THE DEFENCE OF THE TRADING-POST
“We are eleven all told,” said Dave, when he came up to his position in
the loft of the log house. “The Indians in those canoes must number at
least twenty or twenty-five.”
“Wall, we have an advantage,” replied Putty, who stood near. “We are
under cover, and they won’t be, when they attack us.”
“Can they be friendly?”
“Friendly Indians don’t travel far in the rain. However, we can hear
what they have to say when they come up.”
The possibilities of an attack had been talked over so many times that
now when it looked as if it was really coming, each man knew what was
expected of him and it was not necessary to tell him where to go.
Four, including Dave, were stationed in the loft of the log cabin, at
sheltered port-holes placed there when the post was built. The others
went below, to the stockade and to the stables.
Barringford cautioned all to keep silent and hardly a sound broke the
stillness five minutes after Dave had rushed in with the news. Each
man was on the alert, with loaded rifles ready to hand and powder and
ball close by. The storm was now over and here and there the stars were
struggling through the scattering clouds.
Presently Dave pulled Putty by the coat sleeve. “An Indian!” he
whispered. “Look!”
Dave was right, an Indian had appeared down by the garden clearing. He
walked swiftly but noiselessly toward the stockade but came to a halt
when he reached the angle and found the gate closed.
“Wall, Injun, what do ye want here this time of night?”
The question came from Sam Barringford, who had his station close by
the gate. His rifle was thrust through the port, and his face peered
forth over the muzzle.
If the red man was taken by surprise he did not show it. He came to a
halt.
“Red Bird wants to come in,” he said, in smooth tones. “Red Bird and
his followers are wet and hungry.”
“Ye don’t generally travel in the rain, Red Bird.”
“Red Bird and his braves were on the river. The canoes were split on
the rocks and lost. We tramped many miles through the woods, and are
without food.”
“Whar did ye git upsot?”
“At the Minnewah Falls. Three canoes were lost.”
“Where are the other canoes?”
“We had but three.”
“It ain’t so, Red Bird; ye had five canoes and none of ’em was lost.
You go away from here and come around when it is daylight.”
“The white man will not open the gate for Red Bird and his braves?”
“Not to-night. Your canoes are below here in the bushes. Go to them and
paddle back to Jean Bevoir and tell him the plan to surprise us has
failed,” went on Barringford, sharply.
At this the Indian uttered a grunt of disappointment and disgust. “We
must come in,” he insisted. “We are cold, tired and hungry.”
“You’ll git away--and quick!” ordered Barringford and raised the muzzle
of his rifle until it was leveled at the Indian’s head. At once the red
man turned and sped away whence he had come.
“Wall, did I do right?” called out the old hunter, after the Indian was
gone. He no longer thought it necessary to remain silent.
“Ye did,” answered Putty, who was the leader of the others. “Wonder how
soon he’ll be back?”
“Perhaps he won’t come,” put in Dave. “I trust he doesn’t.”
“Trust nothin’, lad, they’ll come afore ye know it.”
Putty had scarcely spoken when a savage war-whoop rang out just beyond
the clearing, answered by another whoop from up the river. Then as if
by magic Indians appeared to spring up all around the trading-post. All
rushed forward, some with guns and others with bows and arrows, and all
with tomahawks at their girdles. The yells were deafening and for the
moment Dave was dazed by the sight and the noise.
“Oh, what a crowd--at least forty or fifty of them!” he gasped. “We
can’t stand against so many. They----”
The end of his remark was cut short by the report of Barringford’s
rifle, followed by the crack! crack! of several other guns. Putty was
at a port hole trying to pick off one of the leaders. The Indians had
also fired, but none of the whites were reached. Two of the red men
went down, and now Putty dropped a third, which, later on, proved to be
Red Bird himself.
With his heart almost in his throat, Dave shoved his own rifle
through one of the holes. An Indian was sneaking around the angle of
the stockade, followed by half a dozen others. Bang! went the youth’s
firearm, and the leading red man fell, shot through the thigh. But the
others kept on and almost before those inside knew it three were over
the stockade and more were following.
But now Barringford showed his backwoods training and his unbounded
courage. Taking a quick aim he sent one Indian to earth with a bullet
through his breast. Then, as another red man fired on him, hitting
him in the shoulder, he swung his gun around, and down went the enemy
with a crushed arm. With his own left arm hanging limply at his side,
the old hunter leaped in again, swinging his rifle at arm’s length and
mowing down two others as with a scythe.
“Want ter fight, eh?” he roared. “All right, I’ll give ye all ye want!
Thet fer ye, an’ thet! I’m a painter when I’m aroused, an’ don’t ye
forgit it--a roaring, howling mountain lion an’ painter rolled inter
one! Thar’s a wolloping fer ye!” And he danced around like a madman,
moving so quickly that try their best the Indians could not reach him.
His coonskin cap was off, his hair was flying freely about his head,
and his eyes blazed with the fury of a serpent.
The others were not idle. With the close approach of the Indians, those
in the loft hurried below, and soon Putty was in the yard along with
two others, fighting fiercely at close range. Arrows were flying in all
directions and just as Dave appeared at a window one whizzed past his
ear and buried itself in the wall opposite. He heard one old hunter
named Larrison give a cry of mortal agony and saw him pitch forward on
the grass dead, and saw one of the friendly Indians go down, shot in
the leg. In the meantime the other Indians had caught one of Red Bird’s
followers near the stables and had tomahawked and scalped him.
In the midst of the tumult, and when it was impossible to tell how the
encounter was going, another war-whoop rang out, coming from the forest
to the eastward. This was a new cry, different from that heard before,
and both the whites and the Indians around the stockade listened in
amazement.
“It’s the war cry of the Delawares!” ejaculated one of the men. “It
must be White Buffalo and his braves!”
“White Buffalo!” exclaimed Dave. “Pray God it is! He will surely aid
us.”
The war cry continued, and as it came closer, the whites saw that the
Miamis were much disturbed, not only by this but by the fall of Red
Bird, who had led the expedition, Fox Head being away on a mission to
the French. Suddenly one gave a signal and at this the Miamis began to
withdraw as quickly as they had appeared.
“They are retreating!” said Dave, joyfully. “It must indeed be White
Buffalo who is coming. See them run!”
“Give it to ’em!” was the cry from several sides. “Don’t let them
escape! They need the lesson!” And as the Indians retreated, the
stockade gate was swung open and those who were able to do so ran out,
firing as they went. At the same time the Delawares also opened fire
from the forest and then came leaping on, whooping at the top of their
lungs and flourishing their tomahawks.
Feeling that the contest was lost to them, the Miamis fled down the
river to where they had left their canoes. Three of the craft managed
to get away, having sixteen or eighteen warriors on board. The other
canoes were sunk while yet close at hand, and the swimmers were either
shot down in mid-stream or tomahawked when they came ashore. This
completion of the battle was left entirely to the Indians themselves,
the whites thinking it their duty to remain in the vicinity of the
trading-post.
At last, just as it was growing light in the east, some of the
Delawares came back and with them White Buffalo. Each of the party
carried a fresh scalp at his girdle and the chief looked the pride he
felt.
“White Buffalo!” cried Dave, and ran to meet him and shake hands. “You
did us a great service.”
“White Buffalo heap glad to help his white brothers.”
“Did you know the Miamis were coming here?”
“White Buffalo learn something of it--but not much. March here to make
sure. Know white boy’s father is away.”
“You are indeed a friend, White Buffalo, and father will not forget
this, nor will I. Had you not come up it might have gone badly with us.”
“It is the work of the French, not of the Miamis,” went on the Indian.
“Red Bird was paid for this work. A brave told me he saw the wampums
passed, at a meeting last full moon.”
“Did Jean Bevoir give the wampums?”
“He did, but they came not from Bevoir but from a greater trader--a
French half-breed named Joncaire, he who is close to the French
governor.”
“Captain Joncaire!”
“It’s jest like the dirty sneak,” burst out Barringford, who sat by
dressing his wound. “I know the cap’n well. He’s an oily talker and
smooth, but a reg’lar snake in the grass with it. But I allow this
will teach him and his kind a lesson.”
“But it may bring us into trouble with the French government,” said
Dave.
“What of it, lad? The trouble’s been a bilin’ and a bilin’, and it’s
got to come sooner or later. Let it come, say I, and the sooner it does
the sooner it will be over. They can put down stakes and nail lead
plates to the trees all they please, but that won’t make this country
theirs. The land belongs to the Indians and to their English brothers;
ain’t that so, White Buffalo?”
“My brother the great hunter speaks the truth,” responded the Indian
chief. “War is coming. Old Garudah hath foretold it and what Garudah
says will surely come to pass.” Garudah was an old Delaware squaw, the
daughter of Shannarion the medicine-man, and much believed in as a
prophetess.
White Buffalo did not wish to remain at the trading-post and after
a hearty breakfast he and his braves departed, taking with them the
scalps of all the enemies that had been slain. They had lost two
warriors and these they buried according to their Indian custom.
The day proved a busy one to those left at the post. The wounded were
cared for and the dead buried. Out of the garrison Larrison and one
Indian were dead, and three were wounded but none seriously. The Indian
was placed beside White Buffalo’s followers and the old hunter was
buried on a slight knoll overlooking the brook. Dave read the burial
service in a voice choked with emotion, and later on made and erected a
rude cross over the grave, with Larrison’s full name painted upon it.