Part 8 (1/2)
There was no sign of pursuit. I was no novice in Indian warfare, but in this instance I scarcely believed the Shawnees would draw near enough to make the chase interesting. So far as I could observe Cousin had succeeded in stealing away from them, and there was no Indian who could overtake him, especially if he ran at my stirrup.
”They've took four sculps on this side the valley,” he murmured as he loped along at my side. ”I bagged three on 'em. You fetched one. Black Hoof is too big a chief to call it quits. He's back there leadin' the chase. So I 'low it'll be close.”
A curious little thrill chilled my spine. Cataheca.s.sa, or Black Hoof, was one of the most redoubtable and resourceful savages to be found in the Shawnee nation. If below Cornstalk's intellectual plane he made up for much of any such discrepancy by his fiery courage and deep cunning.
The long-drawn howl of a wolf sounded up the slope on our left and was soon answered by a similar call directly in our rear. For a third time the signal menaced us, on our right and at a considerable distance.
”They're still scoutin' the ridge for me,” murmured Cousin, his lean face turning to the left. ”The heft of 'em are comin' along the trace behind us. Those over to the right are hustlin' to find out what's up. We must git along faster!”
My mount responded eagerly, for he sensed the danger. And it was wonderful to observe how Cousin kept up, with one hand on my stirrup, the other holding the rifle. We were well beyond the brook where I shot my Shawnee, and within half a mile or less of the Grisdol cabin, when our flight was interrupted for a few moments by the behavior of my horse.
It was just as we turned from the main trace to strike into the path leading to the cabin that the animal bolted sidewise, crowding Cousin deep into the bushes. I reined in and stared down on a terrible sight--that of the four Grisdols. They lay in the path, head to head, in the form of a cross. I felt my stirrup shake as Cousin's hand rested on it. He gave a little gasping sob and whispered:
”How near to the cabin now?”
”Less than half a mile,” I told him as I soothed my horse and permitted him to pick his way around the dead.
Once more we were off, but now Cousin ran behind, for the way was winding and narrow, and at places the overhanging boughs tried to brush me from the saddle.
There was no need of glancing back to make sure my companion was keeping up, for his impatient voice repeatedly urged me to make greater speed.
”If the cabin ain't standin' we've got to have 'nough of a lead to let us lose 'em in the woods,” he reminded.
The path completed a detour of some tangled blackberry bushes and ended in a natural opening, well gra.s.sed.
”There it is! The roof is partly burned!” I encouraged.
”The walls stand. The door's in place. Faster!”
Across the opening we raced. From the woods behind arose a ferocious yelling. The Shawnee were confident they had driven us into a trap. We flashed by two dead cows and some butchered hogs, and as yet I had not seen an Indian except the one masked in a bear's pelt. The cabin roof was burned through at the front end. The door was partly open and uninjured.
It was simple reasoning to reconstruct the tragedy even while we hastened to shelter. The family had offered resistance, but had been thrown into a panic at the first danger from fire. Then it was quickly over. Doubtless there had been something of a parley with the usual promise of life if they came out. The fire crackled overhead, the victims opened the door.
Cousin said they had been conducted to the main trace before being slaughtered. As I leaped from my horse a fringe of savages broke from cover and began shooting. Cousin dropped the foremost of them. I led the horse inside the cabin and my companion closed and barred the door.
The interior of the place mutely related the tragic story. It is the homely background of a crime that accents the terrible. On the table was the breakfast of the family, scarcely touched. They had been surprised when just about to eat. An overturned stool told how one of the men had leaped to bar the door at the first alarm. I spied through a peephole but could see nothing of our foes. A low cry from Cousin alarmed me. He was overcome at the sight of a small ap.r.o.n.
”I wish I'd stuck to the open,” he whispered. ”The air o' this place chokes me.”
”If we can stand them off till night we can send the horse galloping toward the woods to draw their fire. Then we can run for it.”
”There won't be no darkness to-night,” morosely replied Cousin. ”They'll make big fires. They'll try to burn us out. We're well forted till they git the roof blazin' ag'in. We'll 'low to stick here s'long we can. They won't dare to hang round too long.”
He took a big kettle from the fireplace and thrust it through the hole in the roof. Bullets whistled overhead, with an occasional _whang_ as a piece of lead hit the kettle and ricochetted. After the first volley the Indians refused to waste their ammunition, either realizing it was useless, or suspecting the kettle was some kind of a trick.
”I 'lowed they'd git tired,” muttered Cousin, sticking the top of his head into the kettle and lifting the edge a crack so he could scrutinize the forest. After a minute of silence his m.u.f.fed voice called down to me: ”Had a notion that cow we pa.s.sed nearest the woods was dead. Try a shot that'll just graze the rump.”
I fired and a Shawnee began rolling toward the bushes. The iron kettle rattled to the ground, and young Cousin, with head and shoulders thrust through the roof, discharged both barrels of his rifle. The Indian stopped rolling. I was amazed that Black Hoof's men had not instantly fired a volley. I exclaimed as much as he dropped to the floor.
”Here she comes!” he cried as the lead began plunging into the thick logs.
”If they keep it up we can dig quite a lot o' lead out the timbers. It took 'em by surprise to see me comin' through the roof, an' it surprised 'em more to see two shoots comin' out of a gun that hadn't been reloaded.