FATHER AND SON
When Dave regained his senses all was dark around him and his head
ached as it had never ached before. He was lying flat on his back,
close to some brushwood growing beside the river. At a short distance
glowed the dying embers of a camp-fire and around this the youth made
out the forms of a score of Indians, four on guard and the others
sleeping.
Hardly realizing what he was doing, he put forth a hand and felt the
clothing of somebody beside him. With an effort he turned his head to
look in the direction and weak as he was gave a start. The person was
the Ranger Barringford had been carrying and he was stone dead and
scalped.
Under ordinary conditions Dave would have left the place horrified.
But on trying to sit up he found himself so weak that the effort was
a failure and he fell back with his head in a whirl and sharp pains
flashing across his eyes. He had been struck down with the flat side of
a tomahawk and although his skull was not cracked it was sadly bruised.
“I am in for it now,” was his dismal thought. “If the French allow it
these redskins will certainly burn me at the stake. I wonder where Sam
is?”
In vain he asked himself the question. His old friend was nowhere in
sight. On the other side of him lay two English soldiers, one dead like
the Ranger, and the other wounded in the breast. Presently the latter
began to moan piteously.
“Boys, don’t be a-leavin’ me ’ere, so far from ’ome,” he panted. “Take
me with yer. An’ give me a drop of water, won’t yer?” And then he began
to mumble to himself of home and of some friends he had left behind in
“Lunnon town.” He was a tall, heavy-set grenadier, and his beautiful
uniform was dyed deep with his life’s blood.
Dave, too, was thirsty and would have given a good deal for a drink
from the river which rolled so tantalizingly near. Once he thought to
call on the Indian guard, but then grated his teeth and remained silent.
“They would only kick me for disturbing them,” he reasoned, and
truthfully. “They are only leaving me alive so that they may torture
me. Oh, if only I knew what had become of Sam!”
Slowly the night wore away until with the first streak of dawn the camp
was astir. Dave had fallen into a light doze from which he was aroused
by an Indian raising him up on the end of his moccasin.
“White dog get up!” ordered the Indian, darkly. “Sleep heap too much.”
“I’ll get up if I can,” answered Dave, and did his best to pull himself
together. It was hard work and as he stood on his feet his head spun
around and around. He clutched at the tree behind him and sank down
again.
The Indian muttered something under his breath and went back to his
companions. Probably he thought the young soldier was going to die and
he wanted to know if he had not better scalp Dave then and there and
leave him where he fell.
But now a shouting was heard at a distance, and presently a dozen or
more Indians came rushing into the camp, followed by twice that number
of French soldiers. They had found a body of English grenadiers in the
woods half a mile back of the river,--soldiers who had failed to get
back to the main army.
Here was a fresh quarry for the bloodthirsty red men, and forgetting
about Dave and the wounded grenadier beside him, they took up their
arms and made off, the French soldiers with them.
“Gone!” muttered the young soldier, when the last of the enemy had
vanished from the glade. “If only they don’t come back!”
“Come back?” came from the grenadier, wildly. “They must come back!
They mustn’t let poor Peter Chanter die like this. Take me ’ome, boys!
No more of the King’s shilling for me! Take me ’ome!” And he continued
to rave, being now out of his head for the want of care and nourishment.
The day was one Dave never forgot. A storm was at hand and the breeze
swept mournfully through the giant trees and through the dense
brushwood. The birds, frightened by the fierce shooting of the day
before, had flown, and the wild animals had likewise taken themselves
off. From a great distance came an occasional shot.
Crawling on hands and knees, Dave took his way to the edge of the river
and at the risk of plunging in, procured a drink and bathed his aching
head. All the while the wounded grenadier kept moaning and talking
wildly, and crying for a drink. With a great effort the young soldier
filled his cup for him and he drained it with strange gulpings.
“Thank you, Bob!” he murmured. “Thank ye, old boy. When we gits ’ome,
I’ll make it right with yer, Bob.” And then he sank back as if to
sleep. He never stirred afterward.
At last the dull day faded away as it had come. The heavy raindrops
came pattering on the leaves of the trees and presently struck upon
Dave’s upturned face, for the young soldier was once more resting flat
on his back, with his head clasped in his hands. A frightened squirrel
came hopping back to his former haunts. Catching sight of Dave, he sat
up and stared for a moment, then vanished as he had come.
The youth was now hungry and feeling a little stronger, crawled over to
where the Indians had had their camp-fire. Here he found the remains
of some corn cake and a bit of meat which he devoured slowly and
painfully. The rain furnished him with water to wash down the scanty
food, and again he slept.
When Dave awoke he felt surprisingly stronger and got up with scarcely
an effort. He saw that the grenadier was dead and could not help but
shudder. How awful to travel so many miles across the ocean and then
meet a fate like this!
Where should he turn? What should he do? These were the questions
he asked himself, over and over again, without arriving at any
satisfactory answer. He knew that the day had been lost to the English,
that Braddock was shot down, and that Washington had taken command in
one last effort to save the remnant of the troops from annihilation.
But where were Washington and the other soldiers? Where was Sam
Barringford?
“They must be retreating eastward,” he reasoned, at last. “That would
be the only way for them to go. I’ll have to go likewise, and be
careful I don’t fall into the clutches of those redskins again.”
The thought had scarcely crossed his mind when he saw a sight that
filled him first with dismay and then with joy. Three Indians were
coming along the river, directly toward the glade. He felt they must be
enemies. But as they drew closer he recognized White Buffalo and two
followers.
“White Buffalo!” he cried, with all the strength he could command.
“Who calls?” was the instant question, and the Indians leaped behind
the trees.
“It is I, White Buffalo, Dave Morris! I am alone, so you have nothing
to fear.”
Upon hearing this White Buffalo ran forward and was soon at Dave’s
side. He was pleased to learn that the young soldier was not
dangerously wounded and had one of his followers bind Dave’s head up in
a mash made of healing herbs.
“The English have gone back,” said the Indian chief. “They lost many
soldiers and would have lost more had it not been for Washington. He
carries a charmed life and the enemy cannot kill him. They are safe on
the retreat.”
“And what brings you here?”
“’Tis a strange thing--more strange since I have met you. I came to
look for the white boy’s father.”
“My father?” ejaculated Dave. “Is he here?”
“I hoped to find him here. In the great battle I met Yellow Ear, who
was once at the trading-post with your father. He is a dog of a Miami
and I fell upon him and wounded him greatly. To save his life he told
me of your father, who had been a prisoner at the fort. Your father had
escaped and was in this wilderness. So White Buffalo came to look for
him--and found his son.”
“In this wilderness! My father!” murmured Dave. “And have you found any
trace of him yet?”
“White Buffalo has not.”
“Was he in the fight?”
“Who can tell that? White Buffalo will look for him--he can do no more.”
“And I will help look--if I can walk. Tell me, have you seen anything
of Sam Barringford?”
The Indian chief shook his head. “They are all gone--this part of the
wilderness is deserted,” he said.
His words, however, were not true, for scarcely had he spoken when a
rifle shot rang out and one of his followers fell, mortally wounded.
The shot came from across the river, and looking in that direction
Dave and the others saw four Indians behind the brushwood. Leaping
quickly to the shelter of the trees, White Buffalo and his remaining
follower fired and one enemy fell. Then of a sudden came two shots from
further up the stream and two more of the enemy went down. At this
the fourth Indian turned and fled into the bushes and they heard him
crashing along until the sounds lost themselves in the distance.
[Illustration: “Father!” was all Dave could say.--_Page 293._]
“Hullo! are you English up thar!” came the unexpected cry.
“It is Sam Barringford’s voice,” exclaimed Dave. “Sam! Sam!” he called,
with all the strength he could muster. “Come this way, Sam! It is Dave
Morris and White Buffalo!”
“Wall, I never!” ejaculated the old hunter, and in a moment came more
crashing of bushes and Barringford leaped into the glade. Behind him
came another white man, gun in hand, and clothed in tattered buckskin.
He limped as he ran and his forehead was bandaged up in a handkerchief.
“Father!” was all Dave could say and tottered forward to meet his
parent, who caught him in his arms. “Father!”
“Dave, my son!” cried James Morris, joyfully. “How wonderful! I never
dreamed of this!”
“Nor I father, although White Buffalo was just telling me about you.
You have been a prisoner at the fort.”
“Yes, I’ve been there a long time--ever since Bevoir got the French and
Indians to attack the post. They were going to ship me to Canada on the
day I gave the guards the slip and got away. But you are wounded.”
“Yes, and so are you.”
“I was in a good deal of the fighting day before yesterday and a bullet
grazed my temple. I fell into the river and was almost drowned. When I
recovered, I ran across Barringford, who said he had been with you, but
the Indians had separated you and him and he was wounded in the side
shortly afterward. Both of us lay low in the bushes until we started up
the stream to look for you. Barringford saw White Buffalo just about
the time those Indians fired into your party, and we made up our mind
to come to the rescue.”