Books: On the Trail of Pontiac
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Edward Stratemeyer >> On the Trail of Pontiac
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"I know we can get through on General Braddock's road," he said. "It may
take a few days longer, but time is of no immense value to us."
"You are quite sure the Indians on that road are at peace with us?" asked
his brother's wife timidly, "I do not wish Henry to get into more fighting.
He saw quite enough of that during the war."
"White Buffalo assures me that, for the present, the war hatchet has been
buried everywhere, Lucy. To be sure, there is no telling when it will be
dug up again. But I reckon we can take care of ourselves should trouble
come."
The starting of the expedition proved quite an event at Will's Creek, and
many neighbors living within a radius of two and three miles came to see
them off. Among the number was Paul Thompson, who said he would do what he
could for those left behind during the absence of James Morris, Dave, and
Henry.
It was a perfect day, with a warm breeze blowing up from the Potomac River.
Not a cloud ruffled the sky, and the spring birds filled the air with their
melody.
"Puts me in mind of the time I went out to the trading-post with you," said
Dave to Sam Barringford, as the two rode along side by side, "Don't you
remember what a time we had getting through, and how I fell into the river
and was afraid of being captured by the Indians?"
"Yes, lad, I remember it well," answered the old frontiersman. "But the
trail ain't half as bad as it was then--Braddock's pioneers smoothed down
the rough places putty well,--not but what some of the brushwood has grown
up ag'in."
"Shall we stop again at the Indian village of Nancoke?"
"The village ain't thar no more, Dave; fire in the forest swept it away
last year, so I heard tell some time ago. But I reckon we'll stop at some
redskin village afore we git to the Kinotah."
The end of the first day's traveling found the party miles beyond the last
plantation on the road. They stopped in the midst of a little clearing
where there had once been a house, but this the Indians had burnt years
before and the tall brushwood covered the half-burnt logs and choked up the
neighboring spring.
"The trail is poor," observed James Morris. "Much poorer than I expected.
We shall have our own troubles getting through."
"It is not as good as when Barringford and I marched under General
Braddock," answered Dave. "Then the pioneer corps cut down every tree and
bush that was in our way."
"And lost so much time our army was defeated," put in the old frontiersman
grimly. "Braddock meant well, but he didn't know how to fight Indians."
Early in the morning the movement forward was resumed. There was a small
stream to cross, and a long hill, and then they entered into the depths of
a primeval forest, where the tops of the trees were a hundred feet and more
overhead, and the great twisted roots lay sprawling in all directions,
covered partly with moss and decayed leaves. The trail was still visible,
but the branches of the trees on either side met overhead, cutting off the
sunlight and making it uncomfortably dark excepting at midday.
James Morris and Sam Barringford led the way, with the frontiersmen,
Lukins, Sanderson, and Jadwin, bringing up on either side. Back of these
came the pack-horses with their loads, looked after by Dave and Henry, and
further to the rear were the Indians under White Buffalo. All told the
party made quite an imposing appearance, and if put to it could have
offered considerable opposition to any enemy that might have appeared.
The route through the forest soon grew worse. The heavy frost of the past
winter had upheaved many rocks and they lay scattered in all directions on
the side of a hill up which they were climbing. Sometimes a horse would
slip on them and go down, and once a pack animal rolled completely over,
smashing flat what was on his back.
"There goes our beans!" cried Henry. "Oh, what luck!"
Dave gave a look, and then, regardless of the seriousness of the situation,
burst into a laugh. The beans were rolling in all directions, under the
rocks and the horses' feet. It took some time to rescue the fallen animal
and gather up the best part of the beans.
"Never mind," said Barringford philosophically. "Those beans will grow, and
when you come back this way ag'in ye can pick 'em, Henry."
"Thank you, but I shan't come back just for a quart or two of beans," was
the youth's answer. If the silence was sometimes oppressive during the day
it was doubly so at night. Occasionally some birds would break the
stillness, or they would hear the croaking of frogs in the marshes, or the
bark of a distant fox, but that was all. If any big game was at hand it
took good care to keep its distance.
The party soon reached the river where Dave had had his stirring adventure
on horseback, as already described in "With Washington in the West," and
the youth pointed out to his cousin the spot where he had gone into the
rapids.
"I'll never forget that event," said he, with something like a shudder. "It
was what Barringford would call a close call."
Fortunately there was now a good fording place at hand, so the entire party
crossed without difficulty. On the other shore the trail made a new turn,
and now began the ascent of a long hill, up which the pack-horses moved
with the pace of snails. Those in the saddle had often to dismount and lead
their steeds, and at the end of each mile all stopped for a needed rest.
"Don't know as this 'ere trail is as good as tudder," remarked Sam
Barringford. "But they tell me it knocks three miles out o' the bend, an'
that's something'."
James Morris and the old frontiersman had imagined the weather would remain
fair, but on the morning of the fourth day out a cold rain set in that
chilled all to the bone. The Indians under White Buffalo wished to go into
camp at once, but James Morris decided to keep on and did so until the
middle of the afternoon, when, as the storm increased, the party halted
beneath a large clump of trees and lost no time in getting out their
shelters and putting them up. The Indians had a wigwam of skins and the
whites two canvas coverings. These were placed close together, and a
roaring camp fire was started near by, where all hands tried to dry
themselves and get warm. A steaming hot meal was also served, which did
much to make everybody feel comfortable.
"I do hate a cold rain on a march," grumbled Henry, as he crouched in the
shelter beside Dave. "Makes me feel like a wet hen that can't get inside of
the coop."
"If only one doesn't catch cold," replied Dave. "Don't you remember the
cold I caught when we were up at Lake Ontario?"
"To be sure; and I had a cold myself." Henry paused for a moment. "Where
has Barringford gone?"
"He said he was going to try to stir up some game. I don't know what he
expects to get in this rain."
"He ought to know what he is doing. He is the best white hunter that I ever
ran across."
An hour passed, and by that time it was dark. The Indians sat in their
wigwam smoking and talking in low guttural tones. The white hunters were
also telling yarns of the war and of the various Indian uprisings before
that time. They were thrilling tales and the youths listened to them with
deep interest. Both Dave and Henry had been through a great deal
themselves, so they knew that the stories, though wild and wonderful, were
probably based on facts. To-day, when we live in such security and comfort,
we can hardly realize the dangers and privations those pioneers endured to
make our glorious country so full of rich blessings to us.
Growing tired of sitting down, Henry had just arisen to stretch his limbs,
when a sudden rushing sound through the forest reached his ears.
"What is that?" he questioned, and instinctively reached for his rifle.
"Some animal, I reckon," answered Dave.
A rifle shot rang out, and the sound came closer. Then, as Henry ran out of
the shelter, he uttered a yell of alarm.
"A buffalo! Lookout!"
He was right, a magnificent specimen of the buffalo tribe was crashing
along under the wet trees and among the bushes. He was alone and rushing
along at his best speed. In a twinkling he struck the clump of trees, and,
hitting the shelter of the whites, smashed it flat!
CHAPTER IX
HENRY'S STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
In days gone by the American buffalo, or bison, roamed nearly the entire
length and breadth of North America. The Indians hunted the animal
industriously, but their efforts with bow and spear were not sufficient to
exterminate the species.
But with the coming of the white man to America matters took a different
turn. The buffalo could not run away so easily from a rifle shot, and armed
with the best weapons they could obtain, Indians and white hunters rounded
up the buffaloes at every possible opportunity, in order to obtain the
pelts. This soon caused the animals to thin out and flee to the westward,
beyond the Mississippi, where they at last sought refuge in the Rocky
Mountains. So fiercely have they been hunted during the past seventy-five
years that to-day but a few herds remain and ere long these promise to be
totally exterminated.
Henry had never seen a buffalo so far to the eastward and he was therefore
much astonished at the sudden appearance of the shaggy-headed beast. He
gave a yell of alarm, which was followed by another yell from Dave, as the
frail shelter bent beneath the weight of the buffalo.
"A bison!" shouted James Morris, and White Buffalo took up the cry of
alarm. Then down went the canvas flat, and the buffalo made a plunge for
the forest beyond. Henry heard a groan from Dave, as the youth was covered
up. Not waiting longer, he raised his gun, took hasty aim at the animal and
fired.
"Did ye git him?" The query came from Sam Barringford, as, bare-headed, he
rushed into the little clearing back of the trees. "I give him one in the
side but it didn't seem to stop him none."
"I don't know if I hit him or not," answered Henry. "He burst upon us so
swiftly I hardly knew what to do."
While this talk was going on James Morris was crawling from under the wreck
of the tent. Barringford reloaded and ran on after the buffalo and Henry
did likewise. They could hear the great beast plunging headlong through the
brush.
"He has got it putty bad," remarked Barringford. "If he hadn't he wouldn't
ram into things so hard. Reckon he hardly knows what he is doin'."
"I hope we get him," answered Henry, his eyes filled with eager desire. "We
would have fresh meat for a long time, and plenty of jerked beef, too."
More than half a mile was covered and still the buffalo kept on, much to
the surprise of the young hunter and the pioneer.
"Not so badly hit as I reckoned on," panted Barringford.
"Perhaps I didn't hit him at all," was Henry's answer.
Soon they gained the top of a rise of ground. Here the rocks were smooth
and slippery, and in a twinkling Henry went down and rolled over and over
down a long hill.
"Hi! hi! stop yourself!" roared Barringford in quick alarm. "Stop, or ye'll
go over the cliff!"
His alarm was justified, for the hill ended in a cliff all of thirty feet
in height, below which were some jagged rocks and a small mountain torrent
flowing into the upper Monongahela.
Henry heard the cry but did not understand the words. Yet he did not like
the idea of rolling he knew not to where, and dropping his gun he caught at
the wet rocks and bushes which came to hand. But his downward progress was
not stayed, and in a few seconds he reached the edge of the cliff and
rolled out of sight!
[Illustration: Henry ... rolled over and over down a long hill]
The incident happened so quickly that Barringford was almost stunned. He
started to go down the hill after Henry but for fear of meeting a like
fate, dropped on his breast in the wet and worked his way along from rock
to bush with great caution. Twice he called Henry's name, but no answer
came back.
"If he went over on them rocks it's likely he was smashed up," he groaned.
"Why didn't I have sense enough to hold him back? I knew this dangerous
spot was here."
Step by step he drew closer to the edge of the cliff. The snows of the past
winter had washed away and loosened much of the ground, and once he felt as
if everything was giving way and he was to share the fate of his companion.
At last he was within three feet of the edge of the cliff. He could look
down into the gully beyond but not down on the side where he felt Henry
must be resting.
"Henry!" he called loudly. "Henry!"
He waited for fully a minute, but no answer came back. His face grew more
disturbed than ever.
"He is hurt, that's sartin," he muttered. "Like as not he broke his neck."
Barringford always carried a bit of rope with him and he now had the same
piece used in dragging the elk to the Morris homestead. Taking this, he
tied it to a stout bush, and by this means lowered himself to the very edge
of the cliff.
Night was now approaching, and at the bottom of the gully all was so dark
he could see only with the greatest of difficulty. The torrent ran among
rough rocks and brushwood, with here and there a patch of long grass bent
flat from the winter's snows.
"Henry! Where are you?"
Again there was no answer, and now Barringford was thoroughly alarmed. He
remembered how Mrs. Morris had asked him to keep watch over her son.
"Got to git down to him somehow," he told himself. "I hope he's only
stunned."
After a general survey of the situation, the old frontiersman decided that
the cliff terminated at a point several hundred yards to the southward.
Accordingly, he climbed up the hill with care and commenced to make a
detour in that direction.
It was hard work to make any movement forward, for the rocks were unusually
rough and between them were hollows filled with mud, dead leaves and water.
Three times he fell and when he arose he was plastered with mud from head
to feet. But he did not turn back, and every minute wasted only added to
his alarm, for Sam Barringford, rough though he was in outward appearance,
had a heart that at times could be as tender as that of a child.
"If the lad's dead I don't know how I'm a-goin' to break the news to his
folks," he groaned, with a long sigh. "Joseph and his wife allers looked to
me to keep an eye on him. They expect me to be keerful. 'Twasn't right at
all fer me to take Henry so close to sech a dangerous spot. I ought to be
licked fer it, an' licked hard, too."
It was a good half hour before he could get down to where the torrent
flowed over the rocks. He was now a quarter of a mile from where Henry had
taken the unexpected tumble, and working his way down the stream was no
easy task.
It had set in to rain harder than ever, and the black clouds soon shut out
what little was left of daylight. Wet to the skin, and shivering from the
cold, he moved on as well as he was able. Again he called Henry's name, but
only a dull echo came back, partly drowned by the rushing of the water.
When Barringford thought he had covered the proper distance he came to a
halt. On his back he carried Henry's rifle as well as his own, having
picked it up when leaving the top of the hill, but the owner of the firearm
was nowhere visible.
"I'll have to make a light, no two ways on thet," he mused, and moved close
up under the rocks to get some dry kindlings. But everything was thoroughly
wet around him and though he set fire to the tinder in his box he could
obtain nothing in the shape of a torch.
Again he stumbled on, soon getting into the water up to his waist. In fresh
alarm he found his way out of the torrent and next encountered some thick,
wiry bushes where further progress seemed out of the question.
"Beats all, how things are goin' crosswise," he muttered, as he paused to
get his breath. "An' all along o' thet confounded buffalo, too. Reckon he's
miles an' miles away by this time," and in this surmise the old
frontiersman was correct.
An hour's search convinced him that Henry was no longer in that vicinity.
But what had become of the youth was a mystery.
"He wouldn't walk away without lettin' me know," reasoned Barringford.
"Must be he fell into the water and got drowned and somethin' is holdin'
him under. One thing is sartin, if thet's so tain't no use to try to find
him afore mornin'. Might as well go back to camp an' break the news."
But he was unwilling to go back, and again and again he called Henry's
name, listening with all the acuteness of which his trained sense of
hearing was capable. Only the rushing of the torrent and the dripping of
the rain answered him.
"No use," he muttered. "He is gone an' thet is all there is to it. I've got
to face the music and tell the others, though it's worse nor pullin' teeth
to do it."
Getting out of the gully in the almost total darkness was now truly
difficult, and had not Barringford been skilled in woodcraft he would
certainly have been lost. But he had taken note of the way he had come and
remembered every bush, tree, and rock, and now he returned by the same
route. It was a tough climb back to the forest where the trail of the
buffalo had been last seen and here he had to rest once more, before
starting for the camp.
CHAPTER X
A WAIT IN CAMP
Let us go back to the time when the buffalo, in his mad eagerness to get
away from the hunters, plunged headlong into the shelter of the whites and
hurled it flat.
Under the canvas lay Dave, with the breath knocked completely out of him.
He felt something heavy come down on his back and then for the moment knew
no more.
When he opened his eyes he found that his father had hauled him from under
the wreckage and was gazing earnestly into his face.
"Are you hurt, son?" demanded James Morris quickly.
"I--I--reckon not" was the slow answer. "But something hit me in the--the
back. Whe--where is the buffalo?"
"Gone, and Barringford and Henry after him."
"Hope they lay him low."
"So do I. But are you quite sure you are not injured? I thought the animal
stepped on you."
"Maybe he did, father. But I'm all right, thank goodness." And Dave
stretched himself to prove his words.
The Indians had gathered around and were talking excitedly. Some wanted to
join in the hunt, but the frontiersmen under Barringford held them back.
"You let Sam an' Henry go it alone," said Sanderson. "They know wot they
are a-doin'."
"That is true," answered White Buffalo. "My white brothers can shoot
well--I have seen it."
Soon the knocked-down tent was raised again, and the fire stirred up. Then,
as the storm, increased, all crouched in the shelters they had erected and
awaited the return of Henry and the old frontiersman.
"I'd like to eat a buffalo steak now first-rate," said Dave, smacking his
lips. "It would touch the spot and chase away the blues."
"Buffalo steak is rather strong, like elk's meat," answered his father.
"But we need strong food, on such a rough journey as this."
"It's a pity there isn't a better trail, father."
"Some day there will be a regular road, Dave--when there are more
settlements to the westward. I look for the time when we shall have cities
out here, the same as along the seaboard."
"Won't never see that" said the frontiersman named Lukins.
"Why not?" risked James Morris.
"The Injuns won't allow it, that's why, Mr. Morris. They don't mind a
tradin'-post or two, whar they kin sell hides an' git rum an' sech things.
But they don't want no towns or cities. You won't never see a city on the
Ohio, nor in them Western countries at all."
"I believe the cities are bound to come," said Dave. "As more folks come
over from England, and Germany, and France, they'll be bound to spread out.
The Indians won't stop 'em."
"They will if they rise an' dig up the war hatchet," put in Jadwin, the
other frontiersman.
"If they dig up the hatchet too often they will be wiped out," said James
Morris. "They may fight all they please--in the end both the English and
the French will conquer them."
"How large do you think our country will get in time, father?" questioned
Dave.
"That is a hard question to answer, Dave. I think you may live to see
strong settlements on the Ohio, and your children may see towns on the
Mississippi. About the great Western countries I know nothing, nor does any
other white man. I suppose they are overrun by Indians and all sorts of
wild beasts, or perhaps there is nothing there but beasts and trackless
forests."
"It's too bad the Indians won't live as the white people live," went on
Dave thoughtfully. "We might get along famously together."
"It is not the Indian's nature to till the soil, my son. He loves to roam
about and to hunt and fish and then take it easy. More than this, when the
spirit stirs him, he must fight; and if he cannot fight the white man he
will fight his fellow Indians. You have often heard White Buffalo tell how
one tribe will fight another tribe for several seasons, and how the tribes
sometimes split up and fight among themselves."
"Of course; didn't the Delawares to whom he belongs split up, one side
going to the French and the others fighting under White Buffalo for our
cause? But when a war is over they might settle down."
As the time passed the others concluded that Henry and Barringford had
found the buffalo hunt longer than they had anticipated.
"Perhaps the animal has led them such a chase they won't come back until
morning," suggested James Morris. "It is no fine thing to travel in the wet
and darkness."
"Right you are," said Sanderson. "Sam may hunt in the wet if he wants to,
but none of it for me."
An early supper was had, and something was kept hot for those who were
missing, for it was felt they would come in chilled to the bone and with
tremendous appetites.
Dave was beginning to grow sleepy when he heard a movement outside, and a
moment later Sam Barringford came into view, with downcast face and with
the water dripping from his coonskin cap and hunting shirt.
"Sam!" cried James Morris, leaping up. "So you've got back at last. Did you
get the buffalo? Where is Henry?"
"No, we didn't get the buffalo," answered the old frontiersman. His voice
grew husky. "Henry--he is--missing--he dropped over a cliff--" He could not
go on.
"Over a cliff!" gasped Dave. "You don't mean he is--is--" He too failed to
finish what was in his mind.
"I can't tell you what happened after he slipped from my sight," went on
Barringford.
"Oh, Sam, do you mean to say he is killed?"
"I hope not, lad. But it looks juberous, no two ways on't."
"Tell me how it happened," said James Morris, and now all in the camp
gathered around to hear what the old frontiersman had to say.
The ice once broken, Barringford's tongue grew more talkative, and he
related all the particulars so far as he knew them.
"When I worked my way down into the waterway I felt sartin I would find
Henry in some sort o' shape," he concluded. "But I couldn't find nuthin',
not even his cap. His gun he dropped on the hill, an' here it is," and he
handed it to Dave.
It was a fearful shock, and the tears stood in Dave's eyes and ran down his
cheeks, while the youth's father was scarcely less affected. The
frontiersmen had little to say, and the Indians, with the exception of
White Buffalo, took the matter stoically, for the perils of the hunt were
no new things to them.
White Buffalo took in every word that was spoken. When matters of
importance were to be considered he had little to say.
"Shall White Buffalo go forward and make a search?" he asked simply, after
Sam Barringford had stopped speaking.
"What can you do, after Sam here has failed?" questioned James Morris. "I
know you are keen on the trail, White Buffalo, but you know that Sam is
too."
"Four eyes are better than two," returned the Indian, using an old saying
of his tribe.
"Let him go by all means if he wishes," put in Barringford. "The man to
find Henry an' bring him back to camp is my best friend."
"White Buffalo, will you take me along?" asked Dave eagerly.
"Dave, son, don't you think you had better remain with me?" asked his
father.
"No, father; we must find Henry. Please let me go!"
"Dave can go if he wishes," answered White Buffalo. "The journey will not
be pleasant, but if Henry is found we shall be glad. Is not White Buffalo
right?"
"Take torches with you, or a lantern," said Barringford.
Torches were quickly procured and placed in a bit of skin, that they might
not get wet. Then another torch was lit, and the old frontiersman gave the
Indian chief minute directions about the trail to the water course under
the cliff.
"White Buffalo knows something of that land," said the chief. "He will not
go astray."
"I should hope not," said Dave. "We want to find Henry, not lose
ourselves."
"Take a bag full of eating along," put in James Morris. "You may want
something before morning. And also a bandage and some stimulants for Henry,
in case he is badly hurt and needs them." He could not let himself believe
that his nephew was dead.
"All right, father; I'll take whatever you say," answered Dave, and soon he
and White Buffalo had all the articles mentioned. Each went armed with his
rifle and hunting knife, and the Indian carried his hatchet as well.
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