust out his gun against the chief assailant, when he found himself completely beset. Wielding his unloaded rifle as he would a pike—poking, pushing, punching therewith at the infuriated dam, in throat and breast and ribs—he contrived for a time to keep himself clear of the terrible claws continually making at him in such fierce, unwelcome greeting. But the odds were against the black hunter. Swift to obey their mother's command, the cubs with their milk-teeth were pulling and tugging at his buckskin breeches in a manner exceedingly lively, which, though it did not reach his skin, was making heavy demands on his breath, fast growing short and shorter.
He could not hope to hold out long in a contest so unequal. Where was Grumbo—his trusty, his courageous Grumbo? why was he not there to succor his master in that hour of peril? In his extremity he essayed to whistle for his dog, but his breath was too far spent for that. Mustering up all the remaining strength of his lungs, he sent pealing afar through the forest wilds the old familiar battle-cry, "I yi, you dogs!" at the same moment fetching the dam a poke of unusual vigor and directness, which brought her for once sprawling upon her back. But in the act, while yet his whole weight was thrown upon his right foot, one of the cubs, more sturdy than the rest, caught up his left foot by the top of the moccasin and continued to hold it up so stiffly as to reduce him to the necessity either of coming to his knees or of hopping about on one foot; and hop was what he did, encumbered as was the hopping limb with the rest of the litter. Hardly had he given a hop with one foot and a kick with the other, to free himself from the obstinate little tormentors, when the dam, recovering herself in a twinkling, was bearing down upon him again on her hind legs with greater fury than ever. Against such desperate odds how could he hold out longer, reduced as he was to an empty gun, one leg, and no dog? Still hopping about on one foot and kicking with the other, he had unsheathed his hunting-knife to do what he might with that in the unmotherly hug which he felt must come at last, when here, in the nick of time, having heard his master's call from afar, the heroic Grumbo came dashing up to the rescue. Without yelp, or bark, or growl, or any other needless ado, this jewel of a dog laid hold of the she-bear's stump of a tail, which his instinct told him was the enemy's vulnerable point, and with a sudden, forcible, backward pull, brought her ladyship growling to her all-fours. The cubs, seeing their dam's extremity, left off worrying the legs of the almost breathless hunter to fall tooth and nail on the new enemy. But heeding them no more than so many fleas to be scratched off at his leisure, Grumbo continued to maintain his vantage-ground, holding the she-bear still by the tail with jaws inflexible as death, and merely turning from right to left as she turned from right to left, to keep himself on a line with her and beyond the reach of her claws and teeth.
Meanwhile, having inspected Betsy Grumbo, to make sure that she had sustained no damage in the conflict, Burl put her in "extry bitin' order" by loading her with two bullets and a double charge of powder. Then stepping a few paces to one side, so as not to endanger Grumbo, he took deliberate aim and let the dam have it full in the body, just behind the shoulder. With a fierce growl she sunk down lifeless by the side of her slain lord, the jaws of the dog still clinched like a vice upon her tail.
"An' dat's de way," to finish Burl's own story in his own words, "Burlman Rennuls an' Grumbo woun' up de ol' she-bar. Den goes I up to de cubs, whar dey still kep a-gnawin' an' a-scratchin' an' a-clawin' ober Grumbo, an' tickles 'em to death wid de pint uf my knife. Den I looks roun' an' dare's Grumbo still a-holdin' on to de varmint's tail like a dead turtle to a corn-cob. Says I: 'Grumbo, onscrew yo' vice an' stop yo' chawin'; de varmint's dead. Don't you know Betsy Grumbo alwus bites in de heart, an' bars never play 'possum?' Den Grumbo lets go slow an' easy as uf he's afeerd de varmint wus makin' a fool uf him an' Burlman Rennuls, too. Den we skins de bars, an' we kindles a fire; briles some uf de bar meat on de coals, streeks uf lean an' lumps uf fat; an' den we sets down an' shakes hans—me an' Grumbo—ober de sweetest dinner eber et in ol' Kaintuck. An' now you say Grumbo got no human feelin's in him. Git out!"
Should any of the white hunters choose to hint a doubt as to the truth of this story, Big Black Burl had but to point to the bear-skin bed in his cabin, on which he slept; to the bear-skin rug under the shed at his door, where Grumbo slept by day and watched by night; to his bear-skin leggins, his bear-skin hunting-shirt, and bear-skin war-cap—and the thing was settled and established beyond doubt or controversy.
Concerning these and the like points Grumbo himself maintained a grim and dignified reserve, never speaking of them to common dogs, nor even to his master, excepting when the subject was forced upon him; though that was certainly frequent enough for wholesome airing. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon his bear-skin, a maneless lion, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality. Aloof from the vulgar pack, he lived and moved and had his being but in the atmosphere of the Fighting Nigger, in whose society only could he hope to find a little congenial companionship, and to whom only he unbosomed the workings of his mighty heart.
Methinks I see him now, with that air of consequence and mystery hanging about him, like the fog from his own shaggy hide after a winter wetting; with those short ears perpetually cocked, as if he felt that his destiny was cast in an age and a land where to hunt, kill, and utterly root out bears, panthers, wolves, and Indians from the top of the earth was the sole end and aim of existence. I see him with that great brush of a tail curled tightly—nay, inflexibly—over his right leg, as if his was a will and a spirit not to be subdued or shaken by any power less than that irresistible and inexorable fate which has declared, and without repeal, that "every dog shall have his day." All this methinks I see, and as vividly too as if I had the living Grumbo before my bodily eyes; for, in the course of his long and eventful career, it grew to be as characteristic of our canine hero as, twenty years later, became a little cocked hat, a gray great-coat, military boots, and a certain attitude, of that famous Corsican, Napoleon the First—commonly, vulgarly, bogusly called the Great.
How Big Black Burl Figured on the War-path by Day.
Having followed Big Black Burl to the spot where he had last seen his little master, the white hunters made a narrow inspection of the Indian traces on the ground, which had evidently been left by feet in too great haste for much attempt at concealment or disguise. The black hunter then set his dog on the trail, who, with that grim fixedness of purpose betokened by a certain iron twist of the tail, now took the lead, and the chase for life and death began. Thus surely led, they followed the trail with rapid ease for about two miles, when it was lost in another trail, larger and quite as fresh, made, it would seem from the number of foot-prints, by at least twenty Indians. This they followed likewise, till at the distance of five or six miles farther on in the forest it brought them to the banks of a small, shallow river, just where it was formed by two tributaries, or "forks" as we Western people call such streams before they unite and pursue their course together. Here the trail suddenly disappeared; nor was there any sign of its reäppearance on the opposite bank, nor, so far as could be seen from that point, on the banks of either fork.
Now, of all the stratagems for baffling pursuit practiced in Indian warfare, none perhaps are so often resorted to as that of wading up and down shallow streams, in whose beds no foot-print may be left that eye of man can discern, or scent thereof upon the water that nose of dog can detect. That the savages they were now pursuing had to this intent availed themselves of one or the other of these three streams there could be no doubt, but hardly one chance in ten that they had chosen the main stream, as that ran in the direction of the settlement, and was, in fact, that self-same little river which turned the little log grist-mill at Fort Reynolds, eight miles below. It was, then, all but certain that the Indians had waded up one of the two forks, whose rocky channels wound among a group of low, rugged hills, which browed the more level country around the station; but which fork had been chosen for the purpose, the most experienced hunter of them all was unable to determine, as the wily savages had left not a tell-tale trace behind, and the two streams seemed equally favorable to the success of the stratagem in question. In order, then, to double their chances of overtaking the enemy, though it would double the odds against themselves should they succeed in doing so, it was resolved to divide the party into two squads—each to ascend a fork until the trail should reäppear upon its banks, then to notify the other, when reuniting they would again pursue the chase together.
As there was one chance in ten that the Indians—some of them at least, and perhaps the very ones who had the little captive in custody—had descended the main stream, Big Black Burl determined to try the fortunes of war in that direction on his own account, feeling quite sure that without any further aid of his the white hunters would be equal to any emergency that should arise in their quarter. Besides, as we have already seen, the Fighting Nigger usually chose to be alone when out on expeditions of this kind, partly because his instinct told him that if he would keep in good odor with his white superiors he must not rub against them more than occasion should absolutely demand, but chiefly that he might enjoy the undivided honor of the scalps taken by his own hand in war, should such be his good fortune. So, making a third squad of himself and dog, the black hunter detached himself from the white hunters, and three parties set out on their several ways.
At a signal from his master, understood perfectly by the sagacious animal, Grumbo, wading and swimming, made his way to the opposite side of the river, where, shaking the water from his shaggy hide, he turned and at a slow dog-trot began following the windings of the shore, keeping his keen and practiced nose bent with sharp and critical attention upon the ground. Abreast, with the water between them, Burl at brisk pace followed the windings of his shore, keeping his keen and practiced eye bent likewise with sharp and critical attention upon the ground, that not a mark or sign unusual in grass, leaves, mud, or sand might pass unnoted by. At intervals along the banks lay wide beds of solid rock, or pebbles mixed with mud or sand, left high and dry by the summer shrinking of the stream, where the Indians might easily have quitted the water without leaving a trace perceptible to the eye. At such places Burl would call Grumbo over to help the eye with the more unerring nose, when, having satisfied themselves that the trail had not yet left the water, the dog, swimming and wading, would return to his side, and abreast the two go on as before. Thus they proceeded till they had searched the banks for nearly a mile and the dog had made his third or fourth passage. Coming then to a bed of limestone rock which spread wide and dry between the edge of the water and the skirts of the forest, Grumbo sent over to his master a short, low bark, which said to the ear addressed, as plainly as words could have said it, "The Red varmints!" Whereat, having satisfied himself that the fording was not more than belly-deep to a tall horse, Burl slipped off his moccasins and leggins, and rolling up his buckskin breeches till nothing was to be seen below his hunting-shirt but his great black legs, now in his turn waded over to the dog's side of the river, sure that here was the place where the Indians had quitted the water and taken again to the woods. In a trice he had reärranged his toilet, and now was briskly following the unerring Grumbo on the rediscovered trail. But for more than fifty yards after quitting the rocky margin of the stream, not a sign there could he discern, so artfully had the cunning savages concealed or disguised their foot-prints. Cunning as they may have thought themselves, it was all as plain to Grumbo's far-scenting nose as it could have been to Burl's far-sighted eye, and he a reader, had they written it in letters on the ground, "Here we are, and here we go."
Indeed, they had not advanced more than a hundred paces farther, when the traces of three Indians became distinctly visible in the leaves and soft vegetable mold of the woods—as if they who had left them there had thought that as they had thus far so completely concealed their trail they might thenceforth proceed with less circumspection, as now quite beyond the risk of pursuit. On closely inspecting the foot-prints, Burl knew by certain signs—such as the unusual slenderness of one and the mark of a patched moccasin in the other—that two of them had been left by feet whose traces he had examined at the corn-field fence. The third foot-print he had not seen that day, he was sure, nor its like until that moment, never in all his border experience. It was the longest and, excepting his own, the broadest foot-print he had ever seen, and must have been left there by the tread of a giant. The individual, then, who had captured his little master, and had him now in keeping, might not be of this party; and so far as concerned the main object of this their solitary adventure, they might, after all, be on a cold trail. Nevertheless, they pushed on with speed and spirit. They had not proceeded more than a furlong farther, when Grumbo stopped short, and giving a double sniff uttered a quick, low yelp both of surprise and joy, so it seemed, which said, as plainly as words could have said it, "Halloo! what's this?" Then, after another quick sniff or two, looking up at his master and expressing himself by wag of tail and glance of eye, he added: "Good luck in the wind ahead."
That Grumbo had actually expressed this much may fairly be inferred from Burl's answer: "O you's got a sniff of our pore little master's sweet little feet, has you, at las'? Well, we kin foller our noses now an' know whar we gwine."
Had Burl needed any interpretation of his dog's language in this particular instance, he would have found it, a few yards farther on, in two little foot-prints left clearly impressed in the clayey margin of a forest brook but a few hours before. He stopped to look at them, and his big eyes filled with tears of pitying tenderness at the sight. Grumbo, too, smelt of them, and as he slowly drew in the familiar scent, his wild eyes grew almost human in their look of affection, like those of a Newfoundland. Burl now turned to inspect more narrowly the foot-prints of the Indians, which were likewise left deeply impressed in the stiff clay of the brook's margin. Nearest to those of the boy's were the traces of the slender-footed Indian, who, in the act of taking the long stride that was to clear him of the water, seemed to have taken a short step aside to pick the little fellow up and lift him over dry-shod. This was further evident from the reäppearance of the little foot-prints on the other bank, side by side, instead of one in advance of the other. Farthest to the left were the traces of the savage who wore the patched moccasin. Between them, broad, long, and deep, and at huge strides apart, were the foot-prints of the giant. At these traces of some redoubtable warrior, so it would seem, Big Black Burl, with grave and fixed attention, gazed for many moments. Then, as if to bring the dimensions of the savage more vividly before his mind's eye, he measured one of the prints by laying his own foot over it, and found that, although not the broader of the two, it was the longer, from which it was fairly to be inferred that the red giant must be at least seven feet high, standing in his moccasins.
"Shorely, Grumbo," said the black hunter, addressing his dog, "it mus' be dat Black Thunder, de big Injun we hears de white hunters talk so much about. Dey say he blacked his face wid gunpowder when he fus' started out a-fightin', an' ain't neber gwine to wash it off tel he's got 'nough uf us white folks's skelps to rig up his huntin'-shirt an' make it fine. I jes' as soon de ol' Scratch git de grips uf his clutches on our little master, as dat Black Thunder. It's 'you tickle me an' I tickle you' betwixt him an' de ol' Scratch. O you ol' Black Thunder!" with a sudden burst of energy, apostrophizing the absent brave; "jes' let de Fightin' Nigger git de whites uf his eyes on yo' red ugliness once, he'll give you thunder—gunpowder thunder, he will. Jes' let Betsy Grumbo git her muzzle on yo' red ugliness once, may be she won't bark an' bite! May be she won't make yo' fine feathers fly! May be she won't, now! O plague yo' red hide! Yug, yug, yug!" And with this terrible malediction, the black giant shook his mighty fist at the foot-prints of the red giant in the mud—Grumbo catching his master's spirit, and giving the echo in a deep savage growl.
Having lost but a few moments in making these observations, with renewed spirit and vigor they resumed the pursuit. Burl now felt confident that the chances of war were decidedly in their favor, let them but come upon the enemy under screen of night and undiscovered; and for more than this he would not ask, to bring his war-path to a brilliant end. Ever and anon, after they trudged on for a mile or two, Grumbo, fetching a harder sniff than usual, would give one of his quick, low yelps of satisfaction—when his master would know that at such places the Indians, after carrying their little captive for some distance, to rest his young limbs a bit, had here set him down again to walk. This usually happened on their reaching the tops of the higher hills, or the heads of the longer and more rugged hollows. Whenever they came to where the ground was moist and the trail was left distinctly marked, Burl always noticed that the boy's foot-prints were nearest those of the slender-footed Indian, as if they had walked together side by side; and by certain signs, similar to those he had observed at the first brook, he knew that the same hand had carried the little fellow over all the streams which ran across the trail. Nothing further happened to break the monotony of the tramp till, after having left full many a mile of tangled forest behind them, they came, late in the day, to where, a little to one side, lay a dead eagle, stripped of its magnificent plumage. Burl turned it over, and perceiving that the bullet-wound which had caused its death was still fresh and open, he knew that the bird had been brought down but a few hours before. Here again, clearly to be distinguished from those of the others, were to be seen the traces of the boy and the slender-footed Indian, still side by side, and going out to the dead eagle, where they were repeated many times, as if these two had lingered around the fallen monarch of the air, while the others walked slowly onward.
Now the sun was gliding swiftly down the steep slopes of the western sky, and long and somber stretched the shadows of the hills across the lonely, unhomed valleys of the immense wilderness. Full many an irksome mile of bushy dell and rocky hill and forest-crested ridge lay traversed and searched behind them; untraversed and unsearched, lay as many more before them. Where should the weary little feet find rest in the night now coming on? The little birds had their nests, the little squirrels their holes: should the forlorn little captive find where to lay his head in those inhospitable wilds? And far away, at the door of her desolate home, still sat the widowed mother, waiting and watching, her eyes turned ever toward the perilous north. And there, at the foot of the hill, the little log grist-mill, making the little log fort yet sadder and lonesomer every hour, still went on humming and droning its dolorous tune—a tune whose burden seemed ever to be, "What a pity! what a pity! what a pity!"
How Big Black Burl Figured on the War-path by Night.
By this time the sun was almost down. Since early morning, not a morsel of food had Burlman Reynolds tasted, excepting the solid inch of bacon at dinner-time, which, as he had bolted it half unknown to himself at the moment, and in his trouble of mind had long since forgotten, could hardly have had more effect in breaking his fast than had he merely dreamed of eating a meal. A gnawing sensation under his belt now began to warn him that it was high time he should be ministering to the wants of the inner man. Aware that while out on the war-path he could not safely trust to the tell-tale rifle for procuring food, he had, with the foresight of a true warrior, fortified himself against future need, by slipping into his ammunition-pouch, on quitting the fort, a double handful of jerked venison. So, making answer at last to the call of hunger—sons of Ebony are not wont to be tardy in answering such calls—he drew out his prog, and without abating his speed, lest time be lost, ministered to the inner man as he walked along. Nor did his four-footed comrade-in-arms—who had an inner man also, or rather inner dog, to be ministered to likewise—fail to receive a liberal share of the store in hand. What was offered him, Grumbo took and ate grimly, without any show of relish or satisfaction—merely, so it would seem, as something not to be well dispensed with under the circumstances; perhaps as a valuable means to the end they jointly had in view.
Our two adventurers had not finished their pedestrian supper till the sun was set and twilight stealing on apace, deepening with its glimmering shades the dusky shadows of the wilderness. Soon it was too dark for the trail to be seen; nevertheless, they pushed on with unabated speed, the hunter following his dog, the dog following his nose. A dog's nose may be followed, and nobody made the victim of misplaced confidence; and this is more than can be said of a man's nose, which is always sure to be at fault from a cold, or out of joint in some way, when the owner has nothing better to guide him.
The black hunter now moved with greater circumspection—lest stumbling upon the enemy unawares, thus warning them of their danger, he should cheat himself of the chances of war, which he could hope to hold in his favor so long as he had concealment and secrecy on his side. So, while the dog followed the invisible trail, he followed the scarcely visible dog—kept a sharp lookout about him, expecting every moment to catch the gleam of the Indian camp-fire from among the trees. But, as if to render security doubly secure, the savages seemed bent on making a long day's tramp of it, before allowing themselves to halt for refreshment and repose.
At length the night was full upon them, with no light to guide them through those trackless solitudes save the feeble glimmer of the stars through the openings in the tree-tops; still not a sign of the flying foe, whose unseen trail went evermore winding wearily on through the tangled wilds. Now and then, from some distant quarter of the forest, were to be heard the howling of wolves, abroad on their nightly hunt. Then from an opposite quarter, but nearer, the dismal whoopings of the horned owl would send their quavering echoes creeping among the tree-tops, which, swaying to the night winds, filled the air with noises, like half-formed whispers in the ear. Then the shrill cry of the dingle-ambushed panther would ring out through the black stillness, like the shriek of a terrified woman.
At one time, hardly had these sounds of evil omen died away, when, on a sudden, there started up before them a tall shape, with long arms outstretched, and all of a ghastly whiteness. The black giant stopped short, fixedly staring before him—all in an instant weak as a limber-jack, the whites of his eyes showing through the dark like half-moons. The thing, there dimly seen in the dusk of the overhanging trees, was, as superstitious fancy pictured it to the eyes of Burlman Reynolds, the ghost of a white hunter who had been murdered and scalped in that lonely spot by the barbarous Indians, and now, in his cold, cold winding-sheet, was lingering around his bones, till some kind soul should come along that way and give the precious relics Christian burial.
Now, had Burlman Reynolds taken the second thought, he might have known that, even had a white man been murdered there, and left on top of the ground, his ghost would hardly be so unreasonable as to choose an hour so unseasonable for making such an appeal to the living in behalf of the bones; seeing it would be impossible to find the bones in the darkness, covered up as they must be by leaves and grass, as bones usually are under the circumstances—perhaps scattered far and wide by the wolves, as bones are apt to be, if left exposed to ravenous animals of the kind. All this, not to mention the slender likelihood that any one should be coming along that way with a spade and pick-ax, at that time of night, and so far from the settlements. Further, had Burlman Reynolds taken the third thought, he might have known that even had the ghost of a slain hunter been encountered then and there, he should be found taking his nightly airing in a buckskin hunting-shirt, rather than in a winding-sheet; woven fabrics of all kinds being still very scarce and dear in the Paradise, Irish linen especially. Though the saying was often in his mouth, Burlman Reynolds did sometimes fail to bear in mind that "dare's reason in all things." But soon bethinking him of his usual shift for reässurance on such occasions—his touch-stone, so to speak—Burl turned to note what impression this grizzly shade of the night was making on the steadfast mind of Grumbo. The dog was composedly waiting for him a few yards in advance; his nose, that infallible index of what was in the wind, turned straight before him in the direction of real dangers, not of imaginary horrors, which—let them be met with where they might—were rather to be sneezed at than sniffed at. Whereat the black giant picked up heart enough to pick up a club and fling it at the ghastly apparition, half expecting to see the missile pass through without impediment, as missiles are wont to do under circumstances of the kind. But the club was cheeked by substance as solid as itself, the result being a sounding thump. Thereupon, eyes and ears comparing notes, it was discovered that the thing of dread was nothing more than the twisted and splintered stump of a storm-felled hickory-tree, the white sap-wood whereof had been stripped of its bark by lightning.
"Pshaw! what a fool you is anyhow, Burlman Rennuls!" cried the Fighting Nigger, fetching the individual addressed a heavy blow of the fist on the breast. "Sich a everlastin' ol' fool, always a gittin' our nose out o' j'int somehow, you don't know how; an' skeerin' at somethin' you don't know what, that even a dog won't stop to smell at. Git out an' g' 'long!" And smarting under this stinging rebuke, the unlucky Burlman Reynolds hastened to rejoin his dog, who, doubtless, was wondering why his two-footed comrade should all on a sudden become so intensely interested in a splintered stump.
Just here, I am reminded to say a few words with regard to a certain trait in our hero's character—a trait not unfrequently to be noticed in men of his color, but which, so far as I am aware, has never been made matter of particular comment. Viewing himself from a point within himself, Big Black Burl was wont to look at himself as made up of two distinct individuals, who though having their home in the same body, using the same limbs, and taking their observations of the outward world through the same senses, were yet in his eyes quite different each from the other. One of these individuals was called the "Fighting Nigger," the other went by the name of "Burlman Reynolds." The Fighting Nigger was a man of great distinction, Burlman Reynolds a fellow of small repute. When the two distinguished themselves, the Fighting Nigger claimed the lion's share of the glory; but when they disgraced themselves, then Burlman Reynolds must take the dog's share of the blame. Now, this petting and humoring had spoiled the Fighting Nigger not a little, making him arrogant and overbearing with his humbler self, even to the extent at times of a threat to kick him bodily out-of-doors. But Burlman Reynolds, the best-natured fellow in the world, perfectly understood what all this fuming and puffing meant, and only laughed in his sleeve thereat, knowing as well as anybody that after all the Fighting Nigger was very much of a big humbug.
Hardly had they recovered their wonted balance after this, the mere shade of an adventure, when the Fighting Nigger and Burlman Reynolds were again brought to a stand by an apparition of quite a different complexion. Less than twenty yards above them, on the side of a hill they were now ascending, stood a dense thicket of low bushes, the ragged edge of which showed in dim relief against the sky. Suddenly had risen and vanished, and now suddenly rose and vanished again, what appeared to be the plumed crests of three Indians, who were watching the black hunter's approach, by fitful glimpses, from behind their place of ambush. Dodging to one side behind a tree, the black giant cocked his gun and planted himself firm and square on his moccasins, this time as strong and sturdy from head to foot as a black-jack oak. These real dangers, that might be met and vanquished with powder, lead, and steel, had far less terrors for the Fighting Nigger than such empty shades of the night as but now had sprung out at him from the foggy fancy of Burlman Reynolds. But quickly bethinking himself again of his dog, his touch-stone in every emergency where his own senses were at fault, he cautiously peeped out from behind the tree. Perceiving again that Grumbo was waiting for him with wonted composure, as if there was nothing in the wind to sniff at, the Fighting Nigger was reässured, convinced that the eyes and fancy of Burlman Reynolds had played him another trick. What he had seen proved in reality nothing more than a leafy shrub, swayed up and down by the night winds.
For many minutes past, the unseen trail had been leading them up the brushy side of a long, slow hill, to whose summit a few more weary steps now brought them. Here, for the first time since the chase had begun, the brindled dog came to a halt of his own accord—stopping short, with a deep, heavy growl, scarce louder than the purr of a panther. Burl looked before him and caught from afar the glimmer of a camp-fire, burning on the summit of an opposite hill. They had, indeed, at last come up with the flying foe, but under circumstances far less favorable to the execution of his plans than he had all along been proposing to himself. The camp-fire was blazing brightly, as if it bad just been kindled, or replenished with fresh fuel. Around it the savages were moving to and fro, as could be seen by the shadows of their bodies cast by the light, and, so far from having betaken themselves to rest, were chatting away in high good humor, as might be guessed from their peals of laughter borne faintly to the ear from over the valley lying dark and deep between.
Aware that as matters stood at present the odds would be too largely against him to allow of his bringing his adventure to a crisis just then, Burl wisely resolved to wait till the savages, overcome at last by fatigue, should yield themselves up to sleep—when, according to the plan already cast in his mind, he would steal upon them, and by the light of their own fire dispatch them with hatchet and knife, as noiselessly as might be, one after another in quick succession, before they could awake. But in order to fortify himself against desperate resistance, should it come, he would himself take a little refreshment and repose, the need of which, now that the long chase had come to a pause, he felt beginning to press sorely upon him; accordingly, he retired within the shadow of a spreading elm, which offered in its thick foliage shelter from the dews of night, and in its mossy roots pillowing for his head. Here, placing himself on the ground with his back against the tree, he ate a few more slices of the jerked venison—Grumbo, of course, receiving a comrade's share. Then, stretching his huge length along the ground and bidding his dog stand sentinel while he slept, he composed himself to rest—not doubting, son of Ebony though he was, but that he could easily rouse himself before day-break, when, God willing, he would work deliverance to his little master. And there lay Big Black Burl asleep on his war-path.
How Big Black Burl Figured in a Quandary.
A broad red glare, striking full upon his closed eyelids, and bringing with it the alarming thought that Fort Reynolds had been set on fire by an army of besieging Indians, roused Big Black Burl from the deepest, heaviest sleep he had ever known. With a huge start he had scrambled to his feet, and, blinded by the glare, was rushing out of his cabin, so he thought, to rescue Miss Jemima and Bushie from the flames, when his foot striking something soft and bulky, down with a tremendous squelch he fell to the ground. The next moment, now wide-awake, he saw that he had stumbled over his trusty sentinel Grumbo—when all the rest struck like a lightning flash upon his mind, fell like a thunderbolt upon his heart. Sad, sad to tell, the night, the friendly night, like a slighted ally, was gone; and with it the golden chance for vengeance to the warrior, deliverance to the captive. The day, the unwished for, the unprayed for, the most unwelcome day, like a challenged foe, had come; and with it new perils, tenfold risk of failure and disaster. "O Burlman Reynolds, born of Ebony as thou wert, how couldst thou so far lose sight of the besetting weakness of thy race, as thus, in a moment like this, on the critical edge of hazard and hope, to trust thy limbs and senses to the deceitful embraces of sleep? Black sluggard, avaunt! The Fighting Nigger be upon thee!"
Full of the bitterest self-reproach, and with a feeling of disappointment bordering on despair, Burl looked bewilderingly about him. The newly risen sun, as if taunting him with the sorry miscarriage of his well-laid plans, was winking at him with its great impertinent eye, from over the hairy shoulder of a giant hill, upon whose shaggy head stood smiling the beautiful first of June. Curling up lightly into the clear morning air, from out a clump of lofty trees which plumed the crest of the opposite hill, rose a slender column of smoke, betokening the Indians already astir, and busy about their breakfast over the rekindled camp-fire. Observing this, and that he was running some risk of being discovered—if he had not betrayed himself already—Burl slunk back into a thicket of papaw bushes which grew a a few paces behind him, whence, with safety he might reconnoiter the enemy, and acquaint himself with the nature of the neighboring grounds, if peradventure they must be made the field of present operations.
At his feet, and putting an air-line of about four hundred yards between his hill and the more commanding height where the Indians were camped, ran a beautiful little valley, having its head among a cluster of lofty hills, about two miles to the eastward, and open to view for about the same distance to the westward, where it lost itself among another cluster of hills. Its sides sloped smoothly down to the banks of a small but deeply bedded river, which, though a stream of considerable volume during the winter, was now so drought-shrunken as at intervals to ripple over its rocky bottom, filling the valley with pleasant murmurings, audible from the tops of the hills around. The slopes, for a mile above and below, were nearly bare of trees, being covered instead with a luxuriant growth of blue-grass, the peculiar green whereof was relieved with pleasing effect by the rich purple bloom of the iron-weed, which in dense patches mottled all the glade. If we may except the grass and iron-weeds, which grew everywhere, and the clump of trees from out of which was rising the smoke of the Indian camp-fire, the opposite hill showed a bare front, and sloped steeply, but smoothly, to the edge of the river, where it was snubbed short by an overleaning bank twenty feet high.
To Big Black Burl, as a game-hunter, this valley-glade, with its verdant slopes, affording the richest pasturage to the wild herds of the forest, would have been a right delectable prospect; but to him as an Indian-hunter, it was a sight disheartening enough, running, as it did, square across his war-path, and seeming to offer scarce the shadow of a shade for an ambush, without which it would be desperation itself to push the adventure to the perilous edge. Judging from the general direction he had traveled since quitting Fort Reynolds, and from the length of time it had taken him to reach that spot, he guessed that he must be within a very few miles of the Ohio River—and if he suffered the savages to put that broad barrier between themselves and pursuit, scarcely one chance in a thousand could be left of his ever being able to overtake them and rescue his little master. Now, or never, must be struck the telling blow. But how?
At one moment he felt an impulse—so desperate seemed the case—to dash across the open valley, and scaling the untimbered height, right in the face of the watchful foe, open a way of deliverance to his little master; or, failing in the attempt, bring life to the bitter end at once. But this was a thought not worth the second thinking. And in another moment he had nearly determined to make a wide circuit, in order to gain the rear of the enemy's stronghold. Perhaps by bursting suddenly on them from that unexpected quarter, he and Grumbo, by the very strangeness, not to say terribleness, of their aspect, with their mingled howlings and yellings, might strike the Indians with such a panic as to send them scampering, helter-skelter, down the hill, with never a glance behind them to see what manner of varmints they had at their heels—a man, or bogey, or devil. Thus, by a bloodless victory, might they accomplish the chief object of their adventure—the rescue of their little master; though, to the Fighting Nigger's taste, a victory without blood were but as a dram without alcohol, gingerbread without ginger, dancing without fiddling—insipid entertainment. This brilliant stratagem, smacking more of Burlman Reynolds's lively fancy than of the Fighting Nigger's slower judgment, was another thought scarce worth the second thinking. After all their trouble, they might gain the rear of the enemy's hill only to find the camp deserted, the Indians by that time well into their canoes, far out on the broad Ohio, paddling peacefully for "home, sweet home." Or, finding the enemy still there, they might not find the woods and thickets to ambush in and burst out from in the startling, overwhelming manner proposed, as the back of the hill might be as bare of trees and bushes as the grassy breast before him.
What, then, was to be done? O that treacherous, that thievish sleep, which had robbed him of his golden chance! Should he perish in the attempt to rescue his little master, what a sad account should he have to render the dead father of the sacred trust confided to him under a promise so solemn and binding! Or, should his little master, in spite of his utmost efforts, be borne away into lasting captivity, how could he return to tell the widowed mother that she was childless, though the dear one, henceforth to be mourned as dead, had not yet gone to the dead father? O that he had not slept! And with the big tears in his eyes, bespeaking the dumb anguish of his heart, the poor fellow turned to take another and a seventh survey of the valley, if haply he might not spy out some feature of the ground which, hitherto unnoted and favoring concealment, might enable him, without too great risk of detection, to come at the enemy and the dear object of his adventure.
The seventh essay—as the seventh essay so often does—resulted in bringing the fortunate turn. Suddenly a look, first of recognition, then of glad surprise, made light all over that huge black face. Fetching his thigh a mighty blow of the fist, the Fighting Nigger, abruptly and in the most peremptory manner, called upon Burlman Reynolds, that "sleepy-headed ol' dog," to come up and report what he had been doing all this time with "dem eyes o' his'n." Failing to render satisfactory account, that "eberlastn' ol' fool" was taken severely to task by his superior, and ordered to hand over the organs in question to somebody—the Fighting Nigger, say—who could use them to some purpose, and find for himself, instead, a "pa'r uf specs." Smarting under these biting sarcasms, Burlman Reynolds, that "blare-eyed ol' granny," retired to the back part of the house to keep as much as possible out of the way, while the Fighting Nigger, having now the undivided use of "our eyes," proceeded to look about them, if haply something might not yet be done to straighten "our nose," which that "balky ol' dog" had run into the wrong hole and got knocked out of joint.
The particular object which had caught Burl's eye was a mammoth sycamore-tree which, with two huge white arms outstretched, as if to embrace a graceful beech directly in front of it, overhung the mouth of a glen on the opposite side of the valley. This tree, by its peculiarities of form and situation, had served to call up in his mind a train of recollections which told him that he had seen that valley-glade before—though, up to this moment, in his trouble and confusion of mind, the remembrance of the circumstance had been dodging in and out of his memory like a half-forgotten dream. All was now as clear us the unwelcome daylight. Three or four years before he had visited this spot with a company of white hunters, who, with Captain Kenton for their leader, had come thither on a hunting excursion, and for more than a week had kindled their camp-fire at night on the self-same hill where now was burning that of the Indians whose footsteps he was dogging. The mammoth sycamore he had the best of reasons to remember, for just there, round and round its great hollow trunk, over and over its great gnarled roots, he had then fought the biggest bear-fight of all his hunting experience—forever excepting the one wherein Grumbo had proved himself a dog of "human feelin's."
From the acquaintance with the neighboring country which that excursion had enabled him to make, Burl knew that the glen marked by the leaning sycamore ran in but about two hundred yards between the opposite hills, where it divided itself into two prongs, the more easterly one of which led up to a deep, dark dingle in the very core of the enemy's hill. On that side, as he remembered, the hill was heavily timbered and thicketed, thus offering excellent covert for ambush almost to the summit. With this discovery, or rather reäwakening in his mind of what he knew already, came a clearer perception of his surroundings, so that he could now see how, without great risk of discovery, he could gain the bottom of the valley by availing himself of a shallow gulley which, furrowing the slope to his left, and fringed with grass and iron-weeds, ran down to the bank of the river. A similar feature in the ground on the farther side would favor him in gaining the mouth of the glen. He now felt that his chances were again coming within the limits of the possible; and for more than this—so fair did it seem, in contrast with the apparent hopelessness of the prospect but a few moments before—he would not ask, to brave the adventure to the crisis, still bristling, as it was, with neck-or-nothing hazards. Let them but succeed in reaching, undiscovered, the shelter of yonder glen, and all might yet go well with Burlman Reynolds and the Fighting Nigger.
How Big Black Burl Figured in Ambush.
Bidding Grumbo follow, our hero once more set his face point-blank to his adventure. Keeping a sharp eye on the enemy's height, he begun making his way down the gulley into the valley—screening his movements, as best he might, where the gulley was too shallow to conceal him, by walking along in a stooping posture behind the weeds, or creeping along upon his belly through the grass; Grumbo, with great circumspection, doing likewise. In a surprisingly short time, considering this somewhat inconvenient mode of getting over ground, they had made their way to the hither bank of the river. But here they found themselves once more brought to a stand. Directly in front, as Burl ascertained by throwing in a pebble and noting the length of time between its sinking and the bubble's rising, the stream was almost, if not quite, six feet deep. To wade across, then go in battle with his garments all soaked and heavy with water—a serious hinderance, as this must be, to the free and lightsome play of his limbs—were but to give the nimble foe yet another advantage over him, desperate being the odds already. To be sure, not more than a hundred yards below the river was so shallow as to ripple over the rocks, where he might easily make the fording all but dry-shod. But there he would be in open view of the Indians, should they chance to be looking that way; whereas, by making the passage from where he was standing, he could throw between himself and them a small cane-brake, which crowned the opposite bank a short distance above. Far rather had the Fighting Nigger gone into the dance of death, rigged out in all his martial bravery—his moccasins, his bear-skin leggins, his bear-skin hunting-shirt, his bear-skin war-cap, and his war-belt with its gleaming death-steel—guise so well beseeming the Big Black Brave with a bushy head. But in a game so desperate, with objects so precious and dear at stake, the indulgence of so small a vanity were another thought not worth the second thinking. Therefore did the magnanimous Burl dismantle himself at once. Aware that, in the coming contest, he should barely have time to let fly the single bullet already in his rifle, when he must take to his hatchet and knife, and that thereafter his powder-horn and ammunition-pouch would be but hindering encumbrances, he divested himself of these appendages, also laying with them his moccasins, leggins, and hunting-shirt, in a pile together on the river bank. The next moment, with Grumbo swimming, hand over hand, close at his side, he was half way across the river, with nothing of him visible above the dimpled surface but his enormous bear-skin cap, and his right arm holding Betsy Grumbo high aloft to keep her priming dry.
The passage swimmingly effected, our two adventurers made their reäppearance on the opposite bank, with their bulky dimensions brought down by their wetting to somewhat lanker proportions—Grumbo with his shaggy coat buttoned close about him, Burl with his buckskin shirt and breeches clinging clammily to his body and limbs. But of his martial rigging, the war-belt, with his tomahawk and hunting-knife, still remained; the bear-skin war-cap, too, which once rammed down firmly upon his head was never to quit that place, saving with the scalp it covered, or with the successful winding up of his adventure.
Between him and the mouth of the glen lay a narrow strip of bottom land, the crossing of which, overhung as it was by the very nose of the enemy's lookout, would demand his utmost caution and address. Again availing themselves of gully, weeds, and grass, to screen their movements, and making their way through them as before, they succeeded at length in gaining, undiscovered, the shelter of the glen. Here, under the overhanging hill, Burl could walk upright, and that for the first time since quitting the opposite rim of the valley, if we may except when chin-deep in water he was fording the river. Down the glen, with twisted current winding crookedly among the rocks, came bubbling a little brook, thus serving to muffle the sound of the black hunter's footsteps, as now with swift and powerful strides he ascended into the depths of the hills. When he came to where the two ravines united to form the larger glen, he took the more easterly one, which, as before remarked, led up to a dingle just under the height where the Indians were camped. For some distance back the trees and bushes, reäppearing, had grown gradually thicker and thicker, till here they shagged the side of the hill with deep and tangled shade. So Burl found the covert which he had promised himself for a place of ambush—a shade profound as night, through which, with snake-like secrecy, he could crawl to within hissing distance of the enemy, and before discovery all but bite his heel.
"Down, Grumbo!" said the black hunter in a deep under-tone to his dog, not daring to trust him further in the adventure till he had brought it to the critical edge. "You wait here tell you hears me holler, den come a-pitchin', an' let yo'se'f in like de bery ol' Scratch, an' no stoppin' to smell noses. Do you hear?"
The sagacious animal, as if perfectly understanding what was said to him, and what his part of the work in hand was to be, crouched down like a lion in the dark shadows of the dingle, there to wait until he should hear his master's call. Then tightening his belt to make his knife and hatchet more secure, and reassuring himself that Betsy Grumbo was in tip-top "bitin' order," our hero addressed himself to the scaling of the enemy's height. Half the ascent accomplished brought him almost to the brow of the hill, where its slower slope abruptly ended in the steep acclivity which he had just scaled, and here he could distinguish a faint murmur of voices from above. He was slowly bringing himself over the turn between precipice and slope, when a large stone, from which but now he had lifted his foot, supposing it to be the projecting corner of a ledge, slid slowly from its earthly socket, and with resounding din went rolling down the steep. Whereat the murmur of voices above him suddenly ceased, but with admirable presence of mind, while yet the excited echoes were noising the thing from hill to hill, the black hunter, to mislead the minds of the Indians as to the cause of the uproar, mimicked the snarling growl of a wolf. Then he lay perfectly still for several moments, not daring to venture farther till assured that his cunning device had succeeded. After a brief space of silence, which seemed to be spent in listening, the murmur of voices above him recommenced, when he likewise recommenced his stealthy approaches. When he had advanced so far as to be no longer able to walk upright without risk of discovery, he threw himself prone on the ground, and like a black-snake went crawling along on his belly, inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, warily, noiselessly, slowly—his rifle laid along the hollow of his back. Thus painfully had he worked his way for more than forty yards, when he found himself, almost unawares, at the very edge of his covert. Here, peering through the leafy chinks, he could plainly see the enemy, whose footsteps he had so long been dogging.
Yes, there they were—the three Indians—not twenty paces from Betsy Grumbo's muzzle. Breakfast by this time ended, they were composedly smoking their pipes, and, for Indians, chatting away quite socially, as if in no hurry to be off on their day's tramp. The giant—for such in fact he proved to be—whose foot-prints Burl had so gravely scanned along the trail, was sitting on the ground at the foot of a tree; while over against him, with the now smoldering camp-fire between, were his two comrades, seated on opposite ends of a log. A little to one side lay a slain buck, upon whose flesh they had supped the evening before and breakfasted this morning. Against the log, leant side by side, between the two smaller Indians, rested their three rifles; while their hatchets, of which they had freed themselves to be the more at their ease, were sticking deeply sunk into the tree above the giant's head—their scalping-knives being the only weapons retained about their persons. The giant, a savage of terrible aspect, was dressed in complete Indian costume—his robe being richly decorated with bead-work and stained porcupine quills, and where it showed a seam or border was fringed with scalp-locks, brown, flaxen, and red, as well as black—taken by his own hand from the heads of his enemies—the lastagony, doubtless, as the fashions had it among the swells in his quarter of the world. Similar to this, excepting theagony, and that it was newer and fresher, was the dress worn by the Indian who occupied the farther end of the log; and when we add that the heads of both were all waving with the gorgeous plumage of the eagle, we can easily fancy that the appearance of these two must have been rather splendid and imposing. Quite the reverse, however, as regarded the third savage, who in a recent foray into the white settlements, having contrived to get his pilfering hands on a new broadcloth coat, with bright metal buttons, and a ruffled shirt, had added these two pieces of civilized finery to his Indian gear—thus imparting to his whole appearance, which had else been wild, at least, and picturesque, an air exceedingly raw, repulsive, and shabby. To be sure, inharmoniousness of contrast was beginning to be a little subdued by the dirt and grease of the wearer's own laying on, the coat being no longer glossy and sky-blue, the shirt no longer starchy and snow-white. Yet, notwithstanding his love for Christian finery, the red heathen could hardly have had much love for Christian people, as was evident from the fairhaired scalps which hung at his girdle; and altogether he was as ugly and ferocious-looking a barbarian as you would care to encounter on your war-path, should glory ever lead you to travel such a road.
But Bushie—where was poor little Bushie all this time? Bound hand and foot to a tree hard by, with scarcely freedom sufficient to draw his breath or wink his eyes, his face all blanched with the despair of a captive awaiting, in agonizing suspense, the hour of final and terrible doom—all as dismal apprehension had been picturing it for the last eighteen hours to the distressingly ingenious fancy of Burlman Reynolds? O by no means! True it was, our little master was there, and a captive. True, that since our last glimpse of him, where perched he sat on the topmost rail of the corn-field fence back yonder, he had taken many a pitiful, heart-broken cry, whenever the loved faces and familiar sights of home had risen with sudden vividness before his remembrance. But just at this moment, having followed up a sound night's sleep with a hearty breakfast of venison, he seemed, like the healthy, stout-hearted urchin he was, to have made up his mind not only to look, but keep, on the bright side of things—the best way in the world of dodging the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." Without the mark of a buffalo-thong on ankle or wrist, to tell of captivity, the little man was running about the hill, to all appearance as he list—his moving shadow dodging hither and thither, as if it were a long-legged, short-bodied goblin quizzically mocking his motions, or playing at hide-and-seek with him among the trees and bushes. But Burl observed that the dear little fellow, though left to his freedom, never came nigh the giant, nor the grim savage in the ruffled shirt and blue coat, but always kept nearest to him who sat on the further end of the log—the youngest of the three Indian, quite youthful indeed, and of form and face exceedingly pleasing and noble. In fact, between the young brave and the little captive a friendly and familiar understanding seemed to have sprung up already; for while the giant and other savage talked together, these two kept up a lively confab between themselves, which, as neither could understand a word the other was saying, must have been highly entertaining and edifying to both. A few minutes before, while playing about the hill, Bushie had found an old stone hatchet, and picking it up, had brought it to his red friend to have him fit a handle to it, which the young brave, with mingled pity and good humor, was now busy in doing—the edifying interchange of thought and sentiment never ceasing for a moment. Had Burl needed any further proof of the gentle, even indulgent kindness with which his little master had been treated—at least by the young Indian—there it was to be seen in the little coon-skin cap, stuck thicker than even the giant's scalp-lock with the gorgeous plumes of the war-bird.
All this, that has taken so long to describe, it took Burl but a glance of the eye to discern, and as quickly to form his plan of attack. In the first place, he must, with the one bullet already in his gun, dispatch the two Indians who sat on the log. This advantage gained, he should, he felt confident, then be able to cope with the giant on equal terms, full six inches taller though he seemed to be where he sat just there, so composedly smoking his war-pipe—not to mention his being freshly victualed withal. But in order to deal this double blow, he needs must shift his ground, so as to bring himself on a line with the two smaller Indians—a movement, which to execute under the very skirts of a quick-eared foe, would put him up to all the cunning and skill he was master of. Nevertheless, for the sake of the great advantage it might give him, he would risk the attempt. Between where he was and the point he must gain the thicket was thin; so, silently, slowly, he backed himself—feet foremost—into his covert again, thrice his length or more, then veering away to the right, he began—head foremost—making his second approach. On regaining the edge of the thicket, he found the savages as he had left them, five minutes before—the two smaller Indians on the log, and now on the same dead-line with himself—so nicely had he calculated the distances. Then taking his gun from his back—where all this time it had lain—he raised himself slowly to one knee, and cautiously thrusting his weapon through the leafy twigs before him, took deliberate aim at the body of the grim savage. His finger was already on the trigger, ready to give the fatal pull, when Bushie plumped himself down on the log beside the young Indian, thus bringing his own little body in the same line with the deadly missile, which in an instant more would have come whizzing out of the thicket. With a disappointed shake of the head Burl slowly lowered his piece, to wait till the little boy, led by his wayward humor, should quit the perilous seat. But, becoming the more interested in what was doing for his amusement—now that the hatchet was nearly ready for him—Bushie seemed in no haste to quit the place. What if the savages should shift their position?—then indeed the signal advantage he now held, and had been at so much pains and had run so much risk to secure, would be lost, and the Fighting Nigger again reduced to desperate straits. Would the boy never move? And waiting and watching, Big Black Burl lay close in ambush.