The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  CHAPTER XI

  Tramping Southward

  An ejaculation of thankfulness escaped Fred Linden when he found himself floating in the comparatively still water below the rapids, and he knew that although he was pretty well bruised, none of his bones was broken. He let go of the limb of the tree that had served him so well, and flirting the water from his eyes, struck out with his old time vigor for the shore, toward which he had started in the canoe.

  When Terry Clark saw his friend go spinning into the whirlpool, he scrambled back from the trunk of the tree, on which he had found refuge, and ran at full speed down the bank. Fast as he went, he was just in time to see Fred swimming through the foaming waters toward the land.

  “Give me yer hand!” called out the delighted youngster; “there isn’t any body in the wide wurruld that could bate that onless it is mesilf, and I couldn’t do it.”

  “Whew!” exclaimed Fred, as he laboriously clambered up the steep bank; “that was the biggest lot of swimming and diving crowded into the space of a minute or two that I ever knew; I wouldn’t like to take such a trip each day.”

  “And I’m thinkin’ that it’ll be a few days after this whin we try it agin,” added Terry, delighted to see his loved comrade before him unharmed; “I jist give up when I seen you plunge in among the rocks, and was wonderin’ how your father and mother and sister Edith would faal when I should be luggin’ your dead body home.”

  “I’m thankful that you haven’t that to do,” said Fred with an earnestness that could not be mistaken; “but come, the clothes of us both are dripping, and we can’t get away any too soon.”

  It was not far to walk, and a few minutes later they reached the other side of the clearing, where the cluster of cabins stood. The first living object on which their eyes rested was Brindle, lying on the ground and chewing her cud with an air of contentment which belongs exclusively to her kind, or rather kine.

  The boys laughed and Terry said:

  “If she had such a thing as conscience she wouldn’t be takin’ things in that aisy style, after givin’ us a duckin’ that come nigh bein’ our last one.”

  “You are right, Terry, but what did you do with that bell that Deerfoot took away from the Winnebago?”

  “I lift it wid my gun on the other side of the creek; I didn’t want it tollin’ our funeral knell all the time we was goin’ through the rapids and splittin’ the rocks to pieces by bangin’ our heads agin them.”

  “It is just as well, for the creek will be so low that there will be no danger in crossing it tomorrow, and you can get the bell again; well, here we are at home.”

  The boys separated, and at the same moment, each entered the cabin where he lived. They were only a short distance apart. Several men and a number of the lads, some older and some younger than the two in whom we are interested, were moving about, and looked curiously at the dripping figures. A couple asked an explanation of Fred, but he laughingly answered that he would tell them after he had got dry, and immediately disappeared in his own house.

  Mrs. Linden and Edith, her daughter, who was two years younger than Fred, looked up in surprise when they saw the state of the lad.

  “Terry and I started to paddle across the creek, that is higher than usual, and were overturned by a tree that stove in the side of the boat and gave us a ducking.”

  Having heard this explanation his folks seemed to feel no more curiosity about it. The lad passed into his room, he being one of those fortunate ones who had two complete suits of clothing, with the exception of cap and shoes. It took him but a short time to effect the change, when he reappeared, placing his foot and head gear near the fire, where they would soon dry.

  The home of Fred Linden may be taken as a type of the best that were found on the frontier. As a matter of course, it was made of logs, with a stone chimney so huge that it projected like an irregular bay window from the rear. The fire-place took up the greater part of one side of the house, where the immense blocks of oak and hickory not only diffused a cheery warmth through the lower portion, but sent fully one-half the heat up the enormous throat of the chimney.

  The large room, which served for parlor, sitting and dining room, was furnished simply, but comfortably, with plain chairs, a bench, spinning-wheel, a rocking-chair, table, a few cheap pictures and the indispensable cooking utensils. There was no stove, every thing being prepared in the fire-place. At that day, as you well know, no one had ever dreamed of using coal as an article of fuel, and the old-fashioned stoves were exceedingly few in number. Carpets, of course, were not thought of, though the rough floor was kept clean enough to serve as a table for food.

  A rifle rested on two deer prongs over the mantel-piece, and there seemed to be any number of knick-knacks about the room, though it would have been found that nearly every one had a distinct use in the household.

  Two rooms were connected on the same floor with the larger apartment. One of these served as the sleeping quarters for the parents when Mr. Linden was at home, and the other for Edith, while Fred occupied the loft, which had the rafters for a ceiling, and extended over half the lower floor. During the absence of the father, Edith and her mother used one room, while Fred had the other.

  Noon had passed when the son came home, and his substantial dinner of venison—procured some days before by Fred himself—brown bread, potatoes, butter and milk, were awaiting him. Taking his place at the table, he ate as only a rugged, growing boy of sixteen can eat.

  He made no further mention of the dangerous adventure that had just befallen him, but gave the full particulars of Terry Clark’s encounter with the Winnebago Indian, who stole the bell from the cow, and tried to have a little sport at the expense of the boy. It was an interesting story, and mother and daughter listened with rapt attention. Edith, who was a bright girl, and very fond of her brother, asked many questions as to how the Winnebago looked, what he said, and whether he really meant to kill poor Terry. Then her interest suddenly transferred itself to Deerfoot, and she plied Fred with all sorts of queries, until he laughingly told her that she was asking them two and three times over, and really he had nothing more to tell.

  Then Fred drew out the moist and soiled bit of paper that he had taken from his other clothes, and which contained the message of his father. This, of course, caused a sensation, for it made known the fact that the son was to join his parent for several months. It would be supposed that this would cause some inconvenience, but in such a primitive community all were neighbors, and the chores and work that would have been done by Fred Linden would be cheerfully attended to by others. It was not until many years afterward, when the settlements became towns, that the social distinctions between families were formed.

  During all the conversation, after it had been agreed that Fred should start alone on a hundred mile journey through the wild forest, nothing was said about such a thing as the personal danger attending it. And that, too, directly on the heels of the Winnebago’s attempt on Terry Clark. The habit of self-reliance was taught to the children of the pioneers at such an early age, that their parents felt no solicitude, where in these times they would have been tortured by anxiety, and, no doubt, with abundant reason.

  Mrs. Bowlby was told of the mishap that had befallen her absent lord, when she was asked by Edith to come over in the evening, but she was assured that there was no cause for alarm, and so she felt none. She wrote a letter to her husband, as did the wife of Hardin, and Fred’s own mother. These constituted all the extra luggage that he was to take, for it would have been oppressive to load him with any thing in the nature of a burden when the hunters had been absent only a few days.

  The decision was that Fred should make his start at early dawn the next day. It was his purpose to reach camp on the fourth day; that would be only an ordinary tramp for a rugged youngster like him, and he was confident that he would have no trouble in keeping to the trail that had been ridden over so recently by his friends.

  The little personal articles
, as they may be called, which the lad would require, were mostly the same as those of his father, and could be utilized by the son. Such, as from the nature of things, could not answer for both were tied into a compact package with his linen and strapped over his shoulders with a thick blanket. His powder horn and bullet pouch were not forgotten. An extra flint for his rifle was placed in his pocket, and the weapon, which belonged to the lad himself, was slung over his shoulder after the manner of a professional hunter. Then making sure that nothing had been left behind, Fred gave his sister and mother a warm hug and kiss apiece, called to them a jaunty good-by, and set his face toward the Ozark mountains.

  It had become known that he was to start on quite a lengthy journey, and those who were astir at that early hour called their hearty good wishes to the lad, who was popular with all. Fred looked for Terry, and seeing nothing of him, shouted his name as he passed by his door, but receiving no response, concluded that he was still asleep.

  The heart of the boy was light as he strode at a rapid pace across the clearing. He felt no inconvenience from the bruises received the day before, during the passage of the rapids, and his natural buoyancy caused him to look upon the tramp through the woods as a school boy views his long expected vacation. There was no fear of any peril in the stretch of unbroken forest that opened before him. It was fortunate indeed for his peace of mind that he did not know what was awaiting him in the dark arches and labyrinths of the almost interminable wilderness.

  CHAPTER XII

  A Strange Animal

  When Fred Linden reached the creek where he had met with his stirring adventure the day before, he could not help smiling. It had shrunk to its usual volume, and was winding along as lazily as usual, the only sign of the violent freshet being the débris left along the bank and the slightly roiled appearance of the current.

  The pioneers had so many occasions to cross this stream of water that they had made several attempts to put up a rude but strong bridge; but no matter what pains they took, they could never erect a structure strong enough to withstand the furious freshets which, as you can well understand, were often resistless.

  The result, therefore, was a reliance upon the canoes, some of which lay on one side of the stream and some on the other; but a surprise awaited young Linden. Seeing no boat in sight, he walked along the shore in quest of one, for he was resolved to keep out of the water as long as he could, though a lad on the frontier makes far less ado about dripping garments than you or I.

  That which surprised him was the sight of a long, uprooted tree which, coming down the creek, when the water was rapidly falling, had swung around in such position that the roots caught fast in the clayey soil on the bank, and the limbs were imbedded in the sand and mud on the other shore. The result was as good a bridge as a foot traveler could want.

  “That will do until there comes another rise,” he said, as he carefully stepped upon the limbs, using them to reach the trunk, along which he walked across the water, leaping to the ground on the other side.

  He stepped off with his elastic gait, keeping so close to the path that he and Terry had taken the day before that he caught sight of the bushes around the splintered trunk of the tree where the rifle captured from the Winnebago had been hidden.

  “He’ll be over early to get his prize,” thought Fred; “for it is beyond all worth to him. If it wouldn’t make him feel so bad I would plague him a little by hiding it.”

  He parted the bushes and peered within. The first object on which his eye fell was the battered old cow-bell that had played such a curious part the day before, but he saw nothing of the gun itself; a brief but hurried search convinced him that it was gone.

  “That will break Terry’s heart,” said he to himself; “he never owned a gun, and now, to lose such a handsome one when it has been in his possession only a brief while, will grieve him as much as the loss of a dear friend.”

  Just then young Linden caught the faint but clear notes of some one whistling. He had but to listen a second or two, when he recognized it, as he did the hearty laugh that followed. Looking to his right, he saw Terry himself standing but a few paces away, and, so to speak, in his “war paint.” Bullet pouch, powder-horn, bundle on his back, and, more than all, the splendid rifle was there. The round, chubby face, clear eyes, and pug nose of the Irish lad seemed to radiate delight as he made an elaborate salute to his friend, and, with mock gravity, doffed his hat and scraped his foot along the ground. “Why, Terry,” said the delighted Fred, asking the useless question, “what is the meaning of this?”

  “I’m going wid ye to the camp in the Ozark Mountains; do ye think I could rist aisy, knowin’ that ye had to travel such a long distance wid no one to take care of ye?”

  “Well, now, that just pleases me more than I can tell you,” said the overjoyed Fred, slapping him on the shoulder; “there isn’t any one in the wide world whose company I want as bad as yours; I lay awake half of last night trying to get up some plan by which I could have you with me, but I couldn’t think of any, and had to give it up. Father sent only for me, and I didn’t suppose that Mr. MacClaskey would spare you. Tell me how you managed it.”

  A quizzical expression came upon the face of the Irish lad, who, leaning on his rifle, took off his hat and scratched his head for a few seconds before answering.

  “Wal, bein’ it’s yersilf, Fred, I don’t mind sayin’ that it took some strategy, as I suppose Deerfut would call it. Last night, after we had eat our supper, and the chores were done wid, and Mr. MacClaskey had took his seat by the fire and lit his pipe, and Mrs. MacClaskey had started her spinning-wheel a-hummin’, and the children had been packed off to bed, I told the folks the whole story. I managed it in such a style that the owld gentleman, who, you know, has spint two winters in the mountains, said it would make the folks out there desprit short of hands. I observed, in me careless way, that such was the case, and that Mr. Linden had sent word to ye that he wanted ye to come, and, from things that I knew, me own prisence would give great satisfaction to sartin parties. Ye understand that I had yersilf in me eye, though I didn’t think there was nade of making it all plain how it was.

  “Wai, the owld gintleman wouldn’t listen to me goin’ away, but I managed it so well that after awhile he kind of remarked that if the folks wanted me, he’d no objection to me goin’, as he belaved that I would make more there than I would at home.

  “That was the p’int,” added Terry, with a wink, as he replaced his cap; “and there was where me genius showed itself; I spoke about the big lot of furs that had to be gathered, and how much money the hunters would make, and what a chance there was for a risin’ young man of industrious habits. The owld gintleman took it in, and at last said, bein’ as I had the new gun, why he didn’t know but what I might give it a trial.

  “Wal, that was all I wanted. I started to run over last night to tell ye, but afore I got to yer house I thought of this ’cute plan of s’prisin’ ye. I got all ready last night, ate breakfast airly, and was down here and had me gun just as I observed ye makin’ yer way across the clearin’ toward this spot.”

  And so it came about that on this beautiful sunshiny day in autumn, Fred Linden and Terry Clark set out, each with ammunition and loaded rifle, for a hundred mile tramp toward the wild region of the Ozark Mountains. The air was crisp and cool, and every thing joined to give them a buoyancy of spirits such as falls to the lot only of rugged, growing boys in bounding health.

  The two, however, had seen enough of life in the woods to know that the sunshine and clear air would not last. They might continue until they reached camp, but more than likely clouds, rain, chilly weather and possibly a flurry of snow would overtake them. Winter was at hand, and though, as I have shown, they were in quite a temperate clime, it was subject to violent changes, as trying as those in a much more northern latitude.

  Besides, the trail, although distinctly marked, did not lead over any thing like even ground all the way. Long before they could reach t
he vicinity of the camp the character of the country told of the wild, rocky region, covering thousands of square miles, and known as the Ozark Mountains. No route could lead to such a distance through an unsettled country without crossing a number of streams, and passing through regions that were any thing but attractive to the traveler.

  All this, however, gave just the element of danger and difficulty to the enterprise that was one of the most delightful features to the young lads, who stepped off with swinging gait to the southward. Had the journey been smooth and even, it would have lost the major part of its charms.

  The boys carried enough with them to give them all they were likely to need in the way of food for twenty-four hours. It would have been little trouble to take enough to last through the four days; but there was something unprofessional in such a course which caused their souls to rebel. The magnificent forest contained plenty of game, and they would have been poor sportsmen, indeed, had they confessed by their action that they distrusted their ability to procure it.

  The trail over which the two walked, Fred slightly in advance, was marked with such distinctness by the hoofs of the six horses that had passed along it in Indian file but a short time before that it was no trouble for the boys to recognize it, nor were they likely to have any difficulty in keeping to it throughout the whole distance.

  It was a little past noon, when they reached a small brook whose current was so cold and clear that they took a long draught from it, and then sat down and ate their simple lunch. They felt little fatigue, and as a goodly number of miles remained to be traveled, according to the schedule of Fred Linden, they leaped lightly across the waste and were soon under way again.

  “Do you know,” said Fred, later in the afternoon, “that I’ve been thinking we have not paid enough attention to one or two important matters.”

  “What are they?”

  “I don’t know what has become of Deerfoot, and we may not see him again; but we know enough of him to understand that whatever he says is worth remembering. Now, he told us yesterday that that Winnebago, from whom he took that rifle, belonged to a party of those warriors, and it seems to me that if they are anywhere, it is between us and the camp, and we are likely to see more of them.”