ON THE TRAIL OF A THIEF
“The buck is gone!”
It was Joe who gasped out the words, after several seconds of painful
silence.
“Yes, but to where?” came from Harry. “That meat didn’t walk off by
itself.”
“Perhaps some wild animal carted it away, Harry.”
“If so, it was a pretty big animal, and we had best look out for our
own hides, Joe.”
Both looked around the spot, and up the brook, but neither man nor
beast was in sight.
As Joe continued to look around the vicinity Harry dropped on his hands
and knees and examined the damp ground under the tree.
“What do you see?” called out Joe.
“Here are plenty of footprints,” was the slow reply. “But perhaps they
are only our own.”
Joe came closer, and some of the footprints were followed out of the
tangle in the shade. Then Joe uttered a cry.
“Harry, we didn’t come in this direction, and those marks are neither
yours nor mine.”
“You are right. See, they lead along behind these bushes and then
directly into the brook.”
“Yes, and they move up the brook, too!”
“It was a two-legged thief who ran away with our game!”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think it was an Indian or a white man?”
“I really can’t say. I haven’t seen an Indian here since that fellow
called Yellow Blanket called on Colonel Boone. And who of the settlers
around here would be mean enough to take our game is more than I can
surmise. But I know one thing.”
“And that is----”
“I’m going after the chap in double-quick order.”
“I am with you. We are two to one and well armed. I suppose he didn’t
think we would come back so soon.”
“More than likely.”
Just above the spot where the deer had been shot, the brook widened
out and became more or less of a shallow stream, with here and there a
dirt instead of a stone bottom. Bending low they could, by the aid of
the strong sunlight, occasionally catch sight of a footprint where the
thief had missed his footing from one stone to the next.
“He would have kept to the stones entirely, and thus cut off his
trail,” said Joe; “but his load was almost too much for him. And by
that same token, I imagine he won’t go very far before he sits down to
rest.”
“If that is so, we may be close to him already. Perhaps we had best
keep quiet, and keep our eyes wide open.”
After that but little was said, and each youth kept his ears on the
alert. The brook now ran upward, and consisted of a series of tiny
waterfalls. Just ahead were a series of rocks.
As they approached the rocks, Joe, who was in advance, held up his hand
as a warning. Then he crawled forward as noiselessly as a ghost, and
looked over the top of the rocks.
On a fallen tree he saw an Indian resting, with the carcass of the buck
beside him. The warrior was Yellow Blanket, the red man who had called
on Daniel Boone at the fort about a week before, bringing a message for
Red Feather, which, however, had not, by Boone’s order, been delivered.
Yellow Blanket was alone, and was evidently getting ready to continue
his journey. He had been carrying the buck across his shoulders, and
his bow and arrows were slung over his breast so as not to interfere
with his load.
By signs Joe gave Harry to understand that both should cover the red
man with their guns, and this was done without delay. The two young
pioneers leaped on the rocks and confronted the Indian.
Yellow Blanket had been in a contemplative mood, not dreaming that he
would be thus quickly followed up. He started in amazement, and leaped
to his feet.
“Raise your hands!” called out Joe, as one hand of the enemy went
toward the tomahawk at his belt. “Raise ’em or I’ll fire!”
“And so will I fire!” added Harry.
The Indian understood very little English, but the truth of the
situation was plain to him, and letting go of the tomahawk he spread
out his arms wide, as if to show a friendly spirit. Then the youths
came closer, each keeping the Indian still covered.
“So you thought you would run off with our meat, eh?” questioned Joe
sharply.
The Indian looked blankly at them and shrugged his shoulders.
“Yellow Blanket cannot speak the tongue of the paleface,” he said in
his own language.
“This is our game,” went on Joe, and still keeping his gun leveled
with one hand, he took the other and pointed first at the dead buck and
then at himself and Harry.
Again the Indian shrugged his shoulders, and then shook his head
slowly. At last he pointed to a tree, and then at himself, and then at
Joe and Harry, and shook his head.
“He means to say he found it in a tree, and didn’t know it belonged to
us,” said Harry. “Well, that’s the truth, I suppose, but it wasn’t his
game, even so.”
“What shall we do with the fellow, Harry? We can’t shoot him down in
cold blood, and it wouldn’t do much good to march him back to the fort.”
“Well, take his arrows from him, and march him off about his business,
Joe. That’s the best I can think of.”
While Joe kept the Indian covered with his gun Harry strode forward and
made the fellow give up eight fine arrows he carried. The bow he let
the red man retain, since it would be useless until he could provide
more arrows for it.
To show that they did not take the arrows for their own use, Harry
broke the shafts over his knee. This caused the Indian to scowl deeply,
but he said nothing.
“Now march, and don’t you turn around to look back,” said Joe, and he
pointed up the brook beyond the rapids. Yellow Blanket understood, and
with downcast countenance walked off.
They watched him out of sight, and then, without loss of time, picked
up the buck between them and hurried towards home, but not by the route
they had previously traveled.
“That Indian may take it into his head to come back on the sly,” said
Joe. “We don’t want to run the risk of having our heads split open by
his tomahawk.”
“We can keep an eye to the rear and on both sides,” answered his chum,
and this was done, but Yellow Blanket failed to reappear, probably
thinking that one Indian with only a tomahawk was no match for two
strong-looking youths with guns and hunting knives.
When the boys got back and told of the adventure with the Indian, both
Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons said it would not be advisable for them to
go out fishing that afternoon.
“There may be more Indians in the neighborhood,” said Ezra Winship.
“And if there are, it won’t do for you to run unnecessary risks.”
It was thought best to report the occurrence to Colonel Boone, and Joe
walked over to the fort for that purpose.
In those days, the fort at Boonesborough was a rude but strong one. It
was about two hundred and sixty feet in length by about one hundred
and fifty feet in width, with one corner resting on the bank of the
river. It had a strong stockade of pointed timbers planted deeply
into the ground, and a similar stockade ran around most of the cabins
occupied by those who had first come westward with Daniel Boone, so
that they were in close communion with the fort proper. Inside of the
main stockade were several log cabins, and a shelter for ammunition and
another for garrison stores.
Joe found Daniel Boone at work writing a letter to one of the superior
officers of the land company which he represented, telling of what had
recently happened at the settlement, and what he thought the Indians
would do next.
“So Yellow Blanket is still sneaking around this vicinity,” said the
great hunter, on hearing the youth’s tale. “I am glad that you and
young Parsons sent him about his business.”
“Do you think he will harm us further?” asked the young pioneer.
“It is not likely, Winship. Yellow Blanket is a cur, nothing more. If
he strikes at all it will be in the dark. I will send out Pep Frost and
Raystock to see if they cannot capture him. A month of captivity will
make him glad enough to shake the dust of this vicinity from his feet.”
Pep Frost, who was close at hand, was called in. Joe had not seen this
old hunter for some time, and the two were glad to meet again.
“What! You an’ Harry got two deer an’ an old buck one trip?” he
ejaculated. “By hemlock! but it won’t be no ust fer us old fellows to
go out no more; eh, colonel?”
“It’s the air that is doing it,” returned Daniel Boone with a laugh.
“Such purity can’t help but make a good shot and a good trailer out of
most anybody.”
“I’ll bring in Yellow Blanket ef I kin,” said Pep Frost. “But he’s a
cur, as the colonel says, an’ more’n likely he’s lit out long ago fer
his wigwam.”
When Joe returned home he found Harry hard at work dressing the deer
skins, and he went to work to fix up the head and antlers of the buck,
so that they might be hung up in the living room for a coat and hat
rack, as Harmony had suggested.
As mentioned before, it had been a hot day, and when the sun went down
it was hardly any cooler. There was scarcely a breath of air stirring,
and, as a consequence, scarcely anybody felt like retiring to the
rather stuffy bedchambers of the log cabin until sleep could no longer
be put off.
As tired as he was, Harry could not sleep until long after he had gone
to bed. He lay with Joe, and he rather envied his chum, who slept
peacefully. When at last Harry did go to sleep he dreamed of shooting
deer, and of being gored by the big buck, and about an hour later he
awoke with a start and dripping with perspiration.
“Oh, what a dream!” he murmured to himself, and sat bolt upright, he
could not tell why.
Joe still slept, and so did the youth’s father and Ezra Winship, who
occupied the second bed in the room. From outside the faint rays of the
old moon cast a dim light into the room.
Feeling thirsty, Harry resolved to go out to the living room for a
drink. Not to awaken the others, he crawled from the bed as silently as
possible, and tiptoed his way to the other part of the cabin.
The water in the crock was warm and stale, and having tasted of it
Harry spit it out into the fireplace.
“I’ll go out to the spring and get a fresh drink. The air will do me
good,” he reasoned, and tiptoeing his way back to the bedchamber he
slipped on his outer garments for that purpose.
As he made his way to the living room door he saw a shadow glide over
the floor, as if something had come in between the rays of the moon and
the window close at hand. He looked up, but on the instant the shadow
was gone.
Harry stopped short and caught his breath. Was he half asleep still, or
had somebody really passed the window? Several times he asked himself
that question, but could frame no satisfactory answer.
“I’ll soon make sure,” he murmured, and reached for his gun, which at
night was laid on a shelf, loaded and primed for immediate use.
As he caught up the weapon a scraping sound from outside reached his
ear. Then came a flare of light through a crack between the cabin logs,
and like a flash he realized the truth.
Some enemy was outside, and was on the point of setting the cabin on
fire.