CHAPTER II
WHAT A RIFLE-SHOT DID
The moment the young Kentuckian assumed this attitude, he becameaware that the cougar had determined upon hostilities.
With a rasping snarl he buried his claws in the shaggy bark,pressing his body still closer to the limb, and then shot downwardstraight toward Jack, who was too vigilant to be caught unprepared.Leaping backward a couple of steps, he brought his gun to hisshoulder, like a flash, and fired almost at the moment the animalleft his perch. There could be no miss under the circumstances, andthe "painter" received his death wound, as may be said, while inmid-air. He struck the ground with a heavy thump, made a blind leaptoward the youthful hunter, who recoiled several steps more, andthen, after a brief struggle, the beast lay dead.
During these moments, Jack Carleton, following the rule he wastaught when first given his gun, occupied himself with reloading theweapon. A charge of powder was poured from the hollow cow's horn,with its wooden stopper, into the palm of his hand, and this wentrattling like fine sand down the barrel. The square piece of muslinwas hammered on top until the ramrod almost bounded from the gun;then the bullet which the youthful hunter had molded himself, wasshoved gently but firmly downward, backed by another bit of muslin.The ramrod was pushed into its place, and the hammer, clasping the yellow,translucent flint, was drawn far back, like the jaw of a wild cat,and the black grains sprinkled into the pan. The jaw was slowly letback so as to hold the priming fast, and the old fashioned rifle, suchas our grandfathers were accustomed to use, was ready for duty.
Jack surveyed the motionless figure on the ground and said:
"I don't think you'll ever amount to anything again as a painter; atany rate, you ain't likely to drop on to a fellow's head when he iswalking under a tree."
And, without giving him any further notice, he turned about andresumed his walk toward the Mississippi.
It was vain, however, for him to seek to suppress his anxiety. Thetrail of the flying horse still indicated that he was going on adead run, and some unusual cause must have impelled him to do so.Jack could not doubt that his friend Otto was driven to such severeeffort by the appearance of Indians, but it would seem that theterrific gait of the Steed ought to have taken him beyond all dangervery speedily, whereas, for more than a mile, the pace showed notthe slightest diminution.
At the most, Otto was not more than an hour in advance, and hisfriend, therefore, had good reason to fear he was in the immediatevicinity of the dreaded red men.
The young hunter was brave, but he was not reckless. He had refusedto turn aside to avoid a collision with the cougar, but he did nothesitate to leave the trail, in the hope of escaping the savages whowere likely to be attracted by the report of the gun.
From the beginning the lad had stepped as lightly as possible,bringing his feet softly but squarely down on the ground, after thefashion of the American Indian, when threading his way through thetrackless forest. He now used the utmost care in leaving the trail,for none knew better than he the amazing keenness of the dark eyesthat were liable to scan the ground over which he had passed.
Not until he was several rods from the footprints of the flyinghorse did he advance with anything like assurance. He then movedwith more certainty until he reached a chestnut, whose trunk wasbroad enough to afford all the concealment he could desire.
Stepping behind this, Jack assumed a position which gave him a viewof the trail, with no likelihood of being seen, unless the suspicionof the Indians should be directed to the spot.
"If they are coming, it is time they showed themselves."
The words were yet in the mouth of the youth, when something seemedto twinkle and flicker among the trees, in advance of the pointwhere he had turned aside from the path. A second look allowed thattwo Indian warriors were returning along the trail.
He recognized them as Shawanoes--one of the fiercest tribes thatresisted the march of civilization a century ago. It may be saidthat they corresponded to the Apaches of the present day.
The couple were scrutinizing the ground, as they advanced with headsthrown forward and their serpent-like eyes flitting from side toside. Manifestly they were expecting to discover certain partiesalong the trail itself. There may have been something in thepeculiar sound of the rifle, which raised their suspicions, thoughit is hard to understand wherein the report of two similarly madeweapons can possess any perceptible difference.
Be that as it may, that which Jack Carleton feared had takenplace--the shot which killed the cougar brought far more dangerousenemies to the spot.
The lad would have had no difficulty in picking off one of thewarriors, but he had not the remotest intention of doing so. Therecould be no justification for such a wanton act, and the consequencescould not fail to be disastrous to himself. He was never betterprepared to support the creed of the frontiersmen who would willinglyleave the red men unmolested if they in turn sought to do them no harm.
The Shawanoes soon passed by, making no pause until they reached thecarcass of the panther. They quickly saw the bullet-wound, betweenhis fore legs, and understood that his heart had been pierced whilein the act of leaping from his perch upon the hunter beneath. Abrief scrutiny of the ground brought to light the impressions of thecalf-skin shoes of him who had fired the fatal shot.
They understood at once that the party was a white person, and,judging from the size of the footprints, he clearly was an adult-onewho, it was safe to conclude, was able to taking good care ofhimself; but it must have been a relief to the warriors when theirexamination of the earth showed that only a single member of thedetested race had been concerned in the death of the cougar.
That which followed was precisely what the watcher expected. Themoment the red men were certain of the direction taken by the hunterthey started along the same line. The foremost looked down for aninstant at the ground, and then seemed to dart a glance at everyvisible point around him. The other warrior did not once look down,but guarded against running into any ambush for it need not be saidthat the task on which they were engaged was most delicate anddangerous.
The American Indian cannot excel the white man in woodcraft andsubtlety, and no Kentucky pioneer ever stood still and allowed adusky foe to creep upon him.
It will be conceded that a point had been reached where JackCarleton had good cause for alarm. Those Shawanoe were followinghis trail, and they had but to keep it up for a short distance whenhe was certain to be "uncovered."
"I wish there was only one of them," muttered the youth, stealthilypeering from behind the tree; "it will be hard to manage two."
The coolness of Jack was extraordinary. Though he felt thesituation was critical in the highest degree, yet there was not atremor of the muscles, nor blanching of the countenance, as it wouldseem was inevitable when such a desperate encounter impended.
There was a single, shadowy hope; it was fast growing dark in thewoods, and the eyes of the Shawanoes, keen as they were, must soonfail them. The sun had set and twilight already filled the forestarches with gloom.
Peering around the bark, Jack saw the leading Indian bend lower,leaving to the other the task of guarding against mishap. He walkedmore slowly; it was plain his task was not only difficult, but wasbecoming more so every moment.
Jack followed the movements with rapt attention. Knowing theprecise point where he had left the path, his heart throbbed fasterthan was its wont, when he saw his enemies close to the tingle inhis course. A half minute later they were beyond--they had overrunhis trail.
A short distance only was passed, when the warriors seemed tosuspect the truth. They came to a halt, and the trail-hunter sankupon his knees. His head was so close to the ground that it lookedas if he were drawing lines and figures with his curving nose, whichslowly circled around and back and forth. At the same time the palmof his right hand gently moved over the leaves, touching them aslightly as the falling snowflakes, and with as wonderful delicacy asthat of the blind reader, when his finger
s are groping over theraised letters of the Book of Life.
The young Kentuckian from his place of concealment smiled tohimself.
"There are some things which even a Shawanoe, cannot do, and that'sone of them."
Such was the fact; for, with that care which the trained pioneernever permits himself to forget or disregard, the lad had adoptedevery artifice at his command to add to the difficulty ofidentifying his footsteps.
The warrior straightened up with an impatient "Ugh!" which broughtanother smile to the face of the watcher, for it proved beyondquestion the failure of his foes.
The Shawanoe, however, had established one fact--the overrunning ofthe trail. The one for whom they were searching had left the pathat some point behind them. Scant chance was there of learning theprecise spot.
"Follow me if you can," was the exultant thought of Jack, whocarefully lowered the hammer of his rifle. "I'm glad that as thepainter was determined on picking a quarrel with me he did not do itearlier in the day--helloa!"
While speaking to himself, he became aware that the warriors wereinvisible. They may have believed they were acting as oscillatingtargets for some hidden enemy, who was likely to press the triggerat any moment; and, unable even to approximate as they were hisbiding-place, they withdrew in their characteristic fashion.
Jack thrust his head still further from behind the tree, and finallystepped forth that he might obtain the best view he could. But thered men had vanished like the shadows of swiftly-moving clouds.Nothing more was to be feared from that source.
But with the lifting of the peril from his own shoulders, therereturned his distressing anxiety for his absent companion. No doubtcould exist that when he put his horse to his hurried flight, he haddone so to escape the Indians. Whether he had succeeded remained tobe learned, but Jack felt that every probability was against it.
He might well debate as to his own duty in the premises. His onedesire was to learn what had become of Otto, the German lad, withwhom he left the Settlements a couple of days before. Neither hadever visited this section, but they were following the instructionsof those who had, and the young Kentuckian knew the precise point intheir journey that had been reached.
Standing as motionless as the trees beside him and amid thedarkening shadows, Jack Carleton listened with the intentness of anIndian scout stealing into a hostile camp.
The soft murmur which seems to reach us when a sea-shell is held tothe ear filled the air. It was the voice of the night--the sighingof the scarcely moving wind among the multitudinous branches, therestless movements of myriads of trees--the soft embrace of millionsof leaves, which, like the great ocean itself, even when the air ispulseless, is never at rest.
Jack Carleton had spent too many days and nights in the woods to begreatly impressed with the solemnity and grandeur of hissurroundings. That which would have awed his soul, if noted for thefirst time, had lost the power to do so from its familiarity; butwhile in the attitude of listening, he became conscious of anothersound which did not belong to the vast forest, the throbbing air,nor the gathering darkness.
The Lost Trail Page 2