IN WHICH PHIL FINDS THE CAMP OF THE INDIANS.
I was certainly very glad to have Mr. Mellowtone go with me on the
expedition after the Indians; but I did not exactly like to share the
glory of the great deeds I expected to do even with him, though he was
one of my best friends. However, I consoled myself with the reflection
that his pleasant company would in part compensate me for the share of
the glory he would appropriate.
While the fish were on the fire, I set the table in the best style that
the contents of our meagre China closet would permit, for our
distinguished visitor seldom honored us by taking a meal at the Castle,
and I was anxious to make the best possible appearance. Measured by the
standard of civilized life, the result was not a success; but for the
backwoods it was. Our table ware was mostly of tin, dented and marred
at that; but we had one crockery plate, and I devoted that to the use
of our honored guest.
If the table ware was not elegant, the fish were infinitely better than
are ever set before the pampered sons of civilization. They had been
swimming in their native element a couple of hours before, and were a
species of trout, weighing from a pound and a half to two pounds
apiece. Mr. Mellowtone declared that they were delicious; and he
justified his praise by his trencher practice. For bread we had cold
johnny cake, for we were out of flour, as no trading steamer had passed
since the ice in the river broke up. We lived well at the Castle, for
besides the game and fish supplied by the woods and the rivers, we had
bacon, pork, potatoes, and vegetables from the farm.
"Now, Phil, you must be keerful," said old Matt, as we were eating our
supper. "Injuns is wicked, and Injuns is cunnin'."
"I will try to be careful," I replied. "I suppose, if we follow Little
Fish Creek, we shall find the Indians before morning."
"Yes, you will. Go through the forest, and cross the brook. Follow the
path till you come to the creek, and you'll be all right. The varmints
hain't got no feed for their hosses, and they won't go fur to-night."
The old man gave us directions how to proceed until we finished the
meal; and after I had put things in order about the house, I slung my
rifle over my shoulder. Mr. Mellowtone had no weapon, and declared that
he needed none. Just at dark we left the Castle, and, crossing the
field, entered the forest. There was a well-beaten path, so that we
were in no danger of losing our way. We crossed the bridge over the
brook which bounded the farm on the north-west; we continued our course
through the forest till we reached Little Fish Creek, at the point
where it flows into Big Fish Creek. All the names of streams and of
localities in the vicinity had been given by Matt Rockwood. The brook
we had crossed was called Kit's Brook, because, three miles from its
junction with the Big Fish, lived on its banks one Kit Cruncher, an old
hunter and trapper, who, until the arrival of Mr. Mellowtone, five
years before, had been Matt's only neighbor.
We followed the Little Fish for an hour without discovering any signs
of the Indians or the horses. We were within a mile, across the
country, of Kit Cruncher's cabin, and we concluded that the thieves
would not deem it prudent to halt near so formidable a person as the
old hunter had proved himself to be.
"Are you sure we are on the right track, Phil Farringford?" asked my
companion.
"We are on the right road to the Indian village," I replied.
"Is it certain that the thieves came from there?"
"They must have come from there, for I don't know of any other Indians
within forty miles of the Castle."
"They may be wandering Dakotahs, who do not stay long in one place."
"But there were only two of them, and Dakotahs go in bigger crowds than
that. Matt says they took this path, and I saw them strike into the
woods myself."
"Doubtless we are right, then. We might go over to Kit Cruncher's, and
inquire if he has seen anything of the thieves," suggested Mr.
Mellowtone.
"I am sure he has not seen them; if he had, he would have stopped them.
And the Indians know him well enough to keep out of his way. He is hard
on Indians when they don't behave themselves."
"Very well, Phil Farringford. You are the leader of this expedition,
and I will obey your orders."
"I hope you won't, sir; at least, I don't mean to give you any orders,"
I replied, abashed at the humility of one whom I regarded as the
greatest and best man in the world.
We walked in silence for another hour, for my companion always did more
thinking than talking. I led the way, and kept both of my eyes and both
of my ears wide open, expecting every moment to come upon the camp of
the savages. While we were thus cautiously tramping through the forest,
I heard the neighing of a horse behind us.
"Hark!" I whispered to Mr. Mellowtone. "We have passed them."
"How can that be?"
"They struck off from the river, and went into the woods to sleep. That
was old Firefly's voice, I know. I shouldn't wonder if he heard us."
"If he did, perhaps the Indians heard us also."
"If they have that jug of whiskey with them, they are too drunk to hear
anything by this time."
"We must look for the place where they left the path."
"It is rather dark to look for anything tonight," I replied, as I led
the way back.
We proceeded with great care, though we made noise enough to apprise
Firefly of the approach of friends. He was a knowing old horse, and had
faithfully served his master for ten years, but was still a very useful
animal. I fancied that he despised Indians quite as much as old Matt
himself, and that he was utterly disgusted with his present situation
and future prospects. Doubtless he was very uneasy, and displeased at
being away from his rude but comfortable stable. The grass had just
begun to start a little in the wet soil, and as our stock of hay was
getting low, I had picketed them with long ropes where they could feed.
In this situation they had become an easy prey to the Indians.
I hoped old Firefly would speak again, and I ventured upon a low
whistle, to inform him of my presence, but he did not respond. The
other horse was a good beast, and worked intelligently by Firefly's
side at the plough and the wagon: but he was an ignoramus compared with
his mate, and I expected nothing of him.
"They can't be far from here," said I, as I halted and whistled again a
little louder than before.
"We must examine the ground, and see if there are any horse tracks,"
replied Mr. Mellowtone, as he lighted a match to enable us to see the
path.
"No tracks here," I added. "They all lead the other way."
"Then they turned in farther down."
We resumed our walk, but in a few minutes we examined the ground again.
"Here they are," said my companion. "They turned in between this place
and that where we stopped last. Whistle again, Phil Farringford."
"We are farther from them now than when I heard the voice of old
Firefly," I replied, after I had whistled in vain several times.
"But we are on the track of the horses. There can be no doubt of that,"
answered Mr. Mellowtone. "We can follow their trail till we find where
they left the path."
"I hope you have a good supply of matches."
"I have about a dozen more."
We examined the path in several places, and at last found that the
Indians had left it to follow a small brook which flowed into the
Little Fish. I whistled at intervals, but received no response from
Firefly. The stream which was our guide did not lead us far from the
creek.
"I smell smoke," said Mr. Mellowtone, after we had proceeded a
considerable distance. "We are not far from them."
"I don't see the light of any fire."
"Probably it has burned down by this time, for the Indians must be
asleep."
I whistled, and this time a very decided answer came back from Firefly.
"We are close by them," said I; and involuntarily we slackened our
pace.
"I am afraid the noise that horse makes will awaken the Indians."
"They are beastly drunk, without a doubt, and no ordinary sounds will
rouse them," I replied. "If they had known what they were about, they
would not have built a fire. They are not more than two miles from Kit
Cruncher's cabin."
In silence, then, and very cautiously, we crept towards the bivouac of
the Indians. In a few moments I saw the four horses, fastened to the
trees: but between us and them lay the extended forms of the two
Indians. They reposed on the ground, one on each side of the
smouldering embers of a fire they had kindled earlier in the evening.
The faint light enabled me to see the whiskey jug, lying on the ground
near them. The cork was out, and it was evidently empty. The thieves
snored so that the earth seemed to shake under them, and I was
satisfied that they were as drunk as human beings could be and live.
We made a circuit around the sleeping Indians, and reached the place
where the horses were fastened. Firefly neighed and danced in his
delight at seeing me, and even his more stolid mate was disposed to
make a demonstration of joy; for both animals had been in the habit of
spending their nights in a comfortable stable. The horses of the
Indians were as they had ridden them, wearing their bridles, and the
folded blankets, which served us saddles, strapped upon their backs.
"We needn't spend much time thinking about it," said I, after I had
patted Firefly on the neck to assure him I was still his friend. "They
have nothing but halters on their necks, though we have only to mount
them, and they will go home without any guiding."
"The Indian horses have saddles and bridles on," answered Mr.
Mellowtone. "I think we had better do as the redskins did--ride their
horses, and lead the others."
"Shall we take their horses?" I asked, rather startled by the
proposition.
"Certainly; we must teach them a lesson which they will remember. We
are in the world as instructors of those who are less wise than we, and
it is our duty to impart wisdom to those who need it."
"They will come down after them, when they are sober."
"They will do that if you take only your own animals. They will fight
just as hard to recover the property they stole as to obtain what is
justly their own."
Without stopping to debate the matter any further, we mounted the
Indians' horses.