A long Drive, and a long Walk.—The wild Woods.—An Encampment.—The blazing Fire.—Lo! the poor Indian.—The Wolf and the Watch-dog.— The Spring of the Wild Beast.—Solomon to the Rescue.—A Fight, and a Flight.AFTER a drive of about twenty miles, they came to a place where the road turned off towards the east. They had been heading thus far in a northerly direction, and at this turning-off place a path went from the road in the same northerly direction in which it had gone. At this place they got out of the wagon, and prepared to follow their guide into the woods. Each one took the load which he had already made up for himself, and the wagon then returned.
They did not care to burden themselves too greatly upon this expedition, and so the load which each one took was as light as possible. Bart, Phil, and Pat had each a basket slung from the neck, and a fishing-rod. In each basket was a parcel of ham sandwiches, which they had procured at the inn, with the intention of using them as a kind of relish, in addition to their ordinary wood fare, Solomon contented himself with a basket only. His fishing apparatus he carried in his pocket. He wasn’t gwine to bodder his ole head, he said, with dem poles—he could cut one in the woods when he wanted one, and throw it away when he got tired of it. Solomon’s years seemed to be adverse to his taking part in an expedition like this, but in spite of this he waddled along quite as fast as any of them. One precaution he had taken which none of the rest had considered necessary, and that was, to bring with him a check shawl, which Bart had lent him. This he did for fear of his ever watchful enemy, the rheumatiz.
The path was at first very well beaten; but after about a mile or so, it gradually faded away, and the track that they followed after this was so faint as to be scarcely discernible. The woods consisted chiefly of pine trees, with birch and maple intermixed. None of these trees were very large, and they did not see any of those forest giants which had met their view in other places. In some places the underbrush was very dense, but in other places there was scarcely any. Sometimes the ground was quite bare and slippery with the accumulation of pine spires that had fallen there; again, they came to immense growths of fern; and yet again to the young growth of the forest trees, springing in wild luxuriance, all tangled and matted together.
At length even the faint outline of a path which they had been traversing for some time faded away, and they walked on after the guide, without following any path at all. The land was quite level. They found no hills, and no rocks even. Sometimes a fallen tree lay in front of them, but it was never of sufficient size to create any obstacle. The chief irregularities in the ground were caused by an occasional mound, that seemed to mark the place where a tree had once been. Frequently they came to little brooks that babbled along beneath the trees, their borders overgrown with moss; and often they came to bogs and swamps, in some of which they got wet enough to acquire a very good foretaste of the experiences that now lay before them. But this was a trifle beneath their consideration, and the ease with which they advanced filled them all with the greatest delight.
At length they came to a stop.
It was in the midst of a pine forest. Overhead, the trees interlaced their branches. Beneath, the ground was dry, and covered with slippery pine spires. It was a slight declivity, and at the bottom a brook ran along. No better place could be wished than this for a night’s rest.
“Good place dis,” said Sam; “him dry—sleepum safe—wakum all well.”
The boys were all very well pleased to find their march at an end. They had been on the steady tramp for at least two hours, and had penetrated far into the forest. Already the sky above was overcast, and the forest shades were deepening.
All things betokened the approach of evening and of night.
They flung down their baskets and poles, and then flung themselves down too, and stretched their weary limbs upon the ground. Solomon took off his basket, and put it down in a more leisurely fashion, and took up more time in depositing his own aged frame upon the ground.
“Well, boys,” said Bart, after a short time of rest, in which he had stretched himself and yawned to his heart’s content, “it’s all very well to sit down and rest, but it’s rather dark here under the trees, and it’s going to be darker, and we can’t-ex-pect to get to sleep for at least a couple of hours. How can we manage to exist, sitting here in the dark? I’m sure I can’t for one; so let’s make a fire.”
The proposal was at once adopted with the utmost eagerness. They had all felt a certain degree of cheerlessness, and did not know exactly what the cause was; but now they saw that it was the darkness, and they knew that any friendly firelight, however small, would make all the difference in the world.
They now distributed themselves in different directions for the sake of procuring fuel. Under that pine forest it was not very easy to find any. At length, by dint of careful search and unwearying industry, they succeeded in gathering a very respectable amount, which they deposited in a heap near the place where they had first sat down. The wood which they thus gathered was not very promising. What was dry was rotten twigs, and what was sound was green wood; but they did not complain. In order to find a fuel that was midway between these two extremes, they went off after pine branches. These they cut from the smaller trees with their pocket knives. Then they gathered some pine cones and bits of dry bark, and with these succeeded in kindling a fire. Over this they put the dry twigs, then the pine branches, and last of all the green wood. The fire thus carefully prepared was quite a success; the flames rose up merrily, and soon the friendly blaze illumined the gathering gloom.
Around this they now sat, and partook of their evening repast. The repast consisted of ham sandwiches, and their drink was water from the neighboring brook.
While they were seated round the fire they noticed that their guide drew forth a black junk bottle, and began to take large and frequent draughts from it. The smell showed them plainly that it was spirits, and this discovery filled them all with uneasiness. They were afraid that their guide would make himself drunk at the very outset of their expedition; and if so, what could they do with a drunken Indian? Sam had probably procured the villanous “fire-water” when he crossed with them to Chatham, before starting, and had brought it here with the express purpose of swallowing the whole of it that night.
The effects of the intoxicating liquor were soon only too apparent. He began to talk with such volubility that his broken English was scarcely intelligible. As far as they could make out, he was trying to tell them about the best places there were for fishing and shooting, and illustrating his remarks with incoherent anecdotes about various parties which he had accompanied through these forests.
But as he went on he grew more and more excited, and at length gave up broken English, and spoke to them in his own language. Of course this made him totally unintelligible. There was now something that seemed to them uncanny in the sight of this man, as he sat there, half out of his senses, talking at them vociferously and volubly in his unintelligible jargon. It put an end to all their own conversation, and to all their pleasure. It was bad enough to be here; but to be here with a drunken Indian, a crazy savage, was too much.
But the Indian kept on. He still applied the bottle to his lips at short intervals, and continued his wild gabble as before. At first, he had been speaking to them, and now he seemed to be addressing his remarks to space; for his eyes were not any longer turned towards them, but were rolling in all directions,—sometimes resting on the trees, sometimes on the fire. He grew more and more excited. Holding the bottle in one hand, he swung it around, and with the other he made energetic gestures, which he used to give emphasis to his statements. His voice also gradually changed. At first it was natural; and so long as he spoke English, there had been nothing in it to excite particular attention; but when he broke forth in his native language, it grew deeper and more guttural, and stranger and more barbaric.
0097
The long Indian monotone and drawl became intensified by him, and was developed into something that sounded like a strange, unearthly chant; and this fierce sing-song chant only served to increase the wild and savage effect of the whole.
Here, then, were the boys, in the midst of the lonely forest, face to face with a drunken Indian. The fire was flaming up, and its blaze shone upon the Indian, and threw a baleful glow upon his dusky face. He sat opposite to them, his long hair tangled and matted, his brows contracted, his bright, black eyes rolling restlessly in their orbits, the deep-wrinkled face revealed with startling distinctness against the dark background of the forest, and showing all the incessant working of its muscles, and the rapid play of its features. With his bottle clutched in one hand, and the other hand making fierce gesticulations, all the time he kept howling out unintelligible sounds in a whining guttural—a monotonous, but furious sing-song chant. Such was the scene before them; and it was no wonder that it excited some uneasiness.
What could they do?
They did not know.
What would this Indian do?
This also they could not know.
There was nothing in his appearance that could reassure them. Every moment he grew worse and worse. If this sort of thing went on much longer, he might grow violent enough to make an attack upon them. Already he looked far more like a wild beast than a human being. The maddening fumes of the liquor might excite the natural ferocity of his race, and urge him on to deeds of horror. They had no security whatever against such a suspicion, and no means whatever of defending themselves from any sudden attack.
As for Solomon, he had been watching the Indian most attentively all this time, and the sight of this wild associate had produced upon him quite as strong an effect as upon the boys, though of a totally different kind. Had the boys not been so fascinated by the Indian as to be unable to withdraw their gaze, and had they looked at Solomon, they would have been astonished at the change that had suddenly come over him.
He had been seated a little in the background, in a lazy, reclining posture, when his attention was aroused by the conduct of the Indian. He started up and sat erect for a time. Then, as the Indian grew worse, he became more excited. He rose up on his knees, and remained in that position—watchful and eager. At length, as the Indian grew more furious, the excitement of Solomon increased to a proportionate degree. He rose gradually to his feet, and stood there, eager, attentive, vigilant; every nerve on the stretch; his body advanced, his arms bent, his fists clinched, his brows contracted, his lips compressed, his eyes kindling with a dull glow; and as the flames illumined his dusky face and figure, they revealed a sight which was quite as impressive as that other spectacle upon which the eyes of the boys were fastened.
The old man was transformed. He was no longer the shambling, free and easy, indolent, gabbling, ridiculous, affectionate, rheumatic, pottering, and apparently feeble old Solomon, whom the boys had known and loved. He was changed. He was another being. As the feeble woman is roused to frenzy, and becomes transformed at the approach of danger to her child, so Solomon, at the suspicion of possible danger to his boys, his “chickens,” his “chil’en,” whom he loved with all the strength and devotion of his faithful and affectionate old heart, dropped his old self altogether. He became changed into the fierce, watchful, vigilant champion and defender of those whom he loved. Perhaps there was also some of the savagery of his African blood, and the natural ferocity of his race, which, long slumbering, had burst forth at that moment, at the impulse of his brother savage. But as it is difficult to imagine any taint of savagery, however faint, in one like Solomon, his present attitude may best be accounted for on the ground of his living watchfulness over the boys.
At any rate, there he stood, firm as a rock, and rigid as steel,—like a watch-dog awaiting the onset of the wolf. His “rheumatiz” was forgot in the excitement of that tremendous moment, just as the soldier, in the ardor of battle, is unconscious of dangerous wounds.
At length a crisis approached.
The Indian had gone on as before, growing more and more furious every moment. His eyes rolled fearfully. He had drunk most of the contents of the bottle, and his brain was on fire. His voice grew hoarser and hoarser, his gestures more violent, and his manner more threatening; his utterances were still of that sing-song character already mentioned, but they had now become almost unearthly in their intonations. What mad thoughts there might be in his mind at that time could not be known; nor could they imagine the exciting visions that were wrought in his distracted brain. Whatever they were, they at length passed away; and his eyes, that had been rolling at vacancy, now steadied themselves, and suddenly fastened themselves upon the boys with a look of concentrated hate and fury that was terrible.
So terrible was that look, that the boys all shrank back in horror. Then they started up to their feet, and stood close together, in silence, each nerving his young heart for the coming struggle, which now seemed imminent. As they thus stood, they were on a line with Solomon; but their attention was so occupied with the Indian that they neither thought of him nor saw him.
“Let’s stick together,” said Bart at length in hurried tones—“it’s our only chance.”
“Stick it is,” said Pat, who had recovered his coolness, “through thick and thin.”
Phil said nothing, but stood his ground with the others, and waited.
The movements of the boys had excited the Indian still more. A furious cry escaped him. He looked at them for a moment, and then moved to the right, and flung his bottle into the fire. The spirits poured out, and the blaze threw a bluish, ghastly glare over the scene. Then the madman gave a terrible yell, and rushed towards the boys.
The boys saw him coming. They stood firm. They gathered up all their strength.
But suddenly a dark shadow darted forward, and a dark figure flung itself against the Indian. It was Solomon. Watchful, eager, fierce, he had waited for the onset, and as the Indian advanced he made his spring. Rushing upon him, he struck him on the side, and the onset was so unexpected that the Indian had not time to guard against it. He fell to the ground. In a moment Solomon was upon him. He twined his legs around him. He grasped the savage by the throat. To that throat he clung with a death like tenacity, never relaxing that iron grasp, that convulsive grip, but clinging, holding, tightening his clutch all the more as his enemy strove to shake him off.
The boys stood there looking on in speechless amazement. They recognized Solomon, but could scarcely believe their own eyes. Where had Solomon gained that bounding activity, that tremendous strength and energy, which now availed him even against the madman’s fury? Could this be Solomon—the one who was afraid of his own superstitious fancies—the one who had just been in miserable thraldom to a drunken wife? It seemed incredible. Yet that this was Solomon himself they saw plainly.
The struggle was most violent. The Indian gasped, and groaned, and writhed, and sought to free himself from the grasp of his assailant. But Solomon’s grip could not be shaken off. He devoted all his strength to that one thing, and did not waste any of his energies in any useless efforts. The Indian’s struggles grew weaker. He was suffocating from that grasp on his throat. Had he been younger, he might have overpowered Solomon; but he was an old man himself, perhaps quite as old as Solomon, and therefore he was not so superior in strength as might be supposed.
And now a mighty feeling of triumph swelled through Solomon’s heart, and chased away the furious impulse that had animated him to this assault. The fainting efforts and the relaxing limbs of his enemy showed that the victory was his. A softer feeling now came over him, mingling with his triumph—he thought of the boys whom he had saved.
He turned his head and raised himself slightly.
“Nebber you fear, chil’en,” he said—“he do you no harm now.”
Suddenly the Indian made one last convulsive effort. Had Solomon not been speaking to the boys he could have resisted even this last throe of despair; but as it was, his attention was for the moment distracted, and he was taken by surprise. The Indian tore himself loose from Solomon’s grasp, jerked himself up by a mighty effort upon one knee, and threw himself free from his assailant. Both were now on their feet, facing one another, panting heavily. Once more the fury of the fight raged in Solomon’s heart. He stood poised—he prepared for a spring. The Indian’s strength lay in his madness; the strength of Solomon lay in his devotion to the boys—in the frenzy of his love and anxiety for their safety.
The boys came forward. This time they would not let Solomon fight their battle. They would assist him, and lend all their united strength to crush their savage assailant. It was one common impulse, part of self-preservation, part of regard for Solomon, that animated them, and they sprang to his side and waited.
All this was the work of a moment.
Another moment and Solomon would once more have made his tiger-spring, and flung himself upon the madman.
But that moment had sufficed for the Indian to take breath, and to receive a new impulse. This, time it was not hate or destructive fury. It was terror. The terrible struggle from which he had escaped with such difficulty had given a new turn to his frenzied thoughts. Fear overmastered him. A stifled exclamation escaped him. He started back.
Then he turned and ran.
He ran for his life; and in a few moments he had passed out of sight, and was lost amid the gloom of the forest and the night.
Passing the Night.—On Guard.—The watchful Sentinel.—Plans.—Through the Woods.—The winding River.—Fishing.—The overcast Sky. Arrival of Pat with startling Tidings.—A useless Search.FOR a few moments the whole party stood, confounded by this new and sudden turn which events had taken.
“He’s gone, anyhow,” said Pat, who was the first to break the silence.
The other boys said nothing. As for Solomon, he stared for a few moments all around, and then quietly seated himself by the fire.
“Well, of all de cur’ousest an strornar est things!” he exclaimed. “Ef dis don’t beat all creation holler, den I’m a niggar. An me in a fight—a rail battle; no play, mind you; but a fight for life and def. Clar ef I can understan it.”
And Solomon buried his head in his hands, quite overcome.
“Anyhow,” he resumed after a pause, “ye see how it was, chil’en. Dat ar demon was a plungin an a jumpin, an I see he was makin for you; so I ‘termined I’d hab a shy at him. Couldn’t stan dat ar nohow. Ain’t a fightin man; but dat ar Ingin war so dreadful aggravatin; mor’n flesh an blood could stan. Anyhow, I did gib him nuff ob it for one spell; an he’ll tink twicet afore he tackle any ob us agin.”
“I never was so astonished in my life,” said Bart. “And how you did pitch into him!” he continued, admiringly. “Why, you gave a leap like a tiger. Down he went, with you on top—at his throat.”
Solomon laughed long, joyously, and uproariously. He chuckled, he giggled, he slapped his knees, and finally he threw himself flat on his back, and lay there, laughing, chuckling, crowing, and making a confused medley of noises, all of which were intended by him to be expressive of triumph and exultation.
“Clar ef I know what ebber did git hold ob me dat time,” he said, in the intervals of his laughter. “Specs I mus hab gone clean mad an rabin stracted. Didn’t tink dar was so much clar fight in me. Ain’t such a rheumatic old nig, arter all. Fight any drunken Ingin on de face ob de erf. Ki yi! Yep! Ho-o-o-o-o! Dat’s so.”
At all this the boys looked on without saying anything, wondering at the change. Could this be the same man, thought Bart, that had always seemed so helpless? whose “rheumatiz” seemed always to prevent the slightest exertion? Could this be the same Solomon who allowed himself to be captured by a parcel of Gaspereaugian boys? Could this be the same man whom he had seen only a day or two before, cowering and cringing at the sight of an angry woman? Was the Solomon over whom Black Betsy had tyrannized so remorselessly indeed the same one who had just flung himself at the throat of a madman, and overpowered him? It seemed incredible.
Yet it was no other. Already Solomon was himself again, his old natural self. Already he began to investigate his joints, and to murmur doleful anticipations of a fresh attack of rheumatiz. But the boys had other things than this to think of. The question now was, how to pass the night. They did not feel altogether safe. The madman who had just threatened them had fled; but it seemed to them as though he was still lurking somewhere near them in the shadow of the gloomy forest, waiting his chance; waiting till they should go to sleep, so that he might rush upon them unawares. If they wished to sleep at all, it would never do, they thought, for them to sleep here with the firelight shining upon them, and revealing them to the gaze of their enemy. They must seek some other place.
On mentioning this to Solomon, he objected very strongly.
“Dar’s no danger, chil’en,” he said. “Dat ar Injun won’t ebber come back agin. He darsn’t. He nebber forget my grip. I frikend dat ar Injun away forebbermo.”
“O, that’s the very reason why he’ll be back,” said Bart. “He’ll wait till we’re all asleep, and then attack us. He’ll make a sudden spring at you first.”
“No, he won’t,” said Solomon; “nebba. He don’t do dat ar wid dis chile.”
“How can you prevent him if you’re asleep?”
“Cos I don’t’tend goin to sleep; dat’s how,” said Solomon. “Got him dar, anyhow. Yah, yah, yah.”
“What! do you intend to watch?”
“Jes so. I pose on dis yar solemn casion, my spected friends, to keep de fire a goin, and to hole a watch an a guard ober de party.”
“Do you think we’d let you do that?” said Bart. “Do you think we’d go to sleep, and leave you to watch us all night? No. If there’s going to be any watching, we’ll take turns.”
“Dat ar am all berry well,” said Solomon, with a dignified wave of his hand, “stremely well, an proppa for ordnary casiums; but dis yar casium’s a berry strornary casium. Dar’s danger; and de man dat’s goin to keep watch mus be able to face de enemy in a fight. Dat ars de reason, den, why I pose to keep a lookout. I’ll set heah, keep de fire a goin, an you can all sleep safe an sound. Dar’s no use for you to set up.”
“But you must sleep,” said Bart.
“O, I’ll wake you up early in de mornin, an hab my sleep den. So now don’t talk no more, for I’m a goin to do dat ar, an watch dis bressed night.”
Some further conversation followed, in which the boys insisted on watching for a part of the time, at least. They were so urgent, that Solomon at last had to consent. He insisted, however, that he would sit up during the first part of the night, as the danger would be most likely to take place then, if it took place at all, and promised to wake them towards morning. With this understanding the boys lay down by the fire, and in spite of their recent excitement, they soon fell asleep.
Solomon sat there by the fire keeping watch with all his senses on the alert. No danger was there of this faithful old sentinel sleeping at his post. The very possibility of danger to the boys was enough to keep all his mind wakeful and attentive. After a time he moved back a little, and rested his back against a tree.
The hours of the night passed on slowly and tediously. The boys slept soundly, and were lost in the land of dreams. Occasionally Solomon amused himself and beguiled the time by going forth and collecting sticks for the fire. The flames smouldered low, and the sticks that Solomon was able to gather were not sufficient to kindle them afresh to any great extent, and so the consequence was, that at length it nearly died out. It was profoundly dark; but still Solomon watched, and felt no inclination to sleep.
He had promised to awake the boys towards morning, but they slept so soundly that he had not the heart to keep his promise, and so he let them sleep on. At length Bart awoke, and, starting up, he looked all around. It was early morning twilight; the sky was brightening overhead, and the forms of the forest trees were visible around. As he started, Solomon got up, and walked towards him.
“Well, Mas’r Bart,” said he, “all right so far. De Injun gone off forebbamo.”
“Why didn’t you wake me before?” asked Bart.
“De gracious sakes, now, chile!” said Solomon; “dar wasn’t no casium. ’Tain’t mornin yet.”
“Well, you lie down now, and go to sleep,” said Bart.
“All right,” said Solomon; and going back to the tree where he had been sitting, he curled himself up on the moss at the foot of it, and, drawing his shawl over his head and shoulders, was soon in a sound slumber.
And now the morning advanced; slowly the shades of night faded away, until, at length, the day dawned, and a thousand birds awaked the echoes of the forest in all directions, and filled all the air with a flood of melody. Bart looked up at the sky, and noticed that it was overcast. There was also a very peculiar appearance there which excited his attention. There seemed clouds overhead; but the clouds had a sickly, yellowish color, which was unlike anything that he had ever seen. After a short time, Pat and Phil awoke, and Bart drew their attention to this. They, however, thought nothing of it.
“It’s only common clouds,” said Phil.
“Deed, an it’s a good sign, so it is,” said Pat, in his usual tone of confidence. “The trout bite wondherful whin they see a sky like that over thim. It’s lucky for us we’ve got sich weather.”
Bart had his doubts about this, but he kept them to himself, and then the boys began to consider what they had better do. The loss of their Indian guide made a change in their circumstances of a very important nature. As long as they had him with them, they had no care or anxiety, for they knew that he would take them to all the best places in the country. But, now that he had gone, what ought they to do first?
The idea of going back occurred, but it was at once dismissed. To go back would be very fatiguing, and would be of no particular use. For, if they did get another guide, he might turn out as badly as the one whom they had lost; and besides, their experience with Sam disgusted them with guides and with Indians altogether.
“If I only had a compass,” said Bart, “we’d be all right, for we could at least be able to choose some direction, and have some idea of where we went. But, as it is, we shall have to wander at random.”
“Sure and that’s the very best way there is to wandhcr, so it is,” said Pat. “It’s a mighty sight better to go sthrollin along as you like than it is to be taggin afther a big drunken Injin, any day.”
“Yes,” said Phil, “that’s the best way. Let’s go strolling along, fishing at every brook we come to, and enjoy ourselves. We can make camps, and if we come to any pleasanter place than usual, we can stay there for two or three days. Why, this is the very best way of enjoying ourselves. I’m sure I couldn’t imagine anything more glorious.”
“I wonder if there are any fish up that little brook,” said Bart.
“Sure an we’d betther try.”
“One of us had better stay behind with Solomon,” said Bart.
“I’ll stay,” said Phil; “I’ll get some sticks and build the fire again, and if you do get any fish, we’ll be able to have some for breakfast.”
Upon this, Bart and Pat prepared their rods, and lines, and went off up the brook. It was not very large, but it had the general appearance of a good trouting stream; and the appearance did not deceive them, for after a short time, to their great joy, they succeeded in hooking ten or a dozen very respectable trout, with which they returned to the “encampment.” Here they found a brisk fire, beside which Phil was sitting awaiting their return. As they reached the place, Solomon awoke from his nap, and joined them at the fire. Then followed breakfast, which consisted of broiled trout, and, as they had brought plenty of salt and pepper in their baskets, there was no lack of relish, and the fish was pronounced delicious.
After breakfast, they once more noticed the appearance of the sky. It had still that dull, sickly, yellowish hue which had first struck Bart’s attention. Although the day had advanced since then, the sky had not changed, and there was no increase of light.
“It’s smoke,” said Bart. “I wonder what’s the cause of it.”
“De woods are burnin,” said Solomon.
“I wonder if it is anywhere near,” said Phil.
“O, no!” said Bart; “it’s some distant fire or other. Perhaps they’re clearing land.”
“Dar’s alius smoke a floatin about d’ese times in de woods,” said Solomon. “Dey keep a clearin an a choppin—no end.”
“Sure an it’s all the betther fer us,” said Pat, “for an overcast sky is the thing for the throut; an sure they niver know the difference whither it’s smoke or clouds, so they don’t, an they bite all the same, so they do.”
They now prepared for the day’s work; but before starting, Bart said that they ought to appoint some place of meeting, in case they got separated. On discussing this point, however, they soon found that they were not in a position to appoint any place of rendezvous, since no one place was known to them except where they were sitting. They did not care about remaining in the vicinity of this place, but wished to ramble on at leisure, and at liberty.
“Sure an there’s no nade,” said Pat; “we can all kape widin hearin of one another, so we can.”
“At any rate,” said Phil, “we can start now, and stay by one another as long as possible. If we come to any place where we have to separate, we can easily make an arrangement to come back to that place.”
This last remark seemed satisfactory, and as it was really the only thing that they could do, they said no more on the subject, but set forth at once.
They walked on for about an hour, and at length emerged from the pine trees, and came to woods where the trees were largely birch and maple. Thus far, their progress had been very easy, as the ground under the pine trees was smooth, and there was very little underbrush. At this place, however, it became more difficult. Small trees and underbrush arose on every side in great profusion, and the ground rose in a succession of gentle eminences, while an occasional swamp intervened. Still, it was not very difficult walking even there, and the chief difference was, that their course became much more circuitous. Through this they wandered for another hour and more, without finding any place that was at all suitable.
At length, to their great joy, they found themselves upon the edge of a small rivulet, which was not more than forty or fifty feet in width. Its bed just here was strewn with pebbles and cobblestones; but farther up and down, they saw hollows and deeper places in the river-bed, which promised some sport. Here they prepared for action. Phil and Pat offered to go down the stream, while Bart and Solomon could go up. Before parting, it was settled that they should come back to this place. On the other side of the stream there were two birch trees growing close together, which would serve as a sufficient landmark to enable them to recognize this place on their return; and with this arrangement the two parties separated, Phil and Pat descending the stream, while Bart and Solomon went up the channel.
Bart and Solomon went up the river-bed for some distance. They found no difficulty in going along, for the stream was shallow, and they could wade it in most places. Occasionally they came to deeper places, which they traversed by going round them. At length they reached a place that looked favorable to their designs, and began to try them. A few bites rewarded them, and two or three small trout were soon deposited in their baskets. They now began to enter more into the spirit of the occasion, and continued slowly ascending the stream, stopping sometimes a long while in some particularly good place, till they had exhausted it, and then resuming their tramp. The consequence was, that their baskets soon began to be unpleasantly heavy, and they had to confine themselves more exclusively to one spot, and indulge to a less extent in their wanderings. All this time these two had had no occasion to keep a lookout on each other, for Solomon, with his instinct of fidelity, had no other idea than that of simply following Bart wherever he went.
All this time the sky had maintained the same yellowish hue, and was as much overcast as ever. Here and there they reached places where the view upward was more extensive, and their gaze could command a larger part of the sky. They saw rolling clouds which seemed most unmistakably to be smoke, and these they thought the sure indications of some fire, which, judging from these appearances, was larger than usual. Beyond an occasional glance upward, however, and a stray remark, these appearances excited no particular notice on the part of either of them.
At length it began to grow somewhat late, and they decided to return. Their long march and still longer fishing excursion had greatly fatigued them; and in going back, they found the distance far greater than they had supposed. At length they recognized the landmark; and here they both flung themselves wearily down upon the bank, and waited for the return of the others.
For a long time they waited there. It grew later and later, but there was no sign of either of them. At length they saw some one coming, and as he drew nearer they recognized Pat. He was very much out of breath, and soaking wet from head to foot.
“Where’s Phil?”
Those were the first words that Pat spoke, and he spoke them in hurried, anxious tones.
“Phil!” cried Bart. “Why, don’t you know?”
“Hasn’t he got back yit?” said Pat, with something like a wail.
“No,” said Bart, as a dark feeling of apprehension came to him.
“Och, thin,” cried Pat, “it’s fairly heart-broke I am, so I am; and no one knows what I’ve suffered this blissed day. Sorra one o’ me knows what has become of him. An I’ve been scourin the whole country back’ards an for’ards, an yellin meself hoarse, so that I can’t utther one blissed howl more, so I can’t.”
At these startling words, all Pat’s anxiety and more communicated itself to Bart. He hastily questioned Pat about Phil’s disappearance.
“We wint down,” said Pat, “for iver so far, an we came to one of the foinest holes iver was. We fished there a half hour an more, and thin Phil says, says he, ‘I’ll go, says he, over beyont,’—for there was a moighty big rock jist forninst us. So he wint for to climb the rock, and he says, ‘I’m goin furder down,’ says he. So I thought no more about it, but wint on wid me fishin. It wasn’t for iver so long that I thought of him; but at last I begins to fail anxious, and wondhers to meself what iver have become of him. So I started off. I didn’t climb over the big rock, as he did, but crossed the sthraim and wint down the other side. Well, I couldn’t see a sign of him. I called, an yelled, an howled, an walked iver so far down an back agin; an that same I’ve been doin iver since, till I thought, at last, he might have somehow got back here. An he ain’t here.”
This story caused terrible anxiety. Bart at once started down the stream, and reached a high, rocky bank covered with trees. He stood here and called. It was now too dark to see much. His calls awaked no response. He then returned, full of the most anxious fears, with a faint hope that he might find Phil on his return.
But on his return there was no Phil to be seen.
The Loss of Phil.—Deep Gloom and heavy Grief.—A Night of Terror.—The torrid Atmosphere.——The Smell of Smoke.—The Darkness that might be felt.—Morning brings Relief.—The Search.—The Rock and the Precipice by the River-side.—The Track of Phil.—Following the Trail.—The Trail lost.—Persevering Search.—The End of the Day.THE loss of Phil produced a terrible effect upon the little party. Pat’s grief was expressed by sighs and groans for some time, until at length his elastic nature rebounded from its depression, and he began to hope for the best. Solomon was deeply distressed, and said not a word; while Bart was also silent, and he tried in vain to conjecture what had been the cause of Phil’s departure. To him it seemed perfectly unaccountable how he could have got lost. There was the stream, and it seemed to be easy enough, even if one had wandered from it, to retrace his steps. From Pat’s story, Phil’s departure from him by that rock was the beginning of misfortunes. At some time after that he must have begun to wander in a wrong direction, and gradually gone farther and farther away till he was lost.
All that night none of them slept. For a time they kept up a series of cries, which awakened no response. Then they built a fire, thinking that the glow would penetrate to a distance beyond where their cries could go. They made the fire on the bank, and kept it up for two or three hours; but at length they could find no more fuel, and allowed it to die out.
While thus watching and using these efforts to make known their situation to the wanderer, their excitement and suspense were too great to allow of any thought of sleep. Eyes and ears were constantly on the stretch, and every sound, however faint, awakened within them the hope that it might be Phil. But the hours passed on, and not a single sign appeared to them as they watched, and listened, and waited.
“I wonder whether he is wandering about in this darkness or not,” said Bart, in an anxious-voice. “But I don’t suppose it is possible for any one to walk in these woods now.”
“Niver a walk,” said Pat; “not he. He’s tin times comfortabler thin we are. He’s jist gathered some moss, an he’s made a comfortable bed for himself over beyont, somewheres under thim trays. Deed an he has. An what’s more, he’s asleep now, sound as a top, so he is; an I wish I wor as sound aslape as he is this blissed momint.”
Bart shook his head mournfully.
“No,” said he, with a sigh, “he won’t have much sleep to-night, poor old Phil; he’s got too much to think of. If he had some one with him, he’d feel all right; but it’s a terrible thing to be all alone this way. And it’s a miserable night; so horribly dark; so hot. I can scarcely breathe. I never knew such a night.”
“Thrue for you,” said Pat. “It’s fairly suffocated I am. But at any rate, that makes no differ to Phil. Sure its betther for him to be too warrum thin too cowld, so it is.”
“I can’t understand it,” said Bart, after a pause. “I don’t see why he should be lost. I wonder whether—but that’s nonsense.”
“What’s that?”
“I wonder whether Sam could have been following us,” said Bart, half shuddering at the frightful thought that had occurred.
“Sam? What, the Injin?”
“Yes.”
“An what’d he be a follerin of us for?”
“O, I don’t know. But you remember how he looked last night. He looked like a demon. He certainly tried to kill us.”
“Sure but he was dead dhrunk an mad intoirely, so he was.”
“But his mad fit may have lasted till to-day; and he may have been sneaking after us through the woods, and watching for a chance to do some mischief. And so—”
Bart hesitated.
Pat was silent for a few moments.
“O, sure,” said he at last, “what are ye givin way for to sich mad deludherin notions? What’d he be wantin of a boy like Phil?”
“He might have vowed vengeance on us.”
“Yingince is it? By the powers, thin, if it’s vingince he wanted, it ud be Solomon that he’d track, not Phil, that niver so much as spoke one word to him, good or bad, all the time he was with us. And as for vingince, sure my iday is, that the Injin’d give up all the vingince that ivir wor for a glass o’ whiskey, so he wud.”
Bart made no reply. The subject was too terrible to be discussed. He tried to dismiss the thought from his mind. But the idea, having once suggested itself, was not to be got rid of so easily. Do what he could, it came back to him over and over again, taking possession of his mind more and more strongly.
A terrible thought it indeed was that had thus come to him—the idea of that demoniac being who had sprung at them on the previous night, and had only been repelled by what seemed almost a miracle, being still animated by furious hate and a thirst for vengeance,—the idea of this implacable savage, thirsting for their blood, following stealthily on their trail all that day, maintaining his pursuit with that inexhaustible patience and tenacity of purpose which a bloodthirsty savage alone can show when on the search for vengeance. Had he indeed done this? Had this been the secret history of that day? Was this blood-hound indeed on their track? Could it have been possible that he had devoted them one by one to destruction, and had bided his time, and had made Phil his first victim the moment he wandered away from the others? It was a horrible, a sickening thought.
Now, Bart’s mind was full of stories of Indian warfare and Indian vengeance, accumulated during a course of reading in Cooper’s Leatherstocking series, and kindred works; and so it is no wonder that this idea came to him. Besides, he had yet fresh and vivid in his mind the assault of that drunken fiend the night before. All these things combined to fix this fearful idea in his mind. As the hours passed on it became more deeply seated, until at length he was in an indescribable state of anxiety and alarm.
Thus the hours of that night passed away—a night even worse than the preceding one; for then the terror had come and gone; but now it hung over them all the time. In addition to this, the night itself was most depressing. It was intensely dark. After the fire had died out, it was impossible to see anything whatever—not even the hand before the face. The deepest shadows surrounded them on all sides, and wherever they looked their eyes encountered nothing but the blackness of darkness. Besides this, it was exceedingly hot and sultry, the air having a certain indescribable oppressiveness which made them sometimes fairly gasp for breath. The only relief that they were able to gain was by making frequent applications to the water of the river, sometimes dashing it over their faces, at other times dipping in their heads, or feet. This sultriness oppressed them all in an equal degree, and united with the intense darkness to throw them into a state of bewilderment and perplexity. Taken in connection with Phil’s disappearance and the terrible event of the preceding night, it produced such an effect upon the mind of Bart, that all the fears which were suggested by his vivid fancy became more formidable and irresistible. Solomon said nothing at all, but appeared to be quite overwhelmed. Pat alone struggled against the evil influences of the time, and endeavored most energetically to put the best appearance on things, and to rouse Bart from the deep gloom into which he had fallen. So the night passed; and it was at length with a feeling of immense relief that they saw the darkness begin to lessen.
As the day dawned, a faint breeze sprang up, which brought a gentle, cooling influence with it. They rose and inhaled with long breaths the more grateful air. Gradually the darkness disappeared, and the daylight increased, and the forms of things around them became revealed.
Overhead there was no change from the day before. The sky was all covered over with dense clouds, which seemed to hang much lower down than on the preceding day, and now appeared whirling round and rolling over the heavens in vast vortices. This movement on their part was, no doubt, caused by their encountering the breeze which had sprung up, and which, meeting them now in their course, arrested that course, and whirled them back in confused heaps.
And now a new day lay before them, in which they would have to employ every hour in the search after Phil. What that day or that search might bring forward, they could not tell; but they were eager to begin it as soon as possible. While it was yet morning twilight, they ate their breakfast, and discussed the best plan of procedure. Solomon, as usual, made no remark upon the subject, being content to abide by Bart’s decision, while Bart and Pat talked over various ways of carrying on their search. To separate was not to be thought of, for that would only lead to fresh troubles. So it was decided, that wherever they went, they should now keep together. They further decided that they should go down the stream till they reached that rock already spoken of, which had been the point of Phil’s departure, and try if they could not get upon his trail, so as to see, at least in a general way, what direction he had taken.
During this deliberation about the course which they should take, Bart still exhibited the despondency which had characterized him ever since Phil’s disappearance. The gloom of night and the oppressive sultriness had passed, daylight was at hand, and the breeze brought fresh life to them; but still Bart’s spirits were deeply depressed. Against this Pat rebelled, and the cheerfulness and confidence which he had tried to maintain through the night now assumed a prominent place in his thoughts and in his manner.
“Yes,” said Bart, dolefully, continuing some remark which he had been making, “if we can only get on his trail, we may at least find out the general direction that he has taken. But I’m afraid there’s no hope.”
“Arrah, be off now wid yer nonsinse,” cried Pat. “What’s the use of givin up at the very fust, afore ye’ve made a single trial? Sure an he’ll turrun up all right and safe yit.”
“I wish I could think so.”
“Think so! Why, I know it. Sure am I this day that he’ll turrun up safe an sound. An why shouldn’t he?”
“These woods. If he once gets tangled among them, how can he ever find his way out?”
“Tangled among them, is it? Sure an it’s not so very bad thin. He can only walk on an walk on; an he’s sure to come out somewheres. Besides, he’ll hit upon a road some place or other, and wander along that.”
“There are no roads here.”
“How do you know? Ye don’t know. Thur may be fifty roads widin a mile of this very place, so there may. So what’s the use of givin up?”
“No,” said Bart. “This is a wild, unfrequented place, and the woods are unbroken for an immense distance. If Phil has got among them he will wander on till—till he drops.”
“Ah, come now, none of that. Sure, what do ye think of Phil? Do ye think now that Phil’s an idiot? Sure now, what’d ye do yerself if it was you that was lost instead of Phil? Do you think that you’d wandher about till you dropped, or do ye think ye’d work yer way out somewheres? Come now, ye know ye’d work yer way out, so you would. And so would I. And so will Phil, so he will.”
This process of reasoning struck Bart so forcibly that he had not a word to say. Pat in fact was right in his estimate of Bart’s confidence in himself. Bart really did feel sure that if he were lost in the woods he’d get out.
“Sure now imagine yerself in Phil’s place,” continued Pat, cheerily. “What’d you do? I’ll tell you what you’d do. Whin ye found yerself lost, ye’d thry, of coorse, to git back. Well, thin, ye’d go wandherin about. Very well. Ye’d sit down an rist, and think what ye’d best do nixt. Then ye’d start off afrish. Maybe ye’d climb a tray to see if ye cud see anythin. At any rate ye’d work away as long as the daylight lasted. At steeted intervals ye’d let off howls as loud as ye cud howl. Well, thin, it’ud grow dark, an so ye’d go to work an make up your mind to pass the night here, an ye’d thry, of coorse, to make yerself as comfortable as possible. So ye’d collect any quantity of moss an ferns, an spread them out—perhaps ye’d make a fire—but that’s neither here nor there; anyhow, ye’d make a comfortable bid for yerself, an thin ye’d take a bite of somethin to ate, and thin ye’d lie doun an doze off into the comfortablest slape ye ever knew. That’s what ye’d do—an ye know it, so ye do. Now wouldn’t ye? Answer me that. Isn’t that jist what ye wud do?”
“Well, I suppose I would,” said Bart; “but perhaps the Indian has had something to do.”
“The Injin. O, bah! Bother the Injin. That does to spake of in the middle of a dark night, but not undher the bright daylight. That Injin’s safe in his own camp by noo, I’ll warrant ye.”
By this time they were ready to start, and accordingly they set out on their way down the stream to the rock already mentioned. It was not quite day when they started, but by the time they reached the rock it was full day, so that they would be able to detect any trace of Phil’s pathway if any such trace might remain. The rock was about thirty or forty feet high, and rose upon the edge of the river which flowed along its base. Phil might have crossed the river, and gone down, as Pat did, on the other side; but he chose this, probably thinking that it was only a few steps. On reaching this place Pat was able to point out pretty nearly the spot where he saw Phil mount the bank. Here the underbrush seemed to show signs of having been trampled upon, and they at once ascended the bank in this direction. For some distance the marks continued, and they followed very carefully. At last, shortly after they reached the top of the bank, these faint marks died out utterly, and there remained no trace whatever of any footsteps that was discernible to their eyes. Here, then, they paused, and again considered what they should do.
After careful consideration of everything, it seemed to them that the best thing for them now to do was to advance from the river bank directly into the woods in as straight a line as possible. If they were to do this for several miles, they might get upon the wanderer’s track. They therefore set out, walking away from the river, trying by every possible means to make their course a straight line. They also tore off twigs from the trees as they went and strewed them behind them to leave a trail. Thus they went for about half an hour. Then they began to shout, and still going onward for another half hour, they continued their shouts. But at the end of this time and these efforts they were no better off than at the beginning, and to all their cries there came no response whatever.
Here another discussion took place. It seemed to Pat that Phil must have wandered down the stream, how far he did not know, but perhaps miles, and that on his return he had left the river at some point, and thus been lost. If this were so, it followed that the best place to search for him would be the woods lying on a line with the river, and extending along its banks. If they were now to turn to the right, they would be going in a course parallel to the river, and through those very woods in which it was most likely that Phil might be. Pat’s statement and argument seemed so reasonable that Bart at once adopted it; and so, with the utmost care, they took up a course which seemed as near as possible at right angles with their former one, and consequently as nearly as possible parallel with the flow of the river. In this direction they now went, trying as before to keep a straight course, and to leave a trail behind them. Above all, they kept shouting and calling all the time.
They went on in this course for as much as two hours with no more success than before. They came to woods where the underbrush was so thick, and the ground so swampy, that further progress was out of the question. Here, then, they once more deliberated as to what they should do. To go back seemed inexpressibly irksome, as well as useless. It seemed better to change their course in some new direction, which might be favorable to their hopes. On the whole it now seemed best to get back to the river. Phil might be there somewhere along its banks. In the evening they could go back to their former stopping-place by ascending the course of the river. So they took up a new line of march, which seemed to be exactly at right angles with their last one, and thus went on.
All this time they had been taking the utmost pains to leave a trail; but now, as they were going back to the river, it seemed no longer necessary: so they walked along much more easily and quickly, merely trying to make their pathway as straight as possible.
They walked on for a long time.
The river seemed much more distant than they had supposed.
Still they cheered themselves with the thought, at almost every step, that the next step would bring them in sight of it.
One more pause.
Still the river did not appear.
Another hour passed.
Still no river.
Nevertheless they toiled on, for having set before themselves this river as a certain place to be reached, they were not willing to stop short of it.
But the farther they went, the more hopeless did their attempt seem.
At length there began to come over them a vague idea that they had lost all idea of the direction of the river—that they had been wandering in a wrong direction altogether; and this vague idea grew stronger and stronger, and began to grow into a full conviction that they, as well as Phil, were utterly and hopelessly lost.