Читать книгу Trail and Trading Post; or, The Young Hunters of the Ohio - Stratemeyer Edward - Страница 7

Table of Contents

“He has gone!”

“Shoot him, Dave, shoot him!”

With frantic haste Dave fixed the priming of his flint-lock musket. But long before the weapon was ready for use the buffalo was out of sight and hearing.

On the ground in the hollow lay the she-bear, giving a last convulsive shudder. At the mouth of her den were the two cubs, whining plaintively, as if they understood that something had gone wrong. Henry sat on one of the rocks, with his foot still caught fast and a look of pain on his face.

“What’s the matter? Did the buffalo hit you?” called out his cousin, after he had looked to make certain that the bear could do no further harm.

“No, but I—I hurt my ankle,” panted Henry. He gave his leg a pull. “Oh! But that hurts!”

“The bear is out of it,” said Dave. He came closer. “Hullo, your foot is caught. Let me help you. I reckon we have seen the last of that buffalo.”

“I don’t know about that, Dave. We both hit him, and the bear gave him something to remember her by.”

“Poor beast! She certainly did what she could for her cubs. Just look at them now!”

It was an affecting sight. The mother bear had passed away and both of the cubs had crawled forth from the den and were licking her face and pushing her form with their little noses. Then both began to whine once more. Neither seemed to think of running away.

Dave set down his gun and helped Henry to release his caught foot. Then they took off the legging and the shoe. The ankle had begun to swell and there was a deep scratch on one side.

“Can you step on it?” asked Dave, and his cousin tried to do so. He caught his breath and gave a gasp.

“Like pins and needles going through my leg!” he announced. “Oh, what luck! And we didn’t get the buffalo after all!” he added, ruefully.

The bear cubs now came up and one made a snap at Dave’s foot while the other took up Henry’s shoe and began to chew it. Seeing this, Dave drew his hunting knife and dispatched them both. Then he turned again to his cousin.

“I suppose it is out of the question for you to think of walking,” he said.

“Not just yet,” answered Henry. “Maybe I’ll be able to do it in an hour or two.”

“Then we may as well rest right here. One comfort, we have the bear and her cubs even if we didn’t get the buffalo.”

“Dave, why don’t you follow the trail again? That buffalo may not be far off. It won’t do any good for you to sit down here by me—I can take care of myself. Only be careful that the beast doesn’t corner you.”

“I’ll do it. But I’ll get you some water first,” answered Dave.

He had noted a spring just before coming to the bear hollow, and he walked back to it and procured some water in a gourd they carried for that purpose. With this Henry started to bathe his swollen ankle, while Dave took to the fresh trail the buffalo had made.

“Don’t stay away more than an hour!” called out Henry after him.

“Not unless it takes a little longer to get a good chance at the buffalo,” replied his cousin.

The buffalo had crashed through a long stretch of brushwood where the trail could be followed with ease. Then he had taken to the old trail once more, at a point a good half-mile from where he had before left it.

“He is bound for the west, that’s certain,” said Dave to himself. “And more than likely he will keep on until sundown. I may as well give up all hopes of bringing him down. Heigh-ho! such are the fortunes of hunting!” And he heaved a deep sigh.

He kept on for quarter of a mile further, reaching a point where the trail crossed a small but clear stream of spring water. Here the bison had paused for a drink, and resting his gun against a tree, the young hunter got down on his hands and knees to do likewise.

The water tasted so good that Dave took his time and drank his fill. Then he raised his head, started to rise, and looked toward the tree where he had placed his weapon.

The gun was gone!

For the moment the young hunter could not believe the evidence of his senses. He remained in a crouching position, wondering what he had best do. He felt that an enemy must have taken the gun, and wondered who it could be. With caution he looked around, but not a soul was in sight.

It was a peculiar position to be in, and small wonder that the cold perspiration stood out upon the young hunter’s forehead. He had been in peril before, among the Indians, and felt fairly certain that a red man had gotten the better of him.

What was best to do? He asked himself the question several times, his heart beating meanwhile like a trip-hammer within his breast. An enemy was surely at hand. What would be the next movement of the unknown?

Cautiously he put his hand to his side, drew his hunting knife, and arose slowly to an upright position. Overhead the branches of the trees were tightly interlaced, making the spot rather gloomy. The stream came down between a number of rocks which were backed up by bushes and trees. Would it be best to make a dash for this shelter?

“White boy drop knife!”

The unexpected command, issued in a guttural tone, came from a clump of brushwood behind Dave. The young hunter swung around, but could see no one.

“White boy drop knife, or Indian shoot,” were the next words spoken, and now Dave saw the barrel of his own gun pointed at his breast.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“White boy drop knife, or shoot him sure!” was the only answer, and now the muzzle of the gun was shoved a little closer to the youth’s breast. Looking through the brushwood, Dave made out the repulsive features of a savage and saw the wicked gleam of his black eyes.

There seemed to be no help for it, and the hunting knife dropped to the ground. The Indian gave a grunt of satisfaction and then stepped into the opening, still, however, keeping the gun levelled at Dave’s breast. He was a brawny warrior of the Senecas, arrayed in his war-paint and feathers, and he carried a tomahawk and a knife in his girdle and a bow with arrows across his shoulders.

“Where white boy come from?” he asked, abruptly.

“I came from Fort Pitt,” answered Dave. “Why did you steal my gun?”

At the last question the red man gave a grunt that might mean anything. He looked Dave over with care and made him back away, so that he could secure the lad’s hunting knife, which he placed beside his own.

“White boy sodger, um?” went on the savage, noting the tattered uniform.

“Yes, I have been a soldier,” answered Dave. He continued to gaze at the savage. “I’ve seen you before. Oh, I remember now. You were with Moon Eye, right after I was captured. You had something to do with the stealing of my little cousin and the twin boys.”

The red man’s eyes flashed, but he did not answer to this. Evidently he was pondering upon what to do next. He had come upon Dave quite unexpectedly and had taken the gun on the impulse of the moment.

“White boy alone?” he asked, after an awkward pause.

“No, I have a good many friends around here,” was Dave’s quick reply, but he did not add that the majority of his friends were at the fort.

At this the face of the warrior darkened. He allowed the gun barrel to drop and drew his tomahawk. If others of the whites were near he thought it might be best to brain Dave on the spot, making as little noise as possible, and then get away from that vicinity.

The young hunter understood the movement, and his heart leaped into his throat. He had no desire to feel the edge of the savage’s stone hatchet. As the gun barrel dropped still lower he thought of the rocks and the brushwood and made a spring towards them.

“Pawah!” cried the Indian, in a rage. “White boy stop!” And he made a dash after the youth. But as luck would have it one moccasin caught in a trailing vine and he pitched headlong. As he went down, the trigger of the gun struck some brush, caught fast, and the piece went off with a loud report.

Dave imagined the gun was discharged at himself, and fully expected to feel the sting of the bullet, perhaps in some vital portion of his body. He felt himself making a silent prayer, and as the sting did not come realized that as yet he was unharmed. He cleared the rocks at another bound, almost fell into the bushes, and ran on and on with all the speed he could command.

Dave covered a good quarter of a mile before he thought of coming to a halt. He was now in the very depths of the great forest, with a heavy growth of timber on all sides of him. The way had been rough and he had stumbled twice, scratching his hand and his knee so that they smarted greatly. He was far away from the buffalo trail and also away from the stream where he had stopped for a drink. He had made a number of turns while running, and could not tell in what direction he had left either the red warrior or Henry.

“Here’s a fine kettle of fish!” he muttered, as he stopped to catch his breath. “Everything is going wrong to-day. First we lost the buffalo, then Henry sprained his ankle, and now here am I, trying to get away from a redskin who wants to take my life and who has robbed me of my rifle and hunting knife! I wonder what will happen next?”

He listened intently, but could hear nothing of his red foe, nor could he see anything to alarm him. It was more gloomy than ever under the trees, the sun having gone under a cloud. The breeze sighed mournfully through the tallest branches, and only the occasional note of a bird, or the distant bark of a fox, broke the stillness.

Dave did not dare to linger long in one spot, fearing that the Indian might be sneaking over his trail with the slyness of a fox. He pushed forward, hoping to come to a series of rocks, or a deep stream, where the trail might be hidden.

His search was at last rewarded. Some flat rocks appeared, forming something of a cliff. He walked over these, taking care to avoid every accumulation of dirt or trailing vines. Then, coming to the end of the stones, he leaped down into a gully, where flowed a stream of water several feet wide and more than a foot deep. He followed this stream a long distance, until it was lost among some rugged rocks, where his further progress appeared to be barred.

“There—I don’t think that Indian can follow me to here,” he told himself. “The question is, How am I to get back to Henry without being discovered, and how are we both to get back to the fort?”