Читать книгу Trail and Trading Post; or, The Young Hunters of the Ohio - Stratemeyer Edward - Страница 8

Table of Contents

Dave’s hasty flight had tired him out, and he was glad enough to sit down upon one of the rocks and rest. The cloudiness in the sky had continued, and it looked as if there might be a shower before nightfall.

The young hunter was in anything but a cheerful frame of mind, and would have given a good deal to have been back at the fort once more. He was worried also about his cousin, and trusted that Henry would not fall into the hands of the Indian.

At last, having gotten back his breath, he resolved to start off once more and see if he could not locate the spot where he had left his cousin. He walked through the forest with extreme caution, often coming to a halt, to survey the surroundings and make sure that the enemy was nowhere near.

Thus a full hour more was consumed, and he knew that Henry would now be growing exceedingly anxious concerning his prolonged absence.

“I hope he doesn’t try to follow me up,” said Dave to himself. “If he does it’s more than likely that redskin will see him.”

At length, after moving in several directions, the young hunter came to a spot that looked slightly familiar to him. He made a circle of the point, and finally recognized it as the very spot he had come to with White Buffalo when he and the Indian were on the way to the fort with little Nell and the twins.

“Well, I never thought I’d see this place again!” he murmured, half aloud. “I wish I had White Buffalo with me now. I’d feel a heap safer than I do.”

He now knew how to reach the fort, and resolved to follow that course until he should come to the point where the trail crossed that which he and Henry had taken after leaving the lake to go after the buffalo. Then he would follow up the buffalo trail to where his cousin had been left.

He tramped on and on, growing bolder as he saw nothing more of his red enemy. It was well past noon, and he munched some of the rations in his game bag, washing down the hasty meal with more water from a brook.

He was almost up to the spot where the fight between the buffalo and the bear had occurred when he suddenly heard the murmur of voices, conversing in the Indian language. Looking to one side of the clearing, he made out four Indians, one of whom was the fellow who had deprived him of his rifle and hunting knife.

The discovery came as a shock to Dave, and once again his heart sank within him. He had presence of mind enough to leap behind some bushes, and a moment later the red men passed within three yards of him. Then he heard a cry from the Indians, followed by an exclamation from Henry.

“They have found him!” thought Dave, and he was right. The four red men came upon poor Henry just as he was putting on his shoe, preparatory to looking for his cousin. One leaped forward, pinning the young hunter to the rocks, and in a twinkling the four had made him a prisoner and disarmed him.

“What does this mean?” demanded Henry, although he knew only too well. “Let up, I say!” But the Indians paid no attention. One carried a length of rawhide and with this they bound the young hunter’s hands behind him. Then his pockets were searched, and they took from him the three shillings and sixpence he happened to be carrying.

After the capture, the four Indians held a consultation among themselves. It was in their native tongue, so that Henry could understand next to nothing.

“White boy come with Indians,” said the red man who could speak English. He had joined his brother warriors after giving up the chase after Dave.

At that moment Henry caught sight of the extra hunting knife and the rifle he knew only too well.

“Dave’s gun and Dave’s knife!” he cried. “What have you done with him?” he asked, with a sinking heart.

The Indian would not answer this question, but drew up his eyes in a peculiar fashion that caused Henry to shiver. He concluded that Dave must have been killed, although he noted with just a grain of hope that none of the warriors carried his cousin’s scalp.

Despite the fact that his ankle hurt him a good deal, Henry was forced to march along with the Indians, who prodded him now and then with the points of their hunting knives to make him move along faster. The course was to the northwest, to a stream known to the red men as the Mustalonack, where a small band had taken up their secret abode since the disastrous battle of Bushy Run.

After what was to Henry a painful walk lasting an hour, the Mustalonack was reached, and from the bushes along the bank the Indians drew a long canoe. They made Henry enter and then got in themselves and shoved off. The course was up the stream, and two used the paddles. As the current was rather swift, the progress of the craft was necessarily slow.

In moving towards the river the Indians had been on the alert for the possible appearance of white hunters or English soldiers. They knew that to stay in that neighborhood was dangerous, and they expected in a few days to move much further to the westward, perhaps even as far as the Mississippi. They were awaiting orders from their chief, who, in turn, was hoping every day to receive some wampum, or speech belt, from Pontiac.

But though the red warriors were on the alert, their eyes were not sharp enough to catch sight of Dave, as he followed them at a safe distance. Although unarmed, the young hunter could not bear to think of leaving his cousin to his fate, and so he kept the party in front in sight, hoping that sooner or later he would be able to render Henry some assistance.

When the Indians set off in the canoe, Dave was for the moment nonplussed, not knowing how to follow them. But when he saw how slowly the craft moved, he took courage, and walking through the forest along the shore, managed, although not without an effort, to keep them in sight until they had journeyed as far as they wished, when he saw them land on the opposite shore, pull the long canoe into the bushes, and hurry once more into the forest.

To some faint-hearted persons this might have meant the end of the pursuit, but Dave was made of sterner stuff, and besides he loved his cousin too dearly to give up the hope of a rescue thus readily. He saw that the stream at this point was rather shallow, and without hesitation pulled off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his breeches, and waded in.

Fording the stream was not as easy as it looked, and more than once Dave was in danger of slipping down on the loose rocks or of having the current carry him off his feet. But he managed to reach the opposite shore of the stream in safety, and there, donning his stockings and shoes again, hurried on after the red men as before.

Dave had not gone very far when he saw the unmistakable signs of an Indian village. He slackened his pace and soon saw a lean and hungry-looking Indian dog coming toward him. The canine began to bark viciously and showed his teeth.

Here it was that the young hunter’s nerve again showed itself. He was well acquainted with the general worthlessness of the Indian curs—dogs that were not to be compared with the hunting and watch animals of the English—and picking up a sharp stone he let drive, taking the canine in the side. The dog gave a sharp yelp, turned and fled, and that was the last Dave saw of the animal.

In the meantime the Indians had arrived at their temporary village, located in a dense portion of the forest, and consisting of nothing more than half a dozen dirty shelters of blankets and skins. In the center was a small clearing where a campfire smoldered, and around this lolled half a dozen Indians, while not far off were several squaws and a dozen dirty and half-clad Indian children.

The coming of the four warriors with their captive produced a mild sensation, and there was a running fire of questions and answers in the native dialect, lasting some time. In the meanwhile two of the warriors bound Henry to a tree near the largest of the wigwams, and left him, for the time being, to take care of himself.

The head of the tribe, Moon Eye, was away, and was not expected back until the next day at noon. This being so, the Indians decided to keep Henry where he was. He was given nothing to eat, and when he asked for a drink he was handed some dirty water that even a dog would have refused.

“What do you want of me?” Henry asked, of the Indian who could speak English.

“White boy wait and he shall see,” answered the warrior.

“Did you kill my cousin—the one who owns that rifle and the hunting knife?”

“White boy must not ask so many questions.”

“If you don’t let me go you’ll get into trouble,” went on Henry, thinking he might scare the Indians into releasing him. “See how you have already suffered. The English have many soldiers—they can do the red men great harm.”

“The French have many soldiers also,” answered the warrior. “Soon their army will come to the aid of Pontiac and his followers.”

This was a story that had often been told to the red men by the French traders, and many of the Indians believed it. But they waited in vain for help from France, or from Canada. Instead of sending help, the king of France sold his holding along the Mississippi to Spain, so that the Indians were worse off than ever.

As night came on it began to rain gently, while a heavy mist filled the air. The Indians did not like this at all, and after huddling around the campfire for awhile the majority of them crawled into the wigwams and went to sleep. Two of them visited Henry, binding him more securely to the tree than ever, so that to break or slip his bonds was entirely out of the question.

“White boy sleep good,” said one of them, as a joke, and then both stalked over to the fire once more. But the rain and the mist were not to their liking and presently they, too, retired. Then the fire died down gradually, and the Indian village became as quiet as a graveyard.