A COMING STRUGGLE
As the strange figure of the old Cherokee went halting along the river
trail, the eyes of Boone and his companions followed curiously.
“A queer sort of customer,” commented Colonel Henderson. “I don’t
recall ever having seen him before.”
“He’s a wonder worker and medicine man,” said Boone. “And he spends a
good bit of his time on the fringe of the settlements. Sometimes,” and
here a frown came upon his brow, “I’ve thought him more of a spy than
anything else.”
“At any rate he knows how to creep up on one secretly,” said the
colonel, with a laugh. And then, more soberly: “And he seemed rather
earnest in his sayings.”
Daniel Boone nodded his head.
“All these old redskins are crafty,” said he. “They spend their days
and nights finding out ways of imposing on their fellow savages. And
managing to do this without trouble they think they can impose in the
same way upon the white man.”
“I see,” said Colonel Henderson.
“If they can put fear in the hearts of the whites,” continued Boone,
“the whites will not venture into the wilderness. A settler killed now
and then is the common way; but there are others, and I’ve heard a
warning spoken by a prophet hung with totems before to-day.”
The boy who had been staring after the figure of Gray Lizard now spoke.
“I’ve been wondering where I saw him before, and now I’ve remembered,
Uncle Dick,” said he. “Yesterday I rode up the river to visit the camp
of the young braves who are to take part in the games. It was there I
saw him; among the lodges.”
“Ah!” said Boone; “and so the braves have come in for the games, eh?”
“More than a score of them,” replied the lad. “And a fine looking lot
they are, sir,” with admiration.
The backwoodsman nodded.
“They are sure to be,” said he, grimly. “The redskins seldom send any
but the pick of their villages.”
“It’s been three days since they pitched their camp,” said the lad.
“And they’ve been hard at work ever since, practicing with their bows
and rifles, and throwing their hatchets at marks. There’s a good runner
or two among them,” added the boy; “and they have some fine horses.”
“I’ve always been against these games,” said Daniel Boone, as he shook
his head.
Colonel Henderson looked at him in surprise.
“Why,” said he, “how is that? Athletic games always seemed to me to be
good for the youngsters.”
“So they are,” agreed Boone. “Mighty good. But these of ours are a
mistake, because the lads don’t put enough heart in ’em. They don’t
take ’em serious enough.”
The colonel smiled.
“It’s all in the spirit of fun,” said he.
But Boone shook his head.
“That’s where you’re wrong, colonel,” said he, “and that’s where the
boys are also wrong. There ain’t many of us whites on this border; but
over beyond the Laurel Ridge the Indians lie in clouds. And that they
haven’t blotted us out long since is because away down in their hearts
they’ve thought we’re better’n they are, for we’ve always showed we
could give them odds and beat them at anything they cared to do.”
“And now, you think----”
“Our young men are letting them pull out ahead too often; and that’s
not a good thing to have happen. Once let the red man get the notion
that he’s better than the white, and this border’ll be turned into a
wilderness--there won’t be a settlement but won’t feel the tomahawk and
the torch. The white man will be turned back from the west for twenty
years to come.”
“I see.” Colonel Henderson looked thoughtful. “I never thought of that,
Daniel; and now that you put it before me I can see that you are right.”
The boy had listened to what the backwoodsman had to say with much
attention. Now he spoke.
“Eph Taylor was along when I rode up to the Shawnee camp yesterday,”
said he. “And as we went he told me how the young braves crowed over
them last fall, and how they promised to beat them even worse this
year. And when we got to the camp all the young warriors grinned at us
and talked a lot among themselves. Eph knows some of their language and
said it was all about us, and about the games and how they were going
to run away from us in everything we tried.”
Boone looked at Henderson and nodded, grimly.
“Do you see?” said he. “That’s how it will begin. Five years from now
these same young redskins will have a voice in the councils of their
tribe. Let them carry this feeling of being better than us into those
councils, and nothing will hold them back from a bloody war.”
“Well, Noll,” said Colonel Henderson to his nephew, “you see what
you’ve got before you.”
The tone was half laughing; but when Oliver Barclay made reply it was
with all the seriousness in the world.
“Eph and I talked about it as we rode back home,” said he. “And we made
up our minds to give them a hard fight for each match as it came along.
Eph and I are to arrange everything to-day; that’s why I am riding over
to see him.”
“Well,” said Colonel Henderson, “I suppose you may as well go on if
that’s what you are about. I have some business to talk over with
Mr. Boone, and will ride back to his farm with him. Will you be home
to-night?”
Noll shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. Then with a laugh: “When I get down to
plotting with Eph Taylor there’s no telling when I’ll get through.”
He shook the rein, and the long-legged young horse brandished its heels
in most exuberant fashion. The boy waved his hand to the two men.
“Good-bye,” said he. Then to Boone, “Going to be at the games
to-morrow, Mr. Boone?”
“Maybe,” said the backwoodsman.
“Come along,” suggested Noll. “Maybe something’ll happen that’ll please
you.”
Boone looked at the strong young figure sitting the fiery horse so
easily, the clear eyes, the confident smile. And his bronzed face
wrinkled in a laugh of pleasure.
“Well, Noll,” said he, “I’ll go. But mind you this: I’ll expect
something more than I saw a year ago.”
“I can promise you that, anyhow,” said the boy. “And maybe there’ll be
more. Good-bye.”
And with that he rode forward along the river trail, while Daniel
Boone and Colonel Henderson turned their horses’ heads in the opposite
direction. A mile further on Noll overtook Gray Lizard plodding on with
the help of his long staff. The magician gave the boy a sidelong glance
as he passed; but Noll did not check the lope of his horse, pushing on
until he reached a place where a second trail branched away from the
river, winding among the huge forest trees and losing itself in the
billowing ocean of foliage.
He struck into this, and after an hour’s riding came in sight of a
well-built log house, surrounded by broad fields, from which the crops
had lately been harvested.
Before the cabin door sat a tall, lank boy in a hunting shirt, busily
engaged in cleaning a long flint-locked rifle. At the sound of the
rapid hoof-beats he looked up. Recognizing Oliver, who was still some
distance off, he waved his hand in greeting; then he turned his head
and spoke to some one within the cabin.
Drawing rein before the door, young Barclay threw himself from the
saddle.
“Well, Eph,” said he, as he tied his mount to a post, “I suppose you
all but gave up hope of me.”
Eph Taylor had a long, droll looking face, and as he shook his head he
twisted his countenance into an expression of comic denial.
“No,” said he. “I reckoned you’d be along some time soon. This thing of
ours was too important to let go by.”
He rammed a greased cloth down the barrel of the rifle, and twisting it
about, withdrew it once more.
“I saw Sandy,” added he.
At this Noll Barclay was all eagerness.
“Did you!” exclaimed he. “And what did he say?”
“Suppose I let him speak for himself,” said Eph, with the same comical
twist to his long face. “He came over this afternoon to talk things
over with us. Ho! Sandy! Can you come here for a little?”
A short, tow-haired youth appeared at the door of the cabin; he carried
a halter in one hand and a brad-awl in the other. He nodded to Oliver
good-humoredly.
“Glad to see you again,” said he. “How are you?”
His accent was broadly Scotch, and there was a round-bodied heartiness
to him which at once inspired good will.
“I’m in right good health,” said Oliver. “And I’m glad enough to see
you, Sandy.”
Sandy Campbell laughed. He placed a strap of the halter against the
door frame and punctured it with the awl.
“I was mighty taken with your notion,” stated he. “And when I got done
with my work, I rode over to hear more about it.”
Oliver Barclay sat down upon a rough settle which stood beneath a
cottonwood; he looked at the other two boys with earnest eyes.
“What we talked over yesterday, Eph,” said he, “seemed good reason
enough for us to make an attempt to get the best of the Cherokees. But
what I heard this afternoon puts a different face on it altogether.”
Eph Taylor looked up from his rifle in surprise.
“You don’t mean to say that you have changed your mind!” said he.
Oliver shook his head.
“Not a bit of it,” answered he. “Indeed, I’m firmer about it than ever.
But to just make an attempt to best the Indians won’t do now; we must
beat them!”
Both Eph and Sandy looked at him inquiringly.
“You say you heard something,” said Sandy Campbell. “What was it?”
“As I rode down the trail with my uncle,” said Noll, “we met Mr. Boone.”
The face of Eph Taylor took on an expression of interest.
“Oh, it was something he said, was it? Well, then, I allow it was worth
listening to, for Dan’l Boone always talks as the crow flies--in a
straight line.”
And then, while his two friends listened with great attention, Oliver
repeated the words of the backwoodsman. When he had finished, Sandy
nodded his head.
“It sounds much like the truth of the matter,” said he.
“It is the truth!” declared Eph, emphatically. “If we give these
redskins a chance to crow over us in little things, they’ll think they
can do it in big things. To-morrow we must take ’em in hand and give
them a good thrashing--a regular good one that they’ll not forget in a
hurry.”
“I’m all ready for my part of it,” grinned Sandy. “Or, at least I will
be as soon as this halter’s finished. That old Soldier horse couldn’t
have been better for the work if he’d been picked out of a hundred.
He’s got a back as wide as a floor; and I’ve been practicing with him
all summer, never thinking I’d have any use for it.”
“It’s lucky you did,” spoke Eph. “And I reckon the things you do’ll
make the redskins open their eyes. As for me,” and he fondled the long
rifle lovingly, “I got old Jerusha here; and when she begins to talk I
allow there won’t be many Shawnees that’ll use better language.”
Oliver smiled and nodded. To strangers there would have been a boastful
note in the words of young Taylor; but not to those who knew him. The
boy was a wonderful shot at all distances, but it never occurred to him
to take any personal credit for this. Oddly enough he gave it all to
his rifle.
“Nobody with half an eye could miss with her,” he’d frequently
declare. “She’s the greatest old shooting iron ever made.”
Oliver sat smiling and nodding at Eph’s faith in his piece, and while
he did so his eyes went to the spot where the long-legged young horse
was tied. Sandy noticed the look and his glance also went in the same
direction.
“The Hawk will do his share,” said he with an air of expert judgment.
“He has speed and bottom and in a long race he’ll break the hearts of
those Indian nags.”
“Just like his master’ll break the hearts of the Shawnees that’ll run
against _him_,” spoke Eph Taylor, with confidence.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Oliver; and as he spoke a sound from
across the fields toward the line of forest took their attention. The
sinking sun glanced from the lithe bronze body of a young Indian who
was running swiftly and low, like a hound. “There’s the fellow I’m to
fight it out against,” added the white boy. “And any one who comes in
ahead of him will have speed, indeed.”
Eph Taylor nodded.
“He’s good,” admitted he. “But I count on him, Injun like, only to use
his legs in the race. To beat him, all you’ve got to do is to use your
head as well.”