The Forest Runners | Page 9

came to a rocky place, full of
gullies and cavelike hollows. It was so dark that Paul could see only his
dim form ahead. Presently their course led downward, and Henry
stopped in one of the sheltered depressions.
"Now we'll make our fire," he said.
It was pitchy black where they stood. The walls of the hollow rose far
above their heads, and its crest was lined on every side with giant trees
and dense undergrowth.

The two boys dragged up dead leaves and brushwood, and Henry
patiently ignited the heap with his flint and steel. A tiny blaze arose,
but he did not permit it to grow into a flame. Heavier logs were placed
upon the top, and the fire only burned beneath, amid the small boughs.
Smoke arose, but it was lost in the black heavens. The fire, thus
confined, burned fiercely and rapidly within its narrow limits, and a
fine bed of coals soon formed. It was time! The night had come on cold,
and the chill returned to Paul's veins. Before the fire was lighted he had
begun to shiver, but when the deep bed of coals was formed, he sat
before it and basked in the grateful and glowing heat.
"I think we'd better take off our clothing and dry it," said Henry, and
both promptly did so. They hung part of their garments before the fire,
on a stick thrust in the ground, until they were dry, and then, putting
them on again, replaced them with the remainder, to dry in their turn.
Meanwhile they ate of the venison that Henry carried in his knapsack,
and felt very happy. It was a wonderful experience for Paul. This was
comfort and safety. They were only a pin point in the wilderness, but
for the present the stony hollow fenced them about, and the hidden fire
gave forth warmth and pleasure.
"Do you think you could sleep, Paul?" asked Henry, when they had put
on again the last of the dried clothing.
Paul laughed.
"Could I sleep?" he said. "Would a hungry wolf eat? Will water run
down hill? I don't think I could do anything else just now."
"Then try it," said Henry. "After a while I'll wake you up for your
watch, and take a turn at it myself."
Paul said not another word, but sank back on the grass and leaves, with
his feet to the great bed of coals. He saw their glow for a moment or
two, then his eyelids shut down, and he was wafted away on a magic
carpet to a dreamless region of happy peace. Henry's eyes, grown used
to the dark, looked at him for a moment or two, and then the larger boy
smiled. Paul, his faithful comrade, filled a great place in his heart--they

liked each other all the better because they were so unlike--and he was
silently, but none the less devoutly thankful that he had come.
Henry was warm and dry, and as he tested his muscles he found them
supple and strong. Now he took precautions, thinking he had let the fire
burn as long as was safe. He scattered the coals with a stick, and then
softly crushed out each under the stout heel of his moccasin. With the
minute patience that he had learned from his forest life, he persisted in
his task until not a single spark was left anywhere. Then he sat down in
Turkish fashion, with his rifle lying across his lap and the other rifles
near, listening, always listening, with the wonderful ear that noted
every sound of the forest, and piercing the thickets with eyes whose
keenness those of no savage could surpass. He knew that they were in
the danger zone, that the Shawnees were on a great man-hunt, and
regarded the two boys as stilt within their net, although they could not
yet put their hands upon them. That was why he listened and watched
so closely, and that was why he would break his word to Paul and not
waken him, keeping the nightlong vigil himself.
The night advanced, the darkness shredded away a little before a half
moon, and Henry was very glad that he had put out the last remnant of
the fire. Yet the trees still enclosed the hollow like a black wall, and he
did not think a foe had one chance in a thousand of finding them there
while the night lasted. But he never ceased to watch--a silent, powerful
figure, with the rifle lying across his lap, ready to be used at a moment's
notice. His stillness was something marvelous. Even had it been light,
an ordinary observer would not have seen him move a hair's breadth.
He was a part of the silent wilderness.
Midnight, and then