Part 49 (2/2)

”A grand corps, lad! Tim Murphy is my mate. And I think there's not a rifleman among us who can not shoot the whiskers off a porcupine at a hundred yards.” And to me, with a nod toward my Oneidas: ”They are painting. Do you march tonight, John?”

”A matter of cleaning out a Tory nest yonder,” said I.

”A filthy business and not war,” quoth he. ”Well, G.o.d be with all friends to liberty, for all h.e.l.l is rising up against us. A thousand Indians are stripped for battle on this frontier--and the tall s.h.i.+ps never cease arriving crammed with red-coats and Germans.

”So we should all do our duty now, whether that same duty lie in emptying barrack slops, or in cleaning out a Tory nest, or in marching to drum and fife, or guarding the still places of the wilderness--it's all one business, John.”

Again we shook hands all around, then, waving aside Joe de Golyer and his proffered lantern, the celebrated rifleman pa.s.sed lightly into the shadows.

”Yonder goes the best shot in the North,” said Nick.

”Saving only yourself and Jack Mount and Tim Murphy,” remarked G.o.dfrey Shew.

”As for the whiskers of a porcupine,” quoth Nick, with the wild flare a-glimmering in his eyes, ”why, I have never tried such a target. But I should pick any b.u.t.ton on a red coat at a hundred yards--that is, if I cast and pare my own bullet, and load in my own fas.h.i.+on.”

Silver swore that any rifle among us white men should shave an otter of his whiskers, as a barber trims a Hessian.

”Sacre garce!” cried he, ”why should we miss--we coureurs-du-bois, who have learn to shoot by ze hardes' of all drill-masters--a empty belly!”

”We must not miss at Howell's house,” said I, counting my people at a glance.

The Saguenay, ghastly in scarlet and white, came and placed himself behind me.

All the Oneidas were naked, painted from lock to ankle in terrific symbols.

Thiohero was still oiling her supple, boyish body when I started a brief description of the part each one of us was to act, speaking in the Oneida dialect and in English.

”Take these b.l.o.o.d.y men alive,” I added, ”if it can be done. But if it can not, then slay them. For every one of these that escapes tonight shall return one day with a swarm of hornets to sting us all to death in County Tryon!... Are you ready for the command?”

”Ready, John,” says Nick.

”March!”

At midnight we had surrounded Howell's house, save only the east approach, which we still left open for tardy skulkers.

A shadowy form or two slinking out from the tamaracks, their guns trailing, pa.s.sed along the hard ridge, bent nearly double to avoid observation.

We could not recognize them, for they were very shadows, vague as frost-driven woodc.o.c.k speeding at dusk to a sheltered swamp.

But, as they arrived, singly and in little groups, such a silent rage possessed me that I could scarce control my rifle, which quivered to take toll of these old neighbors who were returning by stealth at night to murder us in our beds.

The Saguenay lay in the wild gra.s.ses on my left; the little maid of Askalege, in her naked paint, lay on my right hand. Her forefinger caressed the trigger of her new rifle; the stock lay close to her cheek.

And I could hear her singing her _Karenna_ in a mouse's whisper to herself:

”Listen, John Drogue,[16]

Though we all die, You shall survive!

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