CHAPTER III
THE LONE CABIN
Henry was deeply thankful for this shelter because he knew how badly itwas needed. He went to the single little window, which sagged half open onhinges made of the skin of the buffalo. He pushed it back in place, andfastened it, too, with a smaller bar, which he was lucky enough to findlying on the floor.
"Well, Paul, we are here," he said.
As he spoke he looked keenly and anxiously at his comrade.
"Yes, Henry," Paul replied. "Here we are, and mighty glad am I. It's goodto be in a house again after that river."
Henry noticed at once that his voice was thinner and weaker than usual,and he saw also that the color on Paul's face was high--the rest and thelittle fire in the forest had not been enough. Again he was deeplygrateful for the presence of the cabin. He looked around, with inquiringeyes that could see everything. It was dusky in the cabin with both doorand window closed, but he observed with especial pleasure, among theabandoned articles, a small iron pot, suitable for cooking purposes, and alarge water bowl. When he summed up all, it seemed to this resourceful sonof the wilderness that Fortune had been very kind to them. Then he lookedat Paul and distinctly saw a tremor pass over his frame.
"Paul," he said, "are you cold?"
"A little," replied Paul reluctantly. It hurt his pride to confess that hefelt on the verge of physical collapse.
"Then we must have a fire, and I'm going to build it now."
"Won't it be dangerous?" asked Paul. "Won't it be seen?"
"Oh, no," replied Henry lightly. "We are alone in the forest now."
His tone was convincing to Paul, but Henry himself was aware that theywere taking great risks. Yet they must be taken.
"Now, Paul," he said cheerfully, "you keep a good watch while I bring indeadwood. But first we will rake clean the welcoming hearth of our goodfriends who departed so quickly."
Ashes and dead coals were lying in the fireplace, and he raked themcarefully to one side. Then he unbarred the door. The crisp October airrushed into the close, confined space, and it felt very welcome to Henry,but Paul shivered again.
"Sit down in one of those chairs and rest, Paul," he said, as he pointedto two homemade chairs that stood by the wall. "I'll be back in a minuteor two."
Then he shut the door behind him.
"I must take the risk," he murmured. It was characteristic of Henry Ware,that in this emergency not even a vague thought of deserting his comradeentered his mind. And faithful as he was to Paul, Paul would have been asfaithful to him. Both meant to finish together their great errand.
Henry looked around. The settler had made but little impression upon thesurrounding forest. The trees had been cut away for a distance of fifteenor twenty paces on every side, but the wilderness still curved in solidarray about the lone cabin, as if it would soon reclaim its own and blotout the sole sign of man's intrusion. Everywhere the foliage glowed withthe deep reds and yellows and browns of October, and afar hung a faintbluish haze, like an early sign of Indian summer. The slight wind amongthe leaves had a soothing note, and breathed of nothing but peace. PeaceHenry Ware devoutly hoped that it would be.
His task was easy. The forest all about was littered with the fallen anddead wood of preceding years, and in a few moments he gathered up anarmful, with which he returned to the house. Then he brought in dryleaves, and heaped leaves and wood together in the chimney-place. Heglanced at Paul and saw him trembling. As if by chance he touched hiscomrade's hand, and it felt ice-cold. But he did not depart one jot fromhis cheerful manner, all his words showing confidence.
"Now, Paul," he said, "In less than a minute you'll see burning before youthe finest, warmest, glowingest and most comfortable fire in all theWest."
Paul's eyes glistened.
Henry drew forth flint and steel, and with a few strokes sent out thevivifying spark. The dry leaves caught, a light flame formed, the woodcaught in its turn, and then the blaze, leaping high, roared up thechimney. In a moment the hearth was glowing, and presently a bed of deepred coals began to grow.
Paul uttered a low laugh of joy, and spread out his hands to the flames.The red light glowed across the delicately cut but strong face of the boy,and Henry noticed now that all his color was gone, leaving his featureswhite and drawn.
"Sit a little closer, Paul, a little closer," he said, still in tones ofhigh, good cheer. "Isn't it the most beautiful fire you ever saw?"
"Yes," said Paul, "it is. It looks mighty good, but it's curious that itdoesn't warm me more."
Henry had closed the door, and it was already very hot in the cabin; buthe decided now on another step--one that would take more time, but it mustbe taken.
"Paul," he said, "I'm going out in the woods to look for something, and Imay be gone at least half an hour. Take good care of our house while I'maway."
"All right," said Paul. But as he spoke his teeth struck together.
Henry closed the door once more, with himself on the outside. Then hewalked to the edge of the clearing, and looked back at the cabin. He hadbeen careful to choose the kind of wood that would give out the leastsmoke, and only a thin column rose from the chimney. The wind caught itbefore it rose far, and it was lost among the great trees of thewilderness. It seemed again to Henry Ware that Fortune was kind to them.
The single look sufficed, and then, drawing his long-bladed hunting knifefrom its sheath, he began to search the forest. Henry Ware had been long acaptive among the Northwestern Indians, and he had learned their lore. Hehad gained from the medicine men and old squaws a knowledge of herbs, andnow he was to put it to use. He sought first for the bitter root calledIndian turnip, and after looking more than twenty minutes found it. He dugit up with his sharp knife, and then, with another search of a quarter ofan hour, he found the leaves of wild sage, already dried in the autumnair. A third quarter of an hour and he added to his collection two moreherbs, only the Indian names of which were known to him. Then he returnedto the house, to find that the icy torrent in Paul's blood had now becomehot.
"I can't stand this, Henry," he said. "We've got the door and windowclosed and a big fire burning, and I'm just roasting hot."
"Only a little while longer," said Henry. "The truth is, Paul, you've hada big chill, and now the fever's come on you. But I'm Dr. Ware, and I'mgoing to cure you. When I was up there among the Indians, I learned theirherb remedies, and mighty good some of 'em are, too. They're particularlystrong with chills and fever, and I'm going to make you a tea that'll justlay hold of you and drive all the fever out of your veins. What you wantto do, Paul, is to sweat, and to sweat gallons."
He spoke in rapid, cheerful tones, wishing to keep up Paul's spirits, inwhich effort he succeeded, as Paul's eyes sparkled, and a gleam of humorlighted up his face.
"Well, Dr. Ware," he said, "I'm mighty glad to know what's the matter withme. Somehow you always feel better when you know, and I'll trust to yourtea."
He meant what he said. He knew Henry too well to doubt him. Any assertionof his inspired him with supreme confidence.
"Now, Paul," Henry resumed, "you keep house again, and I'll find where ourunknown friend got his drinking water."
He took the iron pot that he had noticed and went forth into the forest.It was an instinctive matter with one bred in the wilderness like HenryWare to go straight to the spring. The slope of the land led him, and hefound it under the lee of a little hill, near the base of a great oak.Here a stream, six inches broad, an inch deep, but as clear as burnishedsilver, flowed from beneath a stony outcrop in the soil, and then trickledaway, in a baby stream, down a little ravine. There was a strain ofprimitive poetry, the love of the wild, in Henry's nature, and he pausedto admire.
He saw that human hands had scraped out at the source a little fountain,where one might dip up pails of water, and looking down into the cleardepths he beheld his own face reflected back in every detail. It seemed toHenry Ware, who knew and loved only the wilderness, that the cabin, withits spring and game at i
ts very doors, would have made a wonderfully snughome in the forest. Had it been his own, he certainly would haveundertaken to defend it against any foe who might come.
But all these thoughts passed in a second, treading upon one another'sheels. Henry was at the fountain scarcely a moment before he had filledthe pot and was on the way back to the cabin. Then he cast in the herbs,put it upon a bed of red coals, and soon a steam arose. He found an old,broken-sided gourd among the abandoned utensils, and was able to dip upwith it a half dozen drinks of the powerful decoction. He induced hiscomrade to swallow these one after another, although they were verybitter, and Paul made a wry face. Then he drew from the corner the rudebedstead of the departed settler, and made Paul lie upon it beside thefire.
"Now go to sleep," he said, "while I watch here."
Paul was a boy of great sense, and he obeyed without question, although itwas very hot before the fire. But it was not a dry, burning heat thatseemed to be in the blood; it was a moist, heavy heat that filled thepores. He began to feel languid and drowsy, and a singular peace stoleover him. It did not matter to him what happened. He was at rest, andthere was his faithful comrade on guard, the comrade who never failed. Thecoals glowed deep red, and the sportive flames danced before him. Happyvisions passed through his brain, and then his eyes closed. The red coalspassed away and the sportive flames ceased to dance. Paul was asleep.
Henry Ware sat in silence on one of the chairs at the corner of thehearth, and when Paul's breathing became long, deep, and regular, he sawthat he had achieved the happy result. He rose soundlessly, and put hishand upon Paul's forehead. It came back damp. Paul was in a profuseperspiration, and his fever was sinking rapidly. Henry knew now that itwas only a matter of time, but he knew equally well that in theIndian-haunted wilderness time was perhaps the most difficult of allthings to obtain.
No uneasiness showed in his manner. Now the lad, born to be a king of thewilderness, endowed with all the physical qualities, all the acute sensesof a great, primitive age, was seen at his best. He was of one type andhis comrade of another, but they were knitted together with threads ofsteel. It had fallen to his lot to do a duty in which he could excel, andhe would shirk no detail of it.
He brought in fresh wood and piled it on the hearth. At a corner of thecabin stood an old rain barrel half full of water. He emptied the barreland brought it inside. Then, by means of many trips to the little springwith the iron pot, he filled it with fresh water. All the while he movedsoundlessly, and Paul's deep, peaceful slumber was not disturbed. He tookon for the time many of the qualities that he had learned from his Indiancaptors. Every sense was alert, attuned to hear the slightest sound thatmight come from the forest, to feel, in fact, any alien presence as itdrew near.
When the store of water was secure he looked at their provisions. They hadenough venison in their knapsacks to last a day or two, but he believedthat Paul would need better and tenderer food. The question, however, mustwait a while.
The day was now almost gone. Great shadows hovered over the easternforest, and in the west the sun glowed in its deepest red as it preparedto go. Henry put his hand upon Paul's forehead again. The perspiration wasstill coming, but the fever was now wholly gone. Then he took his rifleand went to the door. He stood there a moment, a black figure in the redlight of the setting sun. Then he slid noiselessly into the forest. Thetwilight had deepened, the red sun had set, and only a red cloud in thesky marked its going. But Henry Ware's eyes pierced the shadows, and nonein the forest could have keener ears than his. He made a wide circlearound the cabin, and found only silence and peace. Here and there weretracks and traces of wild animals, but they would not disturb; it was forsomething else that he looked, and he rejoiced that he could not find it.When he returned to the cabin the last fringe of the red cloud was gonefrom the sky, and black darkness was sweeping down over the earth. Hesecured the door, looked again to the fastenings of the window, and thensat down before the fire, his rifle between his knees.
Paul's slumber and exhaustion alike were so deep that he would not belikely to waken before morning, so Henry judged, and presently he took outa little of the dried venison and ate it. He would boil some of it in thepot in the morning for Paul's breakfast, but for himself it was goodenough as it now was. His strong white teeth closed down upon it, and adeep feeling of satisfaction came over him. He, too, was resting fromgreat labors, and from a task well done. He realized now, for the firsttime, how great a strain had been put upon him, both mind and body.
The night was sharp and chill, but it was very warm and comfortable in thelittle cabin. Paul slept on, his breathing as regular as the ticking of aclock, healthy color coming back into his pale face as he slept. Henry'sown eyes began to waver. A deep sense of peace and rest soothed him, heartand brain. He had meant to watch the night through, but even he hadreached the limit of endurance. The faint moaning of the wind outside,like the soft, sweet note of a violin, came to his ears, and lulled him toslumber. The fire floated far away, and, still sitting in his chair withhis rifle between his knees, he slept.
Outside the darkness thickened and deepened. The forest was a solid black,circling wall, and the cabin itself stood in deepest shadow. Inside afresh piece of wood caught, and the blaze burned brighter and higher. Itthrew a glow across the faces of the two boys, who slept, the one lyingupon the bed and the other sitting in the chair, with the rifle betweenhis knees. It was a scene possible only in the great wilderness of_Kain-tuck-ee_.
Meanwhile word was sent by unknown code through the surrounding forest toall its inhabitants that a great and portentous event had occurred. Notlong before they had welcomed the departure of the strange intruder, whohad come and cut down the forest and built the house. Then, with theinstinct that leaped into the future, they saw the forest and themselvesclaiming their own again; the clearing would soon be choked with weeds andbushes, the trees would grow up once more, the cabin would rot and itsroof fall, and perhaps the bear or the panther would find a cozy lairamong its timbers.
Now the strange intruders had come again. The fox, creeping to the edge ofthe clearing, saw with his needlelike eyes a red gleam through the chinksof the cabin. The red gleam smote him with terror, and he slunk away. Thewolf, the rabbit, and the deer came; they, too, saw the red gleam, andfled, with the same terror striking at their hearts. All, after the singlelook, sank back into the shadows, and the forest was silent and deserted.Paul and Henry, as they slept, were guarded by a single gleam of fire fromall enemies save human kind.
But as the night thickened there had been a whirring in the air not faraway. An hour earlier the twilight had been deepened by something thatlooked like a great cloud coming before the sun. It was a cloud that movedswiftly, and it was made of a myriad of motes, closely blended. Itresolved itself soon into a vast flock of wild pigeons, millions andmillions flying southward to escape the coming winter.
Presently they settled down upon the forest for the night, and all thetrees were filled with the chattering multitude. Often the bough bentalmost to the ground beneath the weight of birds, clustered so thick thatthey could scarcely find a footing. The fox and the wolf that had lookedat the lone cabin came back now to seek, an easier prey.
Henry Ware slept until far after midnight, and then he awoke easily,without jerk or start. The fire had burned down, and a deep bed of coalslay on the hearth. Paul still slept, and when Henry touched him he foundthat he had ceased to perspire. No trace of the fever was left. Yet hewould be very weak when he awoke, and he would need nourishing food. Itwas his comrade's task to get it. Henry took his rifle and went outside.The moon was shining now, and threw a dusky silver light over all theforest. He might find game, and, if so, he resolved to risk a shot. Thechances were that no human being save himself would hear it. He feltrather than saw that nothing had happened while he slept. No enemy to befeared had come, while all his own strength and elasticity had returned tohim. Never had he felt stronger or more perfectly attuned in body andmind.
He mo
ved again in a circuit about the cabin, watching carefully, and nowand then looking up among the trees. Perhaps an opossum might be hangingfrom a bough! But he saw nothing until he widened his circuit, and then heran directly into the myriads of wild pigeons. Here was food for an army,and he quickly secured plenty of it. The danger of the rifle report wasgone, as he had nothing to do but take a stick and knock off a bough asmany of the pigeons as he wished. Then he hastened back to the cabin withhis welcome burden. Paul still slept, and it pleased Henry to give him asurprise. He kindled the fire afresh, cleaned two of the youngest,fattest, and tenderest of the pigeons, and began to boil them in the pot.
When the water simmered and pleasant odors arose, he was afraid that Paulwould awake, as he turned once or twice on his bed and spoke a fewincoherent words. But he continued to sleep, nevertheless, and at last thepigeon stew was ready, throwing out a savory odor.
The day was now coming, and Henry opened the window. The forest, wet withmorning dew, was rising up into the light, and afar in the east shone thegolden glory of the sun. He drew a deep breath of the fresh, good air, anddecided to leave the window open. Then he filled the broken gourd with thegrateful stew, and, holding it in his right hand, shook Paul violentlywith his left. Paul, who had now slept his fill, sat up suddenly andopened his eyes.
"Here, Paul, open your mouth," said Henry commandingly, "and take thisfine stew. Dr. Ware has prepared it for you specially, and it is sure tobring hack your strength and spirits. And there's plenty more of it."
Paul sniffed hungrily, and his eyes opened wider and wider.
"Why--why, Henry!" he exclaimed. "How long have I slept, and where did youget this?"
"You've slept about twenty hours, more or less," replied Henry, laughingwith satisfaction, "and this is wild pigeon stew. Fifteen or twentymillions roosted out there in the forest last night, and they won't missthe dozen or so that I've taken. Here, hurry up; I'm hungry, and it's myturn next."
Paul said no more, but, thankful enough, took the stew and ate it. Then,by turns, they used the broken gourd and ate prodigiously, varied bydrinks from the water barrel. They had fasted long, they had undergonegreat exertions, and it took much to remove the sharp edge from theirappetites. But it was done at last, and they rested content.
"Henry," said Paul, upon whose mind the fortunate advent of the wildpigeons made a deep impression, "while we have had great mischances, itseems to me also that we have been much favored by Providence. Ourfinding of this cabin was just in time, and then came the pigeons as ifspecially for us. You remember in the Bible how the Lord sent the manna inthe wilderness for the Israelites; it seems to me that He's doing the samething for us."
"It looks so," replied Henry reverently. "The Indians with whom I oncelived think that the Great Spirit often helps us when we need it most, andI suppose that their Great Spirit--or Manitou, as they call Him--is justthe same as our God."
Both boys were now silent for a while. They had been reared by devoutparents. Life in the forest deepens religious belief, and it seemed tothem that there had been a special interposition in their favor.
"What are we going to do now?" asked Paul at length.
"We can't take up our journey again for a day or two," replied Henry."We've got to get that powder to Marlowe some time or other. Warevillesent us to do the job, and we'll do it; but you are yet too weak, Paul, tostart again. You don't know how really weak you are. Just you get up andwalk about a little."
Paul rose and walked back and forth across the room, but in a few momentshe became dizzy and had to sit down. Then he uttered an impatient littlecry.
"You're right, Henry," he said, "and I can't help it. Find the horses andtake the powder to Marlowe by yourself. I guess I can get back toWareville, or come on later to Marlowe."
Henry laughed.
"You know I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing, Paul," he said."Besides, I don't think they need to be in any hurry at Marlowe for thatpowder. We'll rest here two or three days, and then take a fresh start."
Paul said no more. It would have been a terrible blow to him to have nofurther share in the enterprise, but he had forced himself nevertheless tomake the offer. Now he leaned back luxuriously, and was content to wait.
"Of course," said Henry judicially, "we run risks here. You know that,Paul"
"Everybody who lives in Kentucky runs risks, and big ones," said Paul.
"Then we'll sit here for the present and watch the forest. I don't like tokeep still, but it's a fine country to look at, isn't it, Paul?"
The love of the wilderness was upon Henry, and his eyes glowed as helooked at the vast surrounding forest, the circling wall of deep-toned,vivid colors. For him, danger, if absent, did not exist, and there wasinspiration in the crisp breeze that came over a thousand miles ofuntenanted woods. He sat in the doorway, the door now open, and stretchedhis long legs luxuriously. He was happy; while he might be anxious to goon with the powder, he pined for neither Wareville nor Marlowe for theirown sakes.
Paul looked at his comrade with understanding and sympathy. The forestmade its appeal to him also, but in another way; and since Henry wascontent, he would be content, too. Used as he was to hardships and narrowquarters, the little cabin would not be a bad place in which to pass twoor three days. He turned back to the fire and held out his hands beforethe mellow blaze.
Henry examined the forest again, widening his circle, and saw no traces ofan enemy. He judged that they had passed either to east or west, and thathe and Paul would not be molested just yet, although he had no confidencein their permanent security. He saw a deer, but in view of their bountifulsupply of pigeons he did not risk a shot, and returned before noon, tofind Paul rapidly regaining his strength. He cooked two more of thepigeons in their precious iron pot, and then they rested.
They left both door and window open now, and they could see forest andsky. Henry called attention to a slight paleness in the western heavens,and then noted that the air felt damp.
"It will rain to-night, Paul," he said, "and it is a good thing for you,in your weakened condition, that we have a roof."
They ate pigeon again for supper, and their wilderness appetites were toosharp to complain of sameness. They had barred window and door, and letthe fire die down to a bed of glowing coals, and while they ate, Paulheard the first big drops of rain strike on the board roof. Other dropscame down the chimney, fell in the coals, and hissed as they died. Paulshivered, and then felt very good indeed in the dry little cabin.
"You were a real prophet, Henry," he said. "Here's your storm."
"Not a storm," said Henry, "but a long, cold, steady rain. Even an Indianwould not want to be out in it, and bear and panther will hunt theirholes."
The drops came faster, and then settled into a continuous pour. Paul,after a while, opened the window and looked out. Cold, wet air struck hisface, and darkness, almost pitchy, enveloped the cabin. Moon and starswere gone, and could not see the circling wail of the forest. The rainbeat with a low, throbbing sound on the board roof, and, with a kind oflong sigh, on the ground outside. It seemed to Paul a very cold and a verywet rain indeed, one that would be too much for any sort of human beings,white or red.
"I think, we're safe to-night, Henry," he said, as he closed and fastenedthe window.
"Yes, to-night," replied Henry.
Paul slept a dreamless sleep, lulled by the steady pour of the rain on theroof, and when he awoke in the morning the sun was shining brightly,without a cloud in the sky. But the forest dripped with rain. He wasstrong enough now to help in preparing the breakfast, and Henry spoke withconfidence of their departure the next morning.
The hours passed without event, but when Henry went as usual through theforest that afternoon, he came upon a footprint. He followed it and foundtwo or three more, and then they were lost on rocky ground. The discoverywas full of significance to him, and he thought once of hurrying back tothe cabin, and of leaving with Paul at once. But he quickly changed hismind. In the forest they would
be without defense save their own strongarms, while the cabin was made of stout logs. And perhaps the danger wouldpass after all. Already the twilight was coming, and in the darkness hisown footprints would not be seen.
Paul was at the door when Henry returned, and he did not notice anythingunusual in his comrade's face, but Henry advised that they stay insidenow. Then he looked very carefully to the bars of the door and the window,and Paul understood. The danger flashed instantly on his mind, but hisstrong will prepared him to meet it.
"You think we are likely to be besieged?" he said.
"Yes," replied Henry.
Paul did not ask why Henry knew. It was sufficient that he did know, andhe examined his arms carefully. Then began that long period of waiting soterrible to a lad of his type. It seemed that the hours would never pass.The coals on the hearth were dead now, and there was no light at all inthe cabin. But his eyes grew used to the dusk, and he saw his comradesitting on one of the benches, one rifle across his lap and the othernear, always listening.
Paul listened, too. The night before the rain had fallen on the board roofwith a soothing sound, but now he could hear nothing, not even the windamong the trees. He began to long for something that would break thisominous, deadly silence, be it ever so slight--the sound of a falling nutfrom a tree, or of a wild animal stirring in the undergrowth--but nothingcame. The same stillness, heavy with omens and presages, reigned in allthe forest.
The Forest Runners: A Story of the Great War Trail in Early Kentucky Page 3