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

CHAPTER XXI

THE FLIGHT OF LONG JIM

Al­though the ter­ri­ble ford had been won, Hen­ry Ware knew that the dan­ger was far from over. The sav­ages, caught on the flank and shot down from above, had yield­ed to mo­men­tary pan­ic, but they would come again. To any souls less dar­ing than this band of pi­oneers, the sit­ua­tion would have been tru­ly ap­palling. They were in the vast and un­known wilder­ness, sur­round­ed ev­ery­where by the black for­est, with the horde, hun­gry for slaugh­ter, still hang­ing up­on their flanks; but among them all, scarce one wom­an or child showed a craven heart.

Led by Hen­ry Ware, the wag­ons filed in­to an open space--a plain or lit­tle prairie--about a quar­ter of a mile be­yond the ford, and there, still fol­low­ing his in­struc­tions, they drew up in a cir­cle. He con­sid­ered this open space a god­send, as no marks­men hid­den in the woods could reach them there with a bul­let. As soon as the cir­cle was com­plet­ed, the wom­en and chil­dren poured forth from the wag­ons, and be­gan to join the men in for­ti­fy­ing. There was min­gled joy for vic­to­ry and grief for loss. They had left dead be­hind in the riv­er, and they had brought more with them; of wounds, ex­cept those that threat­ened to be mor­tal, they took lit­tle count. Even as they worked, scat­ter­ing shots were fired from the for­est, but they paid no heed to them, as all the bul­lets fell short.

Right in the cen­ter of the cir­cle, in­closed by the wag­ons, a half dozen cho­sen spade­men dug a deep hole, and then the dead were brought forth, ready for buri­al. A min­is­ter prayed and the wom­en sang. Over­head, the late sun burned bril­liant and red, and from the for­est, as a kind of stern cho­rus, came the pat­ter­ing ri­fle shots. But the last cer­emo­ny, all the more solemn and im­pres­sive be­cause of these sights and sounds, went on un­bro­ken. The dead were buried deep, then cov­ered over, and the ground trod­den that none might dis­turb their rest. Then all turned to the liv­ing need.

The five, bar­ring slight scratch­es suf­fered by Ross and Shif'less Sol, had es­caped un­hurt, and now they la­bored with the oth­ers to throw up the wall of earth about the wag­ons. A spring took its rise in the cen­ter of the plain, and flowed down to the riv­er. This spring was with­in the cir­cle of the wag­ons, and they were as­sured of plen­ty of wa­ter.

Hen­ry Ware looked over the crowd, and he re­joiced at their spir­its, which had not been damp­ened by the sight of their dead. They had fought mag­nif­icent­ly, and they were ready to fight again. Al­ready fires were burn­ing with­in the cir­cle of the wag­ons, and the wom­en were cook­ing sup­per. The pleas­ant odor of food arose, and men be­gan to eat. Daniel Poe, as usu­al, turned to Hen­ry.

“You are sure that they will make a new at­tack?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Hen­ry. “They have not come so far to re­tire af­ter one re­pulse. We out­flanked them there at the riv­er, but they think that they will cer­tain­ly get us, bur­dened as we are with the wom­en and chil­dren. It's still a long road to Ware­ville.”

“We can nev­er re­pay the debt we owe to you and your com­rades,” said Daniel Poe.

“Don't think of it. It's the thing that we were bound to do.”

Daniel Poe looked at the set­ting sun, now red like blood. Far over the west­ern for­est twi­light shad­ows were com­ing.

“I wish this night was over,” he said.

“If they at­tack we'll beat them off,” said Hen­ry con­fi­dent­ly.

“But the cost, the cost!” mur­mured Daniel Poe.

Paul mean­while was with­in the cir­cle of wag­ons, in his great role of sus­tain­er. He had fought like a pal­adin in the bat­tle, and now he was telling what a great fight they had made, and what a greater one they could make, if need be. High spir­its seemed to flow spon­ta­neous­ly from him, and the oth­ers caught the in­fec­tion. More than one Ama­zon looked at him af­fec­tion­ate­ly, as she would have looked at a son. Shif'less Sol joined him as he stood by one of the fires.

“I've been workin' out thar with a spade more'n an hour,” said the shift­less one in a tone of deep dis­gust, “an' I'm tired plumb to death. I'll lay down be­fore that fire an' sleep till mornin', ef ev­ery one uv you will promise not to say a word an' won't dis­turb me.”

A laugh arose.

“Why, Mr. Hyde,” ex­claimed one of the Ama­zons, “they say there was not a more in­dus­tri­ous man in the bat­tle than you.”

“Wa'al,” said Shif'less Sol, slow­ly and re­flec­tive­ly, “a man, ef he's crowd­ed in­to a cor­ner, will fight ef his life de­pends on it, but I kin come pur­ty near to livin' with­out work.”

“You de­serve your sleep, Mr. Hyde,” said the wom­an. “Just stretch out there be­fore the fire.”

“I'll stretch out, but I won't sleep,” said the shift­less one.

He was as good as his word, and ad­mir­ing hands brought him food, which he ate con­tent­ed­ly. Present­ly he said in a low voice to Paul:

“That's right, Paul, heart­en 'em up. They've got a lot to stand yet, an' it's courage that counts.”

Paul knew this truth full well, and he went back and forth in the cir­cle, ev­er per­form­ing his cho­sen task, while Hen­ry out­side planned and la­bored in­ces­sant­ly for the de­fense against a new at­tack. Fifty men, sharp of eye and ear, were se­lect­ed to watch through half the night, when fifty more, al­so sharp of eye and ear, were to take their places. All the oth­ers were to sleep, if they could, in or­der that they might be strong and fresh for what the next day would bring forth.

The scat­ter­ing fire from the for­est ceased, and ev­ery­thing there be­came silent. No dusky forms were vis­ible to the de­fend­ers. The sun dropped be­hind the hills, and night, thick and dark, came over the earth. The peace of the world was strange and solemn, and those in the be­lea­guered camp felt op­pressed by the dark­ness and the mys­tery. They could not see any en­emies or hear any, and af­ter a while they be­gan to ar­gue that since the sav­ages could no longer be seen or heard, they must have gone away. But Hen­ry Ware on­ly laughed as they told him so.

“They have not gone,” he said to Daniel Poe, “nor will they go to-​night nor to-​mor­row nor the next night. This train, when it starts in the morn­ing, must be a mov­ing fort.”

Daniel Poe sighed. As al­ways, he be­lieved what Hen­ry Ware said, and the prospect did not in­vite.

The dark­ness and the si­lence en­dured. The keen­est of the watch­ers saw and heard noth­ing. The moon came out and the earth light­ened, then dark­ened again as clouds rolled across the heav­ens; the camp fires sank, and, de­spite their alarms, many slept. The wound­ed, all of whom had re­ceived the rude but ef­fec­tive surgery of the bor­der, were qui­et, and the whole camp bore the as­pect of peace. Paul slipped from the cir­cle, and joined Hen­ry out­side the earth­work.

“Do you see any­thing, Hen­ry?” he said.

“No, but I've heard,” replied Hen­ry, who had just come out of the dark­ness. “The Shawnees are be­fore us, the Mi­amis be­hind us, and the war­riors of the small­er tribes on ei­ther side. The night may pass with­out any­thing hap­pen­ing, or it may not. But we have good watch­ers.”

Paul stayed with him a lit­tle while, but, at Hen­ry's ur­gent re­quest, he went back in­side the cir­cle, wrapped him­self in a blan­ket and lay down, his face up­turned to the cloudy skies which he did not see. He did not think he could sleep. His brain throbbed with ex­cite­ment, and his vivid imag­ina­tion was wide awake. De­spite the dan­ger, he re­joiced to be there; re­joiced that he and his com­rades should help in the sav­ing of all these peo­ple. The spir­itu­al ex­al­ta­tion that he felt at times swept over him. Nev­er­the­less, all the pic­tures fad­ed, his ex­cit­ed nerves sank to rest, and, with his face still up­turned to the cloudy skies, he slept.

Far af­ter mid­night a sud­den ring of fire burst from the dark for­est, and wom­en and chil­dren leaped up at the crash of many ri­fles. Shout­ing their war whoop, the tribes­men rushed up­on the camp; but the fifty sen­tinels, shel­tered by the earth­work, met them with a fire more dead­ly than their own, and in a mo­ment the fifty be­came more than two hun­dred.

Red Ea­gle and Yel­low Pan­ther had hoped for a sur­prise, but when the unerring vol­leys met them, they sank back again in­to the for­est, car­ry­ing their dead with them.

“You were right,” said Daniel Poe to Hen­ry Ware; “they will not leave us.”

“Not while they think there is a chance to over­pow­er us. But we've shown 'em they can't count on a sur­prise.”

The camp, ex­cept the watch­ers, went back to sleep, and the night passed away with­out a sec­ond alarm. Dawn came, gray and cloudy, and the peo­ple of the train awoke to their needs, which they faced brave­ly. Break­fast was cooked and eat­en, and then the wag­ons, in a file of four, took up their march, a cloud of keen-​eyed and brave skir­mish­ers on ev­ery side. The train had tru­ly be­come what Hen­ry said it must be, a mov­ing fort; and, though the sav­ages opened fire in the woods, they dared not at­tack in force, so res­olute and sure-​eyed were the skir­mish­ers and so strong a de­fense were the heavy wag­ons.

All day long this ter­ri­ble march pro­ceed­ed, the wom­en and chil­dren shel­tered in the wag­ons, and the sav­ages, from the shel­ter of the for­est, keep­ing up an ir­reg­ular but un­ceas­ing fire on the flanks. The white skir­mish­ers replied of­ten with dead­ly ef­fect, but it grew galling, al­most un­bear­able. The In­di­ans, who were ac­cus­tomed ei­ther to rapid suc­cess or rapid re­treat, showed an ex­traor­di­nary per­sis­tence, and Hen­ry sus­pect­ed that Brax­ton Wy­att was urg­ing them on. As he thought of the ef­fect of these con­tin­ued at­tacks up­on the train, he grew anx­ious. The bravest spir­it could be worn down by them, and he sought in vain for a rem­edy.

They camped the sec­ond night in an open place, and for­ti­fied, as be­fore, with a cir­cu­lar earth­work; but they were har­ried through­out all the hours of dark­ness by ir­reg­ular fir­ing and oc­ca­sion­al war whoops. Few­er peo­ple slept that night than had slept the night be­fore. Nerves were raw and suf­fer­ing, and Paul found his cho­sen task a hard one. But he worked faith­ful­ly, go­ing up and down with­in the for­ti­fied cir­cle, cheer­ing, heart­en­ing, and pre­dict­ing a bet­ter day for the mor­row.

That day came, cloud­less and bril­liant above, but to the ac­com­pa­ni­ment of shouts, shots, and alarms be­low. Once more the ter­ri­ble march was re­sumed, and the sav­ages still hung mer­ci­less­ly on their flanks. Hen­ry, with anx­ious heart, no­ticed a wan­ing of spir­it, though not of courage, in the train. The raw nerves grew raw­er. This in­ces­sant march­ing for­ward be­tween the very walls of death could not be en­dured for­ev­er. Again he sought a way out. Such a way they must have, and at last he be­lieved that he had found it. But he said noth­ing at present, and the train, edged on ei­ther side with fire and smoke, went on through the woods.

A third time they camped in an open space, a third time they for­ti­fied; but now, af­ter the sup­per was over, Hen­ry called a coun­cil of the lead­ers.

“We can­not go on as we have been go­ing,” he said. “The sav­ages hang to us with un­com­mon tenac­ity, and there are lim­its to hu­man en­durance.”

Daniel Poe shook his head sad­ly. The aw­ful lac­er­at­ing pro­cess had nev­er ceased. More men were wound­ed, and the spir­its of all grew heav­ier and heav­ier. Paul still walked among the fires, seek­ing to cheer and in­spire, but he could do lit­tle. Dread op­pressed the wom­en and chil­dren, and they sat most­ly in si­lence. Out­side, an oc­ca­sion­al whoop came from the depths of the for­est, and now and then a ri­fle was fired. The night was com­ing on, thick and omi­nous. The air had been heavy all the day, and now somber clouds were rolling across the sky. At in­ter­vals flash­es of light­ning flared low down on the black for­est. Heavy and somber, like the skies, were the spir­its of all the peo­ple. A wound­ed horse neighed shril­ly, and in an al­most hu­man voice, as he died.

“We must take a new step,” said Hen­ry; “things can­not go on this way. It is yet a hun­dred and fifty miles, per­haps, to Ware­ville, and if the sav­ages con­tin­ue to hang on, we can nev­er reach it.”

“What do you pro­pose?” asked Daniel Poe.

Hen­ry Ware stood erect. The light of the coun­cil fire flared up­on his splen­did, in­domitable face. All re­lied up­on him, and he knew it.

“I have a plan,” he said. “To-​mor­row we can reach an un­forest­ed hill that I know of, with a spring flow­ing out of the side. It is easy to hold, and we shall have plen­ty of wa­ter. We will stop there and make our stand. Mean­while, we will send to Ware­ville for help. The mes­sen­ger must leave to-​night. Jim Hart, are you ready?”

Jim Hart had been sit­ting on a fall­en tree, all humped to­geth­er. Now he un­fold­ed him­self and stood up, stretched out to his com­plete length, six feet four inch­es of long, slim man, knot­ted and joint­ed, but as tough as wire--the swiftest run­ner in all the West. Long Jim, ug­ly, hon­est, and brave, said noth­ing, but his move­ment showed that he was ready.

“Jim Hart was made for speed,” con­tin­ued Hen­ry. “At his best he is like the wind, and he can run all the way to Ware­ville. He'll leave in a half hour, be­fore the moon has a chance to rise.”

“He'll nev­er get through!” ex­claimed Daniel Poe.

“Oh, yes, he will!” said Hen­ry con­fi­dent­ly. “Bring all the men Ware­ville can spare, Jim, and fall up­on them while they are be­sieg­ing us at the Ta­ble Rock.”

Lit­tle more was said. Had the train af­ford­ed paint, they would have stained Jim's face in the In­di­an way; but the ut­most that they could do was to draw up his hair and tie it in a scalp lock, like those of the Shawnees. For­tu­nate­ly, his hair was dark, and his face was so thor­ough­ly tanned by weath­er that it might be mis­tak­en in the night for an In­di­an's. Then Long Jim was ready. He mere­ly shook the hands of his four com­rades and of Daniel Poe, and with­out an­oth­er word went forth.

The night was at its dark­est when Jim Hart slipped un­der one of the wag­ons and crept across the open space. The heavy clouds had grown heav­ier, and now and then low thun­der mut­tered on the hori­zon. The fit­ful light­ning ceased, and this was oc­ca­sion for thanks.

Jim Hart crept about twen­ty yards from the cir­cle of the wag­ons, and then he lay flat up­on the earth. He could see noth­ing in the sur­round­ing rim of for­est, nor could he hear any­thing. A light hum from the camp be­hind him was all that came to his ears. He slipped for­ward again in a stoop­ing po­si­tion, stopped a mo­ment when he heard a ri­fle shot from the oth­er side of the camp, and then re­sumed his sham­bling, but swift, jour­ney. Now he passed the open space and gained the edge of the woods. Here the dan­ger lay, but the brave soul of Long Jim nev­er fal­tered.

He plunged in­to the gloom of the bush­es and trees, slip­ping silent­ly among them. Two war­riors glanced cu­ri­ous­ly at him in the dark, but in a mo­ment he was gone; a third far­ther on spoke to him, but he shook his head im­pa­tient­ly, as if he bore some mes­sage, and on­ly walked the faster. Now his keen eyes saw sav­ages all around him, some talk­ing, oth­ers stand­ing or ly­ing down, quite silent. He was sor­ry now that he was so tall, as his was a fig­ure that would cause re­mark any­where; but he stooped over, try­ing to hide his great height as much as pos­si­ble. He passed one group, then two, then three, and now he was a full four hun­dred yards from the camp. His curv­ing flight present­ly brought him near three men who were talk­ing earnest­ly to­geth­er. They no­ticed Hart at the same time, and one of them beck­oned to him. Long Jim pre­tend­ed not to see, and went on. Then one of them called to him an­gri­ly, and Jim rec­og­nized the voice of Brax­ton Wy­att.

Long Jim stopped a mo­ment, un­cer­tain what to do at that crit­ical junc­ture, and Brax­ton Wy­att, step­ping for­ward, seized him by the arm. It was dark in the woods, but the rene­gade, look­ing up, rec­og­nized the face and fig­ure.

“Jim Hart!” he cried.

Long Jim's right hand was grasp­ing the stock of his ri­fle, but his left sud­den­ly flashed out and smote Brax­ton Wy­att full in the face. The rene­gade gasped and went down un­con­scious, and then Long Jim turned, and ran with all the speed that was in him, leap­ing over the low bush­es and rac­ing among the tree trunks more like a phan­tom than a hu­man be­ing. A shout arose be­hind him, and a dozen ri­fle shots were fired. He felt a sting in his arm, and then blood dripped down; but it was on­ly a flesh wound, and he was spurred to greater speed.

A ter­ri­ble yell arose, and many war­riors, trained run­ners of the for­est, with mus­cles of steel and a spir­it that nev­er tired, dart­ed af­ter him. But Long Jim, bend­ing his head a lit­tle low­er, raced on through the dark, his strength grow­ing with ev­ery leap and his brain on fire with en­er­gy. He passed two or three sav­ages--far-​flung out­posts--but be­fore they could re­cov­er from their sur­prise he was by them and gone. Bul­lets sang past him, but the long, slim fig­ure cut the air like an ar­row in the wind. Af­ter him came the sav­ages, but now he was be­yond the last out­posts, and the foot­steps of his pur­suers were grow­ing fainter be­hind. Now he opened his mouth, and emit­ted a long, qua­ver­ing, de­fi­ant yell--an­swer to their own. Af­ter that he was silent, and sped on, nev­er re­lax­ing, tire­less like some pow­er­ful ma­chine. The pur­suit died away be­hind him, and though some might hang on his trail, none could ev­er over­take him.

The low thun­der still mut­tered, and the fit­ful light­ning be­gan to flare again. Now and then there were gusts of rain, swept by the wind; but through all the hours of rain and dark the run­ner sped on, mile up­on mile.

Day dawns and finds him still flit­ting! But now there is full need of thy speed, Jim Hart! Five hun­dred lives hang up­on it!

Speed ye, Long Jim, speed ye!