The Phantom of the River, Edward Sylvester Ellis [ereader with dictionary .txt] 📗

what followed before he finished the expression of the thought that was in his mind. Through the narrow window at which he was gazing the muzzle of a gun was thrust and the weapon discharged, the ball passing so close that he felt it nip his ear.

With a howl of dismay the youth leaped a foot in the air and to one side. No one could have had a narrower escape than he, and he knew it.

"Tings are gettin' mixed most obstrageously," he muttered, stepping nearer to one side of the room and proceeding to reload his gun as best he could in the darkness.

Much as Jethro had blundered, and obtuse as he was in many things, he understood what had taken place. That which he supposed to be the head of an Indian was some object presented by the crouching warrior with the purpose of drawing his fire, and it succeeded in doing so. The flash of the negro's rifle revealed where he stood, and the Shawanoe, who was watching for that clew, lost no time in firing, missing by a hair's-breadth a fatal result. Thus it came about that not the least execution was done on either side.

Jethro waited some minutes in order to discover the next movement of his enemies. Nothing presenting itself, he had resort to the dangerous expedient of trying to peer through the different windows. Being enveloped in impenetrable gloom, he could not have been seen by the Indians had they been on the watch, though possibly they might have heard him. As it was, no shot was fired at him, nor was he able to detect anything that could give him the least information of what his enemies were doing, or what they intended to do. They may have been quite near, but he could not get the first glimpse of them.

"Dis yeah am gettin' ser'us," mused Jethro, leaning against the side of the house in order to think more clearly. "I's afeard dat somethin' may happen to Mr. Kenton, and if it does and he can't get back, nor me neither, what's goin' to become of de folks? I 'spose dey am most worried to def now."

Since it looked as if it would be impossible for him to leave the cabin for an indefinite time, the anxiety of the dusky youth to do so increased with every passing minute, until he formed the resolution to make the attempt, no matter what the consequences might prove to himself.

A dispassionate view of the situation would have pronounced Jethro as useful to the pioneers in one place as in another. Possibly, it might have been decided that it was better that he should remain away so long as the peril remained imminent, despite the fact that he had already done them most effective service.

Jethro could not so far forget the first law of human nature as not to debate and hesitate for a considerable while before taking the decisive step.

"I might leave de door open," he reflected, "so dat if any ob de heathen are hangin' round de outside waitin' for a chance to shet me off, I kin dodge back and slam de door in dar faces. Ef I don't see 'em till I git too fur to run back, I kin dive into de woods or hide."

All this sounded well enough in theory, but the young man could not lose sight of one thing: in point of fleetness he could not compare with any of the Shawanoes. They could run him down, as may be said, in a twinkling.

It was impossible for one so inexperienced as he to form a reasonable guess of the intentions of the red men. It was curious, to say the least, that one or two of them should linger in the vicinity of the cabin after the departure of the pioneers for the block-house. Even Simon Kenton could not have guessed their purpose.

"Dey couldn't hab seed me go in," thought Jethro, "for, if dey did, dey would hab hollered to me and asked me who I was lookin' fur; I'd gib 'em some sass, and den dar would hab been a row and some ha'r pullin'."

The youth leaned against the side of the apartment a brief while longer in intense cogitation, and then sighed.

"I ain't used to tinkin' so hard as dis; it exhorsts me."

To remedy which he groped his way to the huge bread box, a few paces away. There was enough, left to furnish a person of ordinary appetite with a good meal, but, when he ceased, nothing was left.

"Umph! dat rewives me; I feel stronger now--I'll do a little more hard tinkin'--graciousnation, I's got it!" he exclaimed, leaping from the floor in exultation; "why didn't I tink ob it afore? I'll hold one ob dese boxes ober me, so dey can't see nuffin' ob me, and den walk out ob de house and straight 'cross de clearin' to de woods. When I got dar, I'll flung de box off en run! Dat's de plan, suah I's born!"


CHAPTER XIII.

UNKIND FATE.

After setting out on his return to his friends with the canoe which he had recovered so cleverly from the drowsy Shawanoe, Simon Kenton gave little thought to Jethro Juggens. The youth had become separated from the scout through his own disregard of orders, and, as has already been said, the former regarded his highest duty to be to the pioneers, who, a mile or so away, were anxiously looking for his return.

It was during the first part of his voyage with the canoe that Kenton had his hurricane encounter with the warrior who withdrew it from the point along the bank where he left the craft for a few minutes only.

The scout was surprised and somewhat alarmed for his friends over one or two facts which thus came to light. The Indian who paid so dearly for this little trick he attempted upon the white man was not the one that sat on the bank near the clearing while the boat was withdrawn from before him. This proved that more than one Shawanoe was down the river between the pioneers and the cabin in the clearing. The cawing from the Ohio side showed that the lynx-eyed watchers were there, with the unwelcome certainty that the Shawanoes were far more numerous than either Boone or Kenton had supposed.

"Wa-on-mon has been doing some good work," reflected Kenton, "since he sneaked out of sight, instead of meeting me for our last scrimmage. Dan'l is right when he says the reason The Panther done that warn't 'cause he was afeared of me, but' cause he seed a chance of hittin' a powerfuller blow than in sending nobody but Sime Kenton under. That's what he's up to, with a mighty big chance of doing what he set out to do."

The signal from the Ohio bank, and the encounter with the redskin, drove all hesitation from the ranger's mind regarding the canoe. He drew it from the water and upon the dry land, his paddle and rifle lying inside, and then, with no little labor, dragged it among the trees to the other side of the open space, where it was launched again, uninjured by its rough experience.

"I hope there ain't many such places," he muttered, as he took the paddle in hand; "'cause if there is, this old boat will suffer."

But night was closing in, and, with the coming of darkness, the need of such extreme caution would pass. The wind too, was now blowing so strongly up the river that it was not necessary to use the extreme caution against making any noise while pushing his way along the bank.

To Kenton's disgust, he had gone a little more than a hundred yards further when he struck another of the very places he had in mind. It was twice as broad as the one he had flanked a few minutes before, and did not offer the slightest concealment.

He checked the canoe, with the nose on the edge of the opening, and took several minutes to look over the ground and decide upon the best course to follow.

To most persons it must seem like an excess of caution for Kenton to hesitate to propel his boat across this open space when it confronted him. That there was any dusky foe crouching in the woods, with his eyes fixed upon that "clearing" in the water and watching for the appearance of Kenton, was a piece of fine-spun theorizing that entered the realms of the absurd. It was preposterous to suppose anything of the kind. Simon Kenton was too much of a veteran in woodcraft to make such preposterous mistakes.

But the unwelcome truth which stared him in the face was that he had been followed from the clearing, and the signal from the other side of the river, resembling the call of a crow, he believed referred to him. It looked as if there was an understanding between the Shawanoe scouts on the Ohio and those on the Kentucky side of the river.

As the matter stood, however, Kenton decided not to drag the canoe among the trees again. In the gathering darkness he was liable to injure it beyond repair, and in a brief while the gloom itself would afford him the screen he needed.

The wind stirred the water into wrinkles and wavelets along the shore, which rippled against the canoe and the end of the paddle when held motionless. Further out in the river the disturbance was so marked that it would have caused some annoyance even to a strong swimmer.

Kenton's conclusion was to stay where he was for a brief while--that is, until the gloom increased sufficiently to allow him to paddle across the open space without the misgiving that now held his muscular arm motionless.

Sitting thus, with all his senses alert, he caught the distinct outlines of some large object on the surface of the river. It was moving with moderate swiftness from the Ohio bank in a diagonal direction to the Kentucky shore, making for a point but a short distance above where the ranger was waiting for a slight increase of darkness.

A second glance identified the object as an Indian canoe containing several occupants. But for the noise made by the wind and water he would have heard the dipping of the paddles, for there was no attempt in the way of secrecy of movement.

"That looks as though they didn't 'spect none of us was in these parts," mused Kenton, with considerable relief. "If the varmints thought Sime Kenton was loafin' anywhere near they'd be a powerful sight more keerful."

Since the new party were following a course which would ultimately take them up stream and nearer to the party of fugitives, the ranger decided to learn, if possible, something more of their intentions.

A moment's thought convinced him that there was more risk in following the Shawanoes in his canoe than on foot. He suspected the party intended to land. He could move with more freedom and effect among the trees, with liberty to return to his boat whenever he chose.

Accordingly, with hardly a moment's hesitation, he stepped out of the canoe again and drew the prow so far up the bank that there was no danger of its being swept away by the disturbed current. Then, with the noiseless celerity for which he was noted, he moved along the shore in the direction of the camp, where soon after his friends gathered and anxiously awaited his coming.

A disappointment came to