A light canoe of bark, containing a single human figure, moved swiftly
up one of the twin streams that form the Ohio. The water, clear and
deep, coming through rocky soil, babbled gently at the edges, where it
lapped the land, but in the center the full current flowed steadily and
without noise.
The thin shadows of early dusk were falling, casting a pallid tint over
the world, a tint touched here and there with living fire from the sun,
which was gone, though leaving burning embers behind. One glowing shaft,
piercing straight through the heavy forest that clothed either bank,
fell directly upon the figure in the boat, as a hidden light illuminates
a great picture, while the rest is left in shadow. It was no common
forest runner who sat in the middle of the red beam. Yet a boy, in
nothing but years, he swung the great paddle with an ease and vigor that
the strongest man in the West might have envied. His rifle, with the
stock carved beautifully, and the long, slender blue barrel of the
border, lay by his side. He could bring the paddle into the boat,
grasp the rifle, and carry it to his shoulder with a single, continuous
movement.
His most remarkable aspect, one that the casual observer even would have
noticed, was an extraordinary vitality. He created in the minds of those
who saw him a feeling that he lived intensely every moment of his life.
Born and-bred in the forest, he was essentially its child, a perfect
physical being, trained by the utmost hardship and danger, and with
every faculty, mental and physical, in complete coordination. It is only
by a singular combination of time and place, and only once in millions
of chances, that Nature produces such a being.
The canoe remained a few moments in the center of the red light, and its
occupant, with a slight swaying motion of the paddle, held it steady in
the current, while he listened. Every feature stood out in the glow, the
firm chin, the straight strong nose, the blue eyes, and the thick yellow
hair. The red blue, and yellow beads on his dress of beautifully tanned
deerskin flashed in the brilliant rays. He was the great picture of
fact, not of fancy, a human being animated by a living, dauntless soul.
He gave the paddle a single sweep and shot from the light into the
shadow. His canoe did not stop until it grazed the northern shore, where
bushes and overhanging boughs made a deep shadow. It would have taken
a keen eye now to have seen either the canoe or its occupant, and
Henry Ware paddled slowly and without noise in the darkest heart of the
shadow.
The sunlight lingered a little longer in the center of the stream. Then
the red changed to pink. The pink, in its turn, faded, and the whole
surface of the river was somber gray, flowing between two lines of black
forest.
The coming of the darkness did not stop the boy. He swung a little
farther out into the stream, where the bushes and hanging boughs would
not get in his way, and continued his course with some increase of
speed.
The great paddle swung swiftly through the water, and the length of
stroke was amazing, but the boy's breath did not come faster, and the
muscles on his arms and shoulders rippled as if it were the play of
a child. Henry was in waters unknown to him. He had nothing more than
hearsay upon which to rely, and he used all the wilderness caution that
he had acquired through nature and training. He called into use every
faculty of his perfect physical being. His trained eyes continually
pierced the darkness. At times, he stopped and listened with ears that
could hear the footfall of the rabbit, but neither eye nor ear brought
report of anything unusual. The river flowed with a soft, sighing sound.
Now and then a wild creature stirred in the forest, and once a deer
came down to the margin to drink, but this was the ordinary life of the
woods, and he passed it by.
He went on, hour after hour. The river narrowed. The banks grew higher
and rockier, and the water, deep and silvery under the moon, flowed in
a somewhat swifter current. Henry gave a little stronger sweep to the
paddle, and the speed of the canoe was maintained. He still kept within
the shadow of the northern bank.
He noticed after a while that fleecy vapor was floating before the moon.
The night seemed to be darkening, and a rising wind came out of the
southwest. The touch of the air on, his face was damp. It was the token
of rain, and he felt that it would not be delayed long.
It was no part of his plan to be caught in a storm on the Monongahela.
Besides the discomfort, heavy rain and wind might sink his frail canoe,
and he looked for a refuge. The river was widening again, and the banks
sank down until they were but little above the water. Presently he saw
a place that he knew would be suitable, a stretch of thick bushes and
weeds growing into the very edge of the water, and extending a hundred
yards or more along the shore.
He pushed his canoe far into the undergrowth, and then stopped it in
shelter so close that, keen as his own eyes were, he could scarcely see
the main stream of the river. The water where he came to rest was not
more than a foot deep, but he remained in the canoe, half reclining and
wrapping closely around himself and his rifle a beautiful blanket woven
of the tightest fiber.
His position, with his head resting on the edge of the canoe and his
shoulder pressed against the side, was full of comfort to him, and he
awaited calmly whatever might come. Here and there were little spaces
among the leaves overhead, and through them he saw a moon, now almost
hidden by thick and rolling vapors, and a sky that had grown dark and
somber. The last timid star had ceased to twinkle, and the rising wind
was wet and cold. He was glad of the blanket, and, skilled forest runner
that he was, he never traveled without it. Henry remained perfectly
still. The light canoe did not move beneath his weight the fraction
of an inch. His upturned eyes saw the little cubes of sky that showed
through the leaves grow darker and darker. The bushes about him were
now bending before the wind, which blew steadily from the south, and
presently drops of rain began to fall lightly on the water.
The boy, alone in the midst of all that vast wilderness, surrounded by
danger in its most cruel forms, and with a black midnight sky above him,
felt neither fear nor awe. Being what nature and circumstance had made
him, he was conscious, instead, of a deep sense of peace and comfort.
He was at ease, in a nest for the night, and there was only the remotest
possibility that the prying eye of an enemy would see him. The leaves
directly over his head were so thick that they formed a canopy, and, as
he heard the drops fall upon them, it was like the rain on a roof, that
soothes the one beneath its shelter.
Distant lightning flared once or twice, and low thunder rolled along the
southern horizon, but both soon ceased, and then a rain, not hard, but
cold and persistent, began to fall, coming straight down. Henry saw that
it might last all night, but he merely eased himself a little in the
canoe, drew the edges of the blanket around his chin, and let his
eyelids droop.
The rain was now seeping through the leafy canopy of green, but he did
not care. It could not penetrate the close fiber of the blanket, and the
fur cap drawn far down on his head met the blanket. Only his face was
uncovered, and when a cold drop fell upon it, it was to him, hardened by
forest life, cool and pleasant to the touch.
Although the eyelids still drooped, he did not yet feel the tendency to
sleep. It was merely a deep, luxurious rest, with the body completely
relaxed, but with the senses alert. The wind ceased to blow, and the
rain came down straight with an even beat that was not unmusical. No
other sound was heard in the forest, as the ripple of the river at the
edges was merged into it. Henry began to feel the desire for sleep by
and by, and, laying the paddle across the boat in such a way that it
sheltered his face, he closed his eyes. In five minutes he would have
been sleeping as soundly as a man in a warm bed under a roof, but with
a quick motion he suddenly put the paddle aside and raised himself a
little in the canoe, while one hand slipped down under the folds of the
blanket to the hammer of his rifle.
His ear had told him in time that there was a new sound on the river. He
heard it faintly above the even beat of the rain, a soft sound, long and
sighing, but regular. He listened, and then he knew it. It was made by
oars, many of them swung in unison, keeping admirable time.
Henry did not yet feel fear, although it must be a long boat full of
Indian warriors, as it was not likely, that anybody else would be abroad
upon these waters at such a time. He made no attempt to move. Where he
lay it was black as the darkest cave, and his cool judgment told him
that there was no need of flight.
The regular rhythmic beat of the oars came nearer, and presently as he
looked through the covert of leaves the dusky outline of a great war
canoe came into view. It contained at least twenty warriors, of what
tribe he could not tell, but they were wet, and they looked cold and
miserable. Soon they were opposite him, and he saw the outline of every
figure. Scalp locks drooped in the rain, and he knew that the warriors,
hardy as they might be, were suffering.
Henry expected to see the long boat pass on, but it was turned toward
a shelving bank fifty or sixty yards below, and they beached it there.
Then all sprang out, drew it up on the land, and, after turning it over,
propped it up at an angle. When this was done they sat under it in a
close group, sheltered from the rain. They were using their great canoe
as a roof, after the habit of Shawnees and Wyandots.
The boy watched them for a long time through one of the little openings
in the bushes, and he believed that they would remain as they were all
night, but presently he saw a movement among them, and a little flash
of light. He understood it. They were trying to kindle a fire-with flint
and steel, under the shelter of the boat. He continued to watch them
'lazily and without alarm.
Their fire, if they succeeded in making it, would cast no light upon him
in the dense covert, but they would be outlined against the flame, and
he could see them better, well enough, perhaps, to tell to what tribe
they belonged.
He watched under his lowered eyelids while the warriors, gathered in
a close group to make a shelter from stray puffs of wind, strove with
flint and steel. Sparks sprang up and went out, but Henry at last saw a
little blaze rise and cling to life. Then, fed with tinder and bark, it
grew under the roof made by the boat until it was ruddy and strong. The
boat was tilted farther back, and the fire, continuing to grow, crackled
cheerfully, while the flames leaped higher.
By a curious transfer of the senses, Henry, as he lay in the thick
blackness felt the influence of the fire, also. Its warmth was upon his
face, and it was pleasing to see the red and yellow light victorious
against the sodden background of the rain and dripping forest. The
figures of the warriors passed and repassed before the fire, and the boy
in the boat moved suddenly. His body was not shifted more than an inch,
but his surprise was great.
A warrior stood between him and the fire, outlined perfectly against
the red light. It was a splendid figure, young, much beyond the average
height, the erect and noble head crowned with the defiant scalplock, the
strong, slightly curved nose and the massive chin cut as clearly as if
they had been carved in copper. The man who had laid aside a wet blanket
was bare now to the waist, and Henry could see the powerful muscles play
on chest and shoulders as he moved.
The boy knew him. It was Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the
Wyandots, the youngest, but the boldest and ablest of all the Western
chiefs. Henry's pulses leaped a little at the sight of his old foe and
almost friend. As always, he felt admiration at the sight of the
young chief. It was not likely that he would ever behold such another
magnificent specimen of savage manhood.
The presence of Timmendiquas so far east was also full of significance.
The great fleet under Adam Colfax, and with Henry and his comrades in
the van, had reached Pittsburgh at last. Thence the arms, ammunition,
and other supplies were started on the overland journey for the American
army, but the five lingered before beginning the return to Kentucky.
A rumor came that the Indian alliance was spreading along the entire
frontier, both west and north. It was said that Timmendiquas, stung to
fiery energy by his defeats, was coming east to form a league with the
Iroquois, the famous Six Nations. These warlike tribes were friendly
with the Wyandots, and the league would be a formidable danger to the
Colonies, the full strength of which was absorbed already in the great
war.
But the report was a new call of battle to Henry, Shif'less Sol, and the
others. The return to Kentucky was postponed. They could be of greater
service here, and they plunged into the great woods to the north and,
east to see what might be stirring among the warriors.
Now Henry, as he looked at Timmendiquas, knew that report had told
the truth. The great chief would not be on the fringe of the Iroquois
country, if he did not have such a plan, and he had the energy and
ability to carry it through. Henry shuddered at the thought of the
tomahawk flashing along every mile of a frontier so vast, and defended
so thinly. He was glad in every fiber that he and his comrades had
remained to hang upon the Indian hordes, and be heralds of their
marches. In the forest a warning usually meant the saving of life.
The rain ceased after a while, although water dripped from the trees
everywhere. But the big fire made an area of dry earth about it, and the
warriors replaced the long boat in the water. Then all but four or five
of them lay beside the coals and went to sleep. Timmendiquas was one of
those who remained awake, and Henry saw that he was in deep thought. He
walked back and forth much like a white man, and now and then he folded
his hands behind his back, looking toward the earth, but not seeing it.
Henry could guess what was in his mind. He would draw forth the full
power of the Six Nations, league them with the Indians of the great
valley, and hurl them all in one mass upon the frontier. He was planning
now the means to the end.
The chief, in his little walks back and forth, came close to the edge of
the bushes in which Henry lay, It was not at all probable that he
would conclude to search among them, but some accident, a chance, might
happen, and Henry began to feel a little alarm. Certainly, the coming
of the day would make his refuge insecure, and he resolved to slip away
while it was yet light.
The boy rose a little in the boat, slowly and with the utmost caution,
because the slightest sound out of the common might arouse Timmendiquas
to the knowledge of a hostile presence. The canoe must make no plash in
the water. Gradually he unwrapped the blanket and tied it in a folded
square at his back. Then he took thought a few moments. The forest was
so silent now that he did not believe he could push the canoe through
the bushes without being heard. He would leave it there for use another
day and go on foot through the woods to his comrades.
Slowly he put one foot down the side until it rested on the bottom, and
then he remained still. The chief had paused in his restless walk back
and forth. Could it be possible that he had heard so slight a sound as
that of a human foot sinking softly into the water? Henry waited with
his rifle ready. If necessary he would fire, and then dart away among
the bushes.
Five or six intense moments passed, and the chief resumed his restless
pacing. If he had heard, he had passed it by as nothing, and Henry
raised the other foot out of the canoe. He was as delicate in his
movement as a surgeon mending the human eye, and he had full cause, as
not eye alone, but life as well, depended upon his success. Both feet
now rested upon the muddy bottom, and he stood there clear of the boat.
The chief did not stop again, and as the fire had burned higher, his
features were disclosed more plainly in his restless walk back and
forth before the flames. Henry took a final look at the lofty features,
contracted now into a frown, then began to wade among the bushes,
pushing his way softly. This was the most delicate and difficult task of
all. The water must not be allowed to plash around him nor the bushes
to rustle as he passed. Forward he went a yard, then two, five, ten, and
his feet were about to rest upon solid earth, when a stick submerged
in the mud broke under his moccasin with a snap singularly loud in the
silence of the night.
Henry sprang at once upon dry land, whence he cast back a single swift
glance. He saw the chief standing rigid and gazing in the direction from
which the sound had come. Other warriors were just behind him, following
his look, aware that there was an unexpected presence in the forest, and
resolved to know its nature.
Henry ran northward. So confident was he in his powers and the
protecting darkness of the night that he sent back a sharp cry, piercing
and defiant, a cry of a quality that could come only from a white
throat. The warriors would know it, and he intended for them to know it.
Then, holding his rifle almost parallel with his body, he darted swiftly
away through the black spaces of the forest. But an answering cry came
to his, the Indian yell taking up his challenge, and saying that the
night would not check pursuit.
Henry maintained his swift pace for a long time, choosing the more open
places that he might make no noise among the bushes and leaves. Now and
then water dripped in his face, and his moccasins were wet from the long
grass, but his body was warm and dry, and he felt little weariness. The
clouds were now all gone, and the stars sprang out, dancing in a sky of
dusky blue. Trained eyes could see far in the forest despite the night,
and Henry felt that he must be wary. He recalled the skill and tenacity
of Timmendiquas. A fugitive could scarcely be trailed in the darkness,
but the great chief would spread out his forces like a fan and follow.
He had been running perhaps three hours when he concluded to stop in a
thicket, where he lay down on the damp grass, and rested with his head
under his arm.
His breath had been coming a little faster, but his heart now resumed
its regular beat. Then he heard a soft sound, that of footsteps. He
thought at first that some wild animal was prowling near, but second
thought convinced him that human beings had come. Gazing through the
thicket, he saw an Indian warrior walking among the trees, looking
searchingly about him as if he were a scout. Another, coming from a
different direction, approached him, and Henry felt sure that they were
of the party of Timmendiquas. They had followed him in some manner,
perhaps by chance, and it behooved Mm now to lie close.
A third warrior joined them and they began to examine the ground. Henry
realized that it was much lighter. Keen eyes under such a starry sky
could see much, and they might strike his trail. The fear quickly became
fact. One of the warriors, uttering a short cry, raised his head and
beckoned to the others. He had seen broken twigs or trampled grass, and
Henry, knowing that it was no time to hesitate, sprang from his covert.
Two of the warriors caught a glimpse of his dusky figure and fired, the
bullets cutting the leaves close to his head, but Henry ran so fast that
he was lost to view in an instant.
The boy was conscious that his position contained many elements of
danger. He was about to have another example of the tenacity and
resource of the great young chief of the Wyandots, and he felt a certain
anger. He, did not wish to be disturbed in his plans, he wished to
rejoin his comrades and move farther east toward the chosen lands of
the Six Nations; instead, he must spend precious moments running for his
life.
Henry did not now flee toward the camp of his friends. He was too wise,
too unselfish, to bring a horde down upon them, and he curved away in a
course that would take him to the south of them. He glanced up and saw
that the heavens were lightening yet more. A thin gray color like a mist
was appearing in the east. It was the herald of day, and now the Indians
would be able to find his trail. But Henry was not afraid. His anger
over the loss of time quickly passed, and he ran swiftly on, the fall of
his moccasins making scarcely any noise as he passed.
It was no unusual incident. Thousands of such pursuits occurred in
the border life of our country, and were lost to the chronicler. For
generations they were almost a part of the daily life of the frontier,
but the present, while not out of the common in itself, had, uncommon
phases. It was the most splendid type of white life in all the
wilderness that fled, and the finest type of red life that followed.
It was impossible for Henry to feel anger or hate toward Timmendiquas.
In his place he would have done what he was doing. It was hard to give
up these great woods and beautiful lakes and rivers, and the wild life
that wild men lived and loved. There was so much chivalry in the boy's
nature that he could think of all these things while he fled to escape
the tomahawk or the stake.
Up came the sun. The gray light turned to silver, and then to red and
blazing gold. A long, swelling note, the triumphant cry of the pursuing
warriors, rose behind him. Henry turned his head for one look. He saw
a group of them poised for a moment on the crest of a low hill and
outlined against the broad flame in the east. He saw their scalp locks,
the rifles in their hands, and their bare chests shining bronze in the
glow. Once more he sent back his defiant cry, now in answer to theirs,
and then, calling upon his reserves of strength and endurance, fled with
a speed that none of the warriors had ever seen surpassed.
Henry's flight lasted all that day, and he used every device to evade
the pursuit, swinging by vines, walking along fallen logs, and wading in
brooks. He did not see the warriors again, but instinct warned him that
they were yet following. At long intervals he would rest for a quarter
of an hour or so among the bushes, and at noon he ate a little of the
venison that he always carried. Three hours later he came to the river
again, and swimming it he turned on his course, but kept to the southern
side. When the twilight was falling once more he sat still in dense
covert for a long time. He neither saw nor heard a sign of human
presence, and he was sure now that the pursuit had failed. Without an
effort he dismissed it from his mind, ate a little more of the venison,
and made his bed for the night.
The whole day had been bright, with a light wind blowing, and the forest
was dry once more. As far as Henry could see it circled away on every
side, a solid dark green, the leaves of oak and beech, maple and elm
making a soft, sighing sound as they waved gently in the wind. It told
Henry of nothing but peace. He had eluded the pursuit, hence it was no
more. This was a great, friendly forest, ready to shelter him, to soothe
him, and to receive him into its arms for peaceful sleep.
He found a place among thick trees where the leaves of last year lay
deep upon the ground. He drew up enough of them for a soft bed, because
now and for the moment he was a forest sybarite. He was wise enough to
take his ease when he found it, knowing that it would pay his body to
relax.
He lay down upon the leaves, placed the rifle by his side, and spread
the blanket over himself and the weapon. The twilight was gone, and the
night, dark and without stars, as he wished to see it, rolled up, fold
after fold, covering and hiding everything. He looked a little while at
a breadth of inky sky showing through the leaves, and then, free from
trouble or fear, he fell asleep.