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[Illustration: “Was I scalped?” he gasped. (See page 115)]
CONNECTICUT BOYS
=======IN THE=======
WESTERN RESERVE.
A TALE OF THE MORAVIAN MASSACRE
...BY...
_James A. Braden._
AUTHOR OF
“FAR PAST THE FRONTIER,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
_W. Herbert Dunton_
C
AKRON, OHIO
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO.
NEW YORK CHICAGO
_MADE IN U. S. A._
Copyright, 1927
By
The Saalfield Publishing Company
CONTENTS
I. A RAINY NIGHT. 9
II. TALL TODD’S WARNING. 23
III. A MYSTERY OF THE FOREST. 38
IV. THE LONE INDIAN. 52
V. HIDDEN TREASURE. 67
VI. THE CABIN BY THE RIVER. 84
VII. THE REWARD OF VIGILANCE. 101
VIII. THE FATE OF BLACK EAGLE. 117
IX. THE CAMP IN THE TREE-TOP. 134
X. THE QUAKER’S STORY. 148
XI. HELPING THE DELAWARES—DANGER. 165
XII. BANDS OF BLACK. 181
XIII. A CRY FROM THE DARKNESS. 197
XIV. CAPTURED. 212
XV. THE SEARCH. 227
XVI. THE CAVE OF THE FORTUNE HUNTERS. 242
CHAPTER I.
A RAINY NIGHT.
A dismally wet and cold September day had come early to a close and
thick darkness had settled down an hour since, when the horse attached
to a heavy, canvas-covered, two-wheeled emigrant wagon stopped, at its
driver’s command, before an inhospitable looking house, from one window
of which a feeble light was shining. The rain splashed drearily, the
wind moaned in a ghostly way about the structure whose dim outlines were
just visible, and flapped the canvas over the wagon fitfully.
The barking of a gruff-voiced dog from somewhere near the house gave
certain sign that the arrival of the cart had been noticed by that
animal, as a tall, broad shouldered boy sprang lightly down from the
vehicle and walked briskly toward the door of the gloomy building.
“Now, never mind, Ring,” spoke a young, but full and pleasant voice from
the front of the wagon, as a large dog that stood beneath growled deep
in its throat in answer to the barking of the other canine. Instantly
the dog was quieted and at the same moment came the sound of knocking at
the door of the partially lighted house. A full minute passed, and the
knocking was vigorously repeated before there was a response.
“This ain’t a tavern any more; we can’t keep ye,” said a man who put his
head out, before the caller could speak.
“This is the Eagle tavern, isn’t it?” the boy inquired calmly, and the
light through the half-open door showed him to be a muscular youth of
probably eighteen years, though the serious look about his eyes and
mouth, and his dark hair gave him a somewhat older appearance.
“It used to be the Eagle tavern, but it ain’t now. Is that all?” the man
in the doorway replied gruffly.
“Why, no, it is not all,” the lad returned. “There are two of us with a
horse and wagon and we want to stay all night. The storm is growing
worse, and though we had intended to camp by the roadside, we pushed on
through the mud and darkness to reach this place. We expect to pay for
our lodging.”
“It don’t make no difference, I tell ye! We ain’t keeping a public
house.”
“Come, come, Mr. Tavern-keeper, my friend and I have both been here
before, and if we are willing to stay, you should surely be willing to
keep us.”
“That’s the talk!” called the one who remained in the wagon, “and let’s
have a lantern out here, and lose no further time about it!”
The man in the door moved aside to let the light fall more directly on
his caller’s face.
“Yes, I rec’lect ye,” he said slowly. And then, his face brightening
suddenly, he added more pleasantly, “Wait a jiffy.”
He closed the door and a murmur of voices sounded for a short time from
within. Presently, however, the man reappeared with a tallow candle set
in a round tin box full of small holes, which he carried by a ring in
its top, as a lantern, and followed the young men who had summoned him,
to the cart drawn up by the roadside.
“The Eagle tavern’s been closed all summer and we hadn’t ought to keep
ye,” the man explained, standing by while the two boys unhitched their
horse and led the animal into the log barn across the road from the
house. “Ye kin pull yer cart under this shed out o’ the rain,” he went
on, indicating a lean-to beside the barn.
In a few minutes the horse had been fed and the host led the way into
the house, entering a long, low room, where, in a fireplace, a smoky,
cheerless blaze was flickering. On a table set against the wall opposite
the fireplace, a candle was burning, and toward the farther end of the
dingy apartment two men were seated, their chairs tilted back in
careless attitudes.
“There ain’t much here to eat,” the landlord said, as he motioned his
guests to a settle in the chimney corner. “My wife died an’ I quit
keepin’ a tavern. I’ll git ye what I kin.”
The two boys he thus ushered in did not sit down, but stood before the
blaze to allow their clothes to dry; the one who had remained in the
wagon while the other went to the door, turning about after a minute or
two and stirring the fire till it burned more brightly. He was seventeen
years old or thereabout, more slender than his companion and not so
tall. His brown hair grew long, and about his blue eyes there was a
twinkle of merriment, as he said: “Wood is cheap; we may as well have
enough fire to do some good.”
“Right you are, young man,” spoke one of the two strangers still sitting
in the semi-darkness. “It’s a nasty night.”
“Right you are,” said the lad, still stirring the fire, adopting the
stranger’s own words.
One of the two men arose and stepping up to the blaze seated himself on
the settle. He was a villainous looking fellow, his curly black hair cut
short, his nose very large, red and sharp pointed, his chin unnaturally
prominent, his eyes small, black, and deep-set, marks of smallpox adding
further to make his face an unpleasant one. His age was not less than
forty-five years.
So disagreeable, indeed, did the two boys find this man’s appearance
that instinctively both looked more closely to see what his companion
was like. They beheld a man ten years younger than the other, though his
hair was turning gray, and his hardened leather-like skin made him seem
older than he was. He had fairly honest eyes, however, though he turned
them away and looked steadily in another direction when he found that he
was observed.
“I was just tellin’ my friends here about Ichabod Nesbit bein’ killed,
when you chaps come along,” said the landlord a few minutes later, as he
came bringing in some cold meat and a loaf of bread, which he placed on
the table. Then asking his young guests to sit down and help themselves,
which they proceeded to do, he went on:
“I rec’lect that you boys was sort o’ interested in Nesbit, an’ I heard
that it was you two that brought the news East of how he was killed.”
“Yes,” said the older of the two lads in a disinterested way, while the
other gave him a quiet pinch under the table.
“Killed by an Indian, you said, didn’t you?” put in the villainous
looking man.
“An Injun named Black Eagle,” said the landlord.
Neither boy made any move to join in the conversation and the
tavern-keeper took another tack.
“Most forgot how to be polite,” he said. “I don’t rec’lect your names,
young men, but make you acquainted with Mr. Samuel Duff and Mr. Lon
Dexter, travelers same as you be. My name’s Quilling, ye know that.”
It was to the name Samuel Duff that the villainous looking man answered.
His better appearing companion arose as the name Lon Dexter was
pronounced.
“My name is Kingdom,” said the older of the two boys, rising to shake
hands as the men came forward.
“And mine is Jerome,” said the more slender lad, with none too much
friendship in his tones.
“Going West, I take it,” said Duff, trying to speak pleasantly.
“Yes,” said the young man named Kingdom, as both boys reseated
themselves and went on with their supper.
“So are we,” he of the evil appearance continued—“Dexter and I.”
“It is a great country—the Ohio country, I mean,” said Kingdom, his
keen, dark eyes scrutinizing the fellow who had seemed to suggest that
they might travel together, while he mentally decided that he would like
no such arrangement.
“Yes, a great country and a big country. We’re just going to look around
and see whether there would be a good chance to get hold of first-rate
land to settle on when the Indian troubles are over,” Duff answered.
No immediate reply being made to his words, the fellow went on in a
careless tone which anyone could have seen was assumed:
“But you won’t catch us staying around long where the Redskins have war
paint on. That man Ichabod Nesbit, we were speaking of, would probably
have been living yet if he hadn’t gone off to that blasted wilderness.
What part of the country was he killed in, anyhow?”
“Beyond Pittsburg. Why?” quickly put in the lad Jerome, his interest
aroused. For the thought came to him that Ichabod Nesbit was just such
an outlaw as the fellow now inquiring about him looked to be.
“Ho! nothing in particular! You seem to be mighty suspicious, the way
you ask ‘Why,’” Duff exclaimed, with anger he tried not to show.
“No harm ain’t be’n done, I don’t see. Jest hear it rain though!” put in
the other of the two men, Dexter, speaking for almost the first time.
His voice was a hoarse whisper, and gave the impression that he was
frightened and afraid to speak louder.
“Why,” said Kingdom, “there is no secret about when and how and where
the man Nesbit was killed. He had followed us all the way from this very
tavern, clear across the mountains and the Ohio river. On the way West,
he fired at us one night, as we were in camp, and happened to kill
Northwind, the son of the Indian, Black Eagle. The long and short of it
all is, that Black Eagle, after burying his son, found the trail of
Nesbit and followed it—tracked him through woods and over mountains,
though how he could do it is wonderful, and at last came up with him
only a few minutes after Nesbit had fired on our camp a second time,
killing our horse. They fought, and Nesbit was killed, but just how or
where we do not know. We did not see the fight or know anything about it
until Black Eagle told it himself, months afterward, and showed the
man’s skull as certain evidence that he was dead.”
For a little time nothing more was said. The wind howled dolefully
outside and the rain beating on the roof and windows added to the
feeling of melancholy which seemed to pervade the whole place. Little
wonder is it that the thoughts of the two boys went back to the terrible
experiences they had had in a former trip from their home in Connecticut
to the wilderness beyond the western frontier of Pennsylvania. They
remembered how a robber and cut-throat by occupation, Ichabod Nesbit,
had attempted to relieve them of their money at this very inn—the Eagle
tavern—how they had shot at him and he had then secretly followed them,
mile after mile, week after week, firing at them from a distance on two
occasions and at last killing their horse when they were but a few miles
from the spot where, beside the Cuyahoga river, they located and built a
cabin.
They remembered, too, that Nesbit had been in search of a cousin, named
Arthur Bridges, whom he would have killed had he found him, in order to
palm himself off as Bridges, whom he closely resembled, and secure his
property. And Nesbit was responsible from the beginning for Arthur
Bridges’ never having returned home after the Revolutionary war, in
which he was a soldier. They had met on the road and Nesbit told Bridges
that his (Bridges’) mother had died and his father was cursing him and
hoping never to see him again because he had joined General Washington’s
army. And it was only by chance that Bridges had discovered through Tom
Fish, a friend who had gone in search of him, that Nesbit had deceived
him most cruelly.
“The Indian—did you say his name was Black Eagle?—is quite civilized, I
understand,” said Duff, at last. “His home is in the East.”
“More civilized than some white folks,” spoke up young Jerome,
remembering that the Redskin had been kind to him and Kingdom.
Duff growled an inaudible reply, in response to this thrust, and
Kingdom, being tired and, moreover, wishing to avoid any trouble with
this disagreeable fellow, suggested that it was time to go to bed.
The landlord, upon request of the boys, brought a candle and showed them
into a small down-stairs room opening into a narrow passageway which led
to the general living room where they had passed the evening.
“I wish we had not stopped at this wretched hole,” said Jerome when the
boys were alone.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. It is pleasanter to be here, disagreeable
as it is, than to be camped along the road,” Kingdom answered. “We could
have slept in the wagon, but the horse couldn’t, and it is such a bad
night! Make the best of it, old chap.”
For an hour the young friends lay awake talking of their journey and
especially of the unusual interest the two strangers had shown in the
death of Ichabod Nesbit.
“I must have a drink of water,” said Jerome, as Kingdom turned over to
go to sleep; and slipping into his trousers he felt his way along the
passage, and opened the door of the living-room. The landlord and Duff
and Dexter were sitting beside the little table, their heads bent close
to the candle, while they intently examined a frayed and time-worn piece
of paper.
“It ain’t no use, it ain’t. I’ve studied it right side up an’ wrong side
up an’ side ways an’ length ways, an’ it ain’t no use!” Quilling, the
landlord, was saying when Jerome’s footfall attracted the attention of
the men.
“Blast you, you blasted spy!” cried Duff, springing toward the boy.
“Don’t repeat that, mister,” was the lad’s cool answer. “I was not
spying on you, and don’t intend to let any one call me such names.”
“He was only jokin’—only jokin’,” hoarsely whispered Dexter, trying to
laugh.