IN SEARCH OF A LOST SISTER
Donald had no difficulty in finding the broad trail that connected all
the widely scattered Indian villages on the east bank of the river, and
when he reached it he instinctively turned to the south. The main body
of the enemy lay to the northward, and to proceed in that direction
would be the height of folly. There was still one small camp below
him, as Donald knew from having seen it that morning when on his way up
the river, and to this he determined to go. He needed food, clothing,
arms, and a canoe. All of these might be obtained in an Indian camp,
as well as elsewhere, if only one dared go in search of them and
possessed the skill necessary to secure them. Much also would depend
on chance; but, after his recent experiences, the young soldier felt
assured that he had been born under a propitious star. At any rate, he
was ready to do and dare anything in furtherance of his present plan,
and so he set forth at a brisk pace in search of some source of
supplies.
He had covered several miles with every sense keenly alert, but without
detecting an indication of human presence, when he suddenly smelled an
Indian encampment. He could neither see nor hear anything of it, but
no one having once recognized the pungent odor, combined of smoke,
skins, furs, freshly peeled bark, dried grasses, and decayed animal
matter, that lingers about the rude dwellings of all savage races,
could ever mistake it for anything else. A single faint whiff of this,
borne to Donald, on a puff of the night wind, gave him the very
knowledge he wanted, and he at once began to move with the same caution
that he had observed on the previous evening while creeping up to the
fire-lighted circles of the victorious Wyandots.
It was perilous business, this venturing into a camp of hostile Indians
through the darkness, but Donald reflected that it would be even worse
by daylight. He also argued, that while success in his proposed
thieving would mean everything to him, he could not be worse off than
he was a few hours since, even if he failed and was captured. So he
crept forward with the noiseless motions of a serpent, until the
conical lodges were plainly in view by the dim light of smoldering
camp-fires.
There was one feature of this camp that greatly puzzled our young
woodsman, and that was its silence. Surely the night was too young for
all the inmates of those lodges to have retired, and yet there was no
sound of voices. Not even the wail of a child was to be heard nor the
barking of a dog. It was unaccountable, and gave Donald a creepy
feeling that he tried in vain to shake off. He moved with an even
greater caution than if he had been guided by the usual sounds of such
a place and spent a full hour in examining the camp from all points
before daring to enter it.
At length he detected a faint muttering in one of the lodges and a
reply to it; but both voices were those of querulous age. A moment
later the tottering figure of an old man emerged from the lodge, and
crouching beside a dying fire threw on a few sticks with shaking hands
and drew his blanket more closely about his shrunken form.
In an instant a full meaning of the situation flashed into Donald's
mind. The camp was deserted of all except the infirm and very aged.
All the others--men, women, children, and even the very dogs--had gone
to participate in the festivities of the up-river camps to which so
many white prisoners had that day been taken. He shuddered to
contemplate the nature of these festivities,--the tortures, the
anguish, and the fearful tragedies that would furnish their
entertainment; but he no longer hesitated to enter this deserted camp
and appropriate such of its properties as suited his fancy.
From the very fire beside which the old man crouched and shivered, he
took a blazing brand and using it to light his way entered the lodge
from which the former had emerged. It seemed empty of everything save
that in one corner, on a heap of dried grasses, there lay an old
wrinkled hag, who stared at him with keen beady eyes, and then set up a
shrill screaming that caused him to beat a hasty retreat.
He fared better in other lodges, some of which were empty of inmates,
and some occupied by persons too aged or ill to harm him. These either
cowered trembling before him, or spit at and reviled him with distorted
features and gestures of impotent rage. It was an unpleasant task,
this taking advantage of helplessness to walk off with other people's
property; but under the circumstances it seemed to Donald right, and he
was soon clad in the complete buckskin costume of a warrior, besides
having accumulated a comfortable store of provisions. He was
grievously disappointed at not discovering a rifle, nor indeed a
firearm of any kind, and being obliged to put up with a hunting-knife
as his sole weapon. Still, on the whole, he had so little cause for
complaint that as he left the camp and made his way to the landing
where he hoped to find a canoe he congratulated himself upon his good
fortune.
It seemed to fail him, however, at the river-bank; for, search as he
might, he could not find a canoe nor a craft of any kind. Now, he was
indeed in a quandary. It would be worse than useless to return to the
Indian camp, that might at any moment be repeopled. He dared not go up
the river, for that way lay the hosts of Pontiac; nor could he cross it
and make his way to the fort. There was obviously but one course to
pursue, which was to keep on down stream until he had put a safe
distance between himself and the Indian camp, and then to wait for
daylight by which to resume his search for a canoe.
This he did, first wading for a long distance in the shallow water
close to shore to conceal his trail, and then plodding sturdily ahead
through the bewildering darkness of the forest for hours, until
finally, overcome by exhaustion, he sank down at the foot of a great
tree and almost instantly fell asleep.
When Donald next awoke, stiff and aching in every joint, the rising sun
warned him that he must lose no time in placing a greater distance
between himself and those who would soon be on his trail, if, indeed,
the pursuit were not already begun. So he set off at a brisk pace,
still keeping the general southerly direction on which he had
determined until he should reach the lake. He had not walked more than
two hours, and was staying his stomach with a handful of parched corn
brought from the Indian camp, when, all at once, he found himself amid
the remains of recent camp-fires on ground that was much trampled. It
was the very scene of his capture by the Wyandots and of his narrow
escape from death. Yes, there was the identical tree to which he had
been bound. Turning, with a shudder, he hastened from the place of
such horrid memories, and instinctively retraced his course of two
nights before across the narrow neck of land that had proved fatal to
so many of his countrymen, and on which the dear sister whom he now
sought had last been seen.
Reaching the eastern side of the point, and skirting the shore for a
short distance, he came upon another place of camping, which he
instantly recognized as the spot where he had left Paymaster Bullen.
"Poor old Bullen!" he reflected half aloud. "I wonder what he thought
of my deserting him the way I did; and I also wonder what became of
him. I suppose he must be dead long before this, and 'Tummas,' too,
poor fellow; for I didn't see anything of them among the prisoners
yesterday. I never trusted those Senecas; but Wilkins was so cocksure
of them that he wouldn't listen to a word against them. Wonder what
he'll say now. I wouldn't be here at this moment, though, if it hadn't
been for that fellow, 'Zebra,' as Bullen called him. Queer how things
turn out in this funny old world! I only wish I knew just what that
tattooing on my arm means, and what the Metai is, anyway. If I did, I
might turn the knowledge to advantage. Hello! Something has been
carried into those bushes,--the paymaster's tub for a guinea."
During his soliloquy the young woodsman's trained eye rested on a
broken twig and a bit of bruised bark at the edge of a near-by thicket.
Stepping to the place and parting the bushes, he uttered a cry of joy.
There, bottom-side up, and imperfectly concealed, as though in great
haste, lay the canoe in which he had so recently journeyed. Beneath it
he found a rifle that had belonged to the paymaster, as well as most of
his luggage, which included a good supply of ammunition, provisions,
and cooking-utensils. In fact, nearly everything that the canoe had
contained was there excepting its passengers and the redoubtable tub.
"The disappearance of that tub is the strangest thing of all," muttered
Donald, as, exulting in this sudden wealth, he hastened to build a fire
and make the cup of coffee for which he was longing. "What reason
could the beggars have had for lugging it off? and why didn't I see
something of it in the boats yesterday? Too bad about Bullen, though,
for he was a good fellow in spite of his crotchets."
The daring plan that forced itself in Donald's mind the minute he saw
that canoe was to cross Lake Erie in it to Sandusky. There he would
certainly learn what had become of Cuyler and those who escaped with
him. Perhaps he would even find Edith there.
He was off the moment he had finished the hearty breakfast that
restored his strength, his confidence in himself and his belief that
everything was about to turn out for the best, after all. Nor did his
good fortune desert him, for the broad surface of the great lake was as
peaceful as a mill-pond all that day; the light breeze that ruffled it
was so directly in his favor that he was enabled to aid his paddle with
a sail, and at sunset he was nearing the southern coast. Camping where
he landed, he cooked, ate, and slept, starting again at break of day
for Sandusky, full of hope and anticipations of a warm welcome in that
stout little post.
The sun was barely an hour high when he reached his destination, only
to find a mass of charred and desolate ruins, that told with a mute
eloquence of the fate that had overtaken Sandusky.