There was a cleared spot to cover, and at a signal from the old
frontiersman they advanced across this, being all of a hundred yards from
each other, and in something of a semicircle.

They made no noise, and the elk, for such it really was, did not notice
them until they were within easy gunshot of where he was feeding. Then up
went his head, to scent the air, and with a snort of sudden fear he started
away, straight ahead of them.

Bang! it was Henry's weapon that spoke up, the instant he had the game out
of range of the bushes. The bullet lodged in the elk's flank and he
immediately began to limp. But he did not drop, and now it was Dave's turn
to fire. Bang! went the second weapon, and the bullet lodged but a few
inches below that sent in by Henry. On went the wounded creature, limping
painfully, but still making good time, especially where the snow on the
rocks was partly swept away.

"Come on after him!" yelled Henry, reloading with all speed. "I don't think
he can get away!"

He had scarcely spoken when Barringford took aim and let drive. Strange as
it may seem, the third bullet struck immediately between the other two. The
frontiersman had aimed at the other flank, but the elk had jumped to one
side, to avoid a hole, just as the hammer of the musket struck the flint.

Henry was running on as fast as his snow-shoes would permit, and having
reloaded, Dave and Barringford followed. They were going downhill once
more, but now the elk made a turn and darted into a belt of timber lining
the river. Reaching the stream, he paused for a moment, looked despairingly
at his wounded and bleeding flank, and then started across the ice.

When Henry reached the bank of the stream the elk was pulling himself up
the steep bank on the other side. He now offered a fair shot once more and
the youth was not slow to take advantage of it. Up came the gun, his gaze
moved along the sights, and down came the trigger. But, alas! the flint was
an old one and it failed to light the priming. Up came the hammer with an
exclamation of impatience, but it was too late--the elk was once more out
of sight.

"Why didn't you give him another shot?" demanded Dave, as he rushed up.

"The confounded flint wouldn't strike fire," growled Henry. "That's one of
a lot I bought in New York when we were coming home, and they are no good."

"I'll see if I can't give him another," answered his cousin, and tumbled
rather than climbed down to the river bank. Barringford came after him, and
both crossed the stream and mounted the bank opposite. Here the snow was
deep and both went into it headfirst, getting a liberal dose down their
sleeves and collars.

"Oh, Columbus! but there's no fun in this!" cried Dave, as he brushed
himself off. "Ugh! but that snow down my backbone isn't a bit pleasant!"

"Don't waste time hyer!" cried Barringford almost roughly. It made him
angry to think that his first shot had not laid the elk low. "If you want
to stay behind, why--"

"Not at all!" interrupted Dave. "I'm with you!" And away he went beside the
old frontiersman. Henry had now adjusted a new flint to his musket-lock,
and was following across the river as speedily as possible.

The forest was thick before them and they could hear the elk crashing along
in a blind fashion, which indicated that he was speedily becoming
exhausted. Once they heard him stop, but before they could reach the spot
he was off again, at a still slower pace.

"We've got him now," said Barringford grimly. "Might as well slack up and
wait for Henry."

He knew that Henry would be much disappointed if he was not in at the
death. They slowed up and soon the young hunter came in sight.

"Did the elk get away?" he demanded.

"No, he is just ahead," answered Dave. "Don't you hear him?"

"Sure enough. So you waited for me? I'm glad you did."

Away they went in a bunch, until the elk could be heard less than five rods
away. Then came a silence.

"He has turned and is going to fight," cried Barringford, and a moment
later they came in sight of the elk, backed up against a clump of walnuts,
standing at bay, with dilated nostrils and a gaze of mingled alarm and rage
in his large, round eyes.

"He is your game, Henry," said Barringford, and Henry took aim promptly at
one of those eyes. The elk made a rush, but he was too late. Bang! went
Henry's gun. The game gave a wild leap,--and fell dead in his tracks.




CHAPTER VI

SURRENDER OF FORT DETROIT


"A good shot!" cried Dave, as all of the party moved forward to inspect the
dead elk.

"Couldn't have been better nohow," came from Sam Barringford. He looked the
game over carefully. "About as large as I've seen in these parts," he
added.

"He has got just the kind of horns I've been wanting to get," said Henry,
with pardonable pride. "But I reckon either of you could have hit him in
the eye, too," he added candidly.

"It is going to be no easy job getting him home," said Dave. "Shall we put
him on a drag?"

"Yes, lad, an' I've a rope we can slip over those horns, an' all can take
hold," said Barringford. "We can go as far as possible by the river; for
that will be easier."

Barringford carried a sharp hatchet in his belt and with this he cut down a
suitable tree branch and fashioned it into such a drag as was desired. Then
the elk was lifted upon it and bound fast, and the rope was fastened to the
horns.

Getting through the forest to the river was no mean task, but once on the
ice progress was rapid, and long before nightfall they were within easy
walking distance of home.

"Game here is not near as plentiful as it was three or four years ago,"
remarked Dave as they pushed on. "Don't you remember how we used to go out,
Henry, and bring down all sorts of small animals?"

"Some day there won't be anything left," put in Barringford. "Time was when
buffalo were plentiful, but now you've got to go a long distance to spot
'em. How this elk got here is a mystery to me. I thought they stayed up
near the lakes."

"The heavy winter made him go a long distance for food, I reckon," answered
Henry; and this was probably the correct explanation.

Little Nell was at the window, arranging a row of pegs Rodney had made for
her in the form of a company of soldiers. The largest peg went for the
captain, and this she called Washington, while another, which would not
stand, but insisted upon falling over, she called General Braddock, for she
had heard the older folks talk over Braddock's fearful defeat at Fort
Duquesne and of what Washington had done to save what was left of the
English troops from annihilation.

"Here they come!" shouted the little miss. "And, oh, such a big deer as
they have!"

"An elk, as sure as fate!" ejaculated Rodney, looking over her shoulder.
"Henry will have the horns he wanted now."

"And we need the meat," said James Morris, as he flung open the door and
hurried outside. "Elk is pretty strong, I know, but it is better than no
fresh meat at all. And I am tired of rabbit."

The party of hunters soon came up, and all of the others, including Mrs.
Morris, surveyed the game with interest, while they listened to how the elk
had been tracked and brought low.

"Certainly worth going many miles for," said James Morris. "The pelt is a
fine one."

The elk was hung up out of the reach of any wild beasts that might be
prowling around, and the next day Henry and Sam Barringford skinned the
animal and cut up the meat as Mrs. Morris desired it. The tongue was
smoked, a small part of the forequarter pickled, and the remainder kept
fresh by being hung up where it was cold. That day they dined on elk steaks
and all pronounced the fresh meat very acceptable.

Late in the afternoon Paul Thompson came to the cabin on horseback,
bringing his wife with him.

"We were coming sooner," said the husband, "but my wife got a sore throat
and I thought I had better wait until she was well again."

"I hope it is all right now," replied Mrs. Morris, as she escorted her
visitors into the cabin.

"Quite well, but she mustn't expose herself too much. When I go to
Dennett's I am going to get her a mixture from the doctor."

The Thompsons were astonished to see the babies and wanted at once to hear
all about them.

"It certainly is a queer mix-up," said the man, later on. "I'll see if I
can learn anything about them when I am away. Somebody ought to be able to
place them,--although, to be sure, a great number of children have become
hopelessly lost during the late war."

"We know that," answered Mrs. Morris with a shudder. "Wasn't little Nell
stolen from us by the Indians and then held by that bad French trader, Jean
Bevoir?"

"Didn't you say Bevoir was dead?" asked Paul Thompson.

"He is," answered James Morris, "and I must confess I am rather glad of it.
He caused me a great deal of trouble, in one way and another."

"I have news that Fort Detroit has surrendered to us," went on Paul
Thompson. "The surrender took place on November the twenty-ninth,"

"Is that so," cried Dave, with deep interest. "Was there any fighting?"

"I don't believe there was, but the French commander was very bitter over
the surrender, and so was Pontiac, the chief of the Ottawas."

"Pontiac?" repeated Henry. "I don't know that I ever heard of him."

"I have," put in Dave. "Somebody told me he was with the Indians that
attacked General Braddock, at the opening of the war."

"Yes, he was thar," came from Barringford. "An' I heard tell at thet
hospital I was in up to Canada thet he was with Montcalm when the French
fit General Wolfe. Montcalm give him a suit of French officer's clothes and
the Injun was tickled to death over 'em."

The news that Fort Detroit had surrendered to the English was true.
Immediately after the fall of Montreal, as already described in detail in
this series, General Amherst ordered Major Robert Rogers, of Rogers'
Rangers fame, to ascend the St. Lawrence and the Great Lakes, and take
possession of Detroit, Michillimackinac--now called Mackinaw--and other
French strongholds which had not yet been turned over to the British.

The start was made on the twelfth of September, 1760, and the force under
Rogers consisted of two hundred men, a mere handful as troops as reckoned
to-day, but one which was considered amply large enough to accomplish its
purpose. The journey was made in a dozen or more whaleboats, and Fort
Niagara was reached on the first of October,--about the time Dave, Henry,
and Barringford received their release from the army and prepared to start
for the Morris home hundreds of miles away.

Moving up the Niagara River as far as the rapids, Rogers' force carried
their boats with their loads around the Falls, and then embarked for the
journey up Lake Erie, stopping at the fort at Presqu' Isle, and at several
other points.

Winter was now on in all its fury, and a heavy rain made Rogers go into
camp in the forest bordering the water. Hardly had this been done when a
number of Indians put in an appearance and demanded to know where the
English soldiers were going.

"This is French and Indian territory," said they. "You can advance no
further."

Rogers tried to explain that the war was now over and that all the land
belonged to England. But the Indians would not listen, and said he must
wait until they had consulted the great chief Pontiac.

When Pontiac finally came, dressed as became a great warrior, he listened
gravely to what Rogers had to say. He was much chagrined to learn that the
French had capitulated and said that he must have the night in which to
think it over. When he went away Rogers and his soldiers feared treachery,
but it did not come.

The next day Pontiac came once more. He now said he was willing to let the
English advance, provided they would do what was right by his followers and
treat him as his rank deserved. Rogers said he would do the best he could;
and both smoked the pipe of peace.

When the mouth of the Detroit River was gained word came in that a large
body of Indians was hiding in the forest bordering the stream, waiting to
slaughter the whites. At once the rangers were on the alert, but the
threatened attack did not come, for Pontiac told the Indians that it would
be useless to fight the English at present, that they might rather become
friends with them and await the settlement of the war between England and
France.

Captain Beletre was in command at Fort Detroit. When the news was first
brought to him that the French at Montreal had surrendered he refused to
believe it.

"I will fight!" he cried, and did his best to arouse the Indians to aid him
in defeating the object of Rogers' mission. But when the Colonial commander
sent him a copy of the terms of the capitulation Beletre was forced to
submit, and did so with the best grace possible. Soon the _fleur de lis_ of
France was lowered and the cross of St. George of England floated proudly
from the flagstaff.

This surrender without bloodshed caused great wonder among the red men, and
their wonder increased when they saw the French made prisoners with no
attempt on the part of the rangers to massacre them. They thought that the
English must indeed be powerful, and were glad that they had taken
Pontiac's advice and remained, for the time being, friendly.

Detroit taken,--it was at that time but a straggling village with a rude
palisade,--a detachment was sent to the south, to occupy Fort Miami and
Fort Ouatanon, places of lesser importance. Then Rogers himself set out up
Lake Huron to take Michillimackinac. But winter was now on in all its
severity, and his boats were driven back by the snow and floating ice, so
that he had to abandon this portion of his task. But it may be mentioned
here that during the following spring, now so close at hand, a body of
Royal Americans journeyed to Michillimackinac and took possession. Thus was
the surrender of the French in America made complete so far as it embraced
the territory which had been in dispute for so many years. The English
imagined that times of peace and plenty were to follow. But they had not
reckoned with Pontiac or with the thousands of Indians who stood ready to
dig up the war hatchet at the call of this daring and learned chief.




CHAPTER VII

PREPARING FOR THE EXPEDITION WESTWARD


The winter had been a severe one, but early in March came a rapid change
and in a few days the spring thaw began in earnest, flooding the banks of
the creeks and rivers and causing not a little damage to such buildings as
were located close to the water's edge. The forest in that vicinity was
still heavy, so that the freshet was not as severe as it is in these days,
when there remains but little timber to break the rush of snow and ice and
water down the sides of hills and mountains.

With the coming of spring James Morris began to make his arrangements for
visiting his trading-post on the Kinotah. In the meantime those at the
cabin did their best to learn something concerning the two babies Sam
Barringford had picked up. But the efforts in this direction were without
success.

Nothing could be learned of the traveler who had the little children,
although diligent inquiries were pursued at Fort Bedford, and many other
points. Letters were sent to Annapolis and to Philadelphia concerning
Barringford's discovery but brought no satisfaction. Once a party wrote
that the children might belong to his dead brother, but this proved to be
untrue.

"It's a complete mystery, that's what it is," declared Henry.

"And it looks to me as if it will never be solved," added Dave.

The children still remained at the Morris house and Mrs. Morris gave both
the best of care. The kind woman felt positive that they were twins, and
all who saw the children agreed that she was right. One was slightly darker
than the other in eyes and hair, and one chin was rounder than the other,
but otherwise it was next to impossible to tell them apart.

"Reckon I'll have to shoulder 'em as my own," remarked Sam Barringford one
day. "I'd do it in a minit if it wasn't thet I haven't nary a home to take
'em to."

"You may leave them here," said Mrs. Morris promptly. "I have talked it
over with Joseph and with James and it will be quite suitable."

"If you'll take 'em in charge I'll pay you for it, Mistress Morris," said
the old frontiersman. "It will be a weight off my shoulders to have ye do
it. I know as how the little chaps will get the best o' care."

And so it was arranged that the twins should remain with Mrs. Morris.
Barringford named them Tom and Artie, after two uncles of his own, and
these names clung to them as they grew older. Little did Barringford or the
Morrises dream of what the finding of these twins was to lead to in years
to come.

"Of one thing I am certain," said James Morris one day. "They are of good
breeding. No common blood flows in their veins."

"I take it you are right," answered his brother. "And it may be that some
day Sam will be well rewarded for saving them from death."

After a great deal of deliberation it had been decided that James Morris
should start for the west about the first of May. Dave and Henry were to go
with him, and likewise Sam Barringford and three other frontiersmen named
Lukins, Sanderson, and Jadwin. The party was likewise to contain four
Indians of the Delaware tribe under White Buffalo. The whites were all to
go mounted and were to take six pack-horses in addition. At first James
Morris thought to take a couple of wagons, at least as far as Fort Pitt,
but this plan was at the last moment abandoned, for wagons were scarce and
high in price, and there was no telling if they could be sold when the last
fort on the frontier was gained, and further progress with anything on
wheels became out of the question.

The coming of White Buffalo with his handful of trusted braves was an event
for Dave and Henry. This chief had been their friend for many years and
they felt that they could rely upon him, no matter how great the emergency.
In the past the tribe to which White Buffalo belonged had been split, some
fighting with the English and others with the French, but now some of the
leaders, including Skunk Tail, were dead, and, the war being at an end, all
were reunited under the leadership of White Buffalo and a young chief named
Rain Cloud. But White Buffalo could not forgive some of the men of his
tribe for taking up arms against the English and he was glad enough in
consequence to get away with his few chosen ones.

"How? How?" said the Indian, meaning "How do you do?" as he took first
Dave's hand and then Henry's and gave each a tight grip. "White Buffalo is
glad to see his young friends looking so well. The war has not harmed
them."

"No, White Buffalo, we are as well as ever," answered Dave. "And how have
you been since last we saw you?"

"White Buffalo is not so young as he once was," answered the chief. "His
step is not so light and his eye cannot see so far. Before many winters he
will be gathered to his fathers."

"Nonsense!" put in Henry. "You can shoot as straight as any of us, and I
know it, and walk just as far, too. Who told you that you couldn't?"

"The young braves at White Buffalo's village. They do not care for a chief
who is old."

"They make a big mistake, and I'd tell them so if I had the chance," went
on Henry earnestly. "You are all right, White Buffalo, and we'll be very
glad to have you along, even if your tribe doesn't want you any longer."

At this the eyes of the old Delaware glistened. "Henry is my true friend,"
he murmured. "And David is my friend, too. White Buffalo shall never forget
them."

"Are the men with you young men?" questioned Dave.

"No, they are almost as old as White Buffalo himself."

"That will suit father. He doesn't care for the young braves. They always
want to do what pleases them and not what is ordered."

"They are like untrained dogs, who follow one trail and then another and
hunt out nothing," was the old chief's comment.

True to his word, he had brought a new doll for little Nell, made by
himself with no other tool than his hunting knife. It was of wood, with
eyes of beads, and with joints fastened with deer thongs. It was
wonderfully painted, and on the top of the head was a bit of fur for hair.

"White Buffalo bring the papoose he told of," he said, producing it from
under his blanket. "Lady papoose, her name Minnehaha."

"Oh, what a beautiful, beautiful doll!" screamed little Nell, as she
embraced it. "And her arms and legs move, too! And such a nice name,
Minnehaha."


"What does Minnehaha mean?" asked Mrs. Morris, as she too surveyed the
precious gift.

"Minnehaha means Laughing Water," answered the Indian chief. "Grand lady,
like Queen."

"She is certainly a grand doll," put in Rodney. "Nell, you must take the
best of care of it."

"I shall," answered the little miss; and she did.

James Morris had gone to Annapolis, accompanied by his brother, and at this
important seaport purchased such things as were needed for the expedition,
including some extra weapons, powder, ball and shot, a box of flints, some
clothing, and many other things of more or less usefulness. To these were
added, when Will's Creek was again reached, two casks of salt pork, two
bags of beans, a sack of flour, a canister of coffee, others of sugar,
salt, pepper, and various other articles meant for the table. No fresh meat
was taken, the party depending upon their firearms to supply game and their
lines and hooks to furnish fish. A small supply of feed was also taken for
the horses, but this was to be used only when natural fodder could not be
found.

And all this was for an expedition from Cumberland to the Ohio River, a
distance of not much over a hundred miles, and which to-day can be made in
the trains inside of three hours with ease! But the trail the party was to
take was all of two hundred miles in length, and fifteen to twenty miles
per day was considered good traveling. This shows well the progress made in
our country in the past one hundred and forty odd years.

There were not sufficient accommodations at the Morris' cabin for all the
whites of the party, and the frontiersmen who were to go with Barringford
remained at the fort at Cumberland until the start, while the Indians made
themselves at home in the woods. Once White Buffalo was invited to take
dinner at the cabin, and did so with his usual reserve, eating the meal in
almost total silence, and immediately following with a "smoke of peace"
between himself and James and Joseph Morris.

"That Indian is one out of a hundred," remarked Joseph Morris to his
brother afterward. "I don't believe in trusting them much, but I would
trust White Buffalo."

"That is exactly how I feel about it," was the answer, "and why I was so
anxious to have him along. He has proved himself our friend through thick
and thin. It is too bad that there are not more of such."

"Perhaps there would be, James, had the Indians been treated fairly from
the start. But you know as well as I how the traders have cheated them when
driving bargains, and how some have given them too much rum and then
literally robbed them."

"Yes, yes, I know, and it is the one black spot on our colonization. There
should be a law against it. But even that does not warrant the red men in
being so savage as they have at times proved themselves."

"True again; but both the English and the French have been almost equally
brutal at times. Look at some of the old frontiersmen--those Barringford
has often spoken about. They liked a slaughter as well as the Indians, and
did not hesitate to scalp the enemy in the same way."

"Yes; but they learned that from the redskins in the first place."

"That is true, too; but they should not have taken up the custom, but
instead they should have tried to teach the Indians to do better,"
concluded Joseph Morris; and there the unsatisfactory argument rested.




CHAPTER VIII

ON THE OLD BRADDOCK ROAD


As old readers of this series will remember, there were but two roads or
trails leading from the eastward to Fort Pitt, at the junction of the
Allegheny and Monongahela rivers, where is to-day located the great
manufacturing city of Pittsburg.

The southern road was that cut through at the time General Braddock made
his unsuccessful attack on Fort Duquesne, as the stronghold was then named
by the French. This ran through Great Meadows and then northward to Fort
Pitt. It started at Fort Cumberland, and passed within short walking
distance of where the Morris homestead was located.

The northern road was that cut through by General Forbes during the second
campaign against Fort Duquesne, when the French had been driven from that
territory by the English troops and Royal Americans. This started from Fort
Bedford, about thirty miles north of Fort Cumberland, and ran over the
Allegheny Mountains, and across Stony Creek, Bushy Run, and oilier streams.
It was a considerably shorter route than the other, but the trail was, in
certain spots, more difficult.

At first James Morris, had thought to use the upper and shorter route, but
he was fairly well acquainted with the other, and at last decided to stick
to that which he knew rather than experiment with the unknown.

"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.