CONCLUSION.
The awaking of the boys was of the most pleasant character. The sky had
cleared and the sunlight penetrated between the branches from which the
autumn leaves were fast falling. The crispness which is felt at that
season of the year, stirred the young hearts and enlivened the spirits
in spite of the serious situation in which all three found themselves.
The odor of broiling fish was snuffed by the lads, and nothing could
have been more delicious and appetizing. They were very hungry, and the
night before they supposed they would have to wait indefinitely for
their morning meal, but they opened their eyes to find that Deerfoot had
provided the most toothsome breakfast that could be imagined.
In the early morning light, fully two hours before the sun appeared,
Deerfoot crossed the stream in his own canoe, and, taking the trail,
ran several miles at the highest speed. While he did not go far enough
to see the camp-fire of the main war party of Winnebagos, he did not
pause until certain that they had stayed in camp all night and would not
cross the stream where the boys lay asleep until the forenoon was half
gone. So the Shawanoe hastened back, and dropped a short distance down
stream in his canoe, having obtained his paddle, to an eddy where it
took but a few minutes for him to coax a half dozen fish from the cool,
clear depths, and these were just browning to a turn when the boys
opened their eyes.
Fred and Terry looked in each other's faces and laughed. They knew what
an absurd failure they had made. They had promised to watch while
Deerfoot slept, and then left him to act as sentinel until morning.
"It was your fault," whispered Fred, hunting in his pocket for the
package of salt and pepper which survived, despite the wetting it had
received; "why didn't you wake me up, as I told you to do?"
"How could I wake ye up when I was aslaap mesilf?" was the pertinent
query of Terry; "I think I was only a half minute behind yersilf in
beginning me swate dreams."
"Even if you had roused me," said Fred, "I suppose I would have dropped
to sleep the same as you; no one can keep awake (unless it is Deerfoot)
while sitting on the ground. Well, I am sure I shan't say any thing
about it if _he_ doesn't."
"Let us shake on that," whispered Terry, stealthily extending his hand.
Deerfoot acted as though unaware that any such lapse had occurred. The
browned fish were spread on the green leaves, and Fred sprinkled the
seasoning upon the portions to be eaten by himself and Terry; the
Shawanoe preferred none on his.
"If nothing unexpected happens," said Fred, "we will arrive at the cabin
to-day."
The Shawanoe inclined his head by way of answer.
"When will the Winnebagos that are following us come to this stream?"
Deerfoot pointed to a portion of the sky which the sun would reach in
about three hours from that time.
"The Winnebagos are together; there may be a few coming from different
parts of the wood, but Black Bear has most of his warriors with him, and
he feels strong enough to destroy the cabin and our brothers who are
there."
"There are three there now, and when we join them there will be six. If
father and the rest have fair notice of their coming, they ought to be
able to put every thing in good shape for a defense. It won't take them
long to gather enough food to last for weeks, but how about water?"
"They have no water; our brothers know not why they should have it."
The Shawanoe meant to say that the men, seeing no reason why they should
collect any store of water within their primitive structure, never did
so. It was at their door, and, when they wished to drink, they had but
to stoop down and drink. Believing no such emergency as now threatened
could arise, they failed to make any provision against it.
"I've been thinkin'," said Terry, "that bein' as how we started from
Greville to j'in the Hunters of the Ozark, with the idaa of spindin' the
winter with the same, that from the time we started we were mimbers of
the same, but timporarily separated by a wide stritch of woods; what are
yer own idaas?"
"I am not sure that I understand what you are trying to get at, but if
you mean to say that we may call ourselves two of the Hunters of the
Ozark, I see no objection if we are a few days behind the rest in
reaching the beaver runs."
"Oblige me by tistifying to the same," said Terry, rather effusively,
shoving his hand toward his friend, who suspended operations with the
fish long enough to salute him.
The breakfast was quickly finished, and the boys helped each other with
their knapsacks, caught up their guns and followed Deerfoot as he led
the way back to the trail. He did not hint any thing about their failure
to keep guard for him the night before, though they felt sure that they
would hear from him at some time not very far distant.
When they found themselves following the path that had become so
familiar, they glanced furtively behind, half expecting to hear the
Winnebago war whoop and to see the warriors rushing after them; but not
a living soul beside themselves was in sight, and the quiet assurance of
their leader very nearly removed all such fear from them.
"Are there any more streams to cross?" asked Fred, a moment after they
started along the trail.
"There are none."
"That is good, and since we are several hours in advance of the Indians,
we ought to be able to reach the cabin in time to give them warning,
that is, if they are in need of it."
"How can they help being in need?" asked Terry.
"The horses were turned loose to look after themselves, and though I
can't know for some time how it is, it seems to me that it could well
happen that they would not miss the animals for several days and
possibly not for a week or two."
The best ground for doubting that the Hunters of the Ozark were aware of
the theft of the horses was the fact that there had been no pursuit.
Those men, it is safe to say, would not have stayed idle had they known
that three vagabond Indians were astride of their property and riding to
the northward. With the three fleeter animals at command, they would
have been after them in a twinkling: they would not have been obliged to
wait till they met Fred Linden before receiving some rifle shots.
Fred was confirmed in this theory by Deerfoot, who declared that such
was his explanation of the failure of the hunters to pursue the thieves.
For two hours the trail which they were following steadily ascended,
until they were considerably higher than when they left camp in the
morning. The undergrowth was abundant, and the wood in some places was
so dense that they could see only a short distance on either hand. The
trail was sinuous, winding in and out among the rocks in a way that
would have bewildered any one not used to such traveling.
At last they reached the ridge of the elevation up which they had been
climbing, and found themselves on the margin of a plateau or rather
valley, beyond which rose the rugged, precipitous Ozarks. Since the
ground sloped away from them, in the direction of the mountains, their
view was extended over many square miles of forest, stream and natural
clearing, to the mountain walls beyond, looking dim and soft in the
distance, with the hazy air between.
"Do my brothers see the gleam of the water yonder?" asked Deerfoot,
pointing to a winding stream, large enough to be called a river, though
it was half hidden by the woods. Its course was in the main at right
angles to the trail which the boys had been following, though, at times
it seemed to run straight toward and then away from them.
The youths answered that they could not very well look in the direction
indicated by their friend, without seeing the stream to which he
directed their attention.
The Shawanoe placed himself so that he stood in front of the two.
"Now," said he, "let my brothers follow Deerfoot's finger and tell me
what they see."
Pointing well to the right, he slowly swung his index finger toward the
left, until he had described about a quarter of a circle.
Since it was not easy for the two to look exactly at the point meant, at
the same time, Terry Clark first tried it. Removing his cap, he closed
one eye and carefully peered along the extended arm of the Shawanoe as
though it was a rifle which he was about to aim and fire.
"What is it?" asked Fred, a moment later, with some impatience over the
plodding deliberation of his companion.
"I obsarve a big lot of traas, some rocks, some water and a claarin'
where ye could raise a big lot of praties, and--and--and--"
"I see what you mean!" exclaimed Fred in some excitement; "right in the
middle of the clearing stands a large cabin made of logs."
"It's mesilf that obsarves the same," added Terry, replacing his cap and
looking inquiringly at the Shawanoe, who let his extended arm fall as
he faced about and said: "That is the home of my brothers; that is the
cabin of the Hunters of the Ozark."
"Hurrah!" called out Terry; "we're purty near there."
"But we don't know how matters stand," said Fred; "even Deerfoot can not
tell whether they are all alive or dead."
"I know bitter than that," remarked Terry, appealing straight to the
Shawanoe, who, without directly answering the question, notified them of
an interesting fact: a thin column of smoke was rising from the cabin.
"That shows that some one is in there," said the Irish lad, "but whither
he is white or rid, I don't s'pose the Shawanoe, with all his smartness,
can tell even at this distance."
"My brother speaks truth," said Deerfoot; "our brothers may be well and
they maybe dead and the Winnebagos may have built the fire to lure us to
them: we shall soon know."
* * * * *
Here for the present we must pause, for we have already filled the space
assigned to us; but we propose soon to tell you all about the
adventures of Deerfoot, Fred and Terry, and of their friends the Hunters
of the Ozark, whom they were trying to help. The story in which this
will be related will appear under the title of
"THE CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS."
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FAMOUS STANDARD JUVENILE LIBRARIES.
ANY VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY AT $1.00 PER VOLUME
(Except the Sportsman's Club Series, Frank Nelson Series and Jack
Hazard Series.).
Each Volume Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.
HORATIO ALGER, JR.
The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the
greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one
of their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million
copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating
libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two
or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true,
what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr.
Alger's books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never
equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their
similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear.
Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book,
"Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York." It was his first book for
young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted
himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a
writer then, and Mr. Alger's treatment of it at once caught the fancy
of the boys. "Ragged Dick" first appeared in 1868, and ever since then
it has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about
200,000 copies of the series have been sold.
--Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls.
A writer for boys should have an abundant sympathy with them. He
should be able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He
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--From Writing Stories for Boys, by Horatio Alger, Jr.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
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HARRY CASTLEMON.
HOW I CAME TO WRITE MY FIRST BOOK.
When I was sixteen years old I belonged to a composition class. It was
our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and
we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the
teacher thought suited to our capacity. One day he gave out "What a Man
Would See if He Went to Greenland." My heart was in the matter, and
before the ten minutes were up I had one side of my slate filled. The
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mother. I felt the need of some sympathy. She listened in amazement, and
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settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what I was up to until
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Hunters of the Ozark, by Edward S. Ellis