French Outlaws and Robbers
"We won't waste no time in gettin' rid of them pelts," said Hunting
Jim, early on the following morning, as the little party sat about
their fire, which was close to the bank of the Hudson river and within
a few yards of the nearest house. "I don't reckon Albany's much of a
place fer us jest now. There's the French up by Lake George, and a
Dutchman I struck at sunrise, a chap as round as a barrel; guessed
that they or their Injuns might hop in here any time. What do yer say,
Judge?"
"We need not fear them," was the calm answer, given after more than a
minute's silence. "They will hardly dare to raid this place, for at
the present time they are doing their utmost to conciliate the Dutch
and win them over to their own side. The same may be said of the
Indians. You see, boys, we colonists are far more numerous than the
French, though they are far better led and organised. Our people seem
to devote all their time to squabbling amongst themselves."
"While the poor white critters out in the woods gets scalped by
fifties and hundreds. Reckon that's a shame," growled Jim. "But about
these pelts."
"Lave it to Steve," burst in Mac, putting his strong fingers through
his shock head of tousled hair. "He's our shopman, so he is, and faith
he'll get as big a price as any. Bigger, me bhoy, so lave it to him."
"You're right, Mac. Steve's the boy," Jim agreed, with a nod, while
Tom Mainwaring smiled approvingly as his son's name was mentioned.
"Yer see, that thar feller Schiller's as hard as a stone I reckon,
and when it comes to a deal with me, or you, Mac, he jest twists us
kinder round his finger. He knows we ain't got no other market, and so
he jest offers what'd be a fair price for a dozen of the skins. Then,
if we looks disgusted, as like as not he'll put a little extry to his
price as a kind of bait. Reckon he's 'cute. He knows we've got to take
his stuff or well nigh starve before we reach another settlement. I've
felt often that I was being robbed by the skunk, but what air a man to
do? Refuse did yer say, Mac?"
"That's so, me bhoy. Indade ye wouldn't be giving the pelts away, so
ye wouldn't."
"Then jest you try that 'ere game," exclaimed Jim, somewhat hotly.
"That chap Schiller's got the broadest back and the coolest temper
I ever saw. It's what he offers or nothing. If you ain't pleased,
he jest gets up from his chair and starts to walk into his house.
Reckon a fellow can't stand that. He's got to soften and give way. But
Steve's the boy. Steve, will yer trade with this 'ere Schiller?"
"Ready and willing, Jim," was the tall lad's eager answer. "I did it
last time, and I'll try again on this occasion. But mind you, you must
back me up."
"We'll do that," sang out Jim. "Then bring them pelts along."
They went to the pile of skins, and each taking a load, marched into
the town of Albany, leaving Tom Mainwaring and the Indians to guard
the camp. And a strange procession they made as they came along the
wide street, past the prosperous Dutch houses and the well-dressed and
comfortable-looking owners. Not that they attracted much attention,
for hunters and trappers were a common sight in the streets of Albany
in those days, and pelts often exchanged hands there.
To the trapper, the tough and hardy woodsman who had been scouring
the forest during the winter and late summer before, hunting game
and caring for the skins, this visit to Albany was one of no small
importance. This expedition and the stores he would obtain were a
source of interest and expectation during the long cold months, and
the trade he could do was of no small importance. For each skin meant
so much in the way of powder, so much lead, or perhaps a new musket.
With the goods he obtained he went back to his log hut, and by dint of
great care managed to eke them out over the winter. As for the trader
who took the pelts, he found an eager market for them in New York, and
made a huge profit over the transaction.
Bearing their pelts on their shoulders, with their muskets in full
evidence, and the blades of their keen tomahawks glittering beneath
their belts, the three trappers marched down the street sturdily,
their heads in the air, looking what they were, a thoroughly
independent and hardy trio. And presently they came to Hans Schiller's
house, and saw the negro servants of the trader bustling about the
place. Dropping their pelts on the stone flagging of the _stoep_,
Steve and his comrades squatted down on the steps.
"Hi, there, my black lady," sang out Jim, "reckon we want that Dutch
master o' yours. Fetch the boy along."
The negro servant giggled, stared with open admiration in her big eyes
at the sturdy backwoodsman, and then departed into the house. They
heard her call out in broken Dutch, and soon a heavy tread within
showed that someone was coming.
"Now, Steve, reckon you've got to best this 'ere Schiller," said Jim
in a warning voice. "Yer did the trade for us last year, and there
ain't a doubt as he was more liberal than ever before. See what yer
can do this time. H-hush! it's the old gal. He's trying the same old
game."
As he spoke an exceedingly fat and unwieldy woman waddled to the open
door of the house and pushed her head out. She looked calmly, almost
contemptuously at the trio seated on the _stoep_, and then called out
in very broken English.
"Hans Schiller," she called, "there's mens here." Then turning again
to the trappers she cried, "Vot for yo vant?"
Steve tapped the piled-up skins. "Pelts for exchange, madam," he said,
with a little bow. "We are waiting to see Hans Schiller. Ah, here he
is. Fill up your pipes, boys."
Steve had been to Hans Schiller before, and had gone all through
the excitement of trading with him. He remembered that on the last
occasion he was constantly interrupted by Jim or by Mac, and thought
that a pipe might help them to remain silent.
"That's the sort, boys," he said. "And just remember, a man can trade
best when he's left to himself. Keep a hold on your tongues. Howd'y
Mr. Schiller? It's a fine summer."
The Dutchman, who had just emerged from the doorway, thrust out a hot
and very fat hand, and allowed Steve to grip it, wincing as the strong
fingers squeezed him.
"Stop! These men are wild beasts," he exclaimed beneath his breath,
and in somewhat better English than his wife boasted. "He squeeze
my hand so last time, and the others always the same. Good day,
gentlemens. You vant me? Ah, you have some skins. That is sad, ver
sad."
He cast a swift look at the piled-up pelts as he exchanged a handshake
with Jim and Mac; and Steve, who watched him carefully, noticed that
a covetous look came over his fat face. But Hans was quick to smother
it.
"Ver sad indeet," he repeated, shaking his bald head. "You come to
Albany ver late. All the trapper come and gone perhaps month ago. I
hab bought many skin this summer."
"Then we'll not trouble you, Mr. Schiller," said Steve quickly, giving
Jim a knowing wink. "We came straight to you because we have always
been here. But if you've already bought as much as you want--why,
mates, we'll get on further."
It was ludicrous to watch the expression on the various faces. Mac,
with the quick wit of his race, grasped Steve's meaning and intention
in an instant, and puffing clouds of smoke from his pipe, rose to his
feet and shouldered one of the bales. But Jim possessed a somewhat
slower intelligence in such matters. He was no trader, and knew
nothing of the subtleties of bargaining. His mouth opened wide in his
consternation.
"Thunder!" he began. "Blest ef the lad----"
"Jim, what are you waiting for?" asked Steve suddenly. "Can't you
hear? Mr. Schiller's bought all he wants, and now we're off down the
town to the other folks. Bustle up. We want to get out of this as soon
as possible."
"Not so quick, frens," exclaimed Hans, putting a restraining hand on
Steve's shoulder and speaking in somewhat anxious tones. "I can buy
more if they are good. Sit down and let me see them. Gretchen!"
The three trappers returned to their seats, and the trading was
begun. Steve had a very good notion of the value of the skins, and he
knew that high prices were to be obtained for them in New York. He was
also aware that the trapper as a rule bore all the fatigue and risk of
getting the pelts, and was miserably rewarded. He was not avaricious,
but at the same time he knew the needs of his comrades, and, unlike
them, had the courage to face a possible failure in the negotiations.
"I shall be ruint! Indeet, you will take all that I hab," grumbled
Hans, when all the skins were displayed, and Steve had demanded more
than double the amount of powder, lead, and other commodities which
the Dutchman offered. "I shall be ruint! Nod anoder dollar's worth do
you hab. Dat is all. De last cent."
Steve smiled one of his easiest smiles and looked coaxingly at the
trader.
"Come, Mr. Schiller," he said pleasantly, "don't let it be said that
you lost such a chance. This is the finest lot of skins that you have
seen, that you admit. A pity if you let it go to the others farther
down the street. Come now, make another offer."
Not for one moment did he become flurried or lose that air of
confident assurance which he had worn from the very first. And after a
little while the deal was settled and the trio rose to go.
"Reckon you're the 'cutest feller as ever I set eyes on," said Jim, as
they trudged back to the camp, half a dozen of the Dutchman's negro
servants in their wake bearing sundry bales and boxes. "That 'ere
deal war the finest as ever I listened to, and, shucks! ain't you a
cool 'un! I didn't jest dare to look at yer too often, nor at Mac nor
Hans. I jest sat and smoked, gripping at me pipe ter keep meself from
splitting with laughter. Reckon it war better nor an Injun palaver,
and that 'ere Hans knew he was beat. Yer watched him give a gasp when
you was for movin'?"
"I did," answered Steve. "You can be sure that Hans Schiller lives and
grows fat on his earnings. He need never stir out of his house till
late in the summer. Then he floats down the Hudson in a flat-bottomed
boat, and trades his skins at New York for dollars. A few of those buy
the stuff he needs for trading with the trappers, and back he comes,
with a sack and more of dollars, and with nothing to do but smoke his
pipe all through the winter."
"We've had some friends enquiring after us," said Steve's father when
the three had returned to the camp. "A couple of Indians have been
questioning Silver Fox and Talking Bear. See them over there."
They swung round, and looking in the direction he indicated, caught
sight of a couple of feathered heads peeping from behind the trees.
"I don't like them fellers," said Jim quickly, staring at the heads
till they were withdrawn. "What air they after?"
"What do they and their sort generally want?" was Tom's rejoinder.
"Scalps and lead, and sich things as we've jest brought here," Jim
answered swiftly. "Reckon we'll have to keep an eye round for them
varmint. What do yer say, Silver Fox?"
He suddenly broke into the Mohawk tongue, which all understood, and
for a little while all joined in an earnest and low-toned conversation.
"They ain't after no good, I'll swear," said Jim, with emphasis.
"Reckon we'll have to go careful, mates."
"Then I vote that we give it out that we are staying here till
to-morrow or the next day," broke in Steve. "That will make them
keep a careless watch upon us perhaps, and to-night we can slip away
unseen."
It was a good suggestion, and brought a grunt of approval from Jim.
"It air a good idea, young feller," he said, as he smoked his pipe.
"Jest get out something to eat and pass it round. After that we'll put
in a sleep, as if we was fixed to stay here best part of a week. Ef
any one comes axin' questions, jest tell 'em what we've arranged."
At such a time all knew well that they could not be too careful,
for though a large number of French and their Indian allies would
not have ventured to Albany, seeing that this was undoubted British
territory, and the Dutch were partisans of the colonists, still the
sleepy little trading town was just the place where a roving band
of small dimensions might take up its quarters, or rather in its
immediate neighbourhood, sending some of their scouts into the town
to gather information. And a small band, such as Steve and his friends
comprised, with their store of powder and other trade goods, would be
a very valuable capture. They could not therefore be too careful, and
in order to make it appear as if they were intending to stay for a day
or more, Steve and Silver Fox lay down to sleep, while Tom and the
others lounged about the camp.
"Reckon I'll stroll along the houses," said Jim, after a while. "Maybe
I'll see some more of these 'ere fellows."
He rose to his feet without another word, and was on the point of
leaving the camp when Steve sat up.
"I'll come too, Jim," he cried out. "I can't sleep, and a little
exercise will do me good."
"Then hop along, young 'un. One of these days, when you've grown older
and ha' got more larnin', you'll find it's a wise man who puts in
sleep when he's the chance. Pick up that 'ere gun. Yer never knows
when a bullet won't be useful."
They left their friends lolling about the camp, and strolled into the
town. There were one or two stores to be found, and they hung about
these for a little while, staring with all a backwoodsman's curiosity
at the goods displayed for sale.
Then they strolled on again till they reached the far end of the
street.
"Reckon ther's one of them skunks a watchin'," said Jim, suddenly
stopping and calmly filling his pipe. "Jest you walk on, Steve, while
I get a light. It'll give me a chanst to turn round."
He sought for his tinder and steel, and began to strike the flint,
turning his back to the wind and to his young companion, who strolled
on. Two minutes later he had come up to Steve again.
"Jest stroll on as we air, easy like," he said in low tones. "I war
right. One of them redskin varmint's got his eyes on us."
"Then we'll slip into the wood up here, as if for a stroll, and when
we're hidden we'll turn and watch. What do you say, Jim?"
"That's the ticket, lad. Easy does it."
A little while later the two were making their way through the wood,
which grew densely close up to the houses at this end of Albany.
They threaded their way in amongst the trees in single file, each
unslinging his musket as he stepped out of sight of the road. When
they had gone a quarter of a mile Jim came to a sudden halt.
"Jest take cover, Steve," he said softly. "I'll get ahead, so as to
let that Injun guess we're still movin'. When he comes along, stand up
in his way. That'll put a stop to his little game for to-day at any
rate, and'll let him see as we're awake."
A moment later the crash of brushwood being swept aside told that Jim
was pushing on into the wood, making far more noise then he would
otherwise have done. Steve took his stand in a dense mass of bush,
and stepping on to the trunk of a fallen tree, kept a careful watch
on the track which they had just covered. And very soon he caught a
fleeting glimpse of a feathered head, and of the tip of a barrel.
Within three minutes a painted redskin suddenly came into full view,
his eyes glued on the track. He was stepping along at a rapid pace,
his nostrils distended, his feet making not a sound as he trod, and
all his senses engaged in tracking those who had preceded him. As
he came opposite the bush, Steve stepped out without so much as a
rustle and confronted the man, causing him to come to a sudden stop.
For once the coolness of an Indian was upset. He gave a low grunt of
astonishment, and in a twinkling his musket was presented at Steve's
head. For just one brief instant our hero stared into the barrel, and
then, quick as thought, he ducked. There was a loud report, a tongue
of flame and smoke spurted almost into his face, and his coon-skin cap
was lifted from his head and carried into the bush behind. Then, long
before he could use his own weapon, the Indian was upon him, his keen
tomahawk gleaming in his hand. Lucky it was for Steve that the stock
of his musket caught the blade of the Indian's weapon, for had it not
done so, his head would have been crushed by the blow. But though
taken unawares, fortune was on his side, and an involuntary movement
warded off the blow. Then he dropped his musket, grasped the Indian's
arm, and in an instant they were rolling on the ground in a death
struggle, the redskin making frantic efforts to strike with his
tomahawk, while Steve gripped the red-painted throat with his fingers,
and clung there with all his strength. Not a cry did either give. It
was one of those silent and desperate contests which the backwoods had
often seen, and nothing but the gasping breaths of the combatants told
what was happening.
[Illustration: "THE INDIAN WAS UPON HIM, HIS KEEN TOMAHAWK GLEAMING IN
HIS HAND"]
"Reckon that war a close shave, young 'un," said Jim, in his quiet
voice, some few minutes later, staring at Steve as he lay breathing
heavily on the ground. "That 'ere varmint was out to kill, and didn't
reckon as you'd get a grip of his throat so early. Take a word from
Jim. When you've got the best of an Injun, never feel safe till he's
dead. There ain't nothing in this world to touch 'em for cunnin'. He
knew you was holding his tomahawk arm, and in another half minute he'd
have been strangled. So he dropped his blade and used his two hands to
shake yer off. Lucky I come along."
Jim had indeed arrived just in the nick of time, and it was well for
Steve that his tomahawk had put a sudden end to the contest.
"Reckon it'll be a case of walk quick," said Jim, after a few moments'
silence. "We can hide this here critter for a few hours, maybe a day
or more. But they'll find him sure enough, and then there'll be a
howl. Best get back to the camp." He then picked the dead man up,
and stepping some yards away into the thickest bush, placed the body
beside a fallen trunk.
"They'd find that as easy as walk," he said, as he returned, "but
we'll put 'em off the trail. Come along, young 'un. We'll get back to
the camp."
"And what about the other Indian?" said Steve suddenly. "He's watching
there, isn't he?"
"Reckon that's so, Steve."
"Do you think that he and this man were alone, Jim?" asked our hero.
"You ain't so 'cute by half as I thought yer," was the answer. "Reckon
there's a band of 'em that has made Albany their station. Like as not
they've wiped out a power of small trading trappers. These here chaps
air their scouts."
"Then let's find the band and take a look at them. Look here, Jim,
we'll make through the wood till close to the camp, and pick up the
tracks of these scouts. Then we'll----"
It was comical to watch Jim as he grasped his young companion's
intentions. He swept his skin cap from his head, and darted a keen
look at him.
"That air 'cute," he said. "Reckon I withdraws what I've said. That
air the movement for us."
Without further conversation they struck off into the forest, Steve
following closely in the wake of the hunter, and neither making
so much as a sound. Presently, when they judged that they were
approaching their own camp, they came to a halt.
"I've been thinkin' of that 'ere gun shot," said Jim. "But these trees
has made it safe. Reckon no one at this end has heard the sound. Let's
divide."
A quarter of an hour later, when they came together at the same spot,
Steve was able to report that he had come upon a trail in the forest,
and that the marks showed plainly that it had been used by two men at
least, and probably by half a dozen.
"It's been in use for a couple of months, I should say, Jim, and I
think that quite a number must have been along it. There are fresh
marks of two moccasined feet."
"Then we'll strike along it and see where it takes us, young feller,"
was the answer. "We've dropped upon somethin' as may save our scalps.
Jest strike off for it. I seed that other varmint keepin' watch on the
camp. He ain't got a thought that his brother has gone to the happy
huntin' grounds. That 'ere shot never come to his ears, or else he'd
have been looking into the matter by now. Reckon the strong wind and
the trees drowned it."
They stood for a few moments preparing their muskets, each powdering
the pan afresh, and looking to the flint, for a misfire might have
disastrous consequences. Then Steve led the way, and in a little while
they had struck into the trail which he had found. An hour's fast
walking took them some six miles into the forest, when, seeing that
the trail still went on, they broke into a dog trot, which both were
well able to keep up for hours at a time. As it happened, however,
another hour took them to some rising ground, where the forest grew as
thick as ever, and where other tracks, many of them quite fresh ones
too, told them that they were in the immediate neighbourhood of a camp.
"That air the whiff of terbacca," said Jim, raising his voice barely
to a whisper, and sniffing at the air like a dog. "We're makin' up
wind, Steve, and ef I ain't right, why----"
"It's smoke," answered Steve with conviction. "Let's get on."
Stealing forward with their bodies close to the ground, it was not
long before the two came in sight of the camp. It was similar to any
other trapper's camp in its surroundings. There was a fire in the
centre of a narrow clearing, and three or four rough skin shelters
were erected under the shadow of the trees. Lounging round the fire
were some twenty redskins, while a squaw was busily engaged in tending
some cooking pots which swung over the flames.
"This air a find," whispered Jim, squeezing Steve's arm. "These here
critters has come to stay, and I reckon there ain't any other redskins
within miles, or else this camp would ha' been discovered long ago. A
hul tribe might camp under the noses of these fat Dutchmen without a
one bein' the wiser."
"And just look at their stores," whispered Steve, pointing to a number
of barrels and sacks and bales piled up beneath one of the skin
shelters.
"The critters!" growled Jim. "That air the trade of many a small band
of trappers same as us. Reckon them chaps has plenty of scalps. Look
thar!"
This time there was an unusual amount of emphasis in his words, while
his long brown hand shot out, and a finger pointed to the other side
of the camp, where one solitary figure was seated. Steve followed his
finger, saw the man and watched with dilating eyes as he rose and
turned towards them. He was a pale face, a white man like themselves,
tanned and weather-beaten, and some twenty-five years of age. He was
decked as an Indian, and resembled them exactly, save for the fact
that his face was not painted.
An exclamation of dismay burst from Steve. He crouched still lower
in the bushes, and then silently withdrew, fearful lest this white
man should see him. Jim, too, slid silently away, and very soon the
two were speeding back to their own camp at a fast trot, their senses
fully alert and their thoughts occupied with the white man and the
band of Indians whom they had just discovered. A little later they
turned to the left, crept undetected into the town, and strolled in
the most casual way into the camp. No one looked up as they entered,
but all had been anxiously awaiting them, that was evident, for the
eyes of their comrades stole across in their direction, their long
absence having roused the fears of the others.
"Air dinner ready?" asked Jim casually. "Then suppose we set down to
it."
"We're in a muss," he said some little while later, as all squatted
about the fire. "One of them critters that was watchin' followed us
through the town and into the wood. It war almost a case with Steve.
But we dropped the man. After that we struck the track at the back of
this camp, and come upon the band. Boys, there air twenty of 'em at
least, and wuss than all there's a Frenchman leadin'. It's that 'ere
Jules from over the water."
An exclamation of amazement and dismay burst from the listeners, for
Jules Lapon had won an unenviable reputation during the past three
years. During that period hundreds of peaceful settlers and backwoods
people had been butchered by the Red Indians, hounded on by the
French, and in many cases French colonists and regular soldiers had
been with them. Bands of desperadoes had ranged the forests, and of
these there was none more cruel, more successful and more feared than
that of Jules Lapon, a young Frenchman who had settled some years
before within a few miles of Tom Mainwaring's quarters. No wonder that
the small band of trappers stared aghast at Jim for some few minutes.
Then they found their voices, and began to discuss their future
movements.
"Reckon there ain't any doubt as to what's to be done," said Jim. "Ef
we stay here till the winter falls, they'll still be waitin'. These
here Dutchmen can't give no protection, so we're bound to look to
ourselves. We'll have to git, and the sooner the better."