A DISMAYING DISCOVERY
The announcement that Joe Winship made filled Harry Parsons with
renewed fear. The three Indians in the forest below them must surely be
on their trail, and for no good purpose.
In a low whisper Harry related what he had seen, and Joe agreed that
they were Indian signals.
“More than likely they are surrounding the camp,” whispered Joe. “And
as you didn’t see the camp-fire likely the folks are on guard. They are
not going to make a light for the redskins to shoot by.”
This was all that was said for a long time. Joe passed up his
companion’s gun and both sat in readiness to defend their lives at any
instant it might become necessary to do so.
Presently the low murmur of voices came to their ears from the very
root of the tree in which they were in hiding. Two Indians had met
there and were discussing the situation.
“What are they saying?” whispered Harry, for he knew that Joe had
learned considerable of the Indian tongue, both from some friendly red
men and from his father.
“I can’t hear clearly,” replied Joe. “I might go down a little further.”
“Don’t do it--it isn’t safe,” was his companion’s warning.
But Joe was curious, and as the murmur of voices continued, he
noiselessly lowered himself until he was halfway down to the roots of
the monarch of the forest.
Leaning over a limb, he strained his ears to catch what was said. The
dialect of the red men was somewhat new to him, yet he caught the words
“camp of the palefaces,” “Long Knife has commanded it,” and a little
later “his scalp shall be mine.”
It was a good half-hour before the Indians moved away, having been
joined by three others. All were in warpaint, as Joe could see by a
smoky torch which one of the number carried. Luckily the Indians had
tramped around the bottom of the tree so much that the trail of the two
youths was completely obliterated.
When Joe returned to where he had left Harry, the pair discussed the
situation in an earnest whisper.
“The whole thing is clear in my mind,” said Joe. “Long Knife has
ordered a raid on our camp, and one of the redskins has a particular
grudge against one of our crowd and is going in to get his scalp. The
question is: what are we to do?”
“What can we do, Joe?”
“I don’t know what we can do, Harry, but I know what we ought to try to
do.”
“Get back to camp and warn everybody?”
“Yes. Of course I think they are on guard already, but we are not sure
of it. And if the redskins fall on them by surprise they’ll kill all of
the men folks, and kill the women and children too, or carry them off.”
“Then let us try to get back to camp, no matter how perilous it is.”
“I’m willing.”
It was not long after this that they were on the lowest branch of the
tree. They strained eyes and ears for some sign of the Indians, but
none appeared. Joe was the first to drop to the ground, and Harry
speedily followed.
From the top of the tree they had “located themselves” with care, and
now they struck out in the darkness directly for the camp.
“We are taking our lives in our hands,” was the way in which Joe
expressed himself. “But it cannot be helped. I don’t want to see the
others suffer if we can do anything that will save them.”
“Right you are, Joe,” was his companion’s reply.
Fortunately for the boys there was but little undergrowth in that
portion of the great forest, and the ground was comparatively level.
The trees, five to fifteen feet apart, grew up tall and as straight as
so many arrows. Some had stood there for many, many years, and it did
not seem possible that these veterans were later on to fall beneath the
stroke of the woodman’s ax, to make way for the farmer and his crops.
But if brushwood was wanting, exposed roots were not, and more than
once one boy or the other would go sprawling in the darkness.
“By George, what a fall!” panted Harry, after a tumble that had laid
him flat on his breast. “It--it knocked the wind right out of me.”
“Be glad it didn’t knock out your teeth,” answered Joe, as he assisted
him to his feet. “It is dark here for certain.”
“How far do you suppose we have still to go?”
“Not less than half a mile.”
A moment after this a distant shot rang out, followed by several others
in quick succession.
Then came a muffled yell, which gradually became louder.
“The attack on the camp has begun!” ejaculated Joe. “Oh, Harry, we are
too late!”
“You are right. More than likely the camp is surrounded.”
“Then we can’t get to the others even if we try!”
“Perhaps we can. Anyway I am not going to stay here when the others may
be fighting for their lives. Think of your mother and mine, and of the
girls.”
“Yes! yes!” Joe gave a groan which was echoed by his companion. “We
must go on.”
And on they did go, running as fast as the trees and the darkness
permitted. The land sloped slightly upward, but this they did not
notice until Harry, who was slightly in advance, gave a cry of alarm.
Then followed a crash of brushwood and a splash.
“Harry! Harry! what’s the matter?” asked Joe, and came to a halt.
No answer came back, and filled with added fear Joe crawled forward
until he reached the brushwood. Then of a sudden he took a step
backward. The brushwood was on the edge of a cliff and in front was a
sheer descent of fully fifty feet.
“Harry went over that and most likely broke his neck,” was Joe’s first
thought, and a shiver passed down his backbone. Then he remembered
having heard a faint splash, and crawling forward on hands and knees,
peered over the cliff into the darkness beneath.
At first he could see nothing. But then came a faint twinkling of stars
as they were reflected in the surface of the water, and he knew that a
pond or a stream lay at the bottom of the cliff.
“Harry! Harry!” he called out, first in an ordinary tone and then
louder and louder. For the moment his own peril was forgotten in his
alarm over the disappearance of his chum.
No answering cry came back, and again Joe shivered. What if his
companion was drowned?
“I must get down to the bottom of the cliff,” he told himself. “And the
sooner the better. Harry may not yet be dead.”
With extreme caution the young pioneer moved along the edge of the
cliff, not leaving one footing until he was sure of the next. By this
means he discovered something of a break, and here let himself down,
foot by foot. The route was rough, and more than once he scratched his
face and hands, but just then he gave no attention to the hurts.
Luckily for Joe there was at the foot of the cliff a small stretch
of rocks and sand less than a yard wide. Standing on this the youth
surveyed the surface of the dark water before him with interest.
It was no pond to which he had descended, but a good-sized stream which
flowed rapidly to the northward, being hedged in on one side by the
cliff, and on the other by a rock-bound forest. The stream disappeared
around a curve of the cliff.
A rapid search along the sandy shore under the cliff revealed nothing
more than Harry’s rifle, which had caught in a bush just over the
water’s edge. This gave Joe a clew to where his companion had fallen,
and he searched eagerly in the water at that point.
“Not a sign,” he murmured after reaching into the stream as far as
possible. Then he cut down a sapling with his hunting knife and stirred
up the water with that, and with no better result.
“The river is flowing so swiftly it must have carried Harry’s body
away,” he reasoned. “Perhaps I had better move around the curve of the
cliff and make a search there.”
All this while Joe had heard distant firing and yelling, and now, as he
straightened up, he saw a glow in the sky, as of a conflagration.
“Something is on fire,” he thought. “And it isn’t a plain camp-fire
either. Oh, I trust to Heaven that the others are safe!”
Slowly and painfully he crawled along at the foot of the cliff until
the bend was reached. Here a footing was uncertain, and more than once
he slipped into the stream up to his ankles.
Around the bend the water swirled and foamed, on its way to a series
of rough rocks. Here was another cliff and the stream appeared to
disappear beneath this, much to Joe’s wonder.
“If it’s an underground river good-by to poor Harry,” he told himself.
Again he called out, not once, but a score of times, and the only
answer he received was an echo from the rocks.
“Poor, poor Harry!” he murmured, and the tears of sorrow stood in his
eyes. He loved his chum as though the two were brothers.
Joe knew not how to proceed. He wanted to find Harry, and he also
wanted to learn how his folks and the others were faring at the camp.
While he was meditating he saw the flare of a torch on the opposite
side of the stream. He had just time enough to drop behind an
outstanding rock when three Indians came into view. Each carried a
bundle, but what the loads contained Joe could not tell.
From a hiding place beneath the trees the Indians brought forth a
large canoe and two paddles. They placed their loads into the craft,
and then entered themselves.
“Can they be coming over here?” Joe asked himself.
The question was soon answered in the negative, for the Indians turned
up the stream. It was a difficult matter to paddle against the strong
current, but the red men were equal to the task, and soon the canoe
disappeared in the darkness.
“I’ll wager all I am worth those were things stolen from our camp,”
reasoned Joe.
He sat down at the water’s edge to listen and to think. All had become
quiet in the distance, and the red glow in the sky was dying away.
“I must do something,” he cried, leaping up. “If I stay here I’ll go
crazy. Perhaps mother and father and the others need me this very
minute.”
As quickly as he could he made his way along the rocks to the point
where the stream disappeared under the cliff. Then he worked his way
around to where the Indians had launched their canoe.
“There must be some sort of a route from this point to our camp,” he
told himself.
He was about to move onward through the forest when another torch came
into view. Again he ran for shelter, and was not an instant too soon.
Four red men were marching forward to the river, and between each pair
was a captive, disarmed, and with his hands tied tightly behind him.
“Pep Frost!” murmured Joe, as he caught a good look at the first of the
captives. It was indeed the pioneer the youth had mentioned. His garb
was torn and dirty, and his face streaked with blood, showing that he
had fought desperately.
The second captive was also dirty and bloodstained, and walked with
a limp, as if wounded in the left leg. As he came closer Joe could
scarcely suppress a cry of horror.
“Father!” he gasped, and he was right. The second captive was Ezra
Winship.