DAVE AND THE INDIAN
“He has gone!”
“Shoot him, Dave, shoot him!”
With frantic haste Dave fixed the priming of his flint-lock musket. But
long before the weapon was ready for use the buffalo was out of sight
and hearing.
On the ground in the hollow lay the she-bear, giving a last convulsive
shudder. At the mouth of her den were the two cubs, whining plaintively,
as if they understood that something had gone wrong. Henry sat on one of
the rocks, with his foot still caught fast and a look of pain on his
face.
“What’s the matter? Did the buffalo hit you?” called out his cousin,
after he had looked to make certain that the bear could do no further
harm.
“No, but I—I hurt my ankle,” panted Henry. He gave his leg a pull. “Oh!
But that hurts!”
“The bear is out of it,” said Dave. He came closer. “Hullo, your foot is
caught. Let me help you. I reckon we have seen the last of that
buffalo.”
“I don’t know about that, Dave. We both hit him, and the bear gave him
something to remember her by.”
“Poor beast! She certainly did what she could for her cubs. Just look at
them now!”
It was an affecting sight. The mother bear had passed away and both of
the cubs had crawled forth from the den and were licking her face and
pushing her form with their little noses. Then both began to whine once
more. Neither seemed to think of running away.
Dave set down his gun and helped Henry to release his caught foot. Then
they took off the legging and the shoe. The ankle had begun to swell and
there was a deep scratch on one side.
“Can you step on it?” asked Dave, and his cousin tried to do so. He
caught his breath and gave a gasp.
“Like pins and needles going through my leg!” he announced. “Oh, what
luck! And we didn’t get the buffalo after all!” he added, ruefully.
The bear cubs now came up and one made a snap at Dave’s foot while the
other took up Henry’s shoe and began to chew it. Seeing this, Dave drew
his hunting knife and dispatched them both. Then he turned again to his
cousin.
“I suppose it is out of the question for you to think of walking,” he
said.
“Not just yet,” answered Henry. “Maybe I’ll be able to do it in an hour
or two.”
“Then we may as well rest right here. One comfort, we have the bear and
her cubs even if we didn’t get the buffalo.”
“Dave, why don’t you follow the trail again? That buffalo may not be far
off. It won’t do any good for you to sit down here by me—I can take care
of myself. Only be careful that the beast doesn’t corner you.”
“I’ll do it. But I’ll get you some water first,” answered Dave.
He had noted a spring just before coming to the bear hollow, and he
walked back to it and procured some water in a gourd they carried for
that purpose. With this Henry started to bathe his swollen ankle, while
Dave took to the fresh trail the buffalo had made.
“Don’t stay away more than an hour!” called out Henry after him.
“Not unless it takes a little longer to get a good chance at the
buffalo,” replied his cousin.
The buffalo had crashed through a long stretch of brushwood where the
trail could be followed with ease. Then he had taken to the old trail
once more, at a point a good half-mile from where he had before left it.
“He is bound for the west, that’s certain,” said Dave to himself. “And
more than likely he will keep on until sundown. I may as well give up
all hopes of bringing him down. Heigh-ho! such are the fortunes of
hunting!” And he heaved a deep sigh.
He kept on for quarter of a mile further, reaching a point where the
trail crossed a small but clear stream of spring water. Here the bison
had paused for a drink, and resting his gun against a tree, the young
hunter got down on his hands and knees to do likewise.
The water tasted so good that Dave took his time and drank his fill.
Then he raised his head, started to rise, and looked toward the tree
where he had placed his weapon.
The gun was gone!
For the moment the young hunter could not believe the evidence of his
senses. He remained in a crouching position, wondering what he had best
do. He felt that an enemy must have taken the gun, and wondered who it
could be. With caution he looked around, but not a soul was in sight.
It was a peculiar position to be in, and small wonder that the cold
perspiration stood out upon the young hunter’s forehead. He had been in
peril before, among the Indians, and felt fairly certain that a red man
had gotten the better of him.
What was best to do? He asked himself the question several times, his
heart beating meanwhile like a trip-hammer within his breast. An enemy
was surely at hand. What would be the next movement of the unknown?
Cautiously he put his hand to his side, drew his hunting knife, and
arose slowly to an upright position. Overhead the branches of the trees
were tightly interlaced, making the spot rather gloomy. The stream came
down between a number of rocks which were backed up by bushes and trees.
Would it be best to make a dash for this shelter?
“White boy drop knife!”
The unexpected command, issued in a guttural tone, came from a clump of
brushwood behind Dave. The young hunter swung around, but could see no
one.
“White boy drop knife, or Indian shoot,” were the next words spoken, and
now Dave saw the barrel of his own gun pointed at his breast.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“White boy drop knife, or shoot him sure!” was the only answer, and now
the muzzle of the gun was shoved a little closer to the youth’s breast.
Looking through the brushwood, Dave made out the repulsive features of a
savage and saw the wicked gleam of his black eyes.
There seemed to be no help for it, and the hunting knife dropped to the
ground. The Indian gave a grunt of satisfaction and then stepped into
the opening, still, however, keeping the gun levelled at Dave’s breast.
He was a brawny warrior of the Senecas, arrayed in his war-paint and
feathers, and he carried a tomahawk and a knife in his girdle and a bow
with arrows across his shoulders.
“Where white boy come from?” he asked, abruptly.
“I came from Fort Pitt,” answered Dave. “Why did you steal my gun?”
At the last question the red man gave a grunt that might mean anything.
He looked Dave over with care and made him back away, so that he could
secure the lad’s hunting knife, which he placed beside his own.
“White boy sodger, um?” went on the savage, noting the tattered uniform.
“Yes, I have been a soldier,” answered Dave. He continued to gaze at the
savage. “I’ve seen you before. Oh, I remember now. You were with Moon
Eye, right after I was captured. You had something to do with the
stealing of my little cousin and the twin boys.”
The red man’s eyes flashed, but he did not answer to this. Evidently he
was pondering upon what to do next. He had come upon Dave quite
unexpectedly and had taken the gun on the impulse of the moment.
“White boy alone?” he asked, after an awkward pause.
“No, I have a good many friends around here,” was Dave’s quick reply,
but he did not add that the majority of his friends were at the fort.
At this the face of the warrior darkened. He allowed the gun barrel to
drop and drew his tomahawk. If others of the whites were near he thought
it might be best to brain Dave on the spot, making as little noise as
possible, and then get away from that vicinity.
The young hunter understood the movement, and his heart leaped into his
throat. He had no desire to feel the edge of the savage’s stone hatchet.
As the gun barrel dropped still lower he thought of the rocks and the
brushwood and made a spring towards them.
“_Pawah!_” cried the Indian, in a rage. “White boy stop!” And he made a
dash after the youth. But as luck would have it one moccasin caught in a
trailing vine and he pitched headlong. As he went down, the trigger of
the gun struck some brush, caught fast, and the piece went off with a
loud report.
Dave imagined the gun was discharged at himself, and fully expected to
feel the sting of the bullet, perhaps in some vital portion of his body.
He felt himself making a silent prayer, and as the sting did not come
realized that as yet he was unharmed. He cleared the rocks at another
bound, almost fell into the bushes, and ran on and on with all the speed
he could command.
Dave covered a good quarter of a mile before he thought of coming to a
halt. He was now in the very depths of the great forest, with a heavy
growth of timber on all sides of him. The way had been rough and he had
stumbled twice, scratching his hand and his knee so that they smarted
greatly. He was far away from the buffalo trail and also away from the
stream where he had stopped for a drink. He had made a number of turns
while running, and could not tell in what direction he had left either
the red warrior or Henry.
“Here’s a fine kettle of fish!” he muttered, as he stopped to catch his
breath. “Everything is going wrong to-day. First we lost the buffalo,
then Henry sprained his ankle, and now here am I, trying to get away
from a redskin who wants to take my life and who has robbed me of my
rifle and hunting knife! I wonder what will happen next?”
He listened intently, but could hear nothing of his red foe, nor could
he see anything to alarm him. It was more gloomy than ever under the
trees, the sun having gone under a cloud. The breeze sighed mournfully
through the tallest branches, and only the occasional note of a bird, or
the distant bark of a fox, broke the stillness.
Dave did not dare to linger long in one spot, fearing that the Indian
might be sneaking over his trail with the slyness of a fox. He pushed
forward, hoping to come to a series of rocks, or a deep stream, where
the trail might be hidden.
His search was at last rewarded. Some flat rocks appeared, forming
something of a cliff. He walked over these, taking care to avoid every
accumulation of dirt or trailing vines. Then, coming to the end of the
stones, he leaped down into a gully, where flowed a stream of water
several feet wide and more than a foot deep. He followed this stream a
long distance, until it was lost among some rugged rocks, where his
further progress appeared to be barred.
“There—I don’t think that Indian can follow me to here,” he told
himself. “The question is, How am I to get back to Henry without being
discovered, and how are we both to get back to the fort?”