“Fill the breast o’ yer shirt with hunks o’ corn cake, younker. Be sure yer ax is hitched so it won’t be snagged from the loop when ye ride hellitiflicker through the bushes,” he warned me.
I nodded, and he seated himself on a three-legged stool and whetted a long knife against one of the fireplace stones, and mumbled:
“Don’t make no differ about me, but for the sake o’ these younkers here such men as love killin’ Injuns oughter keep clear o’ the settlements an’ do their stent on t’other side the Ohio. Old Cornstalk’s powerful keen to git them fellers. When he hears they’re here at the creek he’s likely to strike quick an’ mighty pert. Wal, if they come an’ I can make it hand-grips with ’em I ’low there’ll be some new Injuns in the Happy Huntin’-grounds.”
When I bid the people good-by and received their kindly wishes for a safe journey, Uncle Dick was still at the fireplace, trying to improve the razor-edge of his blade.
I rode through the woods without spending any time in looking for signs. Runner and his mates had scouted a circle around the clearing in a thorough fashion, and I could spare my eyes until I reached the first slope of the mountains. When the path began to ascend and I was afforded a better view of the heavens, thunder-clouds were piling in sullen massiveness above the western horizon.
The heat was very oppressive. The dull rumble of thunder came across the valley behind. It was as much of a vibration as a sound, something to be felt as well as heard. The song-birds were keeping close to the thickets and fluttering about nervously. By the time I was well committed to the first rugged ascent, a yellowish gray wall filled the western sky. Across this the lightning played.
As the curtain of rain drove in toward the Greenbriar I knew that any savages lurking west of Howard’s Creek would be bothered to keep their priming dry. No rain fell on my path, however, and at no time did I lose the early morning sun. On gaining a higher elevation I could see the storm was following the valley down to the head waters of the Clinch.
I had not neglected Uncle Dick’s advice in regard to provisions, and the front of my loose hunting-shirt held a bag of corn cakes and some cooked venison. On reaching the first slope I had watched carefully for the tracks Hughes had seen south of the trace, but found none.
There could be no question of Hughes’ ability to read Indian-signs; and his warning recalled the Grisdols to my mind. These people—two brothers and two children—had their cabin in a hollow close by a tumbling brook and to one side of the trace. I planned to make a slight détour and pass a word with them and to warn them to be watchful.
The fact that Hughes had found signs near the mountains would indicate the Indians had planned a raid against some isolated home, and as there was no footing in the trace I followed, it might easily be that the enemy had entered lower down.