THE SWALLOW
For a moment Joseph was too stunned to move. Shaking all over with
anguish he stood still and looked at the blood-stained trophy fastened
at the Indian’s belt. The hair was exactly the color of Robert’s, and
Joseph felt sure that his brother had fallen a victim to this redskinned
warrior. A great sob rose in the boy’s throat and the tears welled up
into his eyes, as he stood on the prairie and gazed at what he
considered the proof of his brother’s death.
“The only one left,” thought Joseph. “My whole family wiped out by Black
Hawk. Thank goodness, I am still here and I swear I’ll have revenge.” He
clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as he thought of all he had
suffered at the hands of the savages.
How long he stood in this place he did not know. It might have been
seconds and it might have been hours, as far as he was concerned, for
the young pioneer had lost all sense of time. He was completely wrapped
up in his own thoughts. A coyote barked and at the sound Joseph raised
his head. He looked about him, but the only sign of life he saw was the
two ponies browsing quietly nearby.
“I’d better get out of here,” exclaimed the young volunteer suddenly.
“There’s no telling how soon those other savages may be on my trail if
that fellow whose horse I shot only gives the alarm.” He started to
remove the scalp from the Indian’s belt, but suddenly drew back. “I
can’t! I can’t touch it!” he moaned. He turned and walked toward the
place where his horse was feeding. The animal raised its head and
watched Joseph’s approach, but made no effort to escape.
The young pioneer grasped the bridle and was about to climb into the
saddle when a sudden idea struck him. “Why not take the other pony,
too?” he thought. Surely it was a beautiful animal and much faster than
any horse Joseph had seen among the volunteers. A few moments later he
was seated astride the spotted pony on his way to Dixon’s Ferry. With
one hand he led his own horse and at a good rate of speed jogged forward
on his way.
His new mount had a remarkable gait, which Joseph could not help
admiring. Joseph’s heart was heavy and his spirits were low, but in
spite of his sorrowful feelings, he did not fail to realize that the
pony which had fallen into his hands was a prize. “The kind of a horse
I’ve always wanted to own but never expected to,” he thought.
Hour after hour he jogged across the prairie until at last he spied
Dixon’s Ferry in the distance. No sign of the enemy had appeared
throughout the day, though Joseph had taken pains to search the horizon
every few moments. The end of his journey was in sight, though this
knowledge gave but little pleasure to the young volunteer. He kept
wondering what he should do now that he was left alone, bereft of
parents, sisters and brother.
Coming into Dixon’s Ferry, Joseph met a large force as it was departing
from the little settlement. General Whiteside was in command and the
object of the expedition was to bury the dead left on the battlefield by
Major Stillman. General Atkinson had now arrived with his troops and
Dixon’s Ferry presented a busy scene. The fight of the previous day was
the main topic of conversation and consternation and bewilderment had
taken possession of the men.
Joseph rode quietly through the camp, searching eagerly for a familiar
face. He did not arouse any particular comment as he came in with his
two horses, for more than a thousand men were departing with General
Whiteside at just that time and the young volunteer was overlooked in
the crowd. Suddenly he spied Deerfoot, seated under a large tree smoking
his long pipe. His back was toward Joseph, so that he approached close
to the Indian without being seen.
“Deerfoot!” Joseph called, as he stopped his horses under the tree where
the Pottowattomie was seated.
The Indian jumped to his feet as if he had been a jumping-jack. His pipe
fell to the ground and broke into a thousand bits while he stared at
Joseph with startled eyes. For once he forgot to mask his feelings.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Joseph in amazement.
“Me thought you dead,” said Deerfoot in an awestruck voice.
“Not at all. I’d just as lief be, though.”
Deerfoot stared and stared at his young friend as if he could not
believe his eyes. Finally he apparently convinced himself that it was no
apparition that he saw, and his gaze shifted to the horse Joseph rode.
Once more he started perceptibly. “Where you get that pony?” he
demanded.
“I captured him.”
“Where his rider?”
“He’s dead.”
“You shoot him?” asked Deerfoot.
“Yes.”
“You not catch him when he ride that pony,” said the Indian decidedly.
“No,” said Joseph, “he caught me.” He proceeded to tell Deerfoot of his
encounter on the prairie and how he had finally shot his pursuer. “You
act as though you had seen this pony before, Deerfoot,” he added.
“Sure that The Swallow,” said Deerfoot quietly.
“The Swallow?” repeated Joseph. “How does it happen that you know his
name and recognized him when you saw him?”
“Everyone know that pony,” replied Deerfoot.
“Why do they?” Joseph demanded.
“He fastest horse in country.”
“What!” exclaimed the young frontiersman. “The fastest horse in the
country, you say? What do you mean?”
“He called The Swallow,” said Deerfoot. “He run as fast as swallow fly.”
“Whew!” whistled Joseph in amazement. “It looks as though I had found a
pretty good horse, doesn’t it? Who owned him?”
“White Owl,” replied Deerfoot. “He one of Black Hawk young men.”
“Do you suppose it was White Owl I killed?”
“That so. He no let any other ride pony.”
“Well,” exclaimed Joseph bitterly, “I’m glad I killed him and got his
horse. I’d give him back both if I could, if he’d only return what he
took from me.”
“What he take from you?” asked Deerfoot.
“I guess you know as well as I do,” cried Joseph, his voice choking with
emotion. “If you’d seen the scalp he had, you’d know. If Robert isn’t
dead, why isn’t he with you now?”
“Because he’s been down taking a swim in Rock River,” said a voice
nearby, and turning around Joseph saw his brother standing not five feet
distant from the spot where he and Deerfoot were talking. His teeth
showed in a radiant smile, while his hair seemed redder than ever
before.
“Bob!” exclaimed Joseph. “I thought you were dead.”
“Far from it,” laughed Robert. “I consider myself one of the liveliest
people in camp.”
“But I saw your scalp,” protested Joseph.
“You see it now, you mean,” said Robert. “It is right on the top of my
head, just where it has always been.”
“Why,” said Joseph, “I killed an Indian out on the prairie who had two
scalps at his belt. One of them had red hair, just the color of yours. I
was sure you had been killed.”
“Not I,” laughed Robert. “Deerfoot and I wasted no time on the prairie.
We were among the first to reach Dixon’s. We were worried about you,
though. When you didn’t turn up we were almost sure you had been killed.
What have you been doing all this time and how did you escape?”
Joseph related his experiences again and then some moments were spent in
admiring Joseph’s new horse, The Swallow. “He is certainly a beauty!”
exclaimed Robert enthusiastically. “I can easily see that everyone is
going to be very jealous of you, Joe.”
“Let them!” laughed Joseph. “They can do anything they want, but they
can’t take my pony and they can’t catch him either.”
Deerfoot again appeared at this moment, bringing some food for Joseph.
When the young man’s hunger had been appeased and the horses had been
cared for, the three companions set out for a tour of the camp.
Everywhere were little excited groups of men talking about the battle.
Some of the men had not even returned to Dixon’s Ferry, but had kept
right on to their homes, having had enough of Indian warfare.
One gathering contained faces familiar to the boys and this one they
joined. Walt was in the center doing most of the talking.
“Yes,” he was saying, “just as I passed that ravine at least a hundred
Indians came tearing out at me. They were yelling like a pack of wolves
and firing off their guns as fast as they could load them. I shot two of
them, but they were too many and I finally decided to run for it. I have
the satisfaction of knowing that I finished a couple of them anyway.”
“Where was that ravine, Walt?” asked Joseph curiously.
“Hello, there, my boy!” exclaimed Walt, catching sight of Joseph. “Glad
to see you back. We were afraid you had fallen by the wayside. Why, that
ravine I was speaking of was near a clump of woods about a mile this
side of where our camp was pitched.”
“How many Indians did you say came out of there?”
“Why, about seventy-five or a hundred. What are you laughing at?” he
demanded as a smile overspread Joseph’s face.
“Nothing,” replied Joseph quietly, “except this: I spent most of last
night in that ravine you were describing.”
“What if you did?” exclaimed Walt warmly. “That doesn’t say a hundred or
more Indians didn’t charge out from there earlier, does it?”
“Well, I don’t know,” mused Joseph. “The trouble with your story is
this: I reached that gully before any of the Indians. I hid there all
night and I counted every Indian that pursued our men. I counted them as
they went out and I counted them again as they came back, just to make
sure they had all returned.”
“Do you insinuate that I am a liar?” cried Walt, half rising to his
feet.
“I insinuate nothing,” replied Joseph coolly. “I am merely stating
facts.”
Silence reigned in the little company. The men gathered there looked
curiously from one to the other of the speakers. The situation was tense
and for a moment it seemed as if there might be trouble.
“All right then,” said Walt in response to Joseph’s statement. “Tell us
how many Indians you counted.” The trapper’s tone was contemptuous, for
he had been piqued at the way the two brothers threatened him when he
made remarks about Deerfoot and he still held his grudge.
“How many do you think there were?” Joseph demanded.
“Don’t you know yourself? I thought you counted them.”
“I did. I just wondered if you had any idea of the number.”
“Well,” said Walt, “I should say that at least five hundred attacked us
originally. Probably not more than two-thirds of that number chased us
very far. When we passed that ravine I was speaking of, there were about
three hundred or three hundred and fifty.”
Joseph laughed outright at this. “What’s the joke?” demanded Walt hotly.
“Do you want to know just how many there were?”
“Of course we do.”
“Well,” said Joseph, “there were exactly twenty-five.”
A howl of derision not only from Walt but from the whole company greeted
this remark. The men looked at Joseph contemptuously.
“Your night out must have affected your head,” said Walt sneeringly.
“Nothing of the kind,” exclaimed Joseph warmly, and hot-headed Robert
drew a bit closer to his brother in case there should be trouble. “I
counted twenty-five and that’s all there were. I don’t believe there
were over fifty opposed to us at any time.”
“Poor boy! Poor boy,” moaned Walt pityingly. “He’s either out of his
head or he never learned how to count.”
“Look here,” cried Joseph, thoroughly aroused. “I know what I’m talking
about and I’m telling the truth, and that’s more than you are. I saw you
pass me and if ever a man was scared, you were. Your face was as white
as chalk and you were running like a scared rabbit. And when you say you
killed two Indians, you lie.”
Walt sprang to his feet, his face livid. He struggled to reach Joseph,
but was restrained by his companions. For some moments the excitement
was intense and it was a puzzle as to how the difficulty would be
settled.
“Look here,” exclaimed one of the men. “One of these men is a liar,
that’s sure. Which one it is I can’t say, though I’m inclined to think
it is this boy here who says he counted only twenty-five Indians.
Suppose we make him prove his statement.”
“Can you do it?” whispered Robert in his brother’s ear.
“No, of course not,” said Joseph. “I have nothing but my word.”
“We’ll fight the whole gang, then,” exclaimed Robert.
“I wouldn’t believe that boy on oath now,” cried Walt, still trying to
wrench himself free from those who were holding him. “Next thing he’ll
be trying to tell us that he captured The Swallow from White Owl and
brought him back to camp.”
“That’s just exactly what I did do,” exclaimed Joseph.