Chapter 12: The Belt Bearers

Paul and Jim Hart waited several days, never once venturing from the protecting shadows of the woods, and they found the burden very great. The little island was like a cage, and Jim Hart groaned, moreover, because he could not exercise his skill in the art of cooking.

“These cold victuals,” he said, “besides bein’ unpleasant to the inside, are a disgrace to me. I jest got to cook somethin’.”

Finally, he built up a bed of coals on a very dark night, when it was impossible for anyone to see either their sheltered glow or the smoke they sent out, and he broiled juicy steaks from the body of a deer that they had hung up in a tree.

“Isn’t it fine, Paul?” he said, as they ate hungrily.

“Fine’s no name for it,” replied Paul. “It’s great, splendid, grand, magnificent, surpassing, unapproachable! Are those the terms, Jim?”

“I don’t know jest what all uv ‘em mean,” replied Jim Hart, “but they shorely sound right to me.”

They saw the Indian canoes on the lake once more, but the Miamis seemed to be fishing, and did not come anywhere near the island. Paul appreciated then how great had been their continual need of caution.

A day or two later there was a magnificent thunder storm, despite the lateness of the season. The heavenly artillery roared grandly, and lakes, hills, and forest swam at times in a glare that dazzled Jim Hart. After that it rained hard, and they clung to the shelter of their hut, which was fortunately water-tight now. The rain ceased by and by, but the clouds remained in the sky, and night came very thick and dark. Jim Hart suggested that it would be a good time to do a little fishing, and Paul was ready and willing.

They paddled out silently a short distance from the island, where the water was not too shallow, and let down the lines.

They waited some time and received no bites; but as this was nothing unusual, owing to the crudity of their fishing tackle, they persisted patiently. The night deepened and darkened, and they could not see the surface of the lake fifty yards away. The water, moved by a light wind, bubbled faintly against the sides of the canoe. Neither spoke, but sat in silence, waiting hopefully for a pull on the lines.

Presently Paul heard a faint, wailing sound, coming from the mainland, but at first he paid little attention to it. Then he noticed that Jim Hart had raised his head and was listening intently. Naturally Paul then listened, too, with the same eager attention, and the faint wailing sound, singularly weird and strange in the night, came a second, and presently a third time. But after that it was not repeated. Long Jim Hart looked at the boy.

“You know what that is?” he said.

“The cry of the whip-poor-will.”

“The cry of the whip-poor-will, given three times! The signal! The boys are thar, an’ we must go fur ‘em.”

“Of course,” said Paul. “Do we need to return to the island for anything?”

“No; we have our rifles an’ ammunition with us. We got to start right now, an’ Paul, don’t you splash any water with your paddle.”

Paul understood as well as Jim Hart the need of extreme caution, as the Miamis might be abroad, and he made every stroke steady and sure. Jim Hart emitted the lonesome cry of the whip-poor-will once in return, signal for signal, and then they cut their way in silence through the dark.

They laid their course, according to agreement, for the drinking place at the mouth of the brook, and Paul’s heart beat with relief and gladness. His comrades had come back, safe and sound. It did not occur to him that any one of them might have fallen in the venture. Half way to the mainland Jim Hart stopped the canoe, and listened a moment.

“I thought I heard somethin’ down the lake that sounded like a splash,” he said.

But he did not hear it again, and they resumed their progress. Paul now saw the loom of the land, a darker outline in the darkness, and his heart, already beating fast, began to beat faster. Suppose there should be some trick in the signal! Suppose they should find the Miamis, and not their comrades, waiting for them! He sought hard to pierce the darkness and see what might be there on the land before him.

The outline of the shore rose more distinctly out of the darkness, and the prow of the boat struck softly on the margin. Then Paul saw a figure rise from the bushes, and after it another, and then a third, and then no more. He could not see their faces, but it was the right number, and a vast relief surged up. The three figures came down confidently to the canoe, and then the welcome voice of Henry Ware said in a low tone:

“You are here, Paul! You and Jim are on time to the minute!”

“An’ mighty glad I am, too,” said Shif’less Sol, in the same tone. “I wuz never so tired before in all my life. I think I must have trotted a thousan’ miles, an’ now I’m willin’ to let Jim Hart paddle me the rest o’ the way in a canoe.”

Tom Ross said nothing, merely showing his white teeth in a smile.

“The Miamis are about,” said Paul. “They have been around the lake, and on it, for days, looking for something.”

“We know it,” said Henry. “In fact, we’ve seen some of them not so long since, though none of them saw us. There are big doings afoot, Paul, and we must have our part in them.”

“Should we go back to the island, then?”

“For the present, yes. We need a base, and the island is safest and best.”

The five got cautiously into the canoe, disposing their weight carefully, and Shif’less Sol, who had taken the paddle from Paul, raised it for the first sweep. But it did not come down into the water. Instead, he stopped it in its fall, and he and all the others listened. The same splash that Jim Hart thought he had heard came now to their ears, and it was repeated. Paul knew that it was made by paddles sweeping through water, and it was coming nearer.

“Push back into the bushes,” whispered Henry.

They gently shoved the canoe far among the bushes in the shallow water, and waited. They were completely hidden, but even if seen they could spring instantly to the land. They waited, and the splashing steadily grew louder. Paul felt the pressure of Henry’s hand on his arm, and he looked with all his eyes. The Miami navy was abroad that night! A canoe, a long one with seven or eight warriors in it, was abreast of them, and behind it came five others. They were not twenty yards away, and Paul, in fancy at least, saw the savage eyes and the painted faces. What had brought them out on the lake, what suspicion or precaution, Paul never knew, but there they were. All were brave hearts in the hidden canoe, but they held their breath while that silent file passed by. Then, when the last had gone and was lost in the darkness, they pushed out a little and listened, with all the keenness of forest-bred ears. Hearing no splash, they paddled in a straight course for the haunted island.

“I think they’ve gone toward the north end of the lake, and as they are likely to keep on their way, now is our time,” said Henry.

They pushed farther into the lake, Ross and Shif’less Sol now handling the paddles with wonderful dexterity. They went very slowly, not wishing to make the faintest splash, and meanwhile the darkness thickened and deepened again. It felt very damp to the face, and Paul saw now that fog from the rain of the day was mingled with it. They could not see the faintest outline of the island, but held their course from memory.

They had been out about ten minutes when Ross and Sol, as if by simultaneous impulse, ceased paddling, and Henry whispered; “Don’t anybody make any noise; it’s for our lives!”

They heard that faint splash, which Paul had learned to hate, coming back. The Miami navy, from some unknown cause, had turned in its course. How Paul blessed the thick, fog-charged darkness!

“It’s all chance now,” whispered Henry, ever so low, and Paul understood.

Then they held their breath, and the Miami canoes steadily drew nearer. Would they come directly upon the white canoe or would they pass? They passed, but they passed so near that Paul could hear the Indians in the boats talking to each other. He also heard his heart beating in his body as the invisible file went by, and the loud beat did not cease until no more splashing of the paddles was heard.

“Is all my hair gray?” whispered Shif’less Sol.

Paul wanted to laugh in a kind of nervous relief, but he did not dare. Instead he whispered back:

“I can’t see, Sol, but I’m sure mine is.”

Ross and Shif’less Sol took up the paddles again, and now they reached the island without interruption. The boat was hidden again, and soon all were in the hut in the sheltered cove. Henry spoke with approval of the industry and forethought of Paul and Jim in their absence.

“This hut is a mighty good place on a raw night like this,” he said. “Now, I’m going to sleep, and I’d advise you to do the same, Paul. I’ll tell you to-morrow all that we’ve done and have seen and know.”

While the others slept, Jim Hart, long-legged and captious, but brave, faithful, and enduring, watched. He saw the fog and the darkness clear away, and the moonlight came out, crisp and cold. A light wind blew and dead leaves fell from the trees, rustling dryly as they fell. Autumn was waning and cold weather would soon be at hand. When pale dawn showed, Jim roused his comrades, and they ate breakfast, though no fire was lighted. Then Henry talked.

“It’s true,” he said, “about a great league of all the tribes being formed to destroy forever the white settlements in Kentucky. They are alarmed about their hunting grounds, and they think they must all strike together now, and strike hard. We’ve spied upon several of their villages, and we know. Some renegades are with them, pointing the way, and among them is Braxton Wyatt, the most venomous of them all. I don’t see how one who is born white can do such a thing.”

But Paul had read books, and his mind was always leaping forward to new knowledge.

“It is the bad blood of some far-off ancestor showing,” he said. “It is what they call a reversion. You know, Henry, that Braxton was always mean and sulky. I never saw anybody else so spiteful and jealous as he is, and maybe he thinks he will be a big man among the Indians.”

“That’s so,” said Henry. “I can understand why anybody should love a life in the forest. Ah, it’s such a glorious thing!”

He expanded his chest, and the light leaping into his eyes told that Henry Ware was living the life he loved.

“But,” he added, “I can’t see how anybody could ever turn against his own people.”

“It’s moral perversity,” said Paul.

“Moral perversity,” said Jim Hart, stumbling over the syllables. “Them words sound mighty big, Paul. Would you mind tellin’ us what they mean?”

“They mean, Jim,” put in Shif’less Sol, “that you won’t be what you ought to be, an’ that you won’t, all the time.”

“That’s a good enough explanation,” laughed Paul.

“Whatever is the reason,” said Tom Ross, who used words as rarely as if they were precious jewels, “the tribes are comin’ together to destroy the white settlements. Braxton is givin’ them all kinds uv useful information, an’ we’ve got to hinder these doin’s, ef we kin.”

The others agreed once more, and talked further of the new league. They did not go into much detail about their adventures while spying on the villages, rather looking now to the future.

“I told you, Paul, we ought to a-put a knife in that Braxton Wyatt when we had the chance,” growled Shif’less Sol.

“I couldn’t do it, Sol,” replied Paul.

Later they held a conference beside a bed of coals that threw out no smoke, and Paul listened with absorbed attention while Henry stated the case fully.

“The Shawnees were somewhat daunted by their repulse at Wareville last year,” he said, “but they hope yet to crush the white settlement before we grow too strong. They are seeking to draw the Miamis, Wyandottes, and all the other tribes up here into a league for that purpose, and they want to have it formed and strike while our people are not expecting it. Wareville, owing to her victory of last year, thinks she’s safe, and it is not the custom of Indians to raid much in winter. See, cold weather is not far away.”

Henry looked up, and the eyes of the others followed. The trees were still clothed in leaves, but the blazing reds and yellows and the dim mist on the horizon showed that Indian summer was at hand.

“Any day,” continued Henry, “a cold wind may strip off all these leaves, and winter, which can be very cold up here, will come roaring down. Now, the Shawnees are more than willing to cross the Ohio again to attack us, but the Miamis, while ready enough to take white scalps up here, have not yet made up their minds to go south on the war trail. The Shawnees are sending war belts to them, because the Miamis are a powerful tribe and have many warriors. The first thing for us to do is to take the messengers with the war belts.”

“An’ to do that,” said Shif’less Sol, “we’ve got to git off this islan’ ez soon ez we kin, an’ shake off the band o’ Miamis. Thar is always work fur a tired man to do.”

Paul laughed at his tone of disgust. The boy’s spirits were high now; in fact, he was exuberant over the safe return of his comrades, and the entire enterprise appealed with steadily increasing force to him. To hinder and prevent the Indian alliance until the white settlements were strong enough to defy all the tribes! This was in truth a deed worth while! It was foresight, statesmanship, a long step in the founding of a great state, and he should have a part in it! Already his vivid mind painted the picture of his comrades and himself triumphant.

“We must go to-night, if it is dark,” said Henry.

“That’s so,” said Tom Ross emphatically.

The three had captured fresh supplies of ammunition while they were gone, and they replenished the powder-horns and bullet pouches of Paul and Jim Hart. Moreover, they had taken blankets, of a fine, soft, light but warm make, probably bought by the Indians from European traders, and they gave one each to Paul and Jim Hart.

“It’s getting too cold now,” said Henry, “to sleep in our clothes only on the ground in the forest.”

They made up the blankets in tight little rolls, which they fastened on their backs, and Paul and Jim Hart put in a tanned deerskin with each of theirs.

“They’re pow’ful light, an’ they may come in mighty handy,” said Long Jim.

The night fortunately was dark, as they had hoped, and about eleven o’clock they embarked in the canoe, paddling straight for the western shore. Paul looked back with some regret at the island, which at times had been a snug little home. The ancient, mummified bodies in the trees had protected them, as if with a circle of steel, and he was grateful to those dead of long ago.