The first shock of surprise came when the party suddenly emerged from the woods and paused on the bank of a deep, swift stream, fully a hundred yards wide. The current, like the smaller one, was yellow and roiled, and the boy looked upon it with a feeling akin to dismay. Recalling the indignity to which he had been subjected earlier in the day, he dreaded trusting himself in the water again.
"Thistime they may take it into their heads to drown me," was his thought.
But his nerves were not subjected to the trial. Nothing showed more clearly the wonderful woodcraft of the Indians than the fact that, after journeying many long leagues through the wilderness, without the slightest trail to guide them, they struck the stream within a hundred yards of the point at which they aimed from the first.
This was proven by the action of the warriors themselves. After talking together for a few minutes, two of them walked a short distance up the bank and drew a large canoe from under the shore, where they had left it when journeying in the other direction.
The canoe was made of bark, with the ends turned up in the usual fashion. Two long paddles belonging to it lay within, and were taken by the warriors, who paddled it down to where the party were in waiting. All stepped carefully inside, and the same Indians who brought it from its hiding place turned the prow toward the other shore and began swinging the paddles with the freedom and vigor peculiar to their people. Jack was the last to seat himself, and he held fast as best he could, dreading some of the rude jokes of his captors.
When all were in position, and the craft began moving, great care was necessary, for it sank to the gunwales, and a slight disturbance would be enough to overturn the frail boat. Although Jack feared such an occurrence, yet the Indians themselves were no more desirous it should take place than was he.
He naturally fixed his eyes on the line of warriors seated in front of him. All faced the shore they were approaching, and the couple using the paddles dipped first one end on the right and the other end on the left of the canoe. They put forth little exertion. Had they chosen to do so, they could have tripled the speed, though most likely an upset would have been the consequence.
The middle of the stream was not reached, when a small fish leaped out of the water in front and fell back again. Ogallah uttered an exclamation, and, reaching his hand over the side of the boat, held it several inches under the surface. The two Indians not using the paddles did the same, just as a party of young people will do when taking a pleasure sail over some calm lake.
Suddenly Ogallah gave a quick flirt of the submerged hand, flinging the sparkling water over all. Something flashed in the sunlight, and a plump fish, weighing fully a pound, dropped into the canoe. Almost immediately the other two warriors did the same, one of them securing a prize weighing as much as both the others. The fact was, the boat was passing through something like a school of fish, and the red men found no difficulty in capturing a number.
"That looks like dinner," thought Jack with a chuckle, as he also dipped his hand to grope for the finny delicacies. He had less than a minute to wait when something cold and smooth touched his fingers. He made a desperate clutch, sinking his arm to his elbow, but the fish was too quick, and darted beyond his reach, just as Ogallah landed another tempting one.
Several more were taken, but Jack could not succeed in closing his fingers quickly enough to keep the fish from slipping away. By the time the other side of the stream was reached, a good supply had been secured, and the boy forgot his sorrow in the pleasure of anticipating that his hunger would be fully satisfied.
Happily he was not disappointed in this respect, for, while the oarsmen were drawing the boat out of the water, the others were preparing the fire with which to cook the fish, that were speedily dressed. They were the "white" species common in the west, and when browned to a juicy crisp, formed as luscious a meal as any epicure could ask. Best of all, there was an abundance, and Jack Carleton ate until he wanted no more.
Having tramped so many miles since the rising of the sun, Ogallah and his warriors were disposed to enjoy a good rest.
Their pipes were relighted and they lolled about in the same lazy fashion, paying no special heed to Jack, who knew the unwisdom of making any effort to get away.
All this convinced the boy that the party had still a considerable distance to travel. Had they been in the neighborhood of their village, they would have pushed on without stopping. At any rate, they would not have paused to kindle the camp-fire and to cook a meal at mid-day.
"It must be," Jack said to himself, with several nods of his head, "that we are to spend another night on the road: if that is so, I'll make a break if I have to suffer for it."
These were vaunting words, but he was in earnest. Except for the hope thus renewed within him, the youth would have given way to the drowsiness which became quite common with the rest, but a line of speculation was started which kept his mind occupied during the full hour the party dawdled about the camp-fire.
At the end of the time named, the ashes were knocked from the pipes, several stretched their limbs and yawned, and the sullen-faced warrior who had been taking care of Jack's rifle, passed it back to him with some surly word, which most likely meant that thereafter the captive should bear his own burdens. The boy was glad enough to regain his weapon, but he smiled when he observed that it had no charge in it. His captors were determined not to put temptation in his way.
It took the company a considerable time to "shake themselves together." They straggled and kept irregular step, and finally, when they began ascending a slope, where the ground was much broken and covered with stones, they gave it up altogether. The ascent continued until they found themselves on an elevation several hundred feet high, and so devoid of vegetation that a view was gained which covered an area of hundreds of square miles in every direction.
Standing on this lookout, as it may be called, the Indians devoted a number of minutes to such survey. No employment just then could be more entertaining, and Jack Carleton adopted it.
The scene was too similar to those with which the reader of these pages has become familiar to need any lengthened reference in this place. It was green, billowy forest in every direction. Here and there a stream wound like a silver ribbon through the emerald wilderness, sometimes gleaming in the sunlight, and then disappearing among the vegetation, to reappear miles away, and finally to vanish from sight altogether as it wound its way toward the Gulf. At remote points the trained eye could detect the thin, wavy column of vapor motionless against the sky, a mute witness that beings other than those on the hill were stealing through the vast solitude in their quest for game or prey.
Inasmuch as Jack Carleton readily detected these "signs," as the hunter terms them, it followed they must have been noted by the Indians themselves; but they gave no evidence of any excitement on that account. It was natural that such evidences of the presence of other persons in the immense territory should present themselves.
But the youth failed to find that for which he specially looked. Observing the chieftain gazing earnestly toward the west, he did the same, expecting to catch sight of the Indian village where Ogallah and his warriors made their home. He descried a wooded ridge stretching across his field of vision, but not the first resemblance to village or wigwam could be discovered.
"He is not looking forthat," thought Jack, "but is expecting some signal which will appear on the ridge."
One of the other Indians was peering with equal intentness at the same point, but the minutes passed and nothing presented itself. Jack joined in the scrutiny, but he could not succeed where they failed.
All at once the sachem seemed to lose patience. He said some vigorous things, accompanied by equally vigorous gestures, and then the whole party began hastily gathering wood. In a short while this was kindled and burning strongly. When the flames were fairly going, one of the warriors who had collected several handfuls of damp leaves by digging under the dry ones, dropped them carefully on the blaze. It looked at first as if the fire would be put out, but it struggled upward, and by-and-by a column of dense black smoke stained the sky like the smutty finger of some giant tracing a wavy line across it.
Then Ogallah and one of his men held his blanket spread out so as almost to force the thick smoke to the ground, but such was not their purpose. The blanket was abruptly lifted, then swayed in a peculiar fashion, the two moving in perfect unison, without speaking, and repeating their pantomime with the regularity of machinery, for the space of fully ten minutes.
The results were singular. The inky column of vapor was broken into a number of sections, as may be said, so that when viewed from a distance the figure was that of a black broad band of enormous height, separated by belts of colorless air into a dozen pieces or divisions, the upper ones gradually melting into nothingness. Besides this, so deftly had the red men manipulated the fire and blanket, that these divisions showed a peculiar wavy appearance, which would have excited wondering remark, no matter by whom seen.
"It is a signal to some one on the ridge yonder," was the conclusion of Jack, who watched the proceeding with much interest.
Having finished, Ogallah and the warrior threw the blanket on the ground, and the whole five gazed at the ridge miles away. For a time perfect silence reigned, and then one of the dusky watchers uttered an exclamation, to which the chief responded with a grunt.
While scanning the distant ridge, Jack detected a black brush of vapor climbing slowly above the trees. It broke clean off, and as it went on upward, was inclosed by clear air on all sides. But it was not long before a second, third, fourth, and fifth appeared. Parties were answering the signal of the chief in precisely the same manner that he made it. The only difference was in the number, of which there were only the five. Those, however, were sufficient, as the parties making it were well aware.
This aboriginal system of telegraphy, which has been in use from time immemorial, is still a favorite means of communication among the Indians of the West. More than once the news of the signing of some important treaty, or the war movement of tribes, has been flashed by means of signal fires from mountain top to mountain top over a distance of hundreds of miles.
The information given by the answering signal fire was satisfactory to the chief Ogallah, who resumed the journey at a leisurely pace, making no effort to walk in the close Indian file that he and his warriors did when further away from home.
"If we reach the village before going into camp," concluded Jack, "we must keep moving until after dark. The sun is setting and the ridge is still a good ways off."
It soon became manifest that the red men had no purpose of tiring themselves by walking. They were at the base of the ridge when they came upon a small stream which dashed down the mountain side with a musical plash, forming currents, eddies, and cascades, while in the depths of some pebbly pool it was as silent and clear as liquid mountain air.
The afternoon was more sultry than the early portion of the day, and every member of the company quaffed his fill from the refreshing element. Jack's heart gave a great bound of hope when he saw that Ogallah meant to spend the night there. He was strongly convinced that he would gain an opportunity to steal away during the darkness, which promised to be denser than on the previous night. Although the day had been clear and beautiful, yet the clouds gathered after the sun went down, and there were signs of a storm. Low mutterings of distant thunder and the fitful flashes of lightning showed the interchange of electricity between the earth and sky, though it might not develop to any great extent for many hours to come.
No hunt was made for game, and after the abundant meal earlier in the day, Jack could not complain if compelled to fast until morning. A fire was kindled precisely as before, a sturdy oak forming the background, while the others lolled around it and smoked their long-stemmed pipes.
When Jack Carleton was invited to retire to his couch by the sullen warrior, he obeyed as though pleased with the prospect of a full night's rest. Ogallah stretched out with one of his men, while the ill-tempered member sat down with his back against the tree, as though desirous of imitating his leader in every respect.
"There's one thing certain," said Jack Carleton to himself, as he gathered the Indian blanket around his shoulders, like one lying down to pleasant dreams, "I can keep awake a good deal more easily than I did last night. I'm pretty tired, but I slept so much toward morning that it will be no trouble to go twenty-four hours without any more."
The temperature was milder than at that time, so that the lad found the thick blanket uncomfortably warm when wrapped closely around him. He flung out his feet and arms as a child often does with its bed coverings, and adjusted his body so as to keep his eye on the sentinel, without (as the captive believed) any suspicion of his intention.
The other couples sank into refreshing slumber within a few minutes after lying down, and it certainly was singular that the warrior who sat half revealed, with his back against the tree, should have continued as motionless as did the chief Ogallah the evening before. It was impossible that two scenes should resemble each other more closely than those named.
"I don't believe he can keep it up as long as the old fellow did. If he tries it, he will be dreaming, and when he and the rest awake, they will find I am miles off and going with might and main for home. My gracious! but I shall have a long distance to travel, and it will be hard work to keep out of their way."
Fixing his eyes on the form as it was shown by the flickering camp-fire, Jack prepared to watch with more patience than he showed in the former instance. The sound of the splashing brook and the soft stirring of the night wind were soothing to the tired boy. By-and-by his eyelids drooped, then closed, and his senses passed from him. Never was he sunk in sounder sleep.
Nothing occurred to disturb him, and he slept hour after hour, never opening his eyes until it was broad daylight and Ogallah and his warriors were astir.
Jack was chagrined beyond expression when he found what he had done, or, rather, what he had failed to do. The opportunity for which he had sighed so long had slipped irrevocably from his grasp. So convinced was he of this fact that he gave over all thought of escape while on the journey.
"The Indian village can't be far off, and I must now go ahead and take my chances. But this is getting tiresome."
The last remark referred to the absence of any preparations for breakfast. He had made no complaint the evening before, but it was a hardship to continue his fast. Inasmuch, however, as there was no help for it, he submitted without a murmur.
There was now no pretence of treading in each other's footsteps, but the party straggled up the ridge like a lot of weary pedestrians. No one seemed to pay any attention to the single captive, most likely because there was no call to do so. He might desire to make a break for liberty, but he could not go further than they were willing to permit.
The top of the ridge was marked by a bare spot, where some charred sticks showed a fire had been recently kindled. There could be no doubt that it was there the answering signal had been made to the call of Ogallah.
But looking down the western slope of the ridge, Jack Carleton's eyes rested on a scene more interesting than any that had met his gaze since leaving home. Less than a mile off, close to the shore of a winding stream and in the middle of a partially cleared space, stood the Indian village toward which his footsteps had been tending for nearly two days, and where he was likely to spend an indefinite captivity.
The stream was perhaps a hundred feet in width. It shone brightly in the morning sun, and the current was clearer than that of the river crossed the day before. It wound its way westward as far as the eye could follow it, flowing into a tributary of the Osage, thence to the Missouri, and so on to the Gulf of Mexico.
The Indian village numbered between twenty and thirty lodges, wigwams or dwellings as they may be called. Some of them were made of bison and deer skins, and were of irregular, conical shape; others were mere huts, covered with grass, leaves, limbs and dirt, while one or two were mainly composed of stones piled in the form of rude walls and roofed in the rude fashion described.
These primitive structures were scattered irregularly over a space of half an acre, which might be called a clearing, inasmuch as only a few stumps and broken trees were to be seen. But nothing in the way of corn or vegetables was growing, and the air of dilapidation, untidiness and squalor pervading the whole scene, was characteristic of the race, and was that which robs it of the romance which in the minds of many attaches to the name of the American Indian.
Viewed from the ridge, Jack could see figures moving to and fro in the aimless manner natural to such indolent people. There were children running and playing among the stumps and dwellings—half naked little knots of humanity, who in a few years would become the repulsive squaws or terrible warriors of the tribe. Three of the youngsters were having a high time with a canoe lying against the shore. They were splashing the water over each other, plunging into the stream and scrambling out again without regard to the wear or tear of their clothing, and playing all sorts of tricks on each other, while a half dozen playmates were standing on the bank laughing so heartily that a spectator would have found it hard to understand why the American race is so often described as of a melancholy temperament.
Now and then some squaw could be seen trudging along under a load of sticks, while more than likely her lazy husband was asleep within the wigwam. A half dozen warriors strolled off toward the woods, rifles in hand, and most likely with the intention of going upon a hunt. Just before leaving the clearing, one of them caught sight of the group on the top of the ridge. Immediately they swung their arms and sent several ringing whoops across as a salutation to their friends.
Ogallah answered, and he and his party moved down the slope toward their homes. Having saluted each other in this fashion, the warriors of the village speedily vanished in the wood. They must have known that the returning company had a prisoner with them, but it will be seen they felt no particular interest in the matter.
But if such was the fact respecting the hunters, it was far different with those who were left behind. The moment the five warriors emerged from the wood, with the captive walking among them, the whole village was thrown in a turmoil of excitement. Squaws and children rushed forward, men came to the entrances of their wigwams, and some strolled out to make a closer investigation of the matter.
It was a trying moment to Jack Carleton, for it may be said that he had discounted it during the preceding day. He forced himself to smile, and when the chattering, grunting, shouting crowd gathered around him so closely that he was forced to stop walking, he shook, so far as he could, most of the scores of hands that were pushed against him.
All this was well enough, but it was not long before their attention took an unpleasant form. Some of the half grown bucks either feigned or really were angered because Jack could not give them heed, and struck him with the flat of their hands about the chest and shoulders. The boy turned when the first blow was delivered, and the Indian indulged in a taunting grimace. Jack clenched his fist and was on the point of striking him in the face when his good sense restrained him. He needed no one to tell him the consequences of such rashness.
The attentions soon became so boisterous that Ogallah interfered. He flung the crowd right and left, commanding them to disperse, and then beckoned the youth to follow him toward a lodge near the center of the village. Jack was glad enough to do so, and was speedily relieved of annoyance.
The sachem conducted the boy to his own dwelling where none of the curious dare follow him, though the crowd gathered on the outside and peeped within, like so many persons seeking a free survey of a circus.
Suspecting that this was likely to be his new home for an indefinite time, Jack Carleton was quick to acquaint himself with the interior. The structure, as I have said, stood near the middle of the village, and was the largest of the collection. It is rare that an aboriginal building bears such resemblance to those made by the white men of the border, for the American race has never shown any aptitude in architecture.
Ogallah's house was a log cabin, perhaps twenty feet long by half as many wide. The logs were roughly dovetailed at the corners, but none of the numerous crevices were stopped by mortar or clay, and daylight could be discerned through many a rent, which in cold weather admitted the keen cutting wind.
A single opening served as a door. Aboriginal ingenuity could not pass beyond this rude contrivance, so having opened the way for ingress and egress, the builder was content to hang a bison skin as a curtain. This could be readily pulled aside by any one, and the door locked by fastening the corners. Windows are a sinful extravagance to the American Indian, and there was not one in the village to which Jack Carleton was taken. When the open door, the burning fire, the hole which answered for a chimney, and the numerous crevices did not give enough light for the interior, the occupants went outside to obtain it.
Having put up the four walls of logs and roofed them with branches, covered with leaves, dirt and grass, Ogallah was content to lean back, fold his arms and smoke his pipe in placid triumph. The floor was the earth, worn hard and smooth by the feet of the family, and the fire was kindled on the ground at the further end, where the vapor found its way through the irregular opening made for the purpose. There was nothing in the nature of a chair or bench in the place. Bison and deer robes formed the couches, and the pegs driven in the logs held blankets, bows, and furs of animals (most of the last, however, lying on the ground), leggings and other articles worn by the chieftain and his wife.
These two were the only occupants of the place previous to the coming of Jack Carleton. Ogallah was in middle life, and had been the father of but a single son, who died while yet a papoose. His wife was tall and muscular, evidently a woman with a strong will, and well worthy to be the consort of an Indian chief. She did not rush to her husband and embrace him the moment she caught sight of him. Indeed, she had not ventured outside the lodge, though she could not have failed to hear the unusual turmoil.
She would not have been human had she not shown some curiosity respecting her husband's companion. Jack doffed his hat and bowed to her with elaborate courtesy, after which he leaned his rifle against the side of the wigwam and folded his arms. The squaw surveyed him for a full minute, during which he stood as if awaiting her commands, and then, turning to her husband, the two held a short but vigorous conversation.
The wife must have been expecting him, for she was engaged in cooking some venison in the usual aboriginal fashion, and, to the great relief of the boy, the two were not kept waiting for their meal. Seating themselves cross-legged on the ground, the half-cooked meat was taken in their hands, and, with no other utensils than his hunting knife, each made his morning meal.
And so at last Jack Carleton was a captive among a tribe of Indians whose totem was unknown to him. Whether he was to remain with them until manhood, or whether he was to be put to death long before that period, were questions whose answers he did not dare try to conjecture.
His situation was a most extraordinary one, as every reader will admit. He knew of more than one instance where children who were captured when quite small, had become so attached to the rude ways and wild life of the red men, that they refused to go back to their own people when the offer presented itself, but it was too late in the day for such an experience to befall him.
And now, for a time, we must leave Jack Carleton to himself, while we give attention to other incidents which are destined to have a bearing on his fate.
The reader has not forgotten the encounter between Jacob Relstaub and Deerfoot, the Shawanoe, when the former plunged headlong through his own door in mortal fear that the tomahawk of the youthful warrior would be sent crashing through his brain; but, much as Deerfoot despised the German, he had no thought of visiting injury upon him. Shoving back the weapon to its place in his girdle, he therefore strode off in the forest, never pausing in his walk until the sun appeared above the horizon. He was then many miles from Martinsville, his face turned toward the southwest.
Throwing himself on his face, he quaffed his fill from a small, clear stream, whose current was only moderately cool, and then, assuming an easy posture on the ground, gave himself over to deep thought.
The question which he was seeking to answer was as to his duty. He had gone to the settlement to see his young friends, and learned that they had started some hours before on a hunting expedition. Such a proceeding was so natural, and, withal, so common, that any one expressing wonder thereat was likely to be laughed at for his words. The boys of the frontier learn to handle the rifle when much younger than either Otto Relstaub or Jack Carleton, and they were sometimes absent for days at a time without causing any misgiving on the part of their parents.
Why, then, should Deerfoot be perplexed over the matter, when even the mother of Jack expressed no fear concerning him?
Why, indeed? That was the query which puzzled the young warrior. It has already been said it was the custom of Deerfoot to follow a certain inexplainable intuition which often came to his help in his moments of doubt. In the present instance, something seemed to whisper that it was his duty to look after the boys, but the whisper was so low—as may be said—that he hesitated to obey it, led to do so by a doubt as to whether, after all, it was that instinctive prompting which hitherto had guided him so infallibly in many of his daring enterprises and undertakings.
It was characteristic of the warrior that, after spending a long time in such anxious thought, he should draw his Bible from the inner pocket of his hunting shirt, and begin looking through its pages for guidance. There were certain portions that were favorites of his, and, without searching, the volume opened to one after another of these places; but seek as much as he chose, he could find nothing that bore on the problem he wished to solve.
"The Great Spirit wills that Deerfoot shall settle the question for himself," was his conclusion, as he returned the treasure to its place.
It may as well be admitted that the principal cause of Deerfoot's hesitation cannot be given at this time. There was an urgent reason why he should make haste to the southwest, and he longed to break into his easy, loping trot, which he was able to maintain without fatigue from rise of morn till set of sun. But the same strange impulse which sent him into the settlement to inquire concerning his friends, still kept them in his thoughts.
But he was not the youth to torment himself in this manner, hour after hour, and he finally compressed his thin lips and muttered:
"Deerfoot will return in a few days, and then, if his brothers are still gone, he will hunt for them."
This was not a satisfactory conclusion, but he followed it with his usual promptness. He was in the very act of rising from the ground, when his quick ear caught a faint footfall. Like a flash he raised his head, and observed a noble buck approaching the water with the purpose of drinking from it. It was not to be expected that the animal had any fear of hunters in such a solitary place, and he came forward with a proud step, as though master of the wilderness.
The Shawanoe waited until he was within fifty feet, when the buck stopped short, and threw up his head as though he scented danger in the air. At that instant Deerfoot bounded to his feet as if thrown upward by a spring-board, and with a slight whoop, dashed straight at the animal, swinging his arms and jumping from side to side in the most grotesque fashion.
Few animals of the forest are more timid than the deer, which, like the bear, is found in almost every portion of the American continent. The buck with one swift whirl on his hoofs, faced the other way, and was off like an arrow, shooting between the trees, through the undergrowth, and bounding over obstructions as though they were not worth his notice. The ordinary hunter might have found time to fire one shot, when the game would have vanished like a bird on the wing, before he could reload; but the occasion was a good one for Deerfoot to display his wonderful fleetness, and he was in the mood to do so. He had made his gestures and uttered his cries for the very purpose of terrifying the animal into doing his utmost, and he did it.
With his head thrown back, so that his antlers almost rested on his back, he plunged forward with amazing swiftness; but when he had gone two hundred yards, he saw the same light, willowy figure almost on his haunch. He even flung up his arms and shouted again, as if urging him to a higher rate of speed. And such was the truth; Deerfoot was running as fast as the game, and he was able to run still faster.
The buck bounded up a steep slope, and with one tremendous leap cleared a craggy rock in his path. He had barely done so, when the young Shawanoe was after him, going over with a lightness and grace that showed no special effort. The pursuer was on his haunches, and the animal, with glaring eyeballs and a horrified sniff, seemed to bound off with the speed of the wind. But of what avail? The warrior was not to be shaken off. With a speed which none of his race could equal, it was only play for him to outrun the deer. Years before (as I have told in another place), Deerfoot, for mere sport, pursued one of the fleetest of horses, and kept it up hour after hour, until he ran down the steed. He was doing the same to the buck. There was not a moment from the first when he could not have launched an arrow that would have brought the game to the ground; he was near enough to drive his tomahawk into the neck, but he did nothing of that nature. Inasmuch as he was running the race, he meant it should be a fair one, and neither should take any advantage over the other.
What terrifying imaginings took possession of the buck when he awoke to the fact that it was impossible to escape the dreadful being clinging to his hips, cannot be understood by any of us, but that which followed, incredible as it may seem, is an indisputable fact.
The singular race was kept up for slightly more than a mile, during every fraction of which the fugitive put forth his highest possible effort. Such a terrific strain cannot fail to tell upon the most highly trained animal, and so, despite all he could do, the buck found himself unable to keep up his prodigious tension. He was losing ground, and he could not fail to know that escape was out of the question: he was as much doomed as if surrounded and driven at bay by a dozen hunters and their hounds. He was still running at his highest bent, when he suddenly deviated to the right, and, with shocking violence, plunged squarely against the trunk of a beech, and, falling over on his side, gave a few convulsive struggles and died. Beyond question, the buck, when awake to the fact that there was no hope for him, deliberately committed suicide by breaking his neck.
The young Shawanoe paused, and looked down upon the quivering form with feelings of pity.
"Why did he do that? Deerfoot felt too much sorrow to harm him; he only sought to show him he could run the faster; but he will run no more, and Deerfoot will eat."
The spot was suitable, and, within less time than would be supposed, the warrior was seated on the ground, deliberately masticating a liberal slice of broiled venison. Doubtless it would have been improved could he have hung it in a cellar or tree for several days, but it wasn't convenient to do so, and Deerfoot therefore ate it as he could obtain it, and was satisfied therewith.
No water was within reach, the Indian following the healthful practice of the wild animals themselves, of not partaking of drink while eating food.
The meal finished, Deerfoot did not conduct himself like one who was still in doubt as to the course he ought to follow. He had solved the question earlier in the day, and, though the conclusion he reached was not fully satisfactory, he resolutely forced aside all further thought respecting it, and gave his attention simply to that which was before him. His dinner required only a short time, when he resumed his journey, if such it may be termed. He walked with his usual noiseless gait, in which could be detected not the slightest weakness or exhaustion resulting from his terrific run.
The young Shawanoe was advancing toward the mountainous portion of the present State of Missouri. The Ozark range, or its spurs, cover one-half of that large State, and their recesses afford hunting grounds and retreats such as are surpassed by no other portion of the continent.
Deerfoot turned his footsteps toward a high promontory some miles distant. It was the most elevated among many others, and formed a landmark visible over a very extensive area. The youthful warrior did not hasten his footsteps, for there was no call to do so, but he steadily approached the mountain, up which he tramped in his leisurely fashion, until he paused on the very highest point.
The journey was long, and when he came to a halt the sun was far down the western horizon. The summit of the mountain was covered with rocks and boulders, with here and there a few scrubby pines. Nothing could be more unattractive than the broken, stony soil, but the view which was spread out before him who climbed to the top was enough to kindle the eye of a stoic, and make the heart overflow with love and awe toward the great Being who made it all.
But the eye can become accustomed to the grandest scenes, and, although Deerfoot leaned on the rock beside him, and allowed his keen vision to wander over the magnificent panorama, it did not cause an additional pulse-beat. When he had glanced at the mountains, the valleys between, the broken country, the forests, the diversified scenery in every direction, his gaze rested on another promontory similar to the one he had climbed.
It was several miles distant, in a directly southern course, and was nearly or quite two hundred feet higher than the one on which he stood. The latter, like those to which reference has been made, was of the nature of a ridge, while the one on which his eyes were fixed was a diminutive Teneriffe as to its form.
While the manner of Deerfoot indicated very plainly that he expected to see something out of the usual order of things, yet it looked very much as if he would have been pleased over his failure to do so. No painter could limn a more striking picture than that which was formed by Deerfoot, at the close of that beautiful spring day, when, as the sun was setting, he stood on the elevation and gazed across the intervening country.
His right elbow rested on the top of the rock, and his right leg supported the weight of his body. The lower half of the left leg was slung across the other, the toe of the moccasin touching the earth. The right hand dropped over the side of the rock, and lightly held the long bow which leaned against the same support. The posture was that of elegant ease, and the best calculated to bring out in clear relief the Apollo-like splendor of his figure. The luxuriant black hair streaming over the shoulders, the gaudy eagle feathers thrust in at the crown, the lustrous black eyes, the slightly Roman nose, the rows of colored beads around the neck, the dull yellow of the hunting shirt, the quiver of arrows behind the right shoulder, the red sash, holding knife and tomahawk, the gold bracelet on the left wrist, the fringed border of his hunting shirt about the knees, the brilliant fringes to the leggings, the pretty moccasins, and the shapeliness of form, limb and feature—all these made up the poetical Indian, which, sad to say, is almost as rare among his race as the black diamond is in nature.
But such was Deerfoot the Shawanoe.
Easy and negligent as was the posture assumed by Deerfoot the Shawanoe, his eyes were never at rest. Resting for a moment on the promontory, they darted to the right and left down the valley, and even took in the shifting clouds in the sky above. But it was the peak which riveted his attention, and which was scrutinized with minute closeness until the gathering gloom shut it from sight.
It was not fairly dark when he kindled a fire on the very highest point, and then placing himself so far from it that the glare could not interfere with his sight, he looked out in the night. The darkness was such that nothing could be seen beyond his immediate surroundings, but he knew where to look for that which he expected and yet did not want to see. For fully an hour the Shawanoe held his motionless attitude, gazing as fixedly to the southward as ever an eagle stared at the sun. Then that for which he was waiting appeared.
From the very crest of the distant mountain peak, a flaming arrow suddenly began climbing toward the stars. Up, up it went, as does the rocket on a summer night, going slower and slower, like an old man plodding up hill, until, wearied out, it paused, and, for one instant remained stationary in the air, as if doubtful whether to push on or to fall back. The flaming point swung over until it pointed toward the ground, when it shot downward with ever increasing swiftness until it vanished. It must have struck within a yard of the spot from which it had been driven upward.
It was very rarely that Deerfoot showed excitement. He had drawn his knife and challenged the great Tecumseh to mortal conflict, and he had faced death a score of times in the most dreadful shapes, but very rarely, if ever, was his heart stirred as by the sight of the burning arrow on the distant mountain peak.
He straightened up with a quick inspiration, and his eyes followed the course of the fiery missile from the moment of its appearance until it vanished.
"They have called for Deerfoot!"
These were the remarkable words which fell from his lips, as he plunged down the mountain side like one who knew a question of life and death was before him. Although Deerfoot had formed a friendship for Jack Carleton and Otto Relstaub similar to that which he had felt for Ned Preston and Wildblossom Brown, yet it must be admitted that they were not the only ones to whom he was strongly attached, and in whose fate he felt as deep an interest as in that of any human being—all of which shall be made clear in another place and at another time.
It was just one week later that Deerfoot made his appearance near the settlement, and, pausing at a point which commanded a view of the collection of cabins, he spent several minutes in surveying them and the pioneers. He had traveled many miles, and been through some singularly stirring scenes since he last looked upon Martinsville, but the gracious Being that had protected him all his life, did not desert him in his extremity, and the frame was as supple and free from weakness or injury as when he faced the other way.
When the burning arrow summoned Deerfoot down the mountain side, he was glad indeed that he had decided the question whether or not he should hunt for the boys as he did, for, had he done otherwise, the opportunity that has been described could not have come to him; but, when his duty was ended, the old doubt came back, until he had been driven to return in order that he might settle the question forever.
Looking down on the little settlement of Martinsville, he studied the curious scene, for he was so close that he could identify every person whom he knew. The settlement, as the reader has been told, consisted of two rows of log cabins, facing each other. They numbered about a score, and the street was fifty feet wide. Besides that, each cabin had the same space between itself and its neighbor, so that, few as were the structures, they were scattered over considerable ground.
This ground, as well as much of it beyond, had been well cleared, and the earth cultivated. There were horses and oxen to draw plows and help bear the burdens. Besides the hunters' cabins, there were storehouses, barns, and structures made for convenience or necessity. From most of the soil that had been overturned were sprouting corn, potatoes, and other vegetables. The time was not distant when the wilderness should blossom as the rose.
A block-house near the middle of the settlement had been half completed, when, so far as could be seen, the work was abandoned. The rule with the frontier settlements was to put up a building in which all could take refuge, should danger threaten; but often the fort was so hastily and poorly made that it became a matter of weakness rather than of strength. Colonel Martin and his brother pioneers reached the conclusion that they were showing altogether too much haste in rearing the structure, and they deferred its completion to a more convenient season. Their duty to their families, as they saw it, justified them in taking such a step, especially in view of the fact that the Indians of the surrounding country were not likely ever to cause them trouble.
The cleared land, as it was called, was still disfigured by numerous unsightly stumps, around which the rude plow was pulled; but here and there men were working to remove them, and ultimately all would be uprooted and destroyed.
On the edge of the clearing, three woodsmen were swinging their axes and burying their keen edges in the hearts of the monarchs of the wood. Deerfoot looked at them several minutes, noticing as he had done before, with childish wonder, how long it took the sound caused by the blows to reach him. When one of the choppers stopped to breathe and leaned on his axe, the sound of two blows came to the listener, and when he resumed work, the youth saw him in the act of striking the third time before the sound was heard.
The scene was one of activity and industry. Even the children seemed to have work instead of play to occupy them. The women, as a matter of course, were among the busiest, and rarely did one of them appear at the door of her cabin. When she did so, it was only for a very brief while.
Deerfoot was looking fixedly at one of the houses near the middle of the settlement, when a squatty figure, with a conical hat, a heavy cane, and smoking a pipe, came out and walked slowly toward a cabin only a short distance off. The Indian smiled in his momentary, shadowy fashion when he recognized Jacob Relstaub, whom he had frightened almost out of his wits a week before. No doubt the German had told the incident many times afterward, and would always insist he escaped by a veritable hair's breadth.
But Deerfoot was troubled in mind, for among all whom he saw he recognized neither Jack Carleton nor Otto Relstaub. It was not likely that, if they had returned from their hunt, both would continue invisible very long; but when minute after minute passed without showing either, his heart sank.
The Shawanoe knew a scene would be probable if Jacob Relstaub caught sight of him, so he avoided the wrathful German. The appearance of the handsome warrior moving among the cabins, naturally awakened some interest. Men and children looked at him as he went by, and several of the latter followed him. Deerfoot saluted all whose eyes met his, calling out: "Good day; how is my brother?" in as excellent English as any of them could have employed.
The Indian, it may be supposed, was known to nearly every one by reputation. Most of the settlers had heard of his exploits when they and he lived in Kentucky; they knew he guided Otto Relstaub and Jack Carleton on their perilous journey from the Dark and Bloody Ground into Louisiana; they were aware, too, that he could read and write, and was one of the most sagacious and valuable friends the settlers ever had or could have. The story which Jacob Relstaub told was therefore received with much doubt, and no one who listened felt any distrust of the loyalty of the young Shawanoe. More than one declared on general principles that Relstaub would have been served right had the warrior handled him roughly, as it was well known he could have done had he been so minded.
Deerfoot walked quietly along the primitive street until opposite the door of Widow Carleton's cabin. Without hesitation, he pulled the latch string and stepped within. There was no start or change of expression when he glanced about the apartment, but that single glance told him the story.
Mrs. Carleton was standing at the table on the other side of the room, occupied with the dishes that had served at the morning meal. Her back was toward the visitor, but she turned like a flash when she heard the door open. The scared, expectant, disappointed, and apprehensive expression that flitted over her countenance, like the passing of a cloud across a summer landscape, made known the truth to the sagacious Shawanoe.
"Deerfoot's brother has not come back from his long hunt," he said, in his usual voice, as he bowed and advanced to the middle of the apartment.
"O Deerfoot!" moaned the mother, as, with tremulous lip, she sank into the nearest chair and looked pleadingly toward him, holding her apron ready to raise to her eyes; "tell me where is my Jack!"
"My friend told Deerfoot that his brother had gone to hunt the horse that has wandered off."
"But that was more than a week ago; he ought to have come back a good while since. O Deerfoot——"
"But the horse has wandered many miles, and it will take my brother a long time to find him," interrupted the visitor, who dreaded the scene which he saw was sure to come.
"Do you think they are still hunting for him?" she asked with a sudden, yearning eagerness that went to the heart of the Indian. He could not speak an untruth, nor could he admit the great fear that almost stopped the beating of his heart.
"Deerfoot cannot answer his friend; but he hopes soon to take the hand of his brother."
"Oh, that will never be—it can never be. My poor Jack!"
Her grief could be restrained no longer. The apron was abruptly raised to the eyes, and as the white hands were pressed against the face her whole frame shook with emotion. Deerfoot looked steadily at the pitiful scene, but he knew not what to say or do. It was a vivid illustration of this strange nature of ours that the youth, who absolutely knew not what fear was, and who had seen the glittering tomahawk crash its way into the brain without a throb of pity, now found his utmost self-command hardly able to save him from breaking down as utterly as did the parent before him. He hastily swallowed the lump that kept rising in his throat, blinked his eyes very rapidly, coughed, fidgeted on the bench whereon he sat, and, finally, looked away and upward at the rude rafters, so as to avoid the sight of the sobbing woman.
"Deerfoot is a pappoose," he muttered angrily, "that he weeps when he knows not what for; he is a dog that whines before his master strikes him."
A brief but resolute struggle gave him the mastery over his emotions, though for a few seconds he dared not look towards his hostess. When he timidly ventured to do so, she was rubbing her eyes with the corner of her apron. The tempest of grief had passed, and she was regaining mastery of herself, thereby rendering great help to the valiant warrior.
"I know that it may be possible that Jack and Otto have gone on a longer hunt than before, but they did not expect to be away more than three or four days, and Jack would not willingly bring sorrow to his mother."
"My brother may have gone so far that he has lost his way, and is slow in finding it again."
"Do you think so, Deerfoot?"
The Indian fidgeted, but he could not avoid an answer.
"Deerfoot does not know; he cannot think right; he is in sore trouble for his brothers."
"No one can help them like you. O Deerfoot, won't you find my Jack and bring him home to me?"
The youthful warrior rose to his feet, and looking her in the face, spoke the words, "I will!" Then he turned and strode out of the door.
Deerfoot, the Shawanoe, had entered upon the most difficult task of his life. He had undertaken to follow up and befriend the youths who had disappeared more than a week previous, and who had left not the slightest clue as to where they had gone, nor what direction they had taken.
In these days, when a friend sets out to trace a person who is seeking to hide himself, he is always able to pick up some knowledge that will give valuable help in his search. The habits of the individual, some intentions, or rather wishes, to which he may have given utterance a long time before, his little peculiarities of manner, which are sure to betray themselves, no matter how complete the disguise—these, and other points, are certain to afford the help the hunter through the cities and towns and country requires.
But my reader will observe the vast difference between a case such as occurs every day, and that which confronted the young Indian. Two boys had gone into the woods more than a week before, on a long hunt, and were now missing; it was his task to find them. Could it be done?
Had Deerfoot taken up the pursuit shortly after the departure of the boys, he could have sped over their trail like a bloodhound. There could have been no escaping him; but since they left home, rain had fallen, and even that marvel of canine sagacity could not have trailed them through the wilderness. It was idle, therefore, for Deerfoot to seek for that which did not exist; no trail was to be found; at least, none in that neighborhood. In all his calculations, he did not build the slightest hope on that foundation. Had he done so, he would have sought to take up the shadowy footprints from where the boys left the settlement; but the utmost he did was to learn the general direction taken by them, when they entered upon one of the wildest expeditions that can be imagined.
Hundreds and thousands of square miles of mountain and forest were spread out before him. The vast territory of Louisiana, as it was then called, stretched away to the Gulf of Mexico, and spread toward the setting sun until stopped by the walls of the Rocky Mountains. The youth could spend his life in wandering over that prodigious area, without coming upon or gaining the slightest traces of a thousand people whom he might wish to find. The conclusion was inevitable that he must pursue some intelligent course, or he never could succeed.
It should be said that Deerfoot had not the slightest doubt of a grave misfortune having befallen his friends. Jack Carleton never would willingly remain from home for so long a period; he was too affectionate a son to grieve his mother by such a course. He and Otto Relstaub, therefore, were either prisoners in the hands of Indians, or they had been put to death.
Just the faintest possible fear troubled the young Shawanoe. He recalled the incidents which had marked the journey of himself and the boys from Kentucky, only a short time before. The Shawanoes, the fiercest and most cunning of all the Indian tribes, had not only pursued them to the river's edge, but had followed them across the Mississippi, coming within a hair's breadth of destroying the two boys who were making such haste toward Martinsville. Had any of those Shawanoes pushed the pursuit still further? Had they lingered near the settlement, awaiting just such an opportunity as was given by Jack and Otto when they went off on their hunt?
This was the phase of the question which for a long time tortured Deerfoot. He felt that it was improbable that danger existed in that shape. The Shawanoes had no special cause for enmity against the boys. If they should venture into Louisiana to revenge themselves upon any one, it would be upon Deerfoot. Nothing was more certain than that he had not been molested by any of his old enemies, for a good many days previously, nor had they been anywhere near him during that period.
But the cunning Indian, like his shrewd white brother, may do the very thing least expected. Might they not capture and make off with the boys, for the very purpose of leading Deerfoot on a long pursuit, in which the advantage would be wholly against him?
But the field of conjecture thus opened was limitless. Deerfoot might have spent hours in theorizing and speculating, and still have been as far from the truth as at the beginning; he might have formed schemes, perfect in every detail, only to find, on investigation, that they were wrong in every particular. The elaborate structures which the detective rears are often builded on sand, and tumble to fragments on the slightest touch.
Deerfoot was convinced that the boys either were captives in the hands of Indians, or they were dead. Had they been slain by red men—and it was not conceivable that both could have met death in any other way—it was useless to hunt for their remains, since only fortunate chance could end a search that might last a century.
But if the boys had been carried off, there was hope of gaining trace of them, though that might involve endless wanderings to and fro, through the mountains and wilderness. Such a hunt, prosecuted on a systematic plan for a certain time, without any results, would satisfy Deerfoot that the boys, like many older ones, had met their death in the lonely depths of the wilderness, where no human eye would ever look upon them again.
My reader, who has been let into the secret of the boys' disappearance, will perceive that Deerfoot was hovering around the truth, though he was still barred by difficulties almost insurmountable.
Suppose he should make up his mind that Jack and Otto were at that moment with the red men, in what manner—except by an almost interminable search—could he learn what tribe held them prisoners?
In the autumn of 1778, Frances Slocum, a little girl five years old, was stolen from her home in Wyoming Valley, and carried away by Delaware Indians. For a period of fifty-nine years the search for her was prosecuted with more or less earnestness. Thousands of dollars were spent, scores of persons were engaged at the same time in the hunt, journeys were made among the Western tribes, friendly Indians themselves were enlisted in the work, and yet, although the searchers were often within a few miles of her, they never picked up the first clue. After the lapse of more than half a century, when all hope had been abandoned by the surviving friends, the whereabouts of the woman became known, through an occurrence that was as purely an accident as was anything that ever took place in this world.
Admitting the unapproachable woodcraft and skill of the young Shawanoe, yet he could not do the impossible. Could he be spared a hundred years, possibly he might make the grand round of his people on the American continent, but in the meantime, what of his friends for whom he would be making this extended tour?
If so it should be that the boys were in the power of the Shawanoes, or Miamis, or Delawares, they were far to the east of the Mississippi; if with the Wyandots, they were also east of the Father of Waters, and probably in the vicinity of Lake Erie; if with the Ojibwas, to the northward along Lake Huron; if with the Ottawas, they were the same distance north, but on the shores of Lake Michigan; if with the Pottawatomies, further south on the same lake; if in the villages of the Kickapoos, or Winnebagoes, or Menomonies, it was on the southern and western shores of the same body of water; if with the Ottigamies, or Sacs, or Foxes, or in the land of the Assinoboine, the hunt must be of the most prolonged character.
Still further, the vast bulk of the western continent stretched westward toward the Pacific. When Deerfoot faced the setting sun, he knew he was looking over the rim of one of the grandest countries of the globe. He had fair ideas of the vast prairies, enormous streams, prodigious mountains and almost illimitable area, which awaited the development of the coming centuries.
One other suggestive fact was known to Deerfoot: representatives of the Indian tribes among the foothills of the Rocky Mountains had exchanged shots with the white explorers on the banks of the Mississippi. It is an error to suppose that the American savage confines his wanderings to a limited space. The majority do so, but, as I have said, the race produces in its way its quota of venturesome explorers, who now and then are encountered many hundreds of miles from home.
Within the preceding few weeks, Deerfoot had met two warriors among the Ozark mountains, who, he saw at a glance, came from a long distance and probably had never before been in that section. Neither they nor Deerfoot could speak a word the other could understand, but the sign language is universal among the North American Indians, and they were soon conversing like a party of trained mutes.
To the amazement of the young Shawanoe, he learned they were on their way to the Mississippi. They either would not or could not make clear their errand, but Deerfoot suspected it was that of gaining a glimpse of the civilization which as yet had not appeared in the West. Though the strangers were somewhat shy and suspicious, they offered no harm to the young Shawanoe, who, of course, showed only friendship toward them. From them he gained not a little rude information of the marvelous region which has since become familiar to the world.
The fear, therefore, of Deerfoot was that some wandering band from the extreme West had captured the boys, and were at that very hour pushing toward the Pacific with them. It would require a long, long time to learn the truth, which, in all probability, would prove a bitter disappointment.
From what has been said in this fragmentary manner, the reader may gain an idea of the almost infinite difficulties by which Deerfoot was confronted. Like a trained detective, however, he saw that much valuable time had been lost and a start must be made without further delay; and, furthermore, that the first step must be based on something tangible, or it would come to naught. The element of chance plays a leading part in such problems, and it may be questioned whether luck is not often a more powerful helper than skill.
After leaving the settlement, Deerfoot naturally climbed to the nearest elevation which gave a view of the surrounding country, and it was while he was looking over the scene that his thoughts took the turn indicated by the preceding part of this chapter.
It may be said that that for which he was searching was a starting point. "Where shall I begin?" was the question which remained unanswered until the sun was half way to meridian.
The principal view of the young warrior was to the south and west, for the conviction was strong that thither he must look for the shadowy clue which he prayed might lead him to success. Several miles southward a camp-fire was burning, as was shown by the bluish vapor that seemed to stand still against the clear sky; the same distance to the southeast was a slighter evidence of another camp-fire, while to the southwest was still another, the vapor so thin and faint that the experienced eye of the Shawanoe told him the party spending the previous night there had gone early in the morning, leaving the fire to burn itself slowly out.
Evidently the thing for Deerfoot to do was to visit one or all of the camps in quest of the clue which the chances were a thousand to one he would never find. Which should he first seek?
The bravest of men has a tinge of superstition in his nature, and with all of Deerfoot's daring and profoundly devout nature, he was as superstitious in some respects as a child. He could not decide by means of his Bible the precise course to follow, for one of his principles was that he alone must determine his precise course of action, the Great Spirit holding him accountable only for the manner in which he did, or sought to do, that which he clearly saw was his duty.
The hunting knife was whipped from his girdle, and, holding the point between his thumb and finger, he flung it a rod above his head. It turned over and over in going up and descending, and, when it struck the ground, landed on the hilt. Deerfoot looked down on the implement and saw that the point was turned toward the camp-fire which was furthest west.
The question was settled. Nothing short of positive knowledge could have led Deerfoot to change his mind as to the right course to pursue.
Stooping over, he picked up his hunting knife, thrust it in his girdle, and strode down the slope in the direction of the camp, which he knew was deserted early that morning. It was a long way to travel, but it was nothing to the lissome warrior, who would have broken into a run could he have felt any assurance of gaining any benefit by doing so.
Climbing around the boulders and rocks, leaping over chasms, pushing through matted undergrowth, and turning aside only when forced to do so, Deerfoot pressed to the southwest until three-fourths of the distance was passed. Most of that time the shadowy vapor had been beyond sight, for he did not take the trouble to look for it when the intervening vegetation interfered. He could not make any mistake as to the right course, and it was therefore unnecessary for him to take his bearings; but now, when he knew he could not be far from his destination, he came to the surface, as it may be said of a diver in an emerald sea, and indulged in a deliberate survey of his surroundings.
The first glance at the camp caused his eyes to sparkle, for it conveyed an interesting fact: instead of the smoke being so thin that it was scarcely visible, it was much denser and more plenteous. That simply showed that the camp was no longer a deserted one. Whoever had gone away in the morning had returned, and was at that moment on the ground. More than likely there were several of them, and, as the day was half gone, they were preparing their noontide meal.
At any rate the Shawanoe was sure to find some one there, and he hastened his footsteps, though he could feel but slight hope that whatever he saw or learned would have a bearing on the business in which his whole soul was engaged.
Deerfoot approached the camp with his usual caution, his supposition being that a company of Indians were resting there for a brief time. If they were Osages, or, indeed, any other tribe, except Hurons or Wyandots, he would not hesitate to go forward and greet them, for there ought to be no danger incurred in doing so. The same would be the case with the whites, though some care might be necessary to convince them no treachery was intended.
The first glimpse showed the Indian that only a single white man was present. He was preparing dinner, the preliminary step being a stirring of the smoldering camp-fire, which gave forth the tell-tale smoke. He was a striking individual, though a stranger to Deerfoot.
The fire itself was small, and was burning in an open space where the whole neighborhood served as a chimney. Several feet off was a half-decayed log, on which the man was sitting, his elbows on his knees, and a long stick held loosely in his hands. This he used as a poker, and it served his purpose well. A close approach to the fire was apt to be unpleasant on account of the heat, so he sat a short distance off, and managed things in a comfortable fashion. Now and then he poked the embers until the end of the vegetable poker broke into a blaze, when he withdrew it and whipped it on the ground till the flame was put out. His rifle leaned against an adjoining tree within easy distance, and the short clay pipe in his mouth, from which he sent out an occasional puff, added to his apparently peaceful frame of mind.
The striking point about the hunter was his magnificent physical manhood. He was more than six feet high, with immense shoulders and chest, an enormous beard of a coal black color, which grew almost to his keen black eyes, and descended over his chest in a silken, wavy mass. He was attired in the ordinary hunting costume of the border, and looked as if he might be one of those men who had spent their lives in the Louisiana wilderness, hunting and trapping animals for their peltries, which were sold at some of the advanced posts of civilization.
Deerfoot suspected the man was the owner of a horse which must be in the vicinity, for it was hardly likely that he would wander aimlessly around in the mountains and woods for the mere sake of doing so, but no animal could be seen, and without speculating long over the matter, the young Shawanoe walked forward to the camp.
While doing so, the stranger was giving his full attention to the fire and his culinary duties. The wood had burned until there were enough coals, when he arose and raked them apart, so as to afford a surface of glowing embers. Then he turned back and took up a huge slice of meat, which had been skewered on the prongs of a long stick. Balancing this very cleverly, he held the meat down until it was almost against the crimson coals. He could have done the same with the blaze, but he preferred this method.
Almost instantly the meat began to crisp and scorch and shrink, and to give off an odor which would have tortured a hungry man. The cook quickly exposed the other side to the heat, reversing several times, when the venison was cooked in as appetizing a form as could be wished.
The man gave such close attention to his task that he never turned his head to observe the figure of an Indian warrior standing only a rod or two away. Having finished his work, he carefully spread the meat on some green oak leaves, arranged on the log. Its size was such that it suggested a door mat burned somewhat out of shape.
"There," said the hunter, with a contented expression, seating himself as if to guard the prize against disturbance; "the boys can't growl over that—hello, where'dyoucome from?"
He had caught sight of Deerfoot, advancing noiselessly toward him, and the man was startled (though he strove to conceal it) by the fact that the other was nearer to his rifle than was the owner.
The Indian saluted him in his courteous fashion, and with a view of removing his fears, walked on until the relative position of him and the man were changed, and the latter was nearer his gun.
Then he paused, retaining his standing position, and with a slight smile, said:
"Deerfoot is glad that his brother is not ill."
Undoubtedly that brother was relieved to find in case of dispute he could reach his gun before the dusky youth, but he could hardly believe the warrior voluntarily gave up the enormous advantage thus held for a moment or two. Throwing his shoulders back, he looked straight in the eyes of Deerfoot, and then rising to his feet, extended his hand. As if conscious of his superior height, he towered aloft and looked down on the graceful youth who met his gaze with a confiding expression that would have won the heart of any one.
The abundant beard hid the mouth of the white man, but the movement of the cheeks, the gathering wrinkles under the eyes, and the gleam of his white teeth through the black meshes, showed he was smiling. Instead of saluting in the usual fashion, he brought his hand down with a flourish, and grasping the palm of the youth pressed it with a vigor which made him wince.
"So you're Deerfoot, are you? I mean the young Shawanoe that used to hunt through Kentucky and Missouri."
The Indian nodded his head to signify that he was the individual whom the other had in mind.
"I'm Burt Hawkins—you remember me?" asked he, still pumping the arm of Deerfoot, who was compelled to admit he had never before heard the name, nor could he remember ever having looked upon his face.
"Well, you have done so, whether you remember it or not: three years ago, which, I reckon, was about the time you began tramping through the woods for the benefit of the white man, I was on a scout with Kenton and some of the boys, over in Kentucky. We got caught in a blinding snow storm, and all came near going under with a rush. Things got so bad that Kenton said we would have to give up, for, tough as he was, he was weakening. The snow was driving so hard you couldn't see six feet in front of you. Cold! Well, the wind was of that kind that it went right through your bones as though it was a knife. Night was coming on, and we were in the middle of the woods, twenty miles from everywhere. The only thing we could do was to let out a yell once in a while, and fire off our guns. I don't think there was one among the five that had the first grain of hope. Kenton was leading and I was at his heels; all I could see was his tall figure, covered from head to foot with snow, as he plodded along with the grit he always showed.
"The first thing I knowed some one j'ined us—a young, likely looking Injin, which his name was Deerfoot. He had heard our guns and dropped down from somewhere. You're grinning, old chap, so I guess there ain't much use of telling the rest, 'cause you know it. I'll never forget how you led us into that cave, where you had fixed up the logs and bark so that no snow flakes couldn't get in. There was a fire burning, and some buffalo meat cooking, and we couldn't have been better fixed if we had been lodged with Colonel Preston at Live Oaks or in St. Louis."
"Deerfoot has not forgotten," said the smiling Indian, seating himself beside Hawkins on the log; "but my brother did not look then as he looks now."
Again the head of the trapper was thrown back, his white teeth shone through his immense whiskers, the wrinkles gathered at the corner of his eyes, and his musical laugh rang out from the capillary depths. Burt was proud of his beard, as he well might be. Few people in those days wore such an ornament, and those who did so were sure to attract attention.
"You talk like a level-headed gentleman, Deerfoot, for all this (here he stroked the glossy whiskers) has grown since then. I shouldn't wonder if itdidchange my looks somewhat. You're a blamed smart redskin, Deerfoot," added Burt, who seemed to be in high spirits; "but I don't believe you can beat it."