Chapter 20: The Terrible Ford

“The ford ain’t much more than an hour’s march farther on,” said Dick Salter to Daniel Poe, “an’ the way to it leads over purty smooth groun’.”

“And we have not seen anything of the warriors yet, except the trails of small bands,” said Daniel Poe hopefully. “It may be that our new friends are mistaken.”

Dick Salter shook his head.

“Tom Ross never makes a mistake in matters uv that kind,” he said, “an’ that boy, Henry Ware, couldn’t ef he tried. He’s wonderful, Mr. Poe.”

“Yes,” said Daniel Poe. “Nobody else ever made such an impression upon me. And the one they call Paul is a fine fellow, too. I wish I had a son like that.”

“He’s the most popular fellow in the train already,” said Dick Salter.

Both looked admiringly at Paul, who was walking near the head of the line, a group of lithe, strong-limbed boys and girls surrounding him and begging him for stories of the wilderness. Paul remained with the train by arrangement. It was his business to cheer, invigorate, and hearten for a great task, while his comrades roamed the forest and looked for the danger that they knew would surely come. Never did youth succeed better at his chosen task, as confidence spread from him like a contagion.

Paul presently quickened his steps, and came quite to the head of the line, where Daniel Poe and Dick Salter were walking, both circling the forest ahead of them with anxious eyes. They and Paul at the same time saw a figure emerge from the woods in front. It was Henry, and he was coming on swift foot. In an instant he was before them, and Paul knew by his look that he had news.

“They are waiting?” said Paul.

“Yes,” replied Henry. “They are in the thickets at the ford, less than two miles ahead.”

Daniel Poe shuddered again, for the five hundred lives in his charge, and then his heart rose. The waiting, the terrible suspense, were over, and it was battle now. The fact contained relief.

“Shall we halt?” he said to Henry. Unconsciously, he, too, was submitting to the generalship of this king of forest runners.

“No,” replied Henry; “we’ve got to go on some time or other, and they can wait as long as we can. We must force the passage of the ford. We can do it.”

He spoke with confidence, and courage seemed to leap like sparks from him and set fire to the others.

“Then it’s go ahead,” said Daniel Poe grimly. “We’ll force the passage.”

“Put all the little children, and all the women who don’t fight, in the wagons, and make them lie down,” said Henry. “The men must swarm on either flank. My comrades will remain in the front, watching until we reach the river.”

Then a great bustle and the chatter of many voices arose; but it soon died away before stern commands and equally stern preparations, because they were preparing to run as terrible a gantlet as human beings ever face, these dauntless pioneers of the wilderness. The children were quickly loaded in the wagons, and all the weaker of the women; but with the men on the flanks marched at least two-score grim Amazons, rifle in hand.

Then the train resumed its slow march, and nothing was heard but the rolling of the wheels and the low cluck of the drivers to their horses. The way still led through an open, parklike country, and the road was easy. Soon those in front saw a faint streak cutting across the forest. The streak was silvery at first, and then blue, and it curved away to north and south among low hills.

“The river!” said Daniel Poe, and he shut his teeth hard.

All the men and the Amazons drew a long, deep breath, like a sigh; but they said nothing, and continued to march steadily forward. The river broadened, the blue of its waters deepened, and from the high ground on which they marched they could see the low banks on the farther shore, crowned by clustering thickets.

Three men emerged from the undergrowth. They were Tom Ross, Shif’less Sol, and Long Jim Hart. The shiftless one looked lazy and careless, and Jim Hart, stretching himself, looked longer and thinner than ever.

“We found it, Henry,” said Ross. “Little more’n a mile to the south, men wadin’ to the waist kin cross.”

“Good!” said Henry. “We’re lucky!”

He began to give rapid, incisive commands, and everyone obeyed as a matter of course, and without jealousy. Daniel Poe was the leader of the wagon train, but Henry Ware, whom they had known but a few days, was its leader in battle.

“Take fifty men,” he said to Ross, “the best marksmen and the stanchest fighters, and cross there. Then come silently among the thickets up the bank, to strike them when they strike us.”

Paul listened with admiration. He knew Henry’s genius for battle, and, like the others, he was inspired by his comrade’s confidence. The fifty men were quickly told off behind the wagons, and, headed by Tom Ross and Jim Hart, they disappeared at once in the woods. Shif’less Sol remained with Henry and Paul.

“Now, forward!” said Henry Ware, and the terrible, grim march was begun again. There was the river, growing broader and broader and bluer and bluer as they came closer. The children and women, except the Amazons, saw nothing because they were crouched upon the floors of the wagon beds, but the drivers, every one of whom had a rifle lying upon the seat beside him, were at that moment the bravest of them all, because they faced the greatest danger.

“Slowly!” said Henry, to the leading wagons. “We must give Sol and his men time for their circuit.”

He noted with deep joy that the ford was wide. At least five wagons could enter it abreast, and he made them advance in five close lines.

“When you reach the water,” he said to the drivers, “lie down behind the front of the wagon beds, and drive any way you can. Now, Sol, you and I and Dick Salter must rouse them from the thickets.”

The three crept forward, and looked at the peaceful river under the peaceful sky. So far as the ordinary eye could see, there was no human being on its shores. The bushes waved a little in the gentle wind, and the water broke in brilliant bubbles on the shallows.

But Henry Ware’s eyes were not ordinary. There was not a keener pair on the continent, and among the thickets on the farther bank he saw a stir that was not natural. The wind blew north, and now and then a bush would bend a little toward the south. He crept closer, and at last he saw a coppery face here and there, and savage, gleaming eyes staring through the bushes.

“Tell the wagons to come on boldly,” he said to Shif’less Sol, and the shiftless one obeyed.

“Now, Sol,” he said, when the man returned, “take fifty more riflemen, and hide in that thicket, at the highest part of the bank. Stay there. You will know what else to do.”

“I think I will,” said the shiftless one, and every trace of indifference or laziness was gone from him. He was the forester, alert and indomitable, a fit second to Henry Ware. Then Henry and Jim Hart alone were left near the river’s brink. Henry did not look back.

“Are the wagons coming fast?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jim Hart, “but I’m beckonin’ to ‘em to come still faster. They’ll be in the water in three minutes. Listen! The drivers are whippin’ up the horses!”