THE TRADING-POST ON THE KINOTAH
Dave had anticipated a fine night’s rest in the Indian wigwam assigned
to Barringford and himself, and he could not understand the quizzical
look upon the old hunter’s face when he prepared to lie down.
“What’s the matter, Sam?” he questioned.
“Nuthin, Dave,” was the dry answer. “Only if ye sleep well let me know
in the morning.”
“But why did you look at me in that fashion?”
“Don’t mind it, lad--it’s all right,--and I hope ye sleep well,” and
with this Barringford rolled himself in his blanket and was soon in the
land of dreams. But he slept close to the entrance of the wigwam and
disdained all the mats and robes offered to him.
Feeling it would be softer to sleep on a robe, Dave piled three of them
on top of each other and threw himself down. He was just dozing off
when he felt something on his ankle, then something on his knee, and
then something pretty much all over him. The robes and mats were filled
with vermin, and without waiting to scratch himself he leaped to his
feet. Then began a lively battle between the youth and the pests, in
the midst of which he awoke Barringford.
“Hullo, what’s up?” came from the old hunter, sleepily, but that
quizzical look came again into his eyes.
“You know well enough, Sam. Why didn’t you tell me this place was
inhabited?” cried Dave, twisting and scratching himself, first in one
way and then another.
“Is it inhabited?”
“Yes, and you knew it, you rascal! Oh, dear, I feel as if I was going
to be eaten up alive! Why, those robes have got a thousand million
things in ’em,” and Dave went to scratching again.
“I was afraid on it,” answered Barringford, and then broke out into a
roar of laughter. “But, ye see, I didn’t want to alarm ye afore I was
sure.” And he laughed again.
“You may think it fun but I don’t,” grumbled Dave. He felt far from
laughing himself. “What in the world will I do to get rid of them?
They’ll nip me to death!”
“Throw a wet log on yonder fire and stand in the smoke. They can’t
stand thet nohow.”
This was the best of advice and Dave was not slow in following it. The
smoke nearly choked him and made the tears run down his cheeks in a
stream, but it likewise made the vermin decamp, and soon he was free
of the pests.
“You can have what’s left,” he said. “I’m going to sleep outside, near
the fire,” and he did, and soon Barringford joined him, to be at hand
in case of unexpected peril. Strange to say the Indians did not appear
to mind the vermin in the least.
After thanking the Indians for their kindness, and making Eagle Plume
a present of some ornaments from one of the packs, they started on
their journey up the Kinotah early the next morning. The trail was
now easy, and before nightfall they covered half the distance to the
trading-post, and reached another small Indian village, called Shunrum,
although it is doubtful if the red men of this village _shunned rum_
any more than did their fellows. Here the warriors were also on the
hunt, and two aged red men, one so feeble he could scarcely walk,
entertained them. The one who was feeble was suffering from dropsy and
the medicine-man of the tribe was trying to cure him by dancing around
and groaning in a sing-song fashion.
“He’ll never help it a bit,” said Dave, but Barringford cautioned the
youth to be quiet.
“Don’t ye ever set yourself up against a medicine-man,” he whispered.
“This is part of their religion, and if ye don’t want to git burnt ye
keep off.” And Dave said no more. Yet he was sorry for the sick red
man and wished there had been a real doctor at hand to attend him.
The Indians reported all quiet at the trading-post and said Dave’s
father was well. They looked upon James Morris as a big white chief
and treated Dave accordingly. But Dave refused to sleep in the wigwam
assigned to him and said he never cared to sleep on Indian robes! This
puzzled them a little, but they asked no curious questions. However,
Barringford enlightened them on the quiet, and they went off with their
eyes drawn up into little slits,--a sign that something had struck them
as exceedingly comical.
“And now for the post, and father!” cried Dave, on arising the morning
following. He was impatient to be off and could hardly wait to eat
the well-cooked deer meat which the Indian squaws prepared. With the
meat were served some flat cakes made of Indian meal, which were as
delicious as any the youth had ever tasted, and water sweetened with
honey and flavored with mint.
“It’s curious we haven’t seen any wild animals lately,” remarked Dave,
as he rode along. “I haven’t sighted as much as a rabbit or a fox for
two days.”
“The Indians bring down everything around here, Dave. That is why
they have to go so far away when they are on a big hunt. In years to
come game will be as scarce around here as it now is around the lower
Potomac.”
“Do the Indians ever let up on the game during the breeding season?”
“Some tribes do but not many. The majority of the redskins believe
in bringing down everything in sight, jest as some foolish white men
do. If the whites git out here in force, and hunt as they’ve been
a-hunting, they’ll kill off everything byme-by.”
The trail kept close to the river and they could plainly hear the water
as it rushed along, between the brushwood and the rocks, on its way to
the mighty Ohio, and even more mighty Mississippi. It was certainly a
beautiful stream, and Dave could readily see why it had charmed his
parent.
“I’m going out on it in a canoe some day,” he said. “It will be great
sport I know.”
“So it will, Dave, and I’ll go with ye,” returned his companion.
The stop for dinner was a short one, and they would not have halted
at all had not the pack horses needed a rest. Dave was so impatient
he could scarcely sit still. Barringford understood the feeling and
said nothing, and did not delay the rest beyond what he thought was
necessary.
It was four o’clock when Dave gave a sudden wild whoop. He had caught
sight of a stockade through the branches of the low-hanging trees.
“There is the post, Sam!” he cried, and made off at the top of his
horse’s speed.
Dave’s cry was answered by a hunter standing close to the stockade.
This was the fellow called Putty, a tall, lean specimen of the
backwoodsman. As soon as he caught sight of the young rider, he, too,
set up a shout. The shout was answered by somebody within the post, and
a man hurried forth, bareheaded and coatless.
“Father!” shouted Dave, and rode up to his parent. “Here we are, safe
and sound!”
“My own Dave!” answered James Morris, and as the youth dismounted he
caught him closely in his arms. “I was expecting you some day this
week. So you are well? I am glad of it. And what kind of a trip did you
have?”
“It was not bad, father, although we had some adventures we didn’t look
for. But what a truly lovely place this is!” Dave gazed around with
much interest. “I see you are strengthening the stockade.”
“Yes, we want to feel safe in case of an attack by the French or
Indians.”
“Have you had trouble lately?”
“No, Dave, but there are ugly rumors afloat. How is your Uncle Joe, and
all the others?”
“Pretty fair. A surgeon was going to operate upon Rodney when I came
away. I would have stayed to see how he made out only he said we
couldn’t tell anything about it for a week or two, and Sam wanted to
take advantage of the good weather.”
By this time Sam Barringford rode up and more handshaking followed. The
newcomers were conducted into the post and Dave was taken around by his
father, who was almost as eager to exhibit the place as Dave was to
view it. To the youth the trading-post was even a superior place than
he had imagined from that first letter from his father.
“I wouldn’t want a better place to live,” he remarked, when led from
the main building to the stables. “It’s as comfortable as anybody would
want and the location is superb. The name Ella Dell just fits it. But
how is the situation for trading?”
“Very good indeed. I have made friends with the Indians for many miles
around, and some of them call me their white chief. The only trouble
I have had has been with Fox Head, the rascal who bothered me when I
first came. I would give a good deal to get rid of him.”
“And what of the French?”
“There is a French trader named Jean Bevoir who has a post twenty miles
below, on Buffalo Creek. He has tried to take my trade from me and
tried to make the Indians my enemies. But the only Indians who side
with him are Fox Head and his tribe, and a few other Miamis. Those up
at Shunrum and Nancoke will have nothing to do with him.”
“Yes, I know those Indians are your friends, father; they treated Sam
and myself so well. But what has Fox Head been doing lately?”
“Carrying messages to the French and telling them that we are preparing
to make war on all their posts and wipe them out. Jean Bevoir is
helping him, and between them I am afraid they’ll make trouble for us
with the French government, and with the Indians along the lakes.”
After the inspection of the premises had been concluded, Mr. Morris
opened the packages Dave and Barringford had brought along, and went
over the list of goods. He was well pleased with the purchases, and
even more so when told that Dave had picked the things out himself,
aided by Henry Morris.
“At this rate, you can buy all our goods in the future,” he said to his
son. “At the prices, you certainly have some bargains, and there is
nothing but what is worth about what you paid for it. You have done
much better than I did the first time I went bartering.”
In honor of the new arrivals all the hands attached to the trading-post
were called in that evening and a general jollification was had. In
this several Indians joined, and the festival kept up until nearly
midnight. But it was no such orgy as Dave had witnessed at Winchester,
and when it came to an end, the helpers departed in as sober and
respectable a manner as they had come.
“It’s wonderful what control your pap has over his men,” said Sam to
Dave, on retiring. “He’s kind, but he’s strict, and he makes ’em toe
the mark every time.”
“Well, that’s the way it ought to be,” answered Dave. “And that’s the
way I’m going to do, if I ever have any men under me.”