The Forest Runners A Story of the Great War Trail in Early Kentucky

CHAPTER IX

A CHANGE OF PLACES

Now came a time which Paul did not whol­ly un­der­stand, but which seemed to him a pe­ri­od of test. The re­pulse of the old cou­ple was not per­ma­nent. They came back again and again, invit­ing him to be their son, and pa­tient­ly en­dured all his re­buffs un­til he be­gan to feel a kind of pity for them. Af­ter that he was al­ways gen­tle to them, but he re­mained firm in his re­solve that he would not be­come a sav­age, ei­ther in re­al­ity or pre­tense.

Af­ter a week he was al­lowed to walk in the vil­lage and to look up­on bar­bar­ic life, but he saw not the re­motest chance of es­cape. The place con­tained per­haps five hun­dred souls--men, wom­en, chil­dren, and pa­poos­es--and at least fifty mangy curs, ev­ery one of whom, in­clud­ing the pa­poos­es and curs, seemed to Paul to be watch­ing him. Black eyes fol­lowed him ev­ery­where. Noth­ing that he did es­caped their at­ten­tion. Ev­ery step was not­ed, and he knew that if he went a yard be­yond the vil­lage he would bring a throng of war­riors, squaws, and dogs up­on him. But he was grate­ful for this bit of free­dom, the es­cape from the con­fine­ment of close walls, and the for­est about them, glow­ing with au­tum­nal fo­liage, looked cool and invit­ing. He saw noth­ing of Brax­ton Wy­att, but Red Ea­gle told him one day that he had gone north­ward with a band, hunt­ing. “He good boy,” said Red Ea­gle. Paul shud­dered with dis­gust.

More than two weeks passed thus, and it seemed to Paul that he was not on­ly lost to his own world, but for­got­ten by it. Ken­tucky and all his friends had dipped down un­der the hori­zon, and would nev­er reap­pear. Hen­ry and Ross and Shif'less Sol would cer­tain­ly have come for him if they could, but per­haps they had fall­en, slain in the night bat­tle. His heart stood still at the thought, but he res­olute­ly put it away. It did not seem to him that one of such strength and skill as Hen­ry Ware could be killed.

Paul sat on a rock about the twi­light hour one day, and watched the sun sink­ing in­to the dark for­est. He was in­ex­press­ibly lone­ly, as if for­sak­en of men. Sav­age life still left him un­touched. It made no ap­peal to him any­where, and he longed for Ware­ville, and his kind, which he was now sure he would nev­er see again. Be­hind him rose the usu­al hum of the vil­lage--the bark­ing of dogs, the chat­ter of squaws, and the oc­ca­sion­al grunt of a war­rior. In their way, these peo­ple were cheer­ful. Un­like Paul, they were liv­ing the on­ly life they knew and liked, and had no thoughts of a bet­ter.

The lone­ly boy rose from the rock and walked back to­ward the pole hut, in which they fas­tened him ev­ery night. It had be­come a habit with him now, and he knew that it saved use­less re­sis­tance and a lot of trou­ble. Had he tak­en a sin­gle step to­ward the for­est in­stead of his own prison hut, a score of watch­ful eyes would have been up­on him.

The twi­light melt­ed in­to the dark, and fires gleamed here and there in the vil­lage. Dusky fig­ures passed be­fore and be­hind the fires--those of squaws cook­ing the sup­pers. Paul's eyes wan­dered, idle and un­ob­serv­ing, over the sav­age scene, and then he ut­tered a lit­tle cry of im­pa­tience as a hulk­ing war­rior lurched against him. The man seemed to have tripped up­on a root, an un­usu­al thing for these sure-​foot­ed sons of the for­est, and Paul drew back from him. But the sav­age re­cov­ered him­self, and in a low voice said:

“Paul!”

Paul Cot­ter start­ed vi­olent­ly. It was the first word in good En­glish that he had heard in a time that seemed to be eter­ni­ty--save those of Brax­ton Wy­att, whom he hat­ed--and the ef­fect up­on him was over­pow­er­ing. It was like a voice of hope com­ing sud­den­ly from an­oth­er world.

“Paul,” con­tin­ued the voice, now warn­ing­ly, “don't speak. Go on to your hut. Friends are by.”

Then the hulk­ing and sav­age fig­ure walked away, and Paul knew enough to take no ap­par­ent no­tice, but to con­tin­ue on as if that wel­come voice Had not come out of the dark­ness. Yet a thou­sand lit­tle puls­es with­in him were throb­bing, throb­bing with joy and hope.

But whose was the voice? In his ex­cite­ment he had not no­ticed the tone ex­cept to note that it was a white man's. He glanced back and saw the hulk­ing form near the out­skirts of the vil­lage, but the light was too dim to dis­close any­thing. Hen­ry? No, it was not Hen­ry's fig­ure. Then who was it? A friend, that was cer­tain, and he had said that oth­er friends were by.

Paul walked with a light step to his prison hut, sed­ulous­ly seek­ing to hide the ex­ul­ta­tion in his face. He was not for­got­ten in his world! His friends were ready to risk their lives for him! His heart was leap­ing as he looked through the dusk at the smok­ing camp fires, the dim huts and te­pees, and the shad­owy fig­ures that passed and repassed. He would soon be leav­ing all that sav­age life. He nev­er doubt­ed it.

He came to his prison hut, went calm­ly in­side, and a few min­utes lat­er, the reg­ular time be­ing at hand, the door was fas­tened on the out­side by Red Ea­gle or some of his peo­ple. He might per­haps have forced the door in the night, but he had not con­sid­ered him­self a skill­ful enough woods­man to slip from the vil­lage un­ob­served, and ac­cord­ing­ly he had wait­ed. Now he was very glad of his re­straint.

Paul lay down on the couch of skins, but he was not seek­ing sleep. In­stead he was wait­ing pa­tient­ly, with some­thing of In­di­an sto­icism. He saw through the cracks in his hut the In­di­an fires, yet burn­ing and smok­ing, and the dim fig­ures still pass­ing and repass­ing. There was al­so the faint hum to tell him that sav­age life did not yet sleep, and now and then a mon­grel cur barked. But all things end in time, and af­ter a while these nois­es ceased; even the cure barked no more, and the smok­ing fires sank low.

The In­di­an vil­lage lay at peace, but Paul's heart throbbed with ex­pec­ta­tion. Nor did it throb in vain. A muf­fled sound ap­peared in time at his door. It was some one at work on the fas­ten­ings, and Paul lis­tened with ev­ery nerve a-​quiver. Present­ly the noise ceased, a shaft of pale night light showed, and then was gone. But the door had been opened, and then closed, and some one was in­side.

Paul wait­ed with­out fear. He could bare­ly see a dark, shape­less out­line with­in the dim­ness of his hut, but he was sure it was the fig­ure of the slouch­ing war­rior who had bumped against him. The man stood a mo­ment or two, seek­ing to pierce the dusk with his own eyes, and then he said in a low voice:

“Paul! Paul! Is it you?”

“Yes,” replied Paul, in the same guard­ed tone, “but I don't know who you are.”

The fig­ure swayed a lit­tle and laughed low, but with much amuse­ment.

“It 'pears to me that we are for­got pur­ty soon,” it said. “An' I've worked hard fur a tired man.”

Then Paul knew the fa­mil­iar, whim­si­cal tone. The light had burst up­on him all at once.

“Shif'less Sol!” he ex­claimed.

“Jest me,” said Sol; “an' ain't I about the purtiest Shawnee war­rior you ev­er saw? Why, Paul, I'm so good at playin' a loafin' sav­age from some oth­er vil­lage that nary a Shawnee o' them all has dreamed that I am what I ain't. If ev­er I go back thar in the East, I'm goin' to be a play-​ac­tor, Paul.”

“You can be any­thing on earth you want to be, Sol!” said Paul ju­bi­lant­ly. “It was mighty good of you to come.”

“You'd a-​thought Hen­ry would a-​come,” whis­pered Sol; “but we de­cid­ed that he was too tall an' some­how too strikin'-lookin' to come in here ez a com­mon, ev­ery­day In­jun, so it fell to me to loaf in, me bein' a tired-​lookin' sort o' feller, any­way. But they're out thar in the woods a-​wait­in', Hen­ry an' Tom Ross an' that ornery cuss, Jim Hart.”

“I knew that you fel­lows would nev­er desert me!” ex­claimed Paul.

“Why, o' course not!” said Sol. “We nev­er dreamed o' leav­in' you. Now, Paul, we've got to git through this vil­lage some­how or oth­er. Lucky it's pur­ty dark, an' you'll have to do your best to walk an' look like a Red. Maybe we kin git fur enough to make a good run fur it, and then, with the woods an' the night helpin' us, we may give them the slip. Here, take this.”

He pressed some­thing cold and hard in­to Paul's hand, and Paul slipped the pis­tol in­to his belt, stand­ing erect and feel­ing him­self much of a man.

“It's time to be goin',” said Shif'less Sol.

“I'm ready,” said Paul.

But nei­ther took more than a sin­gle step for­ward, stop­ping to­geth­er as they heard a light noise at the door.

“Thun­der an' light­nin'!” said Shif'less Sol, un­der his breath. “Some­body's sus­pectin'.”

“It looks like it,” breathed Paul.

“Lay down on the skins and pre­tend to be asleep,” said Shif'less Sol.

Paul lay down on the couch at once, in the at­ti­tude of one who slum­bers, and closed his eyes--all but a lit­tle. Shif'less Sol shoved him­self in­to the cor­ner, and blot­ted out his fig­ure against the wall.

The door opened and Brax­ton Wy­att stepped in. What de­cree of fate had caused him to be spy­ing about that night, and what had caused him to find the door of Paul's prison hut un­fas­tened? He stood a few mo­ments, try­ing to ac­cus­tom his eyes to the dark, and he plain­ly heard the reg­ular breath­ing of Paul on the bed of skins. Present­ly he saw the dim, re­cum­bent fig­ure al­so. But he was still sus­pi­cious, and he took a step near­er. Then a big form, pro­ject­ed some­where from the dark, hurled it­self up­on him, and he was thrown head­long to the earth­en floor. Strong fin­gers com­pressed his throat, and he gasped for breath.

“Here, Paul,” said Sol, “tear off a piece o' that skin an' stuff it in­to his mouth.”

Paul, who had leaped to his feet, obeyed at once.

“An' cut off some stout strips o' the same with this knife o' mine,” said Shif'less Sol.

Paul again obeyed at once, and in three min­utes Brax­ton Wy­att lay bound and gagged on the earth­en floor. Shif'less Sol Hyde and Paul Cot­ter stood over him, and looked down at him, and even in the dark they saw the ter­ror of all things in his eyes.

“The Lord has been good to us to-​night, Paul,” said Shif'less Sol, with a cer­tain solem­ni­ty, “an' He wuz best o' all when He sent this hound here a-​spyin'.”

“You know what he is?” said Paul.

“Ef I don't know, I've guessed.”

Then the two stood silent for a lit­tle space, still gaz­ing down at Brax­ton Wy­att, bound and gagged. Paul had nev­er be­fore seen such stark dread in the eyes of any one, and he shud­dered. De­spite him­self, he felt a cer­tain amount of pity.

“He would have lured a boat-​load of our peo­ple in­to the hands of the sav­ages,” he said.

“I'll put this knife in his foul heart, Paul,” said Shif'less Sol.

The bound fig­ure quiv­ered in its bonds, and the eyes be­came wild and ap­peal­ing.

“No, not that,” replied Paul; “I couldn't bear to see any­one help­less put to death.”

“It was just the thought uv a mo­ment,” said Shif'less Sol. “We've got a bet­ter use fur him. It's the one that the Lord sent him here fur. Now, Paul, help me strip off his huntin' shirt.”

They took off Brax­ton Wy­att's hunt­ing shirt, leg­gins, and cap, and Paul put them on, his own tak­ing their place on the form of the gagged youth.

“Now, Paul,” said Shif'less Sol, “you're Brax­ton Wy­att--for a lit­tle while, at least, you've got to stand it--an' he's you. Help me roll him up thar on your bed o' skins, an' he kin sleep in calm an' peace un­til they bring him his break­fast in the mornin'.”

They put Wy­att on the couch, and his eyes glared fierce­ly at them. He strug­gled to speak, but they did not care to hear him. Sol took the weapons from his belt and gave them to Paul.

“Good-​night, Brax­ton,” said Shif'less Sol pleas­ant­ly. “Fine dreams to you. We're glad you came. You hap­pened in jest in time.”

Wy­att quiv­ered con­vul­sive­ly on his bed of skins. Paul was filled with re­pug­nance, but he would not ex­ult. His na­ture would not per­mit him. Shif'less Sol opened the door, and the two stepped out in­to the open air and a dark night. No one was about, and the shift­less one de­lib­er­ate­ly fas­tened the doors on the out­side in the usu­al man­ner. Then he and Paul strolled away through the vil­lage.

“Re­mem­ber that you are Brax­ton Wy­att,” whis­pered Shif'less Sol. “Walk ez near like him ez you kin. You've seen him of­ten enough to know.”

The two saun­tered lazi­ly for­ward. An old squaw, crouched by a low and smok­ing fire, gave one glance at them, but no more. She went on dream­ing of the days when she was young, and when the braves fought for her. A mangy cur barked once, and then lay down again at the foot of a deer-​skin lodge. A war­rior, smok­ing a pipe in his own door­way, looked up, but saw noth­ing un­usu­al, and then looked down again.

The cool­ness of Shif'less Sol was some­thing won­der­ful to see. He mere­ly loafed along, as if he had no ob­ject in the world but to pass away the time, and there was noth­ing in the course he chose to in­di­cate that he meant to reach the for­est. Now and then he spoke ap­par­ent­ly ca­su­al words to Paul, and the boy, in the faint light, wear­ing Brax­ton Wy­att's clothes, might eas­ily pass for Brax­ton Wy­att him­self, even to the keen eyes of the Shawnees.

Present­ly they reached the north­ern end of the vil­lage, the one near­est to the for­est, and it was here that Shif'less Sol in­tend­ed to make the es­cape. Paul kept close to him, and he no­ticed with joy that all the time the light, al­ready faint, was grow­ing fainter. The friend­ly for­est seemed to curve very near. Paul's heart throbbed with painful vi­olence.

Shif'less Sol passed the last wig­wam, and he took a step in­to the open space that di­vid­ed them from the for­est. Paul stepped with him, but a gaunt and weazened fig­ure rose up in their path. It was that of the old squaw who wished a new son, and she stared for a few mo­ments at the clothes of Brax­ton Wy­att, and the fig­ure with­in them. Then she knew, and she ut­tered a shrill cry that was at once a lament and a warn­ing. At the same time she flung her arms around Paul in a ges­ture that was in­tend­ed alike for af­fec­tion and de­ten­tion.

“Run, Paul, run!” ex­claimed Shif'less Sol.

Paul at­tempt­ed to throw off the old wom­an, but she clung to him like a wild cat, show­ing mar­velous strength and tenac­ity for one so lit­tle and weazened and old. Shif'less Sol saw the dif­fi­cul­ty and, seiz­ing her in his pow­er­ful grasp, tore her loose.

“Don't hurt her, Sol!” cried Paul.

Shif'less Sol un­der­stood, and he cast her from them, but not with vi­olence. Then the two ran with ut­most speed and des­per­ate need to­ward the for­est, be­cause the vil­lage be­hind them was up and alive. Lights flared, dogs barked, men shout­ed, and be­fore the friend­ly trees were reached ri­fles be­gan to crack.

“Jumpin' Je­hoshaphat!” cried Shif'less Sol, as a bul­let whis­tled past his ear. “Ef that don't put life in­to a tired man, I don't know what will.”

He ran with amaz­ing swift­ness, and Paul, light-​foot­ed, kept be­side him. But the alert Shawnee war­riors, ev­er quick to an­swer an alarm, were al­ready in fleet pur­suit, and on­ly the dark­ness kept their bul­lets from strik­ing true. Paul looked back once--even in the mo­ment of haste and dan­ger he could not help it--and he saw three war­riors in ad­vance of the oth­ers, com­ing so fast that they must over­take them. He and Sol might beat them off, but one can­not fight well and at the same time es­cape from a mul­ti­tude. His heart sank. He would be re­cap­tured, and with him the gal­lant Shif'less Sol.

Flash­es of fire sud­den­ly ap­peared in the for­est to­ward which they ran, and death cries came from the two war­riors who pur­sued. Shif'less Sol ut­tered an ex­ul­tant gasp.

“The boys!” he said. “They're thar in the woods, a-​helpin'.”

Daunt­ed by the sud­den cov­er­ing fire, the pur­su­ing mob fell back for a few mo­ments, and the two fugi­tives plunged in­to the deep and friend­ly shad­ows of the woods. Three fig­ures, all car­ry­ing smok­ing ri­fles, rose up to meet them. The fig­ures were those of Hen­ry Ware, Tom Ross, and Jim Hart. Hen­ry reached out his hand and gave Paul's a strong and joy­ous grasp.

“Well, Sol has brought you!” he said.

“But Sol's not goin' to stop run­nin' yet for a long time, tired ez he is,” gasped the shift­less one.

“Good ad­vice,” said Hen­ry, laugh­ing low, and with­out an­oth­er word the five ran swift­ly and steadi­ly north­ward through the deep woods. Hen­ry had on his shoul­der an ex­tra ri­fle, which he had brought for Paul, so con­fi­dent was he that Sol would save him; but he said noth­ing about it for the present, pre­fer­ring to car­ry the added weight him­self. They heard be­hind them two or three times the long-​drawn, ter­ri­ble cry with which Paul was so fa­mil­iar, but it did not now send any quiver through him. He was with the ev­er-​gal­lant com­rades who had come for him, and he was ready to de­fy any dan­ger.

Hen­ry Ware, af­ter a while, stopped very sud­den­ly, and the oth­ers stopped with him.

“I think we'd bet­ter turn here,” he said, un­con­scious­ly as­sum­ing his nat­ural po­si­tion of lead­er. “It's not worth while to run our­selves to death. What we've got to do is to hide.”

“Them's blessed words!” gasped Shif'less Sol. “I wuz nev­er so tired in all my born days. Seems to me I've been chased by Shawnees all over this here con­ti­nent of North Ameriky!”

Paul laughed low, from pure plea­sure--plea­sure at his es­cape and plea­sure in the courage, loy­al­ty, and skill of his com­rades.

“You may be tired, Sol,” he said, “but there was nev­er a braver man than you.”

“It ain't brav­ery,” protest­ed the shift­less one. “I get in­to these things afore I know it, an' then I've got to kick like a mule to get out o' 'em.”

But Paul mere­ly laughed low again.

Hen­ry turned from the north to the west, and led now at a pace that was lit­tle more than a walk. Paul and Sol drew deep breaths, as they felt the heav­en­ly air flow­ing back in­to their lungs and the spring re­turn­ing to their mus­cles. They went in In­di­an file, five dusky fig­ures in the shad­ow, a faint moon­light touch­ing them but wan­ly, and all silent. Thus they marched un­til past mid­night, and they heard noth­ing be­hind them. Then their lead­er stopped, and the oth­ers, with­out a word, stopped with him.

“I think we've shak­en 'em off,” said Hen­ry, “and we'd bet­ter rest and sleep. Then we can make up our plans.”

“Good enough,” said Shif'less Sol. “An' ef any man wakes me up afore next week, I'll hev his scalp.”

He sank down at once in his buck­skins on a par­tic­ular­ly soft piece of turf, and in an in­cred­ibly brief space of time he was sound asleep. Jim Hart, dou­bling up his long, thin fig­ure like a jack­knife, im­itat­ed him, and Paul was not long in fol­low­ing them to slum­ber­land. On­ly Hen­ry and Ross re­mained awake and watch­ful, and by and by the moon­light came out and sil­vered their keen and anx­ious faces.