With Washington in the west;

“Good, that shot finished him,” cried Washington, as both he and Dave hastened to reload their weapons. “What a fine specimen he is!”

“He’s the biggest black bear I’ve seen,” answered Dave. “His pelt will be worth some money.”

“You shall have it, David. I think, all told, you richly deserve it.”

“I don’t see how?”

“I do. But come, let us look around and learn if there are any more bears here.”

A half hour was spent in the vicinity of the rocks, but no other bears appeared, nor did they see any new tracks. At last they concluded that the dead animal must have been alone, and began to speculate upon what should be done with the carcass.

“It’s too heavy to drag back to camp,” said Washington. “And if we leave it here, the wolves will make short work of it.”

“Then why not skin the beast and cut out such of the meat as we can use? We can put the meat in the hide and drag that home with ease, on a cedar bough.”

This was sensible advice on Dave’s part, and soon they were at work with the hunting knives they had brought along. Dave had imagined that the surveyor would know little or nothing about skinning the animal, but in this he was mistaken, for Washington had been on many a hunt before, with Lord Fairfax, as previously mentioned.

Although they took along less than sixty pounds of the meat that and the great bearskin proved a good load when strapped to a sweeping cedar bough, and they had all they wanted to do dragging the prize back to camp. By the time the shelter was gained, the sun was shining more hotly than ever, and the water from the snow was running in all directions.

“It will be too muddy to go surveying to-day,” announced Washington. “So you can dress up the hide, if you wish, and then we will rest for a big day’s work to-morrow.”

A week of clear weather followed the adventure with the bear, and during that time the surveyor and Dave completed the tasks which had brought them to the neighborhood. Then came a heavy fall of rain and they moved down to the Shenandoah. Here, on a Sunday morning, two negroes from the Washington home at Mount Vernon appeared, with tidings that Lawrence Washington was quite ill and wished his brother to return home without delay.

Much alarmed, George Washington prepared to start for Mount Vernon that afternoon. With Dave and the negroes he journeyed to Denton’s and here took leave of the youth, after paying him the wages promised.

“I trust we meet again,” he said. “You have done very well, and if you ever wish to continue surveying come to me and I will do what I can for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Washington, I will remember that,” answered Dave. “And let me say that I think you have been more than kind to me.” With this they parted, after a hearty handshake. Little did Dave dream of the different circumstances under which they were to meet again!

Dave had so many things to carry, including the bearskin, that he was compelled to borrow a horse from Denton, although he had to wait ten days for the animal. He promised to return the horse in the spring and the settler was glad enough to have the animal off his hands during the winter, when he could not use him and yet would have to feed him.

“Ain’t ye afraid to go it alone?” asked Denton.

“No,” answered Dave. “Coming over, I noted the trail closely, and I’m sure I’ll have small trouble, if the snow holds off.”

He set out bright and early on the following morning and reached Winchester without mishap. Here he remained over night and then struck out for Will’s Creek. He found the trail very much as it had formerly been and journeyed for part of the distance with two pioneers from Pennsylvania, and spent one night in camp with them. The Pennsylvanians were Germans who could not speak a word of English, yet they were good natured and Dave got along very nicely with them.

It was late of an afternoon when Dave found himself still two miles from home. The Germans had parted with him in the morning and he was alone on the trail. He had passed the bee tree and saw that his uncle had claimed the prize. It was again snowing and the sky was heavily overcast, but with home so close, he was in the best of spirits and as he rode along he broke out into his favorite tune “Lucy Locket Lost Her Pocket,” whistling with all the strength of his lungs.

Soon the snow began to come down faster and faster, until the trail was almost hidden by the flakes, which whirled and swirled in every direction. The snow was thick and clinging and shut out the landscape on every side.

“Hullo, this won’t do,” he said to himself. “This is getting too thick for comfort!” And he struck his steed, to get him off a walk. But the horse was tired, and after cantering a few steps dropped again into a walk.

The wind was rising through the timberlands with a dull, moaning sound and now it became darker, so that Dave could not see where his horse was going. He calculated that he had still a mile and more to cover, and it must be owned that he heartily wished the journey was at an end. Of a sudden his hat was knocked off by a tree branch and his horse came to a halt.

Getting down to pick up his hat, Dave made the discovery that he had missed the trail, and by certain marks on the trees saw that he was moving into the woodland to the north of the homestead instead of for the cabin itself. The snow was now several inches deep and coming down harder than ever, blotting out the little light which remained.

Growing thoroughly alarmed, the youth concluded to remain on the ground and lead his steed. He turned the animal about and step by step left the woodland slowly, not desiring to make another false turn. Had he been less experienced in woodcraft the storm and growing darkness would have completely bewildered him.

When he at last gained the trail the storm was at its height and the wind sent the snow sharply into his face. “I can’t keep this trail now,” was his thought, and so, crossing the path, led his steed down into the hollow, where the creek ran. Then, at the risk of sinking into the mud and water over his boot-tops, he continued along the edge of this watercourse until he gained the brook which flowed up past the cabin.

“Thank fortune I am this far!” he murmured to himself, and after resting for a moment, started forward again, up the slight rise of ground upon which the cabin was erected. At last through the downfall of snow he saw the light of a candle, shining through one of the kitchen windows. Immediately he set up a loud shout. A moment later the cabin door was flung open and his uncle appeared, backed up by his aunt and the others.

“Dave! And in such a storm as this!” cried Joseph Morris. “Why, lad, it’s a wonder you didn’t lose your way!”

“I did lose my way, Uncle Joe,” was the panting answer. “But let me come inside, my feet are like chunks of ice!” And leaving his steed at the doorstep, Dave staggered into the kitchen and shook the snow from his clothing. A handshaking, and kisses from his Aunt Lucy and little Nell, followed, and soon he was sitting before the roaring fire and the others were doing all they could to make him comfortable.

“You arrived just in time,” said Joseph Morris, after bringing in the traps and caring for the horse. “This fall of snow is going to be a heavy one,” and so it proved. By noon of the next day the ground was covered to the depth of two feet, and none of the family ventured further than the stable and cow-shed. In those days heavy falls of snow in that vicinity were quite common while to-day they are rare,—why, nobody has ever been able to explain.

It was a happy family group that gathered around the wide fire-place that evening and listened to all Dave had to tell of his adventures while helping Washington. The bearskin was brought in and much admired by all, and Mrs. Morris was greatly pleased when Dave said he would give it to her for a rug or a coverlet, just as she preferred.

“It’s very kind of you, Dave,” she said, as she kissed him for the gift. “I shall prize it highly, for it will make the best coverlet I possess.” And in later years, when Washington became so well known, and the President of the United States, this bearskin was much thought of as an heirloom by all the Morris family, who would tell how the young surveyor and their Dave had brought down the animal by four well-directed shots.

From his uncle and the others Dave learned that White Buffalo had long since departed with the train of pack horses for the trading-post on the Kinotah.

“He must be there by this time,” said Joseph Morris.

“Did he say when he would be back?” questioned Dave.

“He said probably not until next spring. You see, the Indians had a fight among themselves, and some of White Buffalo’s relatives are missing, and he wishes to learn what has become of them. If the enemy slew them, White Buffalo said he and his tribe would probably go on the warpath.”

“If they do go on the warpath, I hope they don’t fight around here,” put in Henry Morris.

“No, the fighting will be further to the west,” answered Mr. Morris.

“You mean on the Kinotah, where father is?” asked Dave, quickly.

“Somewhere in that region, Dave. But don’t be alarmed. White Buffalo is our friend, and he will not let the battle rage around your father’s trading-post, rest assured of that.”

“But the very fact that we are friends to White Buffalo may make the other tribes look upon us as enemies,” persisted Dave.

To this Joseph Morris could not answer, and the conversation left Dave much disturbed.