The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista. Altsheler Joseph Alexander
quenched easily at a little spring in the wood.
The boy rose, letting his blanket drop to the ground, and glanced over the sleeping camp. Despite thedarkness, he saw the forms of recumbent men, and some coalsthat yet glimmered faintly. Around them was the darkcircling line of the wagons. No regular watch was keptas they were yet far from dangerous country, and, passingbetween two of the wagons, Phil went toward the spring, which was about three hundred yards away.
It was a nice cold spring, rising at the base of a rock, and running away in a tiny stream among the poplars.Phil knelt and drank, and then sat upon an upthrustroot. The desire for sleep had left him, and his mindturned upon his great search. He took the paper from theinside pocket of his coat, unfolded it, and smoothed itout with his fingers. It was too dark for him to read it, but he held it there a little while, then folded it upagain, and returned it to its resting place. He wasabout to rise again and return to the camp, butsomething moved in the thicket. It might have been a lizard,or it might have been the wind, but he was sure it wasneither. The sound was wholly out of harmony with thenote of the night.
Phil remained sitting on the upthrust root, but leanedagainst the trunk to which the root belonged. His figureblended darkly against the bark. Only an eye ofuncommon acuteness would note him. The slight stirring, somuch out of tune with all the wilderness noises, cameagain, and, despite his strength and will, both of whichwere great, Phil felt ice pass along his spine, and hishair rose slightly. That uncanny hour at which evildeeds happen held him in its spell. But he did not move, except for the slipping of his hand to the pistol in hisbelt, and he waited.
Slowly a dark face formed itself in the bushes, andbeneath it was the faint outline of a human figure. Theface was malignant and cruel, a reddish copper in color, with a sharp, strong chin, high cheek-bones, and blackglowing eyes. These eyes were bent in a fierce gaze uponthe circle of wagons. They did not turn in Phil'sdirection at all, but the face held him fascinated.
It seemed to Phil that he had seen that countenancebefore, and as he gazed he remembered. It was surelythat of Black Panther, the Comanche, but what astartling change. The crouching, fuddled lump of a man intattered clothes, whom he had seen in New Orleans, hadbeen transformed when the breath of the wildernesspoured into his lungs. He fitted thoroughly into thisdark and weird scene, and the hair on Phil's head rosea little more. Then the head, and the figure with it, suddenly melted away and were gone. There was nostrange stirring in the thicket, nothing that was not inaccord with the night.
The ice left Phil's spine, the hair lay down peacefullyonce more on his head, and his hand moved away fromthe pistol at his belt. It was like a dream in the dark, the sudden appearance of that Medusa head in the bushes, and he was impressed with all the weight of convictionthat it was an omen of bad days to come. The windwhispered it, and the quiver in his blood answered. Butthe men in the train might laugh at him if he told thathe had merely seen an Indian's face in the bushes. Thething itself would be slight enough in the telling, and hedid not wish to be ridiculed as a boy whose fears hadpainted a picture of that which was not. But he walkedwarily back, and he was glad enough when he repassedbetween two of the wagons, and resumed his old place.Middleton, Arenberg, and Bill Breakstone all sleptsoundly, and Phil, wrapped in his blanket, sought toimitate them. But he could not. He lay there thinkinguntil the low band of scarlet in the east foreshadowed theday. He rose and looked once more over the camp. Thelast coal had died, and the dark forms, wrapped in theirblankets, looked chill and cold. But the red dawn wasadvancing, and warmth came with it. One by one themen awoke. The horses stirred. Phil stood up andstretched his arms. Middleton, Bill Breakstone, andArenberg awoke. They had slept soundly and pleasantlyall through the night.
"'Tis a fine couch, this Mother Earth," said BillBreakstone, "finer than cloth of gold, if it be not rainingor snowing, or the winds be not nipping. Then, in suchevent, I should take the cloth of gold, with a snug tentover it."
"I have slept well, and I awake strong and refreshed,"said Arenberg simply. "It iss all I ask of a night."
"I have not slept well," said Phil, "at least I didnot during the latter part of the night."
There was a certain significance in his tone, and theothers looked at him. Only they were near, and Philsaid in a low tone:
"I awoke in the night, and I was restless. I walkeddown to the spring for a drink, and I saw a face in thebushes, the face of a man who was watching us."
"Ah!" said Middleton, a single monosyllable, longdrawn. But his tone expressed interest, not surprise.He looked at the boy as if he expected to hear more.
"I saw the face clearly," continued Phil. "It waschanged, wonderfully changed in expression, but I knewit. I could not be mistaken. It was that Comanche, called Black Panther, whom we saw in New Orleans. Hewas dirty and degraded there, but he did not seem so lastnight."
"I am glad that you told this, Phil," said Middleton."It was a lucky chance that awakened you and sent youto the spring."
"Once I thought I would not speak of it at all," saidthe boy. "I was afraid they would say it was only adream or a creation of my fancy."
"I'm sure that you really saw it," said Middleton,"and I will speak with Mr. Woodfall. The time hascome when we must be cautious."
The camp was now wholly awake, and the men beganto light the fires anew, and take their breakfasts.Middleton talked with Mr. Woodfall, and, as the latter keptit no secret, the news soon spread throughout the train.Philip Bedford, prowling about in the dark, had seen anIndian in the woods near by, an Indian who seemed tobe watching them.
The news was variously received, because there weremany kinds of men in this train. Some took it seriously; others were disposed to laugh, and to hint, as Philhad feared, that it was fancy or a dream; and others carednothing about it. What was a single wandering warriorto them? But the leader compelled a more carefuladvance. Scouts were sent ahead, and others rode on theflanks. Phil and his comrades shared in this duty, andthat very day he and Bill Breakstone and Arenberg wereamong those who rode ahead.
It was not an easy duty, because they were now inthick forest, with much swampy ground about. Darkfunereal cypresses abounded in the marshy soil, andgloomy moss hung from the live oaks. A deer sprangup, and Phil pulled down his rifle, but Breakstone wouldnot let him shoot.
"Not now, Phil," he said. "We must not shoot atchance game when we are scouting. My talk may notsound like it, but I know something of wilderness life.One can never be too cautious, whether on the plains orin the woods. Things may happen. Wait for them.As the poet saith, 'One crowded hour of glorious life isworth a world without a name.'"
"Say that again," said Arenberg.
"One crowded hour of glorious life is worth a worldwithout a name."
"It sounds good. It iss good. I will remember it,"said the German.
But as two or three days passed with no sign of trouble, the face that Phil had seen in the bushes was forgottenor ignored. It was a light-hearted crowd, used towild life and adventure, and these men, drawn fromdifferent parts of the globe, occupied with to-day, tooklittle thought of to-morrow's dangers. The weatherremained beautiful. Days and nights were dry, and theywere again on good firm earth, which made the way of thewagons easy. Phil, instructed by Bill Breakstone, stalkedand shot a deer, a fine, fat buck, which gave a slice foreverybody in the train, and which brought him compliments.In fact, he was already a general favorite, and hedid not mind when they jested now and then about theface in the bushes, and told him that he was a seer ofvisions. He was rapidly becoming an adept in the forestlife, to which he took naturally, and in Bill Breakstonehe had no mean tutor. Breakstone soon showed that hewas a scout and trailer of the first quality, although hedid not explain why he had spent so many years in thewilds.
"It's partly gift, and partly training, Sir Philip ofthe Youthful Countenance and of the Good Blue Eye,"he said. "If you just teach yourself to see everythingand to hear everything about you, and never forget it, you've got most of the lesson. And you, Phil, with goodeyes, good ears, a quick mind, and a willing heart, ought to come fast toward the head of the class."
Phil flushed with pleasure. In the task that he hadset for himself he greatly needed forest lore, and it was akeen satisfaction to know that he was acquiring it. Heredoubled his efforts. He always noted carefully thecountry through which