IN WHICH PHIL LOSES AN OLD AND VALUED FRIEND.
Kit Cruncher was about six feet and a half high, and it was necessary
that he should bow his head when he entered even the humble log cabin
of Matt Rockwood. He wore a cap made of skins, so tall that it seemed
to add another foot to his height. It was ornamented with the long,
bushy tail of a fox, which dangled on one side like the tassels from
the cap of a hussar. His beard, gray and massive, was more than a foot
long, and gave him a patriarchal aspect. His pants were stuffed in the
legs of his long boots, and he wore a kind of hunting frock, which
reached nearly to his knees. He was lean and lank, but, annealed in the
hardships of backwoods life, he was wiry and sinewy. He was about fifty
years old, though his gray hair and beard alone appeared to betray his
age. He was from the south; a fine specimen of the real Kentucky
hunter--"half horse and half alligator."
There was a kind of stern dignity in his countenance that always awed
me, though I knew that Kit had a kind heart, and was only terrible to
those who injured him or his friends. He lived by hunting and trapping,
and always had a large supply of peltries to dispose of whenever a
trading steamer came up the Missouri.
"How's yer bones, Matt?" said he, dropping the butt of his long rifle
upon the earthen floor of our cabin.
"Poorly, Kit, poorly," replied Matt. "I'm about did for in this world.
I can shoot no more, and couldn't hit the moon at ten paces."
"That's bad; 'cause 'pears like some shootin' must be did. There's a
squad o' redskins up above me, and I cal'late they mean mischief, if
they begin by stealin' your hosses. We'll git out into natur'," said
Kit, as he left the house, followed by the rest of the party.
He evidently expected a visit from the savages very soon. I took down
my little rifle from the brackets, and also, at Matt's request, carried
out his long weapon, with the accoutrements. We were all rigged for the
war path, and, for my own part, I was never so much excited in my life.
I wondered how Kit could keep so cool. He was deeply skilled in Indian
craft, and when he thought there was danger, others might be excused
for adopting his opinion. Old Matt seated himself on a box near the
barn door, and the rest of us gathered around him.
"Them Injuns has had a hard winter on't," said Kit. "They won't git
their gov'ment money and traps for a month yit, and they are half
starved. They've lost half their hosses, and all these things makes 'em
ugly. But I didn't think o' nothin' till I heered they stole your
hosses, and you hed theirs."
"I never hed much trouble with 'em," added old Matt. "They've stole my
hosses afore, but I allus got 'em back, as I did this time."
"When an Injun's hungry, he's ugly."
The two patriarchs discussed the situation at length, while I listened
in reverent humility to their words. Mr. Mellowtone smoked his pipe in
silence. I think his pipe was in his mouth at least two thirds of the
time, and was a very great comfort to him. We were all watching the
path which led across the field into the forest, for this was the only
approach to the Castle by the land side. Matt's farm--as he called
it--was situated between two deep creeks, the Fish on the west and the
Bear on the east. Half a mile from the cabin, in the midst of the
forest, was a lake, through which flowed Bear Creek. Half way between
this sheet of water and the Little Fish ran Kit's Brook, on the bank of
which was a path leading to the hunter's cabin. The great thoroughfare
to the north was by the Fish, and this was the only practicable way for
mounted men, and was the road by which the Indians came down to the
Missouri to exchange their peltries for powder and whiskey.
While we were all watching the spot where the path entered the forest,
a couple of redskins emerged from its shades, and hurried towards the
Castle. As they approached we all raised our rifles. Even old Matt rose
from his seat, and prepared to use his weapon. But the savages made the
signs of peace; and Kit, to whom we all looked for inspiration and
direction, permitted them to approach. I immediately identified them as
the two who had stolen our horses, and whom I had seen rolling among
the burning brands the night before. Their greasy garments showed the
marks of fire, and the leggings of one of them were nearly burned off.
"Those are the redskins who stole our horses," said I to Kit Cruncher.
"Jest so," replied Kit, as the savages halted before us.
They were very much excited, and looked decidedly ugly. Their eyes were
bloodshot after the debauch of the preceding night, and their eyeballs
seemed to be marked by the fiery nature of the liquor they had drank.
"Ugh!" growled one of them, shaking his head.
"Well, old Blower, what do you want?" demanded Kit, straightening up
his tall, gaunt form.
"Want um hosses," snarled the Indian, shaking his head violently, as
though he was so ugly he could not contain himself.
"D'ye want to steal some hosses?" added Kit, sternly.
"Ugh! White man steal hosses! Lose um two hosses," howled the
spokesman, pointing to the barn.
We understood what he meant. He evidently thought it quite right for
him to steal our horses, but very wicked for us to reciprocate in the
same manner.
"Well, they sarved you jest as you sarved them. You stole Matt's
bosses, his folks stole yours. That's fair play," added Kit.
"No steal hosses!" growled the Indian. "Give back hosses."
"They kin hev their own hosses. I don't want 'em," interposed Matt.
"They ain't fit for scarecrows."
"Bring 'em out, Phil," said Kit. "They shall hev their own. We won't
wrong an Injun, no how."
I led out the bony racks which the Indians had ridden, and delivered
them to their owners.
"Now you kin leave," added Kit.
"Want more hosses," said the Indian who spoke this pigeon English, and
which the other appeared not to be able to do, and only grunted and
howled his anger and indignation.
"You won't git no more hosses here."
"Want corn, want meat, want whiskey."
"Not a corn, not a meat, not a whiskey," replied Kit, decidedly. "Ef
you'd come as a hungry man, we mought hev fed you."
"Big Injun come, burn house, kill white man--no give hoss and whiskey."
"Big Injun mought git shot, ef he don't behave hisself."
"Ugh!"
"You kin leave," repeated Kit, significantly, as he raised his rifle.
"No go," howled the Indian, though he retreated a few paces, and
plainly did not like Kit's cool and stiff manner. "White man pappoose
steal um hosses, and burn Injun."
The speaker stooped down, drew aside his tattered leggin, and pointed
to a huge blister on his leg, made by the fire into which he had rolled
in his drunken frenzy. Then he pointed to me, and as he did so, his
bloodshot eyes lighted up with rage and malice. I understood him to
charge me with the infliction of the injury upon his leg. Since both of
the thieves were so very drunk when we were at their camp, I did not at
first see how they had been made aware of my presence. They did not
seem to see me, and I concluded that they had identified me in the
morning by the smallness of my track in the soft soil. They could not
have known what transpired in their fury, but probably reasoned that,
as I had been there, and taken the horses, I had burned their legs
also.
[Illustration: THE INDIANS' HORSES RETURNED TO THEIR OWNERS. Page 47.]
"I did not do it," I protested, hardly able to restrain a laugh, as I
recalled the ludicrous scene of the night, before at the camp fire.
I explained how the Indian had burned himself.
"Pay Injun damage," added the injured thief.
"Nary red. You stole whiskey, got drunk, and rolled into your own camp
fire," answered Kit. "You kin leave."
The tall hunter raised his rifle again, and the two Indians, mounting
their bony steeds, rode off, yelling in the fury of their rage and
disappointment. They had intended to obtain something more than their
horses. Indeed, the Indians never visited the Castle without begging or
demanding something, always whiskey, and often corn and meat.
"There's more on 'em up there somewhere," said Kit, as the thieves rode
off.
"Do you think they will return?" asked Mr. Mellowtone.
"I'm afeered they will. Them Injuns is ugly, and I reckon they mean to
make trouble. They don't ask for bread and meat; they demand 'em. They
spoke for t'others more'n for theirselves. 'Tain't wuth while to
quarrel with 'em ef you kin help it. I allus give 'em sunthin' to eat,
when they are hungry, ef they ask for't; but I don't let 'em git the
upper hands on me. 'Twon't do."
"If you think they mean to attack us, don't you think we had better
prepare to defend ourselves?" suggested Mr. Mellowtone.
"I'm allus ready, and I am now," replied Kit.
"So am I," added old Matt, as he examined the lock of his weapon.
"But we might do something to make a better defence," said Mr.
Mellowtone. "There are ten or a dozen Indians, you think, while we are
but four."
"What kin we do except shoot 'em when they come?" replied old Matt.
"There is a bridge over the brook in the woods yonder," continued Mr.
Mellowtone, pausing to permit Kit to take up the suggestion, if he
chose.
"Yes, there is; and it cost me a deal of hard work to make it," said
Matt. "It wan't an easy matter to get a hoss over afore it was put up."
"Precisely so, and it won't be an easy matter now. Therefore I think we
had better take up the bridge, and make the brook our line of defence."
Kit approved the plan, and we hastened to execute it. The brook ran at
the bottom of a deep gully as it approached its mouth, and for half a
mile it was impossible to take a horse over, except on the bridge. We
removed the logs with which it was covered, but allowed the
string-pieces to remain. Kit thought we could do better if we prevented
the Indians from coming over on their horses.
By the time we had finished our work, old Matt had hobbled over the
ground, dragging his rifle after him. Just as he approached we heard
the yell of the savages on the other side of the stream, and a band of
ten dashed up to the position. Kit told us to got behind the trees, to
guard against any accident. The Indians drew up their horses when they
discovered that the bridge had been dismantled. I heard the crack of a
rifle.
Old Matt uttered a deep groan, and dropped to the ground, shot through
the heart.
In his weak condition he had not been able to reach the shelter of a
tree in season to save himself. We knew now what the savages meant.