The Project Gutenberg EBook of Trail and Trading Post, by Edward Stratemeyer This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Trail and Trading Post or The Young Hunters of the Ohio Author: Edward Stratemeyer Illustrator: J. W. Kennedy Release Date: October 10, 2020 [EBook #63431] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAIL AND TRADING POST *** Produced by Richard Tonsing, WebRover, MFR, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) The battle was now on in all its fury. —Page 287. Colonial Series TRAIL AND TRADING POST OR THE YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE OHIO BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER Author of “With Washington in the West,” “American Boys’ Life of William McKinley,” “Old Glory Series,” “Pan-American Series,” “Dave Porter Series,” etc. ILLUSTRATED BY J. W. KENNEDY BOSTON LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. Published August, 1906 Copyright, 1906, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. All rights reserved Trail and Trading Post Norwood Press Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass. U. S. A. PREFACE “Trail and Trading Post” is a complete story in itself, but forms the sixth and last volume of a line known under the general title of “Colonial Series.” As I have mentioned before, when I started this series I had in mind to write not more than three volumes, telling of colonial times during the war between France and England for the possession of Canada and the territory bordering the Great Lakes. The first book, entitled “With Washington in the West,” told of the disastrous Braddock campaign against Fort Duquesne; the second, called “Marching on Niagara,” gave many of the particulars of General Forbes’s advance against the same French stronghold and likewise the particulars of the advance of Generals Prideaux and Johnson against Fort Niagara; while the third volume, “At the Fall of Montreal,” told of the heroic fighting of General Wolfe at Quebec, and that last contest which brought this long-drawn struggle to a close. The war with France was now over, but the Indians were very bitter against the English, and in a fourth volume, called “On the Trail of Pontiac,” were given the particulars of how that noted red warrior formed a conspiracy among a number of tribes to exterminate the English. The first conspiracy failed to come to a head, but Pontiac was not disheartened, and in a fifth volume, “The Fort in the Wilderness,” were related how the warriors under him laid siege to Fort Detroit and Fort Pitt, and how the English under Colonel Bouquet won the bloody battle of Bushy Run,—the last regular contest with the red men for some years to come. With the Indian struggle at an end, the English were more eager than ever to push forward to the west, to establish trading posts and settlements, and it is with this movement that the present volume concerns itself. The advance of the whites was watched with hatred by the Indians, who lost no opportunity to do them injury. Among those to push onward, to the fertile country bordering the Ohio River, were our old friends, the Morrises—and what they did to make our glorious country what it is to-day I leave the pages which follow to relate. In closing this series I wish to thank the many thousands who have shown their appreciation of my efforts to amuse and instruct them. In penning the volumes I have endeavored to be as accurate historically as possible, and I trust the perusal will do my young readers much good. Edward Stratemeyer. Independence Day, 1906. v vi vii CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A Glimpse of the Past 1 II. A Buffalo and a Bear 9 III. Dave and the Indian 18 IV. Taken by Surprise 28 V. The Flight to the River 37 VI. Back to the Fort 46 VII. The Start for the East 56 VIII. The Massacre of a Pack-Train 65 IX. Under the Cliff 75 X. Barringford as a Scout 85 XI. In Which White Buffalo Appears 95 XII. Home Once More 105 XIII. An Old Enemy Appears 115 XIV. A Fight with a Wolverine 125 XV. Wolves, and a Snowstorm 135 XVI. Saved by a Windstorm 145 XVII. The Journey to the Trading Post 155 XVIII. Running into a Trap 164 XIX. The Shooting Contest 174 XX. Another Long Journey 184 XXI. A New Move 194 XXII. A Fight among Wild Beasts 204 XXIII. The Rescue of the Stranger 214 XXIV. Snowbound on the Trail 225 XXV. Crushing News 234 XXVI. By Way of the Tunnel 244 XXVII. Holding the Trading Post 254 XXVIII. In Which a Battering Ram Is Used 264 XXIX. From Enemies to Friends 274 XXX. For Life or Death 285 XXXI. Days of Peace—Conclusion 297 ix x ILLUSTRATIONS The battle was now on in all its fury (page 287) Frontispiece PAGE. Both were now getting ready to renew the contest 15 He glanced up, saw his dire peril, and let himself drop 49 “Boka must kill both before either awakens,” murmured the Indian 77 “I think we had better take turns watching,” said Henry 147 “A bull’s-eye for Henry Morris!” 176 The old frontiersman swept through the opening 258 Bevoir pitched headlong into the smoldering campfire 298 xi TRAIL AND TRADING POST CHAPTER I A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST “If we can only get that buffalo, Henry, it will be a feather in our cap.” “Right you are, Dave. But the animal may be miles and miles away by this time. As you know, they can run a long distance when they are frightened.” “Oh, yes, I know that well enough,” answered Dave Morris, as he rested for a moment on the paddle he had been using. “I haven’t forgotten the buffalo that once knocked our tent flat and ran away.” “And I haven’t forgotten how I went after him and nearly lost my life tumbling over the rocks and down the big hill,” added Henry. “I can tell you, I don’t want another such experience!” “Do you think the buffalo went around the head of the lake?” “He was headed that way—the last I saw of him. Let us paddle up to the brook and go ashore. If the tracks are there we can follow them: if not, I reckon we’ll have to give up the hunt and content ourselves with some small game.” “You don’t suppose that there are any unfriendly Indians around,” resumed Dave Morris, after a few minutes of silence, during which time both young hunters applied themselves to the paddles of the canoe they occupied. “I’ve had enough of fighting to last me for a long time to come.” “There is really no telling about that, the redskins are so treacherous. Down at the fort they seem to think the district for fifty miles around is clear, but Sam Barringford told me to keep my eyes peeled—that there is no telling yet what may happen. The war is over, but Pontiac isn’t dead, and neither is Moon Eye, and a lot more of the other chiefs.” “Don’t mention Moon Eye to me,” said Dave Morris, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “That Indian will never forgive me for escaping from him with Nell and the twins. I suppose he’d give a whole lot to get his hands on me again.” “As for that, he’d like to get his hands on any of the men who fought against him and his followers. The Indians think ——Wait, Dave! Turn in to the shore, quick! I just saw the buffalo. He is back of the rocks over yonder!” The canoe was turned in the direction indicated with all possible speed. Soon it glided under some overhanging bushes, and the paddles were stowed away noiselessly. Then each of the young hunters caught up his flint-lock musket, looked to the priming, to make certain that the weapon was ready for use, and stepped ashore. “As you saw him first, you lead,” whispered Dave Morris to his companion, and Henry led off, with the other youth close at his heels. Both had their eyes and ears on the alert for whatever might turn up. As the old readers of this “Colonial Series” know, Dave and Henry Morris were cousins, of about the same age, who when at home lived near Will’s Creek, Virginia—close to where the town of Cumberland now stands. Dave was the only son of a widower, James Morris, who was a well-known trapper and fur trader. Henry came of a more numerous family, he having an older brother Rodney and also a sister Nell, a bright miss of tender years. In the first three volumes of this series, entitled, respectively, “With Washington in the West,” “Marching on Niagara,” and “At the Fall of Montreal,” I told how Dave worked for the first President of our country when the latter was but a humble surveyor, and how the youth also served under his former employer during the memorable and disastrous Braddock advance on Fort Duquesne—held at that time, 1755, by the French, and located where the prosperous city of Pittsburg stands to-day. This was really the opening of the fourth intercolonial war, and was followed by an attack on Fort Niagara, and then by assaults on Quebec, Montreal, and other points, in which fights both Dave and Henry took active parts, doing their duty as common soldiers to the best of their ability. With the close of the war between England and France, both of the young soldiers were glad enough to return home, which they did in company with a number of others, including Sam Barringford, a frontiersman who had been their friend through thick and thin, and also White Buffalo, an old chief of the Delawares, who was very friendly with all of the Morrises and who had done them more than one service. Previous to the war Dave’s father had established a small trading post in what was then considered the “far western country.” This was on the Kinotah, a small but beautiful stream flowing into the Ohio River. The trader had a good deal of trouble with a rascally Frenchman, who claimed the post as his own, and who hired a number of Indians to make war on Mr. Morris, and at last the post had to be abandoned. “I shall go and re-establish myself in the west,” said James Morris, to his son and to his other relatives, and soon he set forth with a pack-train, as related in the fourth volume of this series, called “On the Trail of Pontiac.” Dave and Henry went with him, and after a number of more or less thrilling adventures, the site of the post was reached. The place had been burned down, and the forest for a long distance around was a mass of blackened tree-stumps. Seeing this, the party journeyed further, presently reaching the Ohio, where a new post was established and held, despite the warlike attitude of Pontiac and many other Indian chiefs. Once the trader and his men had to retreat to Fort Pitt (formerly Fort Duquesne) for protection. A fierce fight was had with the enemy under Jean Bevoir, the rascally French trader who had caused the 1 2 3 4 5 Morrises so much trouble, and nearly all of the enemy were killed, Bevoir himself being wounded both in the arm and the side. Pontiac’s first conspiracy against the English had come to naught, but the wily Indian leader was not dismayed, and soon he plotted to fall upon many of the settlements simultaneously. What this led to has been related in detail in the fifth volume of this series, entitled “The Fort in the Wilderness,” Fort Detroit was besieged and likewise Fort Pitt and many other points of lesser importance, and had it not been for the advance of an English army from the east, with victories at Bushy Run and other points, there is no doubt but that the massacre of the settlers would have been appalling. As it was, James Morris had to abandon his new trading post, and he and Henry, with some others, reached Fort Pitt only after a desperate struggle to escape the red men. Dave, during this trouble, was at the home near Will’s Creek. Here the effects of the uprising were also felt. White Buffalo, the ever-faithful friend, brought word to the Morrises, and they took their flight to Fort Cumberland just in the nick of time. During a previous winter, when the snow lay deep upon the ground, the old frontiersman, Sam Barringford, had made a curious discovery. Wrapped in a bundle swinging from a tree he had found two boy babies, evidently twins. He had carried the twins to the Morris cabin, where Mrs. Morris had taken care of the babes, who, later on, were named Tom and Artie. Barringford learned through White Buffalo that a Frenchman at Detroit knew something about the twins and he determined to visit the fort, taking Dave with him. The trip brought to light little that was new, but the old frontiersman and the young soldier saw how Fort Detroit was besieged and had much trouble in getting away. Then, in company with Rodney Morris, the two joined the English army marching westward to relieve Fort Pitt. After the battle of Bushy Run Dave was made a prisoner by some Indians under Moon Eye and taken to a village, where, to his surprise, he also found the twins and Nell, they having been stolen some time previous. Watching his chances, the young soldier managed to escape in a canoe during a violent storm, taking the little twins and his cousin with him. Later he was aided by White Buffalo, and though the Indians under Moon Eye did their best to retake their captives, they were soon halted by James Morris, Rodney, Barringford, Henry, and some of the English regulars, and were forced to leave that section of the country. Dave continued on his way to Fort Pitt with his relatives and friends; and there the whole party rested for the time being. In the meantime word was received from the east that matters had quieted down around Will’s Creek, so that Joseph Morris and his wife could return to the old homestead, for which those at the fort were thankful. “I’d like to be back home myself,” said Rodney. In years gone by he had been almost a cripple and the campaign against the Indians had told greatly upon him. “I think you had better start before long,” his uncle had answered. “Your father will need you, and besides Nell and the twins must get back.” While at Fort Pitt the Morrises and Sam Barringford had come in contact with Benoit Vascal, the Frenchman who knew something about the twins. They thought Vascal had stolen the children from their parents, but the Frenchman laid the blame on one Paul Camont, who had been killed by the wolves at the spot where Tom and Artie were found. Benoit Vascal said the children belonged to a Mr. Maurice Hamilton, a gentleman who had visited America to look up some land claims. It was said that Mr. Hamilton had returned to London almost a year before. A letter was sent to England, but in those days it took a long time to cross the ocean, and so far no answer had been received. It had been decided to keep Benoit Vascal a prisoner at Fort Pitt, but the wily Frenchman slipped away and left for parts unknown. 6 7 8 CHAPTER II A BUFFALO AND A BEAR Two weeks had passed quietly at Fort Pitt when Dave suggested to Henry that they go out on a hunt for large game. In the meantime it was arranged that Rodney, Sam Barringford, and a number of others should journey to the east, taking little Nell and the twins with them. The start was to be made on the following Monday, and this was Thursday. “You must be very careful,” said Mr. Morris, when the two young hunters set out on their quest for big game. “Run no needless chances, and if you see any unfriendly Indians lose no time in returning to this fort.” It was the middle of September—a clear, cool day, with a faint breeze blowing from the northward. Dave and Henry had set out directly after breakfast, each armed with his long flint-lock musket and his day’s rations. Both wore their old army uniforms, which were much the worse for the hard usage received. But, as Dave remarked, anything was good enough for the forest, where nobody was likely to see them. Three hours of tramping had brought them to a small body of water, called by the Indians Lake Kashaka. Here, drifting about, they came across an Indian canoe containing two good paddles. Without hesitation they entered the canoe and crossed the lake, where they came upon the track of several deer. They were deliberating upon whether to follow the trail or not when Henry chanced to look up the lake and see a buffalo near some rocks. The animal was gazing at them with lifted head, and almost instantly ran from sight behind some bushes. “There’s our meat!” cried Henry, and dashed back to the canoe. Then he told of what he had seen, and the boys made after the game, as already described. Buffaloes were not so plentiful in this section of the country as they had been previous to the coming of the English and French hunters, and the idea of bringing down so much good meat at a single shooting filled the youths with keen enthusiasm. It took the two young hunters but a few minutes to reach the spot where Henry had seen the buffalo. The game was not in sight, but the marks of his hoofs were plainly to be seen and some young and tender bushes showed where he had been browsing. “’Tis only a question of how far he had traveled,” said Henry, who had always been considered the best hunter among the Morris boys. “It may be only a quarter of a mile, and then again it may be six or eight miles.” “Let us follow the trail, at least for awhile,” answered Dave. “It is plain enough. He must be a pretty heavy fellow, by the depth of the marks he has left.” “I imagine all full-grown buffaloes are rather heavy,” answered Henry. “Come on, and do not make any more noise than is necessary. We don’t want him to get scared again—if he is within hearing.” The trail of the buffalo led up a small hill and then down into a bit of meadow, where the grass was thick and damp. As the youths progressed a flock of birds started up directly in front of them and presently they caught sight of three fair-sized rabbits. “Now just look at that!” cried Dave, in vexed tones. “They seem to know that we are afraid to shoot at them, for fear of disturbing the bigger game.” “Puts me in mind of what Ira Sanderson once said,” returned his cousin with a grin. “He argued that a fellow always saw the best game when he was out without his shooting-iron.” “I reckon he was right, Henry; I’ve seen some fine deer when I didn’t have anything to shoot with.” The two young hunters now relapsed into silence, as the meadow came to an end and they entered the forest. Here there was a buffalo trail well defined, having been used by the animals for many years. The trail in general was old, but the fresh hoofmarks of the single animal that had just passed were easily followed by Henry, who was as good on a trail as the average Indian. The forest was a primeval one, with great trees stretching their branches in all directions. Monstrous roots lay sprawled over the trail, and they had to watch out that one or the other did not take a tumble. The air was filled with the songs and cries of birds, while here and there they heard the steady tap-tap of the woodpecker at his work. They could have brought down a dozen squirrels had they felt so inclined, and not a few chipmunks also showed themselves. “That buffalo must have gone quite a way,” remarked Henry, as they came to a halt in the midst of a forest glade. “We have already covered a good mile and a half.” “Don’t give up yet,” pleaded Dave, who had set his heart on returning to Fort Pitt with the news of laying low the bison. “Oh, I’m willing enough to go on, Dave. But we have got to leave the regular trail now.” “Where is the new trail?” “Over yonder,” and Henry pointed with his hand. “It seems to me he left the regular trail rather suddenly,” remarked Dave, walking over to the spot indicated. “Don’t you think so?” “I do.” “What for?” “I don’t know, excepting that something must have scared him—some rabbits in the brush, or something like that.” Once more the two young hunters pushed forward, the trail now leading among some rocks, where walking was anything but agreeable. In some places there were sharp brambles which scratched them not a little. 9 10 11 12 13 “Henry, that buffalo didn’t come this way for nothing,” whispered Dave. “Just what I think. He was scared, and scared good and proper too. I wish I knew what did it.” “Can there be any other hunters around here?” “That isn’t impossible. A number of the men who were at the fort have gone away in the last few days. Some of them may be in this vicinity.” “If they are I trust we shoot that buffalo first.” They now reached another rise of ground, beyond which was a depression encircled by bushes and rocks. As they mounted the rise they heard a peculiar snort. “Listen!” whispered Henry, and held up his hand. “It’s the buffalo!” answered his cousin. “And hark! Some other animal is there!” “I think I know what it is, Dave. Be careful now and don’t make any more noise.” Guns to the front, they crawled up the rise and peered through the fringe of brushwood. A sight met their gaze that thrilled them to the heart. The buffalo was there, heavy-set and shaggy as to head and shoulders, and with a look of fierceness in his staring eyes. He was crouched beside a rock, and directly in front of him was a small she-bear, standing on her hind legs, and with her jaws dripping with blood. Behind the bear were two half-grown cubs, both whining because of wounds in their sides. To Henry’s practiced eye the scene told its own story. In leaping over the rise of ground the buffalo had come close to the den of the bear and had stepped on both of the cubs, who were probably playing around at the time. This had aroused the ire of the mother bear, and she had sprung to the rescue and bitten the buffalo in the flank. The big beast, unable to proceed on his flight, had turned around and struck the bear in the side. Then both had separated, and were now getting ready to renew the contest between them. Both had separated, and were now getting ready to renew the contest. —Page 15. The mother bear now uttered a peculiar sound, and at this the cubs retreated to a hole under some rocks, which was their home. The next instant the buffalo charged once more, hitting the bear squarely on the head and knocking her over. But as she tumbled, she caught her enemy by the neck and sank her teeth deeply into the buffalo’s throat. “What a fight!” whispered Dave. “What shall we do?” “Wait—but be ready to shoot,” answered Henry. “I think the buffalo will try to run for it in another minute.” There was a snarl and a snort, and the buffalo did his best to throw the bear off. But the latter clung fast, in the meantime clawing rapidly with her hind feet at the bison’s forequarter. Then the buffalo swung around, knocking the smaller beast against the rocks with such force that the two young hunters heard the ribs of the bear crack. She fell to the ground and the buffalo struck at her repeatedly with his hoofs. “It’s all over with the bear,” whispered Dave. “Hadn’t we better shoot at the buffalo?” Before Henry could reply, the bison swung around once more and made a leap which, for the instant, took him out of sight of both youths. His instinct told him of more danger in that vicinity, and he sprang up on some rocks to get a better look around. This movement brought him face to face with Dave and Henry. Crack! It was the report of Henry’s gun, and the bullet hit the bison on the side of the head, not far from the left eye. But the shot was merely a glancing one and did little damage. Then Dave fired, hitting the beast in the fleshy part of the neck. The fight with the bear had left the buffalo in anything but a good humor and the two shots from the young hunters only added to his ugliness. He paused to glare at the pair and then made a savage leap towards Henry, lowering his horns as he did so. “Look out!” screamed Dave, and Henry sprang to one side. The movement was so quick that he could not calculate on where he was going and he slipped into a hollow, his right foot going down between two heavy stones in such a fashion that his ankle was badly wrenched. The buffalo now turned upon Dave and he too leaped away. With unloaded gun he could do nothing, and as quickly as possible he started to put in a fresh charge and fix the priming. In the meantime the buffalo swung around once more, gave Henry and the bear another look, and then sprang for the brushwood and was out of sight in a twinkling. 14 15 16 17 CHAPTER III DAVE AND THE INDIAN “He has gone!” “Shoot him, Dave, shoot him!” With frantic haste Dave fixed the priming of his flint-lock musket. But long before the weapon was ready for use the buffalo was out of sight and hearing. On the ground in the hollow lay the she-bear, giving a last convulsive shudder. At the mouth of her den were the two cubs, whining plaintively, as if they understood that something had gone wrong. Henry sat on one of the rocks, with his foot still caught fast and a look of pain on his face. “What’s the matter? Did the buffalo hit you?” called out his cousin, after he had looked to make certain that the bear could do no further harm. “No, but I—I hurt my ankle,” panted Henry. He gave his leg a pull. “Oh! But that hurts!” “The bear is out of it,” said Dave. He came closer. “Hullo, your foot is caught. Let me help you. I reckon we have seen the last of that buffalo.” “I don’t know about that, Dave. We both hit him, and the bear gave him something to remember her by.” “Poor beast! She certainly did what she could for her cubs. Just look at them now!” It was an affecting sight. The mother bear had passed away and both of the cubs had crawled forth from the den and were licking her face and pushing her form with their little noses. Then both began to whine once more. Neither seemed to think of running away. Dave set down his gun and helped Henry to release his caught foot. Then they took off the legging and the shoe. The ankle had begun to swell and there was a deep scratch on one side. “Can you step on it?” asked Dave, and his cousin tried to do so. He caught his breath and gave a gasp. “Like pins and needles going through my leg!” he announced. “Oh, what luck! And we didn’t get the buffalo after all!” he added, ruefully. The bear cubs now came up and one made a snap at Dave’s foot while the other took up Henry’s shoe and began to chew it. Seeing this, Dave drew his hunting knife and dispatched them both. Then he turned again to his cousin. “I suppose it is out of the question for you to think of walking,” he said. “Not just yet,” answered Henry. “Maybe I’ll be able to do it in an hour or two.” “Then we may as well rest right here. One comfort, we have the bear and her cubs even if we didn’t get the buffalo.” “Dave, why don’t you follow the trail again? That buffalo may not be far off. It won’t do any good for you to sit down here by me—I can take care of myself. Only be careful that the beast doesn’t corner you.” “I’ll do it. But I’ll get you some water first,” answered Dave. He had noted a spring just before coming to the bear hollow, and he walked back to it and procured some water in a gourd they carried for that purpose. With this Henry started to bathe his swollen ankle, while Dave took to the fresh trail the buffalo had made. “Don’t stay away more than an hour!” called out Henry after him. “Not unless it takes a little longer to get a good chance at the buffalo,” replied his cousin. The buffalo had crashed through a long stretch of brushwood where the trail could be followed with ease. Then he had taken to the old trail once more, at a point a good half-mile from where he had before left it. “He is bound for the west, that’s certain,” said Dave to himself. “And more than likely he will keep on until sundown. I may as well give up all hopes of bringing him down. Heigh-ho! such are the fortunes of hunting!” And he heaved a deep sigh. He kept on for quarter of a mile further, reaching a point where the trail crossed a small but clear stream of spring water. Here the bison had paused for a drink, and resting his gun against a tree, the young hunter got down on his hands and knees to do likewise. The water tasted so good that Dave took his time and drank his fill. Then he raised his head, started to rise, and looked toward the tree where he had placed his weapon. The gun was gone! For the moment the young hunter could not believe the evidence of his senses. He remained in a crouching position, wondering what he had best do. He felt that an enemy must have taken the gun, and wondered who it could be. With caution he looked around, but not a soul was in sight. It was a peculiar position to be in, and small wonder that the cold perspiration stood out upon the young hunter’s forehead. He had been in peril before, among the Indians, and felt fairly certain that a red man had gotten the better of him. What was best to do? He asked himself the question several times, his heart beating meanwhile like a trip-hammer within his breast. An enemy was surely at hand. What would be the next movement of the unknown? Cautiously he put his hand to his side, drew his hunting knife, and arose slowly to an upright position. Overhead the branches of the trees were tightly interlaced, making the spot rather gloomy. The stream came down between a number of 18 19 20 21 22 rocks which were backed up by bushes and trees. Would it be best to make a dash for this shelter? “White boy drop knife!” The unexpected command, issued in a guttural tone, came from a clump of brushwood behind Dave. The young hunter swung around, but could see no one. “White boy drop knife, or Indian shoot,” were the next words spoken, and now Dave saw the barrel of his own gun pointed at his breast. “Who are you?” he asked. “White boy drop knife, or shoot him sure!” was the only answer, and now the muzzle of the gun was shoved a little closer to the youth’s breast. Looking through the brushwood, Dave made out the repulsive features of a savage and saw the wicked gleam of his black eyes. There seemed to be no help for it, and the hunting knife dropped to the ground. The Indian gave a grunt of satisfaction and then stepped into the opening, still, however, keeping the gun levelled at Dave’s breast. He was a brawny warrior of the Senecas, arrayed in his war-paint and feathers, and he carried a tomahawk and a knife in his girdle and a bow with arrows across his shoulders. “Where white boy come from?” he asked, abruptly. “I came from Fort Pitt,” answered Dave. “Why did you steal my gun?” At the last question the red man gave a grunt that might mean anything. He looked Dave over with care and made him back away, so that he could secure the lad’s hunting knife, which he placed beside his own. “White boy sodger, um?” went on the savage, noting the tattered uniform. “Yes, I have been a soldier,” answered Dave. He continued to gaze at the savage. “I’ve seen you before. Oh, I remember now. You were with Moon Eye, right after I was captured. You had something to do with the stealing of my little cousin and the twin boys.” The red man’s eyes flashed, but he did not answer to this. Evidently he was pondering upon what to do next. He had come upon Dave quite unexpectedly and had taken the gun on the impulse of the moment. “White boy alone?” he asked, after an awkward pause. “No, I have a good many friends around here,” was Dave’s quick reply, but he did not add that the majority of his friends were at the fort. At this the face of the warrior darkened. He allowed the gun barrel to drop and drew his tomahawk. If others of the whites were near he thought it might be best to brain Dave on the spot, making as little noise as possible, and then get away from that vicinity. The young hunter understood the movement, and his heart leaped into his throat. He had no desire to feel the edge of the savage’s stone hatchet. As the gun barrel dropped still lower he thought of the rocks and the brushwood and made a spring towards them. “Pawah!” cried the Indian, in a rage. “White boy stop!” And he made a dash after the youth. But as luck would have it one moccasin caught in a trailing vine and he pitched headlong. As he went down, the trigger of the gun struck some brush, caught fast, and the piece went off with a loud report. Dave imagined the gun was discharged at himself, and fully expected to feel the sting of the bullet, perhaps in some vital portion of his body. He felt himself making a silent prayer, and as the sting did not come realized that as yet he was unharmed. He cleared the rocks at another bound, almost fell into the bushes, and ran on and on with all the speed he could command. Dave covered a good quarter of a mile before he thought of coming to a halt. He was now in the very depths of the great forest, with a heavy growth of timber on all sides of him. The way had been rough and he had stumbled twice, scratching his hand and his knee so that they smarted greatly. He was far away from the buffalo trail and also away from the stream where he had stopped for a drink. He had made a number of turns while running, and could not tell in what direction he had left either the red warrior or Henry. “Here’s a fine kettle of fish!” he muttered, as he stopped to catch his breath. “Everything is going wrong to-day. First we lost the buffalo, then Henry sprained his ankle, and now here am I, trying to get away from a redskin who wants to take my life and who has robbed me of my rifle and hunting knife! I wonder what will happen next?” He listened intently, but could hear nothing of his red foe, nor could he see anything to alarm him. It was more gloomy than ever under the trees, the sun having gone under a cloud. The breeze sighed mournfully through the tallest branches, and only the occasional note of a bird, or the distant bark of a fox, broke the stillness. Dave did not dare to linger long in one spot, fearing that the Indian might be sneaking over his trail with the slyness of a fox. He pushed forward, hoping to come to a series of rocks, or a deep stream, where the trail might be hidden. His search was at last rewarded. Some flat rocks appeared, forming something of a cliff. He walked over these, taking care to avoid every accumulation of dirt or trailing vines. Then, coming to the end of the stones, he leaped down into a gully, where flowed a stream of water several feet wide and more than a foot deep. He followed this stream a long distance, until it was lost among some rugged rocks, where his further progress appeared to be barred. “There—I don’t think that Indian can follow me to here,” he told himself. “The question is, How am I to get back to Henry without being discovered, and how are we both to get back to the fort?” 23 24 25 26 27 CHAPTER IV TAKEN BY SURPRISE Dave’s hasty flight had tired him out, and he was glad enough to sit down upon one of the rocks and rest. The cloudiness in the sky had continued, and it looked as if there might be a shower before nightfall. The young hunter was in anything but a cheerful frame of mind, and would have given a good deal to have been back at the fort once more. He was worried also about his cousin, and trusted that Henry would not fall into the hands of the Indian. At last, having gotten back his breath, he resolved to start off once more and see if he could not locate the spot where he had left his cousin. He walked through the forest with extreme caution, often coming to a halt, to survey the surroundings and make sure that the enemy was nowhere near. Thus a full hour more was consumed, and he knew that Henry would now be growing exceedingly anxious concerning his prolonged absence. “I hope he doesn’t try to follow me up,” said Dave to himself. “If he does it’s more than likely that redskin will see him.” At length, after moving in several directions, the young hunter came to a spot that looked slightly familiar to him. He made a circle of the point, and finally recognized it as the very spot he had come to with White Buffalo when he and the Indian were on the way to the fort with little Nell and the twins. “Well, I never thought I’d see this place again!” he murmured, half aloud. “I wish I had White Buffalo with me now. I’d feel a heap safer than I do.” He now knew how to reach the fort, and resolved to follow that course until he should come to the point where the trail crossed that which he and Henry had taken after leaving the lake to go after the buffalo. Then he would follow up the buffalo trail to where his cousin had been left. He tramped on and on, growing bolder as he saw nothing more of his red enemy. It was well past noon, and he munched some of the rations in his game bag, washing down the hasty meal with more water from a brook. He was almost up to the spot where the fight between the buffalo and the bear had occurred when he suddenly heard the murmur of voices, conversing in the Indian language. Looking to one side of the clearing, he made out four Indians, one of whom was the fellow who had deprived him of his rifle and hunting knife. The discovery came as a shock to Dave, and once again his heart sank within him. He had presence of mind enough to leap behind some bushes, and a moment later the red men passed within three yards of him. Then he heard a cry from the Indians, followed by an exclamation from Henry. “They have found him!” thought Dave, and he was right. The four red men came upon poor Henry just as he was putting on his shoe, preparatory to looking for his cousin. One leaped forward, pinning the young hunter to the rocks, and in a twinkling the four had made him a prisoner and disarmed him. “What does this mean?” demanded Henry, although he knew only too well. “Let up, I say!” But the Indians paid no attention. One carried a length of rawhide and with this they bound the young hunter’s hands behind him. Then his pockets were searched, and they took from him the three shillings and sixpence he happened to be carrying. After the capture, the four Indians held a consultation among themselves. It was in their native tongue, so that Henry could understand next to nothing. “White boy come with Indians,” said the red man who could speak English. He had joined his brother warriors after giving up the chase after Dave. At that moment Henry caught sight of the extra hunting knife and the rifle he knew only too well. “Dave’s gun and Dave’s knife!” he cried. “What have you done with him?” he asked, with a sinking heart. The Indian would not answer this question, but drew up his eyes in a peculiar fashion that caused Henry to shiver. He concluded that Dave must have been killed, although he noted with just a grain of hope that none of the warriors carried his cousin’s scalp. Despite the fact that his ankle hurt him a good deal, Henry was forced to march along with the Indians, who prodded him now and then with the points of their hunting knives to make him move along faster. The course was to the northwest, to a stream known to the red men as the Mustalonack, where a small band had taken up their secret abode since the disastrous battle of Bushy Run. After what was to Henry a painful walk lasting an hour, the Mustalonack was reached, and from the bushes along the bank the Indians drew a long canoe. They made Henry enter and then got in themselves and shoved off. The course was up the stream, and two used the paddles. As the current was rather swift, the progress of the craft was necessarily slow. In moving towards the river the Indians had been on the alert for the possible appearance of white hunters or English soldiers. They knew that to stay in that neighborhood was dangerous, and they expected in a few days to move much further to the westward, perhaps even as far as the Mississippi. They were awaiting orders from their chief, who, in turn, was hoping every day to receive some wampum, or speech belt, from Pontiac. But though the red warriors were on the alert, their eyes were not sharp enough to catch sight of Dave, as he followed them at a safe distance. Although unarmed, the young hunter could not bear to think of leaving his cousin to his fate, and so he kept the party in front in sight, hoping that sooner or later he would be able to render Henry some assistance. 28 29 30 31 32 When the Indians set off in the canoe, Dave was for the moment nonplussed, not knowing how to follow them. But when he saw how slowly the craft moved, he took courage, and walking through the forest along the shore, managed, although not without an effort, to keep them in sight until they had journeyed as far as they wished, when he saw them land on the opposite shore, pull the long canoe into the bushes, and hurry once more into the forest. To some faint-hearted persons this might have meant the end of the pursuit, but Dave was made of sterner stuff, and besides he loved his cousin too dearly to give up the hope of a rescue thus readily. He saw that the stream at this point was rather shallow, and without hesitation pulled off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his breeches, and waded in. Fording the stream was not as easy as it looked, and more than once Dave was in danger of slipping down on the loose rocks or of having the current carry him off his feet. But he managed to reach the opposite shore of the stream in safety, and there, donning his stockings and shoes again, hurried on after the red men as before. Dave had not gone very far when he saw the unmistakable signs of an Indian village. He slackened his pace and soon saw a lean and hungry-looking Indian dog coming toward him. The canine began to bark viciously and showed his teeth. Here it was that the young hunter’s nerve again showed itself. He was well acquainted with the general worthlessness of the Indian curs—dogs that were not to be compared with the hunting and watch animals of the English—and picking up a sharp stone he let drive, taking the canine in the side. The dog gave a sharp yelp, turned and fled, and that was the last Dave saw of the animal. In the meantime the Indians had arrived at their temporary village, located in a dense portion of the forest, and consisting of nothing more than half a dozen dirty shelters of blankets and skins. In the center was a small clearing where a campfire smoldered, and around this lolled half a dozen Indians, while not far off were several squaws and a dozen dirty and half- clad Indian children. The coming of the four warriors with their captive produced a mild sensation, and there was a running fire of questions and answers in the native dialect, lasting some time. In the meanwhile two of the warriors bound Henry to a tree near the largest of the wigwams, and left him, for the time being, to take care of himself. The head of the tribe, Moon Eye, was away, and was not expected back until the next day at noon. This being so, the Indians decided to keep Henry where he was. He was given nothing to eat, and when he asked for a drink he was handed some dirty water that even a dog would have refused. “What do you want of me?” Henry asked, of the Indian who could speak English. “White boy wait and he shall see,” answered the warrior. “Did you kill my cousin—the one who owns that rifle and the hunting knife?” “White boy must not ask so many questions.” “If you don’t let me go you’ll get into trouble,” went on Henry, thinking he might scare the Indians into releasing him. “See how you have already suffered. The English have many soldiers—they can do the red men great harm.” “The French have many soldiers also,” answered the warrior. “Soon their army will come to the aid of Pontiac and his followers.” This was a story that had often been told to the red men by the French traders, and many of the Indians believed it. But they waited in vain for help from France, or from Canada. Instead of sending help, the king of France sold his holding along the Mississippi to Spain, so that the Indians were worse off than ever. As night came on it began to rain gently, while a heavy mist filled the air. The Indians did not like this at all, and after huddling around the campfire for awhile the majority of them crawled into the wigwams and went to sleep. Two of them visited Henry, binding him more securely to the tree than ever, so that to break or slip his bonds was entirely out of the question. “White boy sleep good,” said one of them, as a joke, and then both stalked over to the fire once more. But the rain and the mist were not to their liking and presently they, too, retired. Then the fire died down gradually, and the Indian village became as quiet as a graveyard. 33 34 35 36