Ellis Edward Sylvester
Ned in the Block-House: A Tale of Early Days in the West

CHAPTER VII
THE MESSAGE

The declaration of Deerfoot the Shawanoe and of Stinger the scout that the Wyandots were holding such strict watch of the approaches to the block-house that no one could leave or approach it, was proof of the thoroughness of their precautions. It showed still further that the red men had determined to slay every one within the building.

The first requisite to the success of such a scheme was to prevent any one going to their help. The assailants knew just how many people composed the garrison; and, though the provisions might last for days and possibly weeks, yet the end must come sooner or later, when they would lose the power of resistance from very exhaustion.

Deerfoot, with all the skill he could command, conducted his two companions to a point along the river bank nearly in front of the block-house. This attained, he gave them to understand that they were in a very dangerous position, and it was necessary to keep carefully hidden from the Wyandots.

Having gone thus far, it would seem that the subtle Shawanoe ought to have gone further and secured entrance into the block-house itself. Had Colonel Preston known the exact situation, this could have been done, as in the case of the scout Stinger; but it was necessary first that a perfect understanding should be established. There were Wyandots everywhere: the watchful Shawanoe heard them moving stealthily hither and thither, and any one less skilful than he would have brought on a collision long before.

Any act, signal or communication which would apprise Colonel Preston of the truth, would attract the notice of the watchful red men themselves; so it would seem that Deerfoot had all his pains for nothing. But we shall show that the remarkable Shawanoe youth had not reached the end of his rope by any means.

A question has doubtless presented itself to the reader as to the necessity of the lads entering the block-house at all. Inasmuch as Stinger wished to get out, and they wished to get in, they might as well have exchanged positions. Deerfoot could turn about and hasten to Wild Oaks with news of the danger of the little garrison, leaving all the men to defend it until assistance arrived.

But, as afterwards became known, Deerfoot was following a special plan of his own. He was quick to discover that Colonel Preston knew his peril and would therefore do his utmost to defend the post; but the wily Shawanoe, from what he had learned, believed that the force of assailants was so numerous and strong, that they were able to carry the post before help could reach it from Wild Oaks. In his estimation, the all-important thing was to get re-inforcements into the block-house without an hour's unnecessary delay: that done, the time would then come for application to their friends on the Ohio.

If Ned Preston and Blossom Brown could be safely passed through the door, there would be two guns added to the five within, and such an addition was likely to prove the "balance of power," that would save the garrison from destruction.

This was the belief of the Shawanoe, and, though he did not explain his purpose at first, he was none the less determined that Colonel Preston should receive the benefit of these two guns, before application was made to his brother.

Between the block-house and Licking river was a cleared space of one hundred yards, the cultivated ground on every hand being so extensive that the stockade could not be approached by any foe unseen, except at night. The banks of the Licking were from four to six feet above the surface, while along the eastern shore, in front of the block-house, was a fringe of bushes and undergrowth, which offered a tempting hiding-place to a foe.

It was natural to expect the Wyandots to make use of this place, and they had done so, but they already commanded the situation.

Deerfoot had one important advantage in the fact that the Wyandots held no suspicion of the presence of any friends of the whites in the vicinity of the block-house, and consequently they were not searching for such allies.

But it was easy to lose this ground, and he convinced his companions that if it should be found impossible to join Colonel Preston, it would be equally fatal to attempt to leave the neighborhood before night: detection was inevitable.

Such was the state of affairs when the sun rose on the morning succeeding Jo Stinger's failure to pass through the lines (which effort was made a number of hours before Deerfoot and his friends reached the spot). The sky had cleared, and there was scarcely a cloud to obscure its light.

Peeping carefully out from among the bushes and undergrowth, the boys saw the massive block-house standing at the corner of the stockade, grim, silent, and as forbidding as though no living person was within. The heavy oaken door, the huge logs, the narrow windows, the steeply shelving roof, with one trap-door visible, the wooden chimney, the numerous loopholes, the sides of the stockade stretching away to the left from the building itself: all these added to the gloom and tomb-like appearance of the structure.

Not a person could be seen, as a matter of course, nor was any sound heard from the interior; but while the three were stealthily studying the building, they observed a faint, steely blue smoke creeping upward from the wooden chimney. Mrs. Preston had doubtless kindled a fire on the hearth in the lower story, for the comfort of her little ones on this crisp autumn morning, or she was preparing a meal for the garrison.

"If we were sure that door would be opened on the instant," said young Preston, alluding to the entrance of the block-house which confronted them, "we could make a dash across the clearing and get inside, before the Wyandots would suspect what was going on."

Deerfoot nodded his head to signify that his friend was right, but the problem remained as to how Colonel Preston should be apprised of the fact that his friends were waiting so near at hand for a chance to join him.

These boys were huddled as closely together as possible under the bank, where they were not likely to be seen, because there was no special reason for the Wyandots seeking the same hiding-place.

Having reached the spot through much tribulation, as may be said, the friends were careful not to throw away the advantage gained. They stealthily peeped over the edge of the bank, and their words were spoken in guarded undertones that could not have been heard by any one within twenty feet.

"I's got the idee," said Blossom Brown, thrusting forward his dusky countenance all aglow with pleasure: "I know jes' how we can tell de Colonel we're out yar, without de Injines knowing a thing about it."

"How would my brother with the face of the night do?" asked the Shawanoe, turning toward him.

"I'll jes' gib a lot ob hoots like a big owl dat am scared, and de Colonel will know it's me, 'cause de last time I war at de block-house I done it to please de little gals, Mary and Susie."

"That will never do," Ned Preston hastened to say; "for the Wyandots would suspect the truth the instant they heard your hooting, and it wouldn't be long before they called on us."

"Den," added the African, who seemed to think the responsibility of settling the question rested with him, "let's jes' set up a yellin' dat de Colonel will hear, and make a rush for de house: he'll know we're comin' and will slip down and open de door, or, if he don't, we can climb ober de fence and run round de back way."

The Shawanoe did not consider the proposals of Blossom worthy of notice, though they were made in all seriousness. Looking at Ned, he asked —

"Will my brother let Deerfoot see one of his letters?"

Wondering at the meaning of this request, Preston drew a missive from the inner pocket of his coat and handed it to the Indian. It was written on a large sheet of blue paper, the last page of which was unruled, so as to permit the superscription, for the ordinary envelope was unknown in those days. The sheet was carefully folded and doubled within itself, being sealed with a large red wafer, and the name of Colonel Hugh Preston, and the somewhat voluminous address, were written in a large plain hand in ink of glossy blackness.

It was the penmanship which excited the wonder of the Shawanoe more than did anything on which he had looked for many a day. He held the letter in his hand, and, for several minutes, scrutinized the writing with an interest that can hardly be described. Through the paper his keen eyes detected the faint tracery of some of the letters inside. Balancing the missive edgewise, between his thumb and forefinger, he gently pressed it until it partly spread open, despite the seal. Then, raising it before his face, he closed one eye as though he were aiming his arrow at something, and peeped within.

The glimpse of the writing was as pleasing to him as the sight of the circus is to the urchin who creeps under the canvas; and, though he could not decipher the meaning of a character, he stared for several minutes, almost holding his breath, as though he would force the secrets from the "Rosetta stone."

He had heard of such things before, but it was hard for his untutored mind to understand that what a man had said to his friend was in that little package, and when opened, it would speak the same message to him. His feelings must have been similar to those of his white brother, could he have seen the telephone of to-day perform its wonderful work.

"We write our words on the paper," said Ned, hoping to help the mind of the youth grasp the subject: "and when our friend gets the paper, there are the words looking him in the face."

Deerfoot inclined his head, as though he understood the explanation, but Ned saw that it was like the assent of the school-boy who doesn't wish his classmates to consider him stupid.

"If I should make a figure on the paper that looked like a deer, and some one should take it to you, and you looked at it, you would know that it was meant for a deer, wouldn't you?"

The Indian nodded emphatically this time: he clearly understood that.

"Suppose I should make some lines and characters which you and I agreed beforehand should mean, 'I am your friend and brother'; when those lines and characters were brought to you on paper, wouldn't you remember what they meant?"

The black eyes of Deerfoot sparkled. He had caught, for the first time in his life, an inkling of the mystery. He saw, as through a glass, darkly, the achievements of the white man who could forward his words hundreds of miles, hidden in a small piece of paper.

"Will my brother teach Deerfoot how to send his thoughts to the Great Spirit?"

There was a wistful expression in the dark eyes of the Shawanoe, which touched Ned Preston. The voice of the lad trembled, as he answered impressively —

"You need no such means to reach the Great Spirit, as you must have heard from your own people: our Great Spirit is always looking down in kindness on his children, and his ears are ever open to hear what they have asked him."

"Will my white brother tell Deerfoot of the Great Spirit of the pale faces, that the missionary talks about?"

"I will be glad to do so, for it is what all of your people should know; when we can gain the time, I will teach you how to read books and write letters just as well as any white man can do, for I am sure that one who is so bright as you, will learn it with much ease."

"Deerfoot will never forget his pale-faced brother," said the Shawanoe gratefully.

"And if masser Ned don't got de time, den I'll jes' take you hummin' frough all de knowledge dat you want," said Blossom with an exaggerated idea of his importance.

"It would be well for you to learn how to read and write yourself, before trying to teach others," said Preston.

"I reckon dar aint many dat can beat me 'round de settlements; I can spell 'dog' and 'cat'."

"Let's hear you."

"D-o-a-g, dog; r-a-t, cat – no, dat spells something else, – I forget what, but I'm dar all de time, jes' de same."

Deerfoot was still holding the letter in his hand and looking earnestly at Ned, without noticing the words of Blossom.

"Can my white brother write on the back of this the words which Colonel Preston can read?"

It flashed upon young Preston that the keen-witted youth was unraveling the plan he had held in mind from the first.

"Certainly I can."

"Write some message on this paper for him."

"But, Deerfoot, I have no pen, nor ink, nor pencil, or I would only be too glad to do so."

The Shawanoe was prepared for this.

"Deerfoot will bring you something that will do."

He moved away from his young friends, with that silence and stealth which seemed a part of his nature, while the delighted and expectant friend turned to Blossom Brown —

"Do you understand what his plan is to reach – "

Ned did not finish the question, for he saw that his servant, despite the gravity of the situation and the crispness of the air, was lying on his side sunk in a sound slumber. Fortunately his posture was such an easy one that he did not breathe loud enough to create any danger of being heard.

The Shawanoe was gone only a few minutes, when he reappeared holding in his hand a piece of reddish brown stone, almost as soft as the mineral known as "red chalk," and which he had evidently broken from some crumbling rock.

Ned Preston carefully sharpened it to a point, as though it were a lead-pencil. It could not be said to work very well, when applied to paper, but he found that patience and care would enable him to write considerable that would be legible to any one who understood writing.

Accordingly with much pains and labor he traced the following lines, first consulting Deerfoot as to what should be placed in the communication —

"Dear Uncle Hugh:

"Deerfoot, the friendly Shawanoe, Blossom Brown, our servant, and I are along the bank of the river, exactly opposite the front of the block-house. We want to join you, so as to help you fight off the Wyandots, but they are so plenty all around us that we daresn't try it, unless you are prepared to let us in the door, the instant we reach it. When you are ready, wave your hand through the front window, and we'll make the start.

"Your affectionate nephew,

"Ned."

CHAPTER VIII
OPENING COMMUNICATION

Ned Preston read the note to Deerfoot, the Shawanoe, speaking slowly and distinctly each word, while the young Indian listened with an expression of intense interest and pleasure.

"If the Colonel sees that, then will he read those words you have spoken to me?"

"They will be the same."

"Then he shall see them."

As the young warrior spoke, he extended his hand for the missive, which was given him. He deftly drew an arrow from his quiver and began tying the letter to the missile, doing it with much care, for the task he was about to essay seemed an almost impossible one.

"We are a hundred yards from the block-house," said Ned Preston; "it is a long shot for the bow and arrow."

"Would my brother like to use his gun?" asked Deerfoot with his shadowy smile, his question being intended to remind his friend of the superiority of the primitive weapon over the rifle, at least in such an emergency as the present.

"The gun is of no use just now," said Preston, "and I mistrust that your bow will not serve you as well as you think."

"You shall see," was the comment of the owner, who gave his full attention to the task before him. He used a shred of deer-sinew and fastened the letter directly behind the iron barb. That done, the faithful bow was carefully strung, and then the youth bent himself to the work.

His intention was to send the arrow, if possible, through the narrow window to the left of the front door of the block-house. This had no glass, nor screen, but as it was no more than eight inches wide, although three times as high, and as the shaft was weighted with a foreign substance, likely to affect its accuracy of flight, some idea of the difficulty of the feat may be gained.

Furthermore, it was necessary that the shot should be fired secretly. Deerfoot had no opportunity of standing out on the open ground, where his limbs would be unimpeded, but he must aim from behind the bank, so that no vigilant Wyandot would detect him.

He set to work, standing below the bank and pointing between an intervening bush or two, making sure, however, that an unobstructed path was open for his arrow. The missile was pointed at an elevation of fully forty-five degrees; and, with one eye closed, he slowly drew back the string until the head touched the right hand, which grasped the middle of the bow.

It was held thus ten seconds, during which the athlete was as rigid and motionless as if moulded in iron, while his eye rested on the narrow slit-like window cut in the solid logs, all of a hundred yards away.

Ned Preston kept his gaze fixed on the Indian, who at that moment formed a picture worthy of the finest artist that ever touched brush to canvas.

Suddenly there was a faint twang, the bow straightened out like lightning, and the arrowy messenger started on its path weighted with the all-important message.

Preston instantly glanced at the block-house, centering his eye on the straight opening, but with scarcely a hope that Deerfoot could succeed in what would certainly be a marvelous exploit.

As the arrow was speeding directly away from the lads, it was impossible to distinguish its course through the air, though it could have been seen easily, had they been stationed at right angles to its line of flight.

The Shawanoe, having discharged the weapon, immediately lowered it, and then peered forward to learn the result of his shot.

But Preston had scarcely time to fix his gaze on the distant window, when he saw something like the flutter of a shadow – so to speak – directly in the opening itself. It came and went with the quickness of a flash, and he could not define it.

But where was the arrow?

It vanished from sight the instant it left the bowstring, and Ned had not seen it since. It should have struck somewhere in a very few seconds, but had the head buried itself in the ground between the river and the block-house, the eagle-feather would have been visible. Had it fallen on the roof, its sharp point would have held the shaft motionless.

"You must have sent it over the block-house," said Ned, turning to Deerfoot; "and in that case – "

He stopped, for the same shadowy smile on the handsome face of the young Shawanoe told the truth: the arrow had gone directly through the window, and the curious fluttering shadow which caught the eye of Preston was the missile with its message.

"That is the most wonderful shot I ever saw!" exclaimed Ned in a burst of admiration; "if I could use the bow as you do, I never would touch a gun. But, Deerfoot, is there not danger that some of the Wyandots saw the arrow in its flight?"

"If they were looking across the clearing, they saw it perhaps; but Deerfoot hopes they did not."

"Suppose you had missed the window, – that the arrow had struck the roof, or the ground, or the logs at the side of the opening, it would have buried its head and stayed in plain sight, would it not?"

"Yes, and the Wyandots would be certain to see it."

"And would soon know where it came from?"

"Nothing could have prevented."

"My gracious!" exclaimed Ned; "you ran a great risk."

"We did; there was no way to prevent it."

Ned was almost speechless, when he realized how much had depended on the success of the shot of the Shawanoe: in fact, had he known all, he never would have consented that the task should have been attempted.

Had the arrow gone a few inches to the right or left, or had it fallen short, or flown too high, the Wyandots would have swooped down on the archer and his friends, before they could have left the spot.

Ned Preston regarded the shot as amazing as the mythical one made by William Tell; and, but for the urgency of the danger, would have given further expression to his admiration. Deerfoot himself was somewhat uneasy, and, for several minutes, glanced right and left, and through the undergrowth for signs of danger; but nothing appeared, and it looked as though a piece of extremely good fortune had attended the remarkable exploit.

Such being the case, Preston now devoted his attention to the window, from which he expected to see the hand of his uncle, Colonel Preston, waving in friendly signal for them to make the desperate run across the clearing.

While he was thus employed, the keener vision of the Shawanoe was roaming over the open space, each side of the stockade, the woods beyond, and especially did he scrutinize the two deserted cabins that stood to the right.

The visual search had not continued long, when it was rewarded by the unwelcome discovery that in the building nearest him were several Wyandots, who had probably spent the night there. He saw their heads and shoulders, as they passed the windows where they were beyond sight of the garrison, but were in plain view of the Shawanoe.

This cabin was much nearer the block-house than were the boys, from which the daring nature of the project will be understood. Deerfoot was hopeful before this that the houses were clear of Wyandots, in which event his friends would have had a much better prospect of success.

As it was, it all depended on how complete the surprise could be made for the red men. If they failed to note the running youths until the block-house was nearly reached, they would be too late to head them off, except by a shot from their guns, and this risk could not be avoided under any circumstances.

"There it is!"

It was Ned Preston who uttered the exclamation in such excitement that his voice was dangerously high.

"Sh! not so loud!" whispered Deerfoot, scrutinizing the window through which he sent his arrow a few minutes before.

Ned Preston was right: the hand of a person was thrust through the opening and waved several times. It swayed back and forth, and up and down, with much deliberation, as though the owner was fearful it would not be observed by his friends along the river bank.

More than that, Deerfoot was sure he saw the face of the one who signalled them, though the distance was such that nothing like a recognition took place.

After withdrawing his hand, it was put forth again, and the motion was repeated. Colonel Preston evidently meant that, if any mistake was made, it should not be his fault.

Ned Preston now carefully awakened Blossom Brown and explained what had been done and what was contemplated.

"You have got to run as you never ran before," said his master, "and when you have once started, there is no turning back."

"What would I want to turn back for?" was the wondering question of the African.

"You might think it better to stay where we are, and it may be that it is; but after the Wyandots learn we are here, it is run or die with us."

"My brother speaks the truth," said Deerfoot, who was looking across the clearing at the nearest cabin: "there are red men there, and they will try and hinder you from reaching your friends."

There was no reason to hope the prospect would improve by waiting, and it was decided to start at once. Deerfoot, it was understood, was to remain where he was and to make no attempt for the present to enter the block-house. It was expected that, after Blossom and Ned were safely within the building, the guide would hasten to Wild Oaks and bring assistance to the beleaguered garrison.

When the boys were ready, the Shawanoe impressed one fact upon them: they were not to cease running for an instant, unless stopped beyond all power to overcome, but, fixing their eyes on the door of the block-house, strain every nerve to reach the goal.

Each lad was to carry his loaded gun in his right hand, but not to use it, unless forced to do so: if Colonel Preston should delay admitting them, they would be lost; but there was no cause to fear such a miscarriage.

The boys stealthily moved forward and up the bank, and, pausing near the margin, awaited the word from the Shawanoe. The perilous point, in the eye of the latter, was the cabin where he knew the Wyandots to be, and he watched it closely for several minutes. Nothing was to be seen of them just then, and he said in a low voice —

"Go!"

On the instant, Ned Preston and Blossom Brown bounded across the clearing in the direction of the block-house: it was a straight run of a hundred yards over a level piece of land, on which only a few stumps remained to show that it was once covered by the forest.

The African, it need not be said, strained every nerve and fibre of his being to reach the goal. His heavy, lumbering build made him less fleet than Preston, who could have drawn away from the beginning; but he could not desert his companion in such extremity and he timed his speed, so as to keep just ahead of Blossom, and thus urge him to his utmost.

Crouching under the shelter of the river bank, Deerfoot watched the run for life with the intensest interest. He grasped his strong bow with his right hand, while one of his arrows was held in the left, ready to use on the instant it might become necessary for the safety of either of the fugitives.

Those who knew Deerfoot best, said he was reluctant to employ his marvelous skill on any person, and would not do so as long as it was safe to refrain; but it would have required only a single glance at his glittering eye and compressed lips, to understand that he considered the emergency was now at hand.

It so happened that the fugitives had gone no more than ten yards on their swift run, when the Wyandots in the cabin discovered them and made known the fact in the most alarming manner.

First several whoops broke the stillness within the building, and then two sharp reports followed. The Wyandots had fired, but their aim was so hurried that, as it seemed to Deerfoot, neither of the fugitives was harmed. At least they continued their flight with unabated speed.

But the efforts of the Wyandots to check the boys was not to end with the simple discharge of their rifles. The two that had used their pieces, sprang from the front windows of the cabin and dashed quartering across the clearing, with the intent to head off the youths, before they could reach the block-house.

This brought both in range of the terrible bow of Deerfoot who placed the arrow in position; but it was his intention to hold the weapon until it should become imperatively necessary to use it, for it will be seen that, if he took part in the singular contest, it would be such a complete unveiling of his true character that his usefulness to the whites would be almost destroyed.

Besides, each boy carried a loaded rifle which he knew how to use, and it was not to be supposed that either would allow himself to be tomahawked or taken prisoner without resistance.

The Wyandots who ran forth in the effort to throw themselves across the path of the fugitives, were as daring warriors as ever mingled in the fierce fight with settlers or those of their own race. They had emptied their guns in the futile effort to bring down the boys, and, throwing the weapons aside, they now sprang forward with the resolution to make them prisoners, despite the risk to themselves, for they must have known that the garrison would endeavor to protect their friends, and they could not help suspecting that there was one or more along the river bank, who were likely to take part in the singular struggle.

Be that as it may, the red men ran straight from the deserted cabin across the path of the boys, who found themselves confronted by the brawny redskins, before they had gone half the distance to the building.

"Let's sneak 'round ahind de block-house and climb ober de fence and hide," said Blossom, when he saw the gauntlet he had to run.

"Straight for the door!" commanded Preston: "that is our only chance!"

But the youth had scarcely spoken the words, when he saw that a collision with the Wyandots was inevitable: they were between them and the fort, and there was no possible way of flanking them.

The superior fleetness of Ned held him slightly in advance of his companion. The former ran until close to the Wyandots, when he turned to the left. The warriors immediately leaped forward so that they were still directly in front of the fugitives.

"It must be done!" exclaimed Ned, coming to an instant halt, raising his rifle and aiming at the nearest Indian, who was in the very act of poising himself to throw his tomahawk.

Everything passed so swiftly that the spectators could scarcely follow the movements. At the moment Ned drew his gun to position, he caught the flash of the implement as it circled with lightning quickness over the bronzed skull of his enemy.

Young Preston knew what was coming. Pausing only long enough to catch the gleam of the warrior's eyes, over the sights of his rifle, he pressed the trigger.

The Indian aimed at the head of the youth and drove the tomahawk with prodigious force and unerring accuracy; but the blade of the implement glanced against the barrel of the rifle, sending out a streak of flame, and, with a tremendous rebound or ricochet, shot by the shoulder of the lad, touching the ground fifty feet away, and rolling over and over several times, before it lay still. When it left the hand of the warrior, it was with a force that would have cloven the skull of the lad, as though it were cardboard.

The throw and miss were remarkable, but, by a striking coincidence, the rifle of Ned Preston was discharged at the second the two weapons collided. The violent shock to the gun turned it aside, and the ball buried itself harmlessly in the ground, far to the right of the crouching Wyandot.

The latter saw by what a hair's-breadth he had escaped, and snatching his hunting-knife from the belt at his waist, he bounded toward the youth, who, nothing daunted, recoiled a single step, and, grasping his weapon by its barrel, awaited the attack.

All this took place in a few seconds, during which the other Wyandot, feeling that the dark-faced fugitive was his own, watched the extraordinary conflict, with an interest as intense as that of the other spectators further away.