In that moment of alarm Sandy forgot all about his lame ankle. He realized, as soon as the crash came, that the dugout was about to sink, for water began to pour in over the side. So he obeyed the cry of his brother, and made a spring for the safety of the log that had done the damage.
How he managed to scramble on it he could never afterwards explain; but, when he had done so, and looked around, it was to discover Bob sitting astride the rolling log, close by, and the half-sunken boat just vanishing from sight in the gathering gloom.
“How is it, Sandy; are you all right?” anxiously asked Bob.
“I’m on the log, if that is what you mean,” gasped the younger boy, noticing, however, that their strange craft began to roll less, now that they had settled down upon its broad back.
“And I hope you held on to your gun?” Bob went on; for even in that terrible moment he could remember such a thing. This was hardly to be wondered at, because it had taken both of the boys many a long month’s work with their first traps, away off in Virginia, to gather together enough money to purchase the flint-lock muskets they owned, and which had always served their purpose well. To lose one meant another expenditure of hard-earned shillings, and even pounds.
“I have it here, safe and sound,” replied Sandy, not without a touch of pride in his voice; for to have managed to get aboard that rolling log in such a hurry, and to keep a grasp upon the long musket, was no trifling task.
“That was a close shave,” said the elder brother, with a long-drawn sigh; since he had been terribly alarmed for the moment, more on account of Sandy than for himself.
“We never had a more exciting time,” admitted his brother, frankly.
“And we have much to be thankful for,” continued Bob.
“For this old floating log, you mean?” observed Sandy, not without a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yes, because even an old log may turn out to be a pretty good friend,” Bob went on, positively. “I’ve heard father declare that a sailor is thankful for any port in a storm; and, only for this log, we might have been swimming our level best right now, brother, to keep our heads above water.”
“That may be,” answered Sandy, still unconvinced; “but you forget that, only for this same log, we would have been safe and sound in our dugout, and paddling as nice as anything for the bank. As it is, we’ve lost our boat, paddle and all, as well as the fox and mink; and will have to borrow Alexander Hodgson’s craft until we can build another.”
“Let us shout as loud as we can,” proposed Bob. “Perhaps some of the settlers will hear us, if they are down near the edge of the river, watching how fast it keeps on rising.”
Accordingly both lads sent out sturdy calls at the top of their voices; but there came back no answering, reassuring shout. Only the murmur of the flood could be heard, or it might be a grinding noise as the log came in contact with other floating stuff.
So finally the boys, as if by mutual consent, gave up hallooing.
For a little time they sat there in silence, both looking uneasily toward the shore which marked the connecting link between themselves and their home, though it could only be faintly seen, where the tree-crowned hills stood out against the dull, darkening heavens.
Bob suddenly aroused himself. This was no time for vain regrets. They must be up and doing, if they hoped to cope with the new and strange situation into which a freak of fortune had so suddenly thrust them.
“We must try to do something to get ashore, Sandy,” he said, firmly.
“I was just thinking that way, myself,” admitted the other; “but, since we have no paddles, and this log chooses to remain out here in the middle of the river, I’m bothered to know how it can be done.”
As usual, Sandy was depending part upon his brother to suggest some way out of their difficulty; not that he did not possess a bright mind himself, but when it came to quick thinking, and the suggesting of a reasonable plan, Bob was always to be relied on.
“Paddles would do us little good just now, I fear,” said Bob. “We are both of us good swimmers, and might be able to make the shore; but the water is very cold, and there would be danger of a cramp catching one of us. For that reason I don’t like the idea of deserting this friendly log. We are at least safe as long as we have it to cling to.”
“But, Bob, what if we keep on floating all night? We will be chilled to the marrow with this cold wind, and the rain that promises to fall. Besides, when the dawn breaks, we will find ourselves many miles down the river. And what would mother think?”
“Well, I’ve got a plan in my mind that might help us,” the other went on. “We don’t want to lose our guns, to begin with; and, once we took to the water in that way, how could we hold on to them? So here’s what I was thinking. Let us fasten the guns, and our clothes, as far as we can, to this log. I always carry some buckskin thongs in the pocket of my tunic, and there are knobs here and there, where branches have been broken off.”
Sandy broke out laughing.
“But, what good would that do us?” he demanded. “If ever we did get ashore, think how cold we should be, and likely to starve to death. I think I’d rather take my chances sitting right here, than try that.”
“But you don’t understand the whole of the plan yet, Sandy,” the other went on, steadily, for he was quite used to having his impatient brother break in upon him in this way.
“Oh! if there is more of it, I’m glad to hear it,” Sandy remarked. “After we’ve tied our guns, and part of our clothes, to the log, what do we expect to do then, Bob—fly away to the shore away over yonder? We might,—if only we had wings!”
“Listen, then,” Bob pursued. “We’ll slip down into the water, and, one on either side of the log, start steering it in the direction of land. Do you understand now, brother?”
Sandy gave a shout, for he was always enthusiastic, once he discovered any reason for being so.
“It is a great idea, Bob,” he said, warmly. “And I never would have thought it out in an hour. Just as you say, we can, by slow stages, push the log ashore. Even if it is miles below the settlement, we will have our clothes with us, and tinder bags to start a fire with. But why, do you think, did no one answer our shouts back there?”
“In the first place,” replied Bob, who was beginning to fumble around, in a hunt for the best nubbin of a broken branch, to which he might secure his valuables, consisting of his precious musket, powder horn, bullet pouch, tinder bag, and last, if not least of all, his clothes, which the loving fingers of their mother had fashioned out of pliable deerskin; “in the first place, we must have been some distance below the settlement at the time of our accident.”
“Yes,” added Sandy, at once, seeing how reasonable this sounded, “I think you are right about that, Bob.”
“And,” continued the other, “even if they had guessed that the cries came from down the river, what could they have done to help us? There is no better boat than the one we owned; and, with night at hand, and the sky as black as it is now, the women would not have let the men venture out upon the water. They are always in mortal fear lest the wily Indians lay some plan for the undoing of our settlement, and begin with luring some of its defenders away.”
Sandy, too, was beginning to secure some of his things to the novel craft which a strange decree of fate had made them accept as a means of riding the flood in safety. When he had received the several buckskin thongs which his brother passed over to him, the task of securing the gun to the two knobs he had selected was first of all begun, because with that in his hands he could accomplish little.
But Sandy, dearly loved to talk. It was indeed hard to keep him quiet, for he was always either seeking information from another, or else desirous of imparting his own views upon various subjects.
So, even as he worked, he must needs start afresh.
“How far do you believe we will be from home when we get to land?” was what he first of all asked his brother, just as though the other was a knowledge box upon which he could draw at will.
“That would be hard to say,” replied Bob. “It all depends on how long we are in landing. This flood must be going anywhere from six to seven miles an hour; and, even if we are lucky, we would find ourselves perhaps ten miles below our home.”
“That would be further than we have ever wandered down the river,” remarked Sandy, for their trapping and hunting had all been done within the immediate vicinity of the settlement, since game could often be found inside of ten minutes’ walk.
Once only had the brothers been tempted to take a long journey. This was when their sister Kate, at a time when their father had gone in Virginia on urgent business, had been carried off by a young chief of the Delawares; and a pursuit was undertaken by the brothers that led them to the far distant great lakes.[5]
“Well, if we can make the bank in safety, I, for one, will not complain of the distance,” declared Bob. “How is your gun fixed now; are you sure that it will hold safe, even if we should knock up against another log?”
“Yes, it is fast to the tree trunk, and can never slip loose,” returned Sandy. “The more I think of this plan of yours, the better I like it, Bob. Once we are in the water, and swimming, we can urge the log toward the shore, a foot at a time, it may be, but with a constant pressure, until at last we find that we can touch bottom. Then for a fire, and warming up, for I fear by that time both of us will be chilled to the bone.”
“And if your lame ankle is so bad that it prevents our getting back to-night, why, Sandy, what should hinder us from making camp in the forest, under some ledge, where we can keep out of the rain? Then, when morning comes, we can follow up the river until we reach our home again.”
“It makes me feel better to hear you talk like that, Bob,” declared the younger of the two. “I wonder what I would have done without you?”
“Perhaps just what we mean to do right now,” Bob went on to say. “The trouble is, Sandy, you will not think for yourself, when you have me to depend on. You must remember what father told you once, that every tub ought to stand on its own bottom. But Simon Kenton tells me he was just such a youngster, until he found himself thrown on his own resources. It was the making of him, he declares; because such things are apt to bring out all there is in a boy.”
Both of them were still diligently working to secure their possessions safely to the friendly trunk, which, having been the means of their disaster, now seemed willing to make reparation as best it could by offering them an asylum for those things which otherwise must have gone into the river with them.
It had, by now, grown so dark that all they could see was a stretch of about thirty feet or so of surging water on either side of them. Ahead, a similar unending panorama opened up, and, had they chosen to turn their heads in order to cast a backward glance, they would have looked upon the same dismal spectacle.
“There,” said Sandy at last, “that job is done, and I’m ready to pull off my tunic, hunting shirt, and coonskin cap, which I’ll make up into a bundle, and fasten with this last long thong. But, Bob, before we do that, and go overboard, it seems to me we ought to give a last shout for help. There is about one chance in a thousand that some person in a boat may hear us.”
“We’ll take that chance, then, Sandy,” echoed Bob. “So, ready now, and shout when I do, with all your might!”
Again did their lusty young voices ring out over the flood. Once, twice, thrice they gave tongue, and then, pausing, listened to see if by chance there came any welcome reply. Immediately Sandy gave a low bubbling cry of satisfaction.
“Did you hear that?” he demanded. “Some one certainly answered us; unless it was an echo from the hills away off yonder.”
“It was no echo, Sandy,” replied Bob. “Shout again, and louder than before. There is hope of a rescue even now. That one chance looks better! Now, let go!”
This time the answering hail seemed somewhat closer, as though they were sweeping down toward the spot where the unknown must be sitting in his boat, holding it to some degree against the rushing current.
Sandy became wild with excitement. He had almost despaired of assistance coming to them before, and, now that this sudden chance loomed up, the horizon seemed to brighten visibly.
“Oh! I can hear the sound of paddles, Bob!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, that is what I was just listening to,” answered the other, and Sandy was surprised to note a lack of the same enthusiasm about Bob that reigned in his own heart.
“What ails you?” he demanded. “We are in a fair way of being taken safely ashore, and yet you do not seem to be happy. Is there anything wrong, do you think, about that answer to our shouts? Surely it could not be an echo, for by now we can make out the dip of paddles plainly. Tell me what worries you?”
“That is just it,” replied Bob, soberly; “the dip of the paddles, as you say, which tells us that others are on the flood as well as ourselves. But I have never heard a white man handle a paddle just like that, and there are many who have tried it all their lives.”
Sandy asked no more questions. Doubtless, if his face could have been seen just then, it would be found to have taken on a sudden pallor, as he muttered to himself the one significant word:
“Indians!”
There was really nothing that could be done.
In a choice between two evils, Bob Armstrong could always be depended on to take that which seemed the less. To go on down the flood was a dreadful outlook; and almost anything was to be preferred to facing the unknown perils of the river, especially in the pitch darkness that prevailed.
The sound of the paddles drew constantly nearer. Then they heard voices, as if those in the canoe were asking each other whence it could be that they had heard that last shout for help.
To the astonishment of the floating boys the words came in English, though evidently one of the speakers was an Indian who had apparently learned the tongue of the palefaces.
“Oh! it’s Pat O’Mara, I do believe!” exclaimed Sandy, in his amazement speaking loud enough for his voice to carry some distance away; for immediately, even before Bob could add any words of his own to the declaration, there came a hail out of the gloom.
“Avast there! Be ye the Arrmstrong byes I’m afther hearin’ out on this roarin’, tearin’ flood this night?”
“Yes, yes, that’s who it is, Pat; and precious glad to hear the sound of your voice, because we need help the worst way!” cried Sandy, always impulsive.
“All right, we’ll be wid yees in a jiffy, depind on it,” came the answer from a point close at hand. “Give us another few digs at the paddle, chief, an’, by the same token, we’ll soon be alongside, so we will.”
A minute later the anxious boys began to detect some moving object, as they strained their eyes to see. Then this turned out to be a long canoe, in which two persons were sitting, the one in the stern using a paddle with that grace and dexterity which only an Indian could exhibit, just as Bob had wisely said.
Sandy craned his head forward to see better through the darkness. Doubtless there must have been something familiar about the movements of this paddler, for he certainly did not have enough light to recognize his features, or even the feather that adorned his scalplock.
“Surely that must be Blue Jacket!” he ejaculated, with a thrill of delight, as well as surprise noticeable in his quivering voice.
“Uh! that so, Sandy,” came in a voice he knew almost as well as he did that of his brother.
“What luck!” cried Sandy. “To think that such good friends should happen to be on the river this night of all times, when we are in such sore need.”
Perhaps, had Bob Armstrong been asked his opinion, he might have declared that it was something much higher than mere luck that brought about such a happy conclusion to their adventure. Bob was a much more serious fellow than his younger brother, and imbibed some of the sentiments that influenced his gentle mother. To him there was something especially Providential in this coming of help when the two boys were in so great need, just as there had been in the falling of the dead tree just as the panthers were about to attack them.
Quickly the canoe worked up alongside the log, to which both the Irish trapper and his native companion fastened a firm grip.
“Come aboord, and be sinsible,” said Pat O’Mara, who was one of the oldest friends the Armstrong family had; and whom they had known away back in Old Virginia, before the thought of daring the perils of the unknown wilderness had ever entered David Armstrong’s mind. “Sure, ’tis a mighty poor sort av a craft ye do be havin’, if I might make so bowld.”
“But it was better than nothing,” said Sandy, as he carefully placed his musket in the canoe before even thinking of attempting to get aboard himself.
Bob did not make a single move until he had seen his brother safely over the side. Indeed, to judge from his actions, one might be inclined to think that he even kept himself in readiness to clutch Sandy, should the other manage to slide down the side of the log into the water, instead of gaining a lodgment in the boat. Then Bob copied the other’s actions, his precious gun being first made secure before he would think of himself.
It was rather a ticklish business leaving the log, and entering the canoe that, being made of birch bark, was so light in build that it careened under the passage of the boys, and might have tipped over had not both Pat and the young Shawanee brave leaned far to the opposite side while the embarkation was taking place.
“Good-bye, old log!” said Sandy, now in an exultant frame of mind that contrasted strangely with his recent gloomy spirits. “We hope you will have a good voyage down to the great Mississippi. Tell them that, perchance, the Armstrong boys will be navigating that way to see some of the wonders they have so long been hearing about. You were a pretty fair kind of a log, though we are not sorry to part with you.”
Already was the paddle, in the expert hands of Blue Jacket, busily employed in sending the craft toward the southern shore of the swollen river. Pat O’Mara had his share of curiosity, and he was not the one to keep silent when desirous of knowing the true facts.
“Sure, ’tis a quare thing to be findin’ the two av yees adrift on a tree out on this high water,” he started to say; “and, by the same token, if yees have no objection, ’tis mesilf wud like to know how the same came about.”
“That is easy enough to tell, Pat,” burst out Sandy. “Of course, you mustn’t think we started from the shore, to cross over on an old log. It was just an accident, and that’s all. My paddle broke under the strain; and, when this log came whirling down on our boat, Bob alone could not get it out of the way. So it was upset, and we were lucky enough to scramble aboard, guns and all.”
The Irish trapper was loud in his exclamations of wonder.
“It do bate iverything how ye two lads always manage to chate the ould Reaper whin he thinks he has ye in the hollow av his hand,” he declared. “I warrant ye that nine out av tin min would have at laste taken a dip in the water afore crawling aboord the log; and, be the powers, ye do not same to be wit at all, at all.”
“We were wondering how we could manage to get ashore, so as to head for home,” Sandy went on to say, “when Bob thought of a way. Just when we heard your answer to our last shout we were about to fasten our guns and clothing to the log, slip overboard, and, by swimming, push it toward the shore.”
“A cliver ijee, by me troth,” remarked Pat, who was a great admirer of both young pioneers; of Bob on account of his steady ways and quick mind in emergencies, and of Sandy because he had a winning, sunny disposition, which appealed especially to the genial, roving Irish trapper. “But, afther all, ’tis just as will that Blue Jacket and mesilf came upon the sane at the time we did, since ’tis a wet back ye’d be havin’, not to spake of many miles more to thramp back home. And ’tis also will that ye are off the river before this same night is many hours older.”
Bob noticed that there was a peculiar significance to these last words of their old friend, who had been many times tried, and found as true as steel.
“What brings you and Blue Jacket here, and on your way to our cabin, as I reckon you are from the way you head across the river?” he asked, desirous of drawing the other out, and learning what new peril now threatened the little settlement on the southern bank of the Ohio.
More than once had Pat brought news of the coming of Indians on the warpath, so that the pioneers had learned to look upon him as their best guardian. As he was forever roaming the great forests, sometimes in the company of such noted men as Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton or Harrod the surveyor, Pat was in a position to pick up intelligence that could be obtained by no one else. (Note 4.)
And so Bob wondered whether it could be something of this character that was now causing him to hasten to the relief of the struggling settlement.
“Sure, ’twas by sheer accident that we came togither,” the trapper observed, as he bent his supple body quickly to one side, so as to better balance the frail canoe, which at that instant was being buffeted about in a swirl of waters, not unlike a miniature whirlpool. “An’, whin I larned that the chief was aven thin on his way to warrn the white settlers as fast as he could go, I made up me mind to accompany him. So that’s how it happens we wor abroad on the river jist at the same time ye naded hilp so bad. Troth, as Sandy jist said, ’twas a lucky thing all around.”
“But, Pat,” Bob continued, “of what danger was Blue Jacket about to warn our people? Have the Indians again taken to the warpath, after their professions of peace, and after saying that the hatchet was buried ever so deep?”
“Sure, there be always danger av that same,” remarked the other, grimly; “but, on this occasion, ’tis a peril av another color intirely. The flood is bearin’ down upon yees like a race horse, and, befoor the dawn av another day, it may be the risin’ water wull be afther swapin’ away some av the cabins in the settlement!”
“Oh! but how could Blue Jacket learn about that, when it must be many miles up the river, and coming much faster than any Indian could run?” demanded Sandy.
“Ye must know,” went on the Irish trapper, impressively, “that these rid hathen have a way av communicatin’ news by manes av smoke signals in the day time, and fires at night. From hill to hill, many miles away, they sind these smokes; and, so I’ve been towld at laist, the missage can be carried as much as a hundred miles in less time than it wud take a horse to run tin.”
“Yes, that is something I knew about, but had forgotten,” admitted Sandy.
“And this flood, does it come from the last rain, or has there been what I heard my father call a cloud-burst?” asked Bob, anxiously; for his thoughts were upon the little community some miles up the river, which had already grappled with more perils than the settlers had ever dreamed could be met with in this new country.
“That I do not chanct to know, me bye,” replied Pat. “’Tis enough to learn that the flood is comin’ tearin’ along down the river, and that the water will rise in a way niver known before. The Injuns are wild with alarrm. Their ould medicine-min do be on the rampage, and kape tillin’ thim they do be sufferin’ from the anger av the Great Spirit, becase av their allowin’ the white trispassers till remain on the sacred land that was given till their ancestors long years ago. It all manes hapes av trouble for the pioneers, from Boonesborough till Fort Washington, and all the way along the Ohio.”
“I can see the shore again,” called out Sandy at this moment; for, while he had been listening with deep anxiety to what the trapper said, at the same time his keen young eyes had been on the watch to detect the first signs of land ahead.
A minute later, and Sandy again broke out with an exclamation, and this time there was a note of wonder, not unmixed with anxiety, in his voice.
“Look! there is a fire burning on the shore below, and just about where we will come to the land!” he cried out.
“And I can see one or two white men beside it; yes, with an Indian also,” added Bob, who had as sharp vision as his brother.
“And they must hear us talking, for they have jumped to their feet, and seem to be looking this way. Can it be some of our friends from above, brother?” asked the younger boy, eagerly.
“I do not think so,” Bob answered. “They are not in the broad firelight now; but, from the glimpse I had, I took them to be woodrangers like Pat here, and some of the others we know.”
“Oh! perhaps, then, it may be Boone and Kenton themselves,” remarked Sandy, who had secretly always admired the forest ranger, Kenton, and aspired to follow in the footsteps of the daring young man, when he grew older.
“Well, we shall soon know,” Bob went on, “for Blue Jacket is heading straight in to that point where they have built their fire, as though he means to land on the lower side, where the current does not run so fiercely.”
Already they were in less turbulent waters, for, near the shore, the river did not attain anything like the swiftness that marked the middle of the stream. Under the skillful guidance of the sturdy young Shawanee brave, whose name, although not very well known just then, was fated later on to be on the lips of every settler who had built a cabin in the wilderness along the Ohio, the canoe presently came against the shore.
Sandy, as usual, was the first to jump on to the bank; but he was careful to take his gun along with him. The Irish trapper quickly reached his side, and then came Bob, and the dusky Blue Jacket, who certainly could never be accused of being a talkative fellow, though capable of expressing himself freely on occasion.
As if instinctively they allowed the young Shawanee to lead the way toward the burning campfire, because the presence of an Indian would seem to indicate that he might be better able to conduct the intercourse with the strangers; for already Bob and Sandy had discovered that the two white men were totally unknown to them. Besides, since it was Blue Jacket’s canoe, he seemed to be conducting the expedition to the settlement, the others having just been taken on as he happened to come across them.
But Bob Armstrong felt a new uneasiness creep over him when he heard the Irish trapper mutter something half under his breath, and caught the one significant word:
“Traitor!”
“Who are they, Pat?” asked Bob, half under his breath, as he saw Blue Jacket gravely salute the other Indian, whom he knew to be a chief among the fierce Miamis, both by the feathers he wore in his scalplock, and by the trimmings on his buckskin hunting shirt and nether garments.
“The Injun is Little Turtle, the greatest chief among the Miamis,” replied the Irish trapper, also lowering his voice, for he saw the two white men frowning in his direction. Bob noticed that his old friend kept his long-barrelled rifle close under his arm, and his finger touching the trigger.
“And the two others?” Bob went on. “I have never met either of them before, that I can remember; and yet I have seen most of the white men who roam the woods in this region of the Ohio.”
“Wull,” whispered Pat, “ye niver missed much, thin, for, by the same token, there niver lived greater rascals than the same precious pair ye say before yees this minute. The wan ag’inst the tree, wid the scowl on his black face, is none ither than the infamous Simon Girty; while his frind’s name it do be McKee; and there are hapes av people thot say he be the blackest renegade that iver wint over till the Injuns, to wage war on his own kind.” (Note 5.)
Both boys heard what Pat said, although he had lowered his voice to a whisper; and, of course, they were chilled to the marrow at the idea of looking upon such notorious persons, for already their names were being held up to execration among all honest settlers. Both Girty and McKee had been seen in the ranks of the hostile Shawanees when attacks were made on frontier settlements; and there were threats going the rounds as to what fate awaited them should the fortunes of war ever throw them into the hands of the whites.
To the eyes of the pioneer boys they looked doubly ugly on this night, when met so unexpectedly in company with a noted Miami chief, whose hostility towards the invading palefaces was so well known.
Meanwhile the two Indians were engaged in a conversation that by degrees became more and more heated. Indeed, neither Bob nor Sandy could ever remember seeing their young friend, Blue Jacket, quite so worked up. He made dramatic gestures when he talked, and seemed to be replying to the taunts of the older chief.
It began to look as though there might be trouble, and Sandy fingered the lock of his gun, taking a sly look down to make sure that there was powder in the pan, for the spark from flint and steel to reach, in case it became necessary for him to depend on a quick discharge of the musket.
“What are they talking about, Pat?” asked Sandy; for he knew that the Irish trapper was able to follow what the two Indians said in their warm discussion.
“Sure, thot scum av the aarth, Little Turtle, do be taunting Blue Jacket wid bein’ frinds-like wid the palefaces,” the other replied, cautiously, keeping one eye all the while upon the pair of treacherous renegades, whom he would not trust for a single second to get behind his back. “He tills him thot ivery ridskin ought to be the mortual foe av the palefaces who would stale their land away from thim. He kapes on sayin’ thot he hates the white men as hotly as the sun shines in summer, and will niver, niver make frinds wid the same.” (Note 6.)
“But, no matter what he says, it will not cause Blue Jacket to turn against the Armstrong family, even if he some day takes up the hatchet against the whites,” Sandy went on to say, with a confidence born of an intimate acquaintance with the young Shawanee brave, whose name was also fated to figure in the history of the times.
“Av yees could but hear what he do be sayin’ this blissed minit,” declared Pat, “sure, it’s on a good foundation ye build yer faith. Listen to him till that he was sore wounded, and how ye two byes did bring him intil yees own wigwam, h’alin’ his hurts, so that instead av dyin’ he lived. Now, it is av thot same kind mither av yees that he do be spakin’, and how she bound up his bullet wound wid salve, an’ trated him as though he might be her own boy. For thot he can niver be anything but the frind av the Arrmstrong family. An’ already has he parrt convinced Little Turtle, becase, ye know, gratitude is the bist trait av the ridskins.”
“But now the other seems to be changing his talk, and appealing to him in another way. Tell us what he is saying, Pat, please,” insisted Sandy.
The Irish trapper listened for a minute, and then nodded.
“That wor a cliver shot av Blue Jacket, on me worrd,” he muttered. “Yees say, the ould chief he do be tillin’ him that his brothers, the Shawanees, are always on the warpath aginst the palefaces; and that, while it may be all right for him to keep frinds wid yer family, he ought to take up arrms aginst the rist av the sittlement. But Blue Jacket replied by tillin’ him av what ye byes did for the great sachem, Pontiac, only last autumn, and what it meant for the sacred wampum belt of the same to be hangin’ in the Arrmstrong cabin.”
“Oh! yes,” Sandy went on; “that ought to convince Little Turtle that Pontiac is the friend of our settlement, just because we live there; and an injury to one would be an injury to all. All these months, now, while other places have been attacked, there has come no evil against our neighbors. Much though they feared the coming of the Indians, not once has a hostile shot been fired since that day when Pontiac gave us his wonderful belt.”
“Do you notice, Pat,” remarked Bob just then, in a whisper intended only for the ears of the one he addressed, “that the man you called Simon Girty is edging off to the left, a little at a time? I do not like the look in his eye. He scowls as though he meant us harm.”
“’Tis mesilf that do be after watchin’ the sarpint av the forest,” replied the trapper. “And yees spake rightly whin ye say he has evil in his mind; but me finger is on the trigger, an’, be the powers, wan hostile move on his parrt manes for me to fire. I cud hit the eye av a rid squirrel at this distance, and surely must find his black heart wid me bullet.”
He spoke louder than before, and for a reason. Evidently his words must have reached the ear of the renegade, for he no longer tried to keep on moving, a little at a time, toward the left. Doubtless Girty knew well what a splendid shot Pat O’Mara was; and also that the trapper would willingly rid the border of such a pest, if given half an excuse.
The two Indians had by this time come to an understanding. What Blue Jacket had told concerning the gratitude of Pontiac, and the bestowing of his wampum belt on the young pioneers, because of their saving his life, must have impressed the Miami chief greatly. At that time Pontiac’s name was one to conjure with among the confederated red men of the region lying between the Alleghenies and the Mississippi; while Little Turtle had not yet come to the zenith of his fame.
Turning to his white allies the Miami chieftain spoke in a rapid tone. Although Bob could understand only a word or two, nevertheless he grasped the meaning of what Little Turtle said; and knew that he was warning Girty and McKee not to think of injuring either of the boys who had been taken under the especial protection of Pontiac, the master schemer.
“Are they going to let us pass on, or do they mean to start a fight?” asked Sandy, whose manner showed that he was by no means averse to trying conclusions with the two ugly desperadoes who had thrown their fortunes in with the Indians, so that they could no longer find a friendly greeting at the cabin of a single white settler.
“No danger of our being halted,” Bob hastened to reply, fearful lest the impulsive Sandy might attempt some sort of play that would open hostilities, when there was no necessity.
“Come, we’d bist be on our way, av we hope to rach the sittlement before the flood arrives,” said Pat, beginning to retreat, still keeping watch on the renegades; for no white man who had his senses about him would ever be so foolish as to turn his back on such a treacherous snake in the grass as Simon Girty.
They were soon far enough away from the camp to feel safe, especially since the keen eyes of Blue Jacket saw that not one of the three whom they had left there had made any move toward following them.
“How is your ankle going to hold out, Sandy?” asked Bob, who feared the worst.
“It’s just got to do,” was the determined reply. “I mean to go on until I drop; but I shall keep up with you. If the worst comes, you can leave me behind somewhere, and the rest push on, for, unless the warning is received, our people may be caught asleep in their cabins, and carried away, like that log was.”
Sandy was possessed of considerable grit, inherited from his sturdy Scotch ancestors, no doubt. When he set those teeth of his firmly together it meant that he was just bound to do, or die. And in many a tight hole that stubborn trait served him a good turn, just as it had also gotten the boy into heaps of trouble.
When he limped, Bob threw an arm around him; or it might be the genial trapper gave him such assistance as lay in his power. Indeed, deep down in his own mind, though he did not say as much, Pat O’Mara was determined that if he had to take the lame boy upon his broad back, as an Indian squaw would her little papoose, he was bound to see to it that Sandy reached his home with the rest of them.
But Blue Jacket was familiar with every trail of the forest. He could lead them over cut-offs that even the trapper did not know and which saved many a weary step.
The boys began to recognize their surroundings after a while, although the night was so dark that only the general conformation of the country could be noticed.
“We’re getting there, Bob,” said Sandy, hopefully.
“To be sure we are!” declared the other. “See, that must be the tree we shot the wildcat from, when he was eating the mink taken from our trap.”
“And that means only another mile or so to go before we reach home,” remarked the younger boy gladly; for Sandy was fast reaching a point where even his remarkable grit could not carry him along, and he must admit defeat.
But every step he knew took him that much closer to home. Even the thought of his mother and father, as well as Kate, anxiously awaiting news of the two who had crossed the raging river on the preceding afternoon, buoyed him up, and lent him new strength.
By degrees they were coming near the settlement. This had been built along a small elevation on the bank of the Ohio, from which the pioneers were afforded a magnificent view up and down the river. At the time of its selection by Daniel Boone, who had long admired the site as an ideal place for a growing town, no one had so much as dreamed that a flood might sooner or later come sweeping down from the hills away beyond Fort Duquesne, and threaten the little colony with disaster. But it had come, and this night was likely to prove the blackest in the history of the settlement.
Now they could see the blockhouse that had been erected on the very crown of the ridge, so that in times of danger all those having cabins lower down along the face of the hill might flee thither for refuge. And the wily Indians could not find any higher point whence to send their arrows, winged with flame, to stick in the roof of the fort, and set it ablaze.
“I can see a light in our cabin window,” declared Sandy, presently, his voice trembling with eagerness. “See, it is on the side that looks down the river. I am sure mother must have put it there to serve as a guide for her boys, if they chanced to be afloat on the dark waters. Oh! how glad we will be to see her again.”
The roar of the river was in their ears as they advanced further; but their coming must have been detected by some sentinel, for a minute later a harsh voice rang out, calling upon them to halt and explain who they were, on pain of being fired on.
“It’s we, Mr. Harkness,” cried out Sandy, recognizing the voice of a near neighbor, “brother Bob and myself; but with us come Pat O’Mara, and our friend, Blue Jacket, the last bringing news that will tell you his friendship still holds good. Oh! where will we find our mother and father; can you direct us, sir?”
“They are at the cabin,” replied the sturdy settler, as they advanced to where he stood, gun in hand, “though I saw Neighbor Armstrong but a few moments ago, and he was much cast down because his sons had not arrived. Hasten then, and convince him of your safety; and meanwhile we would like to know the nature of this warning brought by the Indian.”
As Bob Armstrong and his brother drew near the well-beloved cabin which had now been their home for almost an entire year, their hearts beat high with anticipation of a reunion with their mother, father and sister.
The door stood partly open, as though, perhaps, Mr. Armstrong had just entered, to bear the latest news concerning the rising of the river to his family circle. And, looking through the opening thus formed, the boys saw the three whom they loved standing by the table, on which still rested the dishes of the evening meal, as if the fond mother had not given up all hope that her sons might yet come in, tired and hungry.
They could see her face as she listened to what the good man of the house was saying. It could not have been cheerful news, either, for the concern deepened on the countenances of Kate and her mother.
The boys could stand it no longer, but, bursting through the door, they were quickly in the arms of the mother for whom either of them would have given his young life any day; nor did either Bob or Sandy deem it unmanly in the least because tears ran down their cheeks, induced by their great joy at once more being home.
Then came many questions; and, as the story was told, how those fond ones hung upon every word! No doubt that brave little mother could see, just as vividly as though she had been there, her younger boy caught in his own trap, with that fierce woods tiger creeping closer and closer.
And then, later, when between them the boys had described the accident out on the river, whereby the breaking of the paddle was responsible for the collision with the great unwieldy log, and the loss of the dugout, she realized the peril her sons had been in, even though they strove to make light of it.
Last of all came the news that Blue Jacket was trying to fetch to his friends at the time he and Pat had so opportunely come upon the floating log in the middle of the Ohio.
“Let us hope and pray that it may not be so bad as that,” Mrs. Armstrong said; for, now that her boys had been restored to her, she felt that she could face almost any calamity with calmness. “The Indians may have over-estimated the force of the water, and it will not rise higher than our doorstep, at most.”
“It is not very far from that, even now,” observed Bob, who had noted before entering the cabin how terribly near that flowing flood came to their home, and that already it had covered the patch of ground where he and his brother were accustomed to work at odd times, when not hunting, or attending to their string of traps.
“We shall not dare sleep much to-night,” declared Mr. Armstrong. “You see, my boys, we have been busy, and our few possessions are already done up, ready to be carried to higher ground, if necessary—which we hope may not be the case.”
Then came Pat O’Mara, always a welcome guest at the Armstrong cabin; for he had always shown himself one of their best friends.
“Sure, there be some av the settlers who make light av the direful news Blue Jacket brings, becase, ye say, ’tis only an Injun that fetches the same,” the trapper remarked, after he had greeted the rest of the family, and joined the circle. And then with the boys ate heartily of the food Mrs. Armstrong had placed before them.
“A strange thing happened since you left home,” remarked the owner of the cabin, as he reached out, and, picking something up, laid it on the heavy table, scoured snowy white by the hands of the good housewife.
Sandy uttered a cry of astonishment.
“Why, look at that, will you?” he exclaimed. “It must be another of those strange warnings we have been getting for a long time past, though we can never understand who sends them, for I can see the same figures marked here on the birch bark that we settled before meant those rascally French trappers.”
“Yes,” said Bob, who was closely examining the little roll of thin bark, almost as light as a feather; “I am sure you are right about that, Sandy; and these two creeping figures must be our enemies, Jacques and Henri, the brother of the dead Armand. But where did you get this, father?”
“Your mother and myself were talking here late in the afternoon, when Kate came and told us she had heard a strange sound from the direction of the roof, just as if some one had thrown a stone. I went out, expecting to find that those small boys of the new settler, Seth Smalley, had been pelting each other again; but, when I looked, no one was in sight. Then, chancing to cast my eyes upward toward the roof, what was my astonishment to see an arrow sticking there, to which was attached that little roll of bark. So I climbed up, and possessed myself of the whole. I do not much doubt but that this unknown friend, who has several times tried to warn us about those bad men, the French trappers, is again sending a message which is intended for you two boys.”
“What does he seem to say this time?” asked Sandy, as, with his brother and the Irish trapper, he bent over the scroll which was being held open in the extended fingers of Bob.
“Here is a cabin, which must be meant for our own home,” commenced Bob; “because, you see, it has a little flagstaff fastened to the top in front. Well, two creeping figures are coming toward the cabin. One of them holds something in his hand, which I can hardly make out, but it may be a burning brand. Yes, it surely is, for here you can see smoke curling up from the side of the cabin.”
“Well, the whole settlement shall know about it at once,” declared Sandy, angrily; “and it will be a bad thing for Jacques Larue or Henri Lacroix to be seen creeping up the rise. I do not believe we will ever know peace until something happens to those bad men. Little they care for the sacred belt of Pontiac, and even the death of Armand Lacroix does not seem to have daunted them.”
“I think you are wrong there,” Bob went on, earnestly. “They have been afraid to do either of us bodily injury, because they know what the anger of Pontiac would mean to them. But they think they can find other ways to annoy us, and those we care for. To burn our cabin to the ground seems to be a favorite way of satisfying their idea of revenge; but they will have a hard time doing it, now that we are warned.”
“I read the scroll somewhat as you do,” said Mr. Armstrong, “and at once commenced to ask among the neighbors concerning them. One man, who had been out hunting most of the day, told about seeing the Frenchmen in the woods. They seemed to be heading this way, and acted as though they were making sure of their ground as they advanced. As he did not fancy running into trouble, he simply lay in the bushes until they had passed on.”
“Which proves that they are really around here again, urged on by some foolish notion that they have suffered wrongs at our hands, and ought to square the account,” remarked Bob, seriously.
“It will be squared, one of these fine days,” said Sandy, with a glance in the direction of the corner where he had stood his musket after entering, taking it from the hands of Pat, who had been carrying the heavy piece for him, because of his lame leg.
“Yis,” spoke up Pat, “there be but wan way to aven accounts wid such spalpeens as thim Frinch trappers, who make most av their livin’ stalin’ from the traps av honest min; and that is by diskiverin’ the same in some ugly thrick, an’ wastin’ a precious bit av lead.”
“Here comes Blue Jacket to see you, mother,” said Bob.
“Oh!” broke in Sandy, “if you could only have seen him when he was telling that war-loving Little Turtle how much he was in debt to the Armstrong family, it would have done you good, mother. Of course we didn’t just understand all they said; but Pat could, and he told us how Blue Jacket was declaring he would lay down his life for any one of us, if the need arose. He said you attended to his hurt just as if he were your own son.”
It could be easily understood, after that, what a warm welcome greeted the young Shawanee brave when he strode into their midst. Doubtless it was pleasant to him to know that they thought so much of him; but he did not betray this fact even by a smile. An Indian learns from childhood to repress all outward evidence of feeling springing either from joy or pain. Anger alone will he allow himself to show, and that only because it excites his ardor for the battlefield or to follow the trail of his enemy.
Sandy was waiting to spring something upon the young Shawanee brave. He had asked his father for the arrow which had been shot so as to drop directly on the roof of the Armstrong cabin. This he suddenly laid before Blue Jacket.
“You, who can tell the different arrow-points, and the way of feathering the shaft, of every tribe along the Ohio, look at this, and say whose was the hand that drew the bow from which it came,” Sandy went on to say.
Blue Jacket looked gravely at the flint tip that was bound in the cleft of the straight shaft with strong fibres taken from some plant. There must have been signs that immediately informed him as to what tribe the party belonged who had made that arrow. (Note 7.)
“Ugh! Delaware arrow, him,” grunted Blue Jacket; and no one dreamed of disputing his simple assertion; indeed, Pat O’Mara was seen to wag his head in a satisfied way, as though that declaration exactly coincided with his own private opinion.
“So, you see,” remarked Sandy, with an air of triumph, turning on his brother, “I always said I believed it was an Indian who sent those queer messages; but why do you suppose he does it? The Delawares as a rule are not in love with the white settlers. When a colony is attacked there are generally Delawares among the reds who creep up to surprise the poor settlers. Why should a Delaware want to do us a good turn; tell me that, Bob?”
“Well, now, I am just as much in the dark as you are,” returned Bob; “unless that was a Delaware youth you rescued, Sandy, from that horrible quicksand late in the autumn on that day you went out hunting alone.”
“It might be,” Sandy replied, looking thoughtful; “he never told me who he was; but held out his hand to me, and then disappeared in the bushes, from which fact I made up my mind that he must have been on a very important errand at the time he got trapped in that slough. A Delaware—well, perhaps he was. Seems to me he looked like the one who was caught hanging around here early last summer, and who was allowed to go, with a warning never to come back. But I suppose I never will know the truth.”
“But, it sames to me it’s a mighty good thing to have sich a grand fri’nd always on the watch till warrn yees whin danger draws nigh,” remarked the trapper. “Now, av I’d had the same, ’tis manny a bad time I might have been saved from goin’ through wid, in me day. And marrk me worrd, this same party must have a bad falin’ towards the Frinchmin; becase he sames to kape watch over them, so he do; plazed to upset anny plans they might be after makin’.”
Leaving the cabin in the charge of Mrs. Armstrong, Kate, and Sandy, the last of whom wished to have some of the home-made salve applied to his swollen ankle, the rest went out to watch the rising of the waters, and to compare notes with others among the anxious settlers, now in fear of having the little homes for which they had toiled so hard swept away with the flood.
One who had been keeping close watch over the situation declared that for more than half an hour now the river had been at a standstill. Even such a small thing as this brought some ray of hope in its train; though Pat warned them not to relax their vigilance one iota, because the information sent down the Ohio by means of those signal smokes was usually very accurate, and could be depended on.
It was after a time decided to set a watch, while the rest of the settlers tried to obtain some sleep, of which they were in much need. Should the river once more begin to rise, information of the event would be carried around quietly from cabin to cabin, so as not to awaken the women and children, and needlessly alarm them, even though it were deemed the part of wisdom for the men to be abroad.
But, in case the water started to rise swiftly, as would be the case should the flood predicted by the Indians arrive, then the alarm bell, used only in cases of great necessity, like a threatened Indian attack, would be rung.
Should that be heard, every one must immediately start to remove all of his possessions, scanty as these were at the best, to a place of security on higher ground.
It was an anxious group that gathered there for a last consultation, before separating for the night. Bob missed Blue Jacket, and yet the Indian came and went at will when visiting his white friends, so that his absence caused no alarm.
Finally Mr. Armstrong took Bob by the sleeve, saying:
“Come, you and Pat, we will return home. We all of us need sleep, and surely you in particular, my son, after the excitement of the perils that hung over your head. Perhaps a kindly Providence, that has all along watched over our fortunes, may see fit to ward off this new and terrible danger. But, if it is to come, we could not help matters by remaining awake. Let us then be securing some rest, so as to be ready to work with a will, in case the worst comes.”
Half an hour later perfect quiet seemed to surround the cabin of the settlers from Virginia; but, nevertheless, Pat slept, as he himself expressed it, “wid wan eye open.” Besides, he kept his long rifle close to his hand; and Sandy felt positive that, in case there came any midnight alarm, O’Mara would be out of the cabin like a flash, and woe to the skulking figure on which his eye rested.
Tired out after the labors of the day, and easily able to throw the burden off his young mind, Bob Armstrong was not long in going to sleep, once he had dropped down on his bed, covered with some of the furs taken by himself and Sandy.
They had been warned not to undress, lest there might be need of sudden action with the coming of the flood. But such a little thing as that did not bother either of the Armstrong boys, who were used to roughing it whenever they went into the woods.
Bob never knew how long he slept; but it must have been for several hours, because the fire on the hearth had died down when he opened his eyes again, and it had been looked after at the time he lay down.
But the condition of the fire gave the boy little or no concern at the time he awoke; for, hardly had he opened his eyes, than he became conscious of the thrilling fact that it had not been a dream after all but the alarm bell was wildly pealing out its brazen notes; and outside he could hear men’s hoarse voices shouting:
“Up, every one of you! The flood is coming swiftly, and already the water has commenced to rise at a fearful rate. Awake! Be up and doing, if you would save your possessions! The flood! the flood!”