Hardly had they recovered their wonted balance after this, the mere shade of an adventure, when the Fighting Nigger and Burlman Reynolds were again brought to a stand by an apparition of quite a different complexion. Less than twenty yards above them, on the side of a hill they were now ascending, stood a dense thicket of low bushes, the ragged edge of which showed in dim relief against the sky. Suddenly had risen and vanished, and now suddenly rose and vanished again, what appeared to be the plumed crests of three Indians, who were watching the black hunter's approach, by fitful glimpses, from behind their place of ambush. Dodging to one side behind a tree, the black giant cocked his gun and planted himself firm and square on his moccasins, this time as strong and sturdy from head to foot as a black-jack oak. These real dangers, that might be met and vanquished with powder, lead, and steel, had far less terrors for the Fighting Nigger than such empty shades of the night as but now had sprung out at him from the foggy fancy of Burlman Reynolds. But quickly bethinking himself again of his dog, his touch-stone in every emergency where his own senses were at fault, he cautiously peeped out from behind the tree. Perceiving again that Grumbo was waiting for him with wonted composure, as if there was nothing in the wind to sniff at, the Fighting Nigger was reässured, convinced that the eyes and fancy of Burlman Reynolds had played him another trick. What he had seen proved in reality nothing more than a leafy shrub, swayed up and down by the night winds.
For many minutes past, the unseen trail had been leading them up the brushy side of a long, slow hill, to whose summit a few more weary steps now brought them. Here, for the first time since the chase had begun, the brindled dog came to a halt of his own accord—stopping short, with a deep, heavy growl, scarce louder than the purr of a panther. Burl looked before him and caught from afar the glimmer of a camp-fire, burning on the summit of an opposite hill. They had, indeed, at last come up with the flying foe, but under circumstances far less favorable to the execution of his plans than he had all along been proposing to himself. The camp-fire was blazing brightly, as if it bad just been kindled, or replenished with fresh fuel. Around it the savages were moving to and fro, as could be seen by the shadows of their bodies cast by the light, and, so far from having betaken themselves to rest, were chatting away in high good humor, as might be guessed from their peals of laughter borne faintly to the ear from over the valley lying dark and deep between.
Aware that as matters stood at present the odds would be too largely against him to allow of his bringing his adventure to a crisis just then, Burl wisely resolved to wait till the savages, overcome at last by fatigue, should yield themselves up to sleep—when, according to the plan already cast in his mind, he would steal upon them, and by the light of their own fire dispatch them with hatchet and knife, as noiselessly as might be, one after another in quick succession, before they could awake. But in order to fortify himself against desperate resistance, should it come, he would himself take a little refreshment and repose, the need of which, now that the long chase had come to a pause, he felt beginning to press sorely upon him; accordingly, he retired within the shadow of a spreading elm, which offered in its thick foliage shelter from the dews of night, and in its mossy roots pillowing for his head. Here, placing himself on the ground with his back against the tree, he ate a few more slices of the jerked venison—Grumbo, of course, receiving a comrade's share. Then, stretching his huge length along the ground and bidding his dog stand sentinel while he slept, he composed himself to rest—not doubting, son of Ebony though he was, but that he could easily rouse himself before day-break, when, God willing, he would work deliverance to his little master. And there lay Big Black Burl asleep on his war-path.
Chapter VIII.
How Big Black Burl Figured in a Quandary.
A broad red glare, striking full upon his closed eyelids, and bringing with it the alarming thought that Fort Reynolds had been set on fire by an army of besieging Indians, roused Big Black Burl from the deepest, heaviest sleep he had ever known. With a huge start he had scrambled to his feet, and, blinded by the glare, was rushing out of his cabin, so he thought, to rescue Miss Jemima and Bushie from the flames, when his foot striking something soft and bulky, down with a tremendous squelch he fell to the ground. The next moment, now wide-awake, he saw that he had stumbled over his trusty sentinel Grumbo—when all the rest struck like a lightning flash upon his mind, fell like a thunderbolt upon his heart. Sad, sad to tell, the night, the friendly night, like a slighted ally, was gone; and with it the golden chance for vengeance to the warrior, deliverance to the captive. The day, the unwished for, the unprayed for, the most unwelcome day, like a challenged foe, had come; and with it new perils, tenfold risk of failure and disaster. "O Burlman Reynolds, born of Ebony as thou wert, how couldst thou so far lose sight of the besetting weakness of thy race, as thus, in a moment like this, on the critical edge of hazard and hope, to trust thy limbs and senses to the deceitful embraces of sleep? Black sluggard, avaunt! The Fighting Nigger be upon thee!"
Full of the bitterest self-reproach, and with a feeling of disappointment bordering on despair, Burl looked bewilderingly about him. The newly risen sun, as if taunting him with the sorry miscarriage of his well-laid plans, was winking at him with its great impertinent eye, from over the hairy shoulder of a giant hill, upon whose shaggy head stood smiling the beautiful first of June. Curling up lightly into the clear morning air, from out a clump of lofty trees which plumed the crest of the opposite hill, rose a slender column of smoke, betokening the Indians already astir, and busy about their breakfast over the rekindled camp-fire. Observing this, and that he was running some risk of being discovered—if he had not betrayed himself already—Burl slunk back into a thicket of papaw bushes which grew a a few paces behind him, whence, with safety he might reconnoiter the enemy, and acquaint himself with the nature of the neighboring grounds, if peradventure they must be made the field of present operations.
At his feet, and putting an air-line of about four hundred yards between his hill and the more commanding height where the Indians were camped, ran a beautiful little valley, having its head among a cluster of lofty hills, about two miles to the eastward, and open to view for about the same distance to the westward, where it lost itself among another cluster of hills. Its sides sloped smoothly down to the banks of a small but deeply bedded river, which, though a stream of considerable volume during the winter, was now so drought-shrunken as at intervals to ripple over its rocky bottom, filling the valley with pleasant murmurings, audible from the tops of the hills around. The slopes, for a mile above and below, were nearly bare of trees, being covered instead with a luxuriant growth of blue-grass, the peculiar green whereof was relieved with pleasing effect by the rich purple bloom of the iron-weed, which in dense patches mottled all the glade. If we may except the grass and iron-weeds, which grew everywhere, and the clump of trees from out of which was rising the smoke of the Indian camp-fire, the opposite hill showed a bare front, and sloped steeply, but smoothly, to the edge of the river, where it was snubbed short by an overleaning bank twenty feet high.
To Big Black Burl, as a game-hunter, this valley-glade, with its verdant slopes, affording the richest pasturage to the wild herds of the forest, would have been a right delectable prospect; but to him as an Indian-hunter, it was a sight disheartening enough, running, as it did, square across his war-path, and seeming to offer scarce the shadow of a shade for an ambush, without which it would be desperation itself to push the adventure to the perilous edge. Judging from the general direction he had traveled since quitting Fort Reynolds, and from the length of time it had taken him to reach that spot, he guessed that he must be within a very few miles of the Ohio River—and if he suffered the savages to put that broad barrier between themselves and pursuit, scarcely one chance in a thousand could be left of his ever being able to overtake them and rescue his little master. Now, or never, must be struck the telling blow. But how?