How Big Black Burl Figured in Ambush.

Bidding Grumbo follow, our hero once more set his face point-blank to his adventure. Keeping a sharp eye on the enemy's height, he begun making his way down the gulley into the valley—screening his movements, as best he might, where the gulley was too shallow to conceal him, by walking along in a stooping posture behind the weeds, or creeping along upon his belly through the grass; Grumbo, with great circumspection, doing likewise. In a surprisingly short time, considering this somewhat inconvenient mode of getting over ground, they had made their way to the hither bank of the river. But here they found themselves once more brought to a stand. Directly in front, as Burl ascertained by throwing in a pebble and noting the length of time between its sinking and the bubble's rising, the stream was almost, if not quite, six feet deep. To wade across, then go in battle with his garments all soaked and heavy with water—a serious hinderance, as this must be, to the free and lightsome play of his limbs—were but to give the nimble foe yet another advantage over him, desperate being the odds already. To be sure, not more than a hundred yards below the river was so shallow as to ripple over the rocks, where he might easily make the fording all but dry-shod. But there he would be in open view of the Indians, should they chance to be looking that way; whereas, by making the passage from where he was standing, he could throw between himself and them a small cane-brake, which crowned the opposite bank a short distance above. Far rather had the Fighting Nigger gone into the dance of death, rigged out in all his martial bravery—his moccasins, his bear-skin leggins, his bear-skin hunting-shirt, his bear-skin war-cap, and his war-belt with its gleaming death-steel—guise so well beseeming the Big Black Brave with a bushy head. But in a game so desperate, with objects so precious and dear at stake, the indulgence of so small a vanity were another thought not worth the second thinking. Therefore did the magnanimous Burl dismantle himself at once. Aware that, in the coming contest, he should barely have time to let fly the single bullet already in his rifle, when he must take to his hatchet and knife, and that thereafter his powder-horn and ammunition-pouch would be but hindering encumbrances, he divested himself of these appendages, also laying with them his moccasins, leggins, and hunting-shirt, in a pile together on the river bank. The next moment, with Grumbo swimming, hand over hand, close at his side, he was half way across the river, with nothing of him visible above the dimpled surface but his enormous bear-skin cap, and his right arm holding Betsy Grumbo high aloft to keep her priming dry.

The passage swimmingly effected, our two adventurers made their reÄppearance on the opposite bank, with their bulky dimensions brought down by their wetting to somewhat lanker proportions—Grumbo with his shaggy coat buttoned close about him, Burl with his buckskin shirt and breeches clinging clammily to his body and limbs. But of his martial rigging, the war-belt, with his tomahawk and hunting-knife, still remained; the bear-skin war-cap, too, which once rammed down firmly upon his head was never to quit that place, saving with the scalp it covered, or with the successful winding up of his adventure.

Between him and the mouth of the glen lay a narrow strip of bottom land, the crossing of which, overhung as it was by the very nose of the enemy's lookout, would demand his utmost caution and address. Again availing themselves of gully, weeds, and grass, to screen their movements, and making their way through them as before, they succeeded at length in gaining, undiscovered, the shelter of the glen. Here, under the overhanging hill, Burl could walk upright, and that for the first time since quitting the opposite rim of the valley, if we may except when chin-deep in water he was fording the river. Down the glen, with twisted current winding crookedly among the rocks, came bubbling a little brook, thus serving to muffle the sound of the black hunter's footsteps, as now with swift and powerful strides he ascended into the depths of the hills. When he came to where the two ravines united to form the larger glen, he took the more easterly one, which, as before remarked, led up to a dingle just under the height where the Indians were camped. For some distance back the trees and bushes, reÄppearing, had grown gradually thicker and thicker, till here they shagged the side of the hill with deep and tangled shade. So Burl found the covert which he had promised himself for a place of ambush—a shade profound as night, through which, with snake-like secrecy, he could crawl to within hissing distance of the enemy, and before discovery all but bite his heel.

"Down, Grumbo!" said the black hunter in a deep under-tone to his dog, not daring to trust him further in the adventure till he had brought it to the critical edge. "You wait here tell you hears me holler, den come a-pitchin', an' let yo'se'f in like de bery ol' Scratch, an' no stoppin' to smell noses. Do you hear?"

The sagacious animal, as if perfectly understanding what was said to him, and what his part of the work in hand was to be, crouched down like a lion in the dark shadows of the dingle, there to wait until he should hear his master's call. Then tightening his belt to make his knife and hatchet more secure, and reassuring himself that Betsy Grumbo was in tip-top "bitin' order," our hero addressed himself to the scaling of the enemy's height. Half the ascent accomplished brought him almost to the brow of the hill, where its slower slope abruptly ended in the steep acclivity which he had just scaled, and here he could distinguish a faint murmur of voices from above. He was slowly bringing himself over the turn between precipice and slope, when a large stone, from which but now he had lifted his foot, supposing it to be the projecting corner of a ledge, slid slowly from its earthly socket, and with resounding din went rolling down the steep. Whereat the murmur of voices above him suddenly ceased, but with admirable presence of mind, while yet the excited echoes were noising the thing from hill to hill, the black hunter, to mislead the minds of the Indians as to the cause of the uproar, mimicked the snarling growl of a wolf. Then he lay perfectly still for several moments, not daring to venture farther till assured that his cunning device had succeeded. After a brief space of silence, which seemed to be spent in listening, the murmur of voices above him recommenced, when he likewise recommenced his stealthy approaches. When he had advanced so far as to be no longer able to walk upright without risk of discovery, he threw himself prone on the ground, and like a black-snake went crawling along on his belly, inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, warily, noiselessly, slowly—his rifle laid along the hollow of his back. Thus painfully had he worked his way for more than forty yards, when he found himself, almost unawares, at the very edge of his covert. Here, peering through the leafy chinks, he could plainly see the enemy, whose footsteps he had so long been dogging.

Yes, there they were—the three Indians—not twenty paces from Betsy Grumbo's muzzle. Breakfast by this time ended, they were composedly smoking their pipes, and, for Indians, chatting away quite socially, as if in no hurry to be off on their day's tramp. The giant—for such in fact he proved to be—whose foot-prints Burl had so gravely scanned along the trail, was sitting on the ground at the foot of a tree; while over against him, with the now smoldering camp-fire between, were his two comrades, seated on opposite ends of a log. A little to one side lay a slain buck, upon whose flesh they had supped the evening before and breakfasted this morning. Against the log, leant side by side, between the two smaller Indians, rested their three rifles; while their hatchets, of which they had freed themselves to be the more at their ease, were sticking deeply sunk into the tree above the giant's head—their scalping-knives being the only weapons retained about their persons. The giant, a savage of terrible aspect, was dressed in complete Indian costume—his robe being richly decorated with bead-work and stained porcupine quills, and where it showed a seam or border was fringed with scalp-locks, brown, flaxen, and red, as well as black—taken by his own hand from the heads of his enemies—the last agony, doubtless, as the fashions had it among the swells in his quarter of the world. Similar to this, excepting the agony, and that it was newer and fresher, was the dress worn by the Indian who occupied the farther end of the log; and when we add that the heads of both were all waving with the gorgeous plumage of the eagle, we can easily fancy that the appearance of these two must have been rather splendid and imposing. Quite the reverse, however, as regarded the third savage, who in a recent foray into the white settlements, having contrived to get his pilfering hands on a new broadcloth coat, with bright metal buttons, and a ruffled shirt, had added these two pieces of civilized finery to his Indian gear—thus imparting to his whole appearance, which had else been wild, at least, and picturesque, an air exceedingly raw, repulsive, and shabby. To be sure, inharmoniousness of contrast was beginning to be a little subdued by the dirt and grease of the wearer's own laying on, the coat being no longer glossy and sky-blue, the shirt no longer starchy and snow-white. Yet, notwithstanding his love for Christian finery, the red heathen could hardly have had much love for Christian people, as was evident from the fairhaired scalps which hung at his girdle; and altogether he was as ugly and ferocious-looking a barbarian as you would care to encounter on your war-path, should glory ever lead you to travel such a road.

But Bushie—where was poor little Bushie all this time? Bound hand and foot to a tree hard by, with scarcely freedom sufficient to draw his breath or wink his eyes, his face all blanched with the despair of a captive awaiting, in agonizing suspense, the hour of final and terrible doom—all as dismal apprehension had been picturing it for the last eighteen hours to the distressingly ingenious fancy of Burlman Reynolds? O by no means! True it was, our little master was there, and a captive. True, that since our last glimpse of him, where perched he sat on the topmost rail of the corn-field fence back yonder, he had taken many a pitiful, heart-broken cry, whenever the loved faces and familiar sights of home had risen with sudden vividness before his remembrance. But just at this moment, having followed up a sound night's sleep with a hearty breakfast of venison, he seemed, like the healthy, stout-hearted urchin he was, to have made up his mind not only to look, but keep, on the bright side of things—the best way in the world of dodging the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." Without the mark of a buffalo-thong on ankle or wrist, to tell of captivity, the little man was running about the hill, to all appearance as he list—his moving shadow dodging hither and thither, as if it were a long-legged, short-bodied goblin quizzically mocking his motions, or playing at hide-and-seek with him among the trees and bushes. But Burl observed that the dear little fellow, though left to his freedom, never came nigh the giant, nor the grim savage in the ruffled shirt and blue coat, but always kept nearest to him who sat on the further end of the log—the youngest of the three Indian, quite youthful indeed, and of form and face exceedingly pleasing and noble. In fact, between the young brave and the little captive a friendly and familiar understanding seemed to have sprung up already; for while the giant and other savage talked together, these two kept up a lively confab between themselves, which, as neither could understand a word the other was saying, must have been highly entertaining and edifying to both. A few minutes before, while playing about the hill, Bushie had found an old stone hatchet, and picking it up, had brought it to his red friend to have him fit a handle to it, which the young brave, with mingled pity and good humor, was now busy in doing—the edifying interchange of thought and sentiment never ceasing for a moment. Had Burl needed any further proof of the gentle, even indulgent kindness with which his little master had been treated—at least by the young Indian—there it was to be seen in the little coon-skin cap, stuck thicker than even the giant's scalp-lock with the gorgeous plumes of the war-bird.

All this, that has taken so long to describe, it took Burl but a glance of the eye to discern, and as quickly to form his plan of attack. In the first place, he must, with the one bullet already in his gun, dispatch the two Indians who sat on the log. This advantage gained, he should, he felt confident, then be able to cope with the giant on equal terms, full six inches taller though he seemed to be where he sat just there, so composedly smoking his war-pipe—not to mention his being freshly victualed withal. But in order to deal this double blow, he needs must shift his ground, so as to bring himself on a line with the two smaller Indians—a movement, which to execute under the very skirts of a quick-eared foe, would put him up to all the cunning and skill he was master of. Nevertheless, for the sake of the great advantage it might give him, he would risk the attempt. Between where he was and the point he must gain the thicket was thin; so, silently, slowly, he backed himself—feet foremost—into his covert again, thrice his length or more, then veering away to the right, he began—head foremost—making his second approach. On regaining the edge of the thicket, he found the savages as he had left them, five minutes before—the two smaller Indians on the log, and now on the same dead-line with himself—so nicely had he calculated the distances. Then taking his gun from his back—where all this time it had lain—he raised himself slowly to one knee, and cautiously thrusting his weapon through the leafy twigs before him, took deliberate aim at the body of the grim savage. His finger was already on the trigger, ready to give the fatal pull, when Bushie plumped himself down on the log beside the young Indian, thus bringing his own little body in the same line with the deadly missile, which in an instant more would have come whizzing out of the thicket. With a disappointed shake of the head Burl slowly lowered his piece, to wait till the little boy, led by his wayward humor, should quit the perilous seat. But, becoming the more interested in what was doing for his amusement—now that the hatchet was nearly ready for him—Bushie seemed in no haste to quit the place. What if the savages should shift their position?—then indeed the signal advantage he now held, and had been at so much pains and had run so much risk to secure, would be lost, and the Fighting Nigger again reduced to desperate straits. Would the boy never move? And waiting and watching, Big Black Burl lay close in ambush.