Immediately he turned, and standing close to the trunk (the better to see among the limbs), fixed his eyes on Jack Carleton, and solemnly beckoned with his arm for him to descend.
“My gracious!” thought the latter, “I don’t believe there’s any help for it. Ah, if Deerfoot only knew!”
It occurred to the youth that possibly the Shawanoe could be reached by signal. He hastily drew aside the leaves and looked toward the spot where he saw him but a short time before. But the scene had changed. Deerfoot was gone, and the Pawnees were swarming back to camp, a number listening with rapt attention to the monumental yarns which Lone Bear and Red Wolf were pouring into the ears of their credulous listeners, whose experience having been what it was, prepared them to believe almost any thing.
“No help from there,” concluded the youth with a sigh, as he let the leaves come together and shut out his view of the other shore; “I wonder what this warrior will do with me; I suppose he will run me over to the rest, and they’ll even up matters by taking their vengeance on me—helloa! there’s no need of that!”
Looking downward, Jack saw that his captor was no longer beckoning for him to descend. Like the old farmer, who, finding there was no virtue in grass, resorted to stones, the Indian had substituted the gun, and held it pointed at the youngster, who was slow in moving from his lofty perch.
There was no call to fire; the youth grasped the situation at once and began lowering himself with great promptness. While doing so, he occasionally took a peep between his feet, and each time saw the warrior standing erect and following his movements with the gun, as a hunter does when aiming at a gyrating bird.
“I hope I’m giving satisfaction,” muttered Jack, who felt the cold perspiration breaking out all over his body; “if he isn’t satisfied, I’ll let go and drop. I wish I could do it, so as to fall on his head and break his neck.” When almost to the ground, Jack was relieved to observe the red man lower his weapon. He heard the click of the lock, as he let the flint down in place. It was a vast relief from suspense, but it may be doubted whether, after all, Jack’s danger was any less than before. Whatever sinister thoughts were in the mind of the red man remained when the young Kentuckian stood before him an unresisting prisoner.
I need not say that while Jack Carleton was descending the tree he thought hard and fast. He was in a situation of the gravest peril, and there was no human arm on which he could rely for help. His hot Kentucky blood was aroused, and he resolved that if his captor offered him harm or indignity, he would give him the hottest fight of which he was capable. The youth still had his knife and he meant to keep it. While coming down the tree, he quietly shoved it inside of his coat where it could not be seen, but was available for instant use.
He feared the warrior had several comrades with him, but was relieved to find that such was not the case.
“He must have seen me from the other side,” was the conclusion of the youth, “and slipped across without my noticing him, just as those Sauks got behind Otto and me when we never dreamed of danger. He ain’t the Indian that was looking at me; I suppose that one who tumbled over Deerfoot told this dog, and here he is.”
Dropping the stock of the captured rifle on the ground, the red skin grasped the barrel near the muzzle, standing in an easy attitude, with the weight of his body resting on one foot, and looked into the eyes of Jack Carleton, as if trying to read the secrets of his breast.
The youth was almost as tall as his captor, and he returned the scrutiny. He did not assume any defiant manner, for he was far from wishing to exasperate him who was master of the situation.
“I think I could give him a pretty good tussle,” was the conclusion of Jack, “and whenever he chooses to sail in, I am ready, but I wish things were nearer even between us.”
It was noticeable that the only rifle in sight was the one belonging to the prisoner. It seemed incredible that the warrior should have left camp without the indispensable weapon, though, if he had brought it away, it was now invisible.
But, in addition to the stolen piece, he carried the tomahawk and knife at his girdle, and there could be no question that he was an adept in their use.
When Jack looked down from his place in the tree top on the countenance of his captor, he perceived a curious distortion, which was now explained. At some time in his history the Indian had received a slash across the face, which clove the bone and cartilage of the nose and laid one of the cheeks open. The cicatrice, combined with the natural ugliness of the features, and the greasy ocher and paint, daubed and smeared over the skin, rendered the countenance of the warrior as frightful as can be conceived.
But Jack Carleton had met too many hideous Indians to be disturbed by their appearance. It was the action of this one in which he felt interest.
It was a noteworthy feature of the young Kentuckian’s capture, that he was angered by the evidence that the Indian had brought no gun with him. Such a course implied that the youth was held in light regard, and not deemed the equal of a warrior in a hand-to-hand struggle.
“They think I am nothing but a boy,” he thought, “and so they sent a warrior so horrible of face that they hope he will scare me out of my wits; at any rate, they don’t believe it worth while for him to bring a gun; may be he’ll regret that before he is through.”
Having scrutinized the captive from head to foot, the captor seemed to be satisfied. Without attempting any words, he beckoned as before for Jack to follow him. The gesture was made at the moment the warrior turned and began walking over the course parallel to the river and leading toward its mouth.
The action placed Jack behind his master, instead of in front, and it could not but suggest several desperate expedients to him, who was resolved not to allow himself to be taken across the river. He had witnessed enough from his elevated lookout to convince him that the stream on his right was his Rubicon; if he once passed that, there would be no return.
CHAPTER XVI.
A STARTLING CONCLUSION.
Jack Carleton stealthily pressed his left hand against his breast; his knife was where he could whip it out when wanted.
Why couldn’t he draw it, and leaping forward, bury it in the side of his captor before he could save himself?
“It will be a dreadful thing,” he reflected, compressing his lips, “but it is the only chance I have; I’ll try it!”
He began insinuating his hand under his coat, and groped for the only weapon on which he could now rely. In his eagerness he stepped more softly and slightly crouched, as one is apt to do at such a time.
It may have been that his captor took the lead for a short distance with a view of tempting him to make some such demonstration; but more than likely, the excessive caution of the lad betrayed him; for, before he could draw his knife, the face was turned, and stepping aside, he motioned Jack to assume the leadership—that is, under his direction.
The captive did not think it wise to refuse, but moved promptly to the front and continued the march in the same direction they had followed from the first.
“I wonder whether he is deaf and dumb,” said Jack to himself; “he acts just as though he had no use of his tongue. Well, I don’t know as it will make any difference, for I can’t understand a word he says, and it isn’t likely he knows any thing about English. But these redskins have a way of talking with their hands, heads and shoulders which almost any one can comprehend.”
The change of positions caused Jack Carleton a new uneasiness. Having made ready for an attack on the Indian in front, it was only natural that he should suspect his captor would take the same course toward him. As indifferently as he could, the youth again slid his right hand under his coat, until it grasped the bone-handle of his hunting knife. He held it firmly, and listened closely for the first movement which would betray the other’s intention.
But the youth erred as to the immediate purpose of the warrior. He strode along in his deliberate way, stepping in the footprints of his captive, so as neither to recede
from nor approach him. Less than ten feet intervened between the two.
The couple were so near the river, that, when not able to catch a glimpse of its shining surface, it was located by the sparseness of the trees. Jack was so anxious to avoid the stream, that he began bearing to the left, hoping the individual behind him would not notice the deviation, but the lad was unwise to think such a thing possible.
The result of this weak piece of strategy was the proof that the red man was the owner of a voice.
“Waoof!”
The sound resembled the cough of a wild beast, and startled Jack. Glancing around, he saw the eyes of the warrior snapping, while his right arm was extended, and the finger pointing toward the river.
“All right,” responded the lad, as though glad to be reminded of his forgetfulness; “we won’t quarrel over the matter.”
Jack, however, was too prudent to make an abrupt turn, which would bring him to the shore before going more than several rods. His divergence was perceptible, though the angle was obtuse.
The prisoner was astonished and mystified by what followed, and it may be said that he never fully understood its meaning.
“The rascal has proven that he has the use of his tongue—that’s certain. I don’t like the idea of keeping in front of him and leading the way to the river’s edge. When we reach that, he can call to the others and bring over all he wants to help him—that is, if he feels he needs the help, which isn’t likely. I’ll keep on till we are close to the river, and then I’ll make a fight!”
When only a few yards separated him from the river, the warrior emitted an exclamation precisely like that which first arrested the footsteps of the youth. He stopped, as before, and awaited the will of his captor. The latter advanced to the front, and, while the other stood still, the Indian made his way to the water’s margin, parted the bushes and looked out.
The feature of the movement was its caution. The redskin acted as if his whole care was to escape being seen by any on the other side. Why he wished to do so was beyond the power of the youth to guess.
“They are his friends, and I should think he would want to let them know of his success.”
The warrior stood fully two minutes leaning over the water, one hand grasping the gun and the other holding the undergrowth apart, while his eyes roved up and down, as if searching for that which he expected and yet dreaded to find. He was but a brief distance below the camp of the Pawnees, who were in sight. The sun had set and twilight was creeping through the wood and over the river. Soon objects would become indistinct; but, for a few minutes at least, it would be to the warrior as if the sun were in the sky.
The view was unsatisfactory, for he drew back, allowing the bushes to come together, and muttered some impatient expression. Looking angrily at Jack, he extended his arm and finger so as to point away from the stream, and signified by gesture that the youth was to take that course.
“Nothing will suit me better,” was the thought of the latter, as he obeyed; “I don’t understand what the mischief you are driving at, but I am glad to get as far as I can from the river.”
As nearly as Jack could judge, this odd march lasted until he had tramped a hundred yards, when it was terminated by another emphatic “Waoof!”
They were in the woods, where the trees were close and there was little undergrowth. So far as could be seen, the nearest water was the river, but the captor showed that his purpose was to go into camp, as may be said, for a time at least. He broke off some dead limbs, threw them on the ground at the base of a large oak, and motioned to the captive to do the same. Jack’s previous experience had taught him that the wisest course, under such circumstances, is promptly to obey, and he sprang to work with such vigor that it did not take him long to collect a large pile. As he always carried a flint and steel with him, he hoped to conciliate his captor to a slight extent by starting the fire, though the latter had also a stone in hand, from which, it is probable, he would have extracted fire with but little trouble. He stood still and watched the lad.
It was many years before such a thing as a lucifer match was known, and our ancestors acquired a deftness in igniting a flame from the simple contrivance named, which leads us to doubt whether they gained a great advantage when they threw it aside for the modern invention.
With the help of dried leaves, small dead twigs, and the swift blows of the steel across the face of the flint, a spark speedily darted to the combustible material and stuck there. Jack did not use the rag soaked in chemicals, which was common among the settlers, but caught the fire from the direct source, as it may be called. The tiny twist of flame was fanned and nursed by gently blowing until, in a brief space, a big fire was roaring, and scorching the shaggy bark of the oak.
It was impossible to tell from the looks of the Indian whether he was pleased or not. He stood a few paces off, watching the operation, and, when the fire was well under way, sat down cross-legged like a Turk, where he could feel the warmth, though, as I have stated in another place, the weather was not cold.
It was now growing dark. The shadows were on every hand, and the trunks of the trees looked grim and ghostly, as revealed by the fire, which Jack continually fed, until the circle of illumination was several rods in extent.
“I would give a good deal to know what he is thinking about,” said the lad to himself, furtively watching the face on the other side of the fire; “something seems to have gone wrong with him, though why he should want to keep his movements from his friends across the river is more than I can guess; may be he has had a quarrel; they have taken his gun and set him adrift.”
This theory, however, did not sound reasonable, and the lad was unsatisfied; whatever the cause of the redskin’s erratic conduct, his captive could not explain it.
For a half hour the warrior was as mute and motionless as the oak against which the fire had been kindled. All that time, he sat six or eight feet from the flames and about the same distance from the captive. The fire, the Indian and the youth, each formed the corner of a triangle. He who was master of the situation retained his Turk-like pose, the captured gun between his arms and knees and his small eyes fixed on the flames, which the industry of the prisoner never allowed to grow less.
Strange musings must have stirred within the bronzed skull, but it is useless to speculate, since we have no more means of knowing their nature than had Jack Carleton, who wondered and guessed without satisfying himself.
But one thing was certain: whatever the thoughts of the warrior, they were of a disturbing nature. Jack could not mistake the scowl which wrinkled the brow, while now and then an evil light shone in the eyes.
“He doesn’t think of supper, or, if he does, he knows there is no way of getting any thing to eat. He must make up his mind pretty soon what he intends to do with me. If he decides to stay here all night, I know I shan’t close my eyes for a single second.”
But the test did not come, and it can not be known, therefore, what the result would have been. The Indian seemed to rouse all at once to a sense of the situation, probably concluding that he was wasting time by indulging in such musings. His awaking was characteristic. He sprang to his feet, threw his gun aside, and placed his hand on the knife at his girdle. As he did so, his countenance flamed with ferocity, and the meaning of the look he bent on Jack Carleton could not be misjudged.
“It has been decided that mine shall be the same fate as that of poor Otto,” was the thought of Jack, who displayed genuine Kentucky pluck in facing the peril.
He was only a second or two behind the warrior in bounding to his feet, and as he came up he whipped out his hunting knife from under his coat, and confronted his foe. The latter probably was unaware until then that his captive had a weapon about him, for otherwise he would have deprived him of it at the muzzle of the rifle; but surely it would seem he had no cause to fear the youth, who could not have been his equal in strength, activity or skill in handling such a weapon, though much his superior in courage.
/> Jack Carleton was as self-possessed as if he were awaiting a friendly wrestling bout with Otto Relstaub, though he knew that the assault meant death to one, and the chances were against himself.
“He will bound like a dog at me,” was the thought of Jack, who, after the manner of a skillful boxer, kept his eye fixed on that of his foe, in the hope of reading his purpose; “and I will make believe I am bewildered by his style of attack (and may be I will be), but I’ll jump to one side, as he comes, and, with the help of heaven, will show what a Kentucky boy can do when cornered.”
Just then Jack Carleton smiled, and right good cause had he for doing so.
CHAPTER XVII.
OTHER ARRIVALS.
The Indian warrior was the picture of ferocity, as he crouched a few steps away, and, with his fingers griping the handle of his knife, slowly drew it from the skin sheath at his girdle. The end of his abstraction was the resolution to slay his captive then and there.
But, as the plucky youth faced the fierce red man and looked him in the eye, he saw another form rising to view in his field of vision. It was that of a warrior who slowly appeared behind the first, as if lifted upward from the ground, and peeped over his shoulder into the face of Jack Carleton. So perfect was the silence which marked the extraordinary manifestation, that it was like the shadow made by the firelight itself.
Just beyond and a little to one side of the second form, a third came to view, dimly revealed by the lesser firelight, but with a stillness of movement as absolute as that of the other. Had it been otherwise, the redskin would have discovered their approach.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 212