Wild Western Scenes: A Narrative of Adventures in the Western Wilderness, Wherein the Exploits of Daniel Boone, the Great American Pioneer are Particularly DescribedJones, J. B. (John Beauchamp)
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Wild Western Scenes: A Narrative of Adventures in the Western Wilderness, Wherein the Exploits of Daniel Boone, the Great American Pioneer are Particularly Described
Jones, J. B. (John Beauchamp)
Boone, Daniel, 1734-1820 -- Fiction; Western stories; Wilderness areas -- Fiction
An intense silence succeeded the discharge of Joe’s gun, after the
tremendous report died away, in successive reverberations up and down
the river, and over the low wood land opposite. The owls and wolves
were hushed; and as the watchful sentinels cast their eyes over the
snow, on which the calm rays of the moon rested in repose, there was
not the least indication of the presence of a dangerous foe.
Joe leant against the palisade, holding with one hand the breech of his
gun, while the barrel was thrust through the loophole, and seemed to be
indulging in a peculiar train of reflections.
“Now, I’d much rather be in Philadelphia,” said he, in a voice but
little louder than a, whisper, and unconscious of giving utterance to
his thoughts—“a great deal rather be there—in some comfortable
oyster-cellar—than standing out here in the lone wilderness, up to my
knees in snow, and expecting every minute to have a poisoned arrow shot
through my head. Hang it all! I wonder what pleasure Mr. Glenn can
enjoy here? Suppose, now, while I’m standing here thinking, an arrow
should dart over the, other side, and stick five or six inches into me?
I hope they keep a careful look-out. And that reminds me that I ought
to keep an eye out myself, for fear some one may he pinked from my
side.” He applied his eye to the hole, and continued in the same
strain: “I don’t see a single living thing; maybe they’ve all gone off.
If they have, I’ll deserve all the credit, for I’m the only person that
shot at them. And I don’t think that long hatchet-face Sneak will think
that I’m a coward any more. But these savages are strange beings; I had
no more idea that the bush hid an Indian than that there’s one not ten
feet off now, under the snow. And if we hadn’t found him out he might
have crawled up and shot me in the eye through this hole. I won’t hold
my eye here all the time!” said he, rising, and to his astonishment
Sneak stood at his elbow, whither he had glided softly, his quick ear
having caught the hum of Joe’s soliloquy, and his curiosity leading him
to find out the meaning of the mysterious jargon of his
companion-in-arms.
“Of all the men I ever saw you are the dod-rottedest!” exclaimed Sneak,
after staring at him a few moments in silent wonderment, and then
striding back to his post.
“I should like to hear that sentence parsed,” said Joe, looking after
him.
The hours wore on in peace, until midnight, when a low chattering, like
that of a squirrel, was heard in the valley below; while a shrill
whistling, resembling that of quails was distinguished above.
“Come hither!” exclaimed Boone in a whisper to Glenn.
“Do you see any of them?” inquired Glenn, joining his friend.
“Not yet—but we will see enough of them presently. The sounds in the
valleys are signals, and they will attack us on these sides. You may
abandon your watch on the east, and assist me here.”
“And you may come and spell me,” said Sneak to Joe.
“I must not desert my post,” said Joe.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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