"All right, father; I'll take whatever you say," answered Dave, and soon he
and White Buffalo had all the articles mentioned. Each went armed with his
rifle and hunting knife, and the Indian carried his hatchet as well.

"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."

"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.