The Hunters of the HillsAltsheler, Joseph A. (Joseph Alexander)
History
The Hunters of the Hills
Altsheler, Joseph A. (Joseph Alexander)
United States -- History -- French and Indian War, 1754-1763 -- Fiction
The fire had now formed a great bed of coals and the task was not hard.
It was all cooked by and by and they stowed it away wrapped in the two
pieces of skin. Then Willet and Tayoga decided to examine the country
together, leaving Robert on guard beside the canoe.
Robert had no objection to remaining behind. Although circumstances had
made him a lad of action he was also contemplative by nature. Some
people think with effort, in others thoughts flow in a stream, and now
as he sat with his back to a tree, much that he had thought and heard
passed before him like a moving panorama and in this shifting belt of
color Indians, Frenchmen, Colonials and Englishmen appeared.
He knew that he stood upon the edge of great events. Deeply sensitive to
impressions, he felt that a crisis in North America was at hand. England
and France were not yet at war, and so the British colonies and the
French colonies remained at peace too, but every breeze that blew from
one to the other was heavy with menace. The signs were unmistakable, but
one did not have to see. One breathed it in at every breath. He knew,
too, that intrigue was already going on all about him, and that the
Iroquois were the great pawn in the game. British and French were
already playing for the favor of the powerful Hodenosaunee, and Robert
understood even better than many of those in authority that as the
Hodenosaunee went so might go the war. It was certain that the Indians
of the St. Lawrence and the North would be with the French, but he was
confident that the Indians of the Long House would not swerve from their
ancient alliance with the British colonies.
Two hours passed and Willet and Tayoga did not return, but he had not
expected them. He knew that when they decided to go on a scout they
would do the work thoroughly, and he waited with patience, sitting
beside the canoe, his rifle on his knees. Before him the creek flowed
with a pleasant, rippling noise and through the trees he caught a
glimpse of the lake, unruffled by any wind.
The rest was so soothing, and his muscles and nerves relaxed so much
that he felt like closing his eyes and going to sleep, but he was roused
by the sound of a footstep. It was so distant that only an ear trained
to the forest would have heard it, but he knew that it was made by a
human being approaching, and that the man was neither Willet nor Tayoga.
He put his ear to the earth and heard three men instead of one, and then
he rose, cocking his rifle. In the great wilderness in those surcharged
days a stranger was an enemy until he was proved to be otherwise, and
the lad was alert in every faculty. He saw them presently, three
figures walking in Indian file, and his heart leaped because the leader
was so obviously a Frenchman.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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