THE LONE CANOE
A light canoe of bark, containing a single human figure, moved swiftly up one of the twin streams that form the Ohio.The water, clear and deep, coming through rocky soil, babbled gently at the edges, where it lapped the land, but in the center the full current flowed steadily and without noise.
The thin shadows of early dusk were falling, casting a pallid tint over the world, a tint touched here and there with living fire from the sun, which was gone, though leaving burning embers behind.One glowing shaft, piercing straight through the heavy forest that clothed either bank, fell directly upon the figure in the boat, as a hidden light illuminates a great picture, while the rest is left in shadow.It was no common forest runner who sat in the middle of the red beam.Yet a boy, in nothing but years, he swung the great paddle with an ease and vigor that the strongest man in the West might have envied.His rifle, with the stock carved beautifully, and the long, slender blue barrel of the border, lay by his side.He could bring the paddle into the boat, grasp the rifle, and carry it to his shoulder with a single, continuous movement.
His most remarkable aspect, one that the casual observer even would have noticed, was an extraordinary vitality.He created in the minds of those who saw him a feeling that he lived intensely every moment of his life.Born and-bred in the forest, he was essentially its child, a perfect physical being, trained by the utmost hardship and danger, and with every faculty, mental and physical, in complete coordination.It is only by a singular combination of time and place, and only once in millions of chances, that Nature produces such a being.
The canoe remained a few moments in the center of the red light, and its occupant, with a slight swaying motion of the paddle, held it steady in the current, while he listened.Every feature stood out in the glow, the firm chin, the straight strong nose, the blue eyes, and the thick yellow hair.The red blue, and yellow beads on his dress of beautifully tanned deerskin flashed in the brilliant rays.He was the great picture of fact, not of fancy, a human being animated by a living, dauntless soul.
He gave the paddle a single sweep and shot from the light into the shadow.His canoe did not stop until it grazed the northern shore, where bushes and overhanging boughs made a deep shadow.
It would have taken a keen eye now to have seen either the canoe or its occupant, and Henry Ware paddled slowly and without noise in the darkest heart of the shadow.
The sunlight lingered a little longer in the center of the stream.Then the red changed to pink.The pink, in its turn, faded, and the whole surface of the river was somber gray, flowing between two lines of black forest.
The coming of the darkness did not stop the boy.He swung a little farther out into the stream, where the bushes and hanging boughs would not get in his way, and continued his course with some increase of speed.
The great paddle swung swiftly through the water, and the length of stroke was amazing, but the boy's breath did not come faster, and the muscles on his arms and shoulders rippled as if it were the play of a child.Henry was in waters unknown to him.He had nothing more than hearsay upon which to rely, and he used all the wilderness caution that he had acquired through nature and training.He called into use every faculty of his perfect physical being.His trained eyes continually pierced the darkness.At times, he stopped and listened with ears that could hear the footfall of the rabbit, but neither eye nor ear brought report of anything unusual.The river flowed with a soft, sighing sound.Now and then a wild creature stirred in the forest, and once a deer came down to the margin to drink, but this was the ordinary life of the woods, and he passed it by.
He went on, hour after hour.The river narrowed.The banks grew higher and rockier, and the water, deep and silvery under the moon, flowed in a somewhat swifter current.Henry gave a little stronger sweep to the paddle, and the speed of the canoe was maintained.He still kept within the shadow of the northern bank.
He noticed after a while that fleecy vapor was floating before the moon.The night seemed to be darkening, and a rising wind came out of the southwest.The touch of the air on, his face was damp.It was the token of rain, and he felt that it would not be delayed long.
It was no part of his plan to be caught in a storm on the Monongahela.Besides the discomfort, heavy rain and wind might sink his frail canoe, and he looked for a refuge.The river was widening again, and the banks sank down until they were but little above the water.Presently he saw a place that he knew would be suitable, a stretch of thick bushes and weeds growing into the very edge of the water, and extending a hundred yards or more along the shore.
He pushed his canoe far into the undergrowth, and then stopped it in shelter so close that, keen as his own eyes were, he could scarcely see the main stream of the river.The water where he came to rest was not more than a foot deep, but he remained in the canoe, half reclining and wrapping closely around himself and his rifle a beautiful blanket woven of the tightest fiber.
