The Forest Runners | Page 4

lifted with hope.
Clouds swept up, the moon died, and in the darkness Paul had little
idea of direction. He only knew that they were still traveling fast amid
the thick bushes, and that when he made too much noise in passing one
or other of the brown savages would prod him with the muzzle of a gun
as a hint to be more careful. His face became bruised and his feet weary,
but at last they stopped in an opening among the trees, by the side of a
little brook that trickled over shining pebbles.
The warriors wasted little time. They rebound Paul's feet in such tight
fashion that he could scarcely move, and then, lying down near him,
went to sleep so quickly that it seemed to Paul they accomplished the
feat by some sort of a mechanical arrangement. Tired as he was, he
could not close his own eyes yet, and he longed for his comrade.
Would he come?
Paul's sensitive nerves were again keenly alive to every phase of his
cruel situation. The warriors, lying almost at his feet, were monsters,
not men, and this wilderness, which in its finer aspects he loved, was
bristling in the darkness with terrors known and unknown. Yet his
clogged and weary brain slept at last, and when he awoke again it was
day--a beautiful day of white and gold light, with the autumnal tints of
the forest all about him, and the leaves rustling in a gentle wind.
But his heart sank to the uttermost depths when he looked at the
warriors. By day they seemed more brutal and pitiless than at night.
From their long, narrow eyes shone no ray of mercy, and the ghastly
paint on their high cheek bones deepened their look of ferocity. It was
not the appearance of the warriors alone, it was more the deed for

which they were preparing that appalled Paul. They were raking dead
leaves and fallen brushwood of last year around a small but stout
sapling, and they went on with their task in a methodical way.
Paul knew well, too well. Hideous tales of such doings had come now
and then to his ears, but he had never dreamed that he, Paul Cotter, in
his own person would be such a victim. Even now it seemed incredible
in the face of this beautiful young world that stretched away from him,
so quiet and so peaceful. He, who already in his boyhood was planning
great things for this splendid land, to die such a death!
The warriors did not cease until their task was finished. It was but a
brief one after all, for Paul had made no mistake in his guess. There
was not time, perhaps, to take a prisoner beyond the Ohio, and they
could not forego a savage pleasure. They dragged the hoy to the sapling,
stood him erect against the slim trunk, and hound him fast with green
withes. Then they piled the dead leaves and brushwood high about him
above his knees, and, this done, stood a little way off and looked at
their work.
The warriors spoke together for the first time since Paul had awakened,
and their black eyes lighted up with a hideous glow of anticipation.
Paul saw it, and an icy chill ran through all his veins. Had not the green
withes held him, he would have fallen to the ground. Once more his
active mind, foreseeing all that would come, had dissolved his strength
for the moment; but, as always, his will brought his courage back, and
he shut his eyes to put away the hateful sight of the gloating savages.
He had never asked in any way for mercy, he had never uttered a word
of protest, and he resolved that he would not cry out if he could help it.
They should not rejoice too much at his sufferings; he would die as
they were taught to die, and he would show to them that the mind of a
white boy could supply the place of a red man's physical fortitude. But
Henry might come! Would he come? Oh, would he come? Resigned to
death, Paul yet hoped for life.
He opened his eyes, and the warriors were still standing there, looking
at him; but in a moment one approached, and, bending down, began to

strike flint and steel amid the dry leaves at the boy's feet. Again, despite
himself, the shivering chill ran through Paul's veins. Would Henry
come? If he came at all, he must now come quickly, as only a few
minutes were left.
The leaves were obstinate; sparks flew from the flint and steel, but
there was no blaze. Paul looked down at the head of the warrior who
worked patiently at his task. The