The Crossing [92]
Is the Pale Face Chief's son a prophet?''
``The anger of the Pale Face Chief and of his countrymen is as the hurricane,'' I said, scarce believing my own ears. For a lad is imitative by nature, and I had not listened to the interpreters for three days without profit.
The Hungry Wolf grunted again, after which he was silent for a long time. Then he said:--
``Let the Chief of the Long Knives have guard tonight.'' And suddenly he was gone into the darkness.
I waded the creek and sped to Clark. He was alone now, the shutters of the room closed. And as I came in I could scarce believe that he was the same masterful man I had seen at the council that day, and at the conference an hour gone. He was once more the friend at whose feet I sat in private, who talked to me as a companion and a father.
``Where have you been, Davy?'' he asked. And then, ``What is it, my lad?''
I crept close to him and told him in a breathless undertone, and I knew that I was shaking the while. He listened gravely, and when I had finished laid a firm hand on my head.
``There,'' he said, ``you are a brave lad, and a canny.''
He thought a minute, his hand still resting on my head, and then rose and led me to the back door of the house. It was near midnight, and the sounds of the place were stilling, the crickets chirping in the grass.
``Run to Captain Bowman and tell him to send ten men to this door. But they must come man by man, to escape detection. Do you understand?'' I nodded and was starting, but he still held me. ``God bless you, Davy, you are a brave boy.''
He closed the door softly and I sped away, my moccasins making no sound on the soft dirt. I reached the garrison, was challenged by Jack Terrill, the guard, and brought by him to Bowman's room. The Captain sat, undressed, at the edge of his bed. But he was a man of action, and strode into the long room where his company was sleeping and gave his orders without delay.
Half an hour later there was no light in the village. The Colonel's headquarters were dark, but in the kitchen a dozen tall men were waiting.
CHAPTER XVII
THE SACRIFICE
So far as the world knew, the Chief of the Long Knives slept peacefully in his house. And such was his sense of power that not even a sentry paced the street without. For by these things is the Indian mind impressed. In the tiny kitchen a dozen men and a boy tried to hush their breathing, and sweltered. For it was very hot, and the pent-up odor of past cookings was stifling to men used to the open. In a corner, hooded under a box, was a lighted lantern, and Tom McChesney stood ready to seize it at the first alarm. On such occasions the current of time runs sluggish. Thrice our muscles were startled into tenseness by the baying of a hound, and once a cock crew out of all season. For the night was cloudy and pitchy black, and the dawn as far away as eternity.
Suddenly I knew that every man in the room was on the alert, for the skilled frontiersman, when watchful, has a sixth sense. None of them might have told you what he had heard. The next sound was the faint creaking of Colonel Clark's door as it opened. Wrapping a blanket around the lantern, Tom led the way, and we massed ourselves behind the front door. Another breathing space, and then the war-cry of the Puans broke hideously on the night, and children woke, crying, from their sleep. In two bounds our little detachment was in the street, the fire spouting red from the Deckards, faint, shadowy forms fading along the line of trees. After that an uproar of awakening, cries here and there, a drum beating madly for the militia. The dozen flung themselves across the stream, I hot in their wake, through Mr. Brady's gate, which was open; and there was a scene of sweet tranquillity under the lantern's rays,--the North Wind and his friends wrapped in their blankets and sleeping the sleep of the just.
``Damn the sly varmints,'' cried Tom, and he turned over the North Wind with his foot, as a log.
With a grunt of fury the Indian shed his
``The anger of the Pale Face Chief and of his countrymen is as the hurricane,'' I said, scarce believing my own ears. For a lad is imitative by nature, and I had not listened to the interpreters for three days without profit.
The Hungry Wolf grunted again, after which he was silent for a long time. Then he said:--
``Let the Chief of the Long Knives have guard tonight.'' And suddenly he was gone into the darkness.
I waded the creek and sped to Clark. He was alone now, the shutters of the room closed. And as I came in I could scarce believe that he was the same masterful man I had seen at the council that day, and at the conference an hour gone. He was once more the friend at whose feet I sat in private, who talked to me as a companion and a father.
``Where have you been, Davy?'' he asked. And then, ``What is it, my lad?''
I crept close to him and told him in a breathless undertone, and I knew that I was shaking the while. He listened gravely, and when I had finished laid a firm hand on my head.
``There,'' he said, ``you are a brave lad, and a canny.''
He thought a minute, his hand still resting on my head, and then rose and led me to the back door of the house. It was near midnight, and the sounds of the place were stilling, the crickets chirping in the grass.
``Run to Captain Bowman and tell him to send ten men to this door. But they must come man by man, to escape detection. Do you understand?'' I nodded and was starting, but he still held me. ``God bless you, Davy, you are a brave boy.''
He closed the door softly and I sped away, my moccasins making no sound on the soft dirt. I reached the garrison, was challenged by Jack Terrill, the guard, and brought by him to Bowman's room. The Captain sat, undressed, at the edge of his bed. But he was a man of action, and strode into the long room where his company was sleeping and gave his orders without delay.
Half an hour later there was no light in the village. The Colonel's headquarters were dark, but in the kitchen a dozen tall men were waiting.
CHAPTER XVII
THE SACRIFICE
So far as the world knew, the Chief of the Long Knives slept peacefully in his house. And such was his sense of power that not even a sentry paced the street without. For by these things is the Indian mind impressed. In the tiny kitchen a dozen men and a boy tried to hush their breathing, and sweltered. For it was very hot, and the pent-up odor of past cookings was stifling to men used to the open. In a corner, hooded under a box, was a lighted lantern, and Tom McChesney stood ready to seize it at the first alarm. On such occasions the current of time runs sluggish. Thrice our muscles were startled into tenseness by the baying of a hound, and once a cock crew out of all season. For the night was cloudy and pitchy black, and the dawn as far away as eternity.
Suddenly I knew that every man in the room was on the alert, for the skilled frontiersman, when watchful, has a sixth sense. None of them might have told you what he had heard. The next sound was the faint creaking of Colonel Clark's door as it opened. Wrapping a blanket around the lantern, Tom led the way, and we massed ourselves behind the front door. Another breathing space, and then the war-cry of the Puans broke hideously on the night, and children woke, crying, from their sleep. In two bounds our little detachment was in the street, the fire spouting red from the Deckards, faint, shadowy forms fading along the line of trees. After that an uproar of awakening, cries here and there, a drum beating madly for the militia. The dozen flung themselves across the stream, I hot in their wake, through Mr. Brady's gate, which was open; and there was a scene of sweet tranquillity under the lantern's rays,--the North Wind and his friends wrapped in their blankets and sleeping the sleep of the just.
``Damn the sly varmints,'' cried Tom, and he turned over the North Wind with his foot, as a log.
With a grunt of fury the Indian shed his