I awoke suddenly.I had been dreaming of Nick Temple and Temple Bow, and my father coming back to me there with a great gash in his shoulder like Weldon's.Ilay for a moment dazed by the transition, staring through the gray light.Then I sat up, the soft stamping and snorting of the horses in my ears.The sorrel mare had her nose high, her tail twitching, but there was no other sound in the leafy wilderness.With a bound of returning sense I looked for Weldon.He had fallen asleep on the bank above, his body dropped across the trunk of the oak.
I leaped on the trunk and made my way along it, stepping over him, until I reached and hid myself in the great roots of the tree on the bank above.The cold shiver of the dawn was in my body as I waited and listened.Should I wake Tom? The vast forest was silent, and yet in its shadowy depths my imagination drew moving forms.Ihesitated.
The light grew: the boles of the trees came out, one by one, through the purple.The tangled mass down the creek took on a shade of green, and a faint breath came from the southward.The sorrel mare sniffed it, and stamped.Then silence again,--a long silence.Could it be that the cane moved in the thicket? Or had my eyes deceived me? I stared so hard that it seemed to rustle all over.Perhaps some deer were feeding there, for it was no unusual thing, when we rose in the morning, to hear the whistle of a startled doe near our camping ground.
I was thoroughly frightened now,--and yet I had the speculative Scotch mind.The thicket was some one hundred and fifty yards above, and on the flooded lands at a bend.If there were Indians in it, they could not see the sleeping forms of our party under me because of a bend in the stream.They might have seen me, though I had kept very still in the twisted roots of the oak, and now I was cramped.If Indians were there, they could determine our position well enough by the occasional stamping and snorting of the horses.And this made my fear more probable, for I had heard that horses and cattle often warned pioneers of the presence of redskins.
Another thing: if they were a small party, they would probably seek to surprise us by coming out of the cane into the creek bed above the bend, and stalk down the creek.If a large band, they would surround and overpower us.I drew the conclusion that it must be a small party--if a party at all.And I would have given a shot in the arm to be able to see over the banks of the creek.
Finally I decided to awake Tom.
It was no easy matter to get down to where he was without being seen by eyes in the cane.I clung to the under branches of the oak, finally reached the shelving bank, and slid down slowly.I touched him on the shoulder.He awoke with a start, and by instinct seized the rifle lying beside him.
``What is it, Davy?'' he whispered.
I told what had happened and my surmise.He glanced then at the restless horses and nodded, pointing up at the sleeping figure of Weldon, in full sight on the log.The Indians must have seen him.
Tom picked up the spare rifle.
``Davy,'' said he, ``you stay here beside Polly Ann, behind the oak.You kin shoot with a rest; but don't shoot,'' said he, earnestly, ``for God's sake don't shoot unless you're sure to kill.''
I nodded.For a moment he looked at the face of Polly Ann, sleeping peacefully, and the fierce light faded from his eyes.He brushed her on the cheek and she awoke and smiled at him, trustfully, lovingly.He put his finger to his lips.
``Stay with Davy,'' he said.Turning to me, he added:
``When you wake Weldon, wake him easy.So.'' He put his hand in mine, and gradually tightened it.``Wake him that way, and he won't jump.''
Polly Ann asked no questions.She looked at Tom, and her soul was in her face.She seized the pistol from the blanket.Then we watched him creeping down the creek on his belly, close to the bank.Next we moved behind the fallen tree, and I put my hand in Weldon's.
He woke with a sigh, started, but we drew him down behind the log.Presently he climbed cautiously up the bank and took station in the muddy roots of the tree.Then we waited, watching Tom with a prayer in our hearts.
Those who have not felt it know not the fearfulness of waiting for an Indian attack.
At last Tom reached the bend in the bank, beside some red-bud bushes, and there he stayed.A level shaft of light shot through the forest.The birds, twittering, awoke.A great hawk soared high in the blue over our heads.An hour passed.I had sighted the rifle among the yellow leaves of the fallen oak an hundred times.
But Polly Ann looked not once to the right or left.Her eyes and her prayers followed the form of her husband.
Then, like the cracking of a great drover's whip, a shot rang out in the stillness, and my hands tightened over the rifle-stock.A piece of bark struck me in the face, and a dead leaf fluttered to the ground.Almost instantly there was another shot, and a blue wisp of smoke rose from the red-bud bushes, where Tom was.The horses whinnied, there was a rustle in the cane, and silence.
Weldon bent over.
``My God!'' he whispered hoarsely, ``he hit one.Tom hit one.''
I felt Polly Ann's hand on my face.
``Davy dear,'' she said, ``are ye hurt?''
``No,'' said I, dazed, and wondering why Weldon had not been shot long ago as he slumbered.I was burning to climb the bank and ask him whether he had seen the Indian fall.
Again there was silence,--a silence even more awful than before.The sun crept higher, the magic of his rays turning the creek from black to crystal, and the birds began to sing again.And still there was no sign of the treacherous enemy that lurked about us.Could Tom get back? I glanced at Polly Ann.The same question was written in her yearning eyes, staring at the spot where the gray of his hunting shirt showed through the bushes at the bend.Suddenly her hand tightened on mine.The hunting shirt was gone!
