About sixty miles above Fort Meigs, near the junction of the Auglaize and
the Maumee, lay Fort Winchester—formerly Fort Defiance. Within its walls,
General Green Clay and his Kentucky militiamen were encamped—resting
after their long and arduous march, and knowing nothing of the urgent
need of their presence at Fort Meigs.
In the early morning of the thirtieth of April, three men entered the
gateway of the fortification. They were Captain Oliver and his two
guides. The former immediately made inquiries for the commander, and
was directed to the officers’ quarters. Farley and Bright Wing stopped
with a squad of men near the gate, and the loquacious Joe entered into
conversation with them. While the white men were talking, the Wyandot
leaned upon his gun and swept his eyes about the place. Suddenly he gave
a grunt of astonishment and laid his hand upon his comrade’s arm.
“What is it, Injin?” Farley inquired, as he whirled about upon his heel.
“Dog—dog Duke!” muttered Bright Wing in awe-struck tones, his gaze fixed
upon a distant part of the inclosure.
“Duke?” exclaimed Joe. “What do you mean? Where?”
“Dog Duke him over there—now gone,” came the soft guttural reply.
“Say, Injin, you’re gittin’ loony,” Farley asserted solemnly. “Ther’
ain’t no dog over there—n’r hain’t been.”
“Me see dog,” the Wyandot insisted. “Look heap much like Duke.”
“Yes, he saw a dog—’r a bloodhoun’, to be more exact,” affirmed a
raw-boned Kentuckian, pointing toward one of the corner blockhouses. “I
saw it, too. The animal was jest passin’ into the blockhouse. He’s an
unsociable brute, an’ belongs to one o’ the guides.”
“Well, it ain’t the dog we used to know, though it may look some like
him,” Joe asserted positively. “’Cause the redskins has made a meal o’
him, long ’fore this. Come on, Injin. Le’s see if we can’t find somethin’
to fill up on. I’m as empty as a frog pon’ durin’ a dry spell.”
The two comrades left the group at the gate and went to another part of
the inclosure. At one of the mess-fires they were proffered food, which
they gladly accepted. After eating heartily, they leisurely sauntered
about the place, Joe whimsically commenting upon all they observed.
They had finished a tour of the inclosure, and were irresolutely
pondering what to do next, when Farley suddenly threw up his head and
stood rigid as a ramrod, his eyes fixed upon a large bloodhound that
came from behind a tent and trotted toward them.
“Duke ’r his ghost!” he whispered with trembling lips. “Injin, do you see
him, too?”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing managed to ejaculate.
“Then it’s Duke an’ not his ghost,” Joe said in a relieved tone. “’Cause
I’ve alluz heerd it said that two folks don’t see a ghost at the same
time. Injin, he’s comin’ right toward us—it _is_ Duke, by Katy Melissy!
Here, Duke—here, purp!”
The bloodhound was trotting toward them, his nose close to the ground.
Evidently he was trailing them. At the sound of Farley’s voice, he threw
up his muzzle and set his eyes upon the two men. Then with a short,
hoarse yelp of joy, he sprang toward them.
“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” shouted Joe. “It’s ol’ Duke—an’ he knows us!
Injin, he had smelt out our tracks an’ was trailin’ us. I know you, ol’
feller—of course, I do! An’ I’m as glad to see you, as you are to see me.
But git down, purp; you’ll spile my nice clo’es, with y’r dirty paws—you
will, by cracky!”
Farley’s voice was tremulous, and the tears were running down his
furrowed cheeks. He was laughing and weeping at the same time.
The hound crouched at the feet of his old companions and whined; he
fawned upon them; he circled about them, barking madly.
“Duke him heap sight glad see me, you—all of us,” Bright Wing muttered
sagely. “Me, you, all of us very much glad see dog Duke. Him no dead—him
here. Maybe master no dead—_him_ here.”
“Shut up, Injin—shut up!” Farley cried sternly. “Don’t go to raisin’ no
false hopes like that, in a feller’s gizzard. Ross Douglas is dead—me
an’ you saw him dyin’. The redskins—led by that dang Bradford—found him
an’ the dog together. No doubt they scalped an’ stripped the master an’
drug away the dog. But somebody got the houn’ away from the thievin’,
murderin’ red devils—an’ here he is. I can read it all like readin’ a
book. A heap better, in fact, fer I ain’t much on book learnin’. But
ther’s one thing we want to do—find this scout that claims to own the
dog, an’ make him tell where he got him.”
“Ugh!” And Bright Wing nodded assent.
“Come on, then,” Joe began excitedly, but stopped and stared stupidly
around.
“Wher’s the purp?” he muttered.
“Duke him clean gone,” muttered the Wyandot. “Him gone that way”—pointing
with his rifle. “Gone hunt new master.”
“Well, we’ll foller him,” Farley said decidedly. “An’ I’ll mighty soon
tell this new master he hain’t got no right to the houn’, an’ that we’re
goin’ to take the brute with us. Eh, Injin?”
“Ugh! All right—me, too.”
And again Bright Wing nodded vigorously.
“An’ if he gives me any of his sass,” Farley went on savagely, “I’ll whip
the scoundrel within an inch of his worthless life—I will, by Lucindy!
Nobody but you an’ me has any right to Duke now. An’ we’ll have him ’r
know the reason why. Gol-fer-socks! How I wish Ross Douglas was alive
an’ here. I’d be willin’ to let the danged Winnebagoes punch my nose
an’ pierce my ears an’ pull out my hair an’ whiskers, to the’r heart’s
content. Yes, I’d be willin’ to let ’em destroy the last remnants o’ my
beauty, an pull out my lairipin’ tongue by the roots—I would, ’r my name
ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!”
The two comrades were walking in the direction whence the bloodhound had
gone. Just as they reached the spot where the Wyandot had seen the dog
disappear among a cluster of tents, a militiaman crossed their path.
“Say, friend,” Farley said hurriedly, “do you happen to know the man that
owns the big bloodhoun’ that’s runnin’ ’round the camp?”
“Yes,” the soldier answered promptly.
“Well, we’re huntin’ him. What kind of a looking critter is he?”
“He’s one o’ the scouts—a youngish-like man, big an’ stout; a kind of a
surly feller, like his dog—don’t have much to say to nobody. But he knows
his business—an’ ’tends to it. Anything more you’d like to know?”
“I’d like to know where to find him,” Joe replied coolly, unheeding the
sarcasm of the other’s tone and words.
“You’ll find him right in that big tent. He’s in there holdin’ a conflab
with the Gener’l an’ his staff. You act as if you had important business
with him.”
“I have,” answered Joe, shutting his teeth with a snap. “What’s his name?”
“I—don’t—know——” the soldier began slowly. “Yes, I do. I heard our
Captain call him by name the other day. Le’s see. It was somethin’ like
Ruggles ’r Duggles. No, that wasn’t it. I guess I can’t think of it.”
Bright Wing’s black eyes opened very wide, and he uttered a surprised
“Ugh!” Farley’s cheek paled under its coat of tan. He tried to speak; but
the words would not come. At last he managed to stammer:
“It—It wasn’t—Douglas, was it?”
“That’s it—Douglas,” exclaimed the militiaman, slapping his thigh.
“Douglas—yes, that’s the name.”
“Ross Douglas?”
Joe’s face was ashen as he put the question.
“Now you’ve hit it!” the man shouted triumphantly. “That’s the very name
I heard the Captain call him—Ross Douglas.”
Farley and Bright Wing stared at each other, in speechless amazement.
Their chests were heaving; their lips, apart. The militiaman looked from
one to the other in silent wonder. The Wyandot regained the power of
speech and grunted:
“Duke him not dead—him here. Master not dead, too—him here. Ross
here—Fleet Foot—ugh!”
“Injin, you’re a ’tarnal fool!” Farley cried angrily, his face suddenly
flushing—then paling. “Fer God’s sake, don’t make no more remarks like
that! You know—an’ I know—that Ross Douglas’s dead. You’re a fool!”
“_Joe_ big fool!” Bright Wing returned sullenly.
“No, I ain’t!” Farley vociferated wildly. “I can see the length of my
nose—an’ you can’t. Don’t you understand, Injin. W’y the dang skunk
that’s got Ross Douglas’s houn’ has got Ross Douglas’s name—stol’d both
of ’em, of course. Jest wait till he steps out o’ that tent, an’ I’ll
give him the infernalest lambastin’ a man ever got in his life—I will,
by—by——”
But Joe, in his excitement, could think of no suitable object by which to
swear, so ended with a gasping sputter.
“You seem to be terribly worked-up ’bout somethin’, stranger,” the
soldier remarked coolly. “An’ you threaten to trounce the guide that
calls hisself Ross Douglas. Well, maybe you’re like a singed cat—better’n
you look—but if I was you I’d hire the job out. I seen the feller you
talk o’ whippin’ lick two men bigger’n you—an’ not half try—jest ’cause
they spit tobacker juice in his dog’s eye.”
“It don’t make no differ’nce who he’s licked, n’r who he hain’t,” Joe
answered obstinately. “A man that’s mean enough to palm hisself off fer
Ross Douglas—who’s dead an’ gone—has got to take a trouncin’ from me.
Ross Douglas was my best friend; an’ I won’t have his name stol’d an’
disgraced by no two-legged critter that ever tramped on new ground—I
won’t, by Queen Elizabeth! It ’pears the rascal thinks a sight o’ the
dog—bein’ ready to fight fer him; but my mind’s made up—the cuss has got
to be licked.”
By this time a knot of soldiers had gathered at the spot. Now they
nudged one another and exchanged facetious winks and remarks. They
were expecting to see no end of fun, when the guide should put in an
appearance.
Farley muttered impatiently:
“I wish the critter’d come—right while I’m in a good notion. When he
does, one o’ you fellers p’int him out to me.”
A number of the assembled militiamen offered to perform the service.
Suddenly one of them remarked in a stage whisper:
“The council’s broke up. Here comes the officers now.”
“P’int him out to me!” Farley hissed between his set teeth.
And giving his gun into Bright Wing’s hands, he rolled up his ragged
sleeves, revealing his knotted and sinewy arms.
The officers emerged from General Clay’s tent. Captain Oliver was among
them. He caught sight of Farley and, noting the woodman’s attitude and
expression, walked up to him, saying:
“You appear excited, my friend. What’s the matter?”
The assembled militiamen grinned broadly; and the officers paused
momentarily. But Joe kept his pale, watery eyes fixed upon the opening
in the canvas wall and did not reply to the question. The Captain turned
to Bright Wing with:
“What ails your comrade?”
“Ugh!” was the guttural response. “Joe him heap mad man. Him want fight
much bad.”
At that moment a tall, broad-shouldered young man appeared in the
doorway. At his side trotted a magnificent bloodhound.
“There he is—go fer him!” a mischievous militiaman whispered in Farley’s
ear.
Joe clapped his eyes upon the figure emerging from the tent, and, with a
hoarse, inarticulate cry, staggered back a few steps and covered his face
with his hands.
Officers and men were astounded, and could only stand and stare. Bright
Wing gave a grunt of surprise and satisfaction, and became a bronze
statue. The hound ran forward and fawned at the feet of the two woodmen.
Then the young man in the doorway shouted joyously:
“Joe Farley and Bright Wing!”
Joe dropped his hands to his side, and for a brief moment stood with
mouth agape. Then with the cry—“It’s Ross Douglas hisself, alive an’
a-livin’”—he sprang forward and threw his long, bony arms around his
friend’s neck.
Bright Wing grinned broadly and muttered:
“Dog Duke alive and here; Fleet Foot alive and here. Joe heap sight big
fool. Ugh!”
Duke capered about in mad delight, baying and whining by turns. Ross and
Joe held each other at arm’s length and looked long and earnestly into
each other’s eyes. Tears were raining down their cheeks, and their lips
were trembling.
An oppressive silence rested upon the little knot of soldiers who were
watching the drama enacting before them. Of a sudden a militiaman broke
the spell by shouting:
“Well, if that don’t beat all the ways to lick a man, I’m a numbskull!”
With shouts of laughter, the crowd gradually dispersed. Douglas tore
himself from Farley’s grasp and, flying to Bright Wing, warmly embraced
him. In return the Wyandot gave his friend a bear-like hug. Joe stood
blubbering and wiping his weak eyes. For once in his life the power of
speech had deserted him. Drawing the two together, Douglas said with deep
emotion:
“God knows how glad I am to meet you again—to find you alive and well!
I’ve mourned you as dead.”
Farley suddenly found his voice and replied:
“An’ maybe we ain’t glad to see you, Ross! We not only thought you was
dead—we _knowed_ you was. We seen you dyin’—we left you fer dead. An’
dang-it-all-to-dingnation! Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it!
I can’t hardly believe my senses. Where’ve you been—how did you come
to life? Tell me all about it right now—don’t wait a minute. By King
Solerman’s six hundred wives! I never was as happy in my born days!”
“Come, my friends,” Ross said softly, sadly, “let’s find a quiet place,
and sit down and talk.”
He led them to a distant corner of the fortification. There, seated
upon a log, they entered into explanations. Douglas told the two of his
miraculous escape from death in the woods, of his multifarious adventures
and experiences among the Indians at the village upon the Mississinewa,
and of the bitter disappointment he had met on his return to Franklinton.
Last of all, he showed them the Prophet’s ring. Farley gingerly examined
the talisman, but said nothing. Bright Wing would not touch the uncanny
thing, but shudderingly remarked:
“Tenskwatawa big medicine man—bad Shawnee. Ring very much strong—make
redmen sleep. Ugh!”
And he drew away from it.
When Douglas had finished, Farley began his narrative. In conclusion he
said:
“Yes, Ross Douglas, me an’ the Injin’s been pris’ners ’mong the
Winnebagoes, ever sence we left you—up to a few days ago. A dozen times
they was goin’ to kill us, but somethin’ alluz happened jest in the nick
o’ time to save us. But look at me! Where’s the beauty that once was
mine? Gone—sacrificed by the dang redskins! It’s a sin an’ a shame—it is,
by my gran’mother’s shoestrings! An’ we’d ’ave been in the clutches o’
the red devils yit, but the most of ’em took it into the’r heads to jine
Tecumseh on his rampage ’g’inst Fort Meigs. That give us a chance to git
away. But holy incense! Talk ’bout sufferin’! Hain’t I ’xperienced it?
Yit you’ve had a right smart taste y’rself, Ross. Yes, things has come
out jest as I told you they would. I said if you left ol’ Sam Larkin’s
gal an’ went off to war, she’d marry that scalawag of a Hilliard. An’
she’s done it. But—gol-fer-socks! That’s the way o’ the whole feminine
gender. Don’t I know ’em—say? Still I don’t fancy you’re so much
disap’inted over the turn things has took, Ross. Eh?”
And Farley smiled quizzically.
“What do you mean, Joe?” Douglas asked quickly.
“Oh! you know well enough what I mean,” the other chuckled. “I think if
you could find the little red-haired gal that set you free, you wouldn’t
hunt overmuch fer Amy Larkin. That’s my ’pinion, at least.”
“You’re wrong, my old friend,” Douglas hastened to say. “I have been
true to Amy Larkin; I trust and believe she has been true to me. I shall
continue my search for her—and never rest till I find her; although I
have no knowledge of her whereabouts. But I must leave you now, to assist
in the preparations for departure.”
“Go ahead!—don’t let us keep you,” Farley assented. “Ol’ Tippecanoe’s in
a bad box down there at Fort Meigs, an’ the sooner we all git there, the
better. How soon do you think the army’ll be ready to move?”
“By to-morrow morning, at the latest. I’ll see you again this evening.
Then we can talk to our heart’s content.”
Douglas hurried from the spot, and Farley and Bright Wing, arising, again
sauntered aimlessly about the place, followed by the bloodhound.
In the meantime, preparations for the hurried trip down the river were
rapidly going on. Officers were stalking hither and thither, giving
sharp commands. Hundreds of men were busily engaged in loading the camp
equipage, arms, ammunition, and provisions upon flat, open boats that lay
moored at the water’s edge.
All day the work proceeded without intermission. When one set of men
became weary, others took their places. By sunset the boats were
loaded—everything on board but the men themselves. That night they slept
in their dismantled camp, upon the bare ground. At daylight they manned
their clumsy vessels and commenced their venturesome voyage down the
Maumee.
General Clay had twelve hundred men in his command, and his fleet
consisted of eighteen flats of various size. For four days the primitive
flotilla moved slowly onward between walls of unbroken forest. The only
motive power was the sluggish current, and poles and sweeps in the hands
of the sturdy Kentuckians.
The weather was warm and sunshiny. Mating birds twittered and chirped
in the budding boughs of the trees along the shore, and reviewed their
nesting-places of the year before. The clear water lapped musically
against the sides of the moving craft; and the militiamen, lolling in the
genial sunshine, smoked their pipes and chatted cheerily, unaware of the
black fate that awaited them.
[Illustration]