Books: On the Trail of Pontiac
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Edward Stratemeyer >> On the Trail of Pontiac
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"But you must leave them at our house," returned Henry. "Mother and little
Nell are so attached to them."
The departure of Henry and Barringford was an event, and all quit working
to see them off. Dave was sorry to part with his cousin, and wrung his hand
several times.
"You take good care of yourself," he said. "Don't tumble over any more
cliffs."
"And you take good care of yourself during the winter," returned Henry. "It
snows heavily out here, so they tell me. Don't you get lost in a snowstorm,
like you did when you and Sam were journeying to Fort Oswego."
Dave and James Morris accompanied the pair as far as the burn-over and then
watched them as they disappeared over a distant ridge. As they were lost to
sight, the youth could not repress a sigh, which reached his parent's quick
ears.
"Sorry to see Henry go, I suppose, Dave."
"Yes, father. We have been together so much, you know. Henry seems like a
brother to me."
"I don't doubt it, for he is to me almost like a son. I trust he and Sam
reach Will's Creek in safety."
Both father and son had thought to return to the new trading post as soon
as they left the others, but now neither was in the humor for working, for
what little was left of the day, and James Morris asked Dave if he wished
to go on a short hunt.
"We may not stir up much, but I think the change will do us good."
"I'll go gladly!" cried Dave, and they set off on horseback, up the
Kinotah, and then followed a small creek, along which both had hunted in
days gone by.
The day was an ideal one, and though game in that vicinity was scarce, the
Indians having gone over the ground half a dozen times, each enjoyed the
outing thoroughly. Dave managed to bring down some birds and two squirrels,
and his father a pair of grouse, and with this they rested content.
"Supposing we take another look at the ruins of the old post?" suggested
Dave, when they were on the return. "It is not so very late yet, and we may
pick up something which we missed before."
"Very well, Dave."
Along the creek the wild flowers grew in reckless profusion, and the youth
often stopped to admire them, and once he picked a handful to take back
with him.
"You love flowers," said his father.
"I do, father. Don't you?"
"Somewhat. Your taste comes from your mother. She thought much of them, and
when we planted the garden she always planted flower seeds, too." And the
trader gave a long sigh as he thought of the good woman who had died so
many years before.
Presently they came once more to the burn-over and then made their way
straight to the ruins of the old trading-post. The spot looked more forlorn
than ever, for the storms of the summer had washed some mud over part of
the ground, and grass and weeds flourished amid the blackness.
"That shows what nature can do," observed James Morris. "Give this a few
years more and it will be impossible to tell that a post ever stood here.
In the same fashion, entire villages have been wiped out, so that
historians, going there later, cannot locate even the first sign of the
ruins."
An old shovel had been left at the place, and working with this James
Morris began to turn over some of the burnt sticks at a spot where he
thought he might possibly come upon something of value. In the meantime
Dave poked around to suit himself, and presently found two jugs and an iron
pot.
"I think these are still good to use," he said, and started down to the
creek, to wash them off and inspect them more closely.
He had just reached the creek when a sound in the brushwood beyond caught
his ears. He looked up, to see three Frenchmen on horseback riding toward
him. The man in advance looked familiar to him, and as this individual drew
closer, Dave recognized Jean Bevoir.
CHAPTER XIV
JEAN BEVOIR HAS HIS SAY
Had somebody suddenly arisen from the dead before him, Dave would have been
no more astonished than he was when he beheld the Frenchman, who, in the
past, had caused him and his relatives so much trouble.
"Jean Bevoir!" he gasped. "But no, it cannot be, for Bevoir was killed at
the fall of Montreal!"
The three Frenchmen did not notice the youth until the very edge of the
creek was reached. Then Jean Bevoir uttered an exclamation in French.
"Settlers, after all," he said, to his companions.
"Where?" asked both, and came forward, one on each side of him.
By this time Dave was confronting the trio boldly, and now Jean Bevoir
looked at him more closely.
"_Parbleu!_" he muttered. "'Tis that Dave Morris, or mayhap I am dreaming!"
"Jean Bevoir!" faltered the youth. "I--I thought you were dead."
"Dead? And how came you to think that?"
"They told us you were shot down at Montreal."
"Ha! I see. And you were glad of it, not so? But I have disappointed you."
The Frenchman paused and then chuckled to himself. "You cannot flee from
Jean Bevoir so easily."
"What do you want here?"
"Want, do you ask? What would any honest man want? Yes, I was shot, and
left for dead. But my good friends nursed me to health, _malgre moll_
And now I am come to claim what is my own."
By this time James Morris had noted the appearance of the newcomers, and
leaving his work over the ruins, he walked forward to see who they were.
"Can it be possible that this is Jean Bevoir!" he ejaculated.
"Yes, father," answered Dave. "The report that he was killed was false."
"But the soldiers were so sure--"
"They made a mistake. It is Jean Bevoir beyond any doubt."
"So you are here," declared the Frenchman, glaring darkly at the trader. "I
was told that the Englishmen had come no further westward than Fort
Duquesne."
"You mean Fort Pitt," answered James Morris pointedly. "Fort Duquesne is a
thing of the past." "Some day the fort shall come back to its own," put in
one of Bevoir's companions, whose name was Jacques Valette. "You English
have but a slim foothold."
"That is a matter of opinion, Valette," answered James Morris. He knew
Jacques Valette to be a hunter of the rougher sort, given to much fighting
and dissipating. "The war is at an end, and for the present my country is
master of the situation."
"The English do not own this land," put in Jean Bevoir. "It has always
belonged to the French and the Indians, and it belongs to them still. No
army has been sent out here to take possession, and how can the English
claim that which they have not even seen or marked out?"
"I won't discuss the old quarrel with you, Bevoir," said James Morris
briefly. "We are here to stay, and that is the end of the matter, so far as
I am concerned. You can do as you please, but I warn you not to interfere
with me. If you do, you will get your fingers burnt."
"The place is burnt down," said the third Frenchman, whose name was Hector
Bergerac. He too was a hunter, but of a better sort than Bevoir or Valette.
"Shall you build again?"
"Not here," answered James Morris. "I have located a new post on the Ohio."
"The Ohio!" came from the three Frenchmen simultaneously, and the others
looked at Jean Bevoir.
"Where upon the Ohio have you placed the new post?" demanded the French
trader.
His manner was so insolent that James Morris grew nettled.
"Had you asked me civilly, I would have answered you, Bevoir," he returned.
"But now you can find out for yourself."
"We were going to erect a post upon the Ohio," put in Bergerac. "Our
pack-train is but a day behind us."
"It will be a loss of time and money for you Frenchmen to do that," came
quickly from James Morris. "I tell you that the English are in control, and
they mean to keep control. In the end you will lose all you possess."
"We are not for war, but for peace," said Hector Bergerac. "I, for one,
will obey the English law, if I find out that that is what must be done."
"_Pouf_!" came from Jean Bevoir. "Show not the heart of a chicken,
Bergerac. Remember, we French have still most of the Indians as friends."
"Do you mean to say that you will incite the red men to fight us?" demanded
James Morris.
"Ha! that makes you shiver, does it?" cried Jean Bevoir wickedly. "We shall
not have to say much, The red men can take their own part. They know well
that the French are their true friends, and the English their real
enemies."
"You scoundrel!" cried James Morris hotly. "Dare to provoke the red men to
fight, and I will see to it that you shall not escape as you did at
Montreal. Perhaps you do not know that I have knowledge of your evil doings
at Montreal--how you and others tried to loot the stores and private
dwellings, and how both the French and the English soldiers turned on you
and your dastardly companions and shot you down. How you escaped from
justice I do not know, but perhaps, even yet, the authorities will listen
to a charge against you."
At this plain outburst Jean Bevoir grew first pale and then crimson. His
hand sought the pistol at his side, but the stern look in the English
trader's face caused him to drop his hold on the weapon.
"I will not listen to such talk from you!" he exclaimed, grating his teeth
savagely. "The story is not true, and you know it. I was wounded while
aiding some French people who were sick. I never stole a thing in my life!
It is for the English to make up such tales, just to get the French into
trouble."
"You wouldn't have to take my word for it," retorted James Morris grimly.
"The evidence would rest with those who caught you in the act at Montreal."
"Will you tell us where your post on the Ohio is located?" asked Jacques
Valette.
"You heard my answer to Bevoir," returned James Morris. "If you wish to
locate, why not do so here? This was a spot Monsieur Bevoir always
admired," he added, with some slight show of sarcasm.
"On this burnt-over spot!" ejaculated Jean Bevoir. "No, thank you! I shall
go where I expected to go--to the Ohio."
"Rather late in the year to put up a post now," suggested Dave, who could
not help saying something.
At this speech Jean Bevoir smiled knowingly.
"Trust me that I know what I am doing," he said. "Come," he added, to his
companions, in French. "We can gain nothing by remaining here longer."
He turned his steed around, and rode off, and Valette and Bergerac did the
same. Soon the brushwood and forest hid them from view.
"Well, I never!" burst out Dave. "Who would have thought it?"
"It seems we are not clear of that rascal after all," said James Morris
bitterly. "Not only is he alive, but he is coming out to his old hunting
ground to bother us."
"Do you think he will set up a post near us, father?"
"He did that when I located here. He seems to take savage delight in
crowding on my heels."
"That Valette is about as bad a rascal as Bevoir."
"That is true."
"Do you know much of the third fellow?"
"Not a great deal, but I always fancied he was a Frenchman of the better
sort. He used to be attached to the fort at Presqu' Isle. I once bought
some furs from him, and he was much pleased over what I gave him for them.
He said it was much more than Bevoir offered."
"He seems hand-in-glove with Bevoir now."
"Perhaps, or else it may be that he was simply hired by Bevoir to come out
and help establish a new post."
"What can they do with winter so close at hand?"
"Nothing much, son. They will have to work hard to provide themselves a
shelter."
"Bevoir didn't appear to be much worried."
"He may possibly have something in mind of which I know nothing," answered
James Morris thoughtfully. "It is too bad! I wish he would go away and
leave me alone. He might just as well establish himself a hundred miles
from here, as to be on top of me."
It was now too dark to continue the search around the ruins, and taking the
few things they had found with them, they returned to the new post.
"We had better not say anything about Bevoir and his crowd," said James
Morris as they journeyed along. "Let the men and the Indians find it out
for themselves."
"All right, father; just as you say," answered Dave. "But when they find it
out, what then?"
"Then let the men say what they please. We will try to avoid a quarrel."
"Jean Bevoir hates White Buffalo worse than poison."
"I do not doubt it, for White Buffalo accused him several times of cheating
the hunters of his tribe out of a reasonable exchange for their furs.
Bevoir got the Indians drunk and then literally robbed them."
"He dealt principally in rum, didn't he?"
"Yes; he never gave the Indians anything else if he could help it. All
told, I think he was the most rascally trader I ever met in these parts,"
concluded James Morris.
CHAPTER XV
DAVE'S UNWELCOME VISITOR
For several weeks after that nothing more was seen or heard of Jean Bevoir
and his party. More than once James Morris questioned the frontiersmen and
Indians in a roundabout manner, asking if they had met any strangers, but
the replies were largely in the negative. White Buffalo had once run across
a small band of Shawanoes, who had said they would later on come to the
post to trade, but that was all.
"Perhaps, after all, Bevoir thought best to move away from this district,"
said Dave to his parent.
"No, the rascal is not to be gotten rid of so readily," was the answer.
"Even if he does not build a post, he will loiter around in the shade until
he gets the chance to do me some injury."
There was now a promise of snow in the air, and a few days later the ground
was covered to the depth of an inch or more. This made tracking game good,
and without delay the frontiersmen and Indians set off to see what they
might bring in. As a consequence Dave and Mr. Morris were left at the post
alone.
"I am glad the snow held off so long," said James Morris. "Henry and
Barringford must be home by this time--or else close to it."
"If no accidents befell them," said the son.
With the men and Indians away, it was rather lonely around the post for
Dave. But there was plenty to do, and the youth kept himself well employed
from sunrise to sunset. Occasionally he went fishing in the river with fair
success. The log house was made as comfortable as possible, and both worked
hard over the stable, that the horses might not suffer when the winter set
in in earnest.
Extra timbers had been cut at the top of the hill, back of the
trading-post, and when another fall of snow came, James Morris decided to
slide these down to where he wanted them.
"If you need me, just call or fire a gun," he said, one morning, and then
set off up the hill, taking a team of the strongest horses with him.
After his father was gone Dave took a walk around the post, cleaned some
fish he expected to fry for dinner, and looked after the remaining horses.
Not a soul appeared to be in sight, and for a little while he felt very
lonely indeed. But soon he broke into a cheery whistle, which served to
raise his spirits.
"We'll be busy enough as soon as the hunters and trappers begin to bring in
their game," he thought. "I hope we do a good business and make some money.
Being a soldier didn't pay very handsomely,--and this war has cost father a
neat penny."
Returning to the log house from the barn, he was surprised to find the main
door wide open. He felt certain that he had closed it on coming away.
"Father, are you there?" he called out, striding forward.
There was no answer, but a second later came a crashing of glass, and
looking into the main room of the post he saw Jacques Valette sprawled out
on a puncheon bench, with a jug of liquor in his arms and a broken tumbler
lying on the floor before him.
"What do you want here?" demanded Dave indignantly.
For the moment Jacques Valette did not answer, but glared at the youth in
an uncertain fashion,
"Why do you ask me questions?" he queried in French, and with several
hiccoughs.
"Let that liquor alone," went on Dave, now realizing that the French hunter
and trapper was more than half intoxicated. "Let it alone, I say!" And he
tried to force the jug from Valette's grasp. "Want a drink!" shouted the
man, holding tight. "Want a drink! Get me--me some more glass, boy!"
"I will not. Let the jug alone," and now Dave got it in his possession and
put it on a high shelf, out of the Frenchman's reach.
With a frightful imprecation in his native tongue Jacques Valette staggered
to his feet. He made a clutch for Dave's right ear, but the youth eluded
him. Then, in turning, he went sprawling over the puncheon bench, and his
head struck the floor, while his feet stuck up in the air.
It was a comical sight, but Dave did not laugh. He realized that he had an
ugly customer with whom to deal. He well knew how utterly lawless some of
these wild hunters and trappers were when half full of liquor, and knew
that they would do almost anything to get more drink with which to finish
their debauch. Running to the doorway, he called loudly for his father.
"Stop your noise!" shouted Jacques Valette. "Stop, or I make big trouble!"
And he shook his fist at Dave. He was on his feet once more, swaying
unsteadily from side to side.
"I want you to go," answered Dave. "Go, do you hear?"
"Give me the jug and I go."
[Illustration: "Let go!" cried Dave. "Let go, I say!"]
"Not a drop. You have had too much already."
"Only haf one glass. Give the jug, like good fellow."
So speaking, Valette lurched over to the shelf and started to bring down
the jug once more. But ere he could do so, Dave had him by the arm and was
hauling him backward.
In a great rage at being thus thwarted, Jacques Valette began to struggle
with the youth. He was a powerful fellow, and for several minutes it looked
as if he would get the better of Dave. His hold was a good one, and soon he
threw the youth to the floor and held him there.
"Let go!" cried Dave. "Let go, I say!" and did his best to wrench himself
free.
It was in the midst of this struggle that James Morris rushed in, having
heard Dave's loud cry for assistance. He took in the situation at a glance,
and bending down, struck Valette on the side of the head.
"You brute, let my son go!"
Bewildered by the blow, the half-intoxicated Frenchman fell back and Dave
staggered to his feet, panting for breath. Valette had caught him by the
throat, and the marks of his fingers were still visible.
"What does this mean?" demanded Mr. Morris, after a pause, in which the
youth did his best to get back his breath.
In a few words Dave explained. While he was talking, Jacques Valette
managed to rise to his feet. If he had been angry before, he was doubly so
now. He felt for his pistol, but, luckily, the weapon was gone.
"Ha! you take my pistol," he cried. "Gif it back to me."
"I haven't your pistol," said Dave. "You didn't have one."
"I did. I want it back," growled Jacques Valette.
"You'll get no pistol here," put in James Morris. "You have no right to
come to my post and raise a disturbance, and attack my son."
"I want some rum. I pay," returned the Frenchman. "I haf English
money--plenty, too!"
With a leer, he put one hand into his outer garment and felt around in a
pocket. Then he felt in his other pockets.
"Ha! the money, it is gone!" he cried. "You take my money too! This is the
_coup de grace_ truly But, _a l'Anglaise_!"
"It is not after the English fashion," put in Dave, who understood the
French fairly well. "We are honest people here, and, as my father says, you
have no right to come here and raise a quarrel."
"The money--all gone!" muttered Jacques Valette. The loss appeared to sober
him for a moment. "Fifteen pounds, ten shillings--all gone!"
"Do you mean to say you had fifteen pounds and ten shillings?" questioned
James Morris.
The French hunter and trapper nodded. "_Oui! oui!_"
"And you haven't it now?"
Jacques Valette shrugged his shoulders. "Not a shilling! All is gone! You
haf it!" And he shook his hand in Dave's face.
"Don't dare to accuse my son of theft!" exclaimed James Morris angrily. "He
has nothing of yours."
A perfect war of words followed. Jacques Valette insisted that, on coming
to the post, he had had a pistol and the money mentioned. As they were now
gone he felt certain that Dave had taken them. He could not or would not
tell where he had been previous to his journey to James Morris' place.
"You lost them before you came here, that is certain," said James Morris.
"I want no more from you. Get out!" And he forced the Frenchman to leave.
Jacques Valette walked away slowly, muttering all sorts of imprecations in
French under his breath.
"He'll try to make us trouble for this," observed Dave, after the unwelcome
visitor had gone.
"I have no doubt but that you are right, son." answered James Morris. "Let
us hunt around and see if he dropped his pistol and money anywhere in this
vicinity."
A thorough hunt was made, but nothing was found which looked as if it might
belong to the Frenchman. Half an hour later it began to snow once more, and
soon the tracks made by Jacques Valette were covered up.
"After this I am going to keep the gates barred when we are alone," said
James Morris. "I'll hang the horn outside, so anybody who wants to get in
can blow." And this was done.
Getting the timbers down the hillside proved no light task, and often Dave
went out to aid his father, for they could easily hear the horn at the gate
from a great distance. They had also to get in extra firewood for the
winter, which promised now to be unusually severe.
It was almost Christmas time before the hunters and trappers who had gone
out began to come in with their furs. Among the first to arrive were Lukins
and Sanderson, who had managed to bring down a large variety of animals,
including two large bears, the pelts of which were worth considerable.
These trappers were followed by Jadwin, who had not fared so well, having
lost some of his game in the river, and then came White Buffalo and his
men, who had been more successful than any of the others. In those days the
post became a bustling place, and it really looked as if James Morris'
venture would prove a money-making one. He gave fair value for all that was
brought to him, and whites and Indians declared themselves well satisfied
with their dealings.
CHAPTER XVI
DAVE MEETS PONTIAC
It was White Buffalo who brought in the first definite news that the
Indians throughout the length and breadth of the Ohio valley, and along the
Great Lakes, were becoming dissatisfied with the manner in which the
English had taken possession of New France (Canada) and the West.
"White Buffalo has spoken with some of the great chiefs," said he, "and all
are agreed that the sky is black for the Indian. With the end of the war
the English will push further and further into the forest, and the hunting
grounds will be taken away from the red man. The Indian must live by the
hunt, so what is he to do?"
"It's the old question over again," answered James Morris. "The Indians
won't become farmers, and so they have got to suffer."
"But the Indians claim the land as their own," resumed White Buffalo. "It
was left to them by their forefathers. The land of the English lies in
England, across the Great Water."
"I hope you don't stand for war, White Buffalo," came from Dave quickly.
"Not for war on the friends of White Buffalo," was the ready answer. "But
even White Buffalo cannot stand idly by and see the English take all which
belongs to his tribe and to the other red men. The Indian gets nothing in
return. He and his squaw and his papoose must live. What should he do? Can
my friends tell?"
James Morris gave a sigh. "Honestly, White Buffalo, I cannot. If I could I
might solve the whole of this vexing question, and then, perhaps, we'd have
no war. But it doesn't seem right for the whites and the Indians to be
fighting all the time. It hurts one just as much as it hurts the other."
"My brother James does not tell the truth," said the Indian chief, somewhat
sadly. "It hurts the Indian far more than it hurts his white brother. White
Buffalo has eyes, and he is wise enough to see that the Indian cannot fight
the white man and win in the end. The red man may slay many, but in the end
he will lose. I know it, I feel it." And White Buffalo bowed his head.
"Do you look for an uprising soon?" questioned James Morris, after a long
pause.
"Not at once--the red men have not forgotten how they suffered during this
great war. But it will come--next summer, or the summer after. The red man
does not forget that he has suffered."
"Let us hope by next summer the trouble will be forgotten," came from James
Morris; and that was all he could say.
Christmas found the post buried deeply in snow, and hunting for the time
being was out of the question. The place was crowded, and white trappers
and Indians often spent the night in the stable with the horses. There was
an active demand upon James Morris' supplies and he could have disposed of
three times as many had he had them.
Strange as it may seem, nothing more was heard from Jacques Valette and
Jean Bevoir, and the Morrises often wondered what had become of them, and
of their companion, Hector Bergerac. They questioned the hunters, both
white and red, but could get no information.
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