THE LONG-LOST AT LAST
At once there was great excitement among the men who had thus followed
Long Knife and his warriors to their newly made camp. Every pioneer and
old hunter felt that a crisis was at hand.
“I think we have the redskins at a disadvantage,” said one old hunter.
“We ought to teach them a lesson they will never forget.”
“Have they any captives with them?” questioned Joe.
This question could not be answered, for part of the Indians’ camp was
concealed by a dense mass of brushwood.
The old hunters now resorted to strategy. The party was divided into
three parts, which were to station themselves around the Indian
encampment at equal distances. At a given signal two of the parties
were to rush forward, and open on the red men. This would most likely
drive the warriors under Long Knife to the shelter of another part of
the forest, and here the third party was to open fire when they had the
Indians at close range.
The hunters and pioneers moved to their stations without the slightest
noise. Each man carried not only his rifle, but also a pistol and a
long hunting knife.
Joe’s heart was thumping wildly, for he knew that this was to be the
most dangerous battle in which he had so far taken part. But his teeth
were firmly set.
“I’ll do my duty if I die for it,” was what he told himself--not once,
but many times.
At last all was in readiness for the attack. The signal was given, and
the whites of the two parties swept in closer still, and then opened
fire.
At the first volley three Indians fell, one killed and the others
mortally wounded. Then a fierce war-whoop sounded, and the braves
caught up their own weapons.
The whites had calculated well, and, as they expected, the red men did
their best to gain the forest ahead of them. As they came on, the third
party of hunters met them, and in this onslaught six Indians fell to
rise no more.
All of the guns and pistols had now been discharged, and a thick smoke
filled the vicinity. In the midst of this, whites and Indians leaped
at each other in a hand-to-hand encounter that was bloody in the
extreme. Blood flowed freely, and Joe saw two old pioneers scalped
before his eyes.
At the first shock of battle the young pioneer was stunned. But soon
his presence of mind returned to him, and he became unusually cool and
collected. He discharged his pistol almost in the face of one brawny
Indian, and then engaged another with his hunting knife.
It was a sharp struggle, and as the pair grappled, the Indian slipped
and dragged Joe down with him. Over and over they rolled, and the
red man at last succeeded in wounding Joe in the shoulder. But the
youth was game and struck out wildly, and by a lucky stroke caught
his opponent in the ribs. Then, as another white came running up, the
Indian arose and staggered off. Joe also tried to get up, but a foot
suddenly struck him a heavy blow back of the ear, and he fell on his
face, unconscious.
The tide of war was now shifting to another part of the forest, and for
the time being the young pioneer lay where he had fallen with nobody
coming to disturb him. The fighting was as fierce as ever, but was
gradually lost in the distance.
At last Joe stirred and opened his eyes in a dazed, uncertain way.
Then, thinking his enemy still at hand, he threw up one arm, as if to
defend himself.
“Fight fair,” he murmured, and soon sat up, staring around him.
He was much surprised to find himself alone. The blood was flowing from
the wound he had received, but fortunately the hurt was not severe.
He remembered that there had been a stream at hand, and he crawled
rather than walked to this, to bathe his wound and get a drink of water.
“I must have been completely knocked out,” was his thought. “I wonder
what became of that Indian?”
After bathing and drinking his fill, he sat down by the edge of the
stream to collect his scattered senses. He could not tell how long it
was since he had been fighting.
“Must be an hour or two at least,” he told himself. “Anyway, everybody
seems to have cleared out, and left me to myself. I wonder if we
whipped them?”
Joe was sitting on the river bank, when presently something up the
stream attracted his attention. It was a canoe coming around a bend,
and the craft contained two Indians.
“Hullo, I’ll have to get out of sight,” he muttered, and started to
move back, when he received a push that sent him headlong into the
river.
By the time he came to the surface, the canoe was drawing close.
Looking on the river bank he saw three Indians standing there, each
armed with a rifle and a tomahawk. One of the red men was Long Knife.
“White boy is a prisoner,” cried the Indian chief, his eyes gleaming
wickedly. “If try to run Long Knife will tomahawk him.”
There was no help for it, and Joe walked out of the river, and
submitted to having his hands tied behind him. Then he was ordered
into the canoe, which was a large craft, and Long Knife and the others
followed.
The course of the canoe was along the stream, which was not over
fifteen feet in width, and very winding. The primeval forest arose on
both sides, and in many places the branches of the trees interlaced,
making the surface of the watercourse dark and cool.
Joe had no idea where he was being taken, and the Indians would answer
no questions. Long Knife and his followers seemed unusually silent and
bitter, and from this the young pioneer came to the conclusion that the
battle had gone against them, and with heavy loss.
“If that’s the case they won’t have much mercy on me,” he reasoned.
The canoe kept on its way for many miles and then took to another
watercourse, which was twice as wide as the first. The Indians were
now approaching one of their regular villages, and they passed along
in absolute silence, doubtless thinking that the whites might be there
awaiting their coming.
But none of the hunters who had gone forth to fight them were in the
vicinity, and soon an old Indian met them and told them that all so far
was safe.
“It is well,” said Long Knife gruffly. Then he ordered the canoe
brought around to another bend, and here the party went ashore, taking
Joe with them.
The village was rather a straggling one, extending from the river to
a spring far up among the rocks. Here the Indians had erected a rude
stockade and inside were half a dozen prisoners.
“You shall remain there until another sun,” said Long Knife. “And let
not the white boy try to escape,” he added. “Long Knife knows how to
torture those who will not obey him.”
“I reckon you are bloodthirsty enough for anything,” muttered Joe in
return.
He entered the rude stockade with downcast heart, but hardly was he
within than he gave a sudden shout of half wonder and half joy:
“Mother!”
“Joe! my Joe!” was the answer, and in a moment more mother and son were
in each other’s arms.
It was indeed Mrs. Winship, but so thin and careworn that none but one
closely connected with her would have recognized the lady. With Mrs.
Winship was Clara Parsons, who was also amazed to see the lad she knew
so well.
“How came you here?” asked Mrs. Winship, after their greeting was over.
“It’s a long story, mother,” Joe answered, and then he told her of the
fight and of his capture, and then of life in Boonesborough and at the
fort, and of how the others were faring.
“We have had many ups and downs since we were captured,” said Mrs.
Winship. “Our adventures would fill a book. We escaped twice, and three
times your father and others tried to rescue us. But it has all been of
no avail, and here we are still, and likely to remain, I suppose.” And
the good woman heaved a long sigh.
“Well, so long as we are alive let us hope for the best,” answered
Joe, as cheerfully as he could. “Of one thing I am sure. The Indians
were defeated in that last battle, and it may be that our friends will
now take steps to round them all up and make them give up all their
captives.”
“Oh, I hope that happens!” cried Clara Parsons. “I am almost crazy to
see mother and Harry and father again--and to see that cabin you say
you have built.”
On the whole Mrs. Winship and Clara had been treated fairly well. The
woman had been made to work with the squaws, and Long Knife had urged
Clara many times to become his wife. But the girl had refused him, and
this had pleased Cornball, an old dame who was already the chief’s
spouse.
“Cornball wants me to keep on refusing him,” said Clara. “She says
that as long as I do so she will protect both me and your mother. She
doesn’t care much for Long Knife, but she says he has no right to marry
anybody else.”
“Good for the old squaw,” answered Joe. “I hope she sticks by you until
we are all rescued.”
That night a strict guard was kept, not alone around the village, but
also over the prisoners in the stockade. Long Knife expected an attack
hourly by the whites, but it did not come.
“They have missed the trail,” he said at last to some of his warriors.
“Sleeping Bear has thrown dust into their eyes.” He referred to a brave
who had gone off with the express purpose of “working” a blind trail,
thus throwing the whites off the track.
It was nearly noon of the next day that Long Knife came in to see
Joe. His face was more sour than ever, for a report had come in that
his loss in the last battle was nearly twice as large as at first
anticipated.
“Does the white boy remember Long Knife?” he asked abruptly, as he
stood before Joe with folded arms.
“I do,” answered Joe, knowing that nothing was to be gained by evasion.
“Does the white boy remember when he saw Long Knife in a canoe with a
white maiden?”
“Yes.”
“The white boy tried his best to kill Long Knife.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” cried Joe. “The white maiden was my sister. Long
Knife had no right to carry her off.”
“Long Knife has a right to do as pleases him,” answered the Indian
coldly. “He bows to no law of the white man.”
To this Joe did not answer.
“The white boy has found his mother here?” went on the Indian.
“Yes. And you have no right to keep her a captive either.”
“Bah! The white boy must not talk in that manner to a chief of the red
warriors. Does the white boy know why I have brought him here?”
“To keep me a prisoner, I suppose.”
“No; Long Knife wants him not as a prisoner. Long Knife looks for more
than that. He wants some sport--and he is going to have it.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Long Knife will give to the white boy’s mother a sight that will
please her eyes. She shall see her son burnt at the stake.”