The Hunters of the Ozark, Edward Sylvester Ellis [best novel books to read .txt] 📗

in front of the cavern. He remarked that he would be gone only a few minutes, but he took his gun with him.

When Deerfoot emerged from the rude shelter it was fully dark. There was a moon in the sky, but the density of the surrounding forest kept out the rays, so that the gloom could not be penetrated to any distance.

He stood still and listened. His sense of hearing, like that of sight, was trained to a wonderfully fine point, as you have learned in the incidents previously related, so that faint noises, such as you or I could not have detected, would have told their full story to him.

But nothing more than what may be called the natural sounds of the wood fell on his ear. Then the young Indian leaped lightly across the small brook in front of the cavern and walked some two rods beyond, where he paused and listened again. After this he made a complete circuit of the cavern. This compelled him to cross the little stream once more, brought him back to the mouth of the retreat, and caused him also to climb over a great deal of broken ground, but a shadow could not have made the circuit more noiselessly. He stopped several times and listened with the same profound attention, occasionally looking toward the cavern within which his friends were eating their supper and talking together in low, guarded tones. He caught the murmur of their voices, which would have been audible to no one else beyond a dozen feet. Just above the large opening in the cavern, through which most of the smoke found its way, a faint, dull glow showed that the camp-fire was burning below.

The inspection made by Deerfoot was satisfactory; he had discovered no sign of any prowling enemy, and the party could not have found a place where there was less likelihood of disturbance by any foes who were in the neighborhood. It would seem indeed that nothing short of a most exceptional mishap could bring any danger near. So he once more entered the cavern, and seated himself by the fire, upon which Fred Linden had just thrown a bundle of sticks that filled the cavern with a light like that of noonday.

Terry insisted that Deerfoot should take his blanket, because the Shawanoe had none, and the one belonging to Fred Linden was enough for the others. Deerfoot at first declined, but his young friend persevered, so the half-dozen yards of heavy stuff were spread on the rock and earth floor of the cabin, and then Deerfoot disposed of himself in a lolling attitude, reclining on his left elbow, while he looked across and through the blaze at his two friends, who were stretched out in almost a similar attitude. It will be borne in mind that he was nearer the mouth of the cavern than were the others: in fact he was about half-way between where they were stretched and the open air. Fred and Terry did not notice this, or, if they did, they supposed it was accidental, though it was done with forethought by the sagacious young Shawanoe.

The evening was yet young, and the circumstances were such as to make the boys talk at a rate that almost overwhelmed Deerfoot, who always showed a deliberation in his speech, as if he weighed each word before allowing it to fall from his lips.

Fred and Terry had formed a strong liking for the young Shawanoe, and since he seemed to be in fine spirits, they plied him with questions until they learned the chief facts in his history. When the long conversation ended they knew that Deerfoot was the son of a Shawanoe chief, and that he was born in the Dark and Bloody Ground. When but a small boy he was like a spitting wildcat in his hatred of the white people, and it was not until he was wounded and nearly beaten to death, that he could be taken prisoner on one of the excursions of his people against the white settlements.

He fell into goods hands and was nursed back to strength. Not only that, but those that had him in direct charge told him about God, who made the world, who loved His creatures, and who sorrowed to see them trying to harm each other, and who had sent His only Son to die for His lost children. It was a wonderful story to which Deerfoot listened with rapt attention, and all in time (as you have been told in another place), the extraordinary young Shawanoe became a devout follower of the meek and lowly One. He felt that he could never repay the whites for showing him the way to eternal life. Thenceforward he became their friend, and devoted his life to protecting them against the enmity of the red men.

Deerfoot told Fred and Terry something about his stirring experiences with Ned Preston and Wildblossom Brown, and afterward with Jack Carleton and Otto Relstaub, but did not hint at one-tenth the services he had rendered the white people. Of all the fierce tribes that made portions of Ohio and Kentucky like sheol on earth, the Shawanoes were the worst: they were the Apaches of the last century. Deerfoot had fallen into their hands and many of his most desperate encounters were with them. Finally the efforts to take him prisoner became so far reaching that he saw that his usefulness as a friend of the settlements was at end. The rage of the Shawanoes was such that it may be said that some of their campaigns were planned with the sole purpose of capturing the young renegade, whom they hated with a hatred like that of the tigers of the jungle.

You will see, therefore, that not only was the usefulness of Deerfoot as an ally of the whites ended, but he became even an element of danger to them. He had been urged to make his home with those who held him in such high regard, but he could not do so. He quietly withdrew from the country and crossed the Mississippi into the vast Louisiana Territory. There he had lived for a couple of years, and there he expected to end his days.

"Deerfoot," said Fred Linden, when his remarkable narration had ended, "Terry and I are not new hands in the woods, and we would be much better satisfied if you would allow us to share the night in watching with you."

"Why does my brother think of danger?"

"Because _you_ do; I know it by your actions."

The quickness of this reply struck Deerfoot favorably. He did not think that his conduct had been noticed, and he was gratified that his friend was so observant. That there should be no mistake about his suspicions, Fred added:

"I don't know whether you have seen that Winnebago or not since you started him on the run yesterday; he may be still running, but I am quite sure, from the way you have behaved, that you suspect that he and the rest of his companions are prowling through the woods, on the lookout for a chance to revenge themselves."

Deerfoot's face glowed. Fred Linden had hit the nail on the head.

"My brother speaks the words of truth; his thoughts are the thoughts of Deerfoot."

Terry Clark looked at his companion in astonishment.

"How come ye to know all that, Fred?"

"I see nothing remarkable about it; all I had to do was to observe the actions of Deerfoot since he joined us to-day. In the first place, he wouldn't have made us change our camping place if he hadn't had some misgiving, and then the way he has been mousing around the outside, and his decision to keep watch to-night: why what could tell the story more plainly?"

"Begorrah," said the admiring Terry, "ye are not such a big fool as you look to be; I never thought of that."

"Which looks as if you are a bigger dunce than you seem; but," added Fred, turning toward the Shawanoe, "have you seen any thing of the Winnebagos?"

"Deerfoot has seen their footprints in the woods; they are on the watch for his white brothers that they may gain their scalps, because the gun of the Wolf was taken from him."

"They seem to have hard work in finding us: where do those Winnebagos come from?"

Deerfoot pointed to the northward, or rather to a little east of north.

"Their hunting grounds are many suns' travel that way."

"Why do the spalpeens come down in this part of the world, and why don't they behave thimselves whin they do?" demanded Terry, with some indignation.

Deerfoot shook his head, as though the question was more than he could answer.

"Deerfoot has met Shawanoes and Sacs and Wyandottes and Pawnees far away from their villages and hunting grounds, besides the strange Indians who come much further from the setting sun. The red men travel whither they will. Why the Winnebagos passed near the home of my brothers only they can tell."

"Well, they're a bad lot," said Terry, "to try the mean trick they did on me; though," he added the next moment, "I'm glad they done the same, for if they hadn't, how would I've got hold of this lovely gun? Do ye think we shall have any more trouble with them?"

"Deerfoot believes there will be trouble, and it will come soon!"

"Well, if it does, all ye have to do is to take away the rist of their guns and set 'em on the run home agin."


CHAPTER XVII.

A SUSPICIOUS SOUND.

By and by Fred Linden and Terry Clark became drowsy. Devoutly kneeling, they spent several minutes in prayer, and then stretched out on a single blanket, with their backs toward each other, and the face of Fred in such a position that he could look across the blaze at Deerfoot on the other side. The latter had remained still and motionless, while the lads, remembering the lesson they had learned at their mothers' knee, asked their Heavenly Father to hold them in His keeping. The young Shawanoe, who spent many an hour in communion with his Maker, was touched to see that his friends did not forget their duty.

Deerfoot stirred the burning wood so that it threw out more light, and then, reclining on his left elbow, so that the illumination came directly in his face (the worst direction possible), he drew from beneath his hunting-shirt the small Bible, that had been presented to him by the Preston family, and began reading it.

Fred Linden, who had his eyes fixed upon him, was so interested that his drowsiness departed. Without moving he watched him closely. He saw him turning the leaves back and forth, as if looking for some place he had in mind. It took him but a minute to find it, when, still leaning on his elbow, and with the light striking his face and the printed page, he seemed to become so absorbed as to lose all consciousness of his surroundings.

Fred Linden, without betraying that he was awake, surveyed this remarkable performance with an admiration that for the moment made his eyes misty with emotion.

The eyes of Deerfoot were downcast, as he read the page, so that they could not be seen but the handsome oval face; the luxuriant black hair, with the eagle feathers thrust into the crown; the rows of gleaming beads around the neck; the deerskin shirt that covered the breast and arms to the wrists, on the left one of which shone the golden bracelet; the red