The bushwhackers & other storiesCraddock, Charles Egbert
General
The bushwhackers & other stories
Craddock, Charles Egbert
Mountain life -- Fiction; Tennessee -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
Then Choolah detailed that through a scout he had thrown out he had
learned that Colonel Grant’s force, still pushing on, had succeeded
in crossing the Tennessee river, the herd of cattle and the pack
animals giving incredible trouble in the fords, deeply swollen by the
unprecedented rains. It suddenly occurred to MacDonnell that, in view
of the passage of the troops beyond this barrier, much caution would be
requisite in endeavoring to rejoin the main body, lest they fall into
the clutch of the Cherokees on the hither side, who doubtless would
seek the capture of parties of stragglers by carefully patrolling the
banks. He suggested this to Choolah. The Indian listened for only a
moment with a look of deep conviction; then suddenly calling to five
Chickasaws who were still engaged in parceling out the booty they had
brought away from the dead bodies, he beckoned to MacDonnell, and they
set out on a line parallel with the river, in Indian file, in a long,
steady trot, the Scotchman among them, half willing, half dismayed,
repudiating with the distaste of a prosaic, unimaginative mind every
evidence of barbarism; every unaccustomed thing seemed grotesque and
uncouth, and lacking all in lacking the cachet of civilization. Each
man, as he ran lightly along that marshy turf, almost without noting,
as if by instinct placed his feet upon the steps of the man in advance;
thus, although seven persons passed over the ground, the largest man
coming last, the footprints would show as if but one had gone that way.
Ronald MacDonnell, quick at all military or athletic exercises, readily
achieved conformity, although the barbarous procedure compromised his
sensitive dignity, and he growled between his teeth something about a
commissioned officer and a “demented goose-step,” as if he found the
practice of the one by the other a painful derogation. The moon came
into the sky while still they sped along in this silent, crafty way,
the wind in their faces, the pervasive scents of the damp, flowery June
night filling every breath they drew with the impalpable essences of
sylvan fragrance.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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