SEVERAL days had slipped by.
At John's request they had moved his bed across the doorway of his cabin;and stretched there, he could see the sun spring every morning out the dimpled emerald ocean of the wilderness; and the moon follow at night, silvering the soft ripples of the multitudinous leaves lapping the shores of silence: days when the inner noises of life sounded like storms; nights when everything within him lay as still as memory.
His wounds had behaved well from the out-set.When he had put forth all his frenzied despairing strength to throttle the cougar, it had let go its hold only to sink its fangs more deeply into his flesh, thus increasing the laceration; and there was also much laceration of the hand.But the rich blood flowing in him was the purest; and among a people who for a quarter of a century had been used to the treatment of wounds, there prevailed a rough but genuine skill that stood him in good stead.To these hardy fighting folk, as to him, it was a scratch and he would have liked to go on with his teaching.Warned of the danger of inflammation, however, he took to his bed;and according to our own nervous standards which seem to have intensified pain for us beyond the comprehension of our forefathers, he was sick and a great sufferer.
Those long cool, sweet, brilliant days! Those long still, lonely, silvery nights! His cabin stood near the crest of the hill that ran along the southern edge of the settlement; and propped on his bed, he could look down into the wide valley--into the town.The frame of his door became the frame of many a living picture.Under a big shady tree at the creek-side, he could see some of his children playing or fishing: their shouts and laughter were borne to his ear; he could recognize their shrill voices--those always masterful voices of boys at their games.Sometimes these little figures were framed timidly just outside the door--the girls with small wilted posies, the boys with inquiries.But there was no disguising the dread they all felt that he might soon be well: he had felt himself once; he did not blame them.
Wee Jennie even came up with her slate one day and asked him to set her a sum in multiplication; he did so; but he knew that she would rub it out as soon as she could get out of sight, and he laughed quietly to himself at this tiny casuist, who was trying so hard to deceive them both.
Two or three times, now out in the sunlight, now under the shadow of the trees, he saw an old white horse go slowly along the distant road; and a pink skirt and a huge white bonnet--two or three times; but he watched for it a thousand times till his eyes grew weary.
One day Erskine brought the skin of the panther which he was preparing for him, to take the place of the old one under his table.He brought his rifle along also,--his "Betsy," as he always called it; which, however, he declared was bewitched just now; and for a while John watched him curiously as he nailed a target on a tree in front of John's door, drew on it the face of the person whom he charged with having bewitched his gun, and then, standing back, shot it with a silver bullet; after which, the spell being now undone, he dug the bullet out of the tree again and went off to hunt with confidence in his luck.
And then the making of history was going on under his eyes down there in the town, and many a thoughtful hour he studied that.The mere procession of figures across his field of vision symbolized the march of destiny, the onward sweep of the race, the winning of the continent.Now the barbaric paint and plumes of some proud Indian, peaceably come to trade in pelts but really to note the changes that had taken place in his great hunting ground, loved and ranged of old beyond all others: this figure was the Past--the old, old Past.Next, the picturesque, rugged outlines of some backwoods rifleman, who with his fellows had dislodged and pushed the Indian westward:
this figure was the Present--the short-lived Present.Lastly, dislodging this figure in turn and already pushing him westward as he had driven the Indian, a third type of historic man, the fixed settler, the land-loving, house-building, wife-bringing, child-getting, stock-breeding yeoman of the new field and pasture: this was the figure of the endless Future.The retreating wave of Indian life, the thin restless wave of frontier life, the on-coming, all-burying wave of civilized life--he seemed to feel close to him the mighty movements of the three.His own affair, the attack of the panther, the last encounter between the cabin and the jungle looked to him as typical of the conquest; and that he should have come out of the struggle alive, and have owed his life to the young Indian fighter and hunter who had sprung between him and the incarnate terror of the wilderness, affected his imagination as an epitome of the whole winning of the West.
One morning while the earth was still fresh with dew, the great Boone came to inquire for him, and before he left, drew from the pocket of his hunting shirt a well-worn little volume.
"It has been my friend many a night," he said."I have read it by many a camp-fire.I had it in my pocket when I stood on the top of Indian Old Fields and saw the blue grass lands for the first time.And when we encamped on the creek there, I named it Lulbegrud in honour of my book.You can read it while you have nothing else to do;" and he astounded John by leaving in his hand Swift's story of adventures in new worlds.
He had many other visitors: the Governor, Mr.Bradford, General Wilkinson, the leaders in the French movement, all of whom were solicitous for his welfare as a man, but also as their chosen emissary to the Jacobin Club of Philadelphia.In truth it seemed to him that everyone in the town came sooner or later, to take a turn at his bedside or wish him well.
