“Thar’s trouble,” was his emphatic comment.
“How can you know that?” asked the pioneer, with slight impatience; “you haven’t seen anything.”
“We’re not far from where the younkers had the row yesterday; the lake isn’t more’n half a mile up stream, and the reg’lar trail ain’t that fur off in t’other direction.”
“Don’t you think Red Crow is acting wisely?”
“No one could do as well. It ain’t that; but I told you we wouldn’t reach the settlement without a rumpus. He means to take us across the gorge. The other varmints may not know the course we’ve took, but they’ll be smart enough to ’spect that we’ll try to cross at this spot, and some of ’em will be on the watch thar as sure as you’re born. Wait hyar whar you be till I go ahead and larn how things stand. I think Red Crow is likely to need me.”
The words proved true sooner than the sagacious scout suspected.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Conclusion
Red Crow, the friendly Shawanoe, who had proved his loyalty to the whites in so many striking instances, left the little party where he had halted them in the wood and walked rapidly toward the gorge, which he intended should be crossed by the fugitives and their animals.
It followed that, if such was his intention, the means of crossing was at his command. So it proved.
He struck the gorge at a place where it was so narrow that Larry Murphy, and even Mrs. Edwards herself, would have found no difficulty in leaping it. The horses, if stripped of their loads and sharply urged, would no doubt have done the same; but to meet such an emergency some one had caused the trunks of two trees to lie as close as possible side by side, the “dip” between the logs being packed with dirt and gravel, so that a space of fully two feet wide and quite level was presented. It was strong, and any horse could walk over without trouble.
It was curious that the youths, while searching for just such a spot the previous evening, should have missed it. They must have passed quite near to it.
Red Crow stood a moment calmly contemplating the rude work of art, his eyes roving from where he stood to the other side and beyond. It would seem as if he ought to have been satisfied with the strength of the bridge, but he appeared to be in doubt, and to test it he started to walk across.
At the moment of doing so a figure stepped from behind one of the large trees and advanced to him. Red Crow looked up and saw Blazing Arrow, who, detecting his approach, had dodged behind shelter. The face of the miscreant was the embodiment of rage as he ground out the words: “Dog of a Shawanoe! friend of the white man! you shall die! rot at the bottom of the water!”
The words were loud enough to be heard above the dull roar of the current. Red Crow recoiled for a moment on catching sight of his execrated relative, but it was through surprise rather than fear. The next moment he took a step forward.
“Blazing Arrow is a rattlesnake! Arqu-wao does not fear him! he hurt him when he was young and weak like a squaw, but Arqu-wao is now a man and a warrior!”
While speaking, Red Crow hung his bow behind him and drew his knife. Blazing Arrow had left his rifle leaning against the tree where he was hiding, and his hunting-knife was in his hand when he stepped upon the bridge.
Had the two been obliged to stay apart for a few minutes they would have used the time in taunting each other, an art in which the American race is hardly less adept than the Caucasian; but they were eager to come together; their hatred was too burning for either to waste any time.
They met in the middle of the bridge, directly over the sweeping current, and assailed each other like a couple of catamounts. It was a fight to the death, and was fiercely waged by each. Neither would ask or show mercy, and one or both must succumb.
It would be distressing to describe the terrific encounter in detail. Nothing could have been fiercer, but it continued only a few minutes, when a spectator would have seen that Arqu-wao was overmatched. Blazing Arrow was much the larger, and not only was fully as active, but more powerful. He pressed his advantage remorselessly, and, though he was severely wounded by the weapon of the other, he conquered.
The swaying bodies kept their places on the narrow bridge, though sometimes they narrowly missed rolling into the torrent beneath, until finally the efforts of Arqu-wao relaxed. Then, seizing him in his brawny arms, Blazing Arrow lifted him high in the air, and holding him aloft for a moment, hissed:
“Die, dog of a Shawanoe, your blood is white!”
He swung the senseless body outward, and it shot downward like a bowlder, and with a loud splash vanished beneath the surface.
But the bloody form of Blazing Arrow was scarcely ten seconds behind it. The furious exclamations were yet trembling on the dusky lips when the crack of a rifle broke the stillness. The miscreant, with a resounding shriek, leaped clear of the bridge and sped downward like a meteor, the spray flying high in the air as he, too, vanished from human sight.
“Confound it!” muttered the enraged Simon Kenton, “why didn’t I get hyar jes’ a minute sooner? I’ve give Blazing Arrer his last sickness; but afore I done that he put poor Red Crow to sleep; but it’s all over now, and thar’s no use of kickin’.”
Advancing to the edge of the torrent, he looked in the direction of the falls to see the bodies disappear. Once he thought he saw a dark object for a moment, which he fancied might be one of them, but it disappeared before he could make certain, and was not seen again.
As he had remarked to himself, there was nothing to be gained by “kicking,” and with a sigh of regret over the unfortunate Red Crow, or, as he was known among his own people, Arqu-wao, he turned about and hurriedly rejoined his friends, who were greatly agitated at the tragedy that they knew had taken place near them.
The scout told, in as few words as he could, what had occurred, and added:
“It’s too bad for Red Crow, but I’m afeared that rifle-shot and the beautiful yell of Blazing Arrer has been heard by the rest of the varmints; leastwise we don’t want to stay hyar any longer.”
Before allowing the party to cross the rude bridge with the animals, Kenton preceded them and made a careful reconnoisance. He could discover no signs of Shawanoes, and, picking up Blazing Arrow’s rifle from where it rested against the tree, he signalled the pioneer and the rest to follow him over.
It was easy for all to obey, but a vexatious delay was caused by the reluctance of the horses to trust themselves on the narrow foot-bridge, with the rushing current below. In the very middle of the support the leader became panic-stricken, and, in attempting to back to the shore from whence he started, lost his balance, and that was the last of him. The other reached the bank in safety.
There was no semblance of a path on the other side, and what Red Crow would have done, had he lived, after crossing, cannot be known; but Kenton did not hesitate. His knowledge of the country enabled him to proceed intelligently. He explained the route clearly to the pioneer, and leaving him to follow orders, he again assumed the duties of rear guard, adding:
“Push ahead, Brigham, as best you can; tonight will settle whether the folks get to the settlement or not. If we can dodge the varmints till after the sun goes down we’ll be all right.”
“Suppose we get into trouble?”
“I’ll signal you. If you hear this gun go off, don’t pay any ’tention to it except to travel faster, if you can.”
With an exchange of these brief sentences, the pioneer set out, closely followed by his wife, the boys and the scout.
Fortunately the horse that went off the bridge did not take all the lunch with him. Mr. Edwards brought out what was left and divided it among his companions, and they ate as they walked.
They were now pursuing a clearly defined policy. It was to come back to the regular trail at a point well beyond where the Indians were believed to be waiting in ambush. If the hostiles could thus be thrown behind them, there was reason to hope for the best.
The chief trouble was because of the horse. Witho
ut any path for his feet, and with the trees now and then interfering, and with places so impassable that they were compelled to make laborious detours, the progress was exasperatingly slow; but with the passing of the afternoon and the approach of night, hope strengthened. Safety lay in darkness, which was close at hand.
At intervals the listening ear of the pioneer caught a familiar signal from Kenton, but in every instance it was interpreted “All right,” and served to add to the buoyancy of the spirits of all.
The scout was strongly inclined to place a favorable explanation on this immunity from attack. The Shawanoe war party was small in numbers; it had suffered the loss of three or four of their best men, among them their leader, Blazing Arrow. This weakened them greatly.
On the other hand, if the Shawanoes were hunting for the two boys, or for the pioneer and his wife, they were confronted by a marked change in the situation. Not only had the two couples been united, but the most dreaded ranger of the border was with them. There were five rifles among the whites instead of two, and every person holding a weapon was not only ready, but was skilled in its use. They knew of the threatened peril, and were on the alert to guard against it.
In other words, the whites had increased and the red men decreased to that extent that Kenton half believed the Shawanoes hesitated to attack them. It was certain that they would not do so unless they could gain some great advantage over them, which was what the scout determined should not be gained if it lay in his power to prevent it. Certainly, if skill and woodcraft could avail, it never would come about.
The veteran ranger employed all the consummate art of which he was master. He fell farther behind than any of his friends ever suspected; he made long half way circuits through the woods, and as they neared the trail he once passed entirely round the company without their knowledge. Nothing escaped his lynx eyes, but, when the sun at last went down and twilight stole through the forest, he had not caught the first suspicious sign.
It was only fairly dark when Edwards stopped, as he had agreed to do, on reaching the trail. Kenton was with them a few minutes later.
“Things look powerful well,” was his encouraging remark; “I haven’t catched sight of hide or hair of the varmints since that hoss of yours turned summersets off the bridge.”
“That is something to be grateful for,” was the response of the pioneer. “I feel more hopeful than at any time since leaving the block-house.”
“It is a purty good tramp yet afore we reach the settlement; can you all stand it?”
“You know better than to ask me that question,” replied the settler with a laugh; “we have been on too many tramps ourselves, but I don’t know about the rest.”
“Excepting me,” was the cheery response of the wife. “I am so glad to have Wharton and Larry safe with me that I know not what fatigue is; I believe I could walk all night without suffering.”
“If you give out, make the hoss help.”
“No; he has had it harder than any of us. He’ll be the first to stop; but, Wharton, what about you?”
“I’ll never let my mother beat me walking,” he said with a laugh, affectionately kissing her ruddy cheek.
“And as for Larry Murphy,” added the young gentleman alluded to, “it’ll be a few years from now before he allows any one to beat him in walking towards home, when he knows that a good supper and bed is awaiting him there. I’m riddy, gintlemen, when ye say the word.”
The good fortune which attended the members of the party did not desert them. What movements were made by the Shawanoes and what their intentions were could never be known, but not a hostile shot was fired within hearing of the fugitives, who at last reached the settlement in safety, all profoundly grateful to heaven for its mercy.
THE BOY PATRIOT
CHAPTER I
Fairport
Were you ever on the coast of Maine? If so, you know how the rocky shores stretch out now and then clear into the ocean, and fret the salt waves till they are all in a foam. Old Ocean is not to be so set at defiance and have his rightful territory wrung from him, without taking his revenge after his own fashion. Far up into the land he sends his arms, and crooks and bends and makes his way amid the rocks, and finally falls asleep in some quiet harbor, where the tall pines stand by the shore to sing him a lullaby.
In just such a spot as this the town we shall call Fairport was built. Axe in one hand and Bible in the other, stern settlers here found a home. Strong hard-featured sons, and fair rosy-cheeked daughters made glad the rude cabins that were soon scattered along the shore. The axe was plied in the woods, and the needle by the fireside, and yet grim Poverty was ever shaking her fist in the very faces of the settlers, and whispering sad things of what the uncertain future might have in store for them.
Cheerily they bore the hardships of the present hour, and a deaf ear they turned to all such whispers. Yet those settlers were sensible, matter-of-fact men; and it was soon plain to them, that healthful as were the breezes that made so rosy the cheeks of their daughters, Fairport was not the very best site in the world for a settlement, at least if its people were to depend on the thin and rocky soil won from the forest, which scarcely produced the bare necessaries of life.
Was Fairport given up in despair? No, no. Her settlers were not the men to be so daunted and foiled. If the land was unkindly, they could take to the water; and so they did, to a man. Some were off to the Newfoundland Banks, tossing about the codfish, and piling them up into stacks that were more profitable than any hay of their own raising. Some were on board swift vessels, doing a good share of the carrying trade between the West Indies and the New England cities. Some were seeking the whale far in the northern seas; while others, less enterprising, were content to fish nearer home for all sorts of eatable dwellers in the sea, from halibut to herring.
Now a new day had begun for Fairport. The original cabins began to tower in the air or encroach on the submissive gardens, as building after building was added by the prosperous owners. Miniature villas, with a wealth of useless piazzas, appeared in the neighborhood of the town, and substantial wharves bordered one side of the quiet harbor, and gave a welcome to the shipping that seemed to grow and cluster there like the trees of a forest.
Fairport had passed the struggles of its early youth when our story begins, though there were gray-haired citizens yet within its borders who could tell how the bears had once looked in at their cabin windows, and the pine-trees had stood thick in what was now the main street of the rising town.
CHAPTER II
The Young Orator
The boys of Fairport were an amphibious set, who could live on land truly, but were happiest when in or near the water. To fish and swim, row, trim the sail, and guide the rudder, were accomplishments they all could boast. A bold, hardy, merry set they were; and but for the schoolmaster’s rod and the teaching of their pious mothers, might have been as ignorant as oysters and merciless as the sharks. Master Penrose had whipped into most of them the elements of a plain English education, and gentle mothers had power to soften and rule these rough boys, when perhaps a stronger hand would have failed.
Master Penrose always gave a full holiday on Saturday. Then the wharves were sure to swarm with the mischievous little chaps, all eager to carry out some favorite plan for amusement, in which old Ocean was sure to be engaged as a play-fellow. Poor indeed was the lad who had not a fish-hook and line with which to try his skill. The very youngest had his tiny boat to be launched, while his elders were planning sailing-parties, or jumping and leaping in the water like so many dolphins.
Boys like to have a leader, some one they look up to as superior to the rest, and capable of deciding knotty questions, and “going ahead” in all times of doubt and difficulty. Blair Robertson occupied this position among the youngsters of Fairport. He had lawfully won this place among his fellows and “achieved greatness,” by being the best scholar at the academy, as well as the boldest swimmer, most skilful fisherman, and most experienced s
ailor among all the boys for miles along the coast. It was Blair Robertson’s boast that he belonged to the nineteenth century, and grew old with it. It was doubtful whether the bold lad considered this age of progress as honored by his playing his part in its drama, or whether he claimed a reflected glory, as having been born at the very dawn of that century which promised so much for the thronging millions of our world.
Be that as it may, Joe Robertson the pilot and Margaret his wife rejoiced, in the year 1800, over their first and only child. Thirteen years had swept by, and the honest couple were now as proud of that brave, strong boy as they had been of their baby, and with better reason.
Troublous times had come upon their native land. War had been declared with England. All Fairport was ablaze at the idea of American seamen being forced to serve on English ships, and of decks whose timber grew in the free forests of Maine or North Carolina, being trodden by the unscrupulous feet of British officers with insolent search-warrants in their hands.
Blair Robertson had his own views on these subjects—views which we find him giving forth to his devoted followers one sunny Saturday afternoon.
Blair was mounted on a sugar hogshead which stood in front of one of the warehouses on the wharf. From this place of eminence he looked down on a constantly increasing crowd of youthful listeners. A half hour before, a row of little legs had been hanging over the side of the wharf, while their owners were intent upon certain corks and lines that danced or quivered amid the waves below. Now the lines were made fast to stone and log, while the small fishermen stood agape to listen to the fluent orator.
This was but the nucleus of the gathering crowd. Every boy who came near the eager circle must of course stop to find out what was going on; and it was with no little pride that Blair beheld the dozens of faces soon upturned to his.
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