Kate Merriweather was quite exhausted when the renegade’s forest home was reached.
Her strange abduction, rescue and recapture had told upon her nature, and she crossed Girty’s threshold with a sigh of despair which did not escape her companion’s notice.
“Oh, you will not find Jim Girty’s home so bad as your imagination has pictured it,” he said with a smile. “A British officer at Fort Miami tells about a place that had over its door the words, ’who enters here leaves hope behind;’ but that isn’t my home.”
Kate shuddered at his heartless levity, which he applauded with a coarse laugh.
She felt that the legend that blazed over the portals of Dante’s hell might with propriety have been inscribed above Girty’s door.
She felt like abandoning hope, and resolved not to plead with the brute into whose hands she had fallen.
But she determined to protect herself from insult while under his roof.
Of the coarse meal which the renegade sat before her Kate partook, for fatigue had rendered her hungry, and Girty eyed her triumphantly while she ate.
The breakfast was at last concluded, and Girty began to remove the remains of the matutinal meal.
While engaged in this duty a quick step alarmed him, and a lithe young Indian appeared in the door-way.
Girty stepped forward with a smile of recognition, for the youth was clad in the scanty costume of a runner, and the message which he bore was speedily delivered.
Buckhougahelas, the great sachem, and the confederate chiefs were about to advance upon Wayne, and requested the White Whirlwind’s presence.
During the delivery of the dispatch an uneasiness was visible in Girty’s face, which would not have escaped the notice of an older warrior. It was evident that he did not expect the news at that hour.
“What says the Whirlwind?”
“I will come. Before the end of another sleep I will be with my braves.”
The runner bowed, and snatching a piece of venison from the rough table, he bounded away, eating as he ran.
“A pretty fix! a pretty fix!” muttered the renegade to himself, turning from the door and glancing at his captive. “I am one of them as much as Mataquan, the runner. I have helped on the war; I have stirred up the nations; I have made them mad and bloodthirsty. Shall I desert them now, because I have a woman on my hands? If I remained from the fight my life would not be worth a leaf, for the survivors would hunt me down.”
He stepped to the table with the last word on his lips, and his hand was about to continue his work, when the door which he had closed was burst open and two Indians leaped into the room.
There were but few savages whom the renegade had reason to dread, for was he not virtually an Indian, though white-skinned and English? But he turned quickly upon the intruders, and started back when he saw their faces.
They were Parquatoc, and Sackadac, the Shawnee; the ring leaders of the cabal against his life!
James Girty, ever quick to act in the face of danger, sprang to his rifle; but before his hand could seize the trusty weapon, the Seneca youth bounded upon him and bore him to the cabin wall.
It was the work of a moment, and no giant could have withstood the terrible spring.
The outlaw recovered in an instant, and his great strength would have released him from Parquatoc’s power if the Shawnee had not flown to his comrade’s aid. Girty was in the hands of two men who had sworn to rid the world of his detestable shape.
He was disarmed in a moment, and found himself at the mercy of his foes, who confronted him with weapons, eager to drink his blood.
“Call white hunter,” said the Seneca to his companion, and Sackadac went to the door.
At a signal from his lips a third party joined the Indians, and as he crossed the threshold a cry of joy was heard, and KateMerriweather leaped forward to fall into his arms. It was her lover, Oscar Parton.
Girty ground his teeth as he witnessed the meeting, and fixed his eyes upon his captors.
“The blood of Parquatin is on the Whirlwind’s knife!” said the Seneca. “He cut his heart because he dared to talk for peace.”
“Not for that!” grated the renegade. “He called me coward, and no man calls me that and lives.”
“The Whirlwind is a coward!” flashed the youth! “He kills a boy when he stands before him unarmed. Parquatin was but a boy; he was wearing his first eagle feathers, and he had never made love to a woman.”
“And he never will!” said Girty with sarcasm which cut its way to the Indian brother’s heart.
Parquatoc raised his rifle with a meaning glance at the Shawnee, and stepped toward the door.
“The Whirlwind has killed his last man!” the youth resumed, as the barrel crept up to a level with the renegade’s breast. “He will never press the grass trails again with his moccasins, and the white women will sleep in peace with their papooses at their side. Parquatin’s blood must flow over the Whirlwind’s; the new moon must smile upon his carcass.”
“Shoot and be done with it!” Girty said, without a quiver of the muscles. “I am in your power, and as every man can’t live over the time which has been marked out for him, I am not going to play the baby here.”
They say that murderers are cowards. A greater murderer than James Girty never cursed the early west; but not a single instance of cowardice stands against his record. He looked into Parquatoc’s rifle without fear, and his countenance did not change when the Indian’s cheek dropped upon the stock.
It was a moment fraught with the wildest interest, and in the silence the beating of hearts was heard.
But that tableau was rudely broken, and that by a white man who suddenly threw himself into the cabin and pushed the rifle of the Seneca aside.
Every eye was turned upon him, and the tomahawks of the Indians leaped from their belts.
“I hate that man with all my heart,” the new comer cried, addressing the Indians as he pointed to the renegade, surprised with the rest. “I wouldn’t spare his life but for a little while. He knows something which I must know; then my red brother’s rifle may send the bullet to his heart.”
Girty looked, stared into the speaker’s face.
“Who are you?” he asked before the Indian could reply.
“My name is Catlett.”
“A spy of Wayne’s?”
“Yes.”
The savages exchanged looks, and Parquatoc spoke:
“The Blacksnake’s spy has no right to step between Parquatoc and his captive,” he said.
“No!” hissed the Shawnee.
“Stand aside!” continued the Seneca, menacingly.
But Harvey Catlett did not stir.
The Indians advanced upon him.
“Hold!” cried Oscar Parton. “He will join us! He will wear the mark which you gave me.”
“No white spy shall wear it!” was the reply.
Face to face with the two savages stood Wayne’s young scout, composed and unyielding. He intended to kill the first savage who raised a hand against him.
But all at once James Girty moved from the wall. With one of his powerful bounds, he hurled himself upon the spy, whom he sent reeling against Parquatoc, and the next moment he was running for life through the forest.
It was in vain that Oscar Parton and the Shawnee, the first to recover, tried to cover him with their rifles. The renegade was fleet of foot, and a yell announced his escape and future revenge.
James Girty was at large again, but captiveless; for Kate Merriweather had fallen into hands that would not desert her.
Harvey Catlett turned to the Indians when he had recovered his equilibrium. He told then why he wished to spare Girty’s life—for the secret of Little Moccasin’s parentage—and when he had finished, Parquatoc said:
“The Blacksnake’s spy must join us. All who hate the White Whirlwind must wear the mark.”
At Oscar’s solicitation the young spy consented, and Parquatoc’s knife cut the sign of the banded brotherhood on his breast.
“Back to the white people with their child!” the Seneca said. “The big fight is coming on.”
They parted there—red and white—and Kate once more turned her face toward her relatives
The Merriweather family did not make rapid progress toward Wayne after Kate’s abduction. A gloom had settled over the little band of fugitives, and they desired to remain near the spot which had been so fatal to one of their number.
A degree of safety returned with Wolf Cap’s accession to their numbers, and the tall borderman did not cease to assure them that Harvey Catlett was an experienced scout. He firmly believed that he would restore Kate to their arms, and this quieted the parents and made them feel hopeful.
“Think of my loss,” the hunter would say, when the parents murmured at the theft of their child. “Think of a man coming home and finding his cabin in ashes, and the bonesof his family among them. I had one of the best wives in the world, and a little girl who was just beginning to call me ’papa.’”
“You have had revenge?” said Abel Merriweather.
“Ask the woods, the streams, and the Indian villages that lie between the Ohio and the Maumee if I have not glutted my thirst for vengeance. But it has not restored my family. I have killed, but the blows that I have dealt did not give back my child’s kiss, my wife’s embrace. No; there is no satisfaction in vengeance. Man ought to leave his wrongs to God, who punishes the guilty in the end.”
Thus Wolf Cap often talked to Abel Merriweather and his family, and afterward he would relapse into a silence from which no one attempted to draw him. He would stand for hours in a reverie like a harmless lunatic, and more than once the sun which found him in this state at the meridian, saw him there at its setting.
He was the guide. Every foot of the Maumee wood was known to him, and with his eye turned to the west, he slowly but surely led the fugitives in the direction of Wayne’s camp.
The sun was creeping zenithward one warm morning, when a boat left the northern shore of the Maumee and pushed out into the stream. Its single occupant was a girlish person whose face was very lovely, and whose browned hands seemed accustomed to the use of paddles.
She steered for the opposite bank, and despite the rapids, which threatened at times to capsize the frail craft, she reached her destination. With an agile bound she sprang upon shore, and made the canoe fast to a clump of bushes. Then she took a rifle from the bottom of the boat, and looked into the forest that trended to the bank which she had gained.
It was Little Moccasin.
After satisfying herself that no person had observed her movements, she moved from the shore; but a minute later the clicking of gun locks brought her to a halt, and she heard a voice that startled her.
“Don’t lift your gun, or we’ll drop you in your tracks.”
Then the girl saw the speaker, for he had slipped from behind a tree, and beside him stood a companion.
With a cry of recognition which made Little Moccasin’s eyes sparkle with delight, she started toward the twain, whose faces were darkened by scowls.
“Areotha is glad to meet her brothers,” she said. “Fair Face has sent her——”
“No fixed up story!” interrupted one of the whites, who was Carl Merriweather; his companion was George Darling.
“We won’t listen to you,” said the latter. “We’ve seen enough of your sleek-tongued treachery, and by Jove, we’re going to put an end to it.”
The girl’s face grew pale.
“Will the white men listen to Areotha?”
“No; and beside, we wouldn’t believe you if we did!” said Carl. “Of course you were in league with that rascally guide, and he stole my sister. Do you know what we ought to do with you? Why, we would be serving you right if we whipped you to death right here. God knows how many boats of our people you have decoyed into the hands of the Indians. A female renegade is the meanest thing on earth.”
“Areotha will talk,” said the girl, who had waited with impatience for the young Hotspur to finish. “The hot-headed young men may shut their ears; but the Manitou will listen. He never turns away from the sound of his people’s voice.”
“Go on, then,” said Darling. “Spit out the pretty story you have cooked up.”
Little Moccasin gave the speaker a glance of hatred, and then said in her silvery tone:
“Areotha comes from the Blacksnake’s spy. The guide is dead; he sleeps where the storm tore down the trees. Fair Face says that he will soon bring the white girl back to her people!”
“And he sent you here to say this?” said Carl Merriweather, in a tone which told that he did not believe a word which had fallen from the girl’s lips.
“He told Areotha to tell the mother and the father this, that their eyes might get bright again.”
“It is a pretty story, but it don’t go down,” Carl said.
The black eyes flashed again.
“You might as well have told us that Kate was in the camp now,” said George Darling.
“That is so!”
“We believe that you are the biggest mischief-maker in these parts. Who knows how many young men you have decoyed to their doom by your smiles. And now you have another in your net—a brave young fellow, but blind enough to follow your infernal witchery to his death. Come, lay your rifle down; we want to deal with you as you deserve.”
“If we let you off with a whole skin you may thank our mercy,” said Carl with a smile.
Little Moccasin, finding herself completely in the power of the young men, hesitated a moment, and then dropping her rifle, surrendered herself. There was no pity in her captor’s eyes, and her pale face made them laugh outright.
“A little whipping—that is all!” said George Darling, fiendishly, as he seized the girl’s arm and led her to a tree that stood near by.
While Carl guarded her, his companion stripped a lynn tree of its bark covering,which he converted into ropes, and returned to the selected tree.
Blushing at the purposed indignity, the girl permitted herself to be lashed to the tree—her cheek against the bark—but with pressed lips and flashing eyes.
This operation performed, a number of keen withes were selected, and armed with several bundles which had been converted into whips as cutting as the Russian knout, the gallant young bordermen approached their captive.
“Now my forest lady,” said Darling, sarcastically, “we’ll give you a dressing that will not be forgotten on your dying day. Come, now, confess that you are a forest witch in league with Jim Girty and his minions, red and white.”
“The Manitou knows that Areotha never lifted a hand against the American people.”
“Lying to the last,” said Carl. “Ten extra licks for that.”
“Twenty of them,” answered Darling, eager to deal the first blow.
“We should have taken off her jacket.”
“No, the sticks will cut through it like a razor.”
“Then let her have the whipping, George. When your arm tires, I will continue the work.”
George Darling selected the longest bundle of withes, and stepped back for a terrible sweeping blow. The girl gritted her teeth and waited. Her white face seemed frozen against the tree.
With demoniac pleasure in his eye, the young man raised the whip and swung his arm back for the blow. Carl Merriweather did not cease to watch him.
The second of silence that followed was suddenly broken, but not by the sound of the sticks on Little Moccasin’s back.
There came a stern voice from the right:
“Stop! I’ll kill the rascal that touches that girl!”
George Darling started, and the knout fell from his hand. There were more than one white face beneath the tree.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” said the same voice, and the would-be whippers saw Wolf Cap advancing. “It is a pretty business for two young men to be engaged in—whipping a girl in the woods. By hokey! I ought to take the whips and wear them out on your backs.”
The youths were too astonished to reply. They trembled like criminals before the tall spy, and did not stir until he had cut the girl’s bonds and released her.
“Go back to the camp!” he commanded. “Or hold! Apologize to this creature. Down on your knees, or by the great horn spoon, I’ll cut your faces into strings with your own whips.”
The tall man was in a tempest of passion, and, frightened almost out of their wits, the young men dropped upon the ground and craved forgiveness of the creature whom they had so grossly insulted.
“Areotha cannot hate the Americans,” she said softly. “She will forget the bark and the whips.”
Sullen and abashed, Carl Merriweather and his companion slunk away, leaving Wolf Cap and Little Moccasin at the tree.
For a long time the scout and spy looked into the girl’s eyes, and all at once he covered his face with his hands and groaned.
“Every time I see her I think of that terrible night,” he said.
“What does the hunter say?” said the girl, catching his words but indistinctly, for they were spoken through his great hard hands.
“Nothing,” Wolf Cap answered, starting at the sound of her voice. “Nothing; don’t speak to me! You make me think of a voice that I heard when I was a happy man.”
As he uttered the last word, he staggered back with great emotion, and saw Little Moccasin staring strangely into his face.
Meanwhile Wayne was advancing with that caution and intrepidity which had rendered him famous in wars prior to the one in which he was then engaged. His spies brought him hourly reports of the movements of the enemy, and he knew where the decisive conflict would be fought.
The allied tribes had selected as their battle ground the forest of Presqu’-Isle, a place on the left bank of the Maumee, and almost within reach of the guns of the British Fort Miami.
During the night preceding the battle, the chiefs of the different nations assembled in council, and it was proposed by some to go up and attack Wayne in his encampment. The proposition was opposed, and the council did not determine to attack him that night!
A great deal of responsibility rested upon this nocturnal council, at which the Girtys were present. Simon did not say much in the council, but held private talks with the prominent chiefs. He approved the plan of attacking the Americans in their camp, and his plan was ably seconded by Little Turtle and others.
The fate of the tribes of the Northwestern Territory hung upon the decision of the council.
“We have beaten the enemy twice under separate commanders,”[E]said the Turtle in the council. “We cannot expect the same good fortune always to attend us.”
“The Americans are now led by a chief who never sleeps. The night and day are alike to him, and during all the time he has been marching upon our villages, notwithstanding the wakefulness of our young men,we have not been able to surprise him. Think well of it. There is something whispers to me that it would be prudent to listen to his offers of peace.”[F]
To this speech James Girty was the first to reply. His voice was for war to the knife. He scouted at ideas of peace, when the seven tribes had sworn to stand side by side and oppose the Americans. He accused of cowardice all who talked of submission, and cast scornful glances at his brother Simon and the Turtle. Clad in the war dress which he usually wore on such occasions, and with the fitful flashes of the council fire in his face, he seemed a very demon of war and blood.
His voice went afar into the night, and startled the warriors who had been forbidden to attend the council.
“We will surely fight the Blacksnake, for the Whirlwind is talking,” they said with delight.
It was midnight when the council broke up, its participants in no good humor, for the Turtle’s speech had sown much dissension in the Indian ranks, and that night many a red man saved his life by deserting the common cause.
It was decided to fight Wayne at Presqu’-Isle.
After the adjournment of the council the several chiefs hurried to their respective legions to prepare for the conflict. James Girty wended his way toward the Miami camp. He was ill at ease, and ever and anon his hands closed and opened spasmodically, and he muttered as he went along:
“Is he tired of war? Is he going to turn gentleman? He is a coward! He is not worthy the name of Girty.”
These words fell in audible tones from the renegade’s lips. They were hissed from a heart which was a very cauldron of anger.
“James?”
At the sound of his name the outlaw stopped, and turning, recognized the speaker.
“I am tired of war; but I am not a coward.”
The renegade brothers stood face to face in the forest.
For a moment neither spoke. They stood apart, as if each had determined not to approach the other.
“You are for peace, Simon,” James said.
“I would stay the slaughter that will follow our meeting with Wayne,” was the reply.
Simon Girty trying to prevent the effusion of blood? It seemed one of the impossibilities of his nature.
A grim smile passed over the Whirlwind’s face.
“Then fly to-night,” he said bitterly. “Go to the great cities and exchange your bloody hatchet for the priests’ robes of religion. I am for war! No man shall ever say that Jim Girty turned from a chance to shed American blood. We are brothers. Simon, is it true that you are tired of slaughter?”
“I am. We have been devils long enough, James.”
“When did you experience this wonderful change?”
The speaker’s sarcasm made the solitary listener bite his lip.
“Do you know who is with Wayne?” he said.
“Two thousand men that long to drink my blood.”
“Heis there—theyare there!”
“Ha?”
“Abner Stark reached Wayne not long since. He brought a family of fugitives into camp. That man has been hunting you ever since you murdered his family in Kentucky. Fifty more avengers of desolated homes are with Wayne, and there are people in our own ranks who hate you. The blood of Parquatin will be avenged.”
For a moment James Girty looked searchingly into Simon’s face.
“Parquatin!” he said. “Simon, his blood is on your hands. You put him up to what he did in the council. I should have spared the boy, and killed you. Oh, what a brother you have been to me! And now with fiendish delight you tell me that I will fall to-morrow. Let it come! No man shall say that I ever played the coward. Go your way. I am ashamed to know that I have a brother whose name is Simon!”
The last word still quivered the outlaw’s lips as he turned on his heel and deliberately walked away.
Simon Girty watched him until the ghostly shadows of the trees hid him from sight, and said, as he turned toward the Indian camp:
“Simon Girty will be brotherless to-morrow night.”
There was a tinge of regret in his tone, for despite their hates and jealousies, their inhumanity to one another, the renegade brothers were not devoid of every spark of brotherly affection.
And the night wore on, and at last the day came. It was the bloody and disastrous twentieth of August, 1794.
We return to other characters of our romance in order to glance at their adventures from our last dealings with them up to the night before the great fight for supremacy on the shores of the Maumee.
We left Kate Merriweather returning to her kindred with Harvey Catlett and her lover after her rescue in the cabin of James Girty.
The restoration was effected without incident worthy of record, and the girl at last found herself in her mother’s arms.
The journey was then resumed, and the entire party, with the exception of Little Moccasin,who mysteriously returned to the forest, reached Mad Anthony’s camp.
It may well be believed that Abel Merriweather breathed free again when he found his little family behind the bayonets of the American army, and he hastened to enroll himself among the ranks of bordermen led by Wells and the Choctaw chief Hummingbird.
In this legion were also found Oscar Parton, George Darling, and little, but fearless Carl Merriweather. Harvey Catlett was unattached, and Wolf Cap given the liberty of the field.
Around and upon the Hill of Presqu’-Isle the Indian forces had posted themselves, having their left secured by the river, and their front by a kind of breastwork of fallen timbers which rendered it impracticable for cavalry to advance. It was a position admirably chosen, but useless, as history tells.
Impatiently the allied tribes awaited the American army. The chiefs, with few exceptions, were confident, for had they not beaten Harmar and St. Clair?
The Girtys had not shirked the battle, but there was a restlessness about Simon’s movements that attracted attention. James, on the contrary, was firm and boastful. Wherever he went he encouraged the Indians to stand firm, promising them victory and its tempting spoils. But there were keen eyes fixed upon him.
In the scarlet ranks were many who carried a long scar on their breasts—the mark of the brotherhood to whom Parquatin’s blood cried for vengeance.
In two splendid columns, with trailed arms, Wayne’s army advanced upon the savages. A terrible fire greeted the onslaught, and the General soon discovered that the enemy were in full force and endeavoring, with some show of success, to turn his left flank. Then came the tug of war, and for hours the carnival of battle raged among the fallen timbers and around the base of the hill.
“At last! look Harvey!”
Wolf Cap pointed through an opening, and Harvey Catlett, the spy, saw the sight to which his attention was called.
There, in a little space made by the death of a forest tree, stood a man whose face was begrimed with powder. His half savage uniform was torn and blackened by the battle, and he seemed debating whether to fly or plunge again into the fight.
“It is he!” said the young spy, looking up into Wolf Cap’s face. “It is Jim Girty.”
“The man who darkened all my life!” was the hissed reply. “For years I have hunted him. Now he is mine!”
Quick to the speaker’s shoulder leaped the deadly rifle, and his cheek dropped upon the stock for aim.
Harvey Catlett watched the renegade, unconscious of his swiftly approaching doom.
All at once James Girty bounded into the air, and with a death cry that sounded above the roar of battle, fell on his face, and stretched his brawny arms in the agony of death.
Wolf Cap lowered his rifle and wheeled upon the spy.
“Did you shoot?” he cried.
“No.”
“Then who did? Some one has cheated me of my revenge!”
As he spoke, he glanced to the right and saw a young Indian reloading his rifle.
“It is Parquatoc!” said Harvey Catlett.
With a maddened cry the tall hunter sprang forward; but the Seneca youth eluded him, and disappeared in the twinkling of an eye.
“Come! The battle rolls towards the British fort!” the young spy said, rousing Wolf Cap, who had relapsed into one of his singular reveries.
“Yes, yes; we will go. But let us see whether he is dead.”
The twain hurried to the spot where James Girty had fallen. Wolf Cap turned him over, and saw the eyes start at sight of him.
“The butcherer still lives!” the trailer said, as his hand grasped the handle of his tomahawk. “Harvey, I can yet revenge the murdered ones.”
But the youth’s hand fell restrainingly on Wolf Cap’s arm.
“No. He is dying, Abner. Let us keep our hands in this hour. Get down and hear what he says.”
The two knelt beside the dreaded scourge of the Northwest, powerless now to harm a babe. Words were falling from his lips, and his eyes remained fixed upon Abner Stark.
“They did it!” he said. “It was a redskin’s bullet, and Parquatoc’s. No more battles for Jim Girty. Listen, Abner Stark, for I know you. You have hunted me a long time, to find me dying. Where is the girl?”
Wolf Cap started, and glanced at the spy.
“He talks about some girl, Harvey.”
“Is the girl here?” asked the outlaw in a louder voice. “No? Must I die without seeing her? Well, let it be so. Abner Stark, when she comes, take her in your arms and call her your child, for such she is. I saved her from Indian fury that night, and I have tried to be good to her, bad as I am. I thought I would never tell you this.”
“This is all true, Girty?” cried Stark, scarcely able to credit the revelation.
“On the word of the dying, Abner Stark. Why should I lie now?”
Then Wolf Cap raised his eyes towards heaven, and poured out the gratitude of a father’s soul.
When he looked again at the prostrate outlaw, it was to say:
“I am glad I did not shoot you.”
Girty smiled, and tried to speak; but the effort proved a failure, and the head fell back.
It was all over. The White Whirlwind was dead, and the flowers which his restlessfeet had pressed to earth, lifted their heads and smiled.
“Come, Abner!” said Catlett.
The hunter obeyed, but, as he rose, he caught sight of a rapidly approaching figure, and stood still.
The next moment Little Moccasin came up, and Wolf Cap lifted her from the ground, and in his embrace covered her face with kisses.
He held her there until the sound of battle died away, and when he released her, she glided to Harvey Catlett’s side and put her hands in his.
“Areotha is glad, Fair Face,” she said, her eyes sparkling with joy. “The real father is found, and he will be happy until the Manitou sends for all of us.”
There, on the bloody battlefield of the Fallen Timbers, Wolf Cap had found his child. It was a reunion impossible to describe, but many a heart beat in unison with the father’s in the bivouac that night.
Of course, Little Moccasin left the woods and became Harvey Catlett’s bride, while the backwoods preacher made Oscar Parton and the settler’s daughter one.
Thus, with Wayne’s decisive victory over the allied tribes, end the trails which we have followed through the summer woods of the Maumee.
[A]Changed from LITTLE MOCCASIN.[B]The Mississippi.[C]Yankee or American.[D]The Maumee. So called on account of its rapids.[E]Harmar and St. Clair.[F]Historical.
[A]Changed from LITTLE MOCCASIN.[B]The Mississippi.[C]Yankee or American.[D]The Maumee. So called on account of its rapids.[E]Harmar and St. Clair.[F]Historical.
[A]Changed from LITTLE MOCCASIN.
[B]The Mississippi.
[C]Yankee or American.
[D]The Maumee. So called on account of its rapids.
[E]Harmar and St. Clair.
[F]Historical.
We were gathered around the fire at grandfather’s, one winter evening, cracking butternuts and drinking cider, when one of the boys called out for a story, and proposed that grandfather should be the one to tell it.
“Yes, do tell us a story; please,” spoke up half a dozen voices; “you haven’t told us a story in a long time, grandfather.”
“I don’t believe I can think of anything new,” said grandfather; “I told you all my stories a long time ago.”
“Tell us the one about your being treed by a bear,” suggested the prospective hunter of the party; “you haven’t told that to all of us.”
“Oh, yes, tell us that one,” cried the children in chorus, and grandfather began:
“When your grandmother and I moved into the country, it didn’t look much as it does now. There were no clearings of more than three or four acres in extent, and the settlers were scattered here and there through the woods, two or three miles apart. I came on before your grandmother did, and put up a rough shanty of logs, with a bark roof, and a floor of split pieces of basswood. You may be sure of one thing, children, and that is, we didn’t have things very nice and handy in those days; but we were just beginning, and we had to do the best we could, and what we couldn’t help we had to put up with.
“I built a little stable for our cow, which I left with your grandmother in the settlement where you find a city to-day, until I got ready to move my family and all my earthly possessions into the woods where I was making my new home. I cleared off a little patch of ground and got it ready for a garden, and then went after your grandmother and our household goods.
“It was a two days’ drive to this place from the settlement then. I hired a man to bring your grandmother and our things, while I drove old Brindle. I shall never forget our first few days in our new home. We couldn’t get used to it for some reason. Everything was so rough, and clumsy and awkward, I suppose.
“Your grandmother got homesick, and didn’t want me to leave her alone a minute. She was afraid of bears and Indians, and she remembered all the fearful stories she had ever heard or read, of the terrible things that happened to settlers in the backwoods.
“As I was busy at work in clearing up a piece of ground round the shanty, I didn’t have to leave her alone except when I went after old Brindle nights. The feed in the woods was so plenty that the old cow didn’t care whether she came home or not, and I had to lock her up every night as regular as night came. Sometimes I found her close by home, and sometimes two or three miles off. She wore a little bell which I could hear some distance off from where she was, and it wasn’t very hard work to find her.
“I almost always took my gun with me when I went after the old cow, and hardly ever missed bringing home a partridge or a squirrel, which your grandmother would cook for our dinner next day. We had plenty of game in those days, and it was splendid hunting any where you took a notion to go. The woods were full of deer and all kinds of fowl, and so far as that kind of food was concerned, we lived on the fat of the land.
“One night, after we had been here about a month, I started to hunt up the cow, and forgot my gun until I had got so far that I concluded I wouldn’t go back after it. I went on through the woods in the direction I had seen old Brindle go in the morning when I let her out of the stable, but I could hear no bell. I wandered round and round through the woods until it got to be quite dark. I must have got ’turned round,’ as we used to say in those days when we got bewildered, and couldn’t tell which way was north or south, for when I gave up hunting for the cow and concluded to go home I didn’t know which way to go.
“However, I started in the direction I thought most likely led towards home. I had been going straight ahead, as I supposed, for ten or fifteen minutes, when I heard something coming toward me with a heavy tread, and pretty soon I heard a growl. Then I knew what it was. I had never seen a bear in the woods, and I had no idea about what sort of fellows they were to meet.
“If I had had my gun along I should have stood my ground, but without any kind of weapon I thought it best to look out for any possible danger, and made for a tree which stood near me. I was a good climber, and in a minute I was stowed away safely in the branches. But I had hardly reached my position when the bear came running up to the tree, and began walking round and round it, stopping every few seconds to raise himselfup on his hind feet and take a look at me, or else stretching up against the tree as far as he could reach, as if he hesitated climbing up after me.
“I had a jack-knife with me, and I cut off a limb, which I trimmed into something like a club, to defend myself with if he concluded to come up and make a visit. Whenever he showed a desire to do so, by reaching up his great black paws and tearing away at the bark with his claws, I pounded my club against the body of the tree as far down as I could reach toward him, and that frightened him enough to keep him from climbing.
“But I couldn’t frighten him away. He kept walking round and round the tree growling and whining very much like a dog, and I made up my mind that he had concluded to wait for me to come down. But I had no notion of doing that yet a while.
“Two or three hours went by. I wondered what your grandmother would think had happened to me. I knew she would be frightened almost to death, and that worried me, but I saw no way of getting out of the difficulty I had got into, and concluded I should have to spend the night in the tree.
“By and by the moon came up. I could see him distinctly then, as he kept up his march around me. He was an enormous fellow, and a man would have stood but little chance for his life with him unless he had been well armed.
“Well, he kept watch of me all night. He got tired of walking, by and by, and laid down close to the tree. Whenever I stirred, he would rouse up and resume his walk. Neither of us slept. You may be sure it was a long night to me. I couldn’t help thinking of your poor grandmother, and wondering what she was doing.
“At last morning came. I thought the bear would be sure to take his departure then, but he evidently had made up his mind to see the thing out, for he made no effort to leave.
“It must have been about seven o’clock when I heard some one hallooing not far off, and, peering through the branches, I saw your grandmother, with my gun on her shoulder. She had started out to look for me. I saw that the bear had not discovered her, and I shouted:
“’Don’t come any nearer, Susan. I’m up the hickory tree, and there’s a big bear at the foot of it. If he sees you there’ll be trouble. You’d better go back to the house, and I’ll come as soon as I can.’
“I saw her stop and look toward us very earnestly, and I knew she was thinking whether she could help me out of my difficulty. Pretty soon I saw her rest the gun over a little sapling and take sight at the bear, who had squatted down a few feet from the foot of the tree, and sat there looking up at me as if he was trying to make out what I was shouting so for.
“I was just going to tell your grandmother not to shoot, for I never once supposed she could hit the animal, when, bang! went the gun, and the bear gave a growl and a leap into the air, where he spun around like a top, and then dropped flat on the ground, and never stirred but once or twice afterward.
“’You’ve killed him!’ I shouted, and slid down from my rather uncomfortable quarters, just as your grandmother came running up, pale as a ghost, and almost frightened at what she had dared to do. The minute she realized there was no danger, she drooped into my arms, and began to cry.
“We cut up the bear and took most of it to the house. It kept us in meat for a long time, and we used the skin for a carpet. I didn’t forget my gun after that when I went after old Brindle, you may be quite sure.
“Your grandmother had never fired off a gun before, but when she found out that they weren’t such terrible things after all as she had supposed they must be, she practiced with my rifle until she could shoot as well as I could, and after that she used to keep us in partridge and such game, while I cleared off land for crops. That first shot of hers was the best one she ever made, however.”
“And so grandmother really killed a bear!” cried the children, and straightway the pleasant-faced, smiling grandmother became a heroine in their estimation, as they thought over the story grandfather had told.