always
stepping where there was the least possibility of leaving a
footprint. Not a word was spoken. If either of the brothers made the
lightest splash in the water, or tumbled a stone into the brook, the
Indian behind rapped him on the head with a tomahawk handle.
At certain places, indicated by the care which Silvertip exercised
in walking, the Indian in front of the captives turned and pointed
where they were to step. They were hiding the trail. Silvertip
hurried them over the stony places; went more slowly through the
water, and picked his way carefully over the soft ground it became
necessary to cross. At times he stopped, remaining motionless many
seconds.
This vigilance continued all the afternoon. The sun sank; twilight
spread its gray mantle, and soon black night enveloped the forest.
The Indians halted, but made no fire; they sat close together on a
stony ridge, silent and watchful.
Joe pondered deeply over this behavior. Did the Shawnees fear
pursuit? What had that Indian chief told Silvertip? To Joe it seemed
that they acted as if believing foes were on all sides. Though they
hid their tracks, it was, apparently, not the fear of pursuit alone
which made them cautious.
Joe reviewed the afternoon's march and dwelt upon the possible
meaning of the cat-like steps, the careful brushing aside of
branches, the roving eyes, suspicious and gloomy, the eager
watchfulness of the advance as well as to the rear, and always the
strained effort to listen, all of which gave him the impression of
some grave, unseen danger.
And now as he lay on the hard ground, nearly exhausted by the long
march and suffering from the throbbing wound, his courage lessened
somewhat, and he shivered with dread. The quiet and gloom of the
forest; these fierce, wild creatures, free in the heart of their own
wilderness yet menaced by a foe, and that strange French phrase
which kept recurring in his mind—all had the effect of conjuring up
giant shadows in Joe's fanciful mind. During all his life, until
this moment, he had never feared anything; now he was afraid of the
darkness. The spectral trees spread long arms overhead, and phantom
forms stalked abroad; somewhere out in that dense gloom stirred this
mysterious foe—the "Wind of Death."
Nevertheless, he finally slept. In the dull-gray light of early
morning the Indians once more took up the line of march toward the
west. They marched all that day, and at dark halted to eat and rest.
Silvertip and another Indian stood watch.
Some time before morning Joe suddenly awoke. The night was dark, yet
it was lighter than when he had fallen asleep. A pale, crescent moon
shown dimly through the murky clouds. There was neither movement of
the air nor the chirp of an insect. Absolute silence prevailed.
Joe saw the Indian guard leaning against a tree, asleep. Silvertip
was gone. The captive raised his head and looked around for the
chief. There were only four Indians left, three on the ground and
one against the tree.
He saw something shining near him. He looked more closely, and made
out the object to be an eagle plume Silvertip had worn, in his
head-dress. It lay on the ground near the tree. Joe made some slight
noise which awakened the guard. The Indian never moved a muscle; but
his eyes roved everywhere. He, too, noticed the absence of the
chief.
At this moment from out of the depths of the woods came a swelling
sigh, like the moan of the night wind. It rose and died away,
leaving the silence apparently all the deeper.
A shudder ran over Joe's frame. Fascinated, he watched the guard.
The Indian uttered a low gasp; his eyes started and glared wildly;
he rose very slowly to his full height and stood waiting, listening.
The dark hand which held the tomahawk trembled so that little glints
of moonlight glanced from the bright steel.
From far back in the forest-deeps came that same low moaning:
"Um-m-mm-woo-o-o-o!"
It rose from a faint murmur and swelled to a deep moan, soft but
clear, and ended in a
stepping where there was the least possibility of leaving a
footprint. Not a word was spoken. If either of the brothers made the
lightest splash in the water, or tumbled a stone into the brook, the
Indian behind rapped him on the head with a tomahawk handle.
At certain places, indicated by the care which Silvertip exercised
in walking, the Indian in front of the captives turned and pointed
where they were to step. They were hiding the trail. Silvertip
hurried them over the stony places; went more slowly through the
water, and picked his way carefully over the soft ground it became
necessary to cross. At times he stopped, remaining motionless many
seconds.
This vigilance continued all the afternoon. The sun sank; twilight
spread its gray mantle, and soon black night enveloped the forest.
The Indians halted, but made no fire; they sat close together on a
stony ridge, silent and watchful.
Joe pondered deeply over this behavior. Did the Shawnees fear
pursuit? What had that Indian chief told Silvertip? To Joe it seemed
that they acted as if believing foes were on all sides. Though they
hid their tracks, it was, apparently, not the fear of pursuit alone
which made them cautious.
Joe reviewed the afternoon's march and dwelt upon the possible
meaning of the cat-like steps, the careful brushing aside of
branches, the roving eyes, suspicious and gloomy, the eager
watchfulness of the advance as well as to the rear, and always the
strained effort to listen, all of which gave him the impression of
some grave, unseen danger.
And now as he lay on the hard ground, nearly exhausted by the long
march and suffering from the throbbing wound, his courage lessened
somewhat, and he shivered with dread. The quiet and gloom of the
forest; these fierce, wild creatures, free in the heart of their own
wilderness yet menaced by a foe, and that strange French phrase
which kept recurring in his mind—all had the effect of conjuring up
giant shadows in Joe's fanciful mind. During all his life, until
this moment, he had never feared anything; now he was afraid of the
darkness. The spectral trees spread long arms overhead, and phantom
forms stalked abroad; somewhere out in that dense gloom stirred this
mysterious foe—the "Wind of Death."
Nevertheless, he finally slept. In the dull-gray light of early
morning the Indians once more took up the line of march toward the
west. They marched all that day, and at dark halted to eat and rest.
Silvertip and another Indian stood watch.
Some time before morning Joe suddenly awoke. The night was dark, yet
it was lighter than when he had fallen asleep. A pale, crescent moon
shown dimly through the murky clouds. There was neither movement of
the air nor the chirp of an insect. Absolute silence prevailed.
Joe saw the Indian guard leaning against a tree, asleep. Silvertip
was gone. The captive raised his head and looked around for the
chief. There were only four Indians left, three on the ground and
one against the tree.
He saw something shining near him. He looked more closely, and made
out the object to be an eagle plume Silvertip had worn, in his
head-dress. It lay on the ground near the tree. Joe made some slight
noise which awakened the guard. The Indian never moved a muscle; but
his eyes roved everywhere. He, too, noticed the absence of the
chief.
At this moment from out of the depths of the woods came a swelling
sigh, like the moan of the night wind. It rose and died away,
leaving the silence apparently all the deeper.
A shudder ran over Joe's frame. Fascinated, he watched the guard.
The Indian uttered a low gasp; his eyes started and glared wildly;
he rose very slowly to his full height and stood waiting, listening.
The dark hand which held the tomahawk trembled so that little glints
of moonlight glanced from the bright steel.
From far back in the forest-deeps came that same low moaning:
"Um-m-mm-woo-o-o-o!"
It rose from a faint murmur and swelled to a deep moan, soft but
clear, and ended in a
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