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

CHAPTER IV

THE SIEGE

The whole night passed with­out event and the day came. Paul saw the light grow deep­er and deep­er, but noth­ing stirred in the for­est. It stretched be­fore him, a liv­ing curve of glow­ing red and yel­low and brown, but it was now like a sea of dan­ger­ous depths, and the lit­tle cab­in was their sole is­land of safe­ty.

“It's a good thing we brought the ex­tra ri­fles with us,” said Hen­ry. “They look like good weapons, and they may save us in case of a rush. Ah, there they come!”

Paul had no­ticed noth­ing, but Hen­ry had seen the bush­es at the edge of the for­est quiver, and then move con­trary to the wind. His eye did not rest up­on any brown body, but he knew as well as if they had cried out that the war­riors were there. How many? That was the ques­tion that con­cerned him most. If a great war par­ty, they might hang on a long time; but if on­ly a small one, he and Paul might beat them off as of­ten as they came. They had four ri­fles, plen­ty of am­mu­ni­tion, enough food to last sev­er­al days, and he thanked God for the prov­iden­tial pres­ence of the rain bar­rel.

These were but brief pass­ing thoughts, and he nev­er ceased to watch the for­est. Still no sign of a face, but now and then the un­nat­ural quiver of the bush­es, and above them the sun spin­ning a fine gold­en, veil over all the great wilder­ness.

“Our guests have come, Paul,” said he, “but from safe cov­er they are in­spect­ing our front yard.”

“And they don't know yet whether or not they would like to dis­port them­selves on our lawn.”

“That is just it. They have doubts about their wel­come.”

“That be­ing so,” said Paul, in the light, jest­ing spir­it that he loved, “I'll just wait un­til they knock at our door. Mean­while I'll take a drink from that lucky cis­tern of ours.”

He bent his head in­to the bar­rel, and as he drank he felt fresh strength and courage rush­ing in­to his veins.

“It was great luck, wasn't it, to find this bar­rel?” he said.

“It cer­tain­ly was,” replied Hen­ry, and his words came from the bot­tom of his heart. “Now you watch while I take a drink.”

Paul did so, but he no­ticed noth­ing un­usu­al in the woods. The faint signs that Hen­ry read with such an unerring eye were hid­den from him. But his skill was suf­fi­cient to cov­er all the cleared space. No war­rior could pass there un­seen by him. Hen­ry re­joined him.

“You watch from one side and I'll take the oth­er,” he said.

They did so, but the sin­gle room of the cab­in was so small that they were on­ly a few feet from each oth­er, and could talk to­geth­er in low tones.

“It will be a tri­al of pa­tience,” said Hen­ry. “The In­di­an al­ways has more time than any­body else in the world, and he is will­ing to make the most of it.”

Paul, too, knew that Shawnees, no mat­ter what their num­bers, would not yet risk a head­long at­tack on the cab­in, and now his cu­rios­ity as to what they would do was aroused. It was sur­prise that Hen­ry and he must guard against. What was to be ex­pect­ed? His sense of cu­rios­ity was as keen­ly aroused as his sense of dan­ger.

Over an hour dragged slow­ly by, minute by minute. The sun blazed bril­liant­ly over the wilder­ness, and the shut lit­tle cab­in grew close and hot. No fresh air came ex­cept by the loop­holes, and it was not enough for cool­ness. Paul's fore­head grew damp, and his eyes ached from con­tin­ual watch­ing at the loop­hole. Cu­rios­ity now be­gan to give way to anger. If they were go­ing to do any­thing, why didn't they do it? He watched the for­est so much and so in­tent­ly that he be­gan to cre­ate im­ages there for him­self. A tall stump was dis­tort­ed in­to the fig­ure of an In­di­an war­rior, a clump of bush­es took the shape of an en­tire group of Shawnees, and many sav­age, black eyes looked from the leaves. Paul's rea­son told him that he be­held noth­ing, but his fan­cy put them there, nev­er­the­less. He saw present­ly a lit­tle jet of smoke, ris­ing like a white feath­er; he heard a re­port, and then the sound of a bul­let bury­ing it­self with a soft sigh in a log of the cab­in. He laughed at the fu­til­ity of it, but Hen­ry said:

“They're just try­ing us a lit­tle--skir­mish­ing, so to speak. Be care­ful there, Paul! A chance bul­let might catch you in the eye at the loop­hole.”

More lead came from the for­est, and there was a sharp crack­le of ri­fle fire. Bul­lets thud­ded in­to the stout walls of the cab­in, and Paul's soul swelled with de­ri­sion. His vivid mind pic­tured him­self as safe from the war­riors as if they were a thou­sand miles away. He was at­tract­ed sud­den­ly by a slight, gur­gling sound, and then a cry of dis­may from Hen­ry. He wheeled in alarm. Hen­ry had sprung to the wa­ter bar­rel, the pre­cious con­tents of which were ooz­ing from a lit­tle round hole in the side, about two thirds of the way up. A bul­let had en­tered one of the loop­holes and struck the bar­rel. It was an un­for­tu­nate chance, one in a thou­sand, and had not Hen­ry's acute ear de­tect­ed at once the sound of flow­ing wa­ter, it might have proved a ter­ri­ble loss.

But Hen­ry was rapid­ly stuff­ing a piece of buck­skin, torn from his hunt­ing shirt, in­to the lit­tle round hole, and he waved Paul back to the wall.

“You stay there and watch, Paul,” he said. “I'll fix this.”

The buck­skin stopped all the flow but a slight drip. Then, with his strong hunt­ing knife, he cut a piece of wood from the bench, whit­tled it in­to shape, and drove it tight­ly in­to the bul­let hole.

“That's all se­cure,” he said, with a sigh of re­lief. “Now I must get it out of range.”

He wheeled it to a point in the cab­in at which no chance bul­let could reach it, and then re­sumed the watch with Paul.

“Aren't you glad, Paul,” said Hen­ry, “that you were not in the place of the wa­ter bar­rel?”

“Yes,” replied Paul light­ly, “be­cause a piece of buck­skin and a round stick wouldn't have healed the dam­age so quick­ly.”

He spoke light­ly be­cause he was still full of con­fi­dence. The lit­tle cab­in was yet an im­preg­nable cas­tle to him. The crack­le of ri­fle fire died, the last plume of white smoke rose over the for­est, drift­ed away, and was lost in the bril­liant sun­shine. Si­lence and des­ola­tion again held the wilder­ness.

“Noth­ing will hap­pen for some hours now,” said Hen­ry cheer­ful­ly, “so the best thing that we can do, Paul, is to have din­ner.”

“Yes,” said Paul, with his quick fan­cy. “We can dine sump­tu­ous­ly--veni­son and pi­geon and spring wa­ter.”

“And lucky we are to have them,” said Hen­ry.

They ate of the veni­son and pi­geon, and they drank from the bar­rel. They were not crea­tures of lux­ury and ease, and they had no com­plaint to make. When they fin­ished, Hen­ry said:

“Paul, you ought to take a nap, and then you'll be fresh for to-​night, when things will be hap­pen­ing.”

Paul at first was in­dig­nant at the idea that he should go to sleep with the en­emy all about them, but Hen­ry soon per­suad­ed him what a wise thing it would be. Be­sides, the air was all the time grow­ing clos­er and warmer in the lit­tle cab­in, and he cer­tain­ly need­ed sleep. His head grew heavy and his eye­lids drooped. He lay down on the bed, and in a sur­pris­ing­ly quick time was slum­ber­ing sound­ly.

Hen­ry looked at the sleep­ing lad, and his look was a com­pound of great friend­ship and ad­mi­ra­tion. He knew that Paul was not, like him­self, born to the wilder­ness, and he re­spect­ed the courage and skill that could tri­umph nev­er­the­less. But it was on­ly a fleet­ing look. His eyes turned back to the for­est, where he watched lazi­ly; lazi­ly, be­cause he knew with the cer­tain­ty of div­ina­tion that they would not at­tempt any­thing un­til dark, and he knew with equal cer­tain­ty that they would at­tempt some­thing then.

He awak­ened Paul in two hours, and took his place on the bench. He had not slept at all the night be­fore, when they were ex­pect­ing a foe who had not yet come, and he, too, must be fresh when the con­flict was at hand.

“When you see shad­ows in the clear­ing, wake me, with­out fail, Paul,” he said.

Then he closed his eyes, and like Paul slept al­most at once. Nei­ther the weary wait­ing nor the dan­ger could up­set his nerves so much that sleep would not come, and his slum­ber was dream­less.

The af­ter­noon waned. Paul, peep­ing from the loop­hole, saw the sun, red like fire, seek­ing its bed in the west, but the shad­ows were not yet over the clear­ing. Re­freshed by his sleep, and his nerves stead­ied, he no longer saw imag­inary fig­ures in the wilder­ness. It was just a wall of red and yel­low and brown, and it was hard to be­lieve that men seek­ing his life lay there. By and by the east be­gan to turn gray, and over the clear­ing fell the long shad­ows of com­ing twi­light. Then Paul awak­ened Hen­ry, and the two watched to­geth­er.

The shad­ows length­ened and deep­ened, a light wind arose and moaned among the oaks and beech­es, a heavy, dark veil was drawn across the sky, and the for­est melt­ed in­to a black blur. Now Hen­ry looked with all his eyes and lis­tened with all his ears, be­cause he knew that what the war­riors want­ed, the cov­er­ing veil of the night, had come.

It was a very thick and black night, too, and that was against him and Paul, as the ob­jects in the clear­ing were hid­den al­most as well now as any­thing in the for­est. Hence he trust­ed more to ear than to eye. But he could yet hear noth­ing, save the wind stir­ring the leaves and the grass. In­side the lit­tle cab­in it grew dark, too, but their trained eyes, be­com­ing used to the gloom, were able to see each oth­er well enough for all the needs of the de­fense.

Time passed slow­ly on, and to Paul ev­ery mo­ment was tense and vivid. The dark­ness was far more sug­ges­tive of dan­ger than the day had been. He took his eyes now and then from the loop­hole, for a mo­ment, to glance at Hen­ry's face, and about the third or fourth time he saw a sud­den light leap in­to the eyes of his com­rade. The next in­stant Hen­ry thrust his ri­fle in­to the loop­hole and, tak­ing quick aim, fired.

A long, qua­ver­ing cry arose, and af­ter that came a si­lence that lay very still and dead­ly up­on Paul's soul. Hen­ry had seen in the shad­ow a deep­er shad­ow quiver, and he had fired in­stant­ly but with dead­ly aim. Paul, look­ing through the loop­hole on his own side of the cab­in, could see noth­ing for a lit­tle space, but present­ly arose a pat­ter of feet, and many forms dart­ed through the dusk to­ward the cab­in. He quick­ly fired one ri­fle, and then the oth­er, but whether his bul­lets hit he could not tell. Then heavy forms thud­ded against the log walls of the hut, and through the loop­hole he heard deep breath­ing.

“They've gained the side of the cab­in,” said Hen­ry, “and we can't reach 'em with our ri­fles now.”

“I did my best, Hen­ry,” said Paul rue­ful­ly. Con­flict did not ap­peal to him, but the wilder­ness left no choice.

“Of course, Paul,” said Hen­ry, with ev­ery ap­pear­ance of cheer­ful­ness, “it's not your fault. In such dark­ness as this they were bound to get there. But they are not in­side yet by a long sight. Be sure you don't get in front of any of the loop­holes.”

There came a heavy push at the door, but nei­ther it nor the bar showed the slight­est sign of giv­ing way. Hen­ry laughed low.

“They can't get enough war­riors against that door to push it in,” he said.

The two boys rapid­ly reload­ed the emp­ty ri­fles, and now each crouched against the wall, where no chance bul­let through a loop­hole could reach him. An eye un­used to the dark­ness could have seen noth­ing there. Their fig­ures were blend­ed against the logs, and they did not speak, but each, lis­ten­ing in­tent­ly, could hear what was go­ing on out­side. Paul's fan­cy, as usu­al, added to the re­al­ity. He heard men mov­ing cau­tious­ly, soft foot­falls go­ing pit-​a-​pat, pit-​a-​pat around the cab­in, and it seemed to him a stray word of ad­vice or cau­tion now and then.

The si­lence was bro­ken sud­den­ly by a blaze of fire that seemed to come through the wall, a re­port that roared like a can­non in the cab­in. A spurt of smoke en­tered at one of the holes, and a bul­let burled it­self in the op­po­site wall. A sav­age had bold­ly thrust the muz­zle of his ri­fle in­to a loop­hole and fired.

“Be still, Paul,” whis­pered Hen­ry. “They can't hit us, and they are wast­ing their am­mu­ni­tion.”

A sec­ond shot was tried by the be­siegers, but the re­sult was on­ly the roar­ing, echo­ing re­port, the smoke and the flame, and the bul­let that found a vain tar­get of wood. But to Paul, with an imag­ina­tion fed by sto­ries of mighty bat­tles, it was like a can­non­ade. Great guns were trained up­on Hen­ry and him­self. A thin, fine smoke from the two shots had en­tered the cab­in, and it float­ed about, tick­ling his nos­trils, and adding, with its sa­vor, to the fever that be­gan to rise in his blood. He dropped to his knees, and was creep­ing, ri­fle ready, to­ward one of the loop­holes, ea­ger with the de­sire to fire back, when Hen­ry's strong hand fell up­on his shoul­der.

“I un­der­stand what you want, Paul,” he whis­pered. “I, too, feel it, but it pays us to wait. Let 'em waste their lead.”

Paul stopped, ashamed of him­self, and his blood grew cool­er. He was not one to wish any­body's life, and again his mind re­belled at the ne­ces­si­ty of con­flict.

“Thank you, Hen­ry,” he said, and re­sumed his place by the wall.

No more shots were fired. The war­riors could not know whether or not their bul­lets had hit a hu­man mark, and Hen­ry in­ferred that they would wait a while, crouched against the cab­in. He reck­oned that when they did move they would at­tack the door, and he noise­less­ly made an ad­di­tion­al prop for it with the heavy wood­en bench. But the faint sound of foot­steps sud­den­ly ceased, and Hen­ry, lis­ten­ing in­tent­ly, could hear noth­ing save the ris­ing wind. He looked through one of the loop­holes, but he could not see any­thing of the sav­ages. Ei­ther they were still crouch­ing against the wall, or had slipped back to the for­est. But he saw enough to tell him that the night was grow­ing cloudy, and that the air was damp.

Present­ly rain fell in a slow driz­zle, but Hen­ry still watched at the loop­hole, and soon he caught a glimpse of two par­al­lel rows of men bear­ing some­thing heavy, and ap­proach­ing the cab­in. They had se­cured a tree trunk, and would bat­ter down the door; but they must come with­in range, and Hen­ry smiled to him­self. Then he beck­oned to Paul to come to his side.

“Bring me your two ri­fles,” he whis­pered. “This is the on­ly place from which we can reach them now, and I want you to pass me the load­ed guns as fast as I can fire them.”

Paul came and stood ready, al­though his mind re­belled once more at the need to shoot. Hen­ry looked again, and saw the brown files ap­proach­ing. He thrust the muz­zle of the ri­fle through the hole and fired at a row of brown legs, and then, with on­ly a sec­ond be­tween, he dis­charged an­oth­er bul­let at the same tar­get. Cries of pain and rage arose, there was a thud as the heavy log was dropped to the ground, and Hen­ry had time to send a third shot af­ter the flee­ing war­riors as they ran for the for­est.

“They won't try that again,” said Hen­ry. “They can­not ap­proach the door with­out com­ing with­in range of the loop­hole, and they'll rest a while now to think up some new trick.”

“What will be the end of it?” asked Paul.

“No­body can say,” replied the great youth calm­ly. “In­di­ans don't stick to a thing as white men do; they may get tired and go away af­ter a while, but not yet, and it's for you and me, Paul, to watch and fight.”

A cer­tain fierce re­solve showed in his tone, and Paul knew that Hen­ry felt him­self a match for any­thing.

“Bet­ter eat and drink a lit­tle more, Paul,” said Hen­ry. “Take the half of a pi­geon. We'll need all our strength.”

Paul thought the ad­vice good, and fol­lowed it. Then came an­oth­er pe­ri­od of that ter­ri­ble wait­ing.