THE RESCUE OF THE STRANGER
A few days later brought the expedition to Fort Pitt. Captain Ecuyer was
surprised to see Dave and Henry back so soon, and praised them for the
rapid time they had made. But he shook his head when he listened to the
further plans of the party.
“I believe you are taking a great risk,” said he. “I have been sending
out scouts within the last week, and their reports are far from
satisfactory. They have seen Indians at a distance, and there is not the
slightest doubt but that this stronghold is being watched closely.”
“It is queer then that we were not attacked in coming here,” answered
Joseph Morris. “We kept a careful watch, but saw no enemy.”
“Perhaps your guard saved you,” said the commandant of the fort. “But,
remember, it will be different when you go westward from here. The
Indians are surely gathering in the West, and what they intend to do,
Heaven alone knows. Were I you I should at least wait until spring
before venturing further.”
Dave would not listen to this, and Henry sided with his impatient
cousin, knowing well how anxious Dave was to learn the truth concerning
his father. Joseph Morris realized the situation, and it must be
admitted that he, too, was anxious, since his brother had been very dear
to him. A consultation was held, and it was resolved that the expedition
should rest at Fort Pitt until over Sunday—four days—and then push
forward as before.
The coming of the expedition to Fort Pitt brought a smile to the face of
Peaceful Jones, who was slowly recovering from the privation to which he
had been exposed.
“It’s an outright shame I can’t go with ye!” said the old trapper, with
a profound sigh. “Wouldn’t like no better fun nor to lick Jean Bevoir
an’ his crowd good!”
“Don’t worry about thet, Peaceful,” answered Sam Barringford. “Only give
us the chance an’ we’ll lick Bevoir an’ his crowd good an’ proper,
believe me!”
“Thet feller ain’t fit to be on this airth, Sam—he’s wuss nor a snake in
the grass!”
“I agree with ye, Peaceful, an’ when I git through with him he’ll be
wuss off nor any snake ye ever heard tell on,” concluded the old
frontiersman.
From Fort Pitt the expedition took to the trail James Morris had
followed in journeying to his trading post. The January thaw was a thing
of the past, and once again cold weather, with several heavy falls of
snow, reigned supreme. The trail was in spots all but impassable, and on
more than one occasion they had to literally dig the horses out of the
drifts into which they wandered. Twice they had to go into camp for two
days at a time—to rest up and wait for the skies to clear. It was a
wearisome and courage-testing journey, as even stout-limbed Sam
Barringford testified.
“It’s pure grit an’ nuthin else is goin’ to carry us through,” said he.
“Fer this travelin’ ain’t fit fer a dog.”
“There is one comfort,—it is keeping the Indians away from us,” answered
Joseph Morris. “They won’t venture very far from their villages in this
sort of weather.”
But Joseph Morris was mistaken. All unknown to the whites, the red men
were watching their movements closely. Even though the expedition had
left Fort Pitt under cover of darkness the Indians had discovered them
on the western trail early in the morning, and now speedy runners were
carrying the news to various villages for fifty miles around.
Soon a counter expedition, under Eagle Nose,—a well-known Maumee River
warrior,—was sent out, to do battle with the coming white men. The
Indians in this detachment numbered about thirty warriors, all young and
eager to fight. They advanced over the snow on snowshoes, and as soon as
they came up to the trail of Joseph Morris’s expedition went into
hiding.
“Let us wait until the hated English sleep,” said Eagle Nose. “Then we
can kill them all and take their goods and horses back to our lodges
with us.” It may be mentioned here that it was Eagle Nose and his men
who had, the year before, fallen on an English detachment near Venango
and murdered all the soldiers, mutilating some of the bodies most
horribly. For this Eagle Nose became afterwards known as the Red
Butcher,—an appellation that clung to him to the day of his death.
On the afternoon that the Indians came upon the trail of the whites, Sam
Barringford set out on a hunt, taking Dave and Henry with him. A halt
had been made, to rest up before climbing through a hollow all but
filled with snow. The old frontiersman and the two youths took
themselves into the woods where the snow was not so deep, and there
presently came upon the tracks of some big animal which Barringford
declared must be an elk.
“Let us get him by all means!” cried Henry, enthusiastically.
The others were willing enough, and followed the tracks of the elk a
distance of quarter of a mile. Here they came to something of a buffalo
trail, and were surprised to behold the prints of many feet and of
snowshoes.
“Sam, what does this mean?” demanded Dave, quickly.
The old frontiersmen did not answer at once, but examined the prints
with care. Then he brought his teeth together with a snap—a sure sign
that he had made an important discovery.
“Injuns!” he said, laconically. “Injuns!”
“Indians!”
“Aye, lad—twenty or more on ’em, too,—an’ headed up along close to the
trail we made this morning.”
“They must be following us,” broke in Henry.
“It looks like it.”
“Do you think they mean to attack us, Sam?” questioned Dave.
“They will ef they git the chanct, Dave. It ain’t in human nature fer
’em not to—thet is, if they be enemies.”
“They might be friends.”
“Wall, I wouldn’t gamble on thet, out here.”
“What had we best do?”
“You an’ Henry can go back and tell Mr. Morris about it. I’ll go on an’
do a little scout work.”
So it was decided, and in a very few minutes Dave and Henry were on
their way to the spot where the expedition had encamped. Sam Barringford
followed the trail of the Indians, moving along with the secrecy that
years of experience had given him.
“We must lose no time in getting back to camp,” said Henry, as he and
his cousin hurried along. “Every moment may be precious.”
“Right you are, Henry. Oh, I hope we escape!”
“Captain Ecuyer must have been right—we have been watched.”
Their hurried entrance into camp created some consternation, and the
story they had to tell made every one uneasy. A council of war was held,
and the camp was moved to another spot, where the frontiersmen might
make a better stand, in case of an attack.
Two anxious hours went by, and all looked for the return of Sam
Barringford, but he did not come. Then it began to grow dark, and guards
were posted all around the camp, to give the alarm at the first
appearance of any Indians.
Dave was on guard duty, close to some rocks which the wind had swept
clear of snow, when he saw a figure stealing across an open glade a
short distance away. Hardly had the figure appeared when two Indians
came into view, each with a bow and arrows. Both red men aimed at the
other figure and sent an arrow on its way. The figure threw up its arms
and pitched headlong in the snow, beside a clump of bushes.
“It must be Sam Barringford!” cried the youth, to himself. “Sam—and he
has been shot!”
It was an awful thought, and for the moment Dave did not know what to
do. Then, as the Indians came closer, he took aim at one with his rifle
and blazed away. The Indian staggered and fell, and then dragged himself
back from the direction he had come, seriously wounded. The second
Indian ran away and was quickly lost to view in the tall timber.
Dave was busy reloading, when his uncle rushed up, followed by two
frontiersmen, all with their rifles in readiness to resist an attack.
“What was it, Dave?” questioned his uncle. And when told, he added: “Was
it Sam?”
“I think so. He dropped——There he is now!”
As the youth uttered the words the man who had fallen picked himself up
in a dazed way. He walked a few paces in one direction and then turned
and walked in another. Clearly he did not know what he was doing.
“He has been struck and is hurt,” said Joseph Morris. “Hello, come this
way!” he called out. “Come this way!”
The man at first paid no attention, but presently he came towards them,
reeling and staggering from weakness. One arrow was sticking through his
arm, and the second had grazed the back of his head.
“Save me!” he moaned. “Don’t let the—them ki—kill me!”
“We’ll do what we can for you,” answered Joseph Morris, and ran to take
the man by the arm. He was an utter stranger, tall and slim, with curly
black hair and dark eyes. His clothing had once been of the best, but
was now much soiled and in rags.
“The Indians—they are all coming!” gasped the man, when he felt able to
speak once more. “They have plotted to fall upon a pack-train bound for
th—the we—west. I was their prisoner and thought to—to get to the
pack-train and warn them of——” He tried to go on, but could not, and
sank a leaden weight in Joseph Morris’s arms.
“Poor fellow, he is almost done for,” said one of the frontiersmen. “I
don’t think he will live.”
“Let us carry him into camp,” answered Joseph Morris. “He may not be so
badly hurt as you think.”
The two frontiersmen who had come up with Mr. Morris picked the
senseless form up and hurried to the camp with it, where they did what
they could for the sufferer. In the meantime Joseph Morris did a little
scouting around, but could see nothing more of the Indians.
“The alarm has frightened them off for the time being,” said Mr. Morris.
“They may be too cowardly to attack us while we are wide-awake and on
the watch.”
Fortunately for the whites, the night proved to be an exceptionally
clear one, with the stars glittering in the heavens like so many
diamonds. It was quiet, saving for the far-away howls of some wolves and
the occasional bark of a fox or hoot of an owl. But the frontiersmen
kept on guard, not knowing what each succeeding minute might bring
forth.
The man who had been brought in still lay unconscious and breathing
heavily. He was a handsome individual, all of forty years of age, and
evidently of good breeding. His face was pale, as if he had suffered
much during his captivity among the Indians.
“I wish he was well enough to tell his tale,” said Henry. “He might
relate something to our advantage.”
As the hours slipped by all the Morrises became anxious over the
prolonged absence of Sam Barringford. At the most they had not expected
the old frontiersman to remain away later than midnight.
“Perhaps something has happened to him,” said Henry. “Those Indians are
mighty slick.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” cried Dave. “Sam knew exactly what he was doing,
and he ought to be able to take care of himself.”
“He may have walked into some trap. You must remember, Dave, that some
of the redskins out here are slyer than those in the East. They are
regular foxes on the warpath.”
Slowly the night wore away, until a glow in the east announced the
coming of another day. The man who had been brought in was now
conscious, but so weak he could scarcely speak. He wanted to tell them
something, but could not, and sank back again utterly exhausted.
“Take it easy,” said Joseph Morris, kindly. “We will do what we can for
you.” And at this, the man tried to smile, but it was a dismal failure.
“Tell me one thing,” said Dave, who had come up a moment before. “Did
you meet another white man in the woods—a frontiersman, one of our men?”
At this the man shook his head. “Nobody—on—only Indians!” he gasped.
“Then something has certainly happened to Sam,” said Dave, and gave a
sigh that came from the very bottom of his young heart.