A Virginia Scout. Hugh Pendexter
unfinished fort.
The woodsmen advanced to the woods, the women slowly fell back, herding the youngsters behind them. As I ran my best to make up for the time lost over my moccasins I passed the Widow McCabe. I shall never forget the ferocious gleam of her slate-gray eyes, nor the superb courage of the thin lips compressed in a straight line.
She moved with the grace of a forest cat, reluctant to fall back, her muscular arm swinging the heavy ax as if it were a toy. Abreast of her, and likewise refusing to retreat, was Moulton’s wife, mother of three. She was a thin, frail-appearing little woman with prominent blue eyes, and her gaze was glassy as she stared at the woods, and her lips were drawn back in a snarl.
“Moulton gal missin’,” ran down the line. “Git t’other younkers back.”
The line began bending at the ends to form a half-circle. The distracted little mother left her place in it. Without a word to betray the anguish tearing at her heart she gathered her linsey petticoat snugly about her, and grasping an ax, ran swiftly toward the direction of the screaming. The Widow McCabe hesitated, glanced over her shoulder. Satisfied the other women had the children well grouped and close to the fort, she darted after Mrs. Moulton.
“Keep back, you women!” yelled Elijah Runner. “Stay with the children! They’re letting the child scream to fetch us into a’ ambush!”
This was excellent advice, but the widow and Mrs. Moulton gave it no heed. One was impelled by hate, the other by love; and as they crashed into the growth behind me each was worth a woodsman or two in hand-to-hand fighting. With unnerving abruptness a man laughed boisterously directly ahead of me. Yells and questions filled the arches of the deep wood.
“Everybody back! False alarm! Nothin’ but the gal gittin’ skeered,” he shouted. “I’m fetchin’ her in, an’ th’ feller what skeered her.”
Explosive laughter from the men and much crude banter marked our relief. Mrs. Moulton dropped her ax and with both hands held to her face stumbled into the clearing. The Widow McCabe walked with her head bowed, the ax held limply. Although rejoicing over the child’s safety, I suspected she regretted not having had a chance to use her ax.
“Here they come! Two babies!” some one shouted.
Mrs. Moulton turned and ran toward the woods again, much as a hen-partridge scurries to its young.
The bush-growth swayed and parted. First came the frightened child, and she redoubled her weeping on finding herself in her mother’s arms. Behind the child came a grinning woodsman and back of him rode a tall man of very powerful build, but with a face so fat as to appear round and wearing an expression of stupidity.
It was my first glimpse of him, but I recognized him instantly from the many descriptions border men had given of him. He was known as “Baby” Kirst, and he was a Nemesis the Indians had raised against themselves, a piece of terrible machinery which their superstitions would not permit them to kill.
His intelligence was that of a child of seven. When about that age his people were massacred on the Greenbriar and he had been left for dead with a portion of his scalp ripped off and a ghastly wound in his head. By some miracle he had survived, but with his mental growth checked. Physically he had developed muscle and bone until he was a giant in strength.
The red men believed him to be under the protection of the Great Spirit, and when they heard him wandering through the woods, sometimes weeping like a peevish child because some little plan had gone awry, more often laughing uproariously at that which would tickle the fancy of a seven-year-old, they made mad haste to get out of his path.
His instinct to kill was aroused against Indians only. Perhaps it was induced by a vague memory of dark-skinned men having hurt him at some time. Nor was he always possessed by this ungovernable rage. Sometimes he would spend a day in an Indian camp, but woe to the warrior who even inadvertently crossed his whims.
He was not skilled in woodcraft beyond the cunning necessary for surprising easy game such as turkeys, squirrels and rabbits. Regardless of his enormous appetite food was gladly given him at every cabin; for wherever he sought shelter, that place was safe from any Indian attack.
While Mrs. Moulton hurried her child to the fort and hushed its weeping with pot-pie the young men raised a yelping chorus and came dancing into the clearing with all the prancing steps of the red men. Deep-voiced oaths and thunderous welcomes were showered upon Baby Kirst as he proudly rode among them, his huge face further distended by a broad grin.
Awkwardly dismounting from his rawbone horse, he stared around the circle and with one hand held behind him tantalizingly said:
“Got something. Sha’n’t let you peek at it.”
“Let’s see it, Baby,” coaxed Runner, his tone such as he might use in pleading with a child.
“No!” And Baby shook his head stubbornly and grinned mischievously.
“ ’Lasses on mush. Heaps of it, Baby,” bribed Davis.
Baby became interested. Davis repeated his offer. Slowly Baby drew from behind him the scalp of a white man. It was long, dark brown hair, burned to a yellowish white at the ends by the sun.
“That’s Ben Kirby’s hair!” gasped Scott, staring in horror at the exhibit. Then aside, “Good God, he ain’t took to killing whites, has he?”
“Where’d you git it, Baby?” coaxed Hacker. “Davis will give you a big bowl of mush and ’lasses.”
“That man had it,” proudly informed Baby, and he fished from the bosom of his hunting-shirt a hank of coarse black hair.
“A Shawnee sculp or I’m a flying-squirrel!” yelled Runner. “Don’t you understand it, men? Some dog of a Shawnee rubbed out Kirby. His hair’s been off his head these six weeks. No wonder he ain’t come in to help you folks to fort.
“Baby meets this Shawnee and gives him his needings. The red devil’s sculp ain’t more’n three days old. Good for you, Baby! Good boy! Give him all the ’lasses he can hold. Needn’t worry about any raid s’long as he stays here, Davis. You can just take your time in finishing that fort.”
“If we could only keep him!” sighed Davis.
“But you can’t,” spoke up a young man. “Every one has tried. A day or two, yes. Then he must go back to the woods. When the Injuns failed to finish him off they did a bad job for themselves.”
“We’ll keep him long’s we can,” said Davis. “Hi, mother! Fill the mixing-bowl with mush and cover it with sweeting.”
As proud as a boy being praised by his elders, Baby started to strut to the Davis cabin, but quickly fell into a limping walk and whimpered a bit.
“Crippled on account of rheumatiz,” sighed Runner. “Rheumatiz has put more hunters and fighters out of business than the Ohio Injuns ever did. And poor Baby can’t remember to always sleep with his feet to the fire. If we could git him a stout pair of shoes to wear in place of them spongy moccasins it would pay us.”
Kirst was too grotesque to laugh at, and the settlers were grotesque when they smiled at his ferocious appetite, and in the next moment tried to buy the protection of his presence. Let him regularly patrol a dozen miles of frontier each day, and I would guarantee no Indian would knowingly cross his path.
More than one party of red raiders had unwittingly followed his trail, only to turn in flight as if the devil was nipping after them once they glimpsed his bulky figure, heard his whimpering or his loud laughter. The men followed him to the Davis Cabin, each eager to contribute to the general gossip concerning the child-man’s prodigious strength.
As my horse was straying toward the west side of the clearing I went to fetch him back and spancel him near the fort. I had secured him and was about to ride him back when a rifle cracked close at hand in the woods, and I heard a voice passionately jeering:
“I