Part 6 (2/2)

”I can't say yet whether you're lucky, or just the opposite,” she demurely remarked.

A loud call from the forest relieved my answering this insinuating remark, and I stepped outdoors to find the men leaving their work and the women leaving their cooking. ”White man coming!” bawled a young man.

”Ain't any of the scouts,” said Davis. ”Better gather the children in.

White man sure enough, but it may be one of the renegade breed. Surveyors from the Kanawha say Tavenor Ross is out with the reds ag'in.”

There was no haste or confusion in preparing for this possible attack led by a white man. The children scuttled to their mothers; the men slowly fell back to fort and cabins. The fact that four Indian-haters were carefully scouting the woods satisfied us that no enemy could get very close without being fired upon. The white man called again. This time he was answered from two directions.

”It's all right,” shouted Davis. ”Ike Crabtree answered him. So did Lige Runner. Crabtree never would 'a' yipped till sure there wa'n't no Injun waiting to be shot down. Prob'ly some one from the Holston.”

”Hooray!” howled a seventeen-year-old lad, who painted his face in addition to wearing Indian leggings. ”It's Jesse Hughes!”

His endors.e.m.e.nt of the pa.s.sionate, reckless man evoked more enthusiasm from the younger men than from their elders. So implacable was Hughes in his hatred of the natives that he was incapable of any self-restraint. His partic.i.p.ation in the ma.s.sacre of the Bulltown families had made him a well-known character wherever Indian-fighters met.

Crabtree loved to kill Indians, but he always weighed his chances and never scorned an advantage. Hughes killed on sight, whether in a settlement or in the woods, whether the act brought one or a score of dusky avengers on his trail. Nor did it matter if the Indian be friendly to the whites and known to be perfectly harmless. His skin condemned him.

Although a master of woodcraft and possessing a knowledge of western Virginia equaled by few men, Hughes was never asked to lead a command of rangers sent to rescue prisoners, or punish a village. He was too irresponsible. He would imperil the lives of a score of friends bent on a surprise attack by firing upon the first savage he saw.

The young men saw in him the successful killer. Their elders preferred to travel the forests without him. His presence in a settlement once war came to the frontier, however, was always desirable, as in case of a fight he would do the enemy much damage.

When he rode from the forest the four scouts came with him; and there was no question as to their admiration of the fellow. Greetings were called out by men and women. He saw me mounted and some one told him of my journey. He rode up to me and warned me to be watchful as he had found tracks a few miles south of the mountain-trace I proposed following.

His errand at Howard's Creek was to secure a few men and attempt to cut off this band. Eager queries for news induced him to say he had just come from Clinch River, and that Captain William Russell, in charge of the rangers along the Clinch, had started Daniel Boone and Michael Stoner for the Falls of the Ohio to warn the surveyors along the river that the Indians were out and would soon be attacking the frontier and combing the Kentucky country clean.

With much gusto he added that three Cherokees had been killed recently at the head of the Clinch. The thoughtless, in unison with Hacker and his companions, cheered this announcement most l.u.s.tily. The men with families looked very grave. Of Baby Kirst, Hughes had seen no signs.

His report of Indian-signs near my route over the mountains influenced me to return to the cabin and check up my ammunition more carefully. I spread a double handful of small bullets on the table, running seventy to the pound, and let each slip through my fingers to make sure none was irregular. Only those which were round and smooth were returned to the pouch.

My flints and greased linen patches were examined a second time. An aged man, known as Uncle d.i.c.k, came in and watched me curiously, and grinned in approval of my caution. It was seldom a man reached his advanced age on the frontier. I had never heard Uncle d.i.c.k's last name, nor do I believe there was any one on the creek who had heard it.

According to rumor he had gone against some law in South Carolina and had fled to the frontier. Despite his many years he was st.u.r.dy and strong, but his failing eyesight made him dependent upon knife and ax. Much travel in wet weather had crippled him with rheumatism, and he remained close to whatever settlement he happened to visit.

”Fill the breast o' yer s.h.i.+rt with hunks o' corn cake, younker. Be sure yer ax is. .h.i.tched so it won't be snagged from the loop when ye ride h.e.l.litiflicker through the bushes,” he warned me.

I nodded, and he seated himself on a three-legged stool and whetted a long knife against one of the fireplace stones, and mumbled:

”Don't make no differ about me, but for the sake o' these younkers here such men as love killin' Injuns oughter keep clear o' the settlements an'

do their stent on t'other side the Ohio. Old Cornstalk's powerful keen to git them fellers. When he hears they're here at the creek he's likely to strike quick an' mighty pert. Wal, if they come an' I can make it hand-grips with 'em I 'low there'll be some new Injuns in the Happy Huntin'-grounds.”

When I bid the people good-by and received their kindly wishes for a safe journey, Uncle d.i.c.k was still at the fireplace, trying to improve the razor-edge of his blade.

I rode through the woods without spending any time in looking for signs.

Runner and his mates had scouted a circle around the clearing in a thorough fas.h.i.+on, and I could spare my eyes until I reached the first slope of the mountains. When the path began to ascend and I was afforded a better view of the heavens, thunder-clouds were piling in sullen ma.s.siveness above the western horizon.

The heat was very oppressive. The dull rumble of thunder came across the valley behind. It was as much of a vibration as a sound, something to be felt as well as heard. The song-birds were keeping close to the thickets and fluttering about nervously. By the time I was well committed to the first rugged ascent, a yellowish gray wall filled the western sky. Across this the lightning played.

<script>