He supped off cold jerked bear's meat and slept two hours in the canes, waiting on the moonrise.He had bad dreams, for he seemed to hear drums beating the eerie tattoo which he remembered long ago in Border raids.He woke in a sweat, and took the road again in the moonlight.It was not hard to follow, and it seemed to be ****** north for the Ohio.Dawn came on him in a grassy bottom, beyond which lay low hills that he knew alone separated him from the great river.Once in the Indian Moon of Blossom he had been thus far, and had gloried in the riches of the place, where a man walked knee deep in honeyed clover."The dark and bloody land!" He remembered how he had repeated the name to himself, and had concluded that Lovelle had been right and that it was none of the Almighty's giving.Now in the sharp autumn morning he felt its justice.A cloud had come over his cheerful soul."If only I knowed about Jim," he muttered "I wonder if I'll ever clap eyes or his old face again." Never before had he known such acute anxiety.
Pioneers are wont to trust each other and in their wild risks assume that the odd chance is on their side.But now black forebodings possessed him, born not of reasoning but of instinct.His comrade somewhere just ahead of him was in deadly peril.
And then came the drums.
The sound broke into the still dawn with a harsh challenge.They were war drums, beaten as he remembered them in Montgomery's campaign.He quickened his steady hunter's lope into a run, and left the trail for the thickets of the hill-side.The camp was less than a mile off and he was taking no chances.
As he climbed the hill the drums grew louder, till it seemed that the whole world rocked with their noise.He told himself feverishly that there was nothing to fear; Jim was with friends, who had been south of the river on their own business and would give him the powder he wanted.Presently they would be returning to the camp together, and in the months to come he and Jim would make that broad road through the Gap, at the end of which would spring up smiling farmsteads and townships of their own naming.He told himself these things, but he knew that he lied.
At last, flat on the earth, he peered through the vines on the north edge of the ridge.Below him, half a mile off, rolled the Ohio, a little swollen by the rains There was a broad ford, and the waters had spilled out over the fringe of sand.Just under him, between the bluff and the river, lay the Mingo camp, every detail of it plain in the crisp weather.
In the heart of it a figure stood bound to a stake, and a smoky fire burned at its feet....There was no mistaking that figure.
Boone bit the grass in a passion of fury.His first impulse was to rush madly into the savages' camp and avenge his friend.He had half risen to his feet when his reason told him it was folly.He had no weapon but axe and knife, and would only add another scalp to their triumph.His Deckard was slung on his back, but he had no powder.Oh, to be able to send a bullet through Jim's head to cut short his torment! In all his life he had never known such mental anguish, waiting there an impotent witness of the agony of his friend.The blood trickled from his bitten lips and film was over his eyes....Lovelle was dying for him and the others.He saw it all with bitter clearness.Jim had been inveigled to the Mingo camp taking risks as he always did, and there been ordered to reveal the whereabouts of the hunting party.He had refused, and endured the ordeal...Memories of their long comradeship rushed through Boone's mind and set him weeping in a fury of affection.There was never such a man as old Jim, so trusty and wise and kind, and now that great soul was being tortured out of that stalwart body and he could only look on like a baby and cry.
As he gazed, it became plain that the man at the stake was dead.His head had fallen on his chest, and the Indians were cutting the green withies that bound him.Boone looked to see them take his scalp, and so wild was his rage that his knees were already bending for the onslaught which should be the death of him and haply of one or two of the murderers.
But no knife was raised.The Indians seemed to consult together, and one of them gave an order.Deerskins were brought and the body was carefully wrapped in them and laid on a litter of branches.Their handling of it seemed almost reverent.The camp was moving, the horses were saddled, and presently the whole band began to file off towards the forest.The sight held Boone motionless.His fury had gone and only wonder and awe remained.
As they passed the dead, each Indian raised his axe in salute--the salute to a great chief.The next minute they were splashing through the ford.
An hour later, when the invaders had disappeared on the northern levels, Boone slipped down from the bluff to the camping place.He stood still a long time by his friend, taking off his deerskin cap, so that his long black hair was blown over his shoulders.
"Jim, boy," he said softly."I reckon you was the general of us all.The likes of you won't come again.I'd like ye to have Christian burial."With his knife he hollowed a grave, where he placed the body, still wrapped in its deerskins.He noted on a finger of one hand a gold ring, a queer possession for a backwoodsman.This he took off and dropped into the pouch which hung round his neck."I reckon it'd better go to Mis' Hanks.Jim's gal 'ud valley it mor'n a wanderin' coyote."When he had filled in the earth he knelt among the grasses and repeated the Lord's Prayer as well as he could remember it.Then he stood up and rubbed with his hard brown knuckles the dimness from his eyes.
"Ye was allus lookin' for something, Jim," he said."I guess ye've found it now.Good luck to ye, old comrade."
