CHAPTER XIII
BLUE JACKET
"How will this place do?" asked Bob, coming to a halt, and the boysgently lowered their burden to the ground.
"Just the place where I'd like to see our cabin raised, with that fineview of the river up and down," declared the other, enthusiastically.
"And that is why I chose it," answered Bob with a smile. "If we arealready at work here, father and mother will naturally come along tous, and the thing is done without any fuss."
The young Indian had not said a single word since making the assertionthat his name was Blue Jacket, and that he was a brave, not a boy.
Those keen black eyes had observed all that the Armstrong lads did withan ever-increasing knowledge of what it meant. There was something intheir manner of handling him that spoke louder than words to the wildheart of this child of the forest; and already he had begun to feelconfidence in them.
"Now, start a blaze as soon as you like, Sandy. By the time they gethere the fire will be good and hot, so that water will heat in a jiffy."
They had made the wounded Indian as comfortable as possible; and helay there, apparently content to watch them work. Possibly he expectedthat, when the white men, against whom his hand had so recently beenraised, should arrive on the scene, his fate must be a matter ofminutes; but an Indian never shows emotion, and fear, in his eyes, isthe symptom of a coward.
Sandy immediately gathered some wood. He had had long experience inmaking fires, and gloried in the opportunity to show his skill.
"There, how does that look?" he demanded presently, when, after havingused his flint and steel with good results, the flying sparks quicklycaught in the dry tinder, and flames began to creep up amidst thegathered wood.
"As fine as the finest," returned his brother, who knew Sandy'sweakness, and never let a chance to cater to it pass by; "and unlessmy ears deceive me I think I heard voices just then up-river."
"You are right, brother," declared the younger lad, pointing; "forthere they come, with Pat O'Mara, bless his heart, at the head of theline."
The wounded Indian never even started, and yet a quiver of alarm mustcertainly have passed through his agonized frame. He simply turned hisgaze toward the setting sun, as though, if the worst came, he wished tofeast his eyes for the last time on that glorious spectacle. For theclouds floating in space had begun to take on a most gorgeous tint,as though the mysterious unknown country beyond might be putting on aholiday dress to welcome him to the Happy Hunting Grounds of the redman.
Then the long line of horses and pioneers arrived on the spot that hadbeen picked out by Colonel Boone as the prettiest site for a settlementhe knew of along the upper Ohio.
Various exclamations of rapture and delight broke forth. The magicalbeauty of the scene overpowered all alike. Men and women stood there,drinking in the river view as seen in the fading light of the sun;and, when they turned to exchange sentiments, they were unanimouslyfavorable.
"It is Paradise!" cried one woman, who had suffered greatly during thelong pilgrimage across mountains and wilderness.
Pat O'Mara was the happiest of the whole group. He did not expect toput up a cabin home, for his nature compelled him to be a rover; but,since he had guided these pioneers along the way into the PromisedLand, naturally he felt elated because they were thrilled and pleasedwith their new homeland.
And then again, Pat had the greatest admiration for that chief ofpioneers, Daniel Boone, who had selected this site as the proper spotfor a future white man's town.
"Now, plase lave all thot till another day," he called out, presently;"and pay attintion till the juties av the hour. Sure, they be fires tosthart, fuel to chop, and some protiction to be made aginst an attackav the rids. To worrk thin, iverybody!"
Seeing their two boys standing at a certain point, David Armstrong, hisgood wife, and Kate, leading the two horses, made toward them. From thefact that there was already quite a heap of firewood piled up they tookit for granted that Bob wished them to camp on that particular spotfor some reason or other.
Suddenly Kate gave utterance to a bubbling cry of alarm.
"What is it!" demanded her father, startled, since he could onlyimagine that the young girl might have turned her ankle at just thelast stage of their long journey.
"Look behind the boys, father! An Indian!" she exclaimed, pointing atrembling finger toward Bob.
David, too, discovered the form just at that moment, and was alsovisibly disturbed. But he noticed that both boys were showing not theleast sign of any alarm, and from that understood there could be nodanger.
Perhaps, also, his renewed confidence arose from the fact that theIndian was lying on his back, and not in the act of creeping forward,as if intent on sinking his tomahawk into the bodies of the lads.
"What is this, Bob, Sandy?" he asked, as he stood over the form of theShawanee, who met his gaze without a flicker of emotion.
"We found the poor fellow near by, father. He is wounded, and wasslowly bleeding to death," said Bob hastily, and not a littleanxiously.
"And Bob couldn't keep from helping him; you know his failing, father.What we want now is a kettle in which to heat some water," remarkedSandy, making a movement to secure the implement he had in mind, andwhich, in company with other cooking utensils, dangled from the back ofthe leading horse.
"Stop! what is this you mean to do?" asked David Armstrong uneasily.
"Save the poor fellow's life, perhaps. He has an even chance if Ican cleanse that ugly wound," replied Bob, meeting his father's eyesteadily.
"But he must have been one of those savages who tried to rush our campnight before last; the wound is from one of our own bullets!" Davidwent on, shaking his head, as though he did not wholly believe it rightthey should nurse a viper only to have him sting them.
Bob looked appealingly at his mother. Well he knew where to go forbacking in a case like this; nor did he make any mistake.
"David, for shame! Would you let the poor boy die, even though his skinbe different from ours? Do we learn this in the Good Book? Is it notwritten that we bind up the hurts of our enemies, and thus cover theirheads with ashes of reproach? What if it were one of our dear lads,in an Indian village--would you wish him to be treated like a dog? Wehave come here to live, and it becomes us to set a Christian example tothese poor heathen."
David Armstrong was far from being a hard man at heart. Like most ofthe early pioneers he had imbibed strong ideas concerning the heroicmeasures necessary to hold their own against the grievous perils thatmenaced them on every side. And, doubtless, he, in common with mostof the men in the ranks of those who invaded the wilderness, believedthat the "only good Indian was a dead Indian." But, as always, he wasdominated by the sweet influence of his gentle wife.
"Boys, your mother knows best," he said, presently; "and it is betterthat you take pattern from her, than follow in my footsteps. Do whatyou think is right, and we will hope no evil follows."
Of course the young Indian had listened to all this talk closely. Hemight not understand what sentiment influenced the wife and mother;but he could see the noble pity that shone in her eyes as she bentabove him.
Still, not by the slightest expression did he betray any satisfactionthat may have passed through his heart at the knowledge that he wasnot to be ruthlessly put to death as he had anticipated. That wouldhave ill become a warrior, which, boy though he seemed to be, he had soproudly proclaimed himself.
Meanwhile Sandy made his way down to the edge of the flowing riverand filled his kettle with water which he placed upon the stonescomposing the rude but effective fireplace. It would only take five orten minutes to heat this sufficiently for the purpose of the amateursurgeon.
David busied himself relieving the animals of their several loads,in which both Bob and Kate assisted. Rude shelters in the shape oftents would have to serve them for the present, until cabins couldbe provided; but, ere another sun set, the chances were that severalhouses would be started, for these pioneers were
quick workers, oncethey set their shoulders to anything.
Bob knew that no time should be lost in washing that inflamed wound,and applying some of the wholesome soothing lotion which his motherprided herself in making. Well he knew its wonderful properties in acase of this kind, and he believed that it would allay the dangerousstage of that injury as nothing else might, hence his desire to makehaste in applying it. The others could in the meantime be erecting thetent and gathering their scanty household goods under its friendlyshelter.
When he found the water warm enough for his purpose he went to work.Most of the pioneers were too busily engaged just then in settling onlocations for the night to bother hanging around to see what occupiedthe attention of the Armstrong lads; but, of course, the smallerchildren quickly discovered the presence of a real Indian in the camp,and the news speedily circulated around.
Pat O'Mara himself came over to assist his particular friends, and whenhe saw what task was being done his eyes opened round with wonder.
"Begorra! an' is it a horsepital ye've stharted already, Bob?" heasked, as he leaned over to look, and then started at seeing acopper-colored face with a pair of snapping black eyes fasteneddefiantly on his own countenance. "Phat! a ridskin it is ye are aftherhavin' here? Sure, it's the first toime I iver saw a white lad nurse asick Injun bye!"
When the prospect of death itself could not induce the Shawanee to showsigns of emotion, this likening him to a youth, as in the previousinstance, seemed to arouse him. An Indian hates above all things tobe called a squaw or a child. He sat up, despite the restraining handof Bob, and smote himself proudly on the chest, once again exclaimingangrily:
"Blue Jacket, him no boy--warrior--big brave, ugh!"
"Well," remarked Pat with a quizzical smile, "I reckons as how whatye sez is all quite thrue, Blue Jacket. And if so be this foine ladchooses to coddle yees back to loife agin, phat business is it av ours?On'y it sames till me 'tis a great waste av toime an' liniment. But,Bob, look out ye don't lose yer patient, lad."
"Lose him, Pat?" echoed the other, pausing in the act of binding up thelimb, after having used the precious, magical ointment given to himby his mother. "What can you mean? I feel sure he'll come around allright. He's young, and with good blood in his veins. Surely the chancesare ten to one--"
Bob stopped right there. Suddenly he comprehended what the kindly Irishtrapper meant, when he spoke in that way. Following the meaning look ofthe other he saw that a man was hurriedly approaching them. He carrieda gun in his hand, and there was an ugly expression on his bearded face.
This man was a pioneer named Brady. He had come from the section ofCarolina where the Boone family had lived, and was meaning to hewhimself a new home in the great western wilderness.
Anthony Brady was the father of a family, and a fair sample of theearly pioneer, but he hated Indians above all living things, lookingupon them as only fit to be shot and hewed down whenever possible.
Bob knew that Anthony had had a brother dangerously wounded in thatwarm engagement when the Shawanees attempted to carry the camp. Thismust have aggravated Brady's already bitter feeling for the red men,and, hearing that the Armstrong boys were meaning to nurse one of thewounded foemen back to life, he was filled with rage that such a thingshould ever be allowed.
And Bob felt that Blue Jacket was in more peril right then than when helay on the ground, weakened by his wound, and left to perish.
The Pioneer Boys of the Ohio; or, Clearing the Wilderness Page 16
