CRUSHING NEWS
The expedition had to remain in camp for the best part of a week, and
during that time provisions ran exceedingly low. To stock the larder
several of the men, and also Dave and Henry, went out in the near-by
woods and shot whatever came into sight. The two youths were fortunate
in bringing down several wild turkeys of good size and also uncovered a
sleeping bear that they killed with ease. This meat came in when the
stock of provisions was at its lowest, and proved highly acceptable.
At last the trail seemed to be fit to use once more, and Joseph Morris
ordered the advance to be made. It was hard walking, either on foot or
on snowshoes, and many times the poor horses refused to go another step
and had to rest for an hour at a time. Six miles were all they could
cover the first day after starting, and the youths felt as tired as if
they had walked five times that distance. Moving the sick stranger was a
harder task than ever, but nobody thought of leaving him behind.
The second day, however, brought an improvement. They gained a small
creek flowing into the Kinotah and followed this to the larger stream.
Walking on the ice was easier than in the snow. Occasionally one or
another would slip down, but nobody complained.
“We are at the old post!” cried Dave, as the burnt district came into
view. They stopped for dinner on the spot, and then took their way down
the Kinotah to the Ohio.
The weather was now moderating rapidly, so that during the middle of the
day the sun was positively warm. Much of the snow turned to slush and
water, freezing a little at night and thawing more than ever during the
day. The surface of the river became wet, and Joseph Morris cautioned
all against stepping on ice that might be rotten.
“If this weather keeps on it won’t be long before there is a spring
freshet,” remarked Sam Barringford. “Queer how quickly things change in
nature.”
“That big snowfall about wound up the winter,” answered Henry, and he
was right, as it afterwards proved.
It was Joseph Morris’s plan to halt when about a mile from the trading
post and then go forward with Sam Barringford and one or two others and
reconnoiter the situation. As the expedition neared the post all kept on
the alert for the possible appearance of Bevoir or any of his crowd.
“For all we know Moon Eye may not be in the post at all, but somewhere
on the outside, on guard,” said Dave, who accompanied his uncle and
Barringford when reconnoitering.
Mr. Morris, Barringford, and Dave advanced with extreme caution. It was
another warm day, with the sun shining brightly and the snow melting
rapidly on all sides. They kept among the bushes and trees until they
came to a point where they could see a corner of the stockade plainly.
“Do you see anybody around?” asked Dave. He was so agitated that he
could not speak. Oh, if only he knew the whole truth about his father!
Sam Barringford shook his head and so did Joseph Morris. Not a soul
could be seen, and slowly the three made their way to a point opposite
the stockade gate.
“The gate is shut,” announced Dave. “I suppose it is barred, too.”
“More’n likely,” answered Sam Barringford. He was looking at the
loopholes with a critical eye. “They are on guard,” he announced, a
minute later.
“How do you know that?” questioned Joseph Morris.
“Saw a feller squinting through a loophole jest now. Thar’s another!”
went on the old frontiersman.
“I see an Indian!” said Dave, and pointed along the stockade, where a
crack in the posts had given him a glimpse of some feathers. “They are
surely on the watch.”
“Then they must have learned of our coming!” murmured the planter, and
was much discouraged.
A thorough survey of the situation convinced them that the party at the
post was indeed on guard. The alarm had been given by a runner of Eagle
Nose’s tribe, who had brought the word for Moon Eye’s benefit, the
latter chief being related to him by marriage. Jean Bevoir had been
greatly surprised, but had at once issued orders both to the Frenchmen
and the Indians to keep a close guard.
“Ve shall fight zem,” he said, boldly. “Fight zem to ze end! I vill show
zem zat za cannot stand against Jean Bevoir!”
The Frenchman had procured a good stock of rifles and ammunition, and
everybody in the post was, consequently, well armed. More than this, the
palisade had been strengthened at various points, making the trading
post a veritable fortress.
The runner had not told Bevoir or Moon Eye how many men there were with
Joseph Morris, but said there must be at least a dozen. In the post were
now assembled ten Frenchmen, several of whom had been soldiers in the
army during the war for the possession of Canada, and fourteen Indians
under Moon Eye. There were also three Indian women and five Indian
children—all that were left of the tribe since the downfall of Pontiac’s
conspiracy.
What to do next was a problem hard for Joseph Morris to solve. The more
he surveyed the situation the more he became convinced that to attack
the post openly would prove highly disastrous.
“They have the best of the situation,” said he to Dave and the others.
“They could pick us off through the loopholes at will. Perhaps I had
better parley with them.”
“Ye can’t parley with Bevoir,” answered Sam Barringford, in disgust.
“And why not?”
“Because ye can’t believe a word the Frencher says. Thet man would
rather lie nor eat.”
“But perhaps I can convince him that he cannot hold the post,” went on
the planter.
“Well, ye kin do as ye please, Mr. Morris, but I don’t agree to it. Ye
don’t know the varmint as I do, an’ as Mr. James Morris did,—an’ as Dave
an’ Henry do. We have got to git the best o’ them, either in the open or
by trickery. He won’t listen to reason until he’s licked good an’
proper.”
“I think Sam is right,” said Dave, as his uncle looked at him. “Jean
Bevoir is not to be trusted—father and I found that out a number of
times, to our sorrow. He may promise all sorts of things,—but he won’t
keep his word unless it suits him to do so.”
Nevertheless, rather than risk a fight at the beginning, Joseph Morris
resolved to have a talk with the French trader, and for that purpose
sent a frontiersman named Hope to the post. Hope carried a white
handkerchief tied to a stick, and was allowed to come to within a few
paces of the stockade gate, when he was halted.
“I want to talk to Jean Bevoir,” said the frontiersman.
“Vat you vant?” demanded the Frenchman, from within, and without showing
himself.
“Is that you, Jean Bevoir?”
“Yees.”
“Joseph Morris is here with a large party, and he demands that you throw
the gate of this post open.”
“Ha! Vat for, tell me zat? So he can come in and murder us, not so?”
“If you will not open the gate and let him march in he will come in by
force.”
“Let heem try it! Let heem try it!” cried Jean Bevoir, in a rage. “Zis
is my post—I vill defend my property. Now I vant you to go avay—an’ stay
avay!” he added, sharply.
“Will you talk to Mr. Morris?”
“Vy I do zat? Haf I not told you vat to do? Go avay!”
“He has something of great importance to say to you. Perhaps he will
make terms,” continued Hope, wishing to bring the two men together, so
that he might not have too much responsibility on his own shoulders.
Jean Bevoir demurred and was evidently seconded by some other Frenchmen
within the post, but at last he consented to talk to Joseph Morris,
provided the planter would come to the gate unattended. Secretly the
French trader was anxious to know just what the English had in mind to
do.
Hope went back and delivered his message. At once Dave, Henry, and
Barringford set up another protest.
“There is sure to be treachery, father!” cried Henry. “Why, they may
even shoot you down in cold blood. You do not know the temper of these
black-hearted rascals.”
“I do not think they will dare to go as far as that,” answered Joseph
Morris. He was brave-hearted to the core. “If they do kill me attack
them and show no mercy,” he added.
The conference between Jean Bevoir and the planter took place an hour
later. Joseph Morris, waving a white handkerchief, approached the front
of the trading post boldly. He saw himself covered by several rifle
barrels, but did not falter. As he came to a halt there was a slight
noise, as a short ladder was thrown into place, and then the head of
Jean Bevoir appeared over the stockade gate.
“Hullo! Jean Bevoir has shown himself!” cried Dave, who was at a
distance. “I must say, I didn’t think he would do it.”
“He wants us to believe that he is not afraid,” answered Henry.
“Probably he has been fortifying his courage with a few drinks of rum.”
And in this guess Henry hit the nail on the head.
“Jean Bevoir,” began James Morris. “Do you realize that you have
committed a great wrong?”
“I haf done no wrong,” returned the Frenchman, stubbornly. “This post
ees mine; I shall keep heem.”
“You killed my brother.”
“It ees not so,—I did not touch heem.”
“But he is dead, is not that true?” demanded the planter, with a sudden
hope swaying in his heart.
“Yees, he ees dead. But I did it not, no. An Indian shot heem down—who,
I know not. He vas badly wounded, an’ I, yes, I hees enemy, took care of
heem, _oui_, until he died. Zen I gif heem a good burial. Vat can I do
more? He not do so much for Jean Bevoir, no! no!”
“You caused his death—the attack on him and his companions was your
work,—it is useless to deny it. And this post is not yours. Since my
brother is dead it belongs to his son, David Morris,—and he shall have
it, be the cost what it may. Jean Bevoir, you must surrender, or take
the consequences.”
At this plain speech the Frenchman grew slightly pale. But he quickly
recovered.
“Ha! Take care how you threaten Jean Bevoir!” he exclaimed. “Ve are vell
armed here an’ ve can shoot! Haf I not told you zat zis post ees mine? I
haf ze papers, wid ze signature of James Morris, _oui_! Ze law ees as
good for me as for you, an’ I snap my fingair at you!” Jean Bevoir
suited the action to the word. “Go avay, an’ nevair come here again!”
“You have my brother’s signature? Impossible! It must be a forgery! He
would never deal in that way with such as you.”
“Eet ees true, an’ I warn you avay. Come back again at your peril!”
answered Jean Bevoir, and then disappeared from view.
This was a signal that the conference was at an end. Turning swiftly,
Joseph Morris walked back into the forest. Barringford and the others
expected a shot or two, but nothing of the kind came.
“What did he say?” asked Henry, rushing up.
“He will give in to nothing,” answered the planter, with a sigh.
“And father—what of father?” questioned Dave. He could hardly utter the
words.
James Morris stepped to his side and caught Dave by both arms.
“It’s too bad, my boy,” he said, tenderly.
“Then he is—is——”
“Yes, lad—he was badly wounded, so Jean Bevoir says, and died some time
later.”
Dave staggered and sank down on a fallen tree. Never had he felt so
miserable before. For days and weeks he had been hoping against hope—and
now it had all been in vain. His father was gone, and he was left alone
in the world.