Books: On the Trail of Pontiac
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Edward Stratemeyer >> On the Trail of Pontiac
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"Do not remain away later than to-morrow noon," said James Morris, when
they were ready to leave. "If you are not back by that time I shall fear
that something has happened to you also."
"Don't fear for me so long as I am with White Buffalo," replied Dave; and
this speech pleased the Indian chief very much.
"Don't you try to go down to the stream by way of the hill," cautioned Sam
Barringford. "If you do you may break your necks."
The old frontiersman had sprained his foot, but he did not deem it best to
mention that fact. Nevertheless, if he had been better able to walk he
would probably have accompanied Dave and White Buffalo in spite of the
first search made by him.
"It's a shame, thet's wot it is," he declared, after the youth and the
Indian had departed. "It distresses me oncommonly to think such a thing
could happen to Henry."
"I hope with all my heart he is alive," responded James Morris.
"But if he is dead--?"
"Then I shall return to Will's Creek without delay, and start for the west
some time later--after I have given my brother and his family all the
comfort I can," said the trader soberly.
CHAPTER XI
HAPPENINGS OF A STORMY NIGHT
It is now high time that we return to Henry and see how he fared after his
sudden and unexpected disappearance over the edge of the cliff.
The young pioneer was well aware of his peril and as he rolled out of Sam
Barringford's sight he clutched wildly at every bush and projecting rock
that came near his hand.
Once a sapling, growing in a cleft of the cliff, struck his shoulder.
Around this he managed partly to twist his arm, and this saved him from
serious injury.
He struck some rocks, however, with considerable force and for a moment was
stunned.
"What a tumble!" he muttered, when he had regained his breath. "It is a
wonder that I didn't kill myself,"
With an ache in the side occasioned by the rough experience, Henry arose
and started to look for some spot along the cliff where he might climb to
the top.
Where he stood it was almost totally dark, and he had not taken over a
score of steps when he floundered into a hollow filled with water and mud.
He leaped across this, to find himself in a split of the cliff, where the
bushes were unusually high and thick. Here the rain hung heavily from every
twig and soon soaked him worse than ever.
He thought he heard Barringford calling and started to answer. Then he
pushed forward once more, hoping each moment to gain higher ground.
But the pocket,--for such it really was,--grew deeper, and suddenly he
found himself at the edge of a deep hole. He tried to step back, but the
dirt under his feet gave way and he plunged downward he knew not whither.
He felt his head strike some projection, and felt some dirt come down on
top of him, and then, for the time being, he knew no more.
The young hunter came to his senses slowly. His first realization was that
his head pained him greatly, and that some weight was trying to force the
air from his lungs. He tried to move his hands, to learn that each was
covered with the dirt which had come down on top of him.
With a great effort he cleared his hands and then his body and tried to
rise to his feet. But he could not stand, and trembling like a leaf he sank
down on a rock near at hand. All was pitch dark around him and the rain
beat steadily on his head.
"I'm in a pickle truly!" he muttered dismally. "Wonder where Sam can be?"
He tried to cry out, but his voice was woefully weak and uncertain, and he
soon gave up the effort. Then he tried again to walk, but had to desist in
despair.
He could not imagine how long he had been under the fallen dirt, but knew
it must be some time, perhaps an hour or two. Where Barringford was there
was no telling.
"I'm worse off than I was before, that is sure," he thought. "Maybe I won't
be able to get out of this mess before morning."
Feeling stronger after a while he arose and groped his way forward. He had
not taken a dozen steps before he came to some rocks. They arose
slantingly, and under them he found a dry spot, well sheltered from the
rain.
"This is a little better than the other place was," he mused. "But I'd like
to know just what sort of a hole this is, and what the prospect is of
getting out."
Like Barringford, the young pioneer carried a flint and tinder-box with
him, and under the rocks it was a comparatively easy matter for Henry to
strike a light. He found some dry leaves and twigs, blown hither by the
wind, and presently had a respectable fire started, over which he crouched
in an effort to drive away the chill which was stealing over him.
"This is a buffalo hunt with a vengeance," he muttered. "I was a fool to
start off after the animal in such a storm, and in the darkness. After
this, I'll do my hunting altogether in the daytime."
In a search for more firewood Henry presently came to an opening in the
rocks behind him. It was totally dry here and, taking up the best of the
firebrands, he moved to the new location. Soon he had a roaring fire, the
smoke going upward, to some hole overhead which he could not locate.
"This must be something of a cave," he mused. "Wonder where it can lead
to."
He felt that it would be useless to attempt trying to get out of the hollow
he was in before daylight and so proceeded to make an investigation of the
opening.
It proved of no great size, however, and nothing met his gaze but rocks,
dirt, decayed tree roots, and a heap of bones in a far corner, showing that
it had once been the den of a wild beast.
"I am glad the beast isn't here now," thought Henry. "I'd be badly off
without a gun."
Slowly the time wore away and Henry had now to make another search for
firewood, if he expected to keep the blaze going, and what to do he
scarcely knew.
"If I look for wood I'll get wet again," he reasoned. "And if I don't go
and get some the fire will leave me in the cold."
He was on the point of scraping the fire together, to make it last as long
as possible, when an unexpected whistle broke upon his ears. He sprang to
the front of the shelter and listened intently. The whistle was one he knew
well, and the whistler was rendering an old English air, called "Lucy
Locket Lost Her Pocket," an air which we to-day call "Yankee Doodle."
"Dave!" shouted the young hunter, and set up a wild yell. "Dave! Where are
you?"
"Is that you, Henry?" came from the edge of the hollow.
"Yes. Look out, or you'll get a tumble as I did."
"White Buffalo knows the trail," came in the voice of the Indian chief.
"Hullo! is that you, White Buffalo? Very well, but be careful."
Torches in hand, Dave and White Buffalo moved forward slowly. But the
Indian knew exactly what he was doing, and soon he and the youth with him
were at the bottom of the hollow in safety. Then Dave ran forward to greet
his cousin.
"Are you badly hurt?" he questioned.
"No. I'm all right, Dave, although I got two nasty tumbles."
"Sam was afraid you had been killed. He searched all around, but couldn't
find you."
"I was foolish not to wait until Sam came down to the water course. I
started to get out alone and got into this pickle. Why didn't you shout
when you came up?"
"We saw the fire but White Buffalo thought there might be some unfriendly
Indians or trappers around. So then I thought of my old whistle. I knew you
would recognize it."
Henry had to tell his story, and then Dave asked him if he was well enough
to return to the camp without delay.
"They are all anxious about you, especially father and Sam," he added.
"To be sure, I'll go back to camp. It's no fun staying here. I'm quite
hungry, too."
"Then you must have something before we leave."
The meal was soon disposed of, and led by White Buffalo the party left the
hollow and proceeded through the forest. It was a long, hard journey, but
neither of the youths minded it, both being thankful that the adventure had
terminated so happily.
When Henry reached camp once more he was hailed with great joy by James
Morris and Sam Barringford. The uncle embraced his nephew, and the old
frontiersman gripped Henry's hand until the bones fairly cracked.
"I have been more than worried ever since Sam came back with his sad tale,"
said James Morris. "In the future, Henry, you must be very careful when you
go hunting; otherwise I shall not want to leave you out of my sight."
"I'd give my right hand ruther than see ye kilt," said Barringford huskily.
"Next time we go out I reckon as how we'll keep close together."
"It's strange you didn't get on my trail," returned Henry. "You are usually
a good one at such things."
"The downpour washed out the tracks," said James Morris.
"I'm not so good at such things as White Buffalo is," answered Sam
Barringford bluntly. "He is born to it, and, White Buffalo, it does you
credit."
"White Buffalo was once called the Trail King," said the Delaware proudly.
"He found the trail when all others failed. It was in the war with the
Ottawas."
The rain had now ceased, and once more the camp-fires were started up and
the wet things were placed to dry.
"Since so much of the night has been lost we may as well take it easy
to-morrow," said James Morris, and this was done. This gave Barringford a
chance to nurse his sprained foot, for which he was thankful.
CHAPTER XII
THE RUINS OF THE OLD TRADING-POST
Once more the arduous journey westward was resumed. The hills left behind,
they traveled a peaceful valley where riding on horseback was a real
pleasure. Small game was now sighted in plenty, and Dave and Henry brought
down their full share of what was bagged. The Indians joined in the hunting
with keen pleasure, and White Buffalo brought down a silver-tailed fox, the
pelt of which became the envy of all the red men under him.
Having crossed a broad but shallow water course, they reached an Indian
village called Badoktah, which had but recently been established by a tribe
of the Shawanoes. The coming of the Shawanoes eastward into the territory
of the Delawares was not liked by the latter, and White Buffalo and his men
met those in the village with scant courtesy.
"The land of the Shawanoes is beyond the rolling Muskingum," said White
Buffalo to Dave. "They have come hither because they know my tribes are
weak. But some day we shall drive them back to the lands that are their
own."
"Do they claim the land up at Lake Erie?" asked the youth.
"No, that is the land of the Wyandots and the Iroquois."
"And how far to the west do they own the land?"
"For three days' journey on foot. Then comes the land of the mighty Miamis,
and to the northward the lands of the Pottawattamies, the Ottawas, and the
Ojibways."
"And who occupy the lands still further westward?"
"On the mighty Father of Waters," answered the Indian chief, meaning the
Mississippi, "are the Illinois, and to the northward the Kickapoos and the
Sacs and Winnebagoes. Of the tribes beyond the mighty river, White Buffalo
knows but little. By some they are said to be exceeding cruel, and others
have told that they are dumb and paint their bodies with mud."
The village of Badoktah consisted of about thirty wigwams, made of rude
skins and long poles. As was usual at all such villages, each wigwam was
decorated with rough Indian pictures and writings, giving the name of the
occupant, his family, and telling of his deeds in war. The wigwams were
without exception exceedingly dirty, and the Shawanoes themselves were
little better--offering a strong contrast to White Buffalo and his
followers. Indian dogs were everywhere, many of them miserable curs, all
barking viciously, and showing their teeth.
The warriors were getting ready to go out on a hunt, but they waited until
their unexpected visitors had departed. One or two of them had met James
Morris at the trading-post on the Kinotah, and they remembered that he had
treated them well. As a consequence the Indians did what they could to make
the newcomers welcome, although they showed plainly that they would have
been better pleased had the Delawares not been present.
"You must come and trade with me when I have re-established myself," said
James Morris to the warriors of the village. "I will treat you honestly."
They remained in the village but two hours, and then pushed forward
straight for Fort Pitt.
At the time of which I write, Fort Pitt was a structure standing on the
point of land where the Monongahela and the Alleghany rivers unite to form
the broad Ohio. As already told, it had been named Fort Duquesne by the
French, but after the surrender to General Forbes, it was re-named after
William Pitt, a great leader in England. In 1759, much of the old fort was
torn down by General Stanwix, who erected in its place a much larger and
stronger structure, built of logs, bricks, and dirt, and well protected
with a number of cannon.
When the party reached the fort, James Morris was welcomed warmly by the
English officer in command. No white men had passed that way since early
winter, and all in the fort were anxious to hear the latest news, and to
receive the newspapers which the trader had thoughtfully brought along.
"You are very adventurous," said the commandant of the fort. "I do not know
how the Shawanoes will treat you."
"Have you had any trouble?" demanded James Morris.
"Not of any consequence. Some drunken Indians came here a few weeks ago and
did some shooting. But nobody was hurt, and I speedily sent the drunkards
about their business."
All the whites of the party were glad to rest at the fort for several days,
and White Buffalo and his men remained with them. During that time Dave and
Henry met several soldiers who had been with the youths during one campaign
or another.
"Glad to see you came out of the war hale and hearty," said one of the
soldiers. "You are both lucky."
"We were lucky," answered Henry.
"The fall of Montreal has brought the war to a quick close," went on the
soldier. "But that is not saying that the Indians won't give us plenty of
trouble in the future."
"They had better not. They will get the worst of it," said Dave.
"It is some of the great chiefs who are stirring them up, Morris. If the
regular run of redskins were left alone they would be peaceable enough. But
the chiefs go among them and say we are stealing their hunting grounds away
from them, and all that, and that gets them excited."
"Yes, I know. And, to a certain extent, what they say is true, too."
"The trouble is, the redskins won't make a fair deal. They'll sell land one
year and then want it back the next," added another soldier.
"Have you seen any French traders in this vicinity?" asked Henry.
"Not since we gave orders for them to quit their trading. I reckon they
feel mighty sore. Our captain told me that a few were thinking of becoming
British subjects. They realize that the French hold in America is now
broken for good."
The stop at Fort Pitt at an end, the party continued on its way to the
Kinotah, a beautiful stream, the name of which has long since been changed.
The trail was now exceedingly rough, and so narrow in spots that the
pack-horses could scarcely get through. The branches of the trees hung low,
so that often all had to move along on foot. The one consolation was that
the weather remained fine, so that camping-out at night proved a real
pleasure and a rest.
"There are not half the Indians in this neighborhood that there were three
and four years ago," remarked James Morris to Barringford. "The war has
thinned them out more than I expected."
"I look for big times with game," returned the old frontiersman. "It will
be almost like striking a new hunting ground."
Every night a watch was kept for the possible appearance of an enemy,
either two-footed or four-footed. But no man came to disturb them, and if
any wild beasts were near they kept well out of sight. Once Lukins brought
down a small wild-cat, but that was all.
It must be confessed that James Morris was exceedingly anxious to see how
the trading-post had fared during his absence, and as soon as the rolling
Kinotah was reached, he set off on a gallop along the bank of the stream,
followed by Dave and Henry, leaving Barringford to advance more leisurely
with the pack-train.
The river, with its clear, sparkling waters, was as beautiful as ever, but
while they were still two miles from where the trading-post had been
located, they noticed a change in the character of the surroundings. The
heavy spring freshets had done their work, and the river banks were torn
into numerous gullies and creeks, while the trunks and limbs of great trees
lay in all directions. Further still, they came to a long, burnt district,
which made the heart of the trader turn sick with dread.
"It is as I feared," he said sadly. "There has been a terrible burn-over
here, and the district is no longer what it was."
In less than half an hour's riding over the blackened ground, they came to
where the long, comfortable trading-post had been located. Only a pile of
ashes, with here and there a burnt log sticking up, marked the spot, and
James Morris could scarcely keep back the tears as he surveyed the ruin
wrought. Tears came to Dave's eyes, and Henry shook his head.
"We'll have to go further now, won't we, father?" said Dave, after a long
spell of silence. "You won't want to build here again."
"No, Dave, I'll not build here. It was a beautiful place, but it seemed
fated not to thrive. We must push on to some other territory."
Dismounting, they started to poke among the ruins, thinking they might
possibly turn up something of value. While they were at this task
Barringford and the others appeared.
"Well, I vum!" cried the old frontiersman. "Ef this ain't jess too
naturally bad fer anything! Didn't expect it like this, did ye? An' sech a
handsome spot as it was, too!"
"White Buffalo's heart is sad," said the Indian chief. "He feels sore for
his brother James. The great forest has fallen, and many will be the
summers ere it rises again."
"You are right, White Buffalo," answered the trader. "And even when it does
rise, it will not be as grand as it was before."
The party could not go into camp on the burn-over, so Sanderson took charge
of the pack-train and led it along the river, where the waters flowed
toward the broad Ohio. In the meantime, the Morrises and Sam Barringford
dug over the ashes where the trading-post had stood.
Little of value was found, outside of a rusty pistol, two rusty hunting
knives, a bullet mold, a string of wampum, and a few earthen dishes, and an
hour later the searchers left the spot.
"It is too bad," said James Morris. "I loved the place dearly. But it may
be we shall find another further on that is just as good."
"Let us hope it will be better," said Dave, trying to look on the cheerful
side.
"Yes, let us hope it will be better," said Henry; and the others echoed the
sentiment.
CHAPTER XIII
BUILDING THE NEW TRADING-POST
Four days later found the entire party encamped on the bank of the Ohio
River, about twenty miles from the district which had suffered from the
terrible ravages of fire.
They had, indeed, found a spot as beautiful as that which had once chained
James Morris to the Kinotah. There was a tiny bluff overlooking the broad
stream, and back of this a long, low hill, covered with a forest of
exceptionally good timber. Around the hill wound a pleasing brook, gurgling
gently in its passage over the stones. The brook was lined with various
kinds of bushes and flowering plants, and not far off was a series of
rocks, where a spring of pure, cold water gushed forth. The soil along the
river bank was rich in the extreme, and James Morris saw at once that
anything planted in it would grow with but little care.
"After all, I think we have done well to come thus far," said he to Dave
and Henry. "The Ohio is a larger stream than the Kinotah, hence I think the
chances to do some trading will be better." And without loss of time he
staked out a plot of ground, and, in his own way, proclaimed himself
proprietor. He knew that, later on, he would have to prove his claim to the
Land Company claiming the whole tract, but he felt that this, with proper
influence, would be easy. The Land Companies were glad to have the backing
of honest traders, for to survey their possessions and dispose of certain
plots was by no means easy.
The spot for the location of the new trading-post having been found, many
hard days of toil followed for all of the white men, and for Dave and
Henry. The Indians could not be persuaded to work, but spent their time in
hunting and fishing, and thus supplied the entire party with food.
The first work was to build a rude, but substantial palisade, of logs about
twelve feet long, and sharpened at the upper end. This palisade extended
from the river front to where the brook made a turn, almost parallel to the
Ohio, with the north side flanked by a small rise of rocks. The gateway was
at the south end, ten feet wide, and later on, fitted with a strong pair of
gates, secured by a top and a bottom crossbar.
Fortunately, as already stated, good timber was close at hand, and while
Dave, Henry, and Sam Barringford cut the logs, the others had the horses
haul them to where they were wanted and set them up as desired. James
Morris was an old hand at this sort of employment, and so the work went
forth rapidly.
"This is really working for a living," said Dave, one day, after having
brought down a tall, straight tree, from which, at least, four logs could
be cut. "We are truly earning our bread by the sweat of our face."
"But it's healthy labor, and I don't mind it," answered his cousin.
"Do you really mean that, Henry?" asked Dave, resting for a moment and
gazing sharply at the other.
Henry colored slightly. "I suppose you think I'd rather be out hunting with
White Buffalo's crowd," he said slowly.
"Wouldn't you? Tell the plain truth?"
"Perhaps I would. But I don't let myself think about it, Dave. This work
has got to be done, and I mean to do my full share of it. I reckon
everybody has to do things he don't just like in this life."
"I think you are right there--I know I often have to do 'em."
"And it don't do to growl either. The best thing to do is to pitch in and
get through as fast as possible," went on Henry, and then set to chopping
with renewed vigor.
"Do you remember the time we first started to chop down trees?" continued
Dave. "How our hands got blistered, and how we wouldn't give up because the
men were looking on?"
"Indeed I do. What a lot has happened since that time! The war, and our
going to Fort Niagara, and then down the Lakes and the St. Lawrence to
Quebec and Montreal, and all the fighting! In one way, Dave, we have seen
quite something of life."
"So we have. But I want no more war."
"Neither do I," answered Henry. Neither dreamed of the terrors of the
Indian uprising, or of the grim horrors of the Revolution which would come
later. The molding of this great nation into what it is to-day was to be no
easy matter.
Inside of two months the greater part of the work on the palisade was
complete. There were many things still to accomplish, but James Morris
decided to let these rest until later. He and the others set to work to
clear the grounds within, called the stockade, and then a long, low log
house was started at one side, and a low storehouse and horse stable at the
other.
So far, but few hunters and trappers had appeared to do any trading.
Strange as it may seem, the Ohio at this point had but few Indians upon it,
the red men confining their operations very largely to the smaller streams.
But those who did appear were treated liberally by James Morris, and soon
they spread the news, with the result that quite a fair trade was
established by the time snow was flying once more.
The white men, and especially Dave and Henry, were glad enough to shift
from the outside camp to the log house as soon as one end of the building
was completed. All was still in a crude state, but sleeping under any sort
of roof was preferable to the open. The entire house could not be completed
that season, so only two rooms were made weather proof, one for trading,
and the other for living and sleeping purposes.
"Not as nice as at home," observed Dave, as he gazed at the rough logs,
filled in with mud, and the dirt flooring. "But it will be warm this
winter, and that's something."
It had been decided that Barrington and Henry should return to the Morris
homestead before winter set in. They were to take six of the horses, and,
if everything went well, were to return to the trading-post as early as
possible in the spring, bringing with them a long list of articles wanted
by James Morris. Both were now quite anxious to return to the East, Henry
to learn how his folks were faring, and Barringford to see the twins and
find out if their identity had yet been disclosed.
"If they ain't found out nuthin' about them twins, I'm going to make 'em my
own," said the old frontiersman. "I ain't got no chick nor child, an' I
might as well be a-doin' somethin' for somebody in this world."
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