A FIGHT AMONG WILD BEASTS
“There is no use in talking, this is certainly slow traveling. If it
wasn’t for the pack-horses we could get along twice as fast.”
It was Henry who spoke, and he addressed his father. The pair were
trudging along the snow-clad trail, with Dave and Sam Barringford
slightly in advance. It was a mild, clear day in January, with the sun
kissing every mound of white and causing it to glitter as if with
diamonds.
The little expedition had been on the march four days, and all evidence
of civilization had been left behind. They were taking what Sam
Barringford and two of the other frontiersmen considered a “short cut”
on the route to Fort Pitt. Whether or not they would stop at the fort
when they arrived in that vicinity was still an open question. On the
one hand, they did not wish to lose the time to do so, and on the other,
they wanted to make certain that no news from the West had come to the
stronghold during their absence.
So far they had seen no trace of the Indians—indeed, they had met no
strangers of any kind. The loneliness of the wilderness winter was on
all sides of them. Sometimes they journeyed for hours through the
untracked snow without a single sound disturbing them. At times this
oppressiveness was hard on Dave and caused him to grow so “blue” that he
hardly knew what to do. Henry tried to cheer him up, but with little
success.
The frontiersmen were all of the silent kind—their calling had rendered
them so—and conversation dragged, enlivened only now and then by the
talk of the men who urged along the horses. The steeds did their best,
but the footing was uncertain, and more than once they went down into
pitfalls partly covered with snow and had to be hauled out by main
strength.
“The Injuns have certainly left this neighborhood,” observed Sam
Barringford, after another spell of silence. “Not a sign on ’em
anywhere.”
“I am glad of that,” answered Joseph Morris. “I want to meet nobody
until we arrive at Fort Pitt or the trading post.”
“When I war to Fort Cumberland I heard a report about Pontiac,” went on
the old frontiersman. “They said he war goin’ west—to stir up the
redskins along the Mississippi and lower Ohio, to make another attack on
the English. It war said the French trappers an’ traders would help
him.”
“Such a thing is possible,” answered Joseph Morris. “Of one thing I am
certain: Pontiac will not rest until he has either won a victory or been
killed.”
It was true that Pontiac was again active, this time close to the banks
of the Illinois River. Here he essayed to unite the western tribes
against the English,—a work that availed him little.
The Indian uprisings at Fort Pitt, Detroit, and other points had created
a terrible feeling against the red men in all portions of the Colonies,
but this hatred was most bitter in Pennsylvania, especially in Paxton
township, where a large body of settlers of Irish and Scotch blood
organized themselves into a command popularly known as the Paxton Boys.
This command hunted down the Indians on all sides, and even slaughtered
a harmless tribe, living under the protection of some Moravian
missionaries.
“Down with all redskins!” was their cry, and they moved upon Lancaster,
where some Indians had taken refuge in the workhouse. The doors were
battered down and all of the Indians slain, and then the Paxton Boys
marched down to Philadelphia, to capture some of the enemy who had fled
to that city. To hold the maddened frontiersmen in check, Benjamin
Franklin aided in forming a body of militia, and these compelled the
Paxton Boys to leave without further bloodshed. The killing of the
friendly Indians was looked upon by the law-abiding citizens as an
outrage and the feeling against the Paxton Boys was very bitter. On
their side, the Paxton Boys contended that the Indians had all proved
treacherous more or less and that “the only good Indian was the dead
Indian,”—a saying that soon became a household word among a certain
class of the communities.
In many cases, after the meeting at Johnson Hall, the Indians were
compelled to give up their captives, and this brought on numerous
affecting scenes. Some women and children had been separated from their
people for several years, and had made warm ties among the Indians. A
number had even married red men and had children, and these did not want
to separate from their husbands. Some little children had completely
forgotten their real parents, and when taken from the Indians cried
loudly, much to the distress of their mothers and fathers.
“Look! look!” cried one poor woman. “My own child, my Bessie, does not
know me!”
“And look you!” said one man. “My Johanna has married an Indian and they
have two children! I would rather she were dead!” And the settler turned
and would have nothing more to do with his own flesh and blood.
Tradition says of this man that in years after the Indian husband of his
daughter saved him from being massacred during an uprising, and he was
taken to safety by a grandson whom he had disowned.
One day after another went by, and still the expedition under Joseph
Morris wended its way westward through the wilderness. So far the
weather had remained fine, but at the end of a week it began to thaw and
then there set in a misty rain, disagreeable in the extreme. The trail
was sloppy, and if a person slipped down he was bound to get wet through
and through.
“This is fine weather in which to catch cold,” grumbled Henry. The only
thing he objected to when being out was rain.
During the rain and mist, which lasted for two whole days, they made but
slow progress. Each night they went into camp early, and spent several
hours in getting dry and making themselves half comfortable.
On the morning of the day when it cleared off, Henry and Dave were in
advance, in company with Sam Barringford. They were looking for game,
and hoped to stir up some rabbits, if not something larger.
“I see some partridges!” cried Henry, presently, and was about to take
aim, when a sudden loud snapping and snarling broke upon the air, coming
from the forest on their left.
“Wild animals!” cried Dave. “Don’t you think so, Sam?”
“I do,” was the short answer. “Come on an’ see wot they be.”
The old frontiersman led the way, and soon the party of three came upon
a scene that thrilled them with interest.
In a little glade in the forest lay a dead deer, the blood still pouring
from a big bite in the throat. Close at hand were a small panther and a
full-grown wildcat, tightly locked together, and biting and snapping in
the most vicious manner possible. At one moment the wildcat would be on
top, then the panther, and then they would roll over and over, the snow
and fur flying in all directions. The blood was flowing from a gash in
the panther’s side and the wildcat’s left ear was slitted into shreds.
“Here is a fight surely!” whispered Barringford. “They mean business,
they do!”
“What shall we do?” whispered Dave. The sight thrilled him to the core.
“Let ’em have it out, lad—ain’t no ust to interfere in sech a muss as
thet.”
The two animals were certainly “having it out.” Over and over they went
and the fur continued to fly. The wildcat now had the panther by the
neck, while the latter was twisted half around and was clawing
frantically, trying to reach its enemy’s vitals.
“Looks as if the wildcat would get the best of it,” observed Henry. But
at that moment the larger beast shook the hold of the other, and
swinging around caught the wildcat in the stomach with its claws. Then
the wildcat closed in with another snarl, catching the panther in the
lower jaw. It was a death-like grip that could not be shaken, and the
animals fell over on their sides. The fur and snow continued to fly, but
both animals soon grew weaker. There was a last struggle, a gasp from
the wildcat, and then that animal stretched out dead. The hold on the
panther’s jaw relaxed and slowly the panther staggered up. It went but a
few steps, then fell down, gave a grunt or two, and began to kick
feebly.
“Both on ’em done fer!” said Sam Barringford. “It war certainly a great
fight.”
“The painter ain’t dead yet!” cried Henry. “Look out!”
They turned and saw that the panther was trying to get up. It had
discovered the intruders and wanted to fight. It gave a feeble leap, but
failed to reach them.
“I’ll fix thet painter,” murmured Barringford, and drew his hunting
knife.
“Don’t touch him—let him go,” pleaded Dave. “He made such a good fight
against the wildcat.” The panther had turned towards the bushes. Now it
slunk out of sight, so weak that it could scarcely drag one foot after
another. Before they left the spot they saw the animal breathe its last.
They examined the deer and found it had suffered nothing but the gaping
wound in the throat, made evidently by the wildcat.
“This is a prize,” said Henry. “It saves us the trouble of shooting
one.”
“I suppose the wildcat brought the deer down and the painter wanted to
steal it,” said Dave. “It’s a pretty good-sized deer for a wildcat to
tackle.”
“I reckon as how the wildcat war half starved an’ got desprit,” spoke up
the old frontiersman. “He must have jumped down on the deer from some
tree and hung on till the deer war dead.”
The others had by this time come up, and they looked at the deer with
interest. The game was slung over the back of one of the horses and the
onward march resumed. That night all enjoyed the fresh venison.
On the following day they came to a fair-sized river, and there encamped
for their noonday repast. Taking an axe, Henry cut a round hole in the
ice and brought forth his fishing lines.
“Going to try fishing, eh?” said Dave. “All right, I’ll do what I can to
help.”
They soon had their lines ready, and baiting up, allowed them to sink
through the hole. The fish were sluggish, and for a long time they got
no bite. But then came a lazy tug, and hauling in, Henry brought up a
fat fish that weighed all of two pounds.
“Good for you, Henry!” cried his cousin. “You always were lucky at this
sort of thing.”
“Not always,” answered Henry, grimly. “I have fished through the ice
more than once and caught next to nothing.”
“I’ll never forget how I once brought up a snake and then fell into the
water,” went on Dave, recalling an incident already related in detail in
this series. “No more snakes for me. I hate——Gracious! Look at that! A
snake as sure as you’re born!”
Dave’s line and hook came up. On the end was something dark and slimy.
Henry started back and then gave a laugh.
“Only an old tree-root, Dave!” he cried, merrily. “Don’t holler before
you are hurt.”
“I was thinking of that other snake,” answered his cousin, somewhat
sheepishly. He dropped in his hook again. “Hope I get a bite this time.”
His wish was gratified. Fishing proved so good that the youths persuaded
Mr. Morris to let them continue for awhile, and in less than an hour
they had a full mess for supper. The men enjoyed the change greatly, and
told Henry and Dave they could go fishing at every river the expedition
crossed.