A FRIEND IN NEED
“We will have to get some more wood.”
“Yes, Ben. It won’t do to let the fire go down, with a lot of all
kinds of wild and bloodthirsty animals hanging around.”
“Provided any disturb us.”
“There’s the risk, isn’t there?” demanded Bob. “I saw sure signs of a
bear, and a den that looked like a panther’s home. Come on. Two more
big armfuls will pull us through.”
After a second day of weary aimless wanderings, the aviator refugees
had made a camp under a tree near a little thicket. They had built
a fire as night came on, had divided the last bread and meat in the
bag, and were trying to forget the disappointments of the day and the
discouraging outlook of the morrow.
They were soon busily engaged in gathering up dead pieces of wood at
the edge of the thicket. The reflection from the campfire aided them
in their work. Ben had a heavy branch with which he poked up pieces
of dead wood covered by leaves. These he would throw into a heap at
one side, to which his comrade was also adding by his efforts.
Ben was thinking of home and the anxiety of his parents. He tried to
banish the blues by whistling a jolly tune. As he started to probe
with a stick in a mass of matted leaves, the music halted on his
lips, and his eyes became fixed in a terrified stare upon a tree ten
feet away.
Poised upon one of its branches, its eyes gleaming with ferocious
fire, just ready to spring upon Bob, who, unconscious of his peril
was gathering an armful of fuel, was a panther.
For only an instant Ben was held breathless and spell-bound by the
curdling spectacle. Then with a great shout and brandishing his stick
wildly, he ran forward to obstruct the spring of the fierce animal
and save his friend.
Too late! As the lithe creature darted through the air, Ben reeled
with horror, his eyes closed to shut out the hideous sight and
weakness and despair overcame him.
Bang! What was that? A sharp report rang out. Ben made out a strange
form near the campfire with a smoking rifle in hand. He saw the
panther diverge in its leap, turn completely over, and with a furious
snarl drop to the ground, while Bob, lifting his head, demanded
coolly:
“I say, what’s happening?”
Ben ran to his side, clinging to his arm, faltering out an incoherent
explanation. Then in amazement both advanced to the silent erect
figure outlined like some statue in the red glow of the campfire.
“Why, it’s an Indian,” broke out the wondering Bob. “Say, hello!”
“How,” responded the stranger, with something of subserviency in his
manner. He was a mild-faced, gentle-mannered half breed.
Ben grasped his hands and swung it up and down fervently, pointing to
the gun and then to the dead panther.
“You have saved my friend!” he cried, touching Bob’s shoulder
lovingly with his free hand.
“Me friend,” pronounced the Indian awkwardly.
“Yes, you are my friend, too—my good friend. What can we do for you?”
“Salt.”
“What is that?” inquired Bob strangely.
The Indian had a bag strung across his back. He drew out of it a fat
pheasant, evidently recently killed, and just dressed and washed at
some near stream, for it was dripping with fresh water.
“No fire—no salt,” he said. “You salt?”
“Salt?” repeated Bob buoyantly. “Loads of it. Why, about all we have
got is salt—and pepper. Look here.”
The lunch put up at the aero meet had included a dozen hard boiled
eggs. A salt and a pepper bottle had accompanied them. Very little
of the condiment had been used.
The Indian’s eyes sparkled, as he at the discovery of a treasure, as
he viewed the salt longingly. Then he passed the pheasant over to Ben
with an unctious smack of the lips and the words:
“You cook—plenty salt.”
“Yes, and give you the bottle for yourself,” cried the exuberant Bob,
slapping the Indian on the shoulder in a friendly familiar way. “I
say, old chief, where are we? Can you direct us to any town? People,
houses, white man’s wigwam, understand?”
“Wigwam,” grinned the half breed. “Oh, yes—yes, so,” and he pointed
south.
“You take us there?” inquired Ben eagerly.
“Morning. Me guide. See? Charge one dollar.”
“You shall have ten,” cried the delighted Bob, “and a whole barrel of
salt thrown in.”
The Indian could speak only a few words of English and could not
sustain any conversation with them. When the pheasant was broiled
they gave him half of it. They passed him the salt bottle and he
was supremely happy. He made his share of the fowl look as if it
was coated over with frosting, ate it clear to the bones, selected
a place near the fire, used his bag for a pillow, and was placidly
snoring inside of two minutes.
“Well, Ben, I guess we’re headed for home at last,” observed Bob.
“It looks so. I can hardly wait till morning to start.”
“You won’t wake Powhattan until he’s all ready,” declared Bob, as
they turned in.
When Ben woke up in the morning, two large fish, scaled and cleaned,
lay on pieces of bark before the smouldering fire. The Indian was
missing, but his rifle lay beside the bag that had served as his
pillow for the night.
“Where’s Powhattan?” inquired Bob, rousing up. “Oh, there he is,
taking a morning swim,” added Ben, glancing past the thicket to where
a little stream flowed. “Breakfast provided, eh? Where did the fish
come from?”
“Our visitor must have got up early and gone fishing,” explained Ben.
The fish were soon sizzling over the fire. Ben, waiting to have them
browned to a turn, happened to glance at the rifle of the Indian and
his game bag.
Something about the latter suddenly enchained his attention.
He advanced towards it, picked it up, and uttered so vivid an
exclamation of surprise that Bob ran quickly to his side with the
inquiring words:
“What now, Ben?”
“This bag.”
“I see it,” nodded Bob.
“Do you notice anything familiar about it?” asked Ben, some latent
excitement in his tones.
“Why—no.”
“Look closer,” directed Ben. “See, it is made of a strip of something
caught into bag shape and fastened with thorns. Do you notice the
material? A strip of canvas.”
“What of it?”
“Parafined canvas, too. See the wooden braces at each end? Why, Bob,
this is a piece of an airship!”