STRANGE INDIAN MAGIC
"Well, where in the world can Henry have ridden to?"
It was Dave who asked the question. He sat on his horse, peering forth in
all directions through the storm and the oncoming darkness. Beside him was
Barringford, equally anxious to learn what had become of their companion.
Killing the first buffalo had not proved easy, and they had spent more time
over the game than they had anticipated. But a bullet from Dave's pistol
had finished the big creature, and then the pair had looked around for
Henry, to find that he had vanished.
A hunt had followed in first one direction and then another. As the storm
came up Dave's horse was unfortunate enough to run into a mud reach close
to the river, and it proved no light task to save the steed from being
drowned.
With the coming of night, Barringford had proposed that they go into camp,
but Dave was too worried to do this, and urged that the search be
continued.
"For all we know, those buffaloes may have turned and charged on Henry," he
said. "I shan't rest until I know the truth."
"If they turned an' charged, I'm afeered it's all up with Henry." returned
the old frontiersman. "A mad buffalo can make short work o' a hunter. He's
wuss nor a mad bull."
They moved off slowly after this in something of a semicircle. Occasionally
one or the other would raise a yell, but to these cries no answer was
returned.
"Might as well give it up, Dave, onless ye want to ride around all night,"
said Barringford at last.
He had hardly spoken when Dave drew up his horse.
"Hark, Sam! what is that?"
The old frontiersman listened attentively for several minutes.
"Wolves, onless I miss my guess," he replied presently.
"They appear to be heading toward us."
"No, they are off in that direction, Dave." Barringford pointed with his
hand. "They are after something."
"Not our buffalo meat, I hope."
"No, they are heading the other way. It's something else."
"Let us follow. They may be after another buffalo, or after Henry."
"That is so."
On they went once more. Soon they could no longer hear the wolves, and drew
up in perplexity. While they were consulting together, they heard a distant
gun shot.
"Somebuddy is a-firin' on 'em!" ejaculated Barringford. "Perhaps it's
Henry. Come!" And he set off at a gallop, with Dave beside him. As they
rode on they heard another gun shot, and a moment later the report of a
pistol.
"It must be Henry, and, if so, he is having a fearful fight with the
wolves!" cried Dave. "Oh, Sam, we must help him!"
"I see him!" shouted Barringford, and in less than half a minute later he
was blazing away at the wolves. Dave also fired his gun and his pistol, and
four wolves were put out of the fight in almost the time it takes to tell
of the deed.
"Save me!" came faintly from Henry. "Save me!"
"I will!" answered Barringford, and leaped from his horse, hunting-knife in
hand. The blade was plunged deeply into a wolf that had Henry by the left
arm. Dave used his musket as a club, and another of the beasts was sent
staggering back with a broken jaw.
What few remained of the beasts were scared by the new arrivals, and now
they made off at top speed. It was high time, for Henry had suffered much,
and as soon as the living wolves had disappeared he plunged forward and
fainted in Barringford's arms.
"He has had a lough time of it, poor fellow," murmured the old
frontiersman. "If we hadn't 'a' come up as we did, he would have been done
for."
"Is he seriously hurt?" questioned Dave anxiously.
"Don't think he is, Dave. It's his wind as has given out."
Barringford was right, and it was not long before Henry revived. His arm
was slightly pierced in three places and on his left leg were two long,
irregular scratches. These were washed and bound up by Dave, and during the
time consumed Barringford managed to start up a tiny fire in spite of the
dampness.
"Where in the world have you been?" asked Henry. "I watched and watched for
you."
"And we've been hunting for you until we were about ready to give it up,"
answered his cousin. "The wolves put us on the track."
Sitting around the fire, which Barringford coaxed into a respectable blaze,
each party told what had happened since the separation.
"Reckon as how you've had your fill o' buffalo huntin' jest for the
present," said Barringford, when the narratives were concluded. "Buffaloes
an' wolves is a terribul bad combination."
"Where is your game?" questioned Henry.
"About two mile from here, I reckon."
"Perhaps the wolves will be after that."
"Can't help it if they air, lad. Dave wanted to look for you, an' wouldn't
stay by the game nohow. Can't blame him, nuther, seein' as we came up jest
in the nick o' time," added the old frontiersman.
All thoughts of sleep were now out of the question, and the three sat
around the tiny campfire, discussing the situation. With the first streak
of dawn Barringford set to work skinning the buffalo, and Dave assisted.
While they were thus occupied, Henry saw a familiar form advancing slowly
over the prairie. He set up a call, and in a few minutes his horse came up
on a trot, to mingle with the other horses.
"You rascal! to leave me in the lurch!" cried Henry, but he did not strike
the steed, but patted him instead. "Be thankful that he has come back,"
said Barringford. "Sometimes a frightened critter like thet runs off an'
never shows himself again." After the buffalo had been skinned, the best
portions of the meat were cut out and rolled in the hide, which was
strapped to the back of Barringford's saddle. The wolves were left where
they had fallen. "Sooner or later them other wolves will come back," said
the old frontiersman, "an' they'll eat wot's left of the buffalo an' the
wolves' carcasses, too." It was fully an hour before they reached the spot
where the other buffalo had fallen. No wild beasts had been near the
carcass, and now this was also dressed and the hide packed up behind Dave.
Then they set off for the camp on the edge of the prairie, reaching it
shortly after noon. "I declare, the spot seems like home!" cried Dave. "I
must say I am glad to return to it." All were equally happy, and lost no
time in preparing a regular meal, which tasted far better than the
makeshift they had indulged in early in the morning. Hunting was declared
to be at an end for the time being, and for the rest of that day, and all
of the next, the three took it easy.
"My bear hasn't shown himself," said Dave. "But I reckon I can do without
him."
The rest of the hunting tour passed without anything out of the ordinary
happening. Many small animals were brought in by both Dave and Henry, and
Barringford varied the sport by laying low a wildcat that came one night to
rob them of some of the meat.
When the start for the trading-post was begun, they found their steeds
loaded down with the trophies of the chase. Consequently, progress was
slow, and it took one day longer than they had expected to reach the Ohio.
"Back again, I see!" cried James Morris cheerily. "And safe and sound, too!
I am glad to see it."
"We've had a powerfully good trip," answered Barringford. "Two buffalo, an'
no end o' small game."
"That is certainly fine. Boys, I reckon you are proud of the haul."
"We are," answered Dave promptly, and Henry nodded. "Have you seen anything
of Hector Bergerac?" he continued.
"Yes, he is here now. He has told me his story, and told me all about Jean
Bevoir, Jacques Valette, and that redskin they call Flat Nose. Hector
Bergerac wants to cut the whole crowd, and I am going to help him to do
it."
The weather had threatened a change, and inside of a week after Dave and
his companions returned to the trading-post there was a heavy frost, and,
two days later, a touch of ice.
"I think winter is coming now," said James Morris. "And if anybody is going
to start for home he'll have to do it soon."
"I shouldn't mind taking the trip," answered Dave. "It seems an age since I
saw Uncle Joe and the others."
The matter was talked over for several days, and it was finally agreed that
Dave should go eastward this time, in company with Barringford and White
Buffalo and his braves. Henry would remain with his uncle, and so would the
others at the trading-post. Only a few horses were to be taken along, and
in the spring Dave and Barringford were to purchase ten additional steeds,
and bring along a well-guarded pack-train containing goods to the value of
eight hundred pounds. The trading-post was now doing well, and it looked as
if, sooner or later, the Morrises would make a small fortune out of it.
The departure was made in a keen, frosty air, which was as clear as it was
invigorating. Henry and Dave's father accompanied those who were going as
far as the burn-over on the Kinotah, and then watched them out of sight
around a bend of the trail.
"It looks a bit familiar to me now," said Dave to Barringford, as they rode
along under the big trees.
"I suppose in a few years more there will be a regular road here, just as
there now is from Fort Pitt eastward."
"Like as not, lad, onless the redskins upset everything again."
"They have been very quiet lately."
"Yes, Dave, but thet may be the calm afore a storm, as sailor men call it.
I don't believe in trustin' a quiet Injun."
"White Buffalo is good enough when he is quiet," answered the youth, with a
merry glance at the chief mentioned, who was riding a short distance to the
rear.
"True, but a few good Injuns don't make a basketful," answered Barringford,
using a form of speech he had heard once when down East.
The weather proved fine until Fort Pitt was gained. Here the party put up
for two days, the commandant of the stronghold being glad to meet those who
might bring news.
"All is quiet here," said the officer. "There was something of a plan to
attack us during the summer, but it fell through, why I don't exactly know.
I think the Indians are waiting for the French to help them."
"Will they do that?" asked Dave.
"I don't think so. The French are having their hands full in the old
country."
When the party left Fort Pitt the sky was overcast, and that night came a
light fall of snow. They had been told that there had been a landslide on
the route, and that they had better take another trail, one leading around
to the northward.
"This trail bring party to Indian village of Ninalicmic," announced White
Buffalo.
"Are they much of a tribe?" asked Dave.
"Only a handful. But my white brothers must beware of the Ninalicmics. They
are of the magicians, and do great wonders."
"They are a branch of the magicians who live up near the lakes," put in
Barringford. "I've heard of them, but I thought they had cleared out long
ago."
When they came close to the village, they heard a strange beating of Indian
tom-toms and a loud shouting and clapping of hands.
"Some kind of dance going on," said Barringford. "Reckon as how I'll go in
advance and see if it's safe to break in on 'em."
"Let me go with you," said Dave.
The others were halted, and Dave, Barringford, and White Buffalo went
forward on foot, keeping themselves out of sight behind a row of bushes and
a series of low rocks.
Before them was a fair-sized glade, in the midst of which was located the
Indian village, consisting of a dozen or more wigwams, all of good
dimensions and each gaudily painted with many signs and symbols. In front
of several of the wigwams were erected posts on which hung strips of
feathers and other strips of bear's claws and wampum belts that were new to
Dave's eyes.
In the center of the village was a cleared space, and here a bright
campfire was burning. On each side sat several Indians, all smeared with
various colored paints and greases. Other red men were dancing around the
fire, keeping time to the tom-toms and chanting in a low, monotonous tone.
"Big medicine men and magicians," said White Buffalo. "Make much magic."
Dave looked at his old Indian friend and saw, to his astonishment, that
White Buffalo was ill at ease, if not actually nervous. Had he been alone,
it is likely that he would have turned on his heel and hurried away.
"What be they a-saying?" demanded Barringford, after listening to the
chant. "I never heard sech gibberish in my life afore."
"Much magic," answered White Buffalo. "Magic make the Indians strong to
fight their white enemies."
"Oh, so that's it, eh? Do they believe in it, White Buffalo?"
"Magic is magic," returned the old chief simply.
"Does it mean digging up the war hatchet?"
"White Buffalo cannot tell, for he is not in their secrets. But if the
hatchet should be dug up--ha!"
White Buffalo stopped short, for the flap of one of the wigwams had opened
and a tall Indian had stepped outside. The red man was naked to the waist
and painted with rings and blotches of several colors. On his head he
carried something of a crown of black feathers with brass ornaments
dangling over each ear. As he came out, those around the fire set up a yell
of welcome.
"Who is it?" questioned Dave, in a whisper.
"Pontiac, the great chief of the Ottawas," answered White Buffalo. And then
he added hastily, as Pontiac threw up his arms and swept them around in a
circle: "Let us go, let us not stay! It is not safe! Pontiac will make
great magic! Let us go ere it is too late!"