On the Border with Andrew Jackson

For a moment or two Frank Lawrence was too startled to speak; but when he could collect his wits his first action was to throw his rifle around in position for use; his second was to look at Jack Davis and the Cherokee hunter.

“Well,” said he, quietly enough, “we seem to be in for it, don’t we?”

“There’s a good hundred of them, all told,” spoke Jack. “I wonder where they all sprang from.”

“Young men,” said Running Elk. “Braves. Old men in council; young men come afterward.”

“That’s it,” cried Jack, grasping at the Cherokee hunter’s meaning. “Weatherford, chief of the Creeks, took his old men forward to hear and talk with Tecumseh and the prophet at the council fire. The young men, or warriors, were left a few days’ march behind; they were on their way to join their chief when we ran into them at the river.”

“Worse luck for us,” grumbled Frank, his eyes on the advancing Indians. “What shall we do?”

It was plain to Jack and Running Elk that the Creeks had used their superior knowledge of the country to their great advantage. They had seen the direction taken by the boys and knowing, very likely, the course they must take through the forest if they desired to make speed, the red men had cunningly thrown parties forward along various paths through the woods, short cuts known only to themselves and the wild things, and so had managed to form a ring about them when they had least expected it.

To stand at the top of the grassy knoll and see the Creeks advance upon all sides was an experience the like of which Frank Lawrence had never undergone before. The sun glanced upon the oily bronze skins of the braves, their eagle and heron plumes nodded in the breeze, their buckskin leggings and quilled and beaded ornaments were interesting and picturesque. But Frank knew that there was something more than show in the force moving so slowly, so surely toward them; he knew that if they were not checked, their presence in such numbers meant almost certain death to him and his friends.

“Do you think they are in range?” asked he, looking at Jack.

Young Davis swept the distant Creeks with an estimating glance.

“Not by fifty yards,” said he. “And we’ll give them twenty-five more than that, for we must not waste any ammunition.”

But Jack did not give the Indians much attention at the moment; as soon as he had answered Frank’s question, he turned to a place at the top of the knoll which had caught his eye a few moments before. This was a bowl-like depression, possibly fifteen yards across and some four feet in depth. The young Tennesseean leaped into this, and walked about, trying it at various places for a view of the sloping sides of the knoll.

“Just the thing,” cried he, excitedly. “Couldn’t have been better placed if it had been made for the occasion.”

Catching Jack’s idea, the others also sprang into the depression.

“Bully!” exclaimed Frank. “It’s quite a fort.”

“Made for fort,” stated Running Elk, whose searching glance had been going about. “Long time ago.”

At once the four horses were driven into the bowl, and made to lie down in the center; then the defenders gave their attention to the oncoming foe.

The Creeks had come on slowly; it was evident that they felt sure of their prey and so were in no great hurry to close in. At the head of the band advancing from the direction of the forest was a tall, evil looking brave carrying a long tufted spear; he seemed to exult in the prospect of bringing death to the white face, and he danced fantastically and flourished the spear.

“They are about in range now,” said Jack Davis, as he threw his long rifle forward. “But hold your fire, Frank, until I have a try.” The piece went to his shoulder, the barrel resting upon the edge of the hollow. “That fellow doing the dancing seems to be mighty pleased,” added the young borderer, grimly. “So I just think I’ll try to make him laugh on the other side of his mouth.”

The long tube of the rifle held steadily upon the exultant savage for an instant; then the weapon cracked; the tufted spear was flung high in the air, as the Creek’s arms went up; and with a yell he dropped prone upon the sward.

A chorus of yells followed this; and while they were still sounding, Frank’s piece spoke clearly and spitefully; a warrior in advance of his fellows, upon the opposite side, screeched his death note and fell to the earth.

At once the bands to which the fallen braves had belonged scattered and fell back. They were still out of bow shot; a few rifles sounded from among them, but the pieces were of obsolete pattern and poor range, so the bullets did no harm. However, the parties upon the two other sides had sustained no loss; and so they came on with a speed greatly increased by the yells and shots.

With cool, practiced hands, the two young riflemen rammed home fresh charges of powder and ball; Frank sprang to one side and Jack to another.

“Sight ’em carefully,” admonished Jack, “and don’t let go until you’re sure of bringing down your Injun.”

Again the long weapons cracked, one after the other, and two more Creeks fell with wide flung arms and yells of pain. And that was not all. The youthful Cherokee had been impatiently waiting a chance to bring his bow into the conflict; the chance had now come. So he rose up beside Frank and the bowstring sang shrilly. The feathered shaft whistled through the air and found its mark; then before the stricken brave had sunk to the ground, the pantherish speed of Running Elk had carried him across the little fort; upon the opposite side, the one covered by Jack, the bowstring sounded again, and another warrior fell, transfixed through the shoulder.

With four more of their number down, the Creeks let fly a perfect rain of arrows; their rifles rang out in a scattered volley, and they came on vengefully. But the ready bow of the Cherokee continued to twang; the rifles of the two young marksmen were reloaded and again laid a brace of warriors low. This was too much for the Creeks; all their ideas of warfare, which was to fight from cover, were against this method of attack. They were in an open position and their enemies were out of sight; it looked like death to advance, so promptly, with the last shots of the two rifles, they broke and fled out of range.

“They don’t seem to have much appetite for lead,” said Jack, as he cleaned out his rifle barrel with a bit of cloth, and proceeded to reload.

Frank duplicated this performance; then with a very sober countenance he said to his friend:

“I say, Jack, as that gang of savages were coming on shooting and yelling like all possessed, it struck me that we were in a rather desperate situation.”

Jack Davis pulled a wry face.

“I never want to see a worse one,” said he, quietly enough, but with a look in his eyes which Frank had never seen there before.

“What do you think of our chances of pulling out of it?” asked Frank, his gaze going to the Indian bands, clustered in council, well out of range.

“Well,” said Jack, “there’s a lot of them, and if they could get at us, they’d soon make an end of the thing.”

“It needs only a rush,” said Frank. “If they had kept at it a few minutes more, it would have done for us.”

“But they didn’t keep at it,” spoke Jack. “And that is the only real thing that we can count on. It’s not the Indian nature to stand up unprotected in the face of rifle fire. Their training is to hunt cover, to stalk their enemy, to creep up and jump on him when he’s not looking for it. One-quarter as many white men would have taken this knoll at the first rush, seeing that there are only three to defend it. But Injuns are different.” He pointed with one outstretched arm toward the discomfited savages. “They have the worst of it and they know it. It’ll surprise me a good deal if they pull themselves together enough to make another attack.”

“What!” Frank Lawrence looked at his friend in surprise. “Do you mean to say there is any chance of their giving up the attempt—of letting us escape?”

But Jack shook his head.

“No,” he said, gravely, “not quite that. But as there is no cover for the redskins on the sides of this knoll, no trees, no rocks, no stumps or anything like that, they might wait for a kind of cover that’s to be found anywhere.”

“What’s that?” asked Frank.

“Darkness.”

The young Virginian felt a cold, creeping shudder run down his back. His imagination pictured the darkness of night falling over this lone place; its stillness, its ominous, brooding depths. He seemed to feel the presence of the Creeks as they crept through the blackness, slowly and with the soft padded tread of panthers. No superiority of rifle fire, no vigilance, no courage would serve under such conditions; it would mean only one thing—massacre.

“If they wait for night and attack us in the dark,” asked Frank, “what can we do?”

“There is only one thing to do in such a case,” said the young borderer. “As soon as darkness settles we must get away from here as best we can. We must not wait for them to spring upon us; we’ll strike a blow at them, and be away in the darkness.”

“Ugh!” said Running Elk, with approval. But that he did not favor every aspect of the proposition was shown when he added, “Creep away like snakes—no noise—no shots. Heap best.”

“Right,” agreed Jack, with a nod. “If it can be done that way, it’ll be best. However, when the time comes, we shall see.”

Minute by minute went by; then an hour passed, but still the Creeks did not renew the attack.

“They don’t seem to be in any hurry about it, at any rate,” said Frank. All three of the youths were leaning over the edge of the depression looking along the slope at the Indians in the distance.

“No,” said Jack. “A half dozen, or so, in killed and wounded is a staggerer to them. They’ll not budge before night, you’ll see that.”

After a time they saw the savages subside and go into camp; however, each band kept its place; the ring about the knoll was preserved; and red skinned sentinels were observed here and there, their keen eyes fixed upon the apex where the boys lay.

“There’ll not be much that’ll escape them,” said Jack. “Injuns have as much patience as a hill-cat at a water hole.”

The afternoon wore away; then the sun began to lower behind the range of waving tree tops and the long shadows began to trail upon the slopes of the knoll. But the Creeks made no sign; craftily they assumed carelessness, lolling about in groups, their horses picketed at some little distances.

“They think to fool us,” said Jack. “It’s their idea not to stir until their movements are covered by darkness; and in that way, so they imagine, they’ll lure us into thinking they are not going to move at all.”

Slowly the shadows thickened; twilight passed and night settled upon the wilds. There were countless stars in the sky; but they seemed very far off and their glimmering cast no light; the moon would not show itself for some hours.

“Now!” said Jack Davis. “If we are going to make the attempt, now is the time. Are you willing, Frank?”

“I’ll follow right after you wherever you go,” replied the young Virginian.

“Get away now, or Creek take ’um scalp,” said Running Elk.

They got their horses to their feet and out of the hollow; Jack had laid his plan before night settled, and he knew what he wanted to do.

“Right after me, one at a time,” said he. “Lead your horses, and when you feel me stop, do the same.”

Down the slope of the knoll went the three, in Indian file; ahead of them all was dusk; around them the silence settled like death.

Half-way down, Jack paused; the others did likewise, as directed, the horses huddling together for companionship. Frank was about to whisper a question as to why they had halted, but Jack stopped him at the first syllable. Then the young Virginian became aware of a movement in the darkness near to them—the soft, steady forward movement of some low lying mass. With a thrill he realized what it meant; the Indians were advancing to the attack.