The evening was calm and mild for the season, and Mr Bland sat listening by the open door. Presently, there burst from a remote corner of the woods, a sharp volley, followed by such shouts and cries as would lead the listener to fancy a fierce fight was in progress. “There they are!” exclaimed Mr Bland, while the shots and uproar continued to increase, “let ’em keep that up for five minutes, and there won’t be an Indian within earshot who won’t be running to the spot.”
The noise did continue that long and longer too, while, with skilful imitation, it subsided and increased, and passed from one part of the woods to another, the cheers of soldiers mingling with equally good imitations of Indian yells, giving the impression of a running fight between a detachment of the American garrison and the Indian guard. When Mr Bland considered all the Indians had left for the neighborhood of the supposed fight, the old mare was brought to the door, which the soldier was helped to mount, and Abner, grasping the bridle, led the way. By this time the moon was high enough to be pouring down its rays through the tree-tops, and though its light was useful in showing him how to avoid obstacles and to go much faster than they otherwise could have done, Abner would have dispensed with it for fear of its revealing their presence to the Indians. His fear was groundless. His device was a complete success. Not an Indian was met, the woods were traversed in safety, and Abner exulted in the thought how he had tricked the Indians, and almost laughed right out when he pictured to himself their disgust, on reaching the scene of the supposed fight, to find it to be only a coon-hunt. If they had trapped him in the morning, he had outwitted them in the evening. When the light of his father’s house was discerned, Abner relieved his feelings by a great shout of exultation, that drew his parents to the door.
“Well, Abner, you see the Indians did not catch you?”
“Didn’t they mother! I feel the clutch of one of ’em at my scalp yet. Won’t you help the stranger down, father? He is a soldier and wounded.”
“Wounded! Poor critter, I must get the bed ready,” and Mrs Smith darted indoors.
Stiff and sore from the exertion and cold, the poor soldier was like to fall when they helped him off the mare, and, gently, father and son carried him to the bed.
“Poor man, ain’t he tuckered out!” exclaimed Mrs Smith, as she approached him when his head had been laid on the pillow. Shading the candle she glanced at him, started, looked again, and crying out, “Blessed if it ben’t my own brother Bill from Varmont!” she fell on his neck in a paroxysm of hysterical sobs. And so it turned out to be. He had been among those last drafted to reinforce Hampton, and had been unconscious that his sister lived so near the camp at Four Corners. Abner was the hero of the night when the soldier told how he had been the means of saving him. “No,” said the lad modestly, “it was mother’s sending me against my will to the Blands that saved you.”
“That’s so, Abner, and you never forget it, that blood is thicker than water, and in doing a kind deed to those you considered an enemy we were serving ourselves.”