CHAPTER I. 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.
