With Washington in the west;

It has truthfully been said that in those days the principal trails west of the Shenandoah were those which had been made by the wild animals and the Indians, and these trails never ran in anything like straight lines, but wound in and out around every obstruction. Even the Indians rarely made an improvement, no matter how necessary, so that the trails remained as they were for generation after generation.

Dave had experienced some of the difficulties of trail following in his trips from Will’s Creek to the East, but he had not been out over a day on the journey westward before he realized that what had been left behind was as child’s play to what was before him. On every hand was the gigantic primeval forest, where the towering, rough-barked trees had never yet felt the edge of a white man’s axe. The roots, heavy and snake-like, sprawled in all directions, and growing between these were short, sturdy bushes and creeping vines, often overlapping the trail, as though to keep back any human intruder. Where there was an open spot the grass would be tall and rank and often ingrown with wild flowers. Here butterflies and insects would be numerous. From the forest itself would come the constant song of the wild birds and from the pools and hollows the steady chant of frogs and lizards, mingled occasionally with the gurgle of water falling over distant rocks.

“How lonely!” said the boy more than once. “How lonely in spite of the birds and the wild animals!”

“It is lonely, Dave,” responded Sam Barringford. “But you’ll git used to it after a spell. Some men don’t like nuthin better, and can’t stay in town nohow, after living here awhile.”

“Why should we and the French fight for this vast territory, Sam? I’m sure there is more than enough ground to go around.”

“It’s an amazement, lad, that’s a fact. We might all have a couple of hundred acres and still land to spare. But man’s a selfish critter and the more he gits the more he wants—and nations ain’t no better nor the folks as makes ’em.”

“Do you think we’ll meet any Indians?”

“Ye mean enemies? I trust not. Of course we’ll stop at one or two of their villages. I calkerlate to strike Nancoke day after ter-morrow—if we can ford the river that’s ahead,” concluded the old hunter.

They had been out two days and to Dave it appeared that they were making slow progress. More than half the time they had to dismount and lead their horses. Each carried his gun over his shoulder and kept his eyes open for enemies, four-footed, two-footed, or otherwise, the otherwise, as Dave explained, being mainly snakes, for hardly a day passed that they did not see one or more reptiles.

Toward sunset they came to the river, hardly more than a mountain torrent, full of rocks and shifting sands. It was quite shallow in spots, but the current was strong and Barringford advised his companion to be careful in crossing.

“The sand sometimes makes the rocks shift,” he explained. “And if yer hoss goes down and breaks a leg, thar won’t be nuthing to do but to knock him in the head,—and we can’t afford to lose none of the animals.”

“I’ll be as careful as possible,” said Dave. “Are you going ahead?”

The old hunter said that he was, and soon he entered the water with his horse. He was leading a pack animal, and the boy followed the two, also with a pack animal behind him.

The fording spot was fully a hundred feet wide, for the water was only shallow because the stream was spread out. Sam Barringford had reached the middle when he came to a sudden halt.

“Look thar!” he cried, and pointed down the stream a distance of a dozen rods. Dave gazed in the direction and beheld several deer standing by the river side, under the drooping branches of a tree. They had come up in haste, and now, catching sight of our friends, hardly knew how to turn.

“They are pretty bold,” cried Dave. “Shall I take a shot at them?”

“No,—something has driven ’em out of the wood,” answered Sam Barringford. “Perhaps—— They are coming this way!”

The old hunter spoke the truth—the deer, evidently more frightened than ever, were turning up the stream. Soon some were in the water, struggling madly to reach the opposite shore. One sped up so far before turning into the stream that it came within a couple of rods of Dave. The lad could not resist the temptation to fire and did so, killing the deer instantly with a ball through the neck.

The shot was still ringing through the air, when two other shots came from down the stream, along with the flight of several arrows. A number of Indian hunters had burst into view. At first their gaze was set upon the quarry, but soon one saw the whites and set up a cry of warning.

“We had better go back, Dave, and be quick about it!” came from Barringford, in a low but earnest voice. “If these redskins are friendly thet’s one thing, but if they ain’t, it’s quite another.”

The youth thought the advice good, for the Indians were more savage and warlike in appearance than any he had ever before seen. Only two had guns, the others were supplied with nothing better than bows and arrows.

The shots and the rushing of the deer into the water, frightened the pack horses, and when Dave and Barringford attempted to turn back they found they had their hands full. One of the pack horses balked and in plunging around bumped up against the steed Dave was riding. This knocked the youth’s horse from the rocks, and in a twinkling Dave found himself and his steed floating down the current of the stream.

“Come back here!” roared Barringford. “Turn to the shore!” And then he said no more, having his hands full with the pack horses and his own animal. One of the pack horses began to kick and did not stop until the old hunter struck him a heavy blow with his gun stock. Then the steed made a plunge for the bank it had left but a few minutes before, and Barringford and the other two horses followed. The leading horse did not stop at the bank but took to the back trail, and thinking that Dave had followed his advice and was close behind, the old hunter started to stop the runaway.

In the meantime Dave was doing his best to gain control of his own steed which was badly frightened and snorting wildly. But the current was strong beyond the rocks and despite his best efforts, the steed went with it instead of turning toward the bank. Then, without warning the horse struck a sharp rock, turned over, and Dave was flung headlong.

So rapid was the turn of affairs, and so entirely unexpected, that for the moment after disappearing under the surface of the stream, Dave scarcely knew what was happening. He opened his mouth, took a gulp of water, and then closed his mouth again in a hurry. He could swim fairly well, and instinctively struck out for the surface.

When he came up he was directly opposite the spot where the deer had first appeared and by his side floated the animal he had shot and killed. Looking ashore he saw the Indians, gathered in a group on the bank and gazing at him and the game in astonishment. One of the red men shouted at him in the Indian tongue and two of the braves raised their bows and arrows. Seeing the latter movement Dave promptly dove out of sight again.

The youth was greatly perplexed concerning what to do next, and so were the Indians. The appearance of the whites was a complete surprise to the red men, who had been thinking of nothing but the deer they had been after. The leader, a tall and not bad-looking savage, yelled again at Dave, and spoke to those with him, ordering the bows to be lowered. Then one of the party brought forth a lasso, and after some trouble managed to bring the dead deer ashore, along with two others of the herd which the red men themselves had laid low.

Below the spot where the deer had been sighted the river made a sharp turn and divided into two branches, the one flowing to the north the other to the west. Here both channels were narrow and deep, and the water ran with increased swiftness.

Dave tried to land on the spur of shore which divided the stream but failed. On he swept, through the channel leading northward. Here at first the banks were overgrown with brush, and tall trees sent their branches down almost within reach of his hand. Soon, however, the character of the surroundings changed and he found the stream cutting its way between two walls of rock. The top of the banks were far out of his reach and his heart sank within him.

“No wonder Sam warned me to beware of the river,” he thought, dismally. “Where in the wide world can this lead to?”

As a projecting rock came within reach he tried to stay his progress. But his strength was not equal to the task, and torn from the hold, he was hurried on again, to another bend, where the water boiled and foamed in a most alarming manner. Fearful that the end was at hand he closed his eyes and prayed to God that his life might be spared to him. Then he whirled on and on, over some jagged stones and around the bend, and at last into smooth water again. He was now so faint and dizzy that he could do little besides keeping his head above water.

Quarter of an hour passed,—to poor Dave it appeared much longer,—and the rocks gradually gave way to loose stones and dirt, and the bushes and trees again appeared. The stream was growing wider and presently the floating youth struck another point where it divided into two branches, forming an island in the center half a mile long. His feet struck bottom, and more dead than alive, he dragged himself to the island and sank down on a grassy bank exhausted.

How long he rested he could hardly tell, afterwards. The setting of the sun far over the forest to the westward startled him and made him leap to his feet. He must get back to where he had left Barringford and that, too, without loss of time.

But then he thought of the Indians and how two of the red men had pointed their arrows at him. They must be enemies to the whites, and if that was so it would not do to run the risk of falling into their hands. Yet he knew of no way to reach the old hunter except to trail back along the bank of the stream which had played him such a sad trick. Young as he was he knew the folly of trying to strike a direct course through the dense forest which confronted him.

“I’ll have to risk the Indians,” he said to himself, with something like a groan. “Perhaps, if I’m careful, I can get past them without being seen—that is, if they are still in the neighborhood. But for all I know they may have shot and scalped Sam long before this,” and the cold perspiration stood out on his brow.

His gun was still over his shoulder and his powder horn hung at his belt. But the powder was soaked and therefore useless, so he could not reload. This left him only his hunting knife to fall back on, in case of attack by Indian or wild animal, and he started on the return with a heart as heavy as the leaden bullets which were now useless to him.