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When the solemn
formed and broke. Thestream, swollen doubtless by rains about its source, flowedrapidly with a slight swishing noise. Phil looked upand down it, having a straight sweep of several hundredyards either way. Now and then the silver of its surfacewas broken by pieces of floating debris, brought doubtlessfrom some far point. He watched these fragmentsas they passed, a bough, a weed, or a stump, or the entiretrunk of a tree, wrenched by a swollen current from somecaving bank. He was glad that he had the watch next tothe river, because it was more interesting. The river wasa live thing, changing in color, and moving swiftly. Itssurface, with the objects that at times swept by on it, was a panorama of varied interest.
Besides Welby he saw no living creature. The campwas hidden from him completely by the trees and bushes, and they were so quiet within the circle of the wagonsthat no sound came from them. An hour passed. Itbecame two, then three. Vaporous clouds floated by themoon. The silver light on the river waned. The currentbecame dark yellow again, but flowing as ever with thatsoft, swishing sound. The change affected Phil. Theweird quality of the wilderness, clothed in dark, madeitself felt. He was glad when he met Welby, and theylingered a few seconds longer, talking a little. He cameback once more to the river, now flowing in a torrentalmost black between its high banks.
He took his usual long survey of the river, both upand down stream. Phil was resolved to do his full duty, and already he had some experience, allied with facultiesnaturally keen. He examined the opposite bank withquestioning eyes. At first it had seemed a solid wall ofdark green, but attention and the habit of the darknessnow enabled him to separate it into individual trees andbushes. Comanches ambushed there could easily shootacross the narrow stream and pick off a white sentinel, but he had always kept himself well back in his ownbushes, where he could see and yet be hidden.
His gaze turned to the river. Darker substances, driftfrom far banks, still floated on its surface. The windhad died. The branches of the trees did not move at all, and, in the absence of all other sound, the slight swishingmade by the flowing of the river grew louder. Hiswandering eyes fastened on a small stump that was comingfrom the curve above, and that floated easily on thesurface. Its motion was so regular that his glance stayed, and he watched it with interested eyes. It was anindependent sort of stump, less at the mercy of the currentthan the others had been. It came on, bearing in towardthe western bank, and Phil judged that if it kept itspresent course it would strike the shore beneath him.
The black stump was certainly interesting. He lookedfarther. Four feet behind it was floating another stumpof about the same size, and preserving the same direction, which was a diagonal line with the current. That was acoincidence. Yet farther was a third stump, showing allthe characteristics of the other two. That was remarkable.And lo! when a fourth, and then a fifth, and thena sixth came, a floating line, black and silent, it was aprodigy.
The first black stump struck lightly against the bank.Then a Comanche warrior, immersed hitherto to the chin, rose from the stream. The water ran in black bubblesfrom his naked body. In his right hand he held a longknife. The face was sinister, savage, and terrible beyondexpression. Another of the stumps was just rising fromthe stream, but Phil fired instantly at the first face, andthen sprang back, shouting, "The Comanches." He didnot run. He merely sheltered himself behind a tree, andbegan to reload rapidly. Welby came running throughthe bushes, and then the others, drawn by the shout. Ina minute the timber was filled with armed men.
"What is it? What is it? What did you shoot at?"they cried, although the same thought was in the minds ofevery one of them.
"The Comanches!" replied Phil. "They came swimmingin a line down the river. Their heads looked likeblack stumps on the water! I fired at the first themoment he rose from the stream! I think it was their planto ambush and kill the sentinels!"
Bill Breakstone was among those who had come, andhe cried:
"Then we must beat them off at once! We must notgive them a chance to get a footing on the bank!"
They rushed forward, Phil with them, his rifle nowreloaded, and gazed down at the river. They heard nonoise, but that slight swishing sound made by thecurrent, and the surface of the stream was bare. The riverflowed as if no foreign body had ever vexed its current.Fifty pairs of eyes used to the wilderness studiedthe stream and the thickets. They saw nothing. Fiftypairs of ears trained to hear the approach of dangerlistened. They heard nothing
technicalities, but it comes to the point. That, I believe, wasthe characteristic of Shakespeare, also. I agree, too, with Arenberg, that the Comanches will not trouble usagain for some time. So, I pray thee, be of good cheer,Sir Philip of the Merry Countenance, Knight of theBattle beside the Unknown River, Slayer of Comanches inthe Dark, Guardian of the Public Weal, et cetera, etcetera."