With Washington in the west;

When Dave entered the cabin homestead he found his Aunt Lucy and his cousin Rodney, the cripple, hard at work making tallow candles, the only kind of light used about the place after sundown. Over a fire in the dooryard hung a kettle full of soft tallow and on the kitchen floor rested the metal moulds for forming the candles after the wicks had been placed in from end to end. The best of the candles were made in this manner, but Rodney was making a commoner sort by simply dipping wicks into the fat and hanging them up to harden, repeating this process until the prospective lights were of the desired thickness.

“Why, Dave, what brings you back so soon?” cried Mrs. Morris, somewhat startled at his unexpected appearance. “I didn’t blow the horn for supper.”

“White Buffalo is coming, and Uncle Joe told me to tell you that he would probably be hungry, and for you to get those new dress goods out of the way before the redskin saw ’em. If you don’t he’ll most likely tell you he dreamed you gave them to him for his squaw, or something like that.”

“Mercy on us, White Buffalo! Yes, I will get them out of sight, every one! He is a good-enough Indian, but, oh, every one of ’em is such a beggar! What did he say of your father, Dave?”

“I didn’t see him to talk to, Aunt Lucy—I came away before he came up. But Uncle Joe said he would bring him right up to the cabin. Shall I help clear the kitchen floor?”

“Yes, we are about done for to-day, and Rodney is more than tired, I can see that plainly. Rodney, you just go and rest yourself on the bed, Dave and I can get this mess out of the way in a jiffy.”

“I’m willing enough,” answered Rodney, with a deep drawn sigh, and rising from his rush-seated chair he hobbled out of the kitchen to the next room.

“Do you want me to kill anything for supper—a couple of chickens or ducks?” queried Dave, as he began gathering up the still warm candle moulds.

“No; Henry shot a deer right after dinner—down by the old salt lick—dropped him, so he said, without the least bit of trouble. He’s down at the shed now dressing it. We can have that,—and I’ll make some corn cakes—the kind those Indians like. You had better bring me in some more wood. I’ll take care of the rest of the candles. And tell Henry to fetch along a nice piece of that deer meat, and a jug of that yellow apple cider.” And so speaking Mrs. Morris bustled around at a lively rate, that she might have the kitchen in order when her husband appeared with their Indian guest.

At the cattle shed, a rude affair of rough logs and tree branches, Dave found his cousin Henry tacking up the deer-skin to dry and tan in the sun. Henry was a short, stout youth and a good deal of the same turn of mind as his mother.

“I’ll bring up a good-enough piece of meat for any redskin,” he said, after listening to Dave. “I’m glad White Buffalo has come, although I didn’t expect to see him for a fortnight, or until the next new moon. Everything must have gone along swimmingly with your father.”

“I hope so, Henry.”

In a few minutes Henry brought up the venison, and Dave followed with the extra wood, and soon Mrs. Morris had a roaring fire with which to prepare the evening repast. There was, of course, no stove, only a rude brick oven, and the meat was placed on a spit to broil, the oven being used for the corn cakes and for other things the lady of the cabin wished to bake. From chains overhead hung a pot and an iron kettle with water, and also a smaller kettle in which Mrs. Morris brewed herself some tea. As the cooking progressed most of the smoke went up the broad chimney but some came into the kitchen, and the ceiling, where hung numerous things to dry, was covered with soot in consequence.

The table was bare of linen or oilcloth, but scrubbed to a snowy whiteness. Plates were laid for all, but at the place to be occupied by White Buffalo a short bench was drawn up, that the Indian chief might eat from the level of his lap should he prefer to do so. The knives and forks, the latter quite new, were of iron, and Joseph Morris, like many other old pioneers, preferred to use his pocket-knife when cutting food. Napkins there were none, but a bucket of water stood in a corner and above it was a towel hung on a cow-horn, for the use of anyone who wished to keep his fingers or mouth clean. And yet this cabin was furnished as well as those of thousands of other pioneers.

The supper was well under way when Joseph Morris appeared at the edge of the homestead clearing side by side with White Buffalo, who slackened his pace to a dignified walk when approaching the cabin. The Indian was of the tribe of Delawares, tall, thin, and as straight as an arrow. His eyes were black and bright, and his mouth showed a set of teeth as clean and polished as those of a wolf. His headgear consisted principally of white feathers, tipped with yellow to imitate gold, and over his shoulder he carried a small blanket of buffalo hide, dyed white with yellow spots, the spots being somewhat in the shape of wolves’ heads. This signified, in the Indian language, that he was White Buffalo, son of Yellow Wolf, a former powerful chief of the Delawares.

As the Indian came up Dave ran out to meet him and shake his hand. “I am very glad to see White Buffalo,” he said. “I hope you bring good news of my father,” and he pressed the red man’s hand warmly.

“How-how!” answered the Indian in return, meaning, “how do you do?” Then he looked at Dave steadily for a few seconds. “The white boy’s father was well when I left him, eight sleeps ago. He must still be well,” he went on.

“I am glad to hear that, White Buffalo. Did he find the spot he visited before?”

At this question a proud look came into the Indian’s face. “Yes, he found the spot, but not alone. White Buffalo was told how the place looked, and he hunted it up for the white boy’s father.”

“White Buffalo has brought a long letter from your father,” put in Joseph Morris. “I know you are impatient to read it, so you may do so before we have supper,” and he handed the communication to his nephew. Then he led the Indian into the cabin, where Mrs. Morris and the others greeted him as warmly as had Dave, for all but little Nell knew the old chief well and liked him.

The letter from James Morris was straight to the point and characteristic of the man, and ran, in part, as follows:

Dave read the letter with deep interest, not once but several times. Communications of this sort were not common in those days, and each letter received was treasured for a long while afterward. He wished his father had written to him personally, but understanding the situation, did not complain.

When he entered the kitchen he found the family and White Buffalo assembled around the table. Placing the letter on a shelf he slipped into his own seat. A moment of silence followed, and then Joseph Morris offered a humble prayer and gave thanks to God for the food of which they were about to partake. During this White Buffalo sat as motionless as a statue, nor did he speak a word while the food was handed around. He ate from the bench, and if he wanted a thing took it, otherwise he simply motioned it away.

The meal over, Joseph Morris brought forth some of his best tobacco and filled a new clay pipe, one of the red variety with a long stem. He took a few puffs, then handed the pipe to White Buffalo who did the same. Then the Indian produced his own pipe and went through the same performance. After this both smoked freely, and the tongue of White Buffalo loosened readily.

“I have seen many places which were fair to look upon, but none more fair than Ella Dell,” said he. “In days to come the spot will bring many doubloons to the pockets of the Morrises. The game love the spot, the deer and the fish cannot stay away from it, and the river makes sweet music as it passes it by.”

“Yes, my brother told us of it before,” answered Joseph Morris. “It was continually in his mind. I sincerely trust we can make our title good to it. But what do you know of the French around there?”

At this the brow of White Buffalo clouded. “The French are not my friends, nor are they the friends of the English who have gone toward the setting sun. The French would keep that fair land for themselves, and send away both the English and the Indians. Sooner or later there will be war because of this.”

“War!” cried Dave.

The Indian nodded gravely. “The French and the English are at peace, but when they buried the hatchet many moons ago none of the great warriors spoke of the lands between here and the Father of Waters,” he went on, meaning by Father of Waters the Mississippi River. “I have heard the story from White Thunder, and also from Tanacharisson, the Half-king. The French have sailed upon the Father of Waters and claim all the lands which drain therein; the English claim this land because of a treaty made many winters ago with the Iroquois. And the Indian who lives upon the land, what of him, with his squaw and his pappoose? If the French or the English take the land he will have nothing, and he and his squaw and his pappoose can starve. Yes, the hatchet will be dug up again.”

“It sounds reasonable, White Buffalo,” answered Joseph Morris, after a thoughtful pause. “But if war should come because of this, I think the Indians ought to stand in with the English.”

“White Buffalo will stand with his white friends. But he cannot speak for those of other tribes. Many will fight with those who promise the most, for we are but children when it comes to dealing with the white man. I have lived with you long and I know you better than do most of my people. The Indian is wise, but his wisdom is of the woods and not of books. The white man can cheat him if he will, and the Indian will be none the wiser.”

Here the conversation changed and Joseph Morris went over the list his brother had sent him. Before retiring that night it was decided that he should depart for Winchester and Annapolis the next day, leaving White Buffalo to remain at the cabin until his return.

“Can’t I go with you and help buy those things?” asked Dave of his uncle.

“Would you like to go very much, Dave?”

“I would.”

“Then you shall go. And now let us off to bed, for it is growing late.”

A few minutes later the occupants of the cabin retired, leaving White Buffalo to make himself comfortable, as suited him, on the kitchen floor in front of the dying fire.