Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
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[Illustration: THE TELL-TALE ARROW.]
_BOY PIONEER SERIES._
NED IN THE BLOCK-HOUSE.
A TALE OF
EARLY DAYS IN THE WEST.
BY EDWARD S. ELLIS,
AUTHOR OF "FIRE, SNOW AND WATER," "PERSEVERANCE PARKER," "A
YOUNG HERO," "SWEPT AWAY," ETC., ETC.
PHILADELPHIA:
HENRY T. COATES & CO.
"_Mr. Ellis's works are favorites and deserve to be. He shows variety
and originality in his characters; and his Indians are human beings
and not fancy pieces._"--_NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW._
COPYRIGHT, 1883, BY PORTER & COATES.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
IN THE FOREST 5
CHAPTER II.
THE BOY PIONEER--DEERFOOT, THE SHAWANOE 18
CHAPTER III.
OLD FRIENDS 32
CHAPTER IV.
THROUGH THE TRACKLESS FOREST--THE CAUSE 46
CHAPTER V.
"SHUT OUT" 60
CHAPTER VI.
THE BLOCK-HOUSE 73
CHAPTER VII.
THE MESSAGE 87
CHAPTER VIII.
OPENING COMMUNICATION 101
CHAPTER IX.
WITHIN THE BLOCK-HOUSE 126
CHAPTER X.
FLAMING MESSENGERS 140
CHAPTER XI.
IN GREAT PERIL 154
CHAPTER XII.
"BIRDS OF THE NIGHT" 168
CHAPTER XIII.
SHADOWY VISITORS 182
CHAPTER XIV.
A MISHAP AND A SENTENCE 196
CHAPTER XV.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 212
CHAPTER XVI.
OUT-DOORS ON A DARK NIGHT 226
CHAPTER XVII.
THE LONG CLEARING 247
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE FIERY ENEMY 265
CHAPTER XIX.
THE TUG OF WAR 282
CHAPTER XX.
THE SOUTH WIND 298
CHAPTER XXI.
CONCLUSION 312
NED IN THE BLOCK-HOUSE.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE FOREST.
"Now you've got him, Ned!"
"Sh! keep quiet!"
The boy who was addressed as Ned was kneeling behind a fallen oak, in
a Kentucky forest, carefully sighting at a noble buck that stood in
the middle of a natural clearing or opening, with head upraised and
antlers thrown back, as though he scented danger, and was searching
for the point whence it threatened.
The splendid animal was no more than a hundred yards distant, so that
no better target could have been offered. He was facing the youth, who
aimed at the point above his fore legs, which opened the path to the
heart of the creature.
The lad, who was sighting so carefully, was Ned Preston, and his
companion was a colored boy with the unique name of Wildblossom
Brown. There was not a week's difference in their ages, each having
been born four years before the immortal Declaration of Independence.
As the date on which we introduce him to the reader was the autumn of
1788, the years of the two may be calculated without trouble.
Ned Preston, as he drew bead on the deer, was as certain of bringing
him down as he was of "barking" the gray squirrel, when it chirped its
mimic defiance from the topmost limbs of the gnarled oak or branching
sycamore.
Wildblossom, or "Blossom," as he was invariably called, was anxious
that his young master should not miss, for the chilly autumn day was
drawing to a close, and they had eaten nothing since morning. They
were eager to reach the block-house, known as Fort Bridgman, and
scarcely allowed themselves any halt for many hours; but night was
closing in, and they must soon go into camp; food was therefore as
indispensable as fire.
The deliberation of Ned Preston led Blossom to fear the game would
bound away before the trigger was pulled. When, therefore, the African
saw the long brown barrel pointed for several seconds at the animal,
he became impatient, and uttered the words given above.
The next moment there was a flash, and the buck made a prodigious
bound, dashed straight toward the fallen tree behind which the boys
were crouching, and fell within fifty feet of them.
"Dar's our supper suah's yo' born!" shouted the delighted negro,
making a strong effort to leap over the prostrate oak so as to reach
the game ahead of his companion. He would have succeeded if the oak
had lain somewhat nearer the ground. As it was, he landed on his head
and shoulders, and rolled over; but he was unharmed, and scrambling to
his feet, ran to the deer.
Ned Preston was but a brief distance behind him, trailing his long
rifle, walking rapidly, and very much puzzled over what was certainly
an extraordinary occurrence; for although he had aimed at the buck,
pulled the trigger, and the game had fallen, yet the astonishing fact
remained, that Ned had not fired his gun.
Blossom Brown in his excitement did not notice that there was no
report of the weapon--that, in short, the flint-lock (percussion guns
being unknown at that day) had "flashed in the pan." When he saw the
frantic leap and fall of the animal, he supposed, as a matter of
course, it had been killed by the bullet of his young master; and if
the latter had not stopped to examine his piece, he might have
believed the same, so exactly did the wounding of the game accord with
the useless click of the lock and flash of the powder.
"I didn't shoot that buck," called out Ned, as he ran up behind
Blossom; "my gun wasn't fired at all."
"Dat hasn't got nuffin to do with it," was the sturdy response of
Blossom, who was bent on having his meal without any unnecessary
delay; "you p'inted de gun at him, and he drapped; dat's
sufficacious."
"But _I_ didn't kill him," insisted Ned, more determined on solving
the mystery than he was on procuring supper.
"I tell you dat you did--no, you didn't!"
At that instant Blossom, who had drawn his hunting-knife, stooped over
to apply it to the throat of the buck, when he gave an unexpected
flirt of his head, bringing his antlers against the boy with such
violence that he was thrown backward several feet. When Blossom found
himself going, he made his last remark, inasmuch as the deer just then
proved he was alive in a most emphatic manner.
But it was the last expiring effort, and the negro approached him
again, knowing that all danger was past.
"De way ob it was dis way," he added, turning partly around so as to
face his friend, who was examining his rifle as he poured powder from
his horn into the pan; "you p'inted dat gun ob yours at de buck, and
as he war lookin' dis way he seed you frough de bushes, and he knowed
it war no use; so he jes' made a jump into de air, and come down
pretty near dead, so as to sabe you de expense ob firin' off de
powder, which aint very plenty in Kentucky."
This explanation seemed to satisfy the one who made it, but not his
listener, who knew that the game was brought to earth by some one
else.
And yet he was sure he had not heard the report of any other gun at
the moment the animal seemed to have received its death-wound, so that
it would seem some other cause must have ended its career.
While Blossom was working with his knife, Ned caught sight of
something which gave him a suspicion of the true cause. The game lay
on its side, and that which arrested the eye of the youthful pioneer
was the feather of an Indian arrow.
"Turn him over," said Ned; and the lad, wondering why he told him to
do so, complied.
The truth was then made known. From the side of the buck protruded a
few inches of the shaft of an Indian arrow, to which the eagle's
feather was attached. The flinty head had been driven clean through
the heart and some distance beyond, so that the sharp point must have
been near the surface on the other side.
The deer scarcely ever is known to fall instantly, no matter how it is
shot; so that, with such a formidable weapon dividing the very seat of
life, it still ran several rods before falling.
When Blossom saw the arrow his appetite vanished. He stooped over,
staring at it a moment, and then suddenly straightened up and
exclaimed:
"Let's run; dis aint any place for fellers like us!"
And, without waiting for the advice of his young master, the negro lad
caught up his gun and made a dash for the prostrate tree from which he
had rushed when the buck first fell.
Ned Preston was frightened beyond expression, for that which he had
discovered was proof positive that one red man at least was close at
hand; and when the American Indian was encountered in the Kentucky or
Ohio forest, in the year of our Lord 1788, it was wise to consider him
the most dangerous kind of an enemy.
Ned had poured the powder in his priming-pan and shaken it into the
tube before he caught sight of the arrow, for he had been instructed,
from the first day he carried a gun, that, after discharging the
piece, he must not stir from his steps until it was reloaded and ready
for use again.
The moment he understood what killed the buck he looked around for the
Indian who did it. He could easily tell the direction whence the
missile came, from the position of the game when struck; but the
penetrating eye of the lad could detect nothing when he turned his
gaze toward that, nor indeed toward any other point.
This did not surprise him, for the nature of the Indian leads him to
be secretive in all he does; and many a time has his most destructive
work been done without the sufferer catching a glimpse of him.
The conclusion of Ned was that a party of warriors were in the
immediate neighborhood, and that, as an inevitable certainty, he and
Blossom were at their mercy. If they chose to send in a shower of
arrows, or fire the guns which some of them were likely to own,
nothing could save the two lads.
If they chose to rush forward and take the boys captives, it was
beyond the power of the youths to escape; in fact, as Ned looked at
it, the two were already as good as prisoners, and the Indians were
only keeping in the background for a brief while, for the sake of
amusing themselves, as a cat sometimes plays with a mouse before
crunching it in her jaws.
The situation was an alarming one in every sense, but Ned Preston
showed a courage that his life on the frontier had taught him was the
only wise course in such a trying time. He stooped over the carcase of
the deer, and carefully cutting a choice slice from it, turned about
and walked deliberately back to where Blossom was awaiting him, behind
the oak.
Ned's desire to break into a run and plunge off into the woods was
almost uncontrollable, and the sensation of expecting every minute an
Indian arrow driven into his back, while resolutely keeping down to a
slow and dignified walk, was beyond description.
Blossom Brown, who had started away in such haste, so dreaded some
such shot that he threw himself behind the tree, where he lay still.
He was strongly led to this course by his affection for his young
master, whom he could not desert even for his own benefit.
"Whar am de Injines?" asked Blossom, in a husky whisper, as his friend
walked around the root of the oak and joined him.
"They can't be far off," was the answer of Ned, "and there isn't any
use of trying to run away from them. There must be a war party, and
when they are ready they will come and take us. So let's kindle a fire
and cook the meat."
This was an amazing proposition to make, but it was acted upon at
once, extraordinary as it may seem. Blossom was very nervous while
gathering wood and giving what assistance he could. He continually
glanced around him, and peeped furtively over the trunk, wondering why
the red men did not come forward and take them prisoners.
The youths were so accustomed to camping out that it was an easy
matter to prepare their evening meal. They would have preferred the
venison not quite so fresh, but they were glad enough to get it as it
was; and when they sprinkled some of the salt and pepper, always
carried with them, on the crisp, juicy steak, it was as toothsome and
luscious as a couple of hungry hunters could wish.
True, the circumstances under which the meal was eaten were not
conducive to enjoyment, for no person can be expected to feel
unrestrained happiness when surrounded by a party of treacherous red
men, who are likely to send in a shower of arrows, or a volley of
bullets, just as you are raising a piece of meat to your mouth.
And yet, despite all that, Ned Preston and Blossom Brown masticated
and swallowed the last morsel of the liberal piece taken from the buck
slain by the Indian arrow.
The bleak, blustery autumn day was drawing to a close, when the boys
arose to their feet, uncertain what was the best to do in the
extraordinary situation.
The sky had been overcast during the afternoon, though there were no
indications of an immediate storm. The wind blew strongly at times,
with a dull, moaning sound, through the trees, from which the leaves
rustled downward in showers. Now and then a few flakes of snow drifted
on the air for some minutes before fluttering to the ground.
Everything betokened the coming of winter, and, though it was the
royal season for game, yet there was something so impressive in the
autumn forest, now that the seasons were sinking into decay and death,
that Ned Preston, sturdy and practical though he was, could not avoid
a feeling of sadness when he set out from his home for the Block
House, thirty miles away.
"Ned, what am de use ob loafin' round here?" asked Blossom a minute
after they rose from their supper. "If dem Injines don't want to come
forrard and speak to us, what's de use ob waiting for 'em?"
There was some wisdom in this question, and it was one that had
presented itself to Ned while thoughtfully eating his venison steak.
Was it not possible that the warrior who fired the fatal arrow
believed the boys belonged to a large party of white hunters and
scouts, and had withdrawn long before? Was there not a chance of
getting away by a sudden dash?
Night was not far off, and if they could keep out of the hands of the
red men until then there was good ground for hoping they would elude
them altogether.
Nothing was to be gained by discussing or thinking over the matter,
and Ned acted at once.
"Follow me," he whispered to Blossom, "and don't make any noise."
The young hunter, trailing his rifle, stooped forward as far as he
could without impeding the power to walk, and then ran directly from
the tree, and back over the path that had brought them to the
clearing.
Blossom was at his heels, traveling quite rapidly; but glancing behind
him so often, he stumbled more than once. The negro had quick
eyesight, and once when he turned his head he saw something flutter in
the forest behind him; then there was what seemed to be the flitting
shadow of a bird's wing as it shot by with the speed of a bullet.
But at the same instant a faint whizz caught his ear, and some object
whisked past his cheek and over the shoulder of the crouching Ned
Preston. The African had scarcely time to know that such a thing had
taken place when he heard a quick thud, and there it was!
From the solid trunk of a massive maple projected an arrow, whose head
was buried in the bark; the shaft, with the eagle's feather, still
tremulous from the force with which it had been driven from the bow.
The same Indian who had brought down the buck had sent a second
missile over the heads of the fugitives, and so close indeed that the
two might well pause and ask themselves whether it was worth their
while to run from such an unerring archer, who had the power to bring
them down with as much certainty as though he fired the rifle of
Daniel Boone or Simon Kenton.
But neither Ned Preston nor Blossom Brown was the one to stand still
when he had the opportunity of fleeing from danger. They scarcely
halted, therefore, for one glance at the significant missile, when
they made a slight turn to the left, and plunged into the woods with
all the speed they could command.