BARRINGFORD AS A SCOUT
The volley poured into the Indians by the whites made the red warriors
pause for the time being. They were close to a clump of bushes and trees
growing near the center of the glade, and they got behind this shelter
with alacrity.
In the cave all was confusion. It was an opening ten to fifteen feet in
height and equally broad at the mouth. It ran back a distance of over
two hundred feet, where it ended in a split among the rocks, coming out
at a point where there was a thick patch of nettle bushes.
The horses had been brought into the cave and were led to the rear. Here
Hempser worked like a Trojan, with one of the regulars helping him.
Loose stones were to be had in plenty, and they blocked up the rear
opening completely.
“They’ll have their hands full, getting in this way,” said the regular.
“The nettles will keep them back if nothing else will.”
“Right you are,” answered Hempser. “Injuns don’t like to git scratched
any more than anybody else.”
At the front of the cavern Sam Barringford took command. A glance showed
him how the land lay, and he at once ordered some of the men to pile up
the loose stones to a height of several feet. This formed a barricade,
behind which the frontiersmen and regulars could lie with but little
danger of the enemy picking them off.
“This is a situation we didn’t bargain for,” said Rodney, after the
construction of the barricade had come to an end. “I must say I don’t
like it.”
“Well, lad, it’s better than being surrounded in the open,” answered
Barringford, with an effort to look on the bright side of the affair.
“I don’t think they’ll attack us now,” went on the young soldier. “But
they may do it to-night.”
“We’ll have to keep on guard, and shoot the first man who shows
himself,” put in Casbury.
“Maybe they’ll try to starve us out,” came from another of the
frontiersman.
“We’ve got rations enough for a week or more, on a pinch,” said Rodney.
“We’ve got our regular things and also that deer Barton shot early this
morning, and some rabbits.”
“How about water?” asked another.
“We’ll have to see about that,” said Sam Barringford.
Satisfied that the Indians did not contemplate an immediate attack, the
old frontiersman, accompanied by Rodney, made a tour of the cave,
lighting a torch for that purpose. In one corner the rocks were found to
be very damp, and when some were pulled up a little water trickled
forth.
“Thar’s a spring thar,” said Barringford, with satisfaction. “We kin do
a bit o’ diggin’ an’ then have all the water we wish.” A little later
two of the regulars set to work, with pike-poles and shovels, and soon
had a hollow made into which the water flowed to a depth of several
inches. The water was brought up in a dipper, and proved to be both
clear and wholesome.
As the time slipped by the whole party became more composed, and Nell
and the twins clamored for their delayed dinner. A meal was prepared in
the cave, which the men ate while on the watch.
“Oh, Rodney, will the bad Indians catch us in here?” asked Nell, as she
came up to her elder brother.
“I think not, Nell,” he answered, hopefully.
“I wish I was home.”
“So do I, Nell—wish it more for your sake than for my own.”
“Tom wants to go out and fight the bad Indians,” said one of the twins.
He had picked up a rifle resting against the wall and was trying to
shoulder the long weapon.
“Here, you give me that gun!” cried Rodney, reaching for it. “Tom, you
mustn’t play with the guns. One of ’em might go off and hurt you.”
“Tom ain’t ’fraid of no gun,” said the little boy. “Want to shoot the
Indians.”
“You keep quiet and stay with Mrs. Dobson or Nell.”
“How long will we have to stay here, Rodney?” asked his little sister.
“I can’t answer that question, Nell. It depends on the Indians. Perhaps
they’ll get tired of watching us and go away.”
It was a hard matter to keep the twins quiet, but presently both grew
tired of wandering around the cave, and went to sleep on a pair of
blankets spread out for them. Mrs. Dobson sat on one of the packs with
Nell beside her and her husband not far off.
“Oh, Asa, how foolish we were to come out to this western country!”
sighed the woman, for at least the fiftieth time. “We should have stayed
at home and been content with what we had!”
“Ain’t no uset to cry over spilt milk,” grumbled her husband.
“I think the Indians will come to-night and scalp all of us!”
“Oh, Mrs. Dobson, you don’t mean that!” gasped little Nell.
“Don’t scare the little girl, Mrs. Dobson,” put in Casbury, who chanced
to be near. “It won’t help matters to git anybuddy worked up.”
At last the sun sank in the west and it began to grow dark at the mouth
of the cave. Two men were stationed at the spot where the rear opening
had been, and all the others gathered at the front. Then Sam Barringford
called Rodney to him.
“I’m a-goin’ out on a scoutin’ tour,” said the old frontiersman. “I’m
a-goin’ to leave you an’ Casbury in charge until I git back. Don’t shoot
me, but don’t let none o’ them Injuns git near, nuther.”
“Don’t you want me to go with you, Sam?”
“No, it will be hard enough fer one to git around, let alone two. Ef ye
ain’t sure it’s me comin’ back, hoot like an owl an’ I’ll answer like a
catbird, understand?”
“Yes.”
Barringford gave the others a few directions and then, stepping quickly
over the rocks, snaked his way along through the grass to a fringe of
low bushes. From the bushes he made for the rough rocks, where he
paused, to consider the situation in all of its details.
The old frontiersman felt that he was surrounded by enemies fully as
alert as himself and ready to shoot him down on sight.
“An’ they won’t ax me if I’ll like it nuther,” he murmured to himself.
“They be jest a-hankerin’ arter my sculp like all possessed.”
Peering cautiously around, he saw nobody, and after a short wait took
his way between the rocks towards the spot where the rear of the cave
was located. Here he listened again, and this time heard the low murmur
of two voices. But they were those of Dobson, the settler, and a
regular, talking from inside.
“They ought to know enough to keep quiet,” mused the old frontiersman,
in disgust. “How can they spot the enemy if they gab like thet?”
In a few minutes the voices ceased, and thinking the coast clear the old
frontiersman worked his way among the rocks and through the bushes
toward a point he imagined the Indians might be holding. The darkness of
night had now fallen completely over the forest and scarcely a sound
broke the stillness.
Barringford was about to cross to another patch of brushwood when the
distant call of a night bird arrested his attention. He was well versed
in the calls of all birds and that which he heard did not sound exactly
true to his ear. He smiled grimly to himself and waited.
As he had surmised, an answering call soon followed. It came from the
very brushwood he had been on the point of entering, and a tall Indian
stepped forth, as if to advance. Before Barringford could retreat or
draw to one side the pair were face to face.
Not a word was uttered—indeed, there was no time for speech. The Indian
had his tomahawk in his hand, and this he raised, aiming a blow at the
old frontiersman’s skull. As old as he was getting, Barringford was
still nimble on his feet and dexterously dodged to one side. As the arm
of the red warrior came down, he caught the red man by the shoulder, and
over went the pair on the soil. Then the Indian tried to cry out, but
Barringford’s hand was clapped on his mouth.
It now became a desperate but silent struggle for life. From the red
man’s mouth, the old frontiersman’s hand was shifted to his throat,
which was caught with a grip of steel. The Indian struggled desperately,
first kicking heavily and then drawing up a knee against Barringford’s
breast. Then he tried to use his tomahawk again, and hit the
frontiersman a glancing blow on the shoulder. The hatchet fell, and in a
twinkling the Indian had Barringford by the throat, in a clutch equally
firm and relentless.
Like two bulldogs that have a death-grip and will not let go, white man
and Indian rolled over and over, on the rocks and in the bushes, each
doing all in his power to get the better of the other. The Indian was
muscular, and his strength was equal if not superior to that of his
white adversary. But Barringford had secured the first grip, and the red
man’s breath was fast leaving him. His tongue stuck out, his eyes bulged
from their sockets, and he could not utter even so much as a faint
gurgle.
It was at this moment that an interruption came. Another form glided
into the midst of the bushes. It was a second Indian, and a glance
showed him the condition of affairs. Without stopping to use his
tomahawk or his knife he kicked Barringford heavily in the left ear.
Then followed other blows, and with a groan the old frontiersman
stretched out on the rocks unconscious.
As the hold on his throat relaxed the Indian who had been in the death
struggle gave a gasp and stared about him. The coming of his fellow
warrior had undoubtedly saved his life.
“Where did that white man come from?” asked the second Indian, as he
gave Barringford a close look.
“Cushina knows not,” was the faint reply. It was some time before the
other could get back his breath.
“Are there others about?”
At this question Cushina shrugged his shoulders.
“Did he come from the cave, think you?”
“Perhaps—all of the whites were driven to that shelter, like so many
dogs of the prairie.”
“It may not be so. Others may be at hand. We must be careful. Moon Eye
has news of some soldiers. They may be marching in this direction.”
“Then Moon Eye himself is here?”
“Yes.”
The first warrior drew a long breath and then brought from his girdle a
keen hunting knife. He felt of its edge with satisfaction.
“Mist of the Lake has come to the aid of Cushina and has brought the
white man to grief,” said he, looking at the other closely. “Does Mist
of the Lake claim the scalp?”
At this query the second Indian shrugged his shoulders.
“Does Cushina still wish to linger in the footsteps of Laughing Eyes and
make her his bride?” he asked, after another pause.
Cushina winced at this question. Both he and Mist of the Lake were in
love with the same Indian maiden. As Mist of the Lake had saved his life
he was bound, according to the laws of his tribe, to give his rival a
clear field in his wooing.
“Laughing Eyes is Mist of the Lake’s—if she will have him,” he said, in
a low voice.
“And the scalp of the white man belongs to Cushina,” was the prompt
reply of the other warrior. “He can take it at his pleasure.”