The three of us set to work with all our might, Poulsson making great holes in the ground at every stroke, Polly Ann scraping at the dirt with the gourd.Two feet below the surface we struck the edge of the lowest log, and then it was Poulsson who got into the hole with his hunting knife--perspiring, muttering to himself, working as one possessed with a fury, while we scraped out the dirt from under him.At length, after what seemed an age of staring at his legs, the ground caved on him, and he would have smothered if we had not dragged him out by the heels, sputtering and all powdered brown.But there was the daylight under the log.
Again Cowan shouted at Ray, and again, but he did not understand.It was then the miracle happened.I have seen brave men and cowards since, and I am as far as ever from distinguishing them.Before we knew it Poulsson was in the hole once more--had wriggled out of it on the other side, and was squirming in a hail of bullets towards Ray.There was a full minute of suspense--perhaps two --during which the very rifles of the fort were silent (though the popping in the weeds was redoubled), and then the barrel of a Deckard was poked through the hole.
After it came James Ray himself, and lastly Poulsson, and a great shout went out from the loopholes and was taken up by the women in the common.
** ** ***
Swein Poulsson had become a hero, nor was he willing to lose any of the glamour which was a hero's right.As the Indians' fire slackened, he went from cabin to cabin, and if its occupants failed to mention the exploit (some did fail so to do, out of mischief), Swein would say:--``You did not see me safe James, no? I vill tell you Joost how.
It never leaked out that Swein was first of all under the bed, for Polly Ann and Bill Cowan and myself swore to keep the secret.But they told how I had thought of digging the hole under the logs--a happy circumstance which got me a reputation for wisdom beyond my years.
There was a certain Scotchman at Harrodstown called McAndrew, and it was he gave me the nickname ``Canny Davy,'' and I grew to have a sort of precocious fame in the station.Often Captain Harrod or Bowman or some of the others would pause in their arguments and say gravely, ``What does Davy think of it?'' This was not good for a boy, and the wonder of it is that it did not make me altogether insupportable.One effect it had on me--to make me long even more earnestly to be a man.
The impulse of my reputation led me farther.Afortnight of more inactivity followed, and then we ventured out into the fields once more.But I went with the guard this time, not with the women,--thanks to a whim the men had for humoring me.
``Arrah, and beant he a man all but two feet,'' said Terence, ``wid more brain than me an' Bill Cowan and Poulsson togither? 'Tis a fox's nose Davy has for the divils, Bill.Sure he can smell thim the same as you an'
me kin see the red paint on their faces.''
``I reckon that's true,'' said Bill Cowan, with solemnity, and so he carried me off.
At length the cattle were turned out to browse greedily through the clearing, while we lay in the woods by the forest and listened to the sound of their bells, but when they strayed too far, I was often sent to drive them back.
Once when this happened I followed them to the shade at the edge of the woods, for it was noon, and the sun beat down fiercely.And there I sat for some time watching them as they lashed their sides with their tails and pawed the ground, for experience is a good master.
Whether or not the flies were all that troubled them Icould not tell, and no sound save the tinkle of their bells broke the noonday stillness.Making a circle I drove them back toward the fort, much troubled in mind.Itold Cowan, but he laughed and said it was the flies.
Yet I was not satisfied, and finally stole back again to the place where I had found them.I sat a long time hidden at the edge of the forest, listening until my imagination tricked me into hearing those noises which I feared and yet longed for.Trembling, I stole a little farther in the shade of the woods, and then a little farther still.The leaves rustled in the summer's breeze, patches of sunlight flickered on the mould, the birds twittered, and the squirrels scolded.A chipmunk frightened me as he flew chattering along a log.And yet I went on.I came to the creek as it flowed silently in the shade, stepped in, and made my way slowly down it, I know not how far, walking in the water, my eye alert to every movement about me.At length I stopped and caught my breath.
Before me, in a glade opening out under great trees, what seemed a myriad of forked sticks were piled against one another, three by three, and it struck me all in a heap that I had come upon a great encampment.But the skeletons of the pyramid tents alone remained.Where were the skins? Was the camp deserted?
For a while I stared through the brier leaves, then Itook a venture, pushed on, and found myself in the midst of the place.It must have held near a thousand warriors.
