The Forest Runners by Joseph A. Altsheler

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_The_ FOREST RUNNERS

[Illustration: "A massive black form shot down into the center of the
room." [Page 277.]]

_The_ FOREST RUNNERS

A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR
TRAIL IN EARLY KENTUCKY

BY
JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER
AUTHOR OF "THE YOUNG TRAILERS"

D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY
INCORPORATED

NEW YORK LONDON
1936

1908, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

1935, BY EQUITABLE TRUST CO
Printed in the United States of America

BOOKS BY JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER

THE FRENCH AND INDIAN WAR SERIES

The Hunters of the Hills
The Rulers of the Lakes
The Lords of the Wild
The Shadow of the North
The Masters of the Peaks
The Sun of Quebec

THE YOUNG TRAILERS SERIES

The Young Trailers
The Forest Runners
The Keepers of the Trail
The Eyes of the Woods
The Free Rangers
The Riflemen of the Ohio
The Scouts of the Valley
The Border Watch

THE TEXAN SERIES

The Texan Star
The Texan Scouts
The Texan Triumph

THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

The Guns of Bull Run
The Guns of Shiloh
The Scouts of Stonewall
The Sword of Antietam
The Star of Gettysburg
The Rock of Chickamauga
The Shades of the Wilderness
The Tree of Appomattox

THE GREAT WEST SERIES

The Lost Hunters
The Great Sioux Trail

THE WORLD WAR SERIES

The Guns of Europe
The Forest of Swords
The Hosts of the Air

BOOKS NOT IN SERIES

Apache Gold
The Quest of the Four
The Last of the Chiefs
In Circling Camps
The Last Rebel
A Soldier of Manhattan
The Sun of Saratoga
A Herald of the West
The Wilderness Road
My Captive
The Candidate

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY New York London

This story, while independent in itself, continues the
fortunes of the two boys who were the central characters
of "The Young Trailers."

CONTENTS

I. PAUL 1

II. IN THE RIVER 17

III. THE LONE CABIN 36

IV. THE SIEGE 59

V. THE FLIGHT 72

VI. THE BATTLE ON THE HILL 91

VII. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE DARK 108

VIII. AT THE RIVER BANK 125

IX. A CHANGE OF PLACES 142

X. THE ISLAND IN THE LAKE 157

XI. A SUDDEN MEETING 176

XII. THE BELT BEARERS 192

XIII. BRAXTON WYATT'S ORDEAL 217

XIV. IN WINTER QUARTERS 239

XV. WORK AND PLAY 254

XVI. NOEL 273

XVII. FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 283

XVIII. WHAT THE WARRIOR SAW 295

XIX. THE WARNING 310

XX. THE TERRIBLE FORD 328

XXI. THE FLIGHT OF LONG JIM 340

XXII. THE LAST STAND 355

THE FOREST RUNNERS

CHAPTER I

PAUL

Paul stopped in a little open space, and looked around all the circle of
the forest. Everywhere it was the same--just the curving wall of red and
brown, and beyond, the blue sky, flecked with tiny clouds of white. The
wilderness was full of beauty, charged with the glory of peace and
silence, and there was naught to indicate that man had ever come. The
leaves rippled a little in the gentle west wind, and the crisping grass
bowed before it; but Paul saw no living being, save himself, in the vast,
empty world.

The boy was troubled and, despite his life in the woods, he had full right
to be. This was the great haunted forest of _Kain-tuck-ee_, where the red
man made his most desperate stand, and none ever knew when or whence
danger would come. Moreover, he was lost, and the forest told him nothing;
he was not like his friend, Henry Ware, born to the forest, the heir to
all the primeval instincts, alive to every sight and sound, and able to
read the slightest warning the wilderness might give. Paul Cotter was a
student, a lover of books, and a coming statesman. Fate, it seemed, had
chosen that he and Henry Ware should go hand in hand, but for different
tasks.

Paul gazed once more around the circle of the glowing forest, and the
shadow in his eyes deepened. Henry and the horses, loaded with powder for
the needy settlement, must be somewhere near, but whether to right or left
he could not tell. He had gone to look for water, and when he undertook to
return he merely went deeper and deeper into the forest. Now the boughs,
as they nodded before the gentle breeze, seemed to nod to him in derision.
He felt shame as well as alarm. Henry would not laugh at him, but the born
scholar would be worth, for the time, at least, far less than the born
trailer.

Yet no observer, had there been any, would have condemned Paul as he
condemned himself. He stood there, a tall, slender boy, with a broad, high
brow, white like a girl's above the line of his cap, blue eyes, dark and
full, with the width between that indicates the mind behind, and the firm,
pointed chin that belongs so often to people of intellect.

Paul and Henry were on their way from Wareville, their home, with horses
hearing powder for Marlowe, the nearest settlement, nearly a hundred miles
away. The secret of making powder from the nitre dust on the floors of the
great caves of Kentucky had been discovered by the people of Wareville,
and now they wished to share their unfailing supply with others, in order
that the infant colony might be able to withstand Indian attacks. Henry
Ware, once a captive in a far Northwestern tribe, and noted for his great
strength and skill, had been chosen, with Paul Cotter, his comrade, to
carry it. Both rejoiced in the great task, which to them meant the saving
of Kentucky.

Paul's eyes were apt at times to have a dreamy look, as if he were
thinking of things far away, whether of time or place; but now they were
alive to the present, and to the forest about him. He listened intently.
At last he lay down and put his ear to the earth, as he had seen Henry do;
but he heard nothing save a soft, sighing sound, which he knew to be only
the note of the wilderness. He might have fired his rifle. The sharp,
lashing report would go far, carried farther by its own echoes; but it was
more likely to bring foe than friend, and he refrained.

But he must try, if not one thing, then another. He looked up at the
heavens and studied the great, red globe of the sun, now going slowly
down the western arch in circles of crimson and orange light, and then he
looked hack at the earth. If he had not judged the position of the sun
wrong, their little camp lay to the right, and he would choose that
course. He turned at once and walked swiftly among the trees.

Paul stopped now and then to listen. He would have uttered the long forest
shout, as a signal to his comrade, but even that was forbidden. Henry had
seen signs in the forest that indicated more than once to his infallible
eye the presence of roving warriors from the north, and no risk must be
taken. But, as usual, it was only the note of the wilderness that came to
his ears. He stopped also once or twice, not to listen, but to look at the
splendid country, and to think what a great land it would surely be.

He walked steadily on for miles, but the region about him remained
unfamiliar. No smoke from the little camp-fire rose among the trees, and
no welcome sight of Henry or the horses came to his eyes. For all he knew,
he might be going farther from the camp at every step. Putting aside
caution, he made a trumpet of his two hands, and uttered the long,
quavering cry that serves as a signal in the forest. It came back in a
somber echo from the darkening wilderness, and Paul saw, with a little
shiver, that the sun was now going down behind the trees. The breeze rose,
and the leaves rustled together with a soft hiss, like a warning. Chill
came into the air. The sensitive mind of the boy, so much alive to
abstract impressions, felt the omens of coming danger, and he stopped
again, not knowing what to do. He called himself afraid, but he was not.
It was the greater tribute to his courage that he remained resolute where
another might well have been in despair.

The sun went down behind the black forest like a cannon shot into the sea,
and darkness swept over the wilderness. Paul uttered the long cry again
and again, but, as before, no answer came back; once he fired his rifle,
and the sharp note seemed to run for miles, but still no answer.

Then he decided to take counsel of prudence, and sleep where he was. If he
walked on, he might go farther and farther away from the camp, but if he
stopped now, while he might not find Henry, Henry would certainly find
him. Any wilderness trail was an open road to his comrade.

He hunted a soft place under one of the trees, and, despising the dew,
stretched himself between two giant roots, his rifle by his side. He was
tired and hungry, and he lay for a while staring at the blank
undergrowth, but by and by all his troubles and doubts floated away. The
note of the wind was soothing, and the huge roots sheltered him. His
eyelids drooped, a singular feeling of peace and ease crept over him, and
he was asleep.

It was yet the intense darkness of early night, and the outline of his
figure was lost between the giant roots, but after a while a silver moon
brought a gray tint to the skies, and the black bank over the forest began
to thin and lighten. Then two figures, hideous in paint, crept from the
undergrowth, and stared at the sleeping boy with pitiless eyes.

Paul slept on, and mercifully knew nothing of his danger; yet it would
have been hard to find in the world two pairs of eyes that contained more
savagery than those now gazing upon him. Their owners crept nearer,
looking with fierce joy through the darkness at the sleeping boy who was
so certainly their prey. Their code contained nothing that taught them to
spare a foe, and this youth. In the van of the white invasion, was the
worst of foes.

The boy still slept, and his slumber was deep, sweet, and dreamless. No
warning came to him while the savage eyes, bright with cruel fire, crept
closer and closer, and the merciful darkness, coming again, tried to close
down and hide the approaching tragedy of the forest.

Paul returned with a jerk from his peaceful heaven. Hands and feet were
seized suddenly and pinned to the earth so tightly that he could not move,
and he gazed up at two hideous, painted faces, very near to his own, and
full of menace. The boy's heart turned for a moment to water. He saw at
once, through his vivid and powerful imagination, all the terrors of his
position, and in the same instant he leaped forward also to the future,
and to the agony it had in store for him. But in a moment his courage came
back, the strong will once more took command of the body and the spirit,
and he looked up with stoical eyes at his captors. He knew that resistance
now would be in vain, and, relaxing his muscles, he saved his strength.

The warriors laughed a little, a soundless laugh that was full of menace,
and bound him securely with strips of buckskin cut from his own garments.
Then they stood up, and Paul, too, rose to a sitting position, gazing
intently at his captors. They were powerful men, apparently warriors of
middle age, and Paul knew enough of costume and paint to tell that they
were of the Shawnee nation, bitterly hostile to him and his kind.

His terrors came back upon him in full sweep. He loved life, and, scholar
though he was, he loved his life in the young wilderness of Kentucky,
where he was at the beginnings of things. Every detail of what they would
do to him, every incident of the torture was already photographed upon his
sensitive mind, but again the brave lad called up all his courage, and
again he triumphed, keeping his body still and his face without
expression. He merely looked up at them, as if placidly waiting their
will.

The two warriors talked together a little, and then, seeming to change
their minds, they unbound the boy's feet. One touched him on the shoulder,
and, pointing to the north, started in that direction. Paul understood,
and, rising to his feet, followed. The second warrior came close behind,
and Paul was as securely a prisoner as if he were in the midst of a band
of a hundred. Once or twice he looked around at the silent woods and
thought of running, but it would have been the wildest folly. His hands
tied, he could have been quickly overtaken, or, if not that, a bullet. He
sternly put down the temptation, and plodded steadily on between the
warriors, the broad, brown back of the one in front of him always leading
the way.

It seemed to him that they sought the densest part of the undergrowth,
where the night shadows lay thickest, and he was wise enough to know that
they did it to hide their trail from possible pursuit. Then he thought of
Henry, his comrade, the prince of trailers! He might come! He would come!
Paul's blood leaped at the thought, and his head lifted with hope.

Clouds swept up, the moon died, and in the darkness Paul had little idea
of direction. He only knew that they were still traveling fast amid the
thick bushes, and that when he made too much noise in passing one or other
of the brown savages would prod him with the muzzle of a gun as a hint to
be more careful. His face became bruised and his feet weary, but at last
they stopped in an opening among the trees, by the side of a little brook
that trickled over shining pebbles.

The warriors wasted little time. They rebound Paul's feet in such tight
fashion that he could scarcely move, and then, lying down near him, went
to sleep so quickly that it seemed to Paul they accomplished the feat by
some sort of a mechanical arrangement. Tired as he was, he could not close
his own eyes yet, and he longed for his comrade. Would he come?

Paul's sensitive nerves were again keenly alive to every phase of his
cruel situation. The warriors, lying almost at his feet, were monsters,
not men, and this wilderness, which in its finer aspects he loved, was
bristling in the darkness with terrors known and unknown. Yet his clogged
and weary brain slept at last, and when he awoke again it was day--a
beautiful day of white and gold light, with the autumnal tints of the
forest all about him, and the leaves rustling in a gentle wind.

But his heart sank to the uttermost depths when he looked at the warriors.
By day they seemed more brutal and pitiless than at night. From their
long, narrow eyes shone no ray of mercy, and the ghastly paint on their
high cheek bones deepened their look of ferocity. It was not the
appearance of the warriors alone, it was more the deed for which they were
preparing that appalled Paul. They were raking dead leaves and fallen
brushwood of last year around a small but stout sapling, and they went on
with their task in a methodical way.

Paul knew well, too well. Hideous tales of such doings had come now and
then to his ears, but he had never dreamed that he, Paul Cotter, in his
own person would be such a victim. Even now it seemed incredible in the
face of this beautiful young world that stretched away from him, so quiet
and so peaceful. He, who already in his boyhood was planning great things
for this splendid land, to die such a death!

The warriors did not cease until their task was finished. It was but a
brief one after all, for Paul had made no mistake in his guess. There was
not time, perhaps, to take a prisoner beyond the Ohio, and they could not
forego a savage pleasure. They dragged the hoy to the sapling, stood him
erect against the slim trunk, and hound him fast with green withes. Then
they piled the dead leaves and brushwood high about him above his knees,
and, this done, stood a little way off and looked at their work.

The warriors spoke together for the first time since Paul had awakened,
and their black eyes lighted up with a hideous glow of anticipation. Paul
saw it, and an icy chill ran through all his veins. Had not the green
withes held him, he would have fallen to the ground. Once more his active
mind, foreseeing all that would come, had dissolved his strength for the
moment; but, as always, his will brought his courage back, and he shut his
eyes to put away the hateful sight of the gloating savages.

He had never asked in any way for mercy, he had never uttered a word of
protest, and he resolved that he would not cry out if he could help it.
They should not rejoice too much at his sufferings; he would die as they
were taught to die, and he would show to them that the mind of a white boy
could supply the place of a red man's physical fortitude. But Henry might
come! Would he come? Oh, would he come? Resigned to death, Paul yet hoped
for life.

He opened his eyes, and the warriors were still standing there, looking at
him; but in a moment one approached, and, bending down, began to strike
flint and steel amid the dry leaves at the boy's feet. Again, despite
himself, the shivering chill ran through Paul's veins. Would Henry come?
If he came at all, he must now come quickly, as only a few minutes were
left.

The leaves were obstinate; sparks flew from the flint and steel, but there
was no blaze. Paul looked down at the head of the warrior who worked
patiently at his task. The second warrior stood on one side, watching, and
when Paul glanced at him he saw the savage move ever so little, but as if
driven by a sudden impulse, and then raise his head in the attitude of one
who listened intently. Heat replaced the ice in Paul's veins. Had
something moved in the forest? Was it Henry? Would he come?

The standing warrior uttered a low sound, and he who knelt with the flint
and steel raised his head. Something had moved in the forest! It might be
Henry. For Paul, the emotions of a life were concentrated in a single
moment. Fear and hope tripped over each other, and the wilderness grew
dim to his sight. A myriad of little black specks danced before his eyes,
and the blood was beating a quick march in his ears.

The two savages were motionless, as if carved of brown marble, and over
all the wilderness hung silence. Then out of the silence came a sharp
report, and the warrior who stood erect, rifle in hand, fell to the earth,
stricken by instant death. Henry had come! His faithful comrade had not
failed him! Paul shouted aloud in his tremendous relief and joy, forgetful
of the second warrior.

The kneeling savage sprang to his feet, but he had made a fatal mistake.
To light the fire for the torture, he had left his rifle leaning against
the trunk of a tree twenty feet away, and before he could regain it a
terrible figure bounded from the bushes, the figure of a great youth, clad
in buckskin, his face transformed with anger and his eyes alight. Before
the savage could reach his weapon he went down, slain by a single blow of
a clubbed rifle, and the next moment Henry was cutting Paul loose with a
few swift slashes of his keen hunting knife.

"I knew you would come! I knew it!" exclaimed Paul joyously and wildly, as
he stood forth free. "Nobody in the world but you could have done it,
Henry!"

"I don't know about that, Paul," said Henry, "but I'd have had you back
sooner if it hadn't been for the dark. I followed you all night the best
way I could, but I couldn't come up to you until day, and they began work
then."

He glanced significantly at the leaves and brushwood, and then, handing
Paul's rifle to him, looked at those belonging to the savages.

"We'll take 'em," he said. "It's likely we'll need 'em, and their powder
and bullets will be more than welcome, too."

Paul was rubbing his wrists and ankles, where the blood flowed painfully
as the circulation was restored, but to him the whole affair was ended.
His life had been saved at the last moment, and the world was more
brilliant and beautiful than ever. His imagination went quickly to the
other extreme. There was no more danger.

But Henry Ware did not lose his eager, wary look. It did not take him more
than a minute to transfer the ammunition of the warriors to the pouches
and powder-horns of Paul and himself. Then he searched the forest with
keen, suspicious glances.

"Come, Paul," he said, "we must run. The woods are full of the savages.
I've found out that there's a great war party between us and Marlowe, and
I've hid the powder in a cave. I turned the horses loose, hoping that
we'll get 'em some time later; but just now you and I have to save
ourselves."

Paul came back to earth. Danger still threatened! But he was free for the
time, and he was with his comrade!

"You lead the way, Henry," he said. "I'll follow, and do whatever you
say."

Henry Ware made no reply, but bent his ear again, in the attitude of one
who listens. Paul watched his face attentively, seeking to read his
knowledge there.

"The big war band is not far away," said Henry, "and it's likely that
they've heard my shot. It would carry far on such a still, clear morning
as this. I didn't want them to hear it."

"But I'm glad you did shoot," said Paul. "It was a mighty welcome sound to
me."

"Yes," said Henry, with grim humor, "it was the right thing at the right
time. Hark to that!" A single note, very faint and very far, rose and was
quickly gone, like the dying echo of music. Only the trained ranger of the
wilderness would have noticed it at all, but Henry Ware knew.

"Yes, they've heard," he said, "and they're telling it to each other. They
are also telling it to us. They're between us and Marlowe, and they are
between us and Wareville, so we must run to the north, and run as fast as
we can."

He led the way with swift, light footsteps through the forest, and Paul
followed close behind, each boy carrying on his shoulder two rifles and at
his waist a double stock of bullets and powder.

Paul scarcely felt any fear now for the future. The revulsion from the
stake and torture was so great that it did not seem to him that he could
be taken again. Moreover, they had seized him the first time when he was
asleep. They had taken an unfair advantage.

The sun rose higher, gilding the brown forest with fine filmy gold, like a
veil, and the boys ran silently on among the trees and the undergrowth.
Behind them, and spread out like a fan, came many warriors, fierce for
their lives. Amid such scenes was the Great West won.

CHAPTER II

IN THE RIVER

Paul, while not the equal of Henry in the woods, was a strong and enduring
youth. His muscles were like wire, and there were few better runners west
of the mountains. Although the weight of the second rifle might tell after
a while, he did not yet feel it, and with springy step he sped after
Henry, leaving the choice of course and all that pertained to it to his
comrade. After a while they heard a second cry--a wailing note--and Henry
raised his head a little.

"They've come to the two who fell," he said.

But after the single lament, the warriors were silent, and Paul heard
nothing more in the woods but their own light footsteps and his own long
breathing. Little birds flitted through the boughs of the trees, and now
and then a hare hopped up and ran from their path. The silence became
terrible, full of omens and presages, like the stillness before coming
thunder.

"It means something," said Henry; "I think we've stumbled into a regular
nest of those Shawnees, and they're likely to be all about us."

As if confirming his words, the far, faint note came from their right, and
then, in reply, from their left. Henry stopped so quickly that Paul almost
ran into him.

"I was afraid it would be that way," he said. "They're certainly all
around us except in front, and maybe there, too."

Visions of the torture rose before Paul again.

"What are we to do?" he said.

"We must hide."

"Hide I Why, they could find us in the forest, as I would find a man in an
open field."

"I don't mean hide here," said Henry; "the river is just ahead, and I
think that if we reach it in time we can find a place. Come, Paul, we must
run as we never ran before."

The two boys sped with long, swift bounds through the forest as only those
who run for their lives can run. Now the voices of the pursuit became
frequent, and began to multiply. Henry, with his instinctive skill in the
forest, read their meaning. The pursuers were sure of triumph. But Henry
shut his lips tightly, and resolved that he and Paul should yet elude
them.

"The river is not more than a half mile ahead," he said. "Come, Paul,
faster! A little faster, if you can!"

Paul obeyed, and the two, bending their heads lower, sped on with
astonishing speed. Trees and bushes slid behind them. Before them appeared
a blue streak, that broadened swiftly and became a river.

"We must not let them see us," said Henry. "Bend as low as you can, and be
as quiet as you can!"

Paul obeyed, and in a few more minutes they were at the river's edge.

"Fasten your bullets and powder around your neck," said Henry, "and keep
the rifle on your shoulder."

Paul did so, following Henry's quick example, and the two stepped into the
water, which soon reached to their waists. Henry had been along this river
before, and at this crisis in the lives of his comrade and himself he
remembered. Dense woods lined both banks of the stream, which was narrow
here for miles, and a year or two before a hurricane had cut down the
trees as a reaper mows the wheat. The surface of the water was covered
with fallen trunks and boughs, and for a half mile at least they had
become matted together like a great raft, out of which grass and weeds
already were growing. But Paul did not know it, and suddenly he stopped.

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