With Washington in the west;

Dave and his cousin Henry occupied a small bedroom at the north end of the cabin. Like the other apartments, this was unplastered excepting for some clay stuck in the chinks to keep out the wind. The room boasted of one window, a foot and a half square, and fitted with a heavy wooden shutter, to be closed in winter, or when there was danger of an attack.

Three-quarters of the floor space was taken up by the heavy four-posted bedstead, built of black walnut and hickory and almost as hard and as heavy as iron. The bed was corded with rawhide, on which rested a mattress of straw and a long pillow filled with chicken feathers. In front of the bed, and directly under the window, ran a bench the length of the room, and above was a row of pegs upon which the boys could hang their clothing. The ceiling was so low that the boys could jump up and touch it with ease.

By the time the boys had said their prayers and retired, a deep silence had fallen on the cabin and its surroundings, broken only by the faint gurgling of the brook as it tumbled along over the rocks and the soft fall breeze as it swept through the forest beyond the clearing, sending the golden leaves down in showers. Presently the moon shone over the top of the distant mountains, tipping the brook here and there with silver. The shining of the orb of night seemed to displease the wolves, and soon one and another let up a lonely howl, ending in a chorus which was truly dismal. But those in the cabin were used to such sounds and were not disturbed. White Buffalo uttered a long sigh and then began to snore, as if in answer to the beasts outside.

The moon still hung low in the heavens, as if loath to give place to the rising sun, when Joseph Morris arose, followed by his wife, and set about preparing the morning meal. White Buffalo was already up and sat on the doorstep, cutting out a wooden trinket with his knife. With this trinket he intended to make friends with little Nell, who so far, had proved rather afraid of him.

“White Buffalo make little Nell a wooden pappoose,” he said, when the six-year-old came from her bedroom and shyly approached to see what he was doing. “Little Nell can dress the pappoose and make much play.”

“Oh, a doll!” cried the girl, and much of her shyness vanished. She looked it over. “Why, it hasn’t any arms!”

“White Buffalo make arms by-me-by, and feet, too. Make arms and feet fast with sticks, so little Nell can move them and make head fast with stick, too, so pappoose can look over shoulder and all around. Heap big pappoose then, much proud!”

“That will be nice,” answered Nell and smiled frankly into the Indian’s face. Then the two consulted about the length of the legs and arms to be put on the doll, and before breakfast was ready they were firm friends. When finished the doll was decidedly crude and had a strong Indian expression on its straight-nosed face, but this Nell did not seem to mind. She possessed but few toys and this was her first doll, and she cherished it accordingly.

Joseph Morris felt that he would have to go direct to Annapolis for the majority of the things his brother wished, so preparations for such a journey were made. Such a trip was quite an event, and Henry Morris was sent around to several of the neighbors, who might desire some commission executed in town. Annapolis was rapidly becoming a place of considerable importance, with a growing trade in tobacco, hemp, and other commodities.

It was a cool, crisp day when Joseph Morris and Dave set out on their journey. They were on horseback, and several neighbors came to see them off and incidentally to load them with further commissions, which had been forgotten until the last moment.

“Take care of yourself, Joseph,” said Mrs. Morris, on parting. “And you be careful, too, Dave,” and then she kissed both her husband and her nephew affectionately. Little Nell also came in for a hug and a kiss, and the others for a handshake.

The distance to the trading-post at Will’s Creek was three miles, and the distance from the post to Winchester, then nothing but another frontier post, was about forty-five miles. But the wagon road from one place to the other had not yet been cut through, and the trail ran in and out along the river and through the forest, making the distance to be traversed at least sixty miles. The mountain pass was a difficult one and at one point ran around the edge of a cliff forty to fifty feet high. Here a tumble for man or beast to the jagged rocks below would have meant instant death.

But Dave thought of none of these perils as he rode beside his uncle or directly behind him. He had a good mount and a good rifle, and his aunt had fairly stuffed their saddle bags with good things to be eaten on the way. The lad saw nothing but a grand outing ahead and whistled cheerily in consequence.

Mr. Morris was more thoughtful and so pre-occupied that he scarcely noticed Dave’s rendering of “The Pirate’s Lady, Oh!” and of “Lucy Locket Lost Her Pocket,” afterward known universally as “Yankee Doodle.” The tunes were whistled half a dozen times, and then of a sudden the lad turned to his relative.

“Uncle Joe, what are you so silent about? You haven’t spoken since we passed the old fish hole.”

“Is that so, Dave?” was the answer. “Well, to tell the truth I was thinking of many things—of the articles we are to buy and where I could probably get them cheapest, and of the talk we had with White Buffalo about the trouble with the French.”

“Do you think we will have trouble with the French?”

“I cannot see how it can be avoided. As I understand it, when the treaty of peace was signed at Aix-la-Chapelle nothing was said about the English and French possessions in western America. Now the French discoverers have sailed down the Ohio and the Mississippi, and consequently they may claim the land by right of discovery, especially when they realize the value for trading-posts and for cattle and farm lands.”

“But can they claim the land when they sail only on the water?”

“They hold that a discoverer sailing along an unknown river can lay claim to all lands drained by that river, or by creeks flowing into it. But this is absurd when it comes to such a stream as the Mississippi which is the basin for miles and miles of territory, or even with such a river as the Ohio.”

“When did they discover the Mississippi?”

“About seventy-five years ago one Padre Marquette sailed down the stream for several hundred miles, in company with a friend named Joliet. They were French subjects and took possession, so-styled, in the name of the King of France.”

“But what about our claim?”

“Well, to tell the truth, our claim isn’t much better than that of the French. In 1741 the commissioners from Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania met a number of head chiefs of the Six Nations, and the Indians, for four hundred pounds, gave up all their claims to the land lying this side of the Mississippi.”

“Well, that claim ought to be all right, it seems to me.”

“It is all right for the land this side of the Alleghany Mountains, but as for the other I doubt if the Six Nations had any right to deed it away. They never lived on it and the story that they once conquered it is only a tradition.”

“Well, who does the land belong to?”

“To the Indians first, and then to the white people who establish themselves on it. As to what nation shall rule, our country and France will have to settle that between them.”

“Then war must surely come?”

“Probably; although the folks in Europe may have enough of fighting for the present. Very few have forgotten the hardships of the last struggle or the distress which followed. For myself, I do not wish to live to see another war, either with the Indians or the French.”

“Have the French any regular settlement on the Ohio and the Mississippi?”

“I don’t know of any settlement on the Mississippi, but their fur traders are on the upper Ohio, Sam Barringford met several of them when he was on a hunt with White Buffalo. He said they were a lawless set, some of them half-breeds, and they would get the Indians drunk on rum and then literally rob them of their pelts. I shouldn’t be surprised if the Indians rose up some time and wiped them all out in revenge.”

“If the French traders are that sort do you think they will bring trouble to father?”

“They are not all that sort. Here and there you will find a good-enough fellow. As to bringing trouble, though, that’s another question. You know when an Indian goes on the warpath he is apt to get excited and then perhaps one trader will look just as black to him as another. But your father didn’t go to trade in rum, and he expected to give the redskins honest value for their hides, so they may remain his friends even if they do rise.”

“I think war is a dreadful thing, Uncle Joe, and I can’t see why civilized nations should fight each other. It’s bad enough for the redskins to do that.”

“True enough, Dave, but I imagine there will be fighting to the end of time. It’s a sort of court of last resort, you know; first folks argue, then they make demands, and at last they fight, and there doesn’t seem to be any help for it. But it’s truly a pity England and France can’t agree—they’ve pitched into each other so many times.”

The pair had now reached the end of the trail beside the creek and for the time being the conversation came to an end. There was a small brook to ford and then the side of a hill to climb. Here the giant trees sent their roots sprawling in all directions and they had to proceed with care lest one of the steeds might stumble and break a leg. The forest was dense, for a woodman’s axe had never yet entered it, and in some spots the gloom was intense while at others the faint rays of sunshine piercing the boughs above served only to intensify the darkness. In spots the trail was very damp and the trees covered with fungi, in other places there were patches of green moss as soft as the most delicate carpet. Here and there the boughs hung so low they had to lift them to get past.

“What a solitude!” remarked Joseph Morris, as they came to a halt in a glade surrounded by stately walnuts. They held up their heads to listen. Not a sound broke the stillness close around them. From afar came the songs of birds and the chant of some swamp frogs. Around them floated butterflies of various hues, and presently came a cluster of honey bees, heading for an old tree they had just passed. At once all else was forgotten by Joseph Morris but the bees.

“A bee tree, Dave!” he cried. “See, we are in luck for once!”

“A bee tree, true enough!” echoed the youth. “It ought to be pretty well filled with honey by this time, too. Of course you’ll mark it, Uncle Joe.”

“To be sure, although I shouldn’t forget it very easily—being so close to this opening and so near to the trail. But we’ll mark it, so that nobody else can claim it between now and the time we come for the honey.”

Approaching the tree with caution Joseph Morris noticed the bees go into an opening just above the lower branches. His experienced eye told him that there was here a hive of considerable size with a good many pounds of honey in it. He marked the tree with care, so that it now became his property by right of discovery.

“We’ll gather in that honey just as soon as we return from Annapolis,” he said. “It will please mother I’m sure, for we are short on sweets for this winter.”

And then they proceeded once more on their way.