Chapter 9: A Change of Places

Now came a time which Paul did not wholly understand, but which seemed to him a period of test. The repulse of the old couple was not permanent. They came back again and again, inviting him to be their son, and patiently endured all his rebuffs until he began to feel a kind of pity for them. After that he was always gentle to them, but he remained firm in his resolve that he would not become a savage, either in reality or pretense.

After a week he was allowed to walk in the village and to look upon barbaric life, but he saw not the remotest chance of escape. The place contained perhaps five hundred souls, men, women, children, and papooses, and at least fifty mangy curs, every one of whom, including the papooses and curs, seemed to Paul to be watching him. Black eyes followed him everywhere. Nothing that he did escaped their attention. Every step was noted, and he knew that if he went a yard beyond the village he would bring a throng of warriors, squaws, and dogs upon him. But he was grateful for this bit of freedom, the escape from the confinement of close walls, and the forest about them, glowing with autumnal foliage, looked cool and inviting. He saw nothing of Braxton Wyatt, but Red Eagle told him one day that he had gone northward with a band, hunting. “He good boy,” said Red Eagle. Paul shuddered with disgust.

More than two weeks passed thus, and it seemed to Paul that he was not only lost to his own world, but forgotten by it. Kentucky and all his friends had dipped down under the horizon, and would never reappear. Henry and Ross and Shif’less Sol would certainly have come for him if they could, but perhaps they had fallen, slain in the night battle. His heart stood still at the thought, but he resolutely put it away. It did not seem to him that one of such strength and skill as Henry Ware could be killed.

Paul sat on a rock about the twilight hour one day, and watched the sun sinking into the dark forest. He was inexpressibly lonely, as if forsaken of men. Savage life still left him untouched. It made no appeal to him anywhere, and he longed for Wareville, and his kind, which he was now sure he would never see again. Behind him rose the usual hum of the village, the barking of dogs, the chatter of squaws, and the occasional grunt of a warrior. In their way, these people were cheerful. Unlike Paul, they were living the only life they knew and liked, and had no thoughts of a better.

The lonely boy rose from the rock and walked back toward the pole hut, in which they fastened him every night. It had become a habit with him now, and he knew that it saved useless resistance and a lot of trouble. Had he taken a single step toward the forest instead of his own prison hut, a score of watchful eyes would have been upon him.

The twilight melted into the dark, and fires gleamed here and there in the village. Dusky figures passed before and behind the fires, those of squaws cooking the suppers. Paul’s eyes wandered, idle and unobserving, over the savage scene, and then he uttered a little cry of impatience as a hulking warrior lurched against him. The man seemed to have tripped upon a root, an unusual thing for these sure-footed sons of the forest, and Paul drew back from him. But the savage recovered himself, and in a low voice said:

“Paul!”

Paul Cotter started violently. It was the first word in good English that he had heard in a time that seemed to be eternity, save those of Braxton Wyatt, whom he hated, and the effect upon him was overpowering. It was like a voice of hope coming suddenly from another world.

“Paul,” continued the voice, now warningly, “don’t speak. Go on to your hut. Friends are by.”

Then the hulking and savage figure walked away, and Paul knew enough to take no apparent notice, but to continue on as if that welcome voice Had not come out of the darkness. Yet a thousand little pulses within him were throbbing, throbbing with joy and hope.

But whose was the voice? In his excitement he had not noticed the tone except to note that it was a white man’s. He glanced back and saw the hulking form near the outskirts of the village, but the light was too dim to disclose anything. Henry? No, it was not Henry’s figure. Then who was it? A friend, that was certain, and he had said that other friends were by.

Paul walked with a light step to his prison hut, sedulously seeking to hide the exultation in his face. He was not forgotten in his world! His friends were ready to risk their lives for him! His heart was leaping as he looked through the dusk at the smoking camp fires, the dim huts and tepees, and the shadowy figures that passed and repassed. He would soon be leaving all that savage life. He never doubted it.

He came to his prison hut, went calmly inside, and a few minutes later, the regular time being at hand, the door was fastened on the outside by Red Eagle or some of his people. He might perhaps have forced the door in the night, but he had not considered himself a skillful enough woodsman to slip from the village unobserved, and accordingly he had waited. Now he was very glad of his restraint.

Paul lay down on the couch of skins, but he was not seeking sleep. Instead he was waiting patiently, with something of Indian stoicism. He saw through the cracks in his hut the Indian fires, yet burning and smoking, and the dim figures still passing and repassing. There was also the faint hum to tell him that savage life did not yet sleep, and now and then a mongrel cur barked. But all things end in time, and after a while these noises ceased; even the cure barked no more, and the smoking fires sank low.

The Indian village lay at peace, but Paul’s heart throbbed with expectation. Nor did it throb in vain. A muffled sound appeared in time at his door. It was some one at work on the fastenings, and Paul listened with every nerve a-quiver. Presently the noise ceased, a shaft of pale night light showed, and then was gone. But the door had been opened, and then closed, and some one was inside.

Paul waited without fear. He could barely see a dark, shapeless outline within the dimness of his hut, but he was sure it was the figure of the slouching warrior who had bumped against him. The man stood a moment or two, seeking to pierce the dusk with his own eyes, and then he said in a low voice:

“Paul! Paul! Is it you?”

“Yes,” replied Paul, in the same guarded tone, “but I don’t know who you are.”

The figure swayed a little and laughed low, but with much amusement.

“It ‘pears to me that we are forgot purty soon,” it said. “An’ I’ve worked hard fur a tired man.”

Then Paul knew the familiar, whimsical tone. The light had burst upon him all at once.

“Shif’less Sol!” he exclaimed.

“Jest me,” said Sol; “an’ ain’t I about the purtiest Shawnee warrior you ever saw? Why, Paul, I’m so good at playin’ a loafin’ savage from some other village that nary a Shawnee o’ them all has dreamed that I am what I ain’t. If ever I go back thar in the East, I’m goin’ to be a play-actor, Paul.”

“You can be anything on earth you want to be, Sol!” said Paul jubilantly. “It was mighty good of you to come.”

“You’d a-thought Henry would a-come,” whispered Sol; “but we decided that he was too tall an’ somehow too strikin’-lookin’ to come in here ez a common, everyday Injun, so it fell to me to loaf in, me bein’ a tired-lookin’ sort o’ feller, anyway. But they’re out thar in the woods a-waitin’, Henry an’ Tom Ross an’ that ornery cuss, Jim Hart.”

“I knew that you fellows would never desert me!” exclaimed Paul.

“Why, o’ course not!” said Sol. “We never dreamed o’ leavin’ you. Now, Paul, we’ve got to git through this village somehow or other. Lucky it’s purty dark, an’ you’ll have to do your best to walk an’ look like a Red. Maybe we kin git fur enough to make a good run fur it, and then, with the woods an’ the night helpin’ us, we may give them the slip. Here, take this.”

He pressed something cold and hard into Paul’s hand, and Paul slipped the pistol into his belt, standing erect and feeling himself much of a man.

“It’s time to be goin’,” said Shif’less Sol.

“I’m ready,” said Paul.

But neither took more than a single step forward, stopping together as they heard a light noise at the door.

“Thunder an’ lightnin’!” said Shif’less Sol, under his breath. “Somebody’s suspectin’.”

“It looks like it,” breathed Paul.

“Lay down on the skins and pretend to be asleep,” said Shif’less Sol.

Paul lay down on the couch at once, in the attitude of one who slumbers, and closed his eyes, all but a little. Shif’less Sol shoved himself into the corner, and blotted out his figure against the wall.

The door opened and Braxton Wyatt stepped in. What decree of fate had caused him to be spying about that night, and what had caused him to find the door of Paul’s prison hut unfastened? He stood a few moments, trying to accustom his eyes to the dark, and he plainly heard the regular breathing of Paul on the bed of skins. Presently he saw the dim, recumbent figure also. But he was still suspicious, and he took a step nearer. Then a big form, projected somewhere from the dark, hurled itself upon him, and he was thrown headlong to the earthen floor. Strong fingers compressed his throat, and he gasped for breath.