Chapter XVIII. The Test

by Joseph A. Altsheler

　　The people of Wareville had good reason alike for pride and forsorrow, pride for victory, and sorrow for the fallen, but theyspent no time in either, at least openly, resuming at once thetask of founding a new state.

　　Henry Ware, the hero of the hour and the savior of the village,laid aside his wild garb and took a place in his father's fields.The work was heavy, the Indian corn was planted, but trees wereto be felled, fences were to be cut down, and as he was so stronga larger share than usual was expected of him. His own fatherappreciated these hopes and was resolved that his son should dohis full duty.

　　Henry entered upon his task and from the beginning he hadmisgivings, but he refused to indulge them. He handled a hoe onhis first day from dawn till dark in a hot field, and all thewhile the mighty wilderness about him was crying out to him inmany voices. While the sun glowed upon him, and the sweat randown his face he could see the deep cool shade of the forest-howrestful and peaceful it looked there! He knew a sheltered gladewhere the buffalo were feeding, he could find the deer reposingin a thicket, and to the westward was a new region of hills andclear brooks, over which he might be the first white man to roam.

　　His blood tingled with his thoughts, but he never said a word,only bending lower to his task, and hardening his resolve. Thevoices of the wilderness might call, and he could not keep fromhearing them, but he need not go. The amount of work he did thatday was wonderful to all who saw, his vast strength put him farahead of all others and back of his strength was his will. Butthey said nothing and he was glad they did not speak.

　　When he went home in the dusk he overtook Lucy Upton near thepalisade. She was in the same red dress that she wore when sheran the gauntlet and in the twilight it seemed to be tinged to adeeper scarlet. She was walking swiftly with the easy, swinginggrace of a good figure and good health, but when he joined hershe went more slowly.

　　He did not speak for a few moments, and she gave him a silentglance of sympathy. In her woman's heart she guessed the causeof his trouble, and while she had been afraid of him when heappeared suddenly as the Indian warrior yet she liked him betterin that part than as she now saw him. Then he was majestic, nowhe was prosaic, and it seemed to her that his present role wasunfitting.

　　"You are tired," she said at last.

　　"Well, not in the body exactly, but I feel like resting."

　　There was no complaint in his tone, but a slight touch of irony.

　　"Do you think that you will make a good farmer?" she asked.

　　"As good as the times and our situation allow," he replied."Wandering parties of the savages are likely to pass near hereand in the course of time they may send back an army. Besidesone has to hunt now, as for a long while we must depend on theforest for a part of our food."

　　It seemed to her that these things did not cause him sorrow, thathe turned to them as a sort of relief: his eyes sparkled morebrightly when he spoke of the necessity for hunting and thepossible passage of Indian parties which must be repelled. Girlthough she was, she felt again a little glow of sympathy,guessing as she did his nature; she could understand how hethrilled when he heard the voices of the forest calling to him.

　　They reached the gate of the palisade and passed within. It wasfull dusk now, the forest blurring together into a mighty blackwall, and the outlines of the houses becoming shadowy. The Warefamily sat awhile that evening by the hearth fire, and John Warewas full of satisfaction. A worthy man, he had neitherimagination nor primitive instincts and he valued the wildernessonly as a cheap place in which to make homes. He spoke much ofclearing the ground, of the great crops that would come, and ofthe profit and delight afforded by regular work year after yearon the farm. Henry Ware sat in silence, listening to hisfather's oracular tones, but his mother, glancing at him, haddoubts to which she gave no utterance.

　　The days passed and as the spring glided into summer they grewhotter. The sun glowed upon the fields, and the earth parchedwith thirst. In the forest the leaves were dry and they rustledwhen the wind blew upon them. The streams sank away again, asthey had done during the siege, and labor became more trying.Yet Henry Ware never murmured, though his soul was full of blackbitterness. Often he would resolutely turn his eyes from theforest where he knew the deep cool pools were, and keep them onthe sun-baked field. His rifle, which had seemed to reproachhim, inanimate object though it was, he hid in a corner of thehouse where he could not see it and its temptation. In order tocreate a counter-irritant he plunged into work with the mostastonishing vigor.

　　John Ware, in those days, was full of pride and satisfaction, herejoiced in the industrial prowess of his son, and he felt thathis own influence had prevailed, he had led Henry back to theways of civilization, the only right ways, and he enjoyed histriumph. But the schoolmaster, in secret, often shook his head.

　　The summer grew drier and hotter, it was a period of droughtagain and the little children gasped through the sweating nights.Afar they saw the blaze of forest fires and ashes and smoke cameon the wind. Henry toiled with a dogged spirit, but every daythe labor grew more bitter to him; he took no interest in it, hedid not wish to calculate the result in the years to come, whenall around him, extending thousands of miles, was an untroddenwilderness, in which he might roam and hunt until the end,although his years should be a hundred.

　　It was worst at night, when he lay awake by a window, breathingthe hot air, then the deep cool forest extended to him herkindest invitation, and it took all his resolution to resist herwelcome. The wind among the trees was like music, but it was amusic to which he must close his ears. Then he remembered hisvast wanderings with Black Cloud and his red friends, how theyhad crossed great and unnamed rivers, the days in the endlessforest and the other days on the endless plains, and of themighty lake, they had reached in their northernmost journey. Howcool and pleasant that lake seemed now! His mind ran over everydetail of the great buffalo hunts, of those trips along thestreams to trap the beaver and the events in the fight with thehostile tribe.

　　All these recollections seemed very vivid and real to him now,and the narrow life of Wareville faded into a mist out of whichshone only the faces of those whom he loved-it was they alone whohad brought him back to Wareville, but he knew that their wayswere not his ways, and it was hard to confine his spirit withinthe narrow limits of a settlement.

　　But his long martyrdom went on, the summer was growing old, withthe work of planting and cultivating almost done and the harvestsoon to follow, and whatever his feelings may have been he hadnever flinched a single time. Nourished by his great labors theWare farm far surpassed all others, and the pride of John Waregrew. He also grew more exacting with his pride, and thisquality brought on the crisis.

　　Henry was building a fence one particularly hot afternoon, andhis father coming by, cool and fresh, found fault with his work,chiefly to show his authority, because the work was not badlydone. Mr. Ware was a good man, but like other good men he had arare fault-finding impulse. The voices in the woods had beencalling very loudly that day, and Henry's temper suddenly flashedinto a flame. But he did not give way to any external outburstof passion, speaking in a level, measured voice.

　　"I am sorry you do not like it," he said, "because it is the lastwork I am going to do here."

　　"Wh-what do you mean?" exclaimed his father in astonishment.

　　"I am done," replied Henry in his firm tones, and dropping thefence rail that he held he walked to the house, every nerve inhim thrilling with expectation of the pleasure that was to come.His mother was there, and she started in fear at his face.

　　"It is true, mother," he said, "I am not going to deceive you, Iam going into the forest, but I will come again and often. It isthe only life that I can lead, I was made for it I suppose; Ihave tried the other out there in the fields, and I have triedhard, but I cannot stand it."

　　She knew too well to seek to stop him. He took his rifle fromits secluded comer, and the feeling of it, stock and barrel, wasgood to his hands. He put on the buckskin hunting shirt,leggings and moccasins, fringed and beaded, and with them he feltall his old zest and pride returning. He kissed his mother andsister good-by, shook hands with his younger brother, did thesame with his astonished father at the door, and then, rifle onshoulder, disappeared in the circling forest.

　　That night Braxton Wyatt sneered and said that a savage could notkeep from being a savage, but Paul Cotter turned upon him sofiercely that he took it back. The schoolmaster made no commentaloud, but to himself he said, "It was bound to come and perhapsit is no loss that it has come."

　　Meanwhile Henry Ware was tasting the fiercest and keenest joy ofhis life. The great forest seemed to reach out its boughs likekind arms to welcome and embrace. How cool was the shade! Howthe shafts of sunlight piercing the leaves fell like goldenarrows on the ground! How the little brooks laughed and dancedover the pebbles! This was his world and he had been too longaway from it. Everything was friendly, the huge tree trunks werelike old comrades, the air was fresher and keener than any thathe had breathed in a long time, and was full of new life andzest. All his old wilderness love rushed back to him, and nowafter many months he felt at home.

　　Strong as he was already new strength flowed into his frame andhe threw back his head, and laughed a low happy laugh. Thenrifle at the trail he ran for miles among the trees from the purehappiness of living, but noting as he passed with wonderfullykeen eyes every trail of a wild animal and all the forest signsthat he knew so well. He ran many miles and he felt noweariness. Then he throw himself down on Mother Earth, andrejoiced at her embrace. He lay there a long time, staring upthrough the leaves and the shifting sunlight, and he was so stillthat a hare hopped through the undergrowth almost at his feet,never taking alarm. To Henry Ware then the world seemed grandand beautiful, and of all things in it God had made thewilderness the finest, lingering over every detail with a lovinghand.

　　He watched the setting of the sun and the coming of the twilight.The sun was a great blazing ball and the western sky flowed awayfrom it in circling waves of blue and pink and gold, then longshadows came over the forest, and the distant trees began to melttogether into a gigantic dark wall. To the dweller in cities allthis vast loneliness and desolation would have been dreary andweird beyond description; he would have shuddered withsuperstitious awe, starting in fear at the slightest sound, butthere was no such quality in it for Henry Ware. He saw onlycomradeship and the friendly veil of the great creeping shadow.His eye could pierce the thickest night, and fear, either of thedarkness or things physical, was not in him.

　　He rose after a while, when the last sign of day was gone, andwalked on, though more slowly. He made no noise as he passed,stepping lightly, but with sure foot like one with both geniusand training for the wilderness. He knelt at a little brook toslake his thirst, but did not stop long there. His happinessdecreased in nowise. The familiar voices of the night werespeaking to him. He heard the distant hoot of an owl, a deerrustled in the bush, a lizard scuttled over the leaves, and herejoiced at the sounds. He did not think of hunger but towardmidnight he raked some of last year's fallen leaves close to thetrunk of a big tree, lay down upon them, and fell in a fewmoments into happy and dreamless sleep.

　　He awoke with the first rays of the dawn, shot a deer after anhour's search, and then cooked his breakfast by the side of oneof the little brooks. It was the first food that had tasted justright to him in many weeks and afterwards he lay by the camp fireawhile and luxuriated. He had the most wonderful feeling ofpeace and ease; all the world was his to go where he chose and todo what he chose, and he began to think of an autumn camp, a tinylodge in the deepest recess of the wilderness, where he couldstore spare ammunition, furs and skins and find a frequentrefuge, when the time for storms and cold came. He would buildat his ease-there was plenty of time and he would fill in theintervals with hunting and exploration.

　　He ranged that day toward the north and the west, moving withdeliberation, and not until the third or the fourth day did hecome to the place that he had in mind. In the triangle betweenthe junction of two streams was a marshy area, thickly grown withbushes and slim trees, that thrust their roots deep down throughthe mire into more solid soil. The marsh was perhaps two acresin extent; right in the heart of it was a piece of firm earthabout forty feet square and here Henry meant to build his lodge.He alone knew the path across the marsh over fallen logs lyingnear enough to each other to be reached by an agile man, and onthe tiny island all his possessions would be safe.

　　He worked a week at his hut, and it was done, a little lean-to ofbark and saplings, partly lined with skins, but proof againstrain or snow. On the floor he spread the skins and furs ofanimals that he killed, and on the walls he hung trophies of thehunt.

　　Two weeks after his house was finished he used it at its fullvalue. Summer was gone and autumn was coming, a great rainpoured and the wind blew cold. Dead leaves fell in showers fromthe trees, and the boughs swaying before the gale creakeddismally against each other. But it all gave to Henry a supremesense of physical comfort. He lay in his snug hut, and, pullinga little to one side the heavy buffalo robe that hung over thedoorway, watched the storm rage through the wilderness. He hadno sense of loneliness, his mind was in perfect tune witheverything about him, and delighted in the triumphantmanifestation of nature.

　　He stayed there all day, content to lie still and meditatevaguely of anything that came of its own accord into his mind.About the twilight hour he cooked some venison, ate it and thenslept a dreamless sleep through the night.

　　The rain ceased the next day but the air became crisp and cold,and autumn was fully come. In a week the forest was dyed intothe most glowing colors, red and yellow and brown, and the shadesbetween. The heavens were pure blue and gold, and it was apoignant delight to breathe the keen air. Again he ranged farand rejoiced in the hunting. His infallible rifle never missed,and in the little hut in the marsh the stock of furs and skinsgrew so fast that scarcely room for himself was left. He hid afresh store at another place in the forest, and then he returnedto Wareville for a day. His father greeted him with someconstraint, not with coldness exactly, but with lack ofunderstanding. His mother and his sister wept with joy and Mrs.Ware said: "I was expecting you about this time and you have notdisappointed me."

　　He stayed two days and his keen eyes, so observant of materialmatters, noted that the colony was not doing well for the time,the drought having almost ruined the crops and there was fullpromise of scanty food and a hard winter. Now came hisopportunity. He had looked upon his month in the forest as inpart a holiday, and he never intended to throw aside allresponsibility for others, roving the wilderness absolutely freefrom care. He knew that he would have work to do, he felt thathe should have it, and now he saw the way to do the kind of workthat he loved to do.

　　He replenished his supply of ammunition, took up his rifle againand returned to the forest. Now he used all his surpassingknowledge and skill in the chase, and game began to pour into thecolony, bear, deer, buffalo and the smaller animals, until healone seemed able to feed the entire settlement through thewinter.

　　He experienced a new thrill keener and more delightful than anythat had gone before; he was doing for others and the knowledgewas most pleasant. Winter came on, fierce and unyielding withalmost continuous snow and ice, and Henry Ware was the chiefsupport of that little village in the wilderness. The gamewandering with its fancy, or perhaps taking alarm at the newsettlement had drifted far, and he alone of all the hunters couldfind it. The voices that had been raised against him a secondtime were stilled again, because no one dared to accuse when hissingle figure stood between them and starvation.

　　He took Paul Cotter with him on some of his hunts, but never evento Paul did he tell the secret of his hut in the morass; that wasto be guarded for himself alone. He was fond of Paul, but Paulable though he was fell far behind Henry in the forest.

　　The debt of Wareville to him grew and none felt privileged tocriticize him now, as he appeared from the forest and disappearedinto it again on his self-chosen tasks.

　　The winter broke up at last, but with the spring came a new andmore formidable danger. Small parties of Indians, not strongenough to attack Wareville itself but sufficient for forestambush, began to appear in the country, and two or three livesthat could be ill spared were lost. Now Henry Ware showed hissupreme value; he was a match and more than a match for thesavages at all their own tricks, and he became the ranger for thesettlement, its champion against a wild and treacherous foe.

　　The tales of his skill and prowess spread far through thewilderness. Single handed he would not hesitate in the depths ofthe forest to attack war parties of half a dozen, and whilesuffering heavily themselves, they could never catch their daringtormentor. These tales even spread across the Ohio to the Indianvillages, where they told of a blond and giant white youth in theSouth who was the spirit of death, whom no runner could overtake,whom no bullet could slay and who raged against the red man withan invincible wrath.

　　As his single hand had fed them through the winter so, his singlehand protected them from death in the spring. He seemed to knowby instinct when the war parties were coming and where they wouldappear. Always he confronted them with some devious attack thatthey did not know how to meet, and Wareville remained inviolate.

　　Then, in the summer, when the war bands were all gone he cameback to Wareville to stay a while, although, everyone, himselfincluded, knew that he would always remain a son of thewilderness, spending but part of his time in the houses of men.