CHAPTER III THIEVES OF THE NIGHT.

DEERFOOT could be a stern master when necessary. While it would have been no hardship for him and Mul-tal-la to divide the duties of sentinel each night, he meant that the boys should bear their part. They were big and strong enough to do so, and there was no reason why they should not. He informed them that George was to watch the camp for the first half of the night, or rather for an hour beyond the turn, when he was to awake Victor, who would take his place until daylight. This was to be the rule throughout the expedition, except when some exigency demanded the services of the elders.

Enough fuel had been gathered to last through the darkness. It was Deerfoot’s plan to avoid the Indian villages so far as was practical, although little or nothing was to be feared from meeting those of his own race. The Blackfoot had come in contact with many tribes on his long journey eastward, but excepting in two instances nothing of an unpleasant nature occurred. You have learned that the tribes which formed the confederacy crushed by “Mad Anthony” Wayne at Fallen Timber were now so peaceably inclined toward the white settlers that not much was to be feared from them.

And yet it was not wise to tempt them too far. An Indian loves a horse, and among the tribes were plenty of thieves who would run off the animals of our friends if the chance were offered. So the latter did not mean to offer the chance.

The air was crisp, for the spring was only fairly open, and the little company that gathered round the crackling blaze called their blankets into use. The animals were allowed to crop the grass near at hand, and to lie down when they chose. None was tethered, for they were not likely to wander off, and if they showed a disposition to do so the sentinel could easily prevent it.

The four lolled about the blaze after finishing their evening meal, talking mainly of the long journey and the experiences awaiting them. Mul-tal-la answered Deerfoot’s questions again, for though the Shawanoe was well informed, his inquiries were for the benefit of the boys, whose interest naturally was keen.

When the night was well advanced, Deerfoot, without any preliminary, drew his little Bible from his hunting shirt, and leaning forward so that the light fell upon the small print, read the Twenty-third Psalm, which, you remember, was one of his favorite chapters. His voice was low, musical and reverent, and no professional elocutionist could have given the sublime passage more impressively.

The three listened attentively, none speaking during the reading. It seemed to George and Victor that they had never felt the beauty and sweetness of the book whose utterances are sufficient for every condition of man and every state of the human mind. The surroundings, the great future which spread out so mysteriously before them, the certain dangers that impended, their utter helplessness and a sense of the all-protecting care of their Heavenly Father, filled their souls as never before.

It would be hard to fathom the imaginings and thoughts of the Blackfoot. He was sitting erect, with his blanket about his shoulders, only a few paces from the young Shawanoe, and kept his eyes upon the noble countenance as the precious words filled the stillness, the listener fearful that some syllable might escape him. He had learned much of the true God in his talks with the devout youth, and, like him, had fallen into the habit of praying morning and evening, and sometimes for a few moments in the busiest part of the day.

The brothers recalled that loved parent who had been lying in his grave for weeks, and remembered how he had prayed and how triumphantly he had passed away when the last solemn moment arrived, and both firmly resolved from that time forward so to live that there could be no question of the reunion that to both was the dearest, most joyous and thrilling hope that could possibly fill their hearts.

While the two sat beside each other, silent and listening, George gently reached out his hand. Victor saw the movement, and, taking the palm within his own, fervently pressed it. At the same moment the brothers looked into each other’s eyes. It was enough; volumes could have said no more.

Deerfoot finished, and, closing the book, returned it to its resting place over his heart. Then without a word he turned and knelt on the cool earth. Instinctively the three did the same and all prayed.

Not a word was heard, but heart spoke to heart, and all communed with Him whose ear is never closed against the petition of his children. Had either of the boys prayed aloud he would have stammered, for he could not have shaken off the question as to how his words impressed his companions. It is the impossibility in many cases of one freeing himself from this hindrance that makes the sentences of the petitioner halt and stumbling, because to a certain degree they are addressed to men rather than directly to the Father. The Blackfoot would have found it almost impossible to shape intelligently his sentences if he spoke aloud, but he could talk freely in his own way to his Maker. Deerfoot could have done far better than any of the others, for he would not have hesitated, but he preferred the silent petition, and rarely spoke his words unless he was asked to do so or a special necessity existed.

The others took their cue from him, and when they heard the gentle rustling which showed that he had resumed his sitting posture they did the same. Then he nodded to George, who, rifle in hand, walked softly out in the gloom to where the animals had lain down for the night, in the midst of the grass and near the rippling brook. As he did so he bade his friends good night, and they disposed of themselves in the usual way, each with his blanket wrapped about him and his feet turned toward the fire. Within ten minutes every one of the three was sunk in sweet, refreshing slumber.

The night was clear and studded with stars. There was no moon, the gloom being so deep that the watcher could see only a few paces in any direction. Often as he had spent the night in the dim solitudes, sometimes with danger brooding and again when all was tranquil, he could never cast off the emotions that filled his being when he stood thus alone, with friends dependent perhaps upon his vigilance. He listened to the soft rippling of the brook, the hollow stillness of the vast forest, like the moaning of the far-away ocean which has been called the voice of silence, the occasional restless movement of one of the horses, and the gentle stir of the night wind among the bursting foliage overhead and around him. Then he looked toward the fire at the dimly outlined forms, partly within and partly without the circle of illumination, and again his heart was lifted to the only One who could ward off danger from him and his friends.

The youth marked out a beat for himself parallel with the brook and two or three rods in length. Sometimes he paused and, leaning on his gun, peered into the hollow gloom which inclosed him on every hand. He knew that so long as he kept on his feet he would not fall asleep, but if he sat down the lapse was inevitable. Better still to walk to and fro, as is the practice of the sentinel, for while doing so he was safe against the insidious weakness which steals the senses from the most rugged man ere he is aware.

George did not believe that any danger threatened the camp unless of the nature hinted by Deerfoot. It might be that some wandering Miamis or Wyandots or Shawanoes had observed the little party and their horses and cast covetous eyes upon the latter. If so, they would not dare to proceed to violence, but might try to run off one or two of the animals, hoping to get far enough away with them before discovery of the theft to make pursuit useless. It was this apprehension which kept the youth alert and watchful.

George Shelton had paced to and fro for more than an hour without hearing or seeing anything to excite misgiving. The cry of a wolf in the distance and the nearer scream of a panther were given scarcely a thought, for both were too common to cause alarm.

The first disturbance came from the action of his horse Jack, who had lain down at a point farther off than the others. All the animals seemed to be resting quietly, when, at the moment the lad was nearest his own and was about to turn to retrace his steps, Jack raised his head and emitted a slight whinny, though none of the others showed any disquiet.

The sentinel paused and looked at his pony, dimly outlined in the darkness. He saw he had raised his head and appeared to be interested in something on the other side of the brook. George lifted the hammer of his rifle, suspecting that some prowling wolf or other wild beast was trying to creep nigh enough to assail the horses. The youth peered into the gloom and listened, but all remained as silent as the grave.

He held his motionless position for several minutes, in doubt what he ought to do, if indeed he could do anything. Then with rare courage he began slowly walking toward the point in which Jack seemed interested, holding his gun ready to raise and fire on the instant.

He reached the brook and was about to leap lightly across when the figure of an Indian rose from the grass and stood revealed hardly ten feet distant. He did not move, and seemed to have come up from a hole in the earth. The sight was so startling to the lad that he stopped abruptly and exclaimed in a low tone:

“Helloa! Who are you?”

“Howdy, brudder?” replied the redskin in the same guarded voice.

“What do you want, stealing into our camp like this!”

“Me Par-o-wan—friend of paleface—me brudder.”

“You haven’t told me what you want,” repeated the impatient youth, with his gun half raised, for he was suspicious, and saw that the other held a rifle almost in the same position as his own.

“Par-o-wan brudder; sit down—talk wid brudder—lub brudder.”

“Dog of a Miami! leave at once! You have others with you! If you tarry we shall shoot every one of you!”

It was not George Shelton who uttered this warning, but Deerfoot, who appeared at his side so suddenly and noiselessly that the lad had no thought of anything of the kind until he heard the familiar voice.

“Par-o-wan friend ob Deerfoot—he no hunt him—he go away,” replied the Miami, plainly scared by the words and manner of the young Shawanoe, who now raised his rifle to a “dead level” and acted as if he meant to fire.

“Deerfoot knows you and those that are with you, Par-o-wan! You are the thieves who have come to steal our horses. Go quick or I shoot!”

In a panic of fear the Miami wheeled and dashed off so fast that he threshed through the undergrowth and wood like a frightened wild animal. Deerfoot waited a minute in the same vigilant attitude, and then quietly remarked:

“They will trouble us no more. Now Deerfoot will sleep.”

“But tell me what woke you; I didn’t give any alarm,” said the mystified George Shelton.

“My brother spoke. Deerfoot heard his voice. My brother is watchful, but he will not be troubled again by the Miamis, for they are alarmed.”

And without anything further the Shawanoe walked silently back to his place by the camp-fire, drew his blanket around him and five minutes later was sleeping as peacefully as before he was awakened by the soft voices of the man and boy.

“Well, that beats all creation!” muttered the grinning lad, as he resumed his pacing to and fro. “We didn’t make enough noise to wake a sleeping baby, but he must have been roused by the first word, for he was at my side in a few seconds. I don’t see the need of putting one of us on guard when Deerfoot wakes up like that. He’s a wonder and no mistake.”

So full was George’s faith in the young Shawanoe that he was absolutely sure nothing more was to be feared from the Miamis who had evidently stolen up to the camp with the intention of running off one or more of the horses. He paced regularly over his beat until certain it was well past midnight, when he went up to the fire, threw more wood on it and touched the arm of his brother.

You know that when you sink into slumber with the wish strongly impressed on your mind of awaking at a certain minute, you are almost sure to do so, or at least very near the time stamped on your brain. While George Shelton was in the act of stooping to rouse Victor the latter opened his eyes and rose to the sitting posture.

“I’m ready,” he said softly, coming to his feet, gun in hand. “Have you seen anything, George?”

The latter quickly whispered the particulars of the little incident already told.

“Well, if Deerfoot said they won’t be back, they won’t be back; but I mean to keep a lookout for them.”

With which philosophical decision Victor strolled out to the beat whose location his brother had made known to him. While gathering the blanket about him to lie down George glanced at Deerfoot, who lay within arm’s length. At that moment one of the embers at the base of the fire fell apart and the flare of light fell upon the face of the Shawanoe.

George saw that his large dark eyes were open, and no doubt he had heard every word of the cautious bit of conversation between the brothers. He did not speak, however, and immediately closed his eyes again, no doubt dropping off to sleep as quietly as before. It was a considerable time before George slumbered, for the experience of the evening, even though it amounted to little, touched his nerves. Finally he glided off into the land of dreams.

Victor did his duty faithfully, as his brother had done, and with his senses keyed to a high tension, but not the slightest disturbance occurred. Deerfoot was right in his declaration. If Par-o-wan had companions they had been too thoroughly frightened to risk rousing the anger of the Shawanoe.

The latter acted as provider again and furnished his friends with another meal upon wild turkey, promising to vary the diet in the course of a day or two, though no one felt like complaining, since there was an abundance for all, and such meat is not to be despised, even though one can become tired of it.

Thus early in their venture our friends met with a disagreeable experience, for though the day dawned with the sun visible, the temperature fell and a cold, drizzling rain set in, which promised to last for hours. Deerfoot read the signs aright, and before the rainfall began conducted his companions to a rocky section a little way off the trail, where they found shelter for themselves and partial protection for their horses. Had there been an Indian village within easy distance they would have made their way thither, being sure of a welcome.

It was not the cheerless day itself that was so trying, for that was much improved by the fire they kept going, but it was the enforced inaction. Few things are harder to bear than idleness when one is anxious to get forward. The boys fretted, but Deerfoot and Mul-tal-la accepted the situation philosophically, as they always accepted the bad with the good. No murmur would have been heard from either had they been halted for several days. Deerfoot, indeed, had reached that wise state of mind in which his conscience reproved him for complaining of anything, since he knew it was ordered by One who doeth all things well.