All about me were gray heaps of ashes, and bones of deer and elk and buffalo scattered, some picked clean, some with the meat and hide sticking to them.Impelled by a strong fascination, I went hither and thither until a sound brought me to a stand--the echoing crack of a distant rifle.
On the heels of it came another, then several together, and a faint shouting borne on the light wind.Terrorized, Isought for shelter.A pile of brush underlain by ashes was by, and I crept into that.The sounds continued, but seemed to come no nearer, and my courage returning, I got out again and ran wildly through the camp toward the briers on the creek, expecting every moment to be tumbled headlong by a bullet.And when I reached the briers, what between panting and the thumping of my heart Icould for a few moments hear nothing.Then I ran on again up the creek, heedless of cover, stumbling over logs and trailing vines, when all at once a dozen bronze forms glided with the speed of deer across my path ahead.
They splashed over the creek and were gone.Bewildered with fear, I dropped under a fallen tree.Shouts were in my ears, and the noise of men running.I stood up, and there, not twenty paces away, was Colonel Clark himself rushing toward me.He halted with a cry, raised his rifle, and dropped it at the sight of my queer little figure covered with ashes.
``My God!'' he cried, ``it's Davy.''
``They crossed the creek,'' I shouted, pointing the way, ``they crossed the creek, some twelve of them.''
``Ay,'' he said, staring at me, and by this time the rest of the guard were come up.They too stared, with different exclamations on their lips,--Cowan and Bowman and Tom McChesney and Terence McCann in front.
``And there's a great camp below,'' I went on, ``deserted, where a thousand men have been.''
``A camp--deserted?'' said Clark, quickly.
``Yes,'' I said, ``yes.'' But he had already started forward and seized me by the arm.
``Lead on,'' he cried, ``show it to us.'' He went ahead with me, travelling so fast that I must needs run to keep up, and fairly lifting me over the logs.But when we came in sight of the place he darted forward alone and went through it like a hound on the trail.The others followed him, crying out at the size of the place and poking among the ashes.At length they all took up the trail for a way down the creek.Presently Clark called a halt.
``I reckon that they've made for the Ohio,'' he said.
And at this judgment from him the guard gave a cheer that might almost have been heard in the fields around the fort.The terror that had hovered over us all that long summer was lifted at last.
You may be sure that Cowan carried me back to the station.``To think it was Davy that found it!'' he cried again and again, ``to think it was Davy found it!''
``And wasn't it me that said he could smell the divils,''
said Terence, as he circled around us in a mimic war dance.
And when from the fort they saw us coming across the fields they opened the gates in astonishment, and on hearing the news gave themselves over to the wildest rejoicing.
For the backwoodsmen were children of nature.Bill Cowan ran for the fiddle which he had carried so carefully over the mountain, and that night we had jigs and reels on the common while the big fellow played ``Billy of the Wild Woods'' and ``Jump Juba,'' with all his might, and the pine knots threw their fitful, red light on the wild scenes of merriment.I must have cut a queer little figure as I sat between Cowan and Tom watching the dance, for presently Colonel Clark came up to us, laughing in his quiet way.
``Davy,'' said he, ``there is another great man here who would like to see you,'' and led me away wondering.I went with him toward the gate, burning all over with pride at this attention, and beside a torch there a broad-shouldered figure was standing, at sight of whom I had a start of remembrance.
``Do you know who that is, Davy?'' said Colonel Clark.
``It's Mr.Daniel Boone,'' said I.
``By thunder,'' said Clark, ``I believe the boy IS a wizard,'' while Mr.Boone's broad mouth was creased into a smile, and there was a trace of astonishment, too, in his kindly eye.
``Mr.Boone came to my father's cabin on the Yadkin once,'' I said; ``he taught me to skin a deer.''
``Ay, that I did,'' exclaimed Mr.Boone, ``and I said ye'd make a woodsman sometime.''
Mr.Boone, it seemed, had come over from Boonesboro to consult with Colonel Clark on certain matters, and had but just arrived.But so modest was he that he would not let it be known that he was in the station, for fear of interrupting the pleasure.He was much the same as Ihad known him, only grown older and his reputation now increased to vastness.He and Clark sat on a door log talking for a long time on Kentucky matters, the strength of the forts, the prospect of new settlers that autumn, of the British policy, and finally of a journey which Colonel Clark was soon to make back to Virginia across the mountains.They seemed not to mind my presence.At length Colonel Clark turned to me with that quiet, jocose way he had when relaxed.
``Davy,'' said he, ``we'll see how much of a general you are.What would you do if a scoundrel named Hamilton far away at Detroit was bribing all the redskins he could find north of the Ohio to come down and scalp your men?''
``I'd go for Hamilton,'' I answered.
``By God!'' exclaimed Clark, striking Mr.Boone on the knee, ``that's what I'd do.''
