CHAPTER III
It was only the softness of the snow beneath him that saved Dave from serious injury. As the bear came down on the young hunter both sank so deeply that Dave was buried completely from sight. The beast ripped the sleeve of his hunting jacket, but that was all.
By this time Rodney was coming up once more. He managed to reload, and taking a somewhat unsteady aim, he let drive, and struck bruin in the left side. The wound caused the bear to utter a grunt of pain, and scramble up beside where Dave lay.
"Jump, Dave!" cried Rodney. "Jump for your life!" But Dave did not hear him, for the reason that his ears were completely filled with snow.
At this critical moment something occurred which filled Rodney with satisfaction. Forth from the forest came two men, one a tall, bronzed frontiersman, dressed in a thick hunting shirt and a coonskin cap, and the other a somewhat aged Indian of the Delaware tribe. Both were armed, and each carried several rabbits and turkeys in his game bag.
"Sam Barringford! And White Buffalo!" ejaculated the former cripple. "Hurry up! The bear has Dave in the snow, and is going to maul him."
"Not ef I know it!" sang out the old frontiersman addressed, and he brought around his long rifle with a movement so quick it could scarcely be followed. Several long leaps took him to the very side of the beast. Bang! went his weapon, and the bullet entering the creature's ear, passed directly through the brain. This shot was followed almost instantly by one from White Buffalo, which took the bear in the eye, and with a shudder the beast sank down, gave a quiver or two, and remained still forever.
"Good for you, Sam," said Rodney, when it was over. "That was a prime shot. And yours was good, too, White Buffalo."
"White Buffalo's shot was not needed," answered the Indian, simply. "But White Buffalo could not stand by and see his friend Dave in such great danger. The bear was big and powerful. There are times when one shot is not enough for a big bear."
"It's the same that we hit afore," came from Sam Barringford. "He is a sockdolager, an' no error. We tried our prettiest to bring him down, but he got away from us."
By this time Dave was climbing out of the snow as best he could. As he cleared his face, he gazed in astonishment at the newcomers, and then at the bear.
"Did you—did you kill him?" he questioned.
"Reckon as how we did, Dave," answered Sam Barringford, with a broad grin. "Sorry if you didn't want it done, lad."
"Didn't want it done? Oh, Sam, I'm thankful you came up."
"White Buffalo gave him the one in the eye, and I soused it into his ear. Arfter thet he kinder lost interest in livin'," added the old frontiersman.
"Then I must thank you, too, for my escape," said Dave, going up to the Indian. "How are you?" and he shook hands.
"How? how?" returned White Buffalo. "Glad Dave not killed. He was big bear."
"I've never seen a larger around these parts," returned the young hunter. "Have you, Sam?"
"Never, lad. Dock Fisher once got one about as big, but he wasn't so heavy, to my way o' thinkin'. White Buffalo an' I spotted this chap three hours ago, and clipped him, but he got away—as you found out."
"He was hurt just enough to be ugly," came from Rodney. "I'm thankful he is out of it," and he gave a deep sigh of relief.
"We have been looking for you for over a week," went on Dave to the old frontiersman. "I thought you'd go out hunting with us."
"I've been over to Fort Bedford—thought I could larn something about them twins—but I couldn't," answered Sam Barringford. "Struck White Buffalo at the fort, an' we decided to do a little hunting between us, an' bring the quarry to your place. Have ye had any luck?"
"Yes, we got some rabbits, and turkeys, and one deer."
"Good enough! Rodney, how do you like bein' out?"
"I like it very much."
"My brother Rodney is getting strong," said White Buffalo, with as much of a smile as he ever exhibited. "It is well, and White Buffalo's heart is glad."
"And what is the news from among the Indians, White Buffalo?" asked Rodney.
At this question the Indian looked grave, and for a moment he turned his face away. As my old readers know, White Buffalo was a chief of the Delawares, but during the war with France, and the Indian uprisings, he had been at variance with the majority of his tribe, only a handful supporting him when he sided with the English. The others had fought with the French, and under Pontiac, and where they were now the old Delaware chief did not know.
"Those who are now in authority tell not their secrets to such an aged man as myself," answered White Buffalo. "Because White Buffalo would not fight against his friends, they call him a squaw, and say his heart has turned to water."
"Don't you care, you did what was right—and those Indians will find out so, sooner or later," answered Dave, quickly.
"White Buffalo tells me that the redskins are a-holdin' many secret meetin's," came from Sam Barringford. "Pontiac is stirrin' 'em up. Thet Injun expects to do big things next season, mark my words."
"Pontiac is still as powerful as ever," continued White Buffalo. "It has reached White Buffalo's ears that he has called a special council, whereat the red men for many miles around can tell of the wrongs which have been done them. When they meet, Pontiac will fill them with words of fire and of blood, and the war-hatchet will be dug up once more."
"Our soldiers ought to stop that pow-wowing," said Rodney. "It seems to me it is time somebody put his foot down heavily."
"The whole trouble is, that it costs money to carry on a war against anybody," said the old frontiersman. "The Colonies are poor, and England is carrying a whopping big debt. I heard 'em talkin' about it over to Greenway Court."
"Were you there?" cried Dave.
"Yes, an' saw a lot o' your old friend, includin' the Washingtons," was the frontiersman's reply. "They sent their regards to you."
"I'd love to visit the Court," murmured Dave.
The young hunter had had one sleeve of his hunting jacket ripped open by the bear, but had suffered no serious bruises, for which he was thankful. It was decided to haul the dead bear from the hollow and then place him on a drag made of a tree bough, and all hands would help in dragging him to the Morris homestead.
"He ain't goin' to be no easy load," was Barringford's comment.
"Better a heavy load of game than no game at all," said White Buffalo, sagely.
"Remember, we have that deer too," put in Rodney. "We'll have to put him on top of the bear."
"In that case we can't reach the house to-night," said the frontiersman. "It's too late to travel nine miles with sech a load."
"Well, let us go where we left the deer. It will make a pretty fair sort of camping place," returned Dave.
Like the true woodsman that he was, Barringford carried a sharp hatchet and a strong hunting knife, and soon had a suitable bough chopped and trimmed. Then all set to work to haul the bear out of the hollow and tied him on the drag. It was hard labor and made them perspire freely regardless of the cold. A stout cord was tied to the front of the drag and the four proceeded to haul their load through and over the snow as best they could.
"I don't believe it's as cold as it was," remarked Dave, as they trudged along. "Or else this work is making me warm."
"It's moderatin' fer another fall o' snow," answered Sam Barringford. "I was calculatin' we'd git it by noon to-day."
"More snow come to-night," said White Buffalo.
"I wish it wouldn't come until after we get home," said Rodney. "This load is bad enough as it is."
It took the best part of two hours to reach the spot where the deer had been left. As they came closer a mournful howl rent the air.
"Wolves!" cried Dave. "I knew they'd be after that meat."
"Yes, but they are running away," answered Rodney. "They are not hungry enough to show fight," and he was right, as the hunters came into view the wolves lost no time in slinking out of sight, nor did they show themselves again.
"A fine deer," said White Buffalo, on inspecting the game. "Mistress Morris will be glad to get such good meat at such a season."
"Here is the spot I thought of for a camp," said Dave. "Is it all right, Sam?"
"It is, lad; and we can knock together a shelter in no time. I'll cut the branches and you and Rodney can do the building, while White Buffalo starts up the fire. Bein' as I haven't had anything to eat sence sunrise I've got an amazin' holler vacancy in my interior, which same needs attention."
"You shall have your choice of bear steak or venison cutlets," cried Dave.
"And I'll cook it just the way you like it," added Rodney, whose life at home had made him an excellent cook. "We brought a little coffee along, too, and some bread."
"Good!" shouted the old frontiersman. "An' with our tobacco, we'll feast like kings; won't we, White Buffalo?"
"I hope you aren't going to eat the tobacco," said Dave, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Now, don't go for to poke fun at an old man, Dave. Ye know what I'm a-drivin' at. Here's another for ye!" And Barringford threw down a big bough directly on the young hunter's head. "Got to keep ye down somehow, ye know," he added.
It was astonishing how quickly they had a cozy shelter of boughs and brushwood constructed. In the meantime the Indian lit the fire and the pot Dave carried with ice and snow, so that they might have boiling water for their coffee. All voted in favor of a thick, juicy bear steak, and Barringford cut it from the game without injuring the hide—for in those days, as now, a bear robe was worth considerable money.
When the smell of the broiling steak filled the air, all gathered around the fire in anticipation of the well-earned feast. The young hunters were as hungry as the older men, but Rodney insisted upon helping Barringford and White Buffalo first, while Dave gave each a drink of the steaming coffee and a chunk of the bread. In those primitive days there was no style to the meal, and instead of knives and forks those gathered around used their fingers, and one small coffee bowl, with a wide top and a narrow bottom, had to serve for all.
"This is prime, and no mistake," said Dave, after masticating a particularly sweet bit of the bear meat. "It seems to taste twice as good out here as it does at home."
"Which proves that fresh air is a good sauce," answered Sam Barringford. "Now, I'd rather eat out o' doors any day than under a roof—thet is, onless it's stormin' putty hard."
The meal finished, the old frontiersman and the Indian sat down for a quiet smoke, while the two young hunters gathered some additional firewood, for use during the night and for breakfast. The day's outing had made Dave tired, and he was glad, at eight o'clock, to turn in. The others soon after followed his example, and it was not long before all were sleeping soundly.