Books: On the Trail of Pontiac
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Edward Stratemeyer >> On the Trail of Pontiac
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A hunt had followed in first one direction and then another. As the storm
came up Dave's horse was unfortunate enough to run into a mud reach close
to the river, and it proved no light task to save the steed from being
drowned.
With the coming of night, Barringford had proposed that they go into camp,
but Dave was too worried to do this, and urged that the search be
continued.
"For all we know, those buffaloes may have turned and charged on Henry," he
said. "I shan't rest until I know the truth."
"If they turned an' charged, I'm afeered it's all up with Henry." returned
the old frontiersman. "A mad buffalo can make short work o' a hunter. He's
wuss nor a mad bull."
They moved off slowly after this in something of a semicircle. Occasionally
one or the other would raise a yell, but to these cries no answer was
returned.
"Might as well give it up, Dave, onless ye want to ride around all night,"
said Barringford at last.
He had hardly spoken when Dave drew up his horse.
"Hark, Sam! what is that?"
The old frontiersman listened attentively for several minutes.
"Wolves, onless I miss my guess," he replied presently.
"They appear to be heading toward us."
"No, they are off in that direction, Dave." Barringford pointed with his
hand. "They are after something."
"Not our buffalo meat, I hope."
"No, they are heading the other way. It's something else."
"Let us follow. They may be after another buffalo, or after Henry."
"That is so."
On they went once more. Soon they could no longer hear the wolves, and drew
up in perplexity. While they were consulting together, they heard a distant
gun shot.
"Somebuddy is a-firin' on 'em!" ejaculated Barringford. "Perhaps it's
Henry. Come!" And he set off at a gallop, with Dave beside him. As they
rode on they heard another gun shot, and a moment later the report of a
pistol.
"It must be Henry, and, if so, he is having a fearful fight with the
wolves!" cried Dave. "Oh, Sam, we must help him!"
"I see him!" shouted Barringford, and in less than half a minute later he
was blazing away at the wolves. Dave also fired his gun and his pistol, and
four wolves were put out of the fight in almost the time it takes to tell
of the deed.
"Save me!" came faintly from Henry. "Save me!"
"I will!" answered Barringford, and leaped from his horse, hunting-knife in
hand. The blade was plunged deeply into a wolf that had Henry by the left
arm. Dave used his musket as a club, and another of the beasts was sent
staggering back with a broken jaw.
What few remained of the beasts were scared by the new arrivals, and now
they made off at top speed. It was high time, for Henry had suffered much,
and as soon as the living wolves had disappeared he plunged forward and
fainted in Barringford's arms.
"He has had a lough time of it, poor fellow," murmured the old
frontiersman. "If we hadn't 'a' come up as we did, he would have been done
for."
"Is he seriously hurt?" questioned Dave anxiously.
"Don't think he is, Dave. It's his wind as has given out."
Barringford was right, and it was not long before Henry revived. His arm
was slightly pierced in three places and on his left leg were two long,
irregular scratches. These were washed and bound up by Dave, and during the
time consumed Barringford managed to start up a tiny fire in spite of the
dampness.
"Where in the world have you been?" asked Henry. "I watched and watched for
you."
"And we've been hunting for you until we were about ready to give it up,"
answered his cousin. "The wolves put us on the track."
Sitting around the fire, which Barringford coaxed into a respectable blaze,
each party told what had happened since the separation.
"Reckon as how you've had your fill o' buffalo huntin' jest for the
present," said Barringford, when the narratives were concluded. "Buffaloes
an' wolves is a terribul bad combination."
"Where is your game?" questioned Henry.
"About two mile from here, I reckon."
"Perhaps the wolves will be after that."
"Can't help it if they air, lad. Dave wanted to look for you, an' wouldn't
stay by the game nohow. Can't blame him, nuther, seein' as we came up jest
in the nick o' time," added the old frontiersman.
All thoughts of sleep were now out of the question, and the three sat
around the tiny campfire, discussing the situation. With the first streak
of dawn Barringford set to work skinning the buffalo, and Dave assisted.
While they were thus occupied, Henry saw a familiar form advancing slowly
over the prairie. He set up a call, and in a few minutes his horse came up
on a trot, to mingle with the other horses.
"You rascal! to leave me in the lurch!" cried Henry, but he did not strike
the steed, but patted him instead. "Be thankful that he has come back,"
said Barringford. "Sometimes a frightened critter like thet runs off an'
never shows himself again." After the buffalo had been skinned, the best
portions of the meat were cut out and rolled in the hide, which was
strapped to the back of Barringford's saddle. The wolves were left where
they had fallen. "Sooner or later them other wolves will come back," said
the old frontiersman, "an' they'll eat wot's left of the buffalo an' the
wolves' carcasses, too." It was fully an hour before they reached the spot
where the other buffalo had fallen. No wild beasts had been near the
carcass, and now this was also dressed and the hide packed up behind Dave.
Then they set off for the camp on the edge of the prairie, reaching it
shortly after noon. "I declare, the spot seems like home!" cried Dave. "I
must say I am glad to return to it." All were equally happy, and lost no
time in preparing a regular meal, which tasted far better than the
makeshift they had indulged in early in the morning. Hunting was declared
to be at an end for the time being, and for the rest of that day, and all
of the next, the three took it easy.
"My bear hasn't shown himself," said Dave. "But I reckon I can do without
him."
The rest of the hunting tour passed without anything out of the ordinary
happening. Many small animals were brought in by both Dave and Henry, and
Barringford varied the sport by laying low a wildcat that came one night to
rob them of some of the meat.
When the start for the trading-post was begun, they found their steeds
loaded down with the trophies of the chase. Consequently, progress was
slow, and it took one day longer than they had expected to reach the Ohio.
"Back again, I see!" cried James Morris cheerily. "And safe and sound, too!
I am glad to see it."
"We've had a powerfully good trip," answered Barringford. "Two buffalo, an'
no end o' small game."
"That is certainly fine. Boys, I reckon you are proud of the haul."
"We are," answered Dave promptly, and Henry nodded. "Have you seen anything
of Hector Bergerac?" he continued.
"Yes, he is here now. He has told me his story, and told me all about Jean
Bevoir, Jacques Valette, and that redskin they call Flat Nose. Hector
Bergerac wants to cut the whole crowd, and I am going to help him to do
it."
The weather had threatened a change, and inside of a week after Dave and
his companions returned to the trading-post there was a heavy frost, and,
two days later, a touch of ice.
"I think winter is coming now," said James Morris. "And if anybody is going
to start for home he'll have to do it soon."
"I shouldn't mind taking the trip," answered Dave. "It seems an age since I
saw Uncle Joe and the others."
The matter was talked over for several days, and it was finally agreed that
Dave should go eastward this time, in company with Barringford and White
Buffalo and his braves. Henry would remain with his uncle, and so would the
others at the trading-post. Only a few horses were to be taken along, and
in the spring Dave and Barringford were to purchase ten additional steeds,
and bring along a well-guarded pack-train containing goods to the value of
eight hundred pounds. The trading-post was now doing well, and it looked as
if, sooner or later, the Morrises would make a small fortune out of it.
The departure was made in a keen, frosty air, which was as clear as it was
invigorating. Henry and Dave's father accompanied those who were going as
far as the burn-over on the Kinotah, and then watched them out of sight
around a bend of the trail.
"It looks a bit familiar to me now," said Dave to Barringford, as they rode
along under the big trees.
"I suppose in a few years more there will be a regular road here, just as
there now is from Fort Pitt eastward."
"Like as not, lad, onless the redskins upset everything again."
"They have been very quiet lately."
"Yes, Dave, but thet may be the calm afore a storm, as sailor men call it.
I don't believe in trustin' a quiet Injun."
"White Buffalo is good enough when he is quiet," answered the youth, with a
merry glance at the chief mentioned, who was riding a short distance to the
rear.
"True, but a few good Injuns don't make a basketful," answered Barringford,
using a form of speech he had heard once when down East.
The weather proved fine until Fort Pitt was gained. Here the party put up
for two days, the commandant of the stronghold being glad to meet those who
might bring news.
"All is quiet here," said the officer. "There was something of a plan to
attack us during the summer, but it fell through, why I don't exactly know.
I think the Indians are waiting for the French to help them."
"Will they do that?" asked Dave.
"I don't think so. The French are having their hands full in the old
country."
When the party left Fort Pitt the sky was overcast, and that night came a
light fall of snow. They had been told that there had been a landslide on
the route, and that they had better take another trail, one leading around
to the northward.
"This trail bring party to Indian village of Ninalicmic," announced White
Buffalo.
"Are they much of a tribe?" asked Dave.
"Only a handful. But my white brothers must beware of the Ninalicmics. They
are of the magicians, and do great wonders."
"They are a branch of the magicians who live up near the lakes," put in
Barringford. "I've heard of them, but I thought they had cleared out long
ago."
When they came close to the village, they heard a strange beating of Indian
tom-toms and a loud shouting and clapping of hands.
"Some kind of dance going on," said Barringford. "Reckon as how I'll go in
advance and see if it's safe to break in on 'em."
"Let me go with you," said Dave.
The others were halted, and Dave, Barringford, and White Buffalo went
forward on foot, keeping themselves out of sight behind a row of bushes and
a series of low rocks.
Before them was a fair-sized glade, in the midst of which was located the
Indian village, consisting of a dozen or more wigwams, all of good
dimensions and each gaudily painted with many signs and symbols. In front
of several of the wigwams were erected posts on which hung strips of
feathers and other strips of bear's claws and wampum belts that were new to
Dave's eyes.
In the center of the village was a cleared space, and here a bright
campfire was burning. On each side sat several Indians, all smeared with
various colored paints and greases. Other red men were dancing around the
fire, keeping time to the tom-toms and chanting in a low, monotonous tone.
"Big medicine men and magicians," said White Buffalo. "Make much magic."
Dave looked at his old Indian friend and saw, to his astonishment, that
White Buffalo was ill at ease, if not actually nervous. Had he been alone,
it is likely that he would have turned on his heel and hurried away.
"What be they a-saying?" demanded Barringford, after listening to the
chant. "I never heard sech gibberish in my life afore."
"Much magic," answered White Buffalo. "Magic make the Indians strong to
fight their white enemies."
"Oh, so that's it, eh? Do they believe in it, White Buffalo?"
"Magic is magic," returned the old chief simply.
"Does it mean digging up the war hatchet?"
"White Buffalo cannot tell, for he is not in their secrets. But if the
hatchet should be dug up--ha!"
White Buffalo stopped short, for the flap of one of the wigwams had opened
and a tall Indian had stepped outside. The red man was naked to the waist
and painted with rings and blotches of several colors. On his head he
carried something of a crown of black feathers with brass ornaments
dangling over each ear. As he came out, those around the fire set up a yell
of welcome.
"Who is it?" questioned Dave, in a whisper.
"Pontiac, the great chief of the Ottawas," answered White Buffalo. And then
he added hastily, as Pontiac threw up his arms and swept them around in a
circle: "Let us go, let us not stay! It is not safe! Pontiac will make
great magic! Let us go ere it is too late!"
CHAPTER XXVII
THE TRAIL OF PONTIAC
The fright of such a brave chief as White Buffalo may seem strange to my
young readers, but it must be remembered that among the Indians the art of
magic was considered the blackest art of all, and a magician was looked
upon as something far out of the ordinary. The art was somewhat similar to
that of the voodoos of the South, and the fakirs of India, and a real
magician was looked up to and obeyed where a common medicine man would be
ignored.
It is said, upon fairly good authority, that Pontiac belonged to the
magicians of the Great Lakes. This has already been mentioned, but nothing
has been said of how he practiced the black art. Much that was recorded has
been lost, so some things can only be surmised. But his doings had a strong
hold on all who came in contact with him, making his friends stick to him
closer than ever, and causing many of his enemies to drop their antagonism
and sue for peace.
"Don't you get afraid of him, White Buffalo," whispered Barringford. "His
magic is all humbug."
"No! no! it is true!" insisted the Indian chief. He caught Dave by the
hand. "Come! If Dave is caught watching, he will surely lose his life!"
"I shall stay, if Sam stays," said the youth. "We'll take good care that we
are not discovered."
"You can go back to the others," went on Barringford. But at this White
Buffalo demurred, and in the end remained to see the weird performance.
The dance of the magicians lasted fully a quarter of an hour. Then came a
low chant, and a conference followed. Strange strings of beads were
exchanged, and finally Pontiac made an address, in an Indian dialect of
which neither Barringford nor Dave could understand a word.
White Buffalo listened to the address with keen interest. His first fright
over, he was now fairly calm, and when Pontiac stopped and prepared to
leave the village he pulled the others back to a place of safety.
"Pontiac will go away alone," he said. "White Buffalo follow on the trail.
Want his brothers Dave and Sam to come, too."
"Why?" asked the others, in a breath.
"Learn much. Maybe do the English great good. Pontiac is like a fox in
wisdom. If the spell of magic is broken, Pontiac may fall as falls the
mighty tree of the forest before the hurricane."
"I must say I don't quite follow ye, Buffalo," came from Barringford.
"Where is Pontiac going?"
"To the woods, where the waters fall in the sunshine. White Buffalo thinks
he knows the spot, but he is not sure."
"Why should we follow him?"
"White Buffalo cannot explain. There is much magic. Perhaps the coming of
night will clear the mystery."
Both Dave and Barringford were much perplexed. Never before had White
Buffalo acted in this manner, and it was easy to see that he was laboring
under great excitement.
"We may as well do what White Buffalo says," came from Dave, after he had
talked to the old frontiersman in private. "We'll only lose a day or two by
the operation and we are in no particular hurry to reach Will's Creek."
"Very well, lad, I'll go ye on't," was the answer. "We may learn something
of great importance to the English authorities."
White Buffalo had by this time joined those of his tribe who were with him.
His speech to his followers was as peculiar in its effects as had been the
mysterious incantations of the magicians upon himself. Two voted to follow
Pontiac, while the others said they would not do so under any
circumstances. "The squaws can return to the trading-post," said the chief.
And thus were the others dismissed. A short while after this all were on
the trail of Pontiac, who, contrary to expectations, had taken with him a
young brave known by the extraordinary name of Foot-in-His-Mouth, a Wyandot
famous for his accuracy at shooting. Foot-in-His-Mouth had often won prizes
at target shooting, both among the Indians and the French, and he was
called one of the best hunters in the Ohio valley. Both Pontiac and his
escort were on horseback, and they rode so swiftly along the forest trail
that the others had all they could do to keep close to them. White Buffalo
led, and never once did he allow those he was following to suspect his
presence. Whenever they slowed up so did he, and instead of passing over an
open space he invariably rode around it, keeping his steed in the shelter
of the trees and brushwood. "If he is simply going to his home on the
Detroit River, we'll have our ride for nothing," observed Dave, after six
or eight miles had been covered.
"Oh, something is in the wind, you may be sure of that," returned
Barringford. "The question is, what is it?"
It was growing dark when Pontiac and his companion came to the side of a
fair-sized brook, rushing swiftly over some rough rocks. They passed up
this brook for a distance of several hundred feet and then took to the
other side. Here there was a burnt spot covering half an acre, and Dave and
the others noted the remains of a cabin.
"Somebuddy lived here once an' was wiped out," remarked the old
frontiersman laconically. "Can't tell who did it."
The falling of waters could now be plainly heard, and before long Pontiac
and Foot-in-His-Mouth reached a beautiful waterfall, fifteen or eighteen
feet in height. The fall was narrow and was lined upon either side with
rugged rocks, overgrown with mosses and trailing vines. At the foot of the
waterfall was a circular pool of great depth.
Pontiac and his companion came to a halt and, dismounting, tied their
horses to trees near by. At once those who were following did the same, and
all crawled forward with extreme caution to learn what would next take
place.
For several minutes Pontiac stood talking earnestly to Foot-in-His-Mouth,
and pointing to the waterfall. Then both climbed the rocks at the side of
the fall until they could touch the water with their hands.
"Something is up now, that's certain!" whispered Dave.
The words had just been uttered when a curious thing happened. With a quick
movement Pontiac stepped through the waterfall and disappeared from sight!
"Well, I never!" murmured Dave. "Where did he go to?"
"Hush!" murmured Barringford. "Look!"
Foot-in-His-Mouth was gazing fixedly at the waterfall. He hesitated for
fully a minute. Then, watching his chance, he dove into the waterfall as
Pontiac had done and also disappeared.
White Buffalo looked at his white companions gravely. "Do my white brothers
know what that means?" he asked.
"I think I do," answered Barringford. "There must be a cave back there, and
the opening to it is through the waterfall."
"But how would they be able to find such a cave?" questioned Dave.
"In two ways, lad. There may be some other opening, and they may have
discovered this opening when the waterfall had run dry."
"It must be a cave," came from White Buffalo. "And if it is, it is the cave
Pontiac told about at the village of Ninalicmic."
"What did he say about it?"
"Pontiac told of planting guns in the ground. He said they would grow, and
the Indians could one day pluck them and use them."
"Planting guns? I don't understand."
"It's an amazement truly," put in Barringford. "We won't know what it means
until--"
"Until what, Sam? Do you feel like following into the cave?"
"I shouldn't mind if I knew the directions Pontiac gave to that other
redskin. But without them directions a feller might lose his life easy
enough in the attempt. He might have told him to turn to the left or the
right, or somethin' like that, you know."
"True enough. Well, what do you advise?"
The matter was talked over with White Buffalo, and it was decided to remain
where they were until Pontiac and Foot-in-His-Mouth returned for their
horses.
"They are bound to do thet, sooner or later," said Barringford. "By the way
they tethered 'em I reckon they expect to come back shortly."
An hour passed, and Dave was growing tired of the watch, when White
Buffalo, who lay beside him, gave his sleeve a quick jerk and nodded toward
the waterfall. As the young hunter looked in the direction he saw a sudden
movement, and Pontiac emerged on the rocks, dripping wet. An instant later
Foot-in-His-Mouth followed, and both climbed down to the side of the pool.
"They have been on some sort o' a mission," whispered Barringford. "Wonder
what's next?"
Untying their horses, Pontiac and his companion turned them up the slope
leading to the stream above the waterfall. Here the pair consulted for some
time. What was said neither White Buffalo nor those with him could make
out. But soon Pontiac rode off in one direction and Foot-in-His-Mouth in
another.
"Shall we follow Pontiac further?" questioned Dave. "For my own part I'd
rather stay here and find out what this cave, if such it is, contains."
"'Tis the cave of the magicians," answered White Buffalo. "My white
brothers must be careful how they enter it."
"I am not afraid of magic, White Buffalo. But of course I want to know what
I am doing."
"We can examine the place in the dark as well as the daylight," came from
Barringford. "It's queer Pontiac and his friend didn't take torches with
'em."
"There may be torches inside."
"Perhaps; but if I go in I'll take my own torch."
"So will I, Sam, and a good big one, too."
Again there was a consultation, and at last it was agreed that Barringford
should attempt to enter the cave first. If he succeeded, and the way was an
easy one, Dave was to follow, and lastly White Buffalo. The other Indians
would remain on guard.
Tucking a good bit of torch wood in his leathern belt, Barringford climbed
up to the footing Pontiac had first occupied. He examined the waterfall
with care and also looked at the pool below.
"Don't think I'll git more 'n a dirty tumble if I fail to git in," he said
to Dave. "Here goes!"
He made a leap and passed through the falling sheet of water before him.
With his heart almost in his throat, Dave watched and waited. He was still
doing this when suddenly Barringford came to view again.
"It's easy, boys," he chuckled. "Jest like walkin' down a pair o' big stone
steps. Jump about six feet an' you'll be all right."
Again he passed through the waterfall, and now Dave and White Buffalo lost
no time in following. The opening beyond was two feet wide and high enough
for a man to stand upright. The flooring led downward several steps, and
then turned to the left, where the passageway spread out into an irregular
cave of uncertain dimensions and various heights.
"That was certainly easy enough," remarked Dave, while Barringford was busy
lighting the tinder in his box. "I declare I only got the water on my head
and shoulders. With a good big hood a fellow could keep as dry as a bone."
With some difficulty the tinder was lit and the torch followed. Swinging it
around, Barringford soon had a good blaze, and then he held the torch
aloft, that they might look around them.
Their first view of the interior of the cave was a disappointment. Close at
hand were nothing but bare rocks, covered here and there with rude writing
in the Indian language. A little further on were some heaps of bones,
probably those of wild animals, but whether killed for the meat or not they
could not tell.
"Not much wuth seein' so far," remarked the old frontiersman as he gave his
torch another swing. "Let us move on."
"Be careful, the walking may be treacherous," came from White Buffalo, and
the warning came none too soon, for a short distance further on was an
opening in the flooring a yard wide and of great depth. They leaped it with
ease, but had one fallen into it there is no telling what would have
happened.
Beyond this the passageway narrowed for a short distance. Here some of the
rocks were wet, showing that there was a small stream or a pool of water
overhead. The flooring was exceedingly rough, so that they had to move
slowly and make sure of one footing ere they tried another.
"I wonder how long the Indians have known of this cave?" said Dave.
"White Buffalo hear of strange cave many years ago," came from the Indian
chief. "Hear much when Colonel Washington and General Braddock fight the
French and the Indians under Pontiac."
"Then is it a fact that Pontiac fought against us at that time?" asked
Dave.
"White Buffalo has heard so. Pontiac is a great warrior."
"Hullo!" suddenly cried Barringford, who was a few feet in advance. "We're
coming to something interesting now."
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