Joe lounged in the doorway of the cabin, thoughtfully contemplating
two quiet figures that were lying in the shade of a maple tree. One
he recognized as the Indian with whom Jim had spent an earnest hour
that morning; the red son of the woods was wrapped in slumber. He
had placed under his head a many-hued homespun shirt which the young
preacher had given him; but while asleep his head had rolled off
this improvised pillow, and the bright garment lay free, attracting
the eye. Certainly it had led to the train of thought which had
found lodgment in Joe's fertile brain.
The other sleeper was a short, stout man whom Joe had seen several
times before. This last fellow did not appear to be well-balanced in
his mind, and was the butt of the settlers' jokes, while the
children called him "Loorey." He, like the Indian, was sleeping off
the effects of the previous night's dissipation.
During a few moments Joe regarded the recumbent figures with an
expression on his face which told that he thought in them were great
possibilities for sport. With one quick glance around he disappeared
within the cabin, and when he showed himself at the door, surveying
the village square with mirthful eyes, he held in his hand a small
basket of Indian design. It was made of twisted grass, and simply
contained several bits of soft, chalky stone such as the Indians
used for painting, which collection Joe had discovered among the
fur-trader's wares.
He glanced around once more, and saw that all those in sight were
busy with their work. He gave the short man a push, and chuckled
when there was no response other than a lazy grunt. Joe took the
Indians' gaudy shirt, and, lifting Loorey, slipped it around him,
shoved the latter's arms through the sleeves, and buttoned it in
front. He streaked the round face with red and white paint, and
then, dexterously extracting the eagle plume from the Indian's
head-dress, stuck it in Loorey's thick shock of hair. It was all
done in a moment, after which Joe replaced the basket, and went down
to the river.
Several times that morning he had visited the rude wharf where Jeff
Lynn, the grizzled old frontiersman, busied himself with
preparations for the raft-journey down the Ohio. Lynn had been
employed to guide the missionary's party to Fort Henry, and, as the
brothers had acquainted him with their intention of accompanying the
travelers, he had constructed a raft for them and their horses.
Joe laughed when he saw the dozen two-foot logs fastened together,
upon which a rude shack had been erected for shelter. This slight
protection from sun and storm was all the brothers would have on
their long journey.
Joe noted, however, that the larger raft had been prepared with some
thought for the comfort of the girls. The floor of the little hut
was raised so that the waves which broke over the logs could not
reach it. Taking a peep into the structure, Joe was pleased to see
that Nell and Kate would be comfortable, even during a storm. A
buffalo robe and two red blankets gave to the interior a cozy, warm
look. He observed that some of the girls' luggage was already on
board.
"When'll we be off?" he inquired.
"Sun-up," answered Lynn, briefly.
"I'm glad of that. I like to be on the go in the early morning,"
said Joe, cheerfully.
"Most folks from over Eastways ain't in a hurry to tackle the
river," replied Lynn, eyeing Joe sharply.
"It's a beautiful river, and I'd like to sail on it from here to
where it ends, and then come back to go again," Joe replied, warmly.
"In a hurry to be a-goin'? I'll allow you'll see some slim red
devils, with feathers in their hair, slipping among the trees along
the bank, and mebbe you'll hear the ping which's made when whistlin'
lead hits. Perhaps you'll want to be back here by termorrer
sundown."
"Not I," said Joe, with his short, cool laugh.
The old frontiersman slowly finished his task of coiling up a rope
of wet cowhide, and then, producing a dirty pipe, he took a live
ember from the fire and placed it on the bowl. He sucked slowly at
the pipe-stem, and soon puffed out a great cloud of smoke. Sitting
on a log, he deliberately surveyed the robust shoulders and long,
heavy limbs of the young man, with a keen appreciation of their
symmetry and strength. Agility, endurance and courage were more to a
borderman than all else; a new-comer on the frontier was always
"sized-up" with reference to these "points," and respected in
proportion to the measure in which he possessed them.
Old Jeff Lynn, riverman, hunter, frontiersman, puffed slowly at his
pipe while he mused thus to himself: "Mebbe I'm wrong in takin' a
likin' to this youngster so sudden. Mebbe it's because I'm fond of
his sunny-haired lass, an' ag'in mebbe it's because I'm gettin' old
an' likes young folks better'n I onct did. Anyway, I'm kinder
thinkin, if this young feller gits worked out, say fer about twenty
pounds less, he'll lick a whole raft-load of wild-cats."
Joe walked to and fro on the logs, ascertained how the raft was put
together, and took a pull on the long, clumsy steering-oar. At
length he seated himself beside Lynn. He was eager to ask questions;
to know about the rafts, the river, the forest, the
Indians--everything in connection with this wild life; but already
he had learned that questioning these frontiersmen is a sure means
of closing their lips.
"Ever handle the long rifle?" asked Lynn, after a silence.
"Yes," answered Joe, simply.
"Ever shoot anythin'?" the frontiersman questioned, when he had
taken four or five puffs at his pipe.
"Squirrels."
"Good practice, shootin' squirrels," observed Jeff, after another
silence, long enough to allow Joe to talk if he was so inclined.
"Kin ye hit one--say, a hundred yards?"
"Yes, but not every time in the head," returned Joe. There was an
apologetic tone in his answer.
Another interval followed in which neither spoke. Jeff was slowly
pursuing his line of thought. After Joe's last remark he returned
his pipe to his pocket and brought out a tobacco-pouch. He tore off
a large portion of the weed and thrust it into his mouth. Then he
held out the little buckskin sack to Joe.
"Hev' a chaw," he said.
To offer tobacco to anyone was absolutely a borderman's guarantee of
friendliness toward that person.
Jeff expectorated half a dozen times, each time coming a little
nearer the stone he was aiming at, some five yards distant. Possibly
this was the borderman's way of oiling up his conversational
machinery. At all events, he commenced to talk.
"Yer brother's goin' to preach out here, ain't he? Preachin' is all
right, I'll allow; but I'm kinder doubtful about preachin' to
redskins. Howsumever, I've knowed Injuns who are good fellows, and
there's no tellin'. What are ye goin' in fer--farmin'?"
"No, I wouldn't make a good farmer."
"Jest cum out kinder wild like, eh?" rejoined Jeff, knowingly.
"I wanted to come West because I was tired of tame life. I love the
forest; I want to fish and hunt; and I think I'd like to--to see
Indians."
"I kinder thought so," said the old frontiersman, nodding his head
as though he perfectly understood Joe's case. "Well, lad, where
you're goin' seein' Injuns ain't a matter of choice. You has to see
'em, and fight 'em, too. We've had bad times for years out here on
the border, and I'm thinkin' wuss is comin'. Did ye ever hear the
name Girty?"
"Yes; he's a renegade."
"He's a traitor, and Jim and George Girty, his brothers, are p'isin
rattlesnake Injuns. Simon Girty's bad enough; but Jim's the wust.
He's now wusser'n a full-blooded Delaware. He's all the time on the
lookout to capture white wimen to take to his Injun teepee. Simon
Girty and his pals, McKee and Elliott, deserted from that thar fort
right afore yer eyes. They're now livin' among the redskins down
Fort Henry way, raisin' as much hell fer the settlers as they kin."
"Is Fort Henry near the Indian towns?" asked Joe.
"There's Delawares, Shawnees and Hurons all along the Ohio below
Fort Henry."
"Where is the Moravian Mission located?"
"Why, lad, the Village of Peace, as the Injuns call it, is right in
the midst of that Injun country. I 'spect it's a matter of a hundred
miles below and cross-country a little from Fort Henry."
"The fort must be an important point, is it not?"
"Wal, I guess so. It's the last place on the river," answered Lynn,
with a grim smile. "There's only a stockade there, an' a handful of
men. The Injuns hev swarmed down on it time and ag'in, but they hev
never burned it. Only such men as Colonel Zane, his brother Jack,
and Wetzel could hev kept that fort standin' all these bloody years.
Eb Zane's got but a few men, yet he kin handle 'em some, an' with
such scouts as Jack Zane and Wetzel, he allus knows what's goin' on
among the Injuns."
"I've heard of Colonel Zane. He was an officer under Lord Dunmore.
The hunters here speak often of Jack Zane and Wetzel. What are
they?"
"Jack Zane is a hunter an' guide. I knowed him well a few years
back. He's a quiet, mild chap; but a streak of chain-lightnin' when
he's riled. Wetzel is an Injun-killer. Some people say as how he's
crazy over scalp-huntin'; but I reckon that's not so. I've seen him
a few times. He don't hang round the settlement 'cept when the
Injuns are up, an' nobody sees him much. At home he sets round
silent-like, an' then mebbe next mornin' he'll be gone, an' won't
show up fer days or weeks. But all the frontier knows of his deeds.
Fer instance, I've hearn of settlers gettin' up in the mornin' an'
findin' a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of their
cabins. No one knowed who killed 'em, but everybody says 'Wetzel.'
He's allus warnin' the settlers when they need to flee to the fort,
and sure he's right every time, because when these men go back to
their cabins they find nothin' but ashes. There couldn't be any
farmin' done out there but fer Wetzel."
"What does he look like?" questioned Joe, much interested.
"Wetzel stands straight as the oak over thar. He'd hev' to go
sideways to git his shoulders in that door, but he's as light of
foot an' fast as a deer. An' his eyes--why, lad, ye kin hardly look
into 'em. If you ever see Wetzel you'll know him to onct."
"I want to see him," Joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with an
eager flash. "He must be a great fighter."
"Is he? Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of 'em all, an' we hev some as
kin fight out here. I was down the river a few years ago and joined
a party to go out an' hunt up some redskins as had been reported.
Wetzel was with us. We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to a
lot of the pesky varmints. We was all fer goin' home, because we had
a small force. When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittin'
calm-like on a log. We said: 'Ain't ye goin' home?' and he replied,
'I cum out to find redskins, an' now as we've found 'em, I'm not
goin' to run away.' An' we left him settin' thar. Oh, Wetzel is a
fighter!"
"I hope I shall see him," said Joe once more, the warm light, which
made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.
"Mebbe ye'll git to; and sure ye'll see redskins, an' not tame ones,
nuther."
At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in
on the conversation. Joe saw several persons run toward the large
cabin and disappear behind it. He smiled as he thought perhaps the
commotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.
Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the
cause of the excitement. A small crowd of men and women, all
laughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the little
stout fellow. Joe heard some one groan, and then a deep, guttural
voice:
"Paleface--big steal--ugh! Injun mad--heap mad--kill paleface."
After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holding
Loorey with one hand, while he poked him on the ribs with the other.
The captive's face was the picture of dismay; even the streaks of
paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. The poor
half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.
"Silvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!" growled the savage, giving Loorey
another blow on the side. This time he bent over in pain. The
bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women
murmured sympathetically.
"This's not a bit funny," muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly
to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that,
bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmith's,
and grasped the Indian's sinewy wrist with a force that made him
loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.
"I stole the shirt--fun--joke," said Joe. "Scalp me if you want to
scalp anyone."
The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a
twist he slipped his arm from Joe's grasp.
"Big paleface heap fun--all squaw play," he said, scornfully. There
was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the
group.
"I'm afraid you've made an enemy," said Jake Wentz to Joe. "An
Indian never forgets an insult, and that's how he regarded your
joke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his
pelts. He's a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!"
By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz and the girls had joined
the group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddle
away.
"A bad sign," said Wentz, and then, turning to Jeff Lynn, who joined
the party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances.
"Never did like Silver. He's a crafty redskin, an' not to be
trusted," replied Jeff.
"He has turned round and is looking back," Nell said quickly.
"So he has," observed the fur-trader.
The Indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, and
for an instant had ceased paddling. The sun shone brightly on his
eagle plumes. He remained motionless for a moment, and even at such
a distance the dark, changeless face could be discerned. He lifted
his hand and shook it menacingly.
"If ye don't hear from that redskin ag'in Jeff Lynn don't know
nothin'," calmly said the old frontiersman.