ON THE MARCH
“Time to start, Bob!”
The first faint streaks of light were illuminating the eastern sky as
Joseph shook his brother and roused him from his slumbers.
“All ready,” cried Robert, wide awake at once. Life in the woods and on
the prairies teaches one to waste little time either in going to sleep
or in getting up in the morning.
“Deerfoot is looking after the horses,” said Joseph. “As soon as we have
washed we’ll be ready for a bite of breakfast and then we must join the
others. They’ll start soon, I think.”
Many of their comrades fell in with the two boys as they made their way
down to the bank of the stream. There was much laughter and much
splashing and puffing as the men drove the last cobwebs of sleep from
their brains. Everyone was in high spirits. They all seemed to look upon
the affair in the nature of a great picnic, instead of actual warfare.
The two brothers could not help being affected by the hilarity. Robert
was especially susceptible. He was more impulsive than Joseph and was
readily swayed by his ever changing moods. One moment he was discouraged
and gloomy and then a few moments later all his troubles were forgotten
and his spirits rose accordingly.
“Isn’t this fun, Joe?” he exclaimed enthusiastically, as they stood on
the shore and watched the antics of their comrades.
“It is now,” agreed Joseph, who was of a quieter and more conservative
nature. “But how long it will continue to be fun, I don’t know.”
“Don’t be so discouraged,” laughed Robert.
“I’m not discouraged,” said Joseph quietly. “I can’t help but think
though that some of these men take this affair too lightly.”
“Not at all,” Robert persisted. “Get into the spirit of the thing and
forget your troubles for a while.”
“I thought you were worrying about this being the thirteenth of the
month,” observed Joseph, a half smile on his lips.
“That’s so,” exclaimed Robert suddenly. “I had forgotten all about that
for a moment,” and immediately his high spirits departed and he became
quiet and thoughtful. “Let’s go back to the tent,” he urged a moment
later, and all the way back he was silent and was evidently troubled.
Joseph said nothing, but he was secretly amused at the sudden change in
his younger brother. He had seen just such sudden transformations in him
before, however, and he knew that at any moment the pendulum might swing
back and Robert become cheerful again.
“Dinner ready,” announced Deerfoot, as they came to the tent. The Indian
called every meal dinner, no matter what time of day it happened to be.
“All right, Deerfoot,” exclaimed Robert, his spirits reviving already at
the sight of food. “We are ready, too.”
No time was lost in disposing of the meal the Pottowattomie had cooked
and well it was that there was no delay, for hardly had they finished
when the bugle sounded. Joseph and Robert quickly grasped their rifles
and after assuring themselves that the guns were in proper order and
that their supply of ammunition was sufficient, sprang upon the backs of
their horses. The animals had been used but little recently and as a
result of their good care they were in fine fettle. It was some moments
before the two young volunteers could calm down their mounts
sufficiently to enable them to join the others.
Finally, however, they succeeded in obtaining control of the beasts and
in company with Deerfoot cantered to the place where the men were
forming. Nearly three hundred and fifty there were all together and the
command to advance was soon given. Major Stillman was at their head and
they trotted out of Dixon’s Ferry spurred on by the cheers of General
Whiteside’s men who were left behind.
Walt had now joined his two young friends and their Indian ally. He rode
side by side with them and laughed and joked continually.
“Good-bye,” he called gaily to an acquaintance, who stood nearby. “Sorry
you aren’t going with us.”
“You’re lucky dogs,” was the man’s only comment on Walt’s remark.
“That’s the way I feel about it myself,” exclaimed Walt to his
companions. “We’re going out to have some fun and those poor fellows
have to stay at home. We’ll probably finish the whole business up and
not give them a chance to do anything.”
“It’s the thirteenth today, don’t forget that,” warned Robert.
Walt only laughed and soon dropped behind to chat with some friend of
his in the company. The advance was most disorderly. No regular
formation was attempted and the men were soon scattered and spread over
a considerable space. The only apparent plan seemed to be to follow the
course of the Rock River and this was done, each man practically acting
upon his own responsibility. They proceeded leisurely, Major Stillman
apparently being in no hurry. A stop was made for dinner in the middle
of the day and that night camp was pitched in a grove of oak trees not
far from the bank of the river.
Fires were soon burning brightly and the smell of food cooking reminded
every one just how hungry he was. A day on horseback produced a hearty
appetite and full justice was done to the meal. Many of these
backwoodsmen were excellent cooks too. They were in the habit of often
preparing their own meals and had really become expert in the art of
plain cooking.
“This is what I like!” exclaimed Robert when the meal was over and they
were seated about the camp fire. At this particular blaze were eight or
ten men gathered and many similar groups were to be seen on all sides of
them. The men were rough and hearty frontiersmen and it was a great
treat to the two brothers to listen to some of the tales that were told
of hunting and fishing adventures.
“So you like this, do you, Red?” said one of the men.
“You mean me?” demanded Robert quickly.
“I should say I did,” laughed the man, a big, burly trapper. “I never
saw any hair redder’n yours in my life.”
Everyone present laughed at this remark, much to Robert’s displeasure.
What irritated him most of all, however, was the fact that his brother
laughed much louder than anyone else.
“Look here!” said Robert angrily. “You’d better not laugh at me. If I
had hair the color of yours I think I’d keep pretty quiet. I’d rather
have red hair than tow-colored.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Joseph, still laughing at the
allusion to his brother’s hair. “Mine suits me first rate.”
“You’re easily pleased,” muttered Robert, but no one heard him.
“It’s too bad Deerfoot hasn’t blue hair,” said the man who had begun the
conversation. “Then we’d have the American colors, red, white and blue.
We could put these three up in front for a flag.”
Fresh laughter broke out at this remark and both boys joined in it now.
Everything was said in a spirit of fun, and Robert was quick to realize
how silly it was to lose his temper. It is no fun to tease a man who
laughs at your teasing.
“Let’s stop talking about hair and hear something about pelts,” said
Walt. “Tell us how you got those three panther skins I saw down at your
cabin last month.”
He addressed his remarks to the man who had called Robert “Red.” This
trapper was evidently a great favorite with the men and one whom they
looked up to and respected. His name was John Mason and he had
originally come from Massachusetts. That is, he had left that part of
the country when he was only five years old, and had migrated west with
his parents. They had settled in Wisconsin and there he had learned the
business of trapping and had followed it ever since he had been old
enough to engage in it.
“Did I tell you the experience my father had?” inquired Mason. “How he
was lost in the woods soon after we came west?”
“Not that I remember,” Walt replied, and the others seated about the
fire shook their heads in token that they had never heard the tale
either.
“Well,” began Mason, “it was soon after we had arrived from the East. Of
course I don’t remember it very well, but I’ve often heard my father
relate the story. It seems we had arrived at our future home in the
summer time; my father and mother, myself and my father’s dog, a noble
and intelligent animal he called Robin, because when he was a puppy he
had once caught a young bird of that species. We settled down near the
bank of a small stream and my father set to work clearing a space in the
forest for us, and in building a house for us to live in.
“It was no easy task for one man, equipped only with an axe, to level
much of the forest round about, and in addition to that we had a home to
build. My mother could help some, however, and together they finally
erected a cabin. It was small, but it was snug and promised good shelter
against the blasts of winter. It took some time to do all this though,
and cold weather was at hand by the time the cabin was completed and a
fair-sized space had been cleared.
“Winter approached and we had a home, and the beginnings of a farm. It
had taken a good many weeks to acquire these things, however, and my
father had had time for little else. Consequently our store of meat for
the long, cold months was very low. Father had had little chance to
hunt. He set out one morning, his gun over his shoulder, Robin at his
heels and a small supply of jerked venison in his game bag. He was in
hopes of bagging a buck, which would feed us for a long time.
“Several miles he walked through the forest. Usually game abounded in
this region, undisturbed except by an occasional Indian hunter. This
time, however, father saw nothing except a flock of wild turkeys which
flew away before he could get a shot. All the morning and into the
afternoon he tramped through the woods and over the hills. Along toward
the middle of the afternoon he suddenly spied a large stag. Ordering
Robin to follow ‘at heel’ he crept cautiously along in an attempt to get
a good shot at the deer.
“Just before he came within range, however, the buck suddenly took
fright and bounded away. My father followed his trail eagerly, mile
after mile. Night was almost at hand when he discovered his game
standing on a large rock, his figure clearly outlined against the sky.
Closer and closer father crept and finally raised his gun and fired. The
deer leaped high into the air as the shot rang out and fell to the earth
dead. Father ran forward joyfully and a few moments later had the buck
on his back and was headed for home.
“For the first time he noticed that snow had begun to fall. It was the
first snow of the winter and soon covered the ground and the branches of
the nearby trees. Father had traveled many miles that day and now was
far from home. He knew the country only slightly and now that the snow
was on the ground it was hard to recognize landmarks. Things look vastly
different in winter from what they do in summer and father had never
seen this part of the country in its winter coat. Meanwhile, the storm
constantly increased in fury.
“On and on father plodded. The stag was across his shoulder and Robin
followed whimpering at his heels. Father was worried now; he was fast
tiring and he felt more sure every moment that he had lost his way.
Night now covered the land and the snow drifted in like some great white
robe. It was bitterly cold, and constantly growing colder. The thought
of his wife and boy was all that kept him going. His strength was fast
waning, however, and he finally succumbed to the irresistible desire he
felt to lie down in the snow and go to sleep. He dropped his burden and
fell forward, almost too weak to move.”
“Did he die?” demanded Walt as the story teller stopped speaking.
“No, indeed,” replied Mason. “Here comes the remarkable part of the
story. When father sank to the ground Robin immediately started for
home. How he knew where it was and how to get there I never could see.
At any rate my mother heard him whine and scratch at the door. It was
after midnight and she was nearly distracted by fear and anxiety. She
could easily see by Robin’s actions that he wished her to follow him,
and putting on a great fur coat she went quickly out into the blinding
storm.
“Urged on by Robin’s eagerness to have her hurry she floundered and
ploughed her way through the drifts until she came to the place where
father was lying. He was unconscious when she reached him. My mother was
a large woman and very strong for one of her sex. Lucky for all of us
that she was, too, for it was necessary for her practically to carry my
father all the way back to the cabin, nearly a half-mile. You see,
father had almost reached home himself though he hadn’t known it. Well,
she finally got him there and after hours of hard work revived him. For
many days he lay sick, but with mother’s constant care he finally
recovered entirely. He also fetched the stag home when he became able to
go out. There it had lain covered deep in the snow, frozen stiff and as
sound as ever.
“I just told this little story,” concluded Mason, “to show you how hard
some of us worked for our homes. Now that we have them we don’t want the
Indians to take them away from us.”
A cheer greeted this remark. These men were always willing to applaud
anything that meant trouble for the Indians.
“That was a good story, Mason,” remarked Walt a moment later. “It shows
you had a wonderful mother, doesn’t it?”
“It does indeed,” agreed Mason. “It shows father had a wonderful dog,
too. Without him my mother would never have had the chance to do what
she did.”
“Quite right,” exclaimed Walt heartily and murmurs of approval were
heard on all sides.
“Yes, sir,” continued Mason. “My father loved old Robin almost as much
as he did me. I love dogs myself and I wouldn’t be without one for
anything. Some men are bad and some are good, but I tell you all dogs
are good. You can believe everything they tell you.”
“Gracious, I’ve talked a lot tonight,” he added laughingly. “I’m going
to stop now though and turn in. Tomorrow may be a hard day. Good night,
Red, and everybody else,” he called as he disappeared into the darkness.