THE INDIANS IN THE CANOE
IT was a warm, clear day, and out on the broad bosom of the lake the sun
shone brightly. There was a faint breeze from the west which rustled the
leaves of the trees and sent an occasional ripple over the water. From
the forest came the notes of the songbirds and the hum of countless
insects.
Dave would have been satisfied to catch a good mess of perch, but he
knew Henry’s heart was set on at least one fair-sized lake trout, so he
did not bait up at once, but stood by, watching his cousin adjust his
fishing outfit.
“There’s a fat fly fit to tempt any trout,” whispered Henry, as he
brought the bait from a small box he carried. “Caught half a dozen of
’em down at the horse stable. The glitter of those bluish wings ought to
fetch something. Here goes!”
Henry advanced to within six feet of the lake shore, at a point where a
large tree and some rough rocks overhung the water. Here was a rather
dark hole where the water was unusually quiet.
With the skill of a born fisherman, the young soldier made his cast, and
as the still buzzing fly struck the water, he whipped it along by jerks,
a few inches at a time.
Of a sudden there came a splash, the appearance and disappearance of
something that might be a fish, and then a strong pull on the line.
“Hurrah, you’ve got him!” cried Dave. “Be careful how you play him, or
he’ll break your line for you.”
“Yes, I’ve got him!” answered Henry, slowly and deliberately, playing
his line as he spoke. “And he’s no small one either. If only those roots
don’t tangle——Here he comes! Whoop!”
As the youth spoke, the fish made another dart. But Henry was ready for
him, and in a twinkling the game lay on the moss between the trees,
flopping wildly in an endeavor to get back into the lake. But both
youths knew too much to let anything like that happen, and in a minute
more Henry had his prize secure and strung on a twig with a forked end.
“What a fine haul for a start,” was Dave’s comment, as he gazed at the
trout, that weighed several pounds. “I don’t believe we’ll get another
fish as good.”
“No, and I don’t believe there is another trout in this vicinity, Dave.
A big fellow like this keeps his territory to himself.”
Nevertheless, Henry tried his luck, not once but several times. But the
flies went begging until some small fish came along and began to nibble
at them, and then Henry drew in.
“That spot just below here ought to be good for perch,” said he, after a
look around, and they moved on to the place mentioned, where both baited
with worms dug up before starting on the trip.
Dave was the first to throw in, and his cousin waited until the bait was
taken with a sudden short jerk. Dave pulled in steadily, and soon
brought to light a perch as round and fat as one would wish to see.
“That’s a good start on perch,” observed Henry, with a smile. “And to my
mind they are just as good to eat as trout, even if they are not so
gamey.”
After this both fell to fishing with all the skill at their command,
Dave remaining at the spot where he had made his first haul and Henry
seeking a point a few rods farther up the shore.
Although both of the young soldiers felt that no enemy was in the
immediate vicinity, yet they took care to keep in sight of each other
and kept a constant watch on the forest behind them. Each had brought
along his trusty flint-lock musket, and the weapons, loaded and primed,
were kept easy to hand.
“Do you think Sam Barringford has reached home with Nell yet?” asked
Dave, as Henry came toward him to get more bait.
“Hardly yet, Dave; but he ought to get there by the end of the week.”
“She’ll be glad to get back, won’t she? And how glad all of them will be
to see her!”
“Yes, indeed!” Henry’s eyes brightened at the thought. “Do you know,
it’s a wonder to me that she didn’t die of fright when she was in the
clutches of those dirty redskins and that mean, miserable Jean Bevoir,”
he went on.
“Bevoir pretends to be in an awfully bad condition, so one of the
hospital surgeons told me. I reckon he is afraid of standing trial.”
“To be sure. He’ll stay in the hospital till they kick him out.” Henry
gave a grave shake of his head. “He ought to be hung; but I suppose they
won’t go as far as that.”
“It isn’t likely.”
The youths separated, and the fishing continued steadily, until each had
a mess of ten or a dozen fish to his credit. The perch were all of good
size, so the load to carry back to the fort would be no light one.
“Let us go down the shore and see if we can’t strike another trout
hole,” said Dave. “I’d like to bring up one, even if he didn’t match
yours.”
They proceeded along the lake shore, and soon reached another shady
spot. Here they found two small trout, which were both landed by Dave,
Henry in the meantime hunting in the forest and bringing out some
sassafras and birch, which both began to munch as a relish.
“What a good trading-post one could establish up here,” observed Henry.
“The game——” He broke off short. “What do you see?”
Dave was gazing out on the lake, and now he climbed on the rock to get a
better view.
“It’s a canoe,” said Dave slowly. “And unless I am mistaken there are
two or three Indians in it.”
“Some of Sir William’s followers most likely. Are they coming this way?”
“They are not paddling at all. They seem to be sleeping.”
“Sleeping? That’s queer.” Henry climbed up beside his cousin and gave an
equally searching look. “I don’t believe they are sleeping at all, Dave.
Those Indians are either dead or else shamming death.”
“Why should they come here shamming death, Henry?”
“Perhaps they are spies. We had better be on guard and keep out of
sight.”
“But I think we ought to watch them.”
“Certainty; we can do it from behind yonder brushwood.”
It took but a minute to pick up their outfits and their catches, and
with these they slipped behind the thicket Henry had mentioned. Here
they kept themselves well hidden, each with his firearm in hand, ready
for use should any shooting be required.
The canoe came closer slowly, and presently they made out that it
contained two red men, both in warpaint and sporting the colors and
feathers of the Delawares.
“If they are Delawares they should be friendly,” whispered Dave.
“Don’t be too sure. Remember, White Buffalo said that even his tribe was
divided, the old chiefs standing up for the French and the young chiefs
swearing by Washington and Sir William.”
“One of the redskins has raised himself and he is trying to paddle,”
went on Dave, after a spell of silence. “He has got a bandage around his
left forearm, as if he was wounded. See, he is talking to his companion,
but the other fellow won’t budge. Do you know what I think? I think they
are both badly wounded.”
“Even so, they may be enemies,” returned Henry, who had learned by
bitter experience not to trust anybody until he proved himself a friend.
Gradually the canoe came up to the shore and they could see the faces of
the occupants plainly. That they were suffering was evident, for the man
at the bottom of the canoe lay in a pool of half-dried blood.
“I believe we ought to help them if we can,” whispered Dave, as the
Indian who had held the paddle dropped in a heap on the seat. “I don’t
believe they could harm us, no matter how they tried.”
After some hesitation Henry agreed, and guns in hand the pair stepped
from the shelter of the bushes and walked down to the spot where the
canoe had grounded.
“Hullo, redskins!” called out Henry. “What brings you here?”
At the sound of the young soldier’s voice the Indian on the seat stirred
feebly. Then as he caught sight of the two on the shore he uttered a
faint cry.
“English soldiers!” he murmured in his native tongue.
“I say, what brings you here?” repeated Henry.
“How?” muttered the red man in return, and tried to brace himself up.
“Blue Crow much hurt. Got fire-water?”
“No, we haven’t any fire-water,” answered Dave. “How did you get hurt?”
“French soldiers shoot Blue Crow and Yellow Nose,” answered the Indian,
with an effort. “Good English help um, yes?”
“Perhaps,” said Henry. “Where did you have the fight?”
“Udder shore of lake. Want to find the Great William. You help or Yellow
Nose die,” went on the Indian, pointing to his silent companion.
Dave and Henry drew closer and lowered their muskets. What Blue Crow
said was true—the Indian in the bottom of the canoe was wounded both in
the breast and the stomach. He was breathing in loud gasps, and it was
easy to see that his earthly career was fast approaching its end.
“I am sorry, but we can do nothing for your friend,” said Dave softly.
“Nothing?” repeated the Indian on the seat. “Nothing,—and Yellow Nose
tried to do much for his English brothers.” He drew his mouth down
bitterly. “His reward must come from the Great Spirit alone.”
“If you want to find Sir William Johnson we can take you to him,” said
Henry. “The fort is only a short distance up the lake. We can paddle the
canoe.”
“Let us bind up your wounds first,” said Dave, and this was done, and
they also tried to do something for the Indian at the bottom of the
canoe. But in the midst of their labors Yellow Nose breathed his last.
Having covered the dead Indian with a coat, and done all they could for
Blue Crow, Dave and Henry took up the two paddles the canoe contained
and lost no time in moving the craft up the lake in the direction of the
Niagara River. They soon reached one of the usual boat landings, and
here fell in with a score or more of soldiers. By this time Blue Crow
had fainted away, and it took all the skill of one of the fort surgeons
to revive him.
“He wants to see Sir William Johnson,” said Dave. “I believe he carries
some sort of message.”
“Then we’ll take him up to the fort on a litter,” said the surgeon. “I
do not believe he can recover. He has lost too much blood.”
By the time the fort was reached Blue Crow was in danger of another
relapse. Sir William Johnson was speedily summoned. As he came in he
recognized the Indian as one he knew fairly well.
“I am sorry for you,” he said, taking the Indian’s hand.
“Blue Crow is glad he has reached the Great William,” replied the red
man. “He was afraid he would die before he met his English friend face
to face. He comes many miles, from beyond the Thousand Islands of the
St. Lawrence.”
“With a message?”
“Yes. He was sent by General Wolfe.”
“And what has General Wolfe to say?” demanded Sir William Johnson
eagerly.
“He has fought the French, and—and has lo—lost. He—says—help—the French
have—slain—I—’tis growing—dark—dark——”
The Indian gave a gasp, and tried to go on. Sir William Johnson raised
him up and called for the surgeon. But it was too late—the red messenger
was dead.
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