CHAPTER III
A SEARCH
That evening Polly returned to her own home, but the M’Cleans remained at the fort, and the next day Jeanie told Agnes that her mother was bent upon going nearer to the settlement of Marietta, that, now their cabin was burned and all their stock killed, they would be better off if they went farther on.
“Near Marietta?” exclaimed Agnes. “That is where we were to have gone. If my father were only here, we might go with you and search out the land belonging to my grandfather; then we could send for my mother.” She was silent a moment. “I think,” she continued slowly, “I will do it, anyhow, as soon as—as we know the worst about my father.”
“You do it?”
“Yes, why not?”
“How could you do it alone?”
“I could get some one to help me. I would never be satisfied to stay here by myself, and how could I go back to my mother and tell her there was no home in the wide world for her and the children? Thereare many coming out this way, but few going back.”
“That is true. Why don’t you talk to my father about it?”
“I will,” and that very evening she told Mr. M’Clean the story.
“It might be worth while,” he said, “though perhaps it would not. Land is plentiful, and if there should be any trouble, I would not advise you to get into it.”
“I know land is plentiful, but this is a cleared farm, with a good house on it. My grandfather was killed by the Indians, and this is his place which now belongs to my mother, to be had for the taking.”
“Then come with us, and I will help you to your rights if it is to be done.”
“But my father—if he should come back?”
Joseph M’Clean laid his hand gently upon the child’s auburn hair. “Ye can scarce expect it, for we’ve searched for him and he’s not to be found.”
Agnes choked back the sob that rose in her throat. “I know,” she said bravely, “but I am not going to give up hope. He may be lying wounded somewhere, and I am going to look for him myself. I feel sure I could find him if he is to be found.”
“Ye’re a brave lass, Nancy,” said the man, his own eyes moist. “I’ll go with ye, lass. It’s a rough country we’re in, and ye are not to go alone. We’ll startanother search for your father, for maybe, as you say, he’s wounded and can’t get here by himself.”
Agnes looked up at him gratefully, for his was the first encouragement she had received that day.
“It’ll be a rough tramp for ye, and maybe a dangerous one,” said Jimmy O’Neill the next day, as he saw Agnes ready to accompany the search party. “There’s Archie and Joe M’Clean besides mesel’, and we’ll not lave a stone unturned.”
“But I must go,” Agnes returned wistfully. “If you should find him, I would know that much sooner by being with you. I’m not afraid, and I am a good walker. I’ve travelled many a mile a-foot when father and I were coming here.”
Jimmy looked at Mr. M’Clean, who nodded as if in agreement, and said: “Weel, if ye grow weary, we can send you back with Archie, so we’ll let you go, lass, and may God direct us,” he added piously.
Through the dim, deep forest they took their way, following such trails as they could find, and noticing the turn of a leaf, a broken twig, and those clews which only a woodsman would look for. The two men stalked on ahead, rifles on shoulder. Agnes and Archie followed, their moccasined feet treading the shining leaves pressed down by the footsteps of the Indian raiders. The summer was over and the settlers had thought themselves safe from Indian raids, but when the warm hazy weather which November sooften brings had come upon them, it was a favorable time for the Indians to sally forth again, bent upon plunder. For this reason this late mild weather was called “Indian summer.” They followed the trail for some time, Agnes’s eyes alert as any to discover anything which might suggest a possibility of her father’s near presence.
Suddenly she gave a quick exclamation. Sticking to a bramble by the side of the way was a bit of fur. The men came to an immediate halt at the sound of her voice. “See!” she cried. “It is a bit of some one’s coonskin cap.” She examined the edges as she plucked it from the thorny bush.
“It has been shot away,” said Archie, as intent as she upon the clew.
“You’re sure it is not the skin of some creature shot by some one?” Agnes asked anxiously.
“No, it is dressed skin, not freshly killed,” said Archie.
They glanced around. A little farther on was a shallow brook, on the borders of which there were trampled weeds, as if some large body had passed through. Agnes looked with imploring, questioning eyes at Jimmy O’Neill as he raised himself up after an examination of the spot. “It’s worth following,” he said in reply. “We’ll go up-stream a ways.”
Agnes at the word dashed on ahead, unheeding the brambles or the sharp boughs which lashed her faceat every step. Archie, with long strides, kept close behind her, and was by her side when suddenly she swooped down with a cry, in which joy and fear were mingled, and gathered up in her arms the head of a man lying as still as death by the brookside. “Father! Father!” cried the girl. “Speak to me! Oh, he can’t be dead! Archie! Archie! tell me he is not.” She chafed the cold hands, and laid her cheek against the quiet face.
“She’s found him!” cried Archie, as his father came up. “But I think he’s dead,” he said in a low voice. Joseph M’Clean was on his knees by the man’s side in a moment, and was pouring some spirits between the clenched teeth.
Presently there was the faintest movement. “He is alive! alive!” cried Agnes. “Oh, how thankful I am!”
“He’s alive, sure enough,” said Jimmy O’Neill, “but begorry! I thought him clane gone whin I clapped me eyes on him. Give him a drop more from Black Betty, Archie, and he’ll be comin’ ’round.” True enough in a few minutes Fergus Kennedy opened his eyes with a bewildered stare and attempted to sit up, but he dropped back again too weak for the effort.
“We’ll make a litter of boughs and get him home all right,” Agnes was assured, and very soon the little procession was ready to start back to the settlement, Agnes insisting upon helping to carry a part of the burden.
For many days her father lay in a stupor, and even when roused, he was not able to remember anything of the Indian attack.
“I surmise,” said Joseph M’Clean, “that the Indians fired on him, and that the bullet took away a piece of his cap and gave him that wound in the head. He was able to keep up for a while, but after he grew weaker, he crept off into the bushes where we found him.”
“I don’t see how he escaped the wild animals even if he got away from the Indians,” said Agnes.
“Likely he climbed a tree at first and kept in hiding from both beasts and redskins. The wound brought on a fever, and he tried to get to the water and was too weak and ill to move again. That’s how I sum it up.”
“My father was ever a quiet man, but he is more so now,” Agnes told her friends. And, indeed, it seemed hard to arouse him from his lethargy when his wound was actually healed. He would do patiently enough anything that he was told to do, but seemed unable to plan for himself.
“He’ll get better after a while,” Agnes always said cheerfully, “but I think he’ll get well quicker if we go somewhere else. He seems to dread going to the woods, and trembles if you mention the Indians. I don’t understand it, for he was always so brave.”
“One can’t account for the strange ways of a body hurt,” said Mrs. M’Clean. “Maybe it would be best that you take him back home.”
“We haven’t any home,” Agnes replied sorrowfully. “You know father had to give up the farm; it was sold after grandfather died, and father had only his share of what it brought. Mother is with her cousin till we make a home out here for her. You know we started to go to a place already cleared and with a good house on it. I wonder if it is very far. It is near the Putnam Colony.”
“That is where we are thinking of travelling.”
“Then—”
“You could go with us? Indeed and you could. We are going to start before the river is frozen over, and while there is not like to be any danger from the Indians.”
Agnes nodded. The plan suited her very well, and she felt that it was happening very fortunately for her.
So in a few days Polly O’Neill, the Fergusons, the McCormicks, and the rest of their friends watched Joseph M’Clean’s broadhorn as it started down the river, and there was a great waving of good-bys from the shore. It was not a very merry parting, nevertheless, for it was very uncertain if these who remained would ever again meet those who went.
“It’s sorry I am to leave Polly O’Neill,” said Jeanie.
“She’ll be following us if the Indians trouble them again,” Agnes returned.
“She likes to be on the move, does Polly, and doesn’t mind lugging about her babies with her wherever shegoes. She’ll roll the little baby up in a bearskin, and leave the next older, sucking his thumb, to watch the baby while Polly herself goes off to dance an Irish jig. Oh, but she’s a funny Polly.”
“She is that, and I am loath to leave her.”
“But I was so pleased when father said you were coming with us,” said Jeanie, “and some one else was pleased, too.”
“Who? Your mother?”
“No, Miss Innocence; it was Archie. I shall like you for a sister, Nancy. Doesn’t Archie grow to be a tall fine lad? Eighteen, and six feet tall. He’ll not be long finding you a home.”
“That’s nonsense,” Agnes replied sharply. “I’ve no time to think of such things. I’ve my father to think of this long while yet, and when my mother comes, I’ll not want to leave her for a good bit.”
“Ah, but there’s no harm in talking of it. Archie has his eye for you and no one else.”
“But we are going to another place, and there may be a dozen girls he would like better, so we’ll not be talking of it yet, but of some possible lad for you, Jeanie. I’ll describe him to you. He’s no so tall, for you are of a good height, and of course will not marry a tall man.”
“Ah, but I will.”
“Hush, just wait till I make my description. He has sandy hair, for your hair and eyes are dark, andhe’s a quiet fellow, for you are lively. Now, we shall see. I will point him out to you as soon as I meet him.”
“Law, Agnes, you make me feel creepy. One would think you were a witch.”
“I’m no witch, then, but I’ve just common sense. But did you hear how old Mother Martin was treated? The good old soul went to borrow a suppin’ of milk from Martha Mackin, and would she let her have it? At last she said, ‘I’ll give it to you, but I’ll not lend it,’ and it all but broke Mother Martin’s heart to have her say that.”
“And why?”
“Don’t you know? Why, Martha’s baby had fits, and she accused good old Mother Martin of working a spell on the child, because Mother Martin was over there when the spell came on, and you know then Martha tried to put a spell on Mother Martin, and she could only get it off by borrowing something if she had been a witch.”
“And was Mother Martin really a witch?”
“No, of course not. No one believed it of her. She is a good old woman, and the minister said it was but spleen and ignorance that made Martha Mackin think so. But it didn’t distress Mother Martin any the less.”
With such chatter did the girls pass the day as the boat floated down the river. Well wrapped in furs theykept fairly comfortable, yet they were not sorry when their journey was ended and they started for the new lands, the girls full of talk, but the men silent and watchful. They had little to begin the world with, for their ruined cabins had held most of their belongings, but with an axe and a rifle the frontiersman felt himself sufficiently well equipped to face his future.
The settlement to which they were going was much larger than the one they had left, and there were willing hands to help them, therefore a new log-cabin was not long in being erected. Then came the question to Agnes of what would be best for her and her father. It was hard to arouse him sufficiently to take an active interest in their affairs, and Agnes, too proud to be dependent upon their good friends, at last determined to strike out for herself and discover how matters stood with reference to her grandfather’s land. She had mentioned the subject once or twice to Mr. M’Clean, but he had replied, “Plenty of time yet,” and the girl felt that she ought not to expect him to leave his own important work to attend to her affairs. The country around was well cleared, and she would herself make inquiries and go to find out about this land. She would make her plans before she told any one. It hurt her that her father should be so indifferent, and yet she was vaguely aware that he could not help it. For this very reason she yearned to get him off to a home of their own, and then send for her mother. Togetherthey could take the helm and could protect him from any outside criticism till he was well again.
“That’s what mother would tell me to do,” she told herself. “Father will do anything he is told, but he cannot think for himself, poor father.”
It was with this thought on her mind that she made her inquiries concerning her grandfather’s farm. It was to old Dod Hunter that she put her questions. He was the earliest settler in the neighborhood, and knew every one. He was always on hand to welcome a newcomer, and was not slow in making the acquaintance of the M’Cleans and the Kennedys.
He was starting for home one day when Agnes waylaid him on the edge of the wood. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Hunter,” she said; “can you stop a minute?”
He leaned his rifle against a tree, folded his arms and looked her up and down. “I reckon I kin spare ye a few minutes,” he made answer. “What’s the talk?”
“Do you know anything about the Muirhead place?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“What sort of a place is it?”
“Pretty good; well cleared and has a first-rate house on it.”
“Good!”
He looked at her sharply. “What’s that to you?”
“It is a great deal to me. I suppose somebody is on the place? It has been kept up?”
“Somebody’s there.”
“And takes good care of it?”
“Good enough.”
“Will you take me there, Mr. Hunter?”
“What for?”
“I have to go.”
“I’ll take ye if ye hev to go, but my advice is to stay away.”
“Oh, but I can’t do that. You see father isn’t quite—isn’t quite himself, and I have to take the lead.”
Dod Hunter gave a slow smile. “Yer a big hefty crittur to talk o’ takin’ the lead. That’s for us men folks.”
“It would be all right if father were well,” Agnes persisted. “Sometimes a woman can do a good deal. At any rate I want to go to the Muirhead place and see what it is like. Is it far from here? Is it near to where you live?”
“It is the next place to me.”
“That’s good, too. When can I go?”
“Lemme see—I’m comin’ this way agin to-morrow, an’ I’ll start back bright and airly the next mornin’; ye could go then ef ye want.”
“How far is it?”
“A matter of twelve mile or so.”
“Do you think they will let me stay there—the people, the tenants—till I can get back here?”
“I wouldn’t advise ye to try it. Ye’d better come back to my place when ye git through at Muirhead’s.Debby, my wife’ll be glad to hev ye. I’ll send one o’ the boys arter ye. No, ye’d better not conclude to stay at Muirhead’s.”
“Very well. I can settle my business there in short order, I have no doubt. Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”
“I’m plain Dod—er—Uncle Dod ef ye like. I’m no mister.”
“Very well, then I will call you Uncle Dod.”
“I don’t say I hold to young gals travellin’ around through the country in a wild-goose fashion, but if ye go with me, I’ll guarantee I’ll return you safe.”
“It isn’t a wild-goose fashion. It’s for father and mother and the children,” returned Agnes, earnestly. “You see—you know father forgets and gets so bewildered, he couldn’t do it, and I can. I think it will be all right. I don’t see why it shouldn’t.”
Indeed, to walk up and claim her grandfather’s property seemed the easiest matter in the world to the girl in her simplicity. She knew her father held a copy of the deed; he carried it around with him in his clumsy leather pocket-book. She could easily get it, and with that in her possession the rest seemed plain sailing. There was no need to trouble any one to help her. All were busy with their own affairs. The M’Cleans had all they could do to get their own work done, and why ask them to stop to attend to hers? She had a thought of confiding in Archie and getting himto go with her, but she decided she would better not, since he was needed at home.
So she simply told her friends and her father that she was going home with Dod Hunter and would be back soon.
Jeanie looked at her in surprise. “Why, what do you want to go with him for?” she asked.
“Oh, I want to. He knows all the country hereabouts, and we must look around if we are going to settle here.”
“Yes, but why not come in here next to us?”
“Because—oh, I will tell you when I get back.”
It was nearly noon the next day before Dod Hunter drew rein before a stout dwelling in the woods. The drive of twelve miles had lengthened to fifteen over roads such as one could scarcely imagine could exist and be travelled upon. Conversation had not been carried on with much spirit, although Agnes had gained from the old man considerable information about the country and the methods of its people. The girl’s brightness and quick interest evidently won her a good opinion, for, as they neared the Muirhead place, the grave driver turned to the girl at his side and said: “It ain’t none o’ my business why you’re here, Nancy Kennedy. I’ve no right to advise ye, but I think ye’d better go back. But if ye do conclude to hang on and matters go hard with ye, I’m not far away. I don’t name no names, but there’s hard customers for folksto deal with around here, and it’s well ye should know ye hev a friend at hand. If you want to come out as soon as ye get in, I’ll be waitin’ by this tree.”
“You are very good, Uncle Dod,” Agnes returned smiling. “You don’t give me much encouragement, do you? I think I shall stay till I have finished what I have to say. I am much obliged to you just the same.” She clambered down from her place, and went bravely toward the house, it must be confessed with some slight feeling of trepidation. Just what she had to fear, she could not guess, but Dod Hunter had succeeded in arousing a feeling which was the opposite of assurance. For one moment she hesitated and looked back to where the old man was waiting for her, then she shook her head and said, half aloud, “There is nothing in the world to be afraid of!” and on she marched.