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The Hunters of the Ozark, a novel by Edward Sylvester Ellis |
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Chapter 18. Like A Thief In The Night |
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_ CHAPTER XVIII. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT The crisp autumn night had not reached its turn when the full moon climbed from behind the straggling clouds obscuring her face, into the clear air above, and shone down on the wilderness, with the same calm splendor with which it had shone during the ages before the foot of a white man had rested on the soil of our country. Here and there, at widely-separated points, as the orb moved toward the zenith, could be seen the star-like twinkles of light which showed where the sparse settlements had been planted by the pioneers. At intervals, too, miles away from the clearings, could be distinguished the glimmer of the hunters' camp-fires, where the hardy men had lain down wrapped in their blankets, and to sleep the sleep of health. Still further away, by the side of some calmly flowing river or creek, were the ragged tepees of the wild Indians. Mountain, forest and stream made up the landscape, that was illuminated by the moon on the night when Fred Linden and Terry Clark lay down in slumber by the fire in the cavern, and Deerfoot the Shawanoe took upon himself the duty of acting as a sentinel over them. It was not yet midnight when the figure of a crouching Indian emerged like a shadow from the little gully which marked the course of the tiny stream in front of the camp. Just at the point where he appeared, a few rays of the moonlight found their way among the limbs, and added impressiveness to his appearance. A glance would have told that he had approached at the most stealthy gait of which he was capable, and was still using all the skill at his command. Finding himself within the faint light of the moon, he straightened up, like one who is not certain of his surroundings and is using his eyes and ears to their utmost. Standing erect in this manner he showed himself to be a full-grown warrior in middle life, of strong limbs and frame, and attired in the usual dress of his people. The long, coarse hair dangled about the shoulders, some of the strands having fallen forward in front of the chest, at the time his head drew it over while in a crouching posture. It grew so low on his forehead that no more than an inch was between the roots and shaggy eyebrows. Beneath these the eyes glittered like those of a snake. The ugly features were made more ugly by the different colored paints--most of it black--that was daubed over them, and the countenance was distorted by a swelling recently produced. The breast and arms were covered by deerskin, a fringe running down in front to the belt, which held his tomahawk. The frightful horn-handled knife was tightly grasped in his right hand. Below the belt was breechcloth, followed by leggins and moccasins, but it was noticeable that he carried no rifle with him. Perhaps you have guessed the reason; he had none to carry, for he was the Wolf who had been deprived of his valuable weapon on the day before by Deerfoot the Shawanoe. As was learned in due time, the Winnebago, after being despoiled by Deerfoot, had made all haste to rejoin his band, that were encamped at no great distance from Greville. When he told his brother warriors of the indignity to which he had been subjected, they were as rampart as he for revenge. They were on the point of starting for a settlement, intending to await the chance to shoot down some of the unsuspecting people, when the leader, a man of iron will, interposed. He said that according to the story of the Wolf himself, his gun had been taken from him by a single warrior. A Winnebago ought to be ashamed to confess such a thing, and the only way by which the Wolf could redeem himself was to recover his gun unaided by any of his people. Let him come back to the party with his rifle and then they would risk their lives a dozen times over to repay the young Shawanoe and his youthful friend (they knew nothing about Fred Linden) for the insult they had put upon one of the leading warriors of the Winnebago tribe. You can well understand how displeasing this decision was to the Wolf, but there was no help for it. The warrior who gave the order was not only the leader of the company, but the principal chief of the tribe. No one dared to dispute his command, and he intimated that it was not only necessary for the Wolf to recover his gun in order to enlist the services of the rest, but his standing at home would be compromised if he went back without his rifle and the story that it had been taken from him by a single warrior of another tribe. From this you will understand the eagerness with which the Wolf set out to regain the weapon. The fact that Fred Linden and Terry Clark left Greville the next morning after the affair, mixed matters to that extent that, for a time, the Winnebago was at fault. It was his intention to prowl around the settlement, awaiting his chance, for he suspected that Deerfoot had gone thither with the lad who had given the Wolf such a blow in the face; but the discovery of the footprints of the two boys leading to the southward mystified the Indian. He was quite close to the creek, and the sun had crossed the meridian at the time this discovery was made. It was natural that he should look for the trail of the Shawanoe, but he could not find it. Finally, with a half-suspicion of the truth, the Wolf went into the settlement to make inquiries. He could speak enough broken English to make himself understood, and, as it so happened, it was Mr. MacClaskey himself whom he accosted. He told the inquirer the truth, adding that Terry took with him a gun that was captured from a vagabond Indian. But for that he would not have been allowed to go, for there was but one rifle in the family, which the settler would trust in no hands but his own for any length of time. The Winnebago was shrewd enough to disarm any doubt that might have been felt about himself. It was the rule in the settlement to show kindness to every wandering Indian that visited them, and no one dreamed that any thing was to be feared from the Wolf. But his heart was full of exulting malignancy. He knew who had the gun, and aware that the two boys had started for the camp of the Ozarks, he understood where to look for it. The fact that the Winnebago had no gun with him would have caused the belief that he was the vagabond Indian, had he not explained that he left it in the woods as a token of comity. The Wolf sauntered back until he was across the stream and out of sight. Then he sped along the trail, with a long, loping trot, which his race can maintain for hours without fatigue. He had a long distance to travel, but he reached the scene of the encounter with the strange animal, just as it was growing dark. At this point, he showed admirable woodcraft. The signs on the ground puzzled him for a time, but there was the carcass of the animal, and by and by he found the imprints of the small moccasins, which told him that the young Shawanoe had rejoined the others at this point. As you can well believe, this was any thing but a pleasant discovery, for, superior as was the strength of the Winnebago, he would have preferred to meet the two boys, even though both were armed, than to find himself face to face again with the remarkable Indian youth. But there was no help for it, and the dusky Winnebago compressed his coppery lips with the resolve that the gun should be in his hands before the rising of the morrow's sun. The light was rapidly fading among the trees and he improved what was left of it. Prowling around the spot in a circle, with his nose close to the ground, he discovered that the three youths had started along the bank of the brook toward its head. Thereupon the Winnebago formed the correct conclusion; they had moved from the main trail (doubtless on the suggestion of the young Shawanoe), in search of some place to encamp where there would be less danger of detection. By the time the Wolf had satisfied himself on this point, it had become too dark among the trees for his eyes to detect the trail, which at mid-day would have been as distinct as a beaten path. He therefore adopted the plan of which I have made mention elsewhere: he followed a general rule. The conclusion being that the parties for whom he was searching had located themselves somewhere along the creek, it was useless to try and follow the footprints, though there were points here and there where the sense of touch might have helped him. He decided to creep stealthily up stream until he found the camp, and then bide his time. It is hard to form an idea of the extreme care with which this was done. Had the Winnebago not known of the presence of Deerfoot, he would not have taken half the time consumed, but he had seen enough of that wonderful youth to know that it would require more than a child to outwit him. At a point about half way between the trail and the camp among the rocks, the Wolf thought his hands touched some imprints in the earth which showed that the three had turned to the right and gone deeper into the woods. It required reconnoitering before he discovered his mistake. With the same amazing patience he renewed his stealthy progress up the stream, until at last he emerged into the moonlight and found that at last he had reached the spot for which he had hunted so long. It so happened that as he straightened up, he looked directly into the mouth of the cave and saw the dull glow of the camp-fire, like the open eye of some monster. Not only that, but he observed the three forms stretched out by it. The heart of the savage throbbed with pleasure, for he felt that success had come at last. With the same absolute noiselessness he began creeping into the mouth of the cavern. One of the embers fell apart with a soft rustle, which caused him to stop and hold his breath lest the sleepers should awake. But they did not stir, and in a minute he resumed his advance. The two white lads had flung the blankets from their faces, so that he saw Fred Linden plainly, and enough of the other to identify him as the one who had smitten him. Nearer to the Winnebago than they was the third form, which he knew equally well. "It is the Shawanoe," was his thought; "I will bury my knife in his heart and then slay the others." A minute later he reached forward his upraised right hand and suddenly brought it down with a force that pinned the blanket to the earth. But to his unspeakable disgust Deerfoot was not within it. _ |
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