Wetzel, the Scout; or, The Captives of the Wilderness

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

Of course, it is not to be supposed that this long digression passed through the brain of Kingman after slaying the Shawnee before him, for the good reason that one half of the events mentioned had not yet taken place. It was now only 1780, and the Shawnees were in the fell tide of their strength, and had received no check from the pioneers. Kingman only remembered that the Indian he had slain was a Shawnee—his most mortal enemy.

The moon was now high in the heavens and as he journeyed along the shore, its light was so intense as to render it quite perilous to remain so exposed.

Once or twice the long, low howl of the wolf was heard faintly in the distance, and the shrill, human-like cry of the panther sounded fearfully nigh. The fact that there were others than human enemies in the wood made him hesitate about plunging into it. As he had used his ammunition, he had also thrown his rifle away, so as not to be encumbered with it, and with no weapon but his knife, he was in no condition to run into danger.

But at last the low, gravelly beach terminated. The dark overhanging forest, with its matted undergrowth, reached down to the water’s edge, and his path must now lead through to this tangled maze.

As he stood hesitating whether in his present exhausted condition it was best to camp for the night, or to continue his journey, a bright thought struck him. Directly before him lay a small tree, shivered by lightning. It was partly decayed, light and buoyant, and could be easily shoved into the water. This was quickly done, and he once more returned to congratulate himself upon his success. The water was warm and pleasant, and as it was a cool summer night, much warmer than the air. The sapling contained a number of dead branches and knots upon it, and being considerably lighter than Kingman at first supposed, he was able to float upon it with scarcely more than wetting his feet.

Fatigued and exhausted as he was, he found a heavy drowsiness gradually creeping over him. He had had little sound sleep for the past ten nights, and his exertions had been so great, that he felt certain it would be impossible to resist the feeling. So, placing his limbs so securely among the branches as could be done he gave way to the feeling, and prepared for a pleasant night’s slumber.

Gliding unresistingly along with the smooth current, with nothing but the gentle, liquid rippling of the river around, and the bright moon overhead, and the sullen, hollow roar of the forest on shore, no one could resist the drowsy goddess. Slowly but surely unconsciousness was creeping over him. Sky, forest, and water were mingling in a delightful confusion from which he felt no desire to separate them; and as all things were assuming that blankness which precedes our passing off into sleep, he was startled and recalled to his senses by a sudden shock. Starting up, he saw that he had struck against the upper end of a small sandy island, and the tree had remained fast. It required but a few moments to free this, and once more he was floating gently with the current. This time he slept, but he was destined to have a startling awaking. His wound made him feverish, and all sorts of fantastic visions were darting through his head. Bears, Indians, renegades, and dying friends, passed continually before him, and finally, after a fitful hour’s sleep, he partially awoke. As he lay languidly stretched on the tree, striving to set things right before him a peculiar clicking noise sounded in the water. At first, it seemed a part of his dreams, and he took no further notice of it; but it continued regularly, and was evidently approaching. He waited a few moments, until thoroughly awakened—he raised his head and looked about him. The moon was pouring a flood of light upon the river, so that the slightest object was discernible. As he turned his eye toward shore, he discovered a canoe, propelled by a single man, rapidly bearing down upon him. He looked hurriedly at the person, and was satisfied that it was no other than Pete Johnson the renegade.

“I’d rather see the bear, or the devil, than you,” was Kingman’s mental ejaculation as he quietly dropped off the tree, and commenced swimming toward the opposite shore. He did not believe the renegade was after him, or had discovered him, but was only crossing the river; and, as he was likely to pass rather uncomfortably close to the tree, he thought it best to get out of his way.

But such was not the case. As he turned his head, he saw that the canoe was pursuing him. Still hoping that he had not been seen, he came up a dozen feet away, and commenced swimming in an opposite direction. But the canoe was after him, no mistake.

“No use, ole hoss, I’ve got you this time!” exclaimed he in the boat.