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

CHAPTER XI

A SUD­DEN MEET­ING

Paul and queer, long Jim Hart spent a week to­geth­er on the is­land, and they were pleas­ant days to the boy. He was sure that Hen­ry, Ross, and Sol could take care of them­selves, and he felt lit­tle anx­iety about them. He and Hart stayed well in the woods in the day, and they fished and hunt­ed at night. Hart killed an­oth­er deer, this time swim­ming in the wa­ter, but they eas­ily made sal­vage of the body and took it to land. They al­so shot a bear in the edge of the woods, near the south end of the lake, and Hart quick­ly tanned both deer­skins and the bearskin in a rude fash­ion. He said they would need them as cov­ers at night, and as the weath­er turned a lit­tle cold­er, Paul found that he could use one of the skins quite com­fort­ably.

They built of sticks and brush­wood a crude sort of lean-​to against one of the stony sides that en­closed the cove, and when a rain came they were able to keep quite dry with­in its shel­ter. They al­so found rab­bits on the is­land, some of which they killed, and thus added fur­ther to their larder. These labors of house-​build­ing and house­keep­ing kept them busy, and Paul was sur­prised to find how well con­tent he had be­come. Hart did all the cook­ing, but Paul made amends in oth­er di­rec­tions, and at night, when they were not fish­ing or hunt­ing, they would sit by the lit­tle fire and talk. Once about the noon hour they saw a smoke far to the south, and both re­gard­ed it spec­ula­tive­ly.

“Think like­ly it's an In­jun huntin' par­ty,” said Jim Hart, “an' they don't dream o' any white men bein' about. That's why they are so care­less about their fire, be­cause the dif­fer­ent tribes o' these parts are all at peace with one an­oth­er.”

“How far away would you say that smoke is?” asked Paul.

“Three or four miles, any­way, an' I'm pow'ful glad this is a haunt­ed is­lan', so they won't come over here.”

“So am I,” said Paul de­vout­ly.

He lay on his back on the soft turf, and watched the smoke ris­ing away in a thin spire in­to the heav­ens. He could pic­ture to him­self the sav­age par­ty as it sat about the fire, and it gave him a re­mark­able feel­ing of com­fort and safe­ty to know that he was so well pro­tect­ed by the ghosts that haunt­ed the lit­tle is­land.

The smoke rose there all the morn­ing, but Paul ceased by and by to pay any at­ten­tion to it, al­though he and Jim Hart kept well with­in the cove, busy­ing them­selves with ad­di­tions to their lean-​to. Paul had found great strips of bark shed by the trees, and he used these to patch the roof. More pieces were used for the floor, and, with the bearskin spread over them, it was quite dry and snug. Then he stood off and re­gard­ed it with a crit­ical and ap­prov­ing eye.

“You haven't seen a bet­ter house than that late­ly, have you, Jim?” he said, in a tone of pride.

“Con­sid­erin' the fact that I ain't seen any oth­er uv any kind in a long time, I kin truth­ful­ly say I haven't,” replied Jim Hart sar­don­ical­ly.

“You lack ap­pre­ci­ation, Jim,” said Paul. “Be­sides, your imag­ina­tion is de­fi­cient. Why don't you look at this hut of ours and imag­ine that it is a mag­nif­icent stone cas­tle?”

Jim Hart gazed won­der­ing­ly at the boy.

“Paul,” he said, “you al­ways wuz a puz­zle to me. I can't see no mag­nif­icent stone cas­tle--jest a bark an' brush hut.”

Paul shook his head re­prov­ing­ly.

“I am sor­ry for you, Jim,” he said. “I not on­ly see a mag­nif­icent stone cas­tle, but I see a splen­did town over there on the main­land.”

“You talk plumb fool­ish, Paul,” said Jim Hart.

“They are all com­ing,” said Paul.

But Jim Hart con­tin­ued to see on­ly the bark and brush hut on the is­land, and the vast and un­bro­ken wilder­ness on the main­land. His eyes roved back, from the main­land to the hut.

“Now, ef I had an ax an' a saw,” he said re­gret­ful­ly, “I could make that look like some­thin'. I'm a good cook, ef I do say it, Paul, but I'd like to be a fust-​class car­pen­ter. Thar ain't no chance, though, out here, whar thar ain't noth­in' much but cab­ins, an' ev­ery man builds his own his­self.”

“Nev­er mind, Jim,” said Paul, “your time will come; and if it doesn't come to you, it will come to your sons.”

“Paul, you're talkin' fool­ish­er than ev­er,” said Jim in­dig­nant­ly. “You know that I ain't a mar­ried man, an' that I ain't got no sons.”

Paul on­ly smiled. Again he was dream­ing, look­ing far in­to the fu­ture.

The spire of smoke was still on the hori­zon line when the twi­light came, but the next morn­ing it was gone, and they did not see it again. Sev­er­al days more passed in peace and con­tent­ment, and, de­sir­ing to se­cure more game, Paul and Hart took out the ca­noe one evening and rowed to the main­land.

They watched a while about the mouth of the brook, the fa­vorite drink­ing place of the wild an­imals, but they saw noth­ing. It seemed like­ly to Paul that a warn­ing had been sent to all the ten­ants of the for­est not to drink there any more, as it was a dan­ger­ous place, and he ex­pressed a de­sire to go far­ther in­to the for­est.

“All right, Paul,” said Jim Hart, “but you kain't be too keer­ful. Don't git lost out thar in the woods, an' don't fur­git your way back to this spot. I'll wait right here in the boat and watch fur a deer. One may come yet.”

Paul took his ri­fle and en­tered the woods. It was his idea that he might find game far­ther up the lit­tle stream, and he fol­lowed its course, tak­ing care to make no noise. It was a fine moon­light night, and, keep­ing well with­in the shad­ow of the trees, he care­ful­ly watched the brook. He was so much ab­sorbed in his task that he for­got the pas­sage of time, and did not no­tice how far he had gone.

Paul had ac­quired much skill as a hunter, and he was learn­ing to ob­serve the signs of the for­est; but he did not hear a light step be­hind him, al­though he _did_ feel him­self seized in a pow­er­ful grasp. This par­tic­ular war­rior was a Mi­ami, and he may have been im­pelled by pride--that is, a de­sire to take a white youth alive, or at least hold him un­til his com­rades, who were near, could come and se­cure him. To this cir­cum­stance, and to a for­tu­nate slip of the sav­age, the boy un­doubt­ed­ly owed his life.

Paul was strong, and the grasp of the In­di­an was like the touch of fire to him. He made a sud­den con­vul­sive ef­fort, far greater than his nat­ural phys­ical pow­ers, and the arms of the war­rior were torn loose. Both stag­gered, each away from the oth­er, and while they were yet too close for Paul to use his ri­fle, he did, un­der im­pulse, what the white man of­ten does, the red man nev­er. His clenched fist shot out like light­ning, and caught the sav­age on the point of the jaw.

The Mi­ami hit the earth with a thud, and lay there stunned. Paul turned and ran with all his might, and as he ran he heard the war cry be­hind him, and then the pat­ter­ing of feet. But he heard no shots. He judged that the dis­tance and the dark­ness kept the sav­ages from fir­ing, and he thanked God for the night.

He had suf­fi­cient pres­ence of mind to re­mem­ber the stream, and he kept close­ly to its course as he ran back swift­ly to­ward the ca­noe.

“Up, Jim, up! The war­riors have come!” he shout­ed, as he ran.

But Jim Hart, an awk­ward bean pole of a li­on-​heart­ed man, was al­ready com­ing to meet him, and fired past him at a dusky, danc­ing fig­ure that pur­sued. The death yell fol­lowed, the pur­suit wa­vered for a mo­ment, and then Jim Hart, turn­ing, ran with Paul to the ca­noe, in­to which both leaped at the same time. But Hart prompt­ly un­dou­bled him­self, seized the pad­dle, and with one mighty shove sent the boat out in­to the lake. Paul grasped the oth­er pad­dle, and bent to the same task. Their ri­fles lay at their feet.

“Bend low, Paul,” said Jim Hart. “We're still with­in range of the shore.”

Paul al­most lay down in the ca­noe, but he nev­er ceased to make long, fran­tic sweeps with the pad­dle, and he was glad to see the wa­ter flash­ing be­hind him. Then he heard a great yell of rage and the crack­le of ri­fles, and bul­lets spat­tered the sur­face of the lake about them. One chipped a splin­ter from the edge of the ca­noe and whis­tled by Paul's ear, singing, as it passed, “Look out! Look out!” But Paul's on­ly re­ply was to use his pad­dle faster, and yet faster.

The boy did not no­tice that Jim Hart had turned the course of the ca­noe, and that they were run­ning north­ward, about mid­way be­tween the is­land and the main­land; but the ri­fle fire ceased present­ly, and Jim Hart said to him:

“You can take it eas­ier now, Paul. We're out uv range, though not uv sight.”

Paul straight­ened up, laid his pad­dle in the boat, and gasped for breath.

“Look over thar, Paul, ef you want to see a pleas­ant scene,” said Jim Hart calm­ly.

Paul's gaze fol­lowed the long man's point­ing fin­ger, and he saw at least twen­ty war­riors gath­ered on the bank, and re­gard­ing them now in dead si­lence.

“Mad!” said Jim Hart. “Mad clean through!”

“They've chased us on land, and now they are chas­ing us on wa­ter. I won­der where they will chase us next,” said Paul.

“Not through the air, 'cause they can't fly, nor kin we,” said Jim Hart sage­ly.

Paul looked back again at the fe­ro­cious band gath­ered on the shore, and, while he could not see their faces at the dis­tance, he could imag­ine the evil pas­sions pic­tured there. As he gazed the band broke up, and many of them came run­ning along the shore. Then Paul no­ticed that the prow of their ca­noe was not turned to­ward the is­land, but was bear­ing steadi­ly to­ward the north end of the lake, leav­ing the is­land well to the left. He glanced at Jim Hart, and the long man laughed low, but with deep sat­is­fac­tion.

“Don't you see, Paul,” he said, “that we kain't go to the is­lan' an' show to them that we've been livin' thar? That might wipe out all the spell uv the place. We got to let 'em think we're 'fraid uv it, too, an' that we dassent land thar. We'll pad­dle up to the head uv the lake, come down on the oth­er side, an' then, when it's atween us an' them, we'll come across to our is­lan'.”

They were still abreast of the is­land, and yet mid­way be­tween it and the main­land. Paul saw the In­di­ans run­ning along the shore, and now and then tak­ing a shot at the ca­noe. But the bul­lets al­ways fell short.

“Fool­ish! Plumb fool­ish,” said Jim Hart, “a-​wastin' good pow­der an' good lead in sech a fash­ion!”

“That one struck near­er,” said Paul, as a lit­tle jet of wa­ter spurt­ed up in the lake. “Keep her off, Jim. A bul­let that is not wast­ed might come along di­rect­ly.”

Hart sheered the boat off a lit­tle to­ward the is­land, and then took a long look at a war­rior who had reached a pro­ject­ing point of land.

“That thar feller looks like a chief,” he said, “an' I kain't say that his looks please me a-​tall, a-​tall. I don't like the set uv his fig­ger one lit­tle bit.”

“What dif­fer­ence does it make?” said Paul. “You can't change it.”

“Wa'al, now, I was a-​thinkin' that maybe I could,” drawled Jim Hart. “Hold the boat steady, Paul.”

He laid down his pad­dle and took up his ri­fle, which he had reload­ed.

“Them In­juns have guns, but they are not gen­er­al­ly ez good ez ours,” he said. “They don't car­ry ez fur. Now jest watch me change the set uv that sav­age's fig­ger. I wouldn't do it, but he's just a-​pinin' fur our blood an' the hair on top uv our heads.”

Up went the long Ken­tucky ri­fle, and the moon­light fell clear­ly along its pol­ished bar­rel. Then came the flash, the spurt of smoke, the re­port echo­ing among the hills about the lake, and the chief fell for­ward with his face in the wa­ter. A yell of rage arose from the oth­ers, and again bul­lets pat­tered on the sur­face of the lake, but all fell short. Jim Hart calm­ly reload­ed his ri­fle.

“That'll teach 'em to be a lit­tle more keer­ful who they're a-​fol­lerin',” he said. “Now, Paul, let's pad­dle.”

They sent the boat swift­ly to­ward the north end of the lake, and Paul now and then caught glimpses of the Mi­amis try­ing to keep par­al­lel with it, al­though out of range; but present­ly, as they passed the is­land, and could swing out in­to the mid­dle of the lake, the last of them sank per­ma­nent­ly from sight. But the two kept on in the ca­noe. The moon­light fad­ed a lit­tle, and soon the hills on the shore could be seen on­ly as a black blur.

“This is jest too easy, Paul,” said Jim Hart, “With them run­nin' aroun' that big out­er cir­cle, they couldn't keep up with us even ef they could see us. Let's rest a while.”

Both put their pad­dles in­side the ca­noe and drew long breaths. Each had a feel­ing of per­fect safe­ty, for the time at least, and they let the boat drift north­ward un­der the gen­tle wind from the south that rip­pled the sur­face of the lake.

“Wa­ter and dark­ness,” said Paul. “They are our friends.”

“The best we could have,” said Jim Hart. “Are you rest­ed now, Paul?”

“I'm fresh again.”

They re­sumed the pad­dles, and, curv­ing about, came down on the west­ern side of the lake un­til they were op­po­site the is­land. Then they pad­dled straight for their home, and the word “home,” in this case, had its full mean­ing for Paul. It gave him a thrill of de­light when the prow of the ca­noe struck up­on the mar­gin of the lit­tle is­land, and the gloom of the great trees was friend­ly and pro­tect­ing.

“We must hide the ca­noe good,” said Jim Hart.

They con­cealed it in a thick clump of bush­es, and then Hart care­ful­ly read­just­ed the bush­es so that no one would no­tice that they had ev­er been dis­turbed, and they took their way to the hut in the glen. They did not light a fire, but they sat for a lit­tle while on the stones, talk­ing.

“You're sure they won't come over to the Is­land?” said Paul.

“They'll nev­er do it,” replied Jim Hart con­fi­dent­ly. “Be­sides, they ain't got the least sus­pi­cion that we've come here. Like­ly, they think we've land­ed at the north end uv the lake, an' they'll be prowl­in' aroun' thar three or four days lookin' fur us. Jest think, Paul, uv all the work they'll hev fur noth­in'. I feel like laugh­in'. I think I _will_ laugh.”

He kept his word and laughed low; but he laughed long, and with the most in­tense plea­sure.

“Jest to think, Paul,” he con­tin­ued, “how we're guard­ed by dead In­juns their­selves!”

Present­ly the two went in­to the hut, and slept sound­ly un­til the next morn­ing. They did not light a fire then, but ate cold food, and went down among the trees to watch the lake. They saw noth­ing. The wa­ter rip­pled and glowed in al­ter­nate gold and sil­ver un­der the bril­liant sun­shine, and the hills about it showed dis­tinct­ly; but there was no sign of a hu­man be­ing ex­cept them­selves.

“Lookin' fur us among the hills,” said Jim Hart. “You an' me will jest keep close, Paul, an' we won't light no fire.”

The whole day passed with­out in­ci­dent, and the fol­low­ing night al­so, but about noon the next day, as they watched from the shel­ter of the trees, they saw a black dot on the lake, far to the south.

“A ca­noe!” said Jim Hart.

“A ca­noe? How did they get it?” said Paul--he took it for grant­ed that its oc­cu­pants were Mi­amis.

“Guess they brought it across coun­try from some riv­er, and thar they are,” replied Jim Hart. “They've shore put a boat on our lake.”

His tone showed traces of anx­iety, and Paul, too, felt alarm. The Mi­amis, af­ter all, might de­fy their own su­per­sti­tion and land on the is­land. Present­ly an­oth­er ca­noe ap­peared be­hind the first, and then a third and a fourth, un­til there was a lit­tle fleet, which the two watched with silent ap­pre­hen­sion. Had Hen­ry Ware been mis­tak­en? Did the Mi­amis re­al­ly be­lieve it was a haunt­ed is­land?

On came the ca­noes in a straight black file, enough to con­tain more than a score of war­riors, and the man and the boy ner­vous­ly fin­gered their ri­fles. If the In­di­ans land­ed on the is­land, the re­sult was sure. The two might make a good fight and slay some of their foes, but in any event they would cer­tain­ly be tak­en or killed. Their lives de­pend­ed up­on the ef­fect of a su­per­sti­tion.

The line of ca­noes lay like a great black ar­row across the wa­ter. They were so close to­geth­er that to the watch­ers they seemed to blend and be­come con­tin­uous, and this ar­row was head­ed straight to­ward the is­land. Paul's heart went down with a thump, but a mo­ment lat­er a light leaped in­to his eyes.

“The line is turn­ing!” he ex­claimed. “Look, Jim, look! They are afraid of the is­land!”

“Yes,” said Jim Hart, “I see! The ghosts are re­al, an' it's pow'ful lucky fur us that they are. The Mi­amis dassent land!”

It was true. The black ar­row sud­den­ly shift­ed to the right, and the line of ca­noes drew in­to the open wa­ter, mid­way be­tween the is­land and the east­ern main­land.

“Lay close, Paul, lay close!” said Jim Hart. “We mustn't let 'em catch a glimpse uv us, an' they're al­ways pow'ful keen-​eyed.”

Both the man and the boy lay flat on their stom­achs on the ground, and peered from the shel­ter of the bush­es. No hu­man eye out on the lake could have seen them there. The ca­noes were now abreast of the is­land, but were go­ing more slow­ly, and both could see that the oc­cu­pants were look­ing cu­ri­ous­ly at their lit­tle wood­ed do­main. But they kept at a healthy dis­tance.

“I think they're lookin' here be­cause the place is haunt­ed, and not be­cause we are on it,” said Jim Hart.

It seemed that he spoke the truth, as the Mi­amis present­ly swung near­er to the main­land and be­gan to ex­am­ine the shores long and crit­ical­ly.

“I guess they've been huntin' us all through the woods, an' think now we may be hid some­whar at the edge uv the lake,” said Jim Hart.

It seemed so. The two lay there for hours, watch­ing the lit­tle fleet of ca­noes as it cir­cled the lake, keep­ing near the out­er rim, and search­ing among all the hills and hol­lows that bor­dered the shores. Once, when it was on the west­ern side, the fleet turned its head again to­ward the is­land, and again ap­pre­hen­sion arose in the hearts of the boy and the man, but it was on­ly for a fleet­ing mo­ment. The line of ca­noes was quick­ly turned away, and bore on down the open wa­ter. Paul and Jim Hart were pro­tect­ed by Man­itou.

The cir­cum­nav­iga­tion of the lake by the Mi­amis last­ed through­out the re­main­der of the day, and when the twi­light came, the ca­noes were lost in its shade to­ward the south­ern end of the sheet of wa­ter.

“We're safe,” said Jim Hart, “but we've still got to keep close. They may hang about here fur days.”

“What about Hen­ry and Ross and Sol?” asked Paul anx­ious­ly. “On their way back they may run right in­to that wasp's nest.”

“'Tain't like­ly,” replied Jim Hart. “Our boys know what they're a-​doin'. But I wish them Mi­amis would go away so's I could light a fire an' cook some fresh meat.”