With Washington in the west;

Night found Dave and his uncle at the cabin of a settler named Risley, an Englishman who had come to the neighborhood a year before. Visitors were far from frequent in those days and the newcomers were made heartily welcome by the farmer and his wife. The former insisted on helping them care for their horses, while the latter bustled about to prepare a substantial meal for their benefit.

“It does one good to set eyes on another face,” remarked Uriah Risley, when they were gathered around his rough-hewn table, partaking of a stew in an iron pot set in their midst. “It is so different here from life in Sussex, where we came from. The good wife thought she should die of loneliness when we first settled. But now she is somewhat used to it. Is that not so, Catherine?”

“Truly it is, Uriah,” answered the spouse. “In dear Lenfield Glen we had neighbors by the score, and the smoke of a hundred chimneys went up of a sunrise; here we have nothing but trees and water and blue sky until I am weary of gazing upon it all.”

“It won’t be so for many years,” put in Joseph Morris. “The settlers are coming in more and more every year.”

“I’ve heard some talk of a company being started to take up the lands in the West,” said Uriah Risley. “I believe Lord Fairfax and others are behind the scheme.”

“To get ahead of the French?”

“Aye. I’d like to see the thing go through, too—’twould bring more faces to this district.”

“I cannot say that I object to the solitude, so long as the Indians do not molest us,” said Joseph Morris. “I love the woods and the lonely rivers—I have grown so used to them that they seem part of my life.”

Uriah Risley nodded to show he understood. “I believe you. But Catherine and I are used to having friends around. Why, the poor wife nearly cried her eyes out the first night we were here—nay, nay, do not deny it, for it’s nothing to be ashamed of, Caddy. She said the mountains and the tall, black-looking trees seemed to fairly press in on her.”

“And they do that—at times,” answered Joseph Morris. “I know the feeling. But it will pass away, Mistress Risley, and you will get to love the trees as you love the furniture of your house—and know them just as well.”

The supper was not a dainty affair, but the riders were hungry and ate long and heartily. After the meal Dave insisted upon helping Mrs. Risley get in the wood and water, while his uncle and the owner of the cabin sat by the doorstep smoking and talking.

The moon was rising over the distant trees when of a sudden Joseph Morris leaped up and reached for his rifle, which he had placed behind the kitchen door, “A deer—down at the end of the clearing, where the brook makes a turn!” he whispered. “If you don’t make a noise perhaps I can bring him down.”

“It’s a long shot,” returned Uriah Risley, who was no marksman at all, measured by the proficiency of the old pioneers. “I can scarcely see the animal.”

“I see him,” put in Dave. “There, he is turning up the brook!”

By this time Joseph Morris had his rifle and was examining the flint-lock. The weapon was in good condition for use, and he tiptoed his way out of the cabin, and crouching low, made for a stump standing fifty feet closer to the brook.

“Let us keep in the shadow,” whispered Dave, who wished to give his uncle all the advantage possible, and the Englishman, his wife, and the boy huddled up in the sheltered doorway. A silence of several minutes followed. Joseph Morris had gained the stump and was on his knees behind it, with his rifle barrel leveled across the top.

“I don’t see the deer anymore,” came in a husky tone from Uriah Risley. “He must have got frightened and run away.”

“No, he is there, behind the brush,” answered Dave. “Hist! here he comes!”

All became silent, and Mrs. Risley breathed hard in anticipation of hearing the rifle go off. Step by step the deer came out of the shadow of the forest until the brookside was gained. For a moment it disappeared, behind some brush, then came into view at the other end. Its head was down and only its back could be seen.

Dave looked at his uncle. Joseph Morris still rested behind the stump as motionless as a statue. Presently he let out a short, sharp, hissing whistle. Instantly the head of the deer came up, and the animal was all attention, staring in the direction from whence the sound had come.

Bang! The shot from the rifle echoed and re-echoed through the night air and across the distant mountain. The deer gave a mighty leap into the air, then fell with a splash into the brook and lay kicking convulsively.

“Good! You’ve got him!” shouted Dave, and ran down the clearing with his uncle behind him and the Risleys bringing up the rear. By the time they reached the game the deer had ceased to kick and was calmly breathing its last, with eyes wide open in painful wonder. They hauled the animal out of the brook, and Joseph Morris speedily put it out of its misery by cutting its throat.

“A fine shot!” remarked Dave. “Straight through the neck. It’s something to be proud of—especially in this uncertain light.”

“A remarkable shot!” cried Uriah Risley. “I couldn’t do that if I practised a thousand years! And you took your time, too.”

“The brush hid him a bit and I wanted him to raise his head,” explained Mr. Morris. “Yes, it was a good shot, but I’ve seen plenty equal to it. You can have venison for a week now, and longer.”

“Don’t you want the meat?”

“No, I’ll take the skin and leave the meat to you for your hospitality to Dave and me. Perhaps we’ll stop again on our return from Annapolis.”

“Do, and we’ll do our best by you,” put in Mrs. Risley. “I’ve been longing for some fresh venison these three weeks back, but Uriah was not equal to bringing a deer down.”

“You should practice more with your rifle,” said Joseph Morris, to the cabin owner. “A pound or two spent on powder and ball is often well invested. Dave, here, I am proud to say, can shoot almost as well as myself, and so can my own boys at home.”

“I will take the advice,” answered Uriah Risley. “For such deer meat as this is certainly worth some shillings, not to speak of the worth of the hide.”

The game was brought up to the house, and by the light of a pitch pine torch, the Morrises skinned it and then turned the carcass over to the Risleys.

“Don’t leave it outside,” said Joseph Morris. “This is the night for wolves to be around, and they will make short work of the meat if once they get at it.” And the meat was hung up at the roof of a cattle shed adjoining the cabin.

The Risley homestead boasted of but two rooms, the living apartment and a small bedroom. Under such conditions there was nothing for Dave and his uncle to do but to wrap themselves in their blankets and make themselves comfortable before the kitchen fire. But this was no new experience for them and Dave slept as soundly as though in his corded bed at home. Once during the night he heard the wolves at the cattle shed, but they soon went off disappointed, and did not return.

The Morrises expected to make an early start, but Mrs. Risley would not hear of their leaving without a substantial breakfast and they had to sit down while she made them some pancakes and broiled a fish her husband had caught in the brook the day before. To these were added some blackberry jam and some coffee. The Englishman apologized that he could not offer his visitors any ale.

“I miss my measure for meals sadly,” he observed. “But we have none in the wood and no pot-house handy, so I have to rest content without it.”

“Water is good enough for me,” answered Joseph Morris. “I care for no liquor, saving it be a hot toddy when I have been in the wet and cold and am afraid of taking sick.”

The day was bright and the weather warmer than it had been, and Mr. Morris and Dave rode off in the best of spirits, the Risleys watching them until a bend in the trail hid them from view. To the Risleys the visit was an event to be remembered. Perhaps no other white person would visit the lonely cabin for weeks and perhaps not even a red man would cross the threshold.

As the Morrises approached Winchester the cabins of the pioneers increased, until several could be seen at a time, far up on the mountain sides, or set snug in the valley below. Winchester was a fairly large trading-post, and here, at certain times in the year the hunters, trappers and farmers did considerable business.

When they entered the place they found that a band of Indians had come in several hours before. The red men had brought in the fruits of their summer hunt, which they were exchanging for metal and glass ornaments, highly colored but cheap blankets and cloths, and liquor and sugar. The two latter articles were in active demand, and many of the Indians insisted on carrying the rum on the inside instead of in bottles, and this made them exceedingly noisy. Here and there a brave partly under the influence of drink would become quarrelsome, but the majority indulged in nothing more dangerous than singing, whooping and dancing.

“Much drink, much good jolly time,” said one red man, as he rolled up to Dave and caught the youth by both shoulders. Then he insisted upon rubbing his nose against Dave’s, a not unusual Indian token of friendship.

“You’d be better to leave the drink alone,” returned Dave, in disgust, as he tried to release himself.

“White man’s fire-water heap good,” grunted the Indian. “Make Turtle Foot feel young again.”

“You may think so, but I don’t. Now let me go.”

“White boy no go yet. White boy drink with Turtle Foot. Feel like big brave. See!”

As the Indian concluded he pulled from under his blanket a large bottle still half full of rum. Holding tight to Dave with one hand, he held the bottle in the other and pulled the cork with his teeth. Then he shoved the liquor to the lad.

“Take drink—heap good fire-water,” he grunted. “Turtle Foot treat—Indian big heart.”

“Thank you, but I don’t wish to drink,” said Dave, as calmly as he could. He was alone with the red man, his uncle having gone inside the post, leaving him in care of the horses. Near at hand were half a dozen other Indians all whooping as if trying to split somebody’s ears.

“White boy must drink with Turtle Foot,” insisted the red man in an ugly manner.

“I won’t—and that’s an end on it!” cried Dave, his temper rising. “Now let me go I tell you!” And he gave the Indian a shove that sent him sprawling flat on his back. At once the other Indians stopped whooping and set up a roar at the expense of their fallen companion.

“Turtle Foot has lost his legs,” said one, in the Miami tongue. “He is as a pappoose in the hands of the white boy.”

“Turtle Foot cannot drink fire-water like we can,” said another. “And he cannot make the white boy drink. He had better return to the squaws and sell his fire-water for a bracelet,” and then another roar went up.

With a snort like that of an angry beast, Turtle Foot turned over on the ground and scrambled to his feet. Fearing trouble, Dave started for the doorway to the trading-post. Then he thought of the horses tied some distance away and hesitated, fearing to leave them unwatched. In another moment Turtle Foot staggered up to him and caught him again by the arm.

“White boy shall pay!” he cried, in a rage, and now one hand slid under his blanket and came forth again clutching a long hunting knife.