THE SCOUTING PARTY.
In the morning, after partaking of breakfast, Gummery Glyndon prepared
for his scout. During this, he was urged by Percy Vere to allow him and
his cousin to accompany him.
The hunter was inclined, at first, to refuse this request, but on
reflection, he consented.
“They are smart boys, both of ’em,” he told himself, “and the surveyors
always lend them their rifles when they go with me. I’d rather have them
any time than the soldiers—these reg’lars ain’t worth shucks in an Injun
skirmish—it would be as good as three of us, and if the Injuns are thick
among the hills, and I opine so, I shall want some help along. Yes,
Percy, you can go.”
These last words were uttered aloud.
The two boys were quite pleased at being permitted to join in the scout,
and Blaikie and Robbins readily loaned them their rifles. The surveyors
were well provided in this respect as each had a breech-loading,
repeating rifle, besides the old-fashioned single-barreled, smooth bore
one. The boys got the single-barreled ones, of course. But they were
perfectly satisfied with them, and, by much practice, had gained
considerable skill in their use.
“Do you know, Percy, I have an idea,” said the elder boy, as they
equipped themselves for the adventure.
“Have you? How does it feel? Tell me, so I’ll know when I have one.”
“Oh, pshaw! you are always at your joke. My idea is that Smoholler might
give me some intelligence concerning my father.”
“Very likely; but do you think it safe to trust yourself in Smoholler’s
power?” suggested Cute.
“Oh, no; but we might be able to hold a parley with him. I think he
would prefer to arrange matters peaceably with us if he could. He must
know that he can not drive back our party without considerable loss to
himself.”
“Yes, and from what I have heard old Gummery Glyndon say, I should fancy
that these Indians don’t like to take any risks. Do you know, Percy, I’d
like to have a scrimmage with the red-skins. I think it would beat
bear-hunting all hollow—Smoholler!”
Percy Vere laughed at this pun upon the Prophet’s name.
“It might not be so funny as you imagine,” he answered; “particularly if
we should happen to get the worst of it, and you should have your hair
lifted.”
Percy Cute passed his fingers through his shock of flaxen hair,
reflectively.
“I would not like to be obliged to experiment on Professor Ike’s
Restorative in that fashion,” he said. “I’m afraid the soil is too poor
for another crop, even with that help. But I’m not going to let any
Indian take my top-knot if I can help it. I’ll trust to my arms, while
my powder and bullets last.”
“And failing these?”
“My dependence will be in my legs.”
“You are too fat to run fast.”
“Not if a crowd of red-skins was after me. The way I could get over the
ground then would be a caution to bedbugs.”
Percy Vere laughed again.
“You’ll do,” he cried.
“You bet I will! Anybody’s got to get up early to get ahead of my time.”
“Are you ready, boys?” asked Gummery Glyndon, as he approached them.
“Ready and willing,” responded Cute.
Glyndon took a critical survey of the boys, as they shouldered their
rifles and joined him. Besides the rifle each was armed with a
revolver—the large size called “navy”—and a bowie-knife, with a keen
blade, six inches in length, and a stout horn handle. A serviceable
weapon for a close encounter, and also serving the purpose of a hunting
and table knife. Few travelers upon the plains and amongst the mountains
of the Far West are without this useful article.
“You’ll do,” said Glyndon, shaking his head, approvingly. “Come on.”
Lieutenant Gardiner followed them to the edge of the timber.
“How long do you intend to be absent?” he asked.
“I shall try to bring you in something for dinner,” replied Glyndon.
“I’ve got the boys, and so I can bring in considerable game, if we are
lucky enough to find it. My idea is to go through the ravine, and skirt
the cliff to the left there—where the deviltry was last night—looking
for Indian sign by the way, and come back by the river’s bank, if
there’s footing—if not, we’ll get on some logs and let the tide float us
down.”
“A good idea,” cried Gardiner, surprised by the mention of this
expedient. “I should never have thought of that. You are cunning in
devices.”
“So are the Injuns,” returned Glyndon, impressively. “Take care some of
’em don’t come down on you that way while I’m gone.”
“I’ll look out for them; you’ll find quite a fort here when you come
back. I hardly think Smoholler will dare attack us here.”
Glyndon took a critical survey of the situation, and shook his head in
the manner he had when any thing met his approval.
“It’s a good camping-ground,” he said, “and you can hold it ag’in’ a
hundred Injuns, in _daylight_.” He laid particular stress upon this
word. “An open attack is what you can beat off without any trouble, but
it’s stratagem and trickery will bother you. But we can tell more about
Smoholler when I come back. If he’s got a strong party near us he can’t
hide the signs of them from me.”
“Can you judge of the number without seeing them?” asked Gardiner, in
some surprise.
“Oh, yes.”
“How can you do that?”
“Every man to his trade; you know your tactics, and I know mine. I have
learned to trail Injuns pretty well in all these years. I couldn’t very
well explain to you how I do it—there’s a knack in it that some men can
never pick up. But, to us old forest rangers, there’s tongues and voices
in the running water, the rustling leaves, the waving grass, and the
moss-grown stones. Where an Injun plants his foot he leaves a sign, and
though they do their best to hide their trail, there’s always eyes keen
enough to spy it out.”
“I have heard of the wonderful skill you hunters have in following a
trail,” rejoined Gardiner. “You beat the Indians in their own
woodcraft.”
“The white man is ahead of the red-man in every respect,” replied
Glyndon, sententiously. “He can out-run him, out-hunt him, and out-fight
him! It’s the intellect does it. The Injun’s brain-pan wasn’t calculated
for any thing but a savage—but you can’t make the Peace Commissioners
believe it. Why don’t they pick up all the lazy, good-for-nothing white
men in the country, put ’em on a reservation, and feed and clothe them?
Waugh! Come, boys, let’s see if the ‘noble red-man’ isn’t after our
ha’r.”
With this contemptuous reflection, Gummery Glyndon threw his long rifle
into the hollow of his arm, and walked toward the mouth of the ravine
with long strides, followed by the two boys, who kept up with him with
some difficulty; but their young hearts bounded with a pleasant
excitement.