The Lords of the Wild | Page 3

them his way.
However welcome they might be he could not hope for them; foes only
were to be expected.
The faint cry, scarcely more than a variation of the wind, registered
again though lightly on the drum of his ear, and now he knew that it
came from the lungs of man, man the pursuer, man the slayer, and so,
in this case, the red man, perhaps Tandakora, the fierce Ojibway chief
himself. Doubtless it was a signal, one band calling to another, and he
listened anxiously for the reply, but he did not hear it, the point from
which it was sent being too remote, and he settled back into his bed of
bushes and grass, resolved to keep quite still until he could make up his
mind about the next step. On the border as well as elsewhere it was
always wise, when one did not know what to do, to do nothing.
But the tall youth was keenly apprehensive. The signals indicated that

the pursuing force had spread out, and it might enclose him in a fatal
circle. His eager temperament, always sensitive to impressions, was
kindled into fire, and his imagination painted the whole forest scene in
the most vivid colors. A thought at first, it now became a conviction
with him that Tandakora led the pursuit. The red leader had come upon
his trail in some way, and, venomous from so many failures, would
follow now for days in an effort to take him. He saw the huge Ojibway
again with all the intensity of reality, his malignant face, his mighty
body, naked to the waist and painted in hideous designs. He saw too the
warriors who were with him, many of them, and they were fully as
eager and fierce as their chief.
But his imagination which was so vital a part of him did not paint evil
and danger alone; it drew the good in colors no less deep and glowing.
It saw himself refreshed, stronger of body and keener of mind than ever,
escaping every wile and snare laid for his ruin. It saw him making a
victorious flight through the forest, his arrival at the shining lake, and
his reunion with Willet and Tayoga, those faithful friends of many a
peril.
He knew that if he waited long enough he would hear the Indian call
once more, as the bands must talk to one another if they carried out a
concerted pursuit, and he decided that when it came he would go. It
would be his signal too. The only trouble lay in the fact that they might
be too near when the cry was sent. Yet he must take the risk, and there
was his sentinel bird still pluming itself in brilliant colors on its waving
bough.
The bird sang anew, pouring forth a brilliant tune, and Robert from his
covert smiled up at it again. It had a fine spirit, a gay spirit like his own
and now it would surely warn him if danger crept too close. While the
thought was fresh in his mind the third signal came, and now it was so
clear and distinct that it indicated a rapid approach. But he was still
unable to choose a way for his flight and he lingered for a sign from the
bird. If the warriors were stealing through the bushes it would fly
directly from them. At least he believed so, and fancy had so much
power over him, especially in such a situation that belief became

conviction.
The bird stopped singing suddenly, but kept his perch on the waving
bough. Robert always insisted that it looked straight at him before it
uttered two or three sharp notes, and then, rising in the air, hovered for
a few minutes above the bough. It was obvious to him that his call had
come. Steeped in Indian lore he had seen earth and air work miracles,
and it was not less wonderful that a living creature should perform one
now, and in his behalf.
For a breathless instant or two he forgot the warriors and watched the
bird, a flash of blue flame against the green veil of the forest. It was
perched there in order to be sure that he saw, and then it would show
the way! With every pulse beating hard he stood up silently, his eyes
still on the blue flash, confident that a new miracle was at hand.
The bird uttered three or four notes, not short or sharp now, but soft,
long and beckoning, dying away in the gentlest of echoes. His
imagination, as vivid as ever, translated it into a call to him to come,
and he was not in the least surprised, when the blue flame like the
pillow of cloud