At dark Polly Ann and I carried the packs across a creek on a fallen tree, she taking one end and I the other.We camped there, where the loam was trampled and torn by countless herds of bison, and had only parched corn and the remains of a buffalo steak for supper, as the meal was mouldy from its wetting, and running low.When Weldon had gone a little distance up the creek to scout, Tom relented from the sternness which his vigilance imposed and came and sat down on a log beside Polly Ann and me.
`` 'Tis a hard journey, little girl,'' he said, patting her;``I reckon I done wrong to fetch you.''
I can see him now, as the twilight settled down over the wilderness, his honest face red and freckled, but aglow with the tenderness it had hidden during the day, one big hand enfolding hers, and the other on my shoulder.
``Hark, Davy!'' said Polly Ann, ``he's fair tired of us already.Davy, take me back.''
``Hush, Polly Ann,'' he answered; delighted at her raillery.``But I've a word to say to you.If we come on to the redskins, you and Davy make for the cane as hard as you kin kilter.Keep out of sight.''
``As hard as we kin kilter!'' exclaimed Polly Ann, indignantly.``I reckon not, Tom McChesney.Davy taught me to shoot long ago, afore you made up your mind to come back from Kaintuckee.''
Tom chuckled.``So Davy taught you to shoot,'' he said, and checked himself.``He ain't such a bad one with a pistol,''--and he patted me,--``but I allow ye'd better hunt kiver just the same.And if they ketch ye, Polly Ann, just you go along and pretend to be happy, and tear off a snatch of your dress now and then, if you get a chance.It wouldn't take me but a little time to run into Harrodstown or Boone's Station from here, and fetch a party to follow ye.''
Two days went by,--two days of strain in sunlight, and of watching and fitful sleep in darkness.But the Wilderness Trail was deserted.Here and there a lean-to --silent remnant of the year gone by--spoke of the little bands of emigrants which had once made their way so cheerfully to the new country.Again it was a child's doll, the rags of it beaten by the weather to a rusty hue.
Every hour that we progressed seemed to justify the sagacity and boldness of Tom's plan, nor did it appear to have entered a painted skull that a white man would have the hardihood to try the trail this year.There were neither signs nor sounds save Nature's own, the hoot of the wood-owl, the distant bark of a mountain wolf, the whir of a partridge as she left her brood.
At length we could stand no more the repression that silence and watching put upon us, and when a rotten bank gave way and flung Polly Ann and the sorrel mare into a creek, even Weldon smiled as we pulled her, bedraggled and laughing, from the muddy water.This was after we had ferried the Rockcastle River.
Our trace rose and fell over height and valley, until we knew that we were come to a wonderland at last.
We stood one evening on a spur as the setting sun flooded the natural park below us with a crystal light and, striking a tall sycamore, turned its green to gold.
We were now on the hills whence the water ran down to nourish the fat land, and I could scarce believe that the garden spot on which our eyes feasted could be the scene of the blood and suffering of which we had heard.
Here at last was the fairyland of my childhood, the country beyond the Blue Wall.
We went down the river that led into it, with awes as though we were trespassers against God Himself,--as though He had made it too beautiful and too fruitful for the toilers of this earth.And you who read this an hundred years hence may not believe the marvels of it to the pioneer, and in particular to one born and bred in the scanty, hard soil of the mountains.Nature had made it for her park,--ay, and scented it with her own perfumes.Giant trees, which had watched generations come and go, some of which mayhap had been saplings when the Norman came to England, grew in groves,--the gnarled and twisted oak, and that godsend to the settlers, the sugar-maple; the coffee tree with its drooping buds; the mulberry, the cherry, and the plum; the sassafras and the pawpaw; the poplar and the sycamore, slender maidens of the forest, garbed in daintier colors,--ay, and that resplendent brunette with the white flowers, the magnolia; and all underneath, in the green shade, enamelled banks which the birds themselves sought to rival.
At length, one afternoon, we came to the grove of wild apple trees so lovingly spoken of by emigrants as the Crab Orchard, and where formerly they had delighted to linger.The plain near by was flecked with the brown backs of feeding buffalo, but we dared not stop, and pressed on to find a camp in the forest.As we walked in the filtered sunlight we had a great fright, Polly Ann and I.Shrill, discordant cries suddenly burst from the branches above us, and a flock of strange, green birds flecked with red flew over our heads.Even Tom, intent upon the trail, turned and laughed at Polly Ann as she stood clutching me.
``Shucks,'' said he, ``they're only paroquets.''
We made our camp in a little dell where there was short green grass by the brookside and steep banks overgrown with brambles on either hand.Tom knew the place, and declared that we were within thirty miles of the station.
A giant oak had blown down across the water, and, cutting out a few branches of this, we spread our blankets under it on the turf.Tethering our faithful beasts, and cutting a quantity of pea-vine for their night's food, we lay down to sleep, Tom taking the first watch.
I had the second, for Tom trusted me now, and glorying in that trust I was alert and vigilant.A shy moon peeped at me between the trees, and was fantastically reflected in the water.The creek rippled over the limestone, and an elk screamed in the forest far beyond.When at length I had called Weldon to take the third watch, I lay down with a sense of peace, soothed by the sweet odors of the night.
