Books: The Lost Trail
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Edward S. Ellis >> The Lost Trail
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16 Produced by Sean Pobuda
THE LOST TRAIL
By Edward S. Ellis
CHAPTER I
AN ENEMY IN A TREE
One afternoon in early spring, Jack Carleton, a sturdy youth of
seventeen years, was following a clearly-marked trail, leading
through the western part of Kentucky toward the Mississippi river.
For many a mile he followed the evenly spaced tracks made by a horse
on a walk, the double impressions being a trifle more than three
feet apart.
"Helloa!" exclaimed, Jack, when he looked at the earth again and
observed that the tracks had taken a new form, with nearly eight
feet between them. "Otto has forced the colt to a trot. He must be
in a hurry, or he thinks I am fond of traveling."
Thus far the lusty young Kentuckian felt no misgiving, but within
fifty yards the trail underwent the startling change--the footprints
being separated by more than three yards now.
"My gracious," muttered the boy, coming to a full stop, "something
is wrong: Otto would not have put the horse on a dead run if he
hadn't been scared."
Jack Carleton proved his training by the keenness and quickness with
which he surveyed his surroundings. The woods were on every hand,
but they were open and free from undergrowth, so that he gained an
extensive view.
As he advanced with vigorous steps along the winding path, his eyes
sometimes rested on the pendulous branches of the majestic elm, a
small purple flower here and there still clinging to the limbs and
resisting the budding leaves striving to force it aside; the massive
oak and its twisted, iron limbs; the pinnated leaves of the hickory,
whose solid trunk, when gashed by the axe, was of snowy whiteness;
the pale green spikes and tiny flowers of the chestnut; the
sycamore, whose spreading limbs found themselves crowded even in the
most open spaces, with an occasional wild cherry or tulip, and now
and then a pine, whose resinous breath brooded like a perennial balm
over the vast solitude.
Jack Carleton was arrayed in the coarse, serviceable garb of the
border: heavy calf-skin shoes, thick trousers, leggings and coat,
the latter short and clasped at the waist by a girdle, also of
woolen and similar to that of the modern ulster. The cap was of the
same material and, like the other garments, had been fashioned and
put together by the deft hands of the mother in Kentucky.
Powder-horn and bullet-pouch were suspended by strings passing over
alternate sides of the neck and a fine flint-lock rifle, the
inseparable companion of the Western youth, rested on the right
shoulder, the hand grasping it near the stock.
Jack's hasty survey failed to reveal any cause for fear, and he
resumed his pursuit, as it may be termed. The quick glances he cast
on the ground in front showed, in every instance, that the horse he
was following was fleeing at the same headlong pace. His rider had
spurred him to a dead run, at which gait he had shot underneath the
limbs of the trees at great risk to himself as well as to his rider.
The trail was broad, for loaded horses had passed in both
directions, and wild animals availed themselves of it more than once
in making their pilgrimages to the Mississippi, or in migrating from
one part of the country to the other.
But there were no footprints that had been made within the past few
days, with the single exception noted--that of the horse which had
abruptly broken into a full run.
The balmy afternoon was drawing to a close, and Jack began to
believe the chances were against overtaking his friend and
companion, young Otto Relstaub.
"If he has kept this up very long, he must be far beyond my reach,
unless he has turned about and taken the back trail."
Glancing at the sky as seen through the branches overhead, the youth
observed that it was clear, the deep blue flecked here and there by
patches of snowy clouds, resting motionless in the crystalline air.
Comparatively young as was Jack, he had been thoroughly trained in
woodcraft. When beyond sight of the cabins of the straggling
settlement, where he made his home, he was as watchful and alert as
Daniel Boone or Simon Kenton himself. His penetrating gray eyes not
only scanned the sinuous path, stretching in front, but darted from
side to side, and were frequently turned behind him. He knew that
if danger threatened it was as likely to come from one point as
another.
He could not avoid one conclusion: the peril which had impelled the
young German's horse to such a burst of speed must have been in the
form dreaded above all others--that of the wild Indians who at that
day roamed through the vast wilderness of the West and hovered along
the frontier, eager to use the torch, the rifle, or the tomahawk,
whenever and wherever the way opened.
The probability that such was the cause of the horseman's haste
threw the young Kentuckian at once on his mettle. Inasmuch as he
was putting forth every effort to rejoin his companion, there was
good reason for fearing a collision with the red men. He had been
in several desperate affrays with them, and, like a sensible person,
he spared no exertion to escape all such encounters.
"If they will let me alone I will not disturb them," was the
principle which not only he, but many of the bravest frontiersmen
followed daring the eventful early days of the West.
The youth now dropped into the loping trot of the American Indian--a
gait which, as in the case of the dusky warrior himself, he was able
to maintain hour after hour, without fatigue. The sharp glances
thrown in every direction were not long in making a discovery,
though not of the nature anticipated.
A short distance in front a white oak, whose trunk was fully two
feet in diameter, grew beside the trail which he was following. Its
shaggy limbs twisted their way across the path and among the
branches on the other side. The exuberant leaves offered such
inviting concealment to man and animal that the youth subjected them
to the keenest scrutiny.
His trot dropped to a slow walk, and he instinctively glanced at the
lock of his gun to make sure it was ready for any emergency.
Something was moving among the branches of the forest monarch, but
Jack knew it was not an Indian. No warrior would climb into a tree
to wait for his prey, when, he could secure better concealment on
the ground, where he would not be compelled to yield the use of his
legs, which play such an important part in the maneuverings of the
red man.
The lad caught several glimpses of the strange animal, and, when
within a few rods, identified it.
"It's a painter," he said to himself, with a faint smile, resuming
his slow advance and giving a sigh of relief; "I don't know whether
it is worth while to give him a shot or not."
The name "painter," so common among American hunters, is a
corruption of "panther," which is itself an incorrect application,
the genuine panther being found only in Africa and India. In South
America the corresponding animal is the jaguar, and in North America
the cougar or catamount, and sometimes the American lion.
Jack Carlton did not hold the brute in special fear, though he knew
that when wounded or impelled by hunger he was a dangerous foe.
During an unusually cold day, only a few months before, one of them
had made an open attack on him, inflicting some severe scratches and
tearing most of his clothes to shreds.
It would have been one of the easiest things in the world for the
young Kentuckian to settle the whole question by leaving the trail
and making a detour that would take him safely by the treacherous
beast, which, as a rule, is afraid to assault a person. The lad was
certain that at that season of the year it would not leave the tree
to attack him.
But if he took such a course, it would be a confession of timidity
on his part against which, his nature and training rebelled.
"No," Said he, after brief hesitation, "I won't leave the path for
all the painters this side of the Mississippi. It may not be wise
for me to fire my gun just now and I won't do it, if he behaves
himself, but I don't mean to put up with any nonsense."
He brought his weapon in front, raised the hammer and closely
watched the animal above, while the quadruped was equally intent in
observing him. It was a curious sight--the two scrutinizing each
other with such defiant distrust.
The cougar was crouching on a broad limb, just far enough from the
trunk of the oak to be directly over the trail. He was extended
full length, and, as partly seen through the leaves, offered the
best target possible for the marksman below.
But Jack preferred not to fire his gun, for the reason that the
report was likely to be heard by more dangerous enemies. His
purpose was to refrain from doing so, unless forced to shoot in self
defense, and his pride would not permit him to deviate a
hair's-breadth from the path in order to escape the necessity of
shooting.
He walked with the deliberate, noiseless tread of an Indian, looking
steadily upward at the eyes which assumed a curious, phosphorescent
glare, that scintillated with a greenish light, as the relative
position of the enemies changed.
The lad passed under the limbs staring unflinchingly aloft. When
exactly beneath, the cougar was hidden for an instant from sight,
but, recognizing the changing conditions, he quickly lifted his head
to the right, and the lad again saw the greenish glare, the white
teeth, and blood red mouth. He traced the outlines of the sinewy
body close along the limb, and through which he could have driven a
bullet with fatal certainty. The "painter," whose scream is often
mistaken for the cry of a human being, uttered an occasional
snarling growl as he looked down on the lad. His attitude and
manner seemed to say: "I've got my eye on you, young man! Walk very
straight or you will find yourself in trouble."
The probability that a cougar is gathering his muscles on a limb
with the intention of bounding down on one's shoulders, is enough to
make the bravest man uneasy. Jack Carleton did feel a creeping
chill, but the same pride which prevented him deviating a
hair's-breadth from the trail, would not allow him to increase or
retard his gait.
"If you think you can make me run, old fellow," he muttered, with
his gaze still fixed on the beast, "you are mistaken. We don't meet
wild animals in Kentucky that are able to drive us out of the woods.
You needn't fancy, either, that I am in any hurry to walk away from
you."
And, to show the contempt in which he held the beast, the youth at
that moment came to a full stop, turned about and faced him.
CHAPTER II
WHAT A RIFLE-SHOT DID
The moment the young Kentuckian assumed this attitude, he became
aware that the cougar had determined upon hostilities.
With a rasping snarl he buried his claws in the shaggy bark,
pressing his body still closer to the limb, and then shot downward
straight toward Jack, who was too vigilant to be caught unprepared.
Leaping backward a couple of steps, he brought his gun to his
shoulder, like a flash, and fired almost at the moment the animal
left his perch. There could be no miss under the circumstances, and
the "painter" received his death wound, as may be said, while in
mid-air. He struck the ground with a heavy thump, made a blind leap
toward the youthful hunter, who recoiled several steps more, and
then, after a brief struggle, the beast lay dead.
During these moments, Jack Carleton, following the rule he was
taught when first given his gun, occupied himself with reloading the
weapon. A charge of powder was poured from the hollow cow's horn,
with its wooden stopper, into the palm of his hand, and this went
rattling like fine sand down the barrel. The square piece of muslin
was hammered on top until the ramrod almost bounded from the gun;
then the bullet which the youthful hunter had molded himself, was
shoved gently but firmly downward, backed by another bit of muslin.
The ramrod was pushed into its place, and the hammer, clasping the yellow,
translucent flint, was drawn far back, like the jaw of a wild cat,
and the black grains sprinkled into the pan. The jaw was slowly let
back so as to hold the priming fast, and the old fashioned rifle, such
as our grandfathers were accustomed to use, was ready for duty.
Jack surveyed the motionless figure on the ground and said:
"I don't think you'll ever amount to anything again as a painter; at
any rate, you ain't likely to drop on to a fellow's head when he is
walking under a tree."
And, without giving him any further notice, he turned about and
resumed his walk toward the Mississippi.
It was vain, however, for him to seek to suppress his anxiety. The
trail of the flying horse still indicated that he was going on a
dead run, and some unusual cause must have impelled him to do so.
Jack could not doubt that his friend Otto was driven to such severe
effort by the appearance of Indians, but it would seem that the
terrific gait of the Steed ought to have taken him beyond all danger
very speedily, whereas, for more than a mile, the pace showed not
the slightest diminution.
At the most, Otto was not more than an hour in advance, and his
friend, therefore, had good reason to fear he was in the immediate
vicinity of the dreaded red men.
The young hunter was brave, but he was not reckless. He had refused
to turn aside to avoid a collision with the cougar, but he did not
hesitate to leave the trail, in the hope of escaping the savages who
were likely to be attracted by the report of the gun.
From the beginning the lad had stepped as lightly as possible,
bringing his feet softly but squarely down on the ground, after the
fashion of the American Indian, when threading his way through the
trackless forest. He now used the utmost care in leaving the trail,
for none knew better than he the amazing keenness of the dark eyes
that were liable to scan the ground over which he had passed.
Not until he was several rods from the footprints of the flying
horse did he advance with anything like assurance. He then moved
with more certainty until he reached a chestnut, whose trunk was
broad enough to afford all the concealment he could desire.
Stepping behind this, Jack assumed a position which gave him a view
of the trail, with no likelihood of being seen, unless the suspicion
of the Indians should be directed to the spot.
"If they are coming, it is time they showed themselves."
The words were yet in the mouth of the youth, when something seemed
to twinkle and flicker among the trees, in advance of the point
where he had turned aside from the path. A second look allowed that
two Indian warriors were returning along the trail.
He recognized them as Shawanoes--one of the fiercest tribes that
resisted the march of civilization a century ago. It may be said
that they corresponded to the Apaches of the present day.
The couple were scrutinizing the ground, as they advanced with heads
thrown forward and their serpent-like eyes flitting from side to
side. Manifestly they were expecting to discover certain parties
along the trail itself. There may have been something in the
peculiar sound of the rifle, which raised their suspicions, though
it is hard to understand wherein the report of two similarly made
weapons can possess any perceptible difference.
Be that as it may, that which Jack Carleton feared had taken
place--the shot which killed the cougar brought far more dangerous
enemies to the spot.
The lad would have had no difficulty in picking off one of the
warriors, but he had not the remotest intention of doing so. There
could be no justification for such a wanton act, and the consequences
could not fail to be disastrous to himself. He was never better
prepared to support the creed of the frontiersmen who would willingly
leave the red men unmolested if they in turn sought to do them no harm.
The Shawanoes soon passed by, making no pause until they reached the
carcass of the panther. They quickly saw the bullet-wound, between
his fore legs, and understood that his heart had been pierced while
in the act of leaping from his perch upon the hunter beneath. A
brief scrutiny of the ground brought to light the impressions of the
calf-skin shoes of him who had fired the fatal shot.
They understood at once that the party was a white person, and,
judging from the size of the footprints, he clearly was an adult-one
who, it was safe to conclude, was able to taking good care of
himself; but it must have been a relief to the warriors when their
examination of the earth showed that only a single member of the
detested race had been concerned in the death of the cougar.
That which followed was precisely what the watcher expected. The
moment the red men were certain of the direction taken by the hunter
they started along the same line. The foremost looked down for an
instant at the ground, and then seemed to dart a glance at every
visible point around him. The other warrior did not once look down,
but guarded against running into any ambush for it need not be said
that the task on which they were engaged was most delicate and
dangerous.
The American Indian cannot excel the white man in woodcraft and
subtlety, and no Kentucky pioneer ever stood still and allowed a
dusky foe to creep upon him.
It will be conceded that a point had been reached where Jack
Carleton had good cause for alarm. Those Shawanoe were following
his trail, and they had but to keep it up for a short distance when
he was certain to be "uncovered."
"I wish there was only one of them," muttered the youth, stealthily
peering from behind the tree; "it will be hard to manage two."
The coolness of Jack was extraordinary. Though he felt the
situation was critical in the highest degree, yet there was not a
tremor of the muscles, nor blanching of the countenance, as it would
seem was inevitable when such a desperate encounter impended.
There was a single, shadowy hope; it was fast growing dark in the
woods, and the eyes of the Shawanoes, keen as they were, must soon
fail them. The sun had set and twilight already filled the forest
arches with gloom.
Peering around the bark, Jack saw the leading Indian bend lower,
leaving to the other the task of guarding against mishap. He walked
more slowly; it was plain his task was not only difficult, but was
becoming more so every moment.
Jack followed the movements with rapt attention. Knowing the
precise point where he had left the path, his heart throbbed faster
than was its wont, when he saw his enemies close to the tingle in
his course. A half minute later they were beyond--they had overrun
his trail.
A short distance only was passed, when the warriors seemed to
suspect the truth. They came to a halt, and the trail-hunter sank
upon his knees. His head was so close to the ground that it looked
as if he were drawing lines and figures with his curving nose, which
slowly circled around and back and forth. At the same time the palm
of his right hand gently moved over the leaves, touching them as
lightly as the falling snowflakes, and with as wonderful delicacy as
that of the blind reader, when his fingers are groping over the
raised letters of the Book of Life.
The young Kentuckian from his place of concealment smiled to
himself.
"There are some things which even a Shawanoe, cannot do, and that's
one of them."
Such was the fact; for, with that care which the trained pioneer
never permits himself to forget or disregard, the lad had adopted
every artifice at his command to add to the difficulty of
identifying his footsteps.
The warrior straightened up with an impatient "Ugh!" which brought
another smile to the face of the watcher, for it proved beyond
question the failure of his foes.
The Shawanoe, however, had established one fact--the overrunning of
the trail. The one for whom they were searching had left the path
at some point behind them. Scant chance was there of learning the
precise spot.
"Follow me if you can," was the exultant thought of Jack, who
carefully lowered the hammer of his rifle. "I'm glad that as the
painter was determined on picking a quarrel with me he did not do it
earlier in the day--helloa!"
While speaking to himself, he became aware that the warriors were
invisible. They may have believed they were acting as oscillating
targets for some hidden enemy, who was likely to press the trigger
at any moment; and, unable even to approximate as they were his
biding-place, they withdrew in their characteristic fashion.
Jack thrust his head still further from behind the tree, and finally
stepped forth that he might obtain the best view he could. But the
red men had vanished like the shadows of swiftly-moving clouds.
Nothing more was to be feared from that source.
But with the lifting of the peril from his own shoulders, there
returned his distressing anxiety for his absent companion. No doubt
could exist that when he put his horse to his hurried flight, he had
done so to escape the Indians. Whether he had succeeded remained to
be learned, but Jack felt that every probability was against it.
He might well debate as to his own duty in the premises. His one
desire was to learn what had become of Otto, the German lad, with
whom he left the Settlements a couple of days before. Neither had
ever visited this section, but they were following the instructions
of those who had, and the young Kentuckian knew the precise point in
their journey that had been reached.
Standing as motionless as the trees beside him and amid the
darkening shadows, Jack Carleton listened with the intentness of an
Indian scout stealing into a hostile camp.
The soft murmur which seems to reach us when a sea-shell is held to
the ear filled the air. It was the voice of the night--the sighing
of the scarcely moving wind among the multitudinous branches, the
restless movements of myriads of trees--the soft embrace of millions
of leaves, which, like the great ocean itself, even when the air is
pulseless, is never at rest.
Jack Carleton had spent too many days and nights in the woods to be
greatly impressed with the solemnity and grandeur of his
surroundings. That which would have awed his soul, if noted for the
first time, had lost the power to do so from its familiarity; but
while in the attitude of listening, he became conscious of another
sound which did not belong to the vast forest, the throbbing air,
nor the gathering darkness.
CHAPTER III
ON THE BANK OF THE MISSISSIPPI
That which reached the ears of Jack Carleton, while he stood in the
woods, silent and listening, was a peculiar swashing noise, which
continued a few seconds, followed by the same space of silence--the
intervals being as regular as the ticking of a huge pendulum.
Accompanying the sound was another, a soft, almost inaudible flow,
such as one hears when standing on the bank of a vast stream of
water.
He knew that both were caused by the sweep of the mighty Mississippi
which was near at hand. The reason for the first he could not
understand, but that of the latter was apparent. He had never
looked upon the Father of Waters, but many a time he had rested
along the Ohio and been lulled to sleep by its musical flow, even
while the camp-fires of the hostile red men twinkled on the other
shore.
Manifestly nothing could be done by remaining where he was, and, in
the same guarded manner in which he left the trail a half hour
before, he began picking his way back. Probably he ran greater
personal risk in following the beaten path, yet he was controlled by
a true hunter's instinct in every movement made.
When he reached the trail, he observed that not only had the night
descended, but the full moon was shining from an almost unclouded
sky. The trees, crowned with exuberant vegetation, cast deep
shadows, like those of the electric light, and only here and there
did the arrowy moonbeams strike the ground, redolent with the odors
of fresh earth and moldering leaves.
"Some of the warriors may be returning or groping along the trail,"
was the thought of the youth, who glided silently forward, his
senses on the alert. His misgivings, however, were much less than
when watching the two Shawanoes, for with the dense gloom of the
forest inclosing him on every hand, he felt that the shelter was not
only secure but was of instant avail.
Less than a furlong was passed, when he caught the shimmering of
water. A few steps further and he stood for the first time on the
bank of the Mississippi.
The youth felt those emotions which must come to every one when he
emerges from a vast forest at night and pauses beside one of the
grandest streams of the globe. At that day its real source was
unknown, but Jack, who was unusually well informed for one of his
years, was aware that it rose somewhere among the snowy mountains
and unexplored regions far to the northward, and that, after its
winding course of hundreds of leagues, during which it received the
volume of many rivers, enormous in themselves, it debouched into the
tropical waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
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