A LETTER OF INTEREST
One snow-storm succeeded another during the following two weeks, so
hunting was out of the question for Sam Barringford and White Buffalo.
The former amused himself with the twins, while the Indian either sat
by the fire smoking, or made toys out of wood for Nell. Occasionally
the Delaware would tell stories of great hunts or great fights with
rival tribes, and the little miss never tired of listening to his tales.
"White Buffalo is the best Indian that ever was," declared Nell to her
mother. "Oh, he is just--just beautiful!"
"He certainly is good-hearted," answered Mrs. Morris. "Would that
all the red men were the same," and she heaved a deep sigh, as she
remembered the many perils of the past.
Instead of getting better Joseph Morris's twisted ankle seemed to grow
worse and for the time being he had to keep off his feet. It was not a
serious hurt, but he was afraid that it might become so if he attempted
to use the member.
"You had better take it easy, Uncle Joe," said Dave. "I can do the
outside work well enough."
"And I'll do my share," added Rodney, and between them they looked
after the cattle, brought in the wood and water, and did what they
could to keep the snow from the door.
In those days the Morris homestead was as completely isolated as if
it had been located a hundred miles from any settlement. The nearest
neighbor lived a quarter of a mile away, and only seventeen families
resided within a radius of two miles. The majority of the roads were
mere trails, used alike by human beings and wild animals. There were
but few bridges over the streams, so that in traveling much fording had
to be done. Each cabin had a small clearing around it, but otherwise
the primeval forest stretched for miles upon all sides. At times,
especially in winter, the wild animals would become particularly bold,
and wolves had often appeared, trying to get at the meat hung up in the
pantry, and once a half-starved doe had come to the door to be fed.
On account of the wars, Dave had lost considerable schooling, and
a part of each winter day was given over to studying, in which
Rodney joined. The main studies were reading, spelling, writing, and
arithmetic. There were no copybooks and but little paper, so much of
the writing was done on smooth birch-bark, with pens made of turkey
quills. There was one general "History of the Old World and the New,
Containing a Complete Account of All Civilized Nations," a thin volume,
printed in large type and containing several curious maps and equally
curious engravings. This was also used as a text-book, and it was not
long before Dave almost knew the volume by heart.
"The author doesn't know as much of the great West as we do," said
Dave one day, to his uncle. "See, he hasn't located a single fort or
settlement west of Winchester. All the rest is to him 'The Unexplored
Western Countries,' said to be overrun with ferocious wild beasts and
Indians who are cannibals."
"Some day the great West will be explored," answered Joseph Morris.
"But it will take years and years to do it. Our troubles with the
Indians must first be settled."
"Do you think the Indians will ever be at perfect peace with us, Uncle
Joe?"
"Not until we have conquered them. We must show them that we are
masters. It is a mistake to let some of them believe that we want to be
friendly just because that is the proper thing. Many Indians take that
as a sign that we are afraid of them."
"White Buffalo doesn't look at it in that light."
"White Buffalo is an exception to the rule. He has lived among the
whites for many years and he understands us. But the wild red men of
the forest can never understand us, nor can we understand them, for our
ways of living are so different. It's not in the nature of an Indian to
be at peace all the time. He loves to hunt, and if he can't hunt wild
animals, he hunts his rival red men, or us whites."
"Thet's exactly it," said Sam Barringford, who sat by, cleaning and
oiling his rifle. "Barrin' a few like White Buffalo the critters ain't
more'n half human, to my way o' thinkin'. Look at the way they sculp
folks, an' burn 'em at the stake, an' sech. It's enough to make one
sick a-thinkin' on it."
"But some of the lawless trappers are almost as bad," replied Rodney.
"They do fearful things when they are in the humor for it."
"It's the liquor, Rodney," answered the old frontiersman. "Put liquor
into a hot-tempered man an' ye make a fiend o' him. Those fellers see
the redskins do things, an' then they want to go the red varmints one
better, an' there ye are."
"Oh, I know that rum has caused a whole lot of trouble in this world,"
answered Rodney. "For my part, I'd like to see the manufacture and sale
of the stuff stopped."
"Won't never see that, lad--too many folks a-makin' money out o' the
traffic. Besides, ef they did try to stop it some would be makin' it on
the sly, an' drinkin' it, too."
"If the red men would only turn to farming all might go well," said
Joseph Morris, thoughtfully. "But they seem to hate work in the fields.
An Indian would rather hunt all day for a single turkey, or fish all
day for a single trout, than gather a bushel of corn if it was given to
him. Even White Buffalo won't work the ground if he can help it."
At last the snowstorms seemed at an end, and one day Dave, Rodney, and
White Buffalo went out to hunt. The red man had his bows and arrows
with him, and showed them how easy it was to bring down some birds on
the wing without disturbing the other game that was near. No large game
was discovered, but the three returned to the cabin loaded down with
half a dozen small animals and twenty-six birds of various kinds. They
also laid low two foxes, and the skins were given to Mrs. Morris for a
muff.
One night Dave and Rodney were on the point of retiring when there came
a loud knock on the side of the cabin. Mrs. Morris, Nell, and the twins
had already gone to sleep, and the others were dozing near the fire.
"What's that?" exclaimed Dave, and by instinct he leaped for the gun
behind the door. Seeing this, Rodney reached for the weapon resting on
the elk antlers.
The knock was repeated. It came from the side of the cabin where there
was no door. Joseph Morris roused up sleepily.
"Did you let something fall, boys?" he asked.
"No," answered Rodney. "Somebody is knocking on the side of the house."
Awakened by this declaration, Joseph Morris sprang up, and so did Sam
Barringford and White Buffalo. Again came the knock.
"Who is there?" demanded Joseph Morris, loudly.
"A friend! Let me in!" was the low answer.
"Who are you?"
"Ira Sanderson."
"Ira Sanderson!" ejaculated Dave. "Oh, he must bring news from the
trading-post!" He ran towards the door and started to open it.
"Wait--it may be a ruse," said his uncle, stopping him. "Sanderson, are
you alone?" he called out.
"Ye--yes. Let me in. I--I am hurt."
No more was said. Opening the door cautiously, Joseph Morris stepped
outside, followed by Dave and the others. At first they could see
nobody, but presently discovered the form of a man lying in a heap
in the snow, close to the wall of the cabin. The man was limp and
almost unconscious, and they had to carry him inside, where he was
placed on the floor in front of the fire and given stimulants.
[Illustration: They presently discovered the form of a man lying in a
heap in the snow.]
As my old readers know, Ira Sanderson was a hunter and trapper well
known in that vicinity. He had accompanied James Morris on more
than one expedition to the west, and had once taken charge of the
trading-post during Mr. Morris's absence.
"Father must have sent him with news," said Dave. "Is he shot, or what
is the matter?"
It was soon ascertained that Sanderson had been struck in the side by
an arrow. The wound had been bound up in a rude way, but the loss of
blood had so weakened the hunter that he could no longer stand up. It
was a good hour before he felt strong enough to speak and then he said
only a few words.
"I left the trading-post four weeks ago," he said. "Got captured by the
redskins. They carried me up the Monongahela, an' were goin' to burn me
at the stake, but I gave 'em the slip. Then comin' from Fort Pitt I got
plugged in the side, as you see. But I kept on, until I got in sight of
the cabin, when all my strength seemed to leave me."
"Is everybody safe at the trading-post?" asked Dave, eagerly.
"Safe so far, Dave. But there ain't no tellin' how long it will last.
I--I--I'll tell you all about it when--when I'm stronger. Here is a--a
letter your father--writ----" He pointed to his breast and then fainted.
While the others worked over the wounded messenger, Dave brought forth
the letter mentioned and perused it, not once but several times. It was
written in James Morris's characteristic style, and ran, in part, as
follows:
"You will be glad to learn that so far the season has been a very
good one. I have made a bargain with some French as well as English
and Indian trappers for their furs, and they are bringing in all
that I can handle. A few of the Frenchmen tried to get the best of
me, but I showed them that I knew my business and since that time
they have not bothered me. They now realize that the French cause
in the Colonies is hopelessly lost.
"One of the French trappers used to be a personal friend of that
rascal, Jean Bevoir. He says Bevoir is recovering from his wounds,
and expects to go back to trading himself in the near future. I do
not care what he does, so long as he does not molest us again. But
if he tries any of his underhand work I am going to do my best to
put him in the hands of the authorities, for he richly deserves a
long term of imprisonment for his past misdeeds.
"Pontiac's failure to unite all the Indian tribes in a war against
us last year and the year before, has caused some of the Wyandottes
and Delawares to desert him. But the others seem to stick to him
still, and I am afraid they are plotting greater mischief than ever.
One trapper told me that the Indians up at the Lakes are very
restless, and hold a great many pow-wows and war talks. Yesterday I
had three strange Indians here, Ottawas, and I did not like their
manner in the least. They took careful note of how the post was
laid out, and asked one of the men if we had any extra guns on hand.
I half believe they were spies, but as I could not prove it, I had
to let them go.
"Henry wants to be remembered to all at home. He is well and has had
some great success at hunting. He fixed up a trap last week and on
Saturday night brought in the most ferocious wolverine ever seen in
these parts.
"Since penning the above, I have just come from interviewing two
other strange Indians. They did a little trading, but spent most of
their time in looking over the trading-post. They wished to know
what I wanted for four good guns, but told them I had no firearms to
sell. This angered them, and they went off muttering to themselves.
I must say I did not like their looks at all.
"Ira Sanderson is to start with this letter to-morrow. He can give
you more details than I can write. I am anxious to hear from you,
for I know the Indians must be as restless around Fort Cumberland
as they are here."