by John Buchan
CHAPTER 12. IN THE DARK LAND
The fire was so cunningly laid that only on one side did it cast a glow,and there the light was absorbed by a dark thicket of laurels. It wasbuilt under an overhang of limestone so that the smoke in the moonlightwould be lost against the grey face of the rock. But, though the moonwas only two days past the full, there was no sign of it, for the rainhad come and the world was muffled in it. That morning the Kentuckyvales, as seen from the ridge where the camp lay, had been like afurnace with the gold and scarlet of autumn, and the air had been heavywith sweet October smells. Then the wind had suddenly shifted, the skyhad grown leaden, and in a queer dank chill the advance-guard of winterhad appeared--that winter which to men with hundreds of pathless milesbetween them and their homes was like a venture into an unchartedcontinent.
One of the three hunters slipped from his buffalo robe and dived intothe laurel thicket to replenish the fire from the stock of dry fuel. Hisfigure revealed itself fitfully in the firelight, a tall slim man with acurious lightness of movement like a cat's. When he had done his work hesnuggled down in his skins in the glow, and his two companions shiftedtheir positions to be near him. The fire-tender was the leader of thelittle party The light showed a face very dark with weather. He hadthe appearance of wearing an untidy perruque, which was a tight-fittingskin-cap with the pelt hanging behind. Below its fringe straggled aselvedge of coarse black hair. But his eyes were blue and very bright,and his eyebrows and lashes were flaxen, and the contrast of light anddark had the effect of something peculiarly bold and masterful. Of theothers one was clearly his brother, heavier in build, but with the sameeyes and the same hard pointed chin and lean jaws. The third man wasshorter and broader, and wore a newer hunting shirt than his fellows anda broad belt of wool and leather.
This last stretched his moccasins to the blaze and sent thin rings ofsmoke from his lips into the steam made by the falling rain.
He bitterly and compendiously cursed the weather. The little party hadsome reason for ill-temper. There had been an accident in the creek withthe powder supply, and for the moment there were only two charges leftin the whole outfit. Hitherto they had been living on ample supplies ofmeat, though they were on short rations of journey-cake, for their stockof meal was low. But that night they had supped poorly, for one of themhad gone out to perch a turkey, since powder could not be wasted, andhad not come back.
"I reckon we're the first as ever concluded to winter in Kaintuckee," hesaid between his puffs. "Howard and Salling went in in June, I've heerd.And Finley? What about Finley, Dan'l?"
"He never stopped beyond the fall, though he was once near gripped by thesnow. But there ain't no reason why winter should be worse on the O-hiothan on the Yadkin. It's a good hunting time, and snow'll keep theredskins quiet. What's bad for us is wuss for them, says I.... I won'tworry about winter nor redskins, if old Jim Lovelle 'ud fetch up. Itbeats me whar the man has got to."
"Wandered, maybe?" suggested the first speaker, whose name was Neely.
"I reckon not. Ye'd as soon wander a painter. There ain't no sech hunteras Jim ever came out of Virginny, no, nor out of Caroliny, neither. Itwas him that fust telled me of Kaintuck'. 'The dark and bloody land, theShawnees calls it,' he says, speakin' in his eddicated way, and dark andbloody it is, but that's man's doing and not the Almighty's. The landflows with milk and honey, he says, clear water and miles of clover andsweet grass, enough to feed all the herds of Basham, and mighty forestswith trees that thick ye could cut a hole in their trunks and drive awaggon through, and sugar-maples and plums and cherries like you won'tsee in no set orchard, and black soil fair crying for crops. And thegame, Jim says, wasn't to be told about without ye wanted to be called aliar--big black-nosed buffaloes that packed together so the wholeplaced seemed moving, and elk and deer and bar past counting.... Wal,neighbours, ye've seen it with your own eyes and can jedge if Jim was atrue prophet. I'm Moses, he used to say, chosen to lead the Childrenof Israel into a promised land, but I reckon I'll leave my old bones onsome Pisgah-top on the borders. He was a sad man, Jim, and didn't lookfor much comfort this side Jordan.... I wish I know'd whar he'd gottento."
Squire Boone, the speaker's brother, sniffed the air dolefully. "It'sweather that 'ud wander a good hunter."
"I tell ye, ye couldn't wander Jim," said his brother fiercely. "He comeinto Kaintuckee alone in '52, and that was two years before Finley. Hewas on the Ewslip all the winter of '58. He was allus springing out of abush when ye didn't expect him. When we was fighting the Cherokees withMontgomery in '61 he turned up as guide to the Scotsmen, and I reckon ifthey'd attended to him there'ud be more of them alive this day. He waslike a lone wolf, old Jim, and preferred to hunt by hisself, but younever knowed that he wouldn't come walking in and say 'Howdy' while youwas reckoning you was the fust white man to make that trace. Wander Jim?Ye might as well speak of wandering a hakk."
"Maybe the Indians have got his sculp," said Neely.
"I reckon not," said Boone. "Leastways if they have, he must ha' strucka new breed of redskin. Jim was better nor any redskin in Kaintuck',and they knowed it. I told ye, neighbours, of our doings before you comewest through the Gap. The Shawnees cotched me and Jim in a cane-brake,and hit our trace back to camp, so that they cotched Finley too, and histhree Yadkiners with him. Likewise they took our hosses, and guns andtraps and the furs we had gotten from three months' hunting. Their chiefmade a speech saying we had no right in Kaintuckee and if they cotchedus again our lives'ud pay for it. They'd ha' sculped us if it hadn'tbeen for Jim, but you could see they knew him, and was feared ofhim. Wal, Finley reckoned the game was up, and started back with theYadkiners. Cooley and Joe Holden and Mooneyiye mind them, Squire! But Iwas feeling kinder cross and wanted my property back, and old Jim--why,he wasn't going to be worsted by no redskins. So we trailed theShawnees, us two, and come up with them one night encamped beside asalt-lick. Jim got into their camp while I was lying shivering in thecane, and blessed if he didn't snake back four of our hosses and ourthree best Deckards. Tha's craft for ye. By sunrise we was riding southon the Warriors' Path but the hosses was plumb tired, and aforemidday them pizonous Shawnees had cotched up with us. I can tell ye,neighbours, the hair riz on my head, for I expected nothing better thana bloody sculp and six feet of earth.... But them redskins didn't hurtus. And why, says ye? 'Cos they was scared of Jim. It seemed they had aname for him in Shawnee which meant the 'old wolf that hunts by night.They started out to take us way north of the Ohio to their Sciotovillages, whar they said we would be punished. Jim telled me to keepup my heart, for he reckoned we wasn't going north of no river. Then hestarted to make friends with them redskins, and in two days he was themost popilar fellow in that company. He was a quiet man and for generalmelancholious, but I guess he could be amusing when he wanted to. Youknow the way an Indian laughs grunts in his stomach and looks at theground. Wal, Jim had them grunting all day, and, seeing he could speakall their tongues, he would talk serious too. Ye could see them savageslistening, like he was their own sachem."
Boone reached for another faggot and tossed it on the fire. The downpourwas slacking, but the wind had risen high and was wailing in thesycamores.
"Consekince was," he went on, "for prisoners we wasn't proper guarded.By the fourth day we was sleeping round the fire among the Shawnees andmarching with them as we pleased, though we wasn't allowed to go nearthe hosses. On the seventh night we saw the Ohio rolling in the hollow,and Jim says to me it was about time to get quit of the redskins. Itwas a wet night with a wind, which suited his plan, and about one in themorning, when Indians sleep soundest, I was woke by Jim's hand pressingmy wrist. Wal, I've trailed a bit in my day, but I never did such mightycareful hunting as that night. An inch at a time we crawled out of thecircle--we was lying well back on purpose--and got into the canes. I laythere while Jim went back and fetched guns and powder. The Lord knowshow he done it without startling the hosses. Then we quit like ghosts,and legged it for the hills. We was aiming for the Gap, b
ut it tookus thirteen days to make it, travelling mostly by night, and living onberries, for we durstn't risk a shot. Then we made up with you. I reckonwe didn't look too pretty when ye see'd us first."
"Ye looked," said his brother soberly, "Like two scare-crows that hadtook to walkin'. There was more naked skin than shirt about you Dan'l.But Lovelle wasn't complaining, except about his empty belly."
"He was harder nor me, though twenty years older. He did the leading,too, for he had forgotten more about woodcraft than I ever know'd...."
The man Neely, who was from Virginia, consumed tobacco as steadily as adry soil takes in water.
"I've heerd of this Lovelle," he said. "I've seed him too, I guess. Along man with black eyebrows and hollow eyes like as he was hungry. Heused ter live near my folks in Palmer Country. What was he looking forin those travels of his?"
"Hunting maybe," said Boone. "He was the skilfullest hunter, I reckon,between the Potomac and the Cherokee. He brought in mighty fine pelts,but he didn't seem to want money. Just so much as would buy him powderand shot and food for the next venture, ye understand.... He wasn'tlooking for land to settle on, neighber, for one time he telled me hehad had all the settling he wanted in this world.... But he was lookingfor something else. He never talked about it, but he'd sit often withhis knees hunched up and his eyes staring out at nothing like abird's. I never know'd who he was or whar he come from. You say it wasVirginny?"
"Aye, Palmer County. I mind his old dad, who farmed a bit of land byNelson's Cross Roads, when he wasn't drunk in Nelson's tavern. The boysused to follow him to laugh at his queer clothes, and hear his fineLondon speech when he cursed us. By thunder, he was the one to swear.Jim Lovelle used to clear us off with a whip, and give the old man hisarm into the shack. Jim too was a queer one, but it didn't do to makefree with him, unless ye was lookin' for a broken head. They was come ofhigh family, I've heerd."
"Aye, Jim was a gentleman and no mistake," said Boone. "The way he heldhis head and looked straight through the man that angered him. I reckonit was that air of his and them glowering eyes that made him powerfulwith the redskins. But he was mighty quiet always. I've seen Cap'n EvanShelby roaring at him like a bull and Jim just staring back at him, asgentle as a girl, till the Cap'n began to stutter and dried up. But,Lordy, he had a pluck in a fight, for I've seen him with Montgomery....He was eddicated too, and could tell you things out of books. I'veknowed him sit up all night talking law with Mr. Robertson.... He wasalways thinking. Queer thoughts they was sometimes."
"Whatten kind of thoughts, Dan'l?" his brother asked.
Boone rubbed his chin as if he found it hard to explain. "About thiscountry of Ameriky," he replied. "He reckoned it would soon have to cutloose from England, and him knowing so much about England I used terbelieve him. He allowed there 'ud be bloody battles before it happened,but he held that the country had grown up and couldn't be kept muchlonger in short clothes. He had a power of larning about things thathappened to folks long ago called Creeks and Rewmans that pinted thatway, he said. But he held that when we had fought our way quit ofEngland, we was in for a bigger and bloodier fight among ourselves. Imind his very words. 'Dan'l,' he says, 'this is the biggest and bestslice of the world which we Americans has struck, and for fifty yearsor more, maybe, we'll be that busy finding out what we've got that we'llhave no time to quarrel. But there's going to come a day, if Ameriky sto be a great nation, when she'll have to sit down and think and make upher mind about one or two things. It won't be easy, for she won't havethe eddication or patience to think deep, and there'll be plenty selfishand short-sighted folk that won't think at all. I reckon she'll haveto set her house in order with a hickory stick. But if she wins throughthat all right, she'll be a country for our children to be proud of andhappy in.'"
"Children? Has he any belongings?" Squire Boone
Daniel looked puzzled. "I've heerd it said he had a wife, though henever telled nie of her."
"I've seed her," Neely put in. "She was one of Jake Early's daughters upto Walsing Springs. She didn't live no more than a couple of years afterthey was wed. She left a gal behind her, a mighty finelooking gal.They tell me she's married on young Abe Hanks, I did hear that Abe wasthinking of coming west, but them as told me allowed that Abe hadn'tgot the right kinder wife for the Border. Polly Hanker they called her,along of her being Polly Hanks, and likewise wantin' more than otherfolks had to get along with. See?"
This piece of news woke Daniel Boone to attention. "Tell me about Jim'sgal," he demanded.
"Pretty as a peach," said Neely "Small, not higher nor Abe's shoulder,and as light on her feet as a deer. She had a softish laughing look inher eyes that made the lads wild for her. But she wasn't for them and Ireckon she wasn't for Abe neither. She was nicely eddicated, though shehad jest had field-schooling like the rest, for her dad used to readbooks and tell her about 'em. One time he took her to Richmond forthe better part of a winter, where she larned dancing and music. Theneighbours allowed that turned her head. Ye couldn't please her withclothes, for she wouldn't look at the sun-bonnets and nettle-linen thatother gals wore. She must have a neat little bonnet and send to town forpretty dresses.... The women couldn't abide her, for she had a high wayof looking at 'em and talking at 'em as if they was jest black trash.But the men 'ud walk miles to see her on a Sunday.... I never could jestunderstand why she took Abe Hanks. 'Twasn't for lack of better offers."
"I reckon that's women's ways," said Boone meditatively. "She mustha' favoured Jim, though he wasn't partickler about his clothes.Discontented, ye say she was?"
"Aye. Discontented. She was meant for a fine lady, I reckon. I dunnowhat she wanted, but anyhow it was something that Abe Hanks ain't likelyto give her. I can't jest picture her in Kaintuck'!"
Squire Boone was asleep, and Daniel drew the flap of his buffalo robeover his head and prepared to follow suit. His last act was to sniff theair. "Please God the weather mends," he muttered. "I've got to find oldJim."
Very early next morning there was a consultation. Lovelle had notappeared and hunting was impossible on two shoots of powder. It wasarranged that two of them should keep camp that day by the limestonecliff while Daniel Boone went in search of the missing man, for it waspossible that Jim Lovelle had gone to seek ammunition from friendlyIndians. If he did not turn up or if he returned without powder, therewould be nothing for it but to send a messenger back through the Gap forsupplies.
The dawn was blue and cloudless and the air had the freshness ofa second spring. The autumn colour glowed once more, only a littletarnished; the gold was now copper, the scarlet and vermilion weredulling to crimson. Boone took the road at the earliest light and madefor the place where the day before he had parted from Lovelle. Whenalone he had the habit of talking to himself in an undertone. "Jim washunting down the west bank of that there crick, and I heard a shot aboutnoon beyond them big oaks, so I reckon he'd left the water and gotten onthe ridge." He picked up the trail and followed it with difficulty,for the rain had flattened out the prints. At one point he halted andconsidered. "That's queer," he muttered. "Jim was running here. Itwasn't game, neither, for there's no sign of their tracks." He pointedto the zig-zag of moccasin prints in a patch of gravel. "That's the waya man sets his feet when he's in a hurry."
A little later he stood and sniffed, with his brows wrinkled. He madean epic figure as he leaned forward, every sense strained, every musclealert, slim and shapely as a Greek--the eternal pathfinder. Very gentlyhe smelled the branches of a mulberry thicket.
"There's been an Indian here," he meditated. "I kinder smell the greaseon them twigs. In a hurry, too, or he wouldn't have left his stinkbehind.... In war trim, I reckon." And he took a tiny wisp of scarletfeather from a fork.
Like a hound he nosed about the ground till he found something. "Here'shis print;" he said "He was a-followin' Jim, for see! he has his foot inJim's track. I don't like it. I'm fear'd of what's comin'."
Slowly and painfully he traced the footing, which led through theth
icket towards a long ridge running northward. In an open grassy placehe almost cried out. "The redskin and Jim was friends. See, here's theirprints side by side, going slow. What in thunder was old Jim up to?"
The trail was plainer now, and led along the scarp of the ridge to alittle promontory which gave a great prospect over the flaming forestsand yellow glades. Boone found a crinkle of rock where he flung himselfdown. "It's plain enough," he said. "They come up here to spy. They werefear'd of something, and whatever it was it was coming from the west.See, they kep' under the east side of this ridge so as not to be seen,and they settled down to spy whar they couldn't be obsarved from below.I reckon Jim and the redskin had a pretty good eye for cover."
He examined every inch of the eyrie, sniffing like a pointer dog. "I'mplumb puzzled about this redskin," he confessed. "Shawnee, Cherokee,Chickasaw--it ain't likely Jim would have dealings with 'em. It might beone of them Far Indians."
It appeared as if Lovelle had spent most of the previous afternoon onthe ridge, for he found the remains of his night's fire half way downthe north side in a hollow thatched with vines. It was now about threeo'clock. Boone, stepping delicately, examined the ashes, and then sathimself on the ground and brooded.
When at last he lifted his eyes his face was perplexed.
"I can't make it out nohow. Jim and this Indian was good friends. Theywere feelin' pretty safe, for they made a mighty careless fire anddidn't stop to tidy it up. But likewise they was restless, for theystarted out long before morning.... I read it this way. Jim met aredskin that he knowed before and thought he could trust anyhow, andhe's gone off with him seeking powder. It'd be like Jim to dash offalone and play his hand like that. He figured he'd come back to us withwhat we needed and that we'd have the sense to wait for him. I guessthat's right. But I'm uneasy about the redskin. If he's from northof the river, there's a Mingo camp somewhere about and they've gonethere.... I never had much notion of Seneca Indians, and I reckon Jim'stook a big risk."
All evening he followed the trail, which crossed the low hills into thecorn-brakes and woodlands of a broader valley. Presently he saw that hehad been right, and that Lovelle and the Indian had begun theirjourney in the night, for the prints showed like those of travellersin darkness. Before sunset Boone grew very anxious. He found tracesconverging, till a clear path was worn in the grass like a regulationwar trail. It was not one of the known trails, so it had been made for apurpose; he found on tree trunks the tiny blazons of the scouts who hadbeen sent ahead to survey it. It was a war party of Mingos, or whoeverthey might be, and he did not like it. He was puzzled to know whatpurchase Jim could have with those outland folk.... And yet he hadbeen on friendly terms with the scout he had picked up.... Another factdisturbed him. Lovelle's print had been clear enough till the otherIndians joined him. The light was bad, but now that print seemed to havedisappeared. It might be due to the general thronging of marks in thetrail, but it might be that Jim was a prisoner, trussed and helpless.
He supped off cold jerked bear's meat and slept two hours in the canes,waiting on the moonrise. He had bad dreams, for he seemed to hear drumsbeating the eerie tattoo which he remembered long ago in Border raids.He woke in a sweat, and took the road again in the moonlight. It was nothard to follow, and it seemed to be making north for the Ohio. Dawn cameon him in a grassy bottom, beyond which lay low hills that he knew aloneseparated him from the great river. Once in the Indian Moon of Blossomhe had been thus far, and had gloried in the riches of the place, wherea man walked knee deep in honeyed clover. "The dark and bloody land!"He remembered how he had repeated the name to himself, and had concludedthat Lovelle had been right and that it was none of the Almighty'sgiving. Now in the sharp autumn morning he felt its justice. A cloud hadcome over his cheerful soul. "If only I knowed about Jim," he muttered"I wonder if I'll ever clap eyes onr his old face again." Never beforehad he known such acute anxiety. Pioneers are wont to trust each otherand in their wild risks assume that the odd chance is on their side.But now black forebodings possessed him, born not of reasoning but ofinstinct. His comrade somewhere just ahead of him was in deadly peril.
And then came the drums.
The sound broke into the still dawn with a harsh challenge. They werewar drums, beaten as he remembered them in Montgomery's campaign. Hequickened his steady hunter's lope into a run, and left the trail forthe thickets of the hill-side. The camp was less than a mile off and hewas taking no chances.
As he climbed the hill the drums grew louder, till it seemed that thewhole world rocked with their noise. He told himself feverishly thatthere was nothing to fear; Jim was with friends, who had been south ofthe river on their own business and would give him the powder he wanted.Presently they would be returning to the camp together, and in themonths to come he and Jim would make that broad road through the Gap,at the end of which would spring up smiling farmsteads and townshipsof their own naming. He told himself these things, but he knew that helied.
At last, flat on the earth, he peered through the vines on the northedge of the ridge. Below him, half a mile off, rolled the Ohio, a littleswollen by the rains There was a broad ford, and the waters had spilledout over the fringe of sand. Just under him, between the bluff andthe river, lay the Mingo camp, every detail of it plain in the crispweather.
In the heart of it a figure stood bound to a stake, and a smoky fireburned at its feet.... There was no mistaking that figure.
Boone bit the grass in a passion of fury. His first impulse was to rushmadly into the savages' camp and avenge his friend. He had half risen tohis feet when his reason told him it was folly. He had no weapon butaxe and knife, and would only add another scalp to their triumph. HisDeckard was slung on his back, but he had no powder. Oh, to be able tosend a bullet through Jim's head to cut short his torment! In all hislife he had never known such mental anguish, waiting there an impotentwitness of the agony of his friend. The blood trickled from his bittenlips and film was over his eyes.... Lovelle was dying for him and theothers. He saw it all with bitter clearness. Jim had been inveigled tothe Mingo camp taking risks as he always did, and there been ordered toreveal the whereabouts of the hunting party. He had refused, and enduredthe ordeal... Memories of their long comradeship rushed through Boone'smind and set him weeping in a fury of affection. There was never such aman as old Jim, so trusty and wise and kind, and now that great soul wasbeing tortured out of that stalwart body and he could only look on likea baby and cry.
As he gazed, it became plain that the man at the stake was dead. Hishead had fallen on his chest, and the Indians were cutting the greenwithies that bound him. Boone looked to see them take his scalp, and sowild was his rage that his knees were already bending for the onslaughtwhich should be the death of him and haply of one or two of themurderers.
But no knife was raised. The Indians seemed to consult together, and oneof them gave an order. Deerskins were brought and the body was carefullywrapped in them and laid on a litter of branches. Their handling of itseemed almost reverent. The camp was moving, the horses were saddled,and presently the whole band began to file off towards the forest. Thesight held Boone motionless. His fury had gone and only wonder andawe remained. As they passed the dead, each Indian raised his axe insalute--the salute to a great chief. The next minute they were splashingthrough the ford.
An hour later, when the invaders had disappeared on the northern levels,Boone slipped down from the bluff to the camping place. He stood stilla long time by his friend, taking off his deerskin cap, so that his longblack hair was blown over his shoulders.
"Jim, boy," he said softly. "I reckon you was the general of us all. Thelikes of you won't come again. I'd like ye to have Christian burial."
With his knife he hollowed a grave, where he placed the body, stillwrapped in its deerskins. He noted on a finger of one hand a gold ring,a queer possession for a backwoodsman. This he took off and dropped intothe pouch which hung round his neck. "I reckon it'd better go to Mis'Hanks. Jim's gal 'ud valley it mor'n a wanderi
n' coyote."
When he had filled in the earth he knelt among the grasses and repeatedthe Lord's Prayer as well as he could remember it. Then he stood up andrubbed with his hard brown knuckles the dimness from his eyes.
"Ye was allus lookin' for something, Jim," he said. "I guess ye've foundit now. Good luck to ye, old comrade."