With Washington in the west;

At the farm the days passed slowly. The rumor of more battles was in the air, but for many months little or nothing was done upon either side. Washington went to report to Governor Dinwiddie, and an effort was made to increase the number of the militia, and at the same time get the other colonies to co-operate with the Virginians. But in those days both telegraph and railroads were unknown, letters had to be carried by horseback, and everything moved slowly. Besides this, Washington did not wish to go forward again until he could strike a blow he would be sure would be victorious.

Many were the times that Dave wished to set out for his father’s trading-post but his uncle objected. “The country is now a hostile one, lad,” Joseph Morris would reason. “You would fall into the hands of the French or be killed and scalped by their Indian friends. And even if you escaped, what could you do at the post after you got there?”

“But, Uncle Joe, I can’t help but think of father night and day. He has certainly had some kind of trouble with the French by this time.”

“Let us hope for the best, Dave. Your father is a shrewd man and he has some shrewd men with him. He may compromise with the French and all may go well.”

One day Dave was on his way to Will’s Creek to learn the latest news, when he saw a man riding toward him on horseback. He gave a shout as he recognized the rider as Sam Barringford.

“Sam!” he cried, joyfully. And then as the two came closer his face fell. “Why, you have been wounded! Your face is all scratched up and your arm is bandaged! You have been in a fight.”

“Yes, Dave, I’ve been in a fight,” was the answer, as Barringford drew rein. “More’n thet, I’ve been a prisoner of the Injuns.”

“Too bad! And father——”

Barringford dropped his head, not being able to face Dave. “Sorry, lad, but I can’t say much about your father. Ye see, the redskins took him one way and me t’other.”

“Oh!” Dave gave a sharp gasp. “Then the post was attacked?”

“It was, a fortnight ago, by a body of French under thet villian Jean Bevoir and a band of Injuns under Fox Head. They came on us ’most a hundred strong, and right in the middle of the day, too. As soon as the guard saw ’em, we tried to close the stockade gate, but some rascal had blocked it, and the Frenchmen and redskins poured inside like water over a dam. Oh, lad, it was terrible, the fight that followed! Jackson was killed, and Phendell, and Weingate, and every one else was more or less wounded. We took a last stand in the log cabin, but the Injuns set fire to it and drove us out like rats.”

“And father? Tell me of father? Never mind the rest.”

“Your father fit as hard as any of us, Dave, and I saw him bring down two redskins and shoot the sneaking Bevoir in the leg. Then he got a ball in his arm and an arrow in his shoulder and keeled over too weak to stand. This was about at the end of the fight, which lasted over an hour. Right after your father went down an Injun struck me with a club and I went down too, all in a heap, and I didn’t know a thing more until the whole jig was up and we were prisoners.”

“Who were prisoners?”

“Your father, me, Putty, Tony, and the others who wasn’t killed. White Buffalo was in the fight, with six of his braves, and they fit well, too. One brave was killed and the rest got away, along with the chief, although how they did it is an amazement to me.”

“Then the cabin was burnt down?”

“Not entirely. After the fight was over the Frenchmen went to work to save the property, for that was what Jean Bevoir was after, according to your father’s notion and mine. The Frenchmen didn’t pay any attention to us, but jest handed us over to the Injuns.”

“And you were separated from father?”

“I was, two days later, along with Putty and old Tony. The Injuns were afraid to keep us together for fear we would hatch out a plot to git away from ’em.”

“But how did you get away?”

“I got away two days after I last saw your father. I was a captive of two of Fox Head’s band who were marching me northward. I knew well enough what that meant—burning at the stake as soon as the Injun village was reached. I made up my mind I’d rather die fighting than be tortured to death. So I watched my chance and pretended to be very weak from my wounds. We got further and further away from the others and at last I grabbed up a rock and let one redskin have it in the skull and it finished him. Then I jumped on the other and knocked him down. But he fired a pistol, and while the ball didn’t hit me, I knew it would bring others down on me, so I started and ran like greased lightning, straight into the forest. I got lost and nobody found me, and it has taken me ever since to get to Will’s Creek. I was almost starved and my buckskin suit was in tatters. I borrowed this suit from the man who loaned me the hoss.”

“Then you don’t know what has become of father?”

“Nothing more than I’ve told ye, Dave. They was a-going to march him northward, too.”

“To their village?”

“Yes.”

“Then they were going to burn him at the stake, too!” burst out the youth. “Oh, how terrible!”

“I don’t know thet for sartin, Dave. He may have escaped, jest as I did.”

“But we have heard nothing from him.”

“He may be in the forest somewhere. I don’t believe he knows the trails quite as well as I do.”

Dave shook his head dismally. “You are trying to make the news easy for me, Sam. But I understand it.” The youth had all he could do to keep back the tears.

“Remember the saying, Dave, thet a man’s alive until you are sure he’s dead.”

“I wish I had gone right back to the post after I was sure the notice was a forgery. I might have put father more on guard. But the soldiers were going out and I thought it would be a fine thing to go with them. So I went, and so did Henry.”

“I heard down to Will’s Creek ye was in the fight at Great Meadows and both got shot.”

“Yes. Henry is still very ill, but I’m all right.” Dave paused a moment. “But you look tired out. Come to the house. They’ll all be glad to see you.”

Barringford was more than willing, for he had been bound for the homestead, to tell the news and get a good and much needed rest. His coming proved an event and for the balance of that day all work about the place was suspended. He had to go into all the details of the battle at the trading-post and tell all he knew of what had happened later, and answer questions innumerable. In the meantime Mrs. Morris prepared for him a hearty dinner and Joseph Morris poured for the old hunter a mug of the best liquor his little store afforded.

The news brought a gloom that could not be dispelled. Mrs. Morris cried not a little and so did Nell, and Dave often found a lump rising in his throat which was difficult to swallow. Joseph Morris stalked around with his hands behind him, thinking deeply, while Rodney and Henry, both propped up in rush chairs, exchanged glances which were far from happy.

“The loss of the post, with all the money we had in it, is bad enough,” observed Joseph Morris. “But I would willingly lose that and this place too, if only brother James was restored to us.”

“Yes, yes,” returned Mrs. Morris. “The money is nothing. But poor Dave——” She could not go on and hid her face in her apron. Then she walked to the boy and threw her arms around his neck. “Never mind, Dave,” she said earnestly. “If—if your father should not come back, remember you’ll always have a home here, and your uncle and I will be father and mother to you.”

“I know that, Aunt Lucy,—you’ve been a mother to me right along. But father—oh, I must find him, if he’s alive!”

“But you can’t do anything, lad,” put in Joseph Morris. “I’ve been thinking of it. We can’t march against the Indians and French alone.”

“Washington is going west again before long. We can go then. But father may be dead long before that—if he isn’t dead already!”

The matter was talked over until far into the night, and when Dave went to bed it was not to sleep but to lie with his eyes wide open gazing at the stars which shone through the narrow window. Then he dropped on his knees and in that midnight stillness prayed as he had never prayed before, that the Heavenly Father might restore his parent to him.

After that the days went by more slowly than ever. Before snow fell Henry got around and so did Rodney, although both had to be careful so that their strength might not be overtaxed. Sam Barringford remained at the homestead, doing the work Henry had formerly done and trying to cheer up Dave.

Once a fortnight Dave or his uncle rode over to Will’s Creek to learn the latest news regarding the war and find out if anything had been heard of the missing member of the family, or those who had been with him.

At last news came of a hunter named Ferry who had been on his way to the trading-post with pelts just at the time the French and Indians had descended upon it. He had been captured and had had his furs taken from him by the French. He had remained a prisoner for six weeks and had then escaped from Fort Duquesne along with the two old hunters often mentioned in these pages, Tony and Putty. He had heard of Dave’s father and said that the Indians had orders to bring him to Fort Duquesne as a prisoner of war. The Indians had burnt two prisoners from the trading-post at the stake, but up to that time had spared James Morris’ life, for they had heard that he had a treasure of silver buried somewhere and they were anxious to make him tell where it was.

“If he is at Fort Duquesne he must be alive!” said Dave, on hearing Ferry’s story, and his heart gave such a bound as it had not experienced for many a day. “How I wish our troops would march against that fort!”

“No doubt they will march against it,” said his uncle. “But not this winter. The snow is already deep in the mountain passes.”

“Well then, I hope they go the first thing, in the spring, and if they do, I’ll go with them.”

“And so will I,” put in Barringford. “I’d do ’most anything to help ye save your father, Dave.”