But the great feature of the day, in John’s estimation, was the foot race in which he defeated a young Indian known to be one of the best runners of the tribe, winning a beautiful pair of leggings which Big Buffalo put up in a wager. It was a short-distance race and he realized that in a longer run the Indian would have defeated him; it made him decide to practice running long distances. He might wish to outrun the redskins to save his scalp, some day.
Tom Fish sat silent and alone, a little apart from all the others, during the whole time. He eyed Big Buffalo sharply when no one save Ree observed him, but the gruesome scalp no longer hung at the Indian’s belt.
Fishing Bird was there and seemed especially friendly, though, not being a sub-chief, as was Big Buffalo, he did not pretend to any special dignity, but enjoyed himself in sports with the other young Indians and John.
When at last the Delawares settled down to business, there was a great deal of talk before an agreement was reached, that the boys should have a tract embracing about 200 acres, which the Indians marked off, in exchange for three red blankets and a bolt of blue cloth. It was a rather dear price, John thought, but Ree declared it was a bargain, for they secured just the land they wanted. Moreover, they retained the friendship of the Indians, and even though they should be obliged to pay for the land a second time to the United States government or the State of Connecticut, they could well afford to do so, under these circumstances.
There was general hand-shaking as the Delawares went away, though Tom Fish discreetly disappeared for the time, vowing he would give his hand to “no bloody varmint.”
The Indians insisted that the young “Long Knives” (Ree and John) should return their visit the second day following, for a ratification of the bargain they had made. This the boys regretted, as it would probably delay the completion of their cabin; but they were obliged to accept the invitation, and did so.
The next day, Wednesday, however, work on their rude dwelling was resumed, and Tom Fish turned in and helped like a good fellow. A fire-place and chimney had already been built of flat stones from along the margin of the river, and this day, so industriously did all apply themselves, that the roof and door were finished and the cabin practically completed except for the improvements to be added from time to time.
Words can hardly express the boys’ pleasure as they built a fire for the first time in the big fire-place and found that their chimney did its work admirably. Without loss of time they at once moved into their new house from the brush shack in which their home had been; and by the cheerful fire light, as the night came on, they placed their things in as orderly a manner as possible, and found themselves quite comfortable, though much remained to be done, the chinking of the walls being the chief task unfinished.
Notwithstanding how the wind crept in at the open cracks until this work should be done, the boys were happy as they cooked and ate their supper in their new home. The ripple and murmur of the river as it splashed on the shore or washed over half-hidden stones, rose to them from the foot of the mound, and was like sweet music in their ears. The wind gently tossed the branches of the trees in harmony with the water’s sound, and the howling of wolves far off somewhere in the darkness, made the feeling of security which the stout cabin walls gave all the more pleasing. Their prowling foe had not been about since the first night of their arrival, and they felt entirely safe.
“I guess I’ll turn in, then,” said John, after trying in vain to brighten up Tom Fish and get him to telling stories; and he was soon asleep on the bed of leaves he had made in a corner.
Ree, having had no chance to read since leaving home, resolved to improve this opportunity. He got his “Pilgrim’s Progress” from a chest, and settled himself before the fire.
All the evening Tom had sat in silence beside the big chimney, but soon he leaned over, and placing one big hand on Ree’s knee, said in a low voice:
“I’ve been wantin’ to tell ye somethin’, Ree; it’s about that thar scalp that has upset me so ever since I seen it.”
* * *
CHAPTER XIII.
The Strange Story of Arthur Bridges.
Putting down his book, Ree looked thoughtfully into Tom’s face.
“Of course,” said he, “John and I have wondered about that—that matter—but we have considered that you had some reason for not talking of it, or telling us what it meant; and it was really none of our business. But I want to say, Tom, that I would rather you would not tell me anything which I must keep from John. He and I—well, you know how we have always been together, and we have no secrets from each other.”
“Bless ye, Ree, lad,” exclaimed the old woodsman, “ye kin tell him all ye please of what I’m goin’ to tell ye. The only reason I don’t talk before him is—he’s so full o’ fun ye know; and ain’t always keerful what he says. I don’t keer when we’re spinnin’ yarns; but this here—it ain’t no triflin’ thing.”
“It’s John’s way. He would not hurt your feelings for anything, Tom.”
The hunter did not answer at once, but buried his face in his hands. Ree could plainly see that some great trouble was on his mind. Presently, however, he raised his head, and with a sigh clasped his hands over his knee.
“Arthur Bridges,” he began, “was as fine a young feller as ever the Colonies produced; an’ excep’ for bein’ a little wild, ye wouldn’t a’ asked to clap yer eyes on a promisin’er chap. It was odd he made up t’ me the way he did, me bein’ old enough to be his father, a’most, but ye see we was both at Valley Forge together, an’ all men was brothers there. We had jist one pair o’ shoes betwist us,—Art an’ me—an’ he wore ’em one day, an’ me the next, an’ so on. When grub was scant, we shared each with t’other, an’ when he got down sick I took keer on him.
“Art tol’ me all about himself then, an’ it was pitiful. His ol’ pap back in Connecticut was as pesky an’ ol’ Tory as ever did the Continental troops a bad turn; but his mother was loyal as anybody could be. She was born an’ bred in this kentry, an’ her husband had come from England; that was just the difference betwixt ’em, to start on. The upshot on it was, that Art believed as his mother did, an’ it was nat’ral as could be that he should run off an’ join General Washington’s army. That is what he did anyhow, an’ his father swore that he hoped the lad would be killed, though his mother was prayin’ for his safety night an’ day.
“Once in a long time Art would get some word from home—always from his mother, tellin’ him to stick true through thick an’ thin an’ all would come right by an’ by. I guess maybe he believed it would, too; but I didn’t ever have much hope on it myself. Bein’ a little wild, as ye might say, Art got wilder yet in the army, though there was always a great love for his mother in him. But he got so toward the last that he hated his father—yes, hated him fearful. Then for a long stretch he didn’t hear nothin’ from home an’ didn’t see anybody as had heard anything about his folks.
“That’s how matters stood when the war was over. He says to me as how he was goin’ home, anyhow, an’ I tol’ him he better do that same. As for me, I was always for rovin’ an’ I lit out for Kaintucky which we was hearin’ was a great place for fightin’ an’ huntin’. So that’s how it come about that Art an’ me parted company.
“I was in Kaintucky an’ ’round thar for more’n four years; some o’ the time with Col. Boone an’ some o’ the time with other chaps. Then I got to longin’ to go back east an’ I went. I wasn’t thinkin’ o’ meetin’ up with Art Bridges again, as I reckoned on him bein’ up in Connecticut all settled down an’ married, prob’ly. But who should I meet up with one day but Art himself, lookin’ wilder an’ more reckless than when I seen him last. He comes up to me and slaps me on the shoulder an’ calls me by name a’most before I knowed him. An’ it did give me a big surprise to see how he had changed; not so much in looks as in his ways. He was that rough like. After a while he tol’ me all about himself, an’ I could a jist cried tears for him like a baby.
“He had got started home, he tol’ me, after the fightin’ was over, an’ I don’t know but he might a’ been pretty near there—I don’t just remember—but anyhow, who should he meet up with one day in a tavern, but a cousin o’ his who looked so much like him they would ’a passed for twins anywhere. This here cousin’s name was Ichabod Nesbit, an’ the first thing he did when he saw Art was to shake hands with him like they was at a funeral an’ say as how he had some awful bad news to tell him. An’ then he went on to tell him as how his mother had died months before, an’ his ol’ pap was livin’ on an’ cursin’ the Colonies with pretty nigh every breath—an’ cursin’ his own son. This Nesbit feller told Art, too, as how the ol’ man had run through all his property an’ was livin’ alone an’ actin’ like a crazy man.
“Waal, Art was for goin’ back to see the ol’ man anyhow, to see if he couldn’t do somethin’ to straighten him up some; but this cousin, Ichabod, tol’ him as how he hadn’t better do it, sayin’ as how if he could come home an’ bring a fortune, folks would say it was all right; but if he was comin’ home with only the clothes on his back, why, he had better stay away; because he couldn’t do nothin’ with his father anyhow. An’ somehow this is jist the way Art was brought to look at it, an’ it upset him terrible. For of course the soldiers didn’t have no pocket full o’ money an’ it was pretty true, likewise, as how he didn’t have much more’n the clothes on his back, jist as Ichabod said. Pretty blue, an’ a’ most sick from all his plans o’ goin’ home bein’ spoiled, Art turned back right thar and led a rovin’ life for years. He was quick an’ sharp, an’ picked up a livin’, but that was ’bout all for he couldn’t settle down no place.
“All this an’ a lot more ’bout what he had been doin’, Art tol’ me there in Philadelphia, an’ I was for gettin’ him to go back west with me. But no, he wouldn’t; an’ me bein’ no hand to make out around the towns, I jist went back to the frontier an’ beyond. I was in Kaintucky an’ in this northwest kentry clean to Detroit. I got to know Simon Kenton, the Injun fighter, an’ I made some big huntin’ an’ fightin’ trips with him an’ other fellers.
“An’ so time run along till this last summer a year ago, I takes it into my head one day to go east agin; an’ when I had my mind made up there was no stoppin’ me. I didn’t go to Philadelphia right off, but to New York. I wanted to see the big piles o’ furs that come in thar.
“Now it turned out that one day in New York who should I meet up with but Joel Downs who was with us—Art an’ me—in the army. We was talkin’ away thar, when he asked me did I know what had ever become o’ Art Bridges? An’ it turned out that he went on to tell me then all ’bout how Art’s father was dead, an’ his mother left alone, workin’ hard to manage the farm, though they was well off, because she wanted Art to have a nice place when he come home. For she wouldn’t believe the stories that was told around (by Ichabod Nesbit, I’ve been thinkin’) that Art was dead. So she was waitin’ an’ waitin’ for Art to come an’ never knowin’ how the poor boy had been lied to by his ’ornery cousin, an’ thinkin’ he’d come some day.
“Waal, ye kin jist guess how I felt when I heard all this! For I saw through it quicker’n wink that that ’ornery Ichabod was tryin’ to make folks think Art was dead, an’ schemin’ to get hold of the property that would be Art’s if he ever come home alive. But I never says a word ’bout this to Joel Downs. Not much! I wasn’t goin’ to have him goin’ back to Connecticut tellin’ folks as how Art was leadin’ a wild life an’ goin’ to the dogs.
“No, sir; I jist begun huntin’ for Art Bridges. I went to Philadelphia first, an’ got some track on him, findin’ out as how he had gone off to Kaintucky—lookin’ for me, I guess. I went off to Kaintucky too, jist as fast as I could. I got some track on him again, as how he had gone back to Philadelphia, We must ’a passed on the road somewheres. Back to Philadelphia I went again, an’ found out as how Art had gone west to Duquesne—Fort Pitt, or Pittsburgh they call it now. So I started for Fort Pitt, an’ on the way I met up with you young kittens on your way into this red devils’ own kentry.
“An’ I come on into this kentry because I found out at Fort Pitt that Art had gone on west intendin’ to make his way to Detroit, huntin’ an’ trappin’ an’ tradin’. He expected to go on to Detroit next spring an’ get a place with a big fur company in charge o’ some tradin’ post or other, away off somewheres, he didn’t keer where—he was jist that sick of the kind o’ life he was leadin’, an’ wanted to get ’way off from everybody.
“But that ain’t all! There was a man thar as said Ichabod Nesbit had been seen ’round thar, an’ he was lookin’ for Art Bridges, too. An’ I know that that ’ornery cousin was lookin’ for Art to murder him. I felt it in my bones. He wanted to be sure Art was dead an’ then he would go back an ’pass himself off as Art Bridges an’ have the property anyhow. Then when I heard as how Ichabod had passed himself off as Art in one place, I was sure I was right. But he didn’t need to do no murder ’nless it was him as hired the bloody varmints to do it for him,” and the hunter’s voice grew husky, “for that—that thar scalp—it was Art Bridges’—an’ oh, if I had been jist a day sooner! For the blood on it was hardly more’n dry!”
Tom Fish sunk his face in his hands and a convulsive half-sob, half-sigh shook his body from head to foot, as though with ague.
Ree Kingdom drew nearer the sorrow-stricken man and took his big hand in his own.
“Tom,” he said, “it is a sad, sad story. I know just what you suffer. But listen, Tom. It is not absolutely certain that the scalp we saw was that of your friend. No man could positively swear to it, just by seeing the color of the hair. And here is another thing I have been wanting to tell you, Tom, but I did not like to interrupt you. I know how Arthur Bridges’ mother has been waiting and waiting for him to come. I have heard what she has suffered, for she is a sister of a Mrs. Catesby at whose home I lived and who was like a mother to me. But Mrs. Catesby’s husband, who is now dead, was not an agreeable man and the sisters hardly ever saw each other. They lived far apart, but now Mrs. Catesby has moved to town and they will be nearer one another. Mrs. Catesby was so kind to me, Tom, that I would be mean indeed if I would not try to help you find her nephew. But I will help you, and if he is now in this part of the country we will hear of him sooner or later through the Indians.”
“No, there is only one thing to do, an’ it is for me to do it,” Tom Fish replied without looking up. “You can’t help, Ree, an’ ye’d only get into a row an’ spoil all yer own plans. It is fer me to squar’ accounts—an’ I’ll—do it. For I tell, ye, Ree, I ain’t mistaken. I’d know that silky dark ha’r of Art Bridges’ if I seen it in Jerusalem. Oh, it’s too bad—it’s too bad!”
Ree could make no answer, and in another minute Tom Fish straightened up and said he would turn in. He told Ree to do the same, and as he lay himself down the boy heard him saying:
“We must all die—all die—an’ them that’s left can only squar’ accounts.”
Never before had the land of friends and civilization seemed to Ree to be so far away as it did that night. His busy thoughts kept him awake until nearly morning. He knew what Tom Fish meant when he said he would “squar’ accounts.” In other words he would make the Delawares pay for Art Bridges’ death. There would undoubtedly he trouble which would put an end to their plans for trading and home-making in this new country. They could not fight the redskins one day, and be received as peaceable traders the next.
And on the other hand, if Arthur Bridges, a peaceable trader, had been murdered, might he and John not be in greatest danger of the same fate? Was it not true that the Indians were treacherous and not to be trusted though they seemed friendly? Even if Tom began the fight alone, would not the Indians blame him and John as being friends of his, and attack them?
At last Ree went to sleep, resolving to persuade Tom Fish to await developments. He believed they could find out through Fishing Bird just where and how t
he bloody trophy which was at the root of their difficulty, had been secured. That might throw great light on the problem.
John was early astir next morning and began preparations for the visit to the Indian town for the council meeting at which the bargain for their land was to be finally confirmed. Ree was strangely silent as he also arose and ate the breakfast which John had ready.
Tom Fish likewise had nothing to say except that he stated that he would remain at the cabin while the boys were away, and might be doing some work at chinking the walls.
It was in the early winter, but the day came out bright and clear. Greatly the boys enjoyed the bright sunshine and the bracing air as they took their way through the woods, crossing the river at last, and following a much used trail which took them toward the Delawares’ village. This was a new route to them, but it was the course the Indians traveled and they found it better than the unbroken way they had previously taken in going to the lake beside which Capt. Pipe’s people lived. As they walked along Ree told the story of Arthur Bridges as Tom had told it to him, and earnestly they discussed their situation.
In three hours the boys came to the Indian town, and Capt. Pipe called a council to settle the bargain for the land. There was speech making as before, but less of it, and then came a feast. But this too, was less formal than before. The Indians seemed about to go on a hunting expedition and had less time for other matters.
The Delawares promised to do much trading with the young Palefaces, and the boys would have considered their prospects very bright had it not been for the likelihood of trouble arising through Tom Fish’s desire for revenge.
The little information Ree secured from Fishing Bird was not at all re-assuring, either. That agreeable, but none the less wily, savage would give him no satisfaction when he questioned him concerning the bloody trophy Big Buffalo had had, declaring, indeed, that no white man had been killed by the Delawares for a very long time.
Far Past the Frontier Page 11
