Part 3 (1/2)
”It's not far now,” he encouraged. ”To-night, at least, we shall sleep behind walls--even though they be only those of a block-house--and under a roof tree.”
Both of them smiled at him--yet in his self-accusing heart he wondered whether the wife whose fort.i.tude he was so severely taxing would not have done better to choose his brother.
While the halted outfit stood relaxed, there sounded through the immense voicelessness of the wilderness a long-drawn, far-carrying shout, at which the more timid women started flutteringly, but which the vanguard recognized and answered, and a moment later there appeared on the ledge of an overhanging cliff the lithe, straight figure of a boy.
He stood statuesquely upright, waving his c.o.o.nskin cap, and between his long deerskin leggins and breech clout the flesh of his slim legs showed bare, almost as bronze-dark as that of an Indian.
”That is our herald of welcome,” smiled Caleb Parish. ”It's young Peter Doane--the youngest man we brought with us--and one of our staunchest as well. You remember him, don't you, child?”
The younger Dorothy at first shook her head perplexedly and sought to recall this youthful frontiersman; then a flash of recognition broke over her face.
”He's the boy that lived on the woods farm, isn't he? His father was Lige Doane of the forest, wasn't he?'
”And still is.” Caleb repressed his smile and spoke gravely, for he caught the unconscious note of condescension with which the girl used the term of cla.s.s distinction. ”Only here in Kentucky, child, it is as well to forget social grades and remember that we be all 'men of the forest.' We are all freemen and we know no other scale.”
That fall, when the mountains were painted giants, magnificently glorified from the brush and palette of the frost; when the first crops had been gathered, a spirit of festivity and cheer descended on the block-houses of Fort Parish. Then into the outlying cabins emboldened spirits began moving in escape from the cramp of stockade life.
Against the palisades of Wautaga besieging red men had struck and been thrown back. Cheering tidings had come of Colonel William Christian's expedition against the Indian towns.
The Otari, or hill warriors, had set their feet into the out-trail of flight and acknowledged the chagrin of defeat, all except Dragging Canoe, the ablest and most implacable of their chiefs who, sullenly refusing to smoke the pipe, had drawn far away to the south, to sulk out his wrath and await more promising auspices.
Then Caleb Parish's log house had risen by the river bank a half mile distant from the stockade, and more and more he came to rely on the one soul in his little garrison whose life seemed talisman-guarded and whose woodcraft was a sublimation of instinct and acquired lore which even the young braves of the Otari envied.
Young Peter Doane, son of ”Lige Doane of the forest,” and not yet a man in years, came and went through the wilderness as surely and fleetly as the wild things, and more than once he returned with a scalp at his belt--for in those days the whites learned warfare from their foes and accepted their rules. The little community nodded approving heads and asked no questions. It learned valuable things because of Peter's adventurings.
But when he dropped back after a moon of absence, it was always to Caleb Parish's hearth-stone that Peter carried his report. It was over Caleb Parish's fire that he smoked his silent pipe, and it was upon Caleb Parish's little daughter that he bent his silently adoring glances.
Dorothy would sit silent with lowered lashes while she dutifully sought to banish aloofness and the condescension which still lingered in her heart--and the months rounded into seasons.
The time of famine long known as the ”hard winter” came. The salt gave out, the powder and lead were perilously low.
The ”traces” to and through the Wilderness road were snow-blocked or slimy with intermittent thaws, and the elder Dorothy Parish fell ill.
Learned physicians might have found and reached the cause of her malady--but there were no such physicians. Perhaps the longings that she repressed and the loneliness that she hid under her smile were costing her too dearly in their levies upon strength and vitality. She, who had been always fearless, became prey to a hundred unconfessed dreads. She feared for her husband, and with a frenzy of terror for her daughter.
She woke trembling out of atrocious nightmares. She was wasting to a shadow, and always pretending that the life was what she would have chosen.
It was on a bitter night after a day of blizzard and sleet. Caleb Parish sat before his fire, and his eyes went constantly to the bed where his wife lay half-conscious and to the seated figure of the tirelessly watchful daughter.
Softly against the window sounded a guarded rap. The man looked quickly up and inclined his ear. Again it came with the four successive taps to which every pioneer had trained himself to waken, wide-eyed, out of his most exhausted sleep.
Caleb Parish strode to the door and opened it cautiously. Out of the night, shaking the snow from his buckskin hunting s.h.i.+rt, stepped Peter Doane with his stoical face fatigue drawn as he eased down a bulky pack from galled shoulders.
”Injins,” he said, crisply. ”Get your women inside the fort right speedily!”
The young man slipped again into the darkness, and Parish, lifting the half-conscious figure from the bed, wrapped it in a bear-skin rug and carried it out into the sleety bl.u.s.ter.
That night spent itself through a tensity of waiting until dawn.