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Julian Hawthorne - "The Golden Fleece"

Andrew Lang - "New Collected Rhymes"

Earl Derr Biggers - "The Agony Column"

Bertrand Russell - "Proposed Roads To Freedom"

The Scouts of the Valley

J >> Joseph A. Altsheler >> The Scouts of the Valley




He had chosen his course at the first leap. It was southward,
toward the lake, and he did not make the mistake of diverging
from his line, knowing that some part of the wide half circle of
his pursuers would profit by it.

Henry felt a great upward surge. He had been the victor in what
he meant to achieve, and he was sure that he would escape. The
cold wind, whistling by, whipped his blood and added new strength
to his great muscles. His ankles were not chafed or sore, and he
sped forward on the snowshoes, straight and true. Whenever he
came to a hill the pursuers would gain as he went up it, but when
he went down the other side it was he who gained. He passed
brooks, creeks, and once a small river, but they were frozen
over, many inches deep, and he did not notice them. Again it was
a lake a mile wide, but the smooth surface there merely increased
his speed. Always he kept a wary look ahead for thickets through
which he could not pass easily, and once he sent back a shout of
defiance, which the Iroquois answered with a yell of anger.

He was fully aware that any accident to his snowshoes would prove
fatal, the slipping of the thongs on his ankles or the breaking
of a runner would end his flight, and in a long chase such an
accident might happen. It might happen, too, to one or more of
the Iroquois, but plenty of them would be left. Yet Henry had
supreme confidence in his snowshoes. He had made them himself,
he had seen that every part was good, and every thong had been
fastened with care.

The wind which bad been roaring so loudly at the time of the fire
sank to nothing. The leafless trees stood up, the branches
unmoving. The forest was bare and deserted. All the animals,
big and little, had gone into their lairs. Nobody witnessed the
great pursuit save pursuers and pursued. Henry kept his
direction clear in his mind, and allowed the Iroquois to take no
advantage of a curve save once. Then he came to a thicket so
large that he was compelled to make a considerable circle to pass
it. He turned to the right, hence the Indians on the right
gained, and they sent up a yell of delight. He replied defiantly
and increased his speed.

But one of the Indians, a flying Mohawk, had come dangerously
near-near enough, in fact, to fire a bullet that did not miss the
fugitive much. It aroused Henry's anger. He took it as an
indignity rather than a danger, and he resolved to avenge it. So
far as firing was concerned, he was at a disadvantage. He must
stop and turn around for his shot, while the Iroquois, without
even checking speed, could fire straight at the flying target,
ahead.

Nevertheless, he took the chance. He turned deftly on the
snowshoes, fired as quick as lightning at the swift Mohawk, saw
him fall, then Whirled and resumed his flight. He had lost
ground, but he had inspired respect. A single man could not
afford to come too near to a marksman so deadly, and the three or
four who led dropped back with the main body.

Now Henry made his greatest effort. He wished to leave the foe
far behind, to shake off his pursuit entirely. He bounded over
the ice and snow with great leaps, and began to gain. Yet he
felt at last the effects of so strenuous a flight. His breath
became shorter; despite the intense cold, perspiration stood upon
his face, and the straps that fastened the snowshoes were chafing
his ankles. An end must come even to such strength as his.
Another backward look, and he saw that the foe was sinking into
the darkness. If he could only increase his speed again, be
might leave the Iroquois now. He made a new call upon the will,
and the body responded. For a few minutes his speed became
greater. A disappointed shout arose behind him, and several
shots were fired. But the bullets fell a hundred yards short,
and then, as he passed over a little hill and into a wood beyond,
he was hidden from the sight of his pursuers.

Henry knew that the Iroquois could trail him over the snow, but
they could not do it at full speed, and he turned sharply off at
an angle. Pausing a second or two for fresh breath, he continued
on his new course, although not so fast as before. He knew that
the Iroquois would rush straight ahead, and would not discover
for two or three minutes that they were off the trail. It would
take them another two or three minutes to recover, and he would
make a gain of at least five minutes. Five minutes had saved the
life of many a man on the border.

How precious those five minutes were! He would take them all.
He ran forward some distance, stopped where the trees grew thick,
and then enjoyed the golden five, minute by minute. He had felt
that he was pumping the very lifeblood from his heart. His
breath had come painfully, and the thongs of the snowshoes were
chafing his ankles terribly. But those minutes were worth a
year. Fresh air poured into his lungs, and the muscles became
elastic once more. In so brief a space be had recreated himself.

Resuming his flight, he went at a steady pace, resolved not to do
his utmost unless the enemy came in sight. About ten minutes
later he heard a cry far behind him, and he believed it to be a
signal from some Indian to the others that the trail was found
again. But with so much advantage he felt sure that he was now
quite safe. He ran, although at decreased speed, for about two
hours more, and then he sat down on the upthrust root of a great
oak. Here he depended most upon his ears. The forest was so
silent that he could hear any noise at a great distance, but
there was none. Trusting to his ears to warn him, he would
remain there a long time for a thorough rest. He even dared to
take off his snowshoes that he might rub his sore ankles, but he
wrapped his heavy blanket about his body, lest he take deep cold
in cooling off in such a temperature after so long a flight.

He sat enjoying a half hour, golden like the five minutes, and
then he saw, outlined against the bright, moonlit sky, something
that told him he must be on the alert again. It was a single
ring of smoke, like that from a cigar, only far greater. It rose
steadily, untroubled by wind until it was dissipated. It meant
"attention!" and presently it was followed by a column of such
rings, one following another beautifully. The column said: " The
foe is near." Henry read the Indian signs perfectly. The rings
were made by covering a little fire with a blanket for a moment
and then allowing the smoke to ascend. On clear days such
signals could be seen a distance of thirty miles or more, and he
knew that they were full of significance.

Evidently the Iroquois party had divided into two or more bands.
One had found his trail, and was signaling to the other. The
party sending up the smoke might be a half mile away, but the
others, although his trail was yet hidden from them, might be
nearer. It was again time for flight.

He swiftly put on the snowshoes, neglecting no thong or lace,
folded the blanket on his back again, and, leaving the friendly
root, started once more. He ran forward at moderate speed for
perhaps a mile, when he suddenly heard triumphant yells on both
right and left. A strong party of Iroquois were coming up on
either side, and luck had enabled them to catch him in a trap.

They were so near that they fired upon him, and one bullet nicked
his glove, but he was hopeful that after his long rest he might
again stave them off. He sent back no defiant cry, but, settling
into determined silence, ran at his utmost speed. The forest
here was of large trees, with no undergrowth, and he noticed that
the two parties did not join, but kept on as they had come, one
on the right and the other on the left. This fact must have some
significance, but he could not fathom it. Neither could he guess
whether the Indians were fresh or tired, but apparently they made
no effort to come within range of his rifle.

Presently he made a fresh spurt of speed, the forest opened out,
and then both bands uttered a yell full of ferocity and joy, the
kind that savages utter only when they see their triumph
complete.

Before, and far below Henry, stretched a vast, white expanse. He
had come to the lake, but at a point where the cliff rose high
like a mountain, and steep like a wall. The surface of the lake
was so far down that it was misty white like a cloud. Now he
understood the policy of the Indian bands in not uniting. They
knew that they would soon reach the lofty cliffs of the lake, and
if he turned to either right or left there was a band ready to
seize him.

Henry's heart leaped up and then sank lower than ever before in
his life. It seemed that he could not escape from so complete a
trap, and Braxton Wyatt was not one who would spare a prisoner.
That was perhaps the bitterest thing of all, to be taken and
tortured by Braxton Wyatt. He was there. He could hear his
voice in one of the bands, and then the courage that never failed
him burst into fire again.

The Iroquois were coming toward him, shutting him out from
retreat to either right or left, but not yet closing in because
of his deadly rifle. He gave them a single look, put forth his
voice in one great cry of defiance, and, rushing toward the edge
of the mighty cliff, sprang boldly over.

As Henry plunged downward he heard behind him a shout of
amazement and chagrin poured forth from many Iroquois throats,
and, taking a single glance backward, he caught a glimpse of
dusky faces stamped with awe. But the bold youth had not made a
leap to destruction. In the passage of a second he had
calculated rapidly and well. While the cliff at first glance
seemed perpendicular, it could not be so. There was a slope
coated with two feet of snow, and swinging far back on the heels
of his snowshoes, he shot downward like one taking a tremendous
slide on a toboggan. Faster and faster he went, but deeper and
deeper he dug his shoes into the snow, until he lay back almost
flat against its surface. This checked his speed somewhat, but
it was still very great, and, preserving his self-control
perfectly, he prayed aloud to kindly Providence to save him from
some great boulder or abrupt drop.

The snow from his runners flew in a continuous shower behind him
as he descended. Yet he drew himself compactly together, and
held his rifle parallel with his body. Once or twice, as he went
over a little ridge, he shot clear of the snow, but he held his
body rigid, and the snow beyond saved him from a severe bruise.
Then his speed was increased again, and all the time the white
surface of the lake below, seen dimly through the night and his
flight, seemed miles away.

He might never reach that surface alive, but of one thing lie was
sure. None of the Iroquois or Tories had dared to follow.
Braxton Wyatt could have no triumph over him. He was alone in
his great flight. Once a projection caused him to turn a little
to one side. He was in momentary danger of turning entirely, and
then of rolling head over heels like a huge snowball, but with a
mighty effort he righted himself, and continued the descent on
the runners, with the heels plowing into the ice and the snow.

Now that white expanse which had seemed so far away came miles
nearer. Presently he would be there. The impossible had become
possible, the unattainable was about to be attained. He gave
another mighty dig with his shoes, the last reach of the slope
passed behind him, and he shot out on the frozen surface of the
lake, bruised and breathless, but without a single broken bone.

The lake was covered with ice a foot thick, and over this lay
frozen snow, which stopped Henry forty or fifty yards from the
cliff. There he lost his balance at last, and fell on his side,
where he lay for a few moments, weak, panting, but triumphant.

When he stood upright again he felt his body, but he had suffered
nothing save some bruises, that would heal in their own good
time. His deerskin clothing was much torn, particularly on the
back, where he had leaned upon the ice and snow, but the folded
blanket had saved him to a considerable extent. One of his shoes
was pulled loose, and presently he discovered that his left ankle
was smarting and burning at a great rate. But he did not mind
these things at all, so complete was his sense of victory. He
looked up at the mighty white wall that stretched above him
fifteen hundred feet, and he wondered at his own tremendous
exploit. The wall ran away for miles, and the Iroquois could not
reach him by any easier path. He tried to make out figures on
the brink looking down at him, but it was too far away, and he
saw only a black line.

He tightened the loose shoe and struck out across the lake. He
was far away from "The Alcove," and he did not intend to go
there, lest the Iroquois, by chance, come upon his trail and
follow it to the refuge. But as it was no more than two miles
across the lake at that point, and the Iroquois would have to
make a great curve to reach the other side, he felt perfectly
safe. He walked slowly across, conscious all the time of an
increasing pain in his left ankle, which must now be badly
swollen, and he did not stop until he penetrated some distance
among low bills. Here, under an overhanging cliff with thick
bushes in front, he found a partial shelter, which he cleared
out yet further. Then with infinite patience he built a fire
with splinters that he cut from dead boughs, hung his blanket in
front of it on two sticks that the flame might not be seen, took
off his snowshoes, leggins, and socks, and bared his ankles.
Both were swollen, but the left much more badly than the other.
He doubted whether he would be able to walk on the following day,
but he rubbed them a long time, both with the palms of his hands
and with snow, until they felt better. Then he replaced his
clothing, leaned back against the faithful snowshoes which had
saved his life, however much they had hurt his ankles, and gave
himself up to the warmth of the fire.

It was very luxurious, this warmth and this rest, after so long
and terrible a flight, and he was conscious of a great
relaxation, one which, if he yielded to it completely, would make
his muscles so stiff and painful that he could not use them.
Hence he stretched his arms and legs many times, rubbed his
ankles again, and then, remembering that he had venison, ate
several strips.

He knew that he had taken a little risk with the fire, but a fire
he was bound to have, and he fed it again until he had a great
mass of glowing coals, although there was no blaze. Then he took
down the blanket, wrapped himself in it, and was soon asleep
before the fire. He slept long and deeply, and although, when he
awoke, the day had fully come, the coals were not yet out
entirely. He arose, but such a violent pain from his left ankle
shot through him that he abruptly sat down again. As he bad
feared, it had swollen badly during the night, and he could not
walk.

In this emergency Henry displayed no petulance, no striving
against unchangeable circumstance. He drew up more wood, which
he had stacked against the cliff, and put it on the coals. He
hung up the blanket once more in order that it might hide the
fire, stretched out his lame leg, and calmly made a breakfast off
the last of his venison. He knew be was in a plight that
might appall the bravest, but be kept himself in hand. It was
likely that the Iroquois thought him dead, crushed into a
shapeless mass by his frightful slide of fifteen hundred feet,
and he had little fear of them, but to be unable to walk and
alone in an icy wilderness without food was sufficient in itself.
He calculated that it was at least a dozen miles to "The Alcove,"
and the chances were a hundred to one against any of his comrades
wandering his way. He looked once more at his swollen left
ankle, and he made a close calculation. It would be three days,
more likely four, before he could walk upon it. Could he endure
hunger that long? He could. He would! Crouched in his nest
with his back to the cliff, he had defense against any enemy in
his rifle and pistol. By faithful watching he might catch sight
of some wandering animal, a target for his rifle and then food
for his stomach. His wilderness wisdom warned him that there was
nothing to do but sit quiet and wait.

He scarcely moved for hours. As long as he was still his ankle
troubled him but little. The sun came out, silver bright, but it
had no warmth. The surface of the lake was shown only by the
smoothness of its expanse; the icy covering was the same
everywhere over hills and valleys. Across the lake he saw the
steep down which he had slid, looming white and lofty. In the
distance it looked perpendicular, and, whatever its terrors, it
had, beyond a doubt, saved his life. He glanced down at his
swollen ankle, and, despite his helpless situation, he was
thankful that he had escaped so well.

About noon he moved enough to throw up the snowbanks higher all
around himself in the fashion of an Eskimos house. Then he let
the fire die except some coals that gave forth no smoke,
stretched the blanket over his head in the manner of a roof, and
once more resumed his quiet and stillness. He was now like a
crippled animal in its lair, but he was warm, and his wound did
not hurt him. But hunger began to trouble him. He was young and
so powerful that his frame demanded much sustenance. Now it
cried aloud its need! He ate two or three handfuls of snow, and
for a few moments it seemed to help him a little, but his hunger
soon came back as strong as ever. Then he tightened his belt and
sat in grim silence, trying to forget that there was any such
thing as food.

The effort of the will was almost a success throughout the
afternoon, but before night it failed. He began to have roseate
visions of Long Jim trying venison, wild duck, bear, and buffalo
steaks over the coals. He could sniff the aroma, so powerful had
his imagination become, and, in fancy, his month watered, while
its roof was really dry. They were daylight visions, and he knew
it well, but they taunted him and made his pain fiercer. He slid
forward a little to the mouth of his shelter, and thrust out his
rifle in the hope that be would see some wild creature, no matter
what; he felt that be could shoot it at any distance, and then he
would feast!

He saw nothing living, either on earth or in the air, only
motionless white, and beyond, showing but faintly now through the
coming twilight, the lofty cliff that had saved him.

He drew back into his lair, and the darkness came down. Despite
his hunger, he slept fairly well. In the night a little snow
fell at times, but his blanket roof protected him, and he
remained dry and warm. The new snow was, in a way, a
satisfaction, as it completely hid his trail from the glance of
any wandering Indian. He awoke the next morning to a gray,
somber day, with piercing winds from the northwest. He did not
feel the pangs of hunger until he had been awake about a half
hour, and then they came with redoubled force. Moreover, he bad
become weaker in the night, and, added to the loss of muscular
strength, was a decrease in the power of the will. Hunger was
eating away his mental as well as his physical fiber. He did not
face the situation with quite the same confidence that he felt
the day before. The wilderness looked a little more threatening.

His lips felt as if he were suffering from fever, and his
shoulders and back were stiff. But he drew his belt tighter
again, and then uncovered his left ankle. The swelling had gone
down a little, and he could move it with more freedom than on the
day before, but he could not yet walk. Once more he made his
grim calculation. In two days he could certainly walk and hunt
game or make a try for "The Alcove," so far as his ankle was
concerned, but would hunger overpower him before that time?
Gaining strength in one direction, he was losing it in another.

Now he began to grow angry with himself. The light inroad that
famine made upon his will was telling. It seemed incredible that
he, so powerful, so skillful, so self reliant, so long used to
the wilderness and to every manner of hardship, should be held
there in a snowbank by a bruised ankle to die like a crippled
rabbit. His comrades could not be more than ten miles away. He
could walk. He would walk! He stood upright and stepped out
into the snow, but pain, so agonizing that he could scarcely keep
from crying out, shot through his whole body, and he sank back
into the shelter, sure not to make such an experiment again for
another full day.

The day passed much like its predecessor, except that he took
down the blanket cover of his snow hut and kindled up his fire
again, more for the sake of cheerfulness than for warmth, because
he was not suffering from cold. There was a certain life and
light about the coals and the bright flame, but the relief did
not last long, and by and by he let it go out. Then be devoted
himself to watching the heavens and the surface of the snow.
Some winter bird, duck or goose, might be flying by, or a
wandering deer might be passing. He must not lose any such
chance. He was more than ever a fierce creature of prey, sitting
at the mouth of his den, the rifle across his knee, his tanned
face so thin that the cheek bones showed high and sharp, his eyes
bright with fever and the fierce desire for prey, and the long,
lean body drawn forward as if it were about to leap.

He thought often of dragging himself down to the lake, breaking a
hole in the ice, and trying to fish, but the idea invariably came
only to be abandoned. He had neither hook nor bait. In the
afternoon he chewed the edge of his buckskin hunting shirt, but
it was too thoroughly tanned and dry. It gave back no
sustenance. He abandoned the experiment and lay still for a long
time.

That night he had a slight touch of frenzy, and began to laugh at
himself. It was a huge joke! What would Timmendiquas or
Thayendanegea think of him if they knew how he came to his end?
They would put him with old squaws or little children. And how
Braxton Wyatt and his lieutenant, the squat Tory, would laugh!
That was the bitterest thought of all. But the frenzy passed,
and he fell into a sleep which was only a succession of bad
dreams. He was running the gauntlet again among the Shawnees.
Again, kneeling to drink at the clear pool, he saw in the water
the shadow of the triumphant warrior holding the tomahawk above
him. One after another the most critical periods of his life
were lived over again, and then he sank into a deep torpor, from
which he did not rouse himself until far into the next day.

Henry was conscious that he was very weak, but he seemed to have
regained much of his lost will. He looked once more at the fatal
left ankle. It had improved greatly. He could even stand upon
it, but when he rose to his feet he felt a singular dizziness.
Again, what he had gained in one way he had lost in another. The
earth wavered. The smooth surface of the lake seemed to rise
swiftly, and then to sink as swiftly. The far slope down which
he had shot rose to the height of miles. There was a pale tinge,
too, over the world. He sank down, not because of his ankle, but
because he was afraid his dizzy head would make him fall.

The power of will slipped away again for a minute or two. He was
ashamed of such extraordinary weakness. He looked at one of his
hands. It was thin, like the band of a man wasted with fever,
and the blue veins stood out on the back of it. He could
scarcely believe that the hand was his own. But after the first
spasm of weakness was over, the precious will returned. He could
walk. Strength enough to permit him to hobble along had returned
to the ankle at last, and mind must control the rest of his
nervous system, however weakened it might be. He must seek food.

He withdrew into the farthest recess of his covert, wrapped the
blanket tightly about his body, and lay still for a long time.
He was preparing both mind and body for the supreme effort. He
knew that everything hung now on the surviving remnants of his
skill and courage.

Weakened by shock and several days of fasting, he had no great
reserve now except the mental, and he used that to the utmost.
It was proof of his youthful greatness that it stood the last
test. As he lay there, the final ounce of will and courage came.
Strength which was of the mind rather than of the body flowed
back into his veins; he felt able to dare and to do; the pale
aspect of the world went away, and once more he was Henry Ware,
alert, skillful, and always triumphant.

Then he rose again, folded the blanket, and fastened it on his
shoulders. He looked at the snowshoes, but decided that his left
ankle, despite its great improvement, would not stand the strain.
He must break his way through the snow, which was a full three
feet in depth. Fortunately the crust had softened somewhat in
the last two or three days, and he did not have a covering of ice
to meet.

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