CHAPTER XV.
About sixty miles above Fort Meigs, near the junction of the Auglaize and the Maumee, lay Fort Winchester—formerly Fort Defiance. Within its walls, General Green Clay and his Kentucky militiamen were encamped—resting after their long and arduous march, and knowing nothing of the urgent need of their presence at Fort Meigs.
In the early morning of the thirtieth of April, three men entered the gateway of the fortification. They were Captain Oliver and his two guides. The former immediately made inquiries for the commander, and was directed to the officers’ quarters. Farley and Bright Wing stopped with a squad of men near the gate, and the loquacious Joe entered into conversation with them. While the white men were talking, the Wyandot leaned upon his gun and swept his eyes about the place. Suddenly he gave a grunt of astonishment and laid his hand upon his comrade’s arm.
“What is it, Injin?” Farley inquired, as he whirled about upon his heel.
“Dog—dog Duke!” muttered Bright Wing in awe-struck tones, his gaze fixed upon a distant part of the inclosure.
“Duke?” exclaimed Joe. “What do you mean? Where?”
“Dog Duke him over there—now gone,” came the soft guttural reply.
“Say, Injin, you’re gittin’ loony,” Farley asserted solemnly. “Ther’ ain’t no dog over there—n’r hain’t been.”
“Me see dog,” the Wyandot insisted. “Look heap much like Duke.”
“Yes, he saw a dog—’r a bloodhoun’, to be more exact,” affirmed a raw-boned Kentuckian, pointing toward one of the corner blockhouses. “I saw it, too. The animal was jest passin’ into the blockhouse. He’s an unsociable brute, an’ belongs to one o’ the guides.”
“Well, it ain’t the dog we used to know, though it may look some like him,” Joe asserted positively. “’Cause the redskins has made a meal o’ him, long ’fore this. Come on, Injin. Le’s see if we can’t find somethin’ to fill up on. I’m as empty as a frog pon’ durin’ a dry spell.”
The two comrades left the group at the gate and went to another part of the inclosure. At one of the mess-fires they were proffered food, which they gladly accepted. After eating heartily, they leisurely sauntered about the place, Joe whimsically commenting upon all they observed.
They had finished a tour of the inclosure, and were irresolutely pondering what to do next, when Farley suddenly threw up his head and stood rigid as a ramrod, his eyes fixed upon a large bloodhoundthat came from behind a tent and trotted toward them.
“Duke ’r his ghost!” he whispered with trembling lips. “Injin, do you see him, too?”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing managed to ejaculate.
“Then it’s Duke an’ not his ghost,” Joe said in a relieved tone. “’Cause I’ve alluz heerd it said that two folks don’t see a ghost at the same time. Injin, he’s comin’ right toward us—itisDuke, by Katy Melissy! Here, Duke—here, purp!”
The bloodhound was trotting toward them, his nose close to the ground. Evidently he was trailing them. At the sound of Farley’s voice, he threw up his muzzle and set his eyes upon the two men. Then with a short, hoarse yelp of joy, he sprang toward them.
“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” shouted Joe. “It’s ol’ Duke—an’ he knows us! Injin, he had smelt out our tracks an’ was trailin’ us. I know you, ol’ feller—of course, I do! An’ I’m as glad to see you, as you are to see me. But git down, purp; you’ll spile my nice clo’es, with y’r dirty paws—you will, by cracky!”
Farley’s voice was tremulous, and the tears were running down his furrowed cheeks. He was laughing and weeping at the same time.
The hound crouched at the feet of his old companions and whined; he fawned upon them; he circled about them, barking madly.
“Duke him heap sight glad see me, you—all of us,” Bright Wing muttered sagely. “Me, you, allof us very much glad see dog Duke. Him no dead—him here. Maybe master no dead—himhere.”
“Shut up, Injin—shut up!” Farley cried sternly. “Don’t go to raisin’ no false hopes like that, in a feller’s gizzard. Ross Douglas is dead—me an’ you saw him dyin’. The redskins—led by that dang Bradford—found him an’ the dog together. No doubt they scalped an’ stripped the master an’ drug away the dog. But somebody got the houn’ away from the thievin’, murderin’ red devils—an’ here he is. I can read it all like readin’ a book. A heap better, in fact, fer I ain’t much on book learnin’. But ther’s one thing we want to do—find this scout that claims to own the dog, an’ make him tell where he got him.”
“Ugh!” And Bright Wing nodded assent.
“Come on, then,” Joe began excitedly, but stopped and stared stupidly around.
“Wher’s the purp?” he muttered.
“Duke him clean gone,” muttered the Wyandot. “Him gone that way”—pointing with his rifle. “Gone hunt new master.”
“Well, we’ll foller him,” Farley said decidedly. “An’ I’ll mighty soon tell this new master he hain’t got no right to the houn’, an’ that we’re goin’ to take the brute with us. Eh, Injin?”
“Ugh! All right—me, too.”
And again Bright Wing nodded vigorously.
“An’ if he gives me any of his sass,” Farley went on savagely, “I’ll whip the scoundrel within an inch of his worthless life—I will, by Lucindy!Nobody but you an’ me has any right to Duke now. An’ we’ll have him ’r know the reason why. Gol-fer-socks! How I wish Ross Douglas was alive an’ here. I’d be willin’ to let the danged Winnebagoes punch my nose an’ pierce my ears an’ pull out my hair an’ whiskers, to the’r heart’s content. Yes, I’d be willin’ to let ’em destroy the last remnants o’ my beauty, an pull out my lairipin’ tongue by the roots—I would, ’r my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!”
The two comrades were walking in the direction whence the bloodhound had gone. Just as they reached the spot where the Wyandot had seen the dog disappear among a cluster of tents, a militiaman crossed their path.
“Say, friend,” Farley said hurriedly, “do you happen to know the man that owns the big bloodhoun’ that’s runnin’ ’round the camp?”
“Yes,” the soldier answered promptly.
“Well, we’re huntin’ him. What kind of a looking critter is he?”
“He’s one o’ the scouts—a youngish-like man, big an’ stout; a kind of a surly feller, like his dog—don’t have much to say to nobody. But he knows his business—an’ ’tends to it. Anything more you’d like to know?”
“I’d like to know where to find him,” Joe replied coolly, unheeding the sarcasm of the other’s tone and words.
“You’ll find him right in that big tent. He’s in there holdin’ a conflab with the Gener’l an’ hisstaff. You act as if you had important business with him.”
“I have,” answered Joe, shutting his teeth with a snap. “What’s his name?”
“I—don’t—know——” the soldier began slowly. “Yes, I do. I heard our Captain call him by name the other day. Le’s see. It was somethin’ like Ruggles ’r Duggles. No, that wasn’t it. I guess I can’t think of it.”
Bright Wing’s black eyes opened very wide, and he uttered a surprised “Ugh!” Farley’s cheek paled under its coat of tan. He tried to speak; but the words would not come. At last he managed to stammer:
“It—It wasn’t—Douglas, was it?”
“That’s it—Douglas,” exclaimed the militiaman, slapping his thigh. “Douglas—yes, that’s the name.”
“Ross Douglas?”
Joe’s face was ashen as he put the question.
“Now you’ve hit it!” the man shouted triumphantly. “That’s the very name I heard the Captain call him—Ross Douglas.”
Farley and Bright Wing stared at each other, in speechless amazement. Their chests were heaving; their lips, apart. The militiaman looked from one to the other in silent wonder. The Wyandot regained the power of speech and grunted:
“Duke him not dead—him here. Master not dead, too—him here. Ross here—Fleet Foot—ugh!”
“Injin, you’re a ’tarnal fool!” Farley criedangrily, his face suddenly flushing—then paling. “Fer God’s sake, don’t make no more remarks like that! You know—an’ I know—that Ross Douglas’s dead. You’re a fool!”
“Joebig fool!” Bright Wing returned sullenly.
“No, I ain’t!” Farley vociferated wildly. “I can see the length of my nose—an’ you can’t. Don’t you understand, Injin. W’y the dang skunk that’s got Ross Douglas’s houn’ has got Ross Douglas’s name—stol’d both of ’em, of course. Jest wait till he steps out o’ that tent, an’ I’ll give him the infernalest lambastin’ a man ever got in his life—I will, by—by——”
But Joe, in his excitement, could think of no suitable object by which to swear, so ended with a gasping sputter.
“You seem to be terribly worked-up ’bout somethin’, stranger,” the soldier remarked coolly. “An’ you threaten to trounce the guide that calls hisself Ross Douglas. Well, maybe you’re like a singed cat—better’n you look—but if I was you I’d hire the job out. I seen the feller you talk o’ whippin’ lick two men bigger’n you—an’ not half try—jest ’cause they spit tobacker juice in his dog’s eye.”
“It don’t make no differ’nce who he’s licked, n’r who he hain’t,” Joe answered obstinately. “A man that’s mean enough to palm hisself off fer Ross Douglas—who’s dead an’ gone—has got to take a trouncin’ from me. Ross Douglas was my best friend; an’ I won’t have his name stol’d an’ disgraced by no two-legged critter that ever trampedon new ground—I won’t, by Queen Elizabeth! It ’pears the rascal thinks a sight o’ the dog—bein’ ready to fight fer him; but my mind’s made up—the cuss has got to be licked.”
By this time a knot of soldiers had gathered at the spot. Now they nudged one another and exchanged facetious winks and remarks. They were expecting to see no end of fun, when the guide should put in an appearance.
Farley muttered impatiently:
“I wish the critter’d come—right while I’m in a good notion. When he does, one o’ you fellers p’int him out to me.”
A number of the assembled militiamen offered to perform the service. Suddenly one of them remarked in a stage whisper:
“The council’s broke up. Here comes the officers now.”
“P’int him out to me!” Farley hissed between his set teeth.
And giving his gun into Bright Wing’s hands, he rolled up his ragged sleeves, revealing his knotted and sinewy arms.
The officers emerged from General Clay’s tent. Captain Oliver was among them. He caught sight of Farley and, noting the woodman’s attitude and expression, walked up to him, saying:
“You appear excited, my friend. What’s the matter?”
The assembled militiamen grinned broadly; and the officers paused momentarily. But Joe kept hispale, watery eyes fixed upon the opening in the canvas wall and did not reply to the question. The Captain turned to Bright Wing with:
“What ails your comrade?”
“Ugh!” was the guttural response. “Joe him heap mad man. Him want fight much bad.”
At that moment a tall, broad-shouldered young man appeared in the doorway. At his side trotted a magnificent bloodhound.
“There he is—go fer him!” a mischievous militiaman whispered in Farley’s ear.
Joe clapped his eyes upon the figure emerging from the tent, and, with a hoarse, inarticulate cry, staggered back a few steps and covered his face with his hands.
Officers and men were astounded, and could only stand and stare. Bright Wing gave a grunt of surprise and satisfaction, and became a bronze statue. The hound ran forward and fawned at the feet of the two woodmen. Then the young man in the doorway shouted joyously:
“Joe Farley and Bright Wing!”
Joe dropped his hands to his side, and for a brief moment stood with mouth agape. Then with the cry—“It’s Ross Douglas hisself, alive an’ a-livin’”—he sprang forward and threw his long, bony arms around his friend’s neck.
Bright Wing grinned broadly and muttered:
“Dog Duke alive and here; Fleet Foot alive and here. Joe heap sight big fool. Ugh!”
Duke capered about in mad delight, baying andwhining by turns. Ross and Joe held each other at arm’s length and looked long and earnestly into each other’s eyes. Tears were raining down their cheeks, and their lips were trembling.
An oppressive silence rested upon the little knot of soldiers who were watching the drama enacting before them. Of a sudden a militiaman broke the spell by shouting:
“Well, if that don’t beat all the ways to lick a man, I’m a numbskull!”
With shouts of laughter, the crowd gradually dispersed. Douglas tore himself from Farley’s grasp and, flying to Bright Wing, warmly embraced him. In return the Wyandot gave his friend a bear-like hug. Joe stood blubbering and wiping his weak eyes. For once in his life the power of speech had deserted him. Drawing the two together, Douglas said with deep emotion:
“God knows how glad I am to meet you again—to find you alive and well! I’ve mourned you as dead.”
Farley suddenly found his voice and replied:
“An’ maybe we ain’t glad to see you, Ross! We not only thought you was dead—weknowedyou was. We seen you dyin’—we left you fer dead. An’ dang-it-all-to-dingnation! Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! I can’t hardly believe my senses. Where’ve you been—how did you come to life? Tell me all about it right now—don’t wait a minute. By King Solerman’s six hundred wives! I never was as happy in my born days!”
“Come, my friends,” Ross said softly, sadly, “let’s find a quiet place, and sit down and talk.”
He led them to a distant corner of the fortification. There, seated upon a log, they entered into explanations. Douglas told the two of his miraculous escape from death in the woods, of his multifarious adventures and experiences among the Indians at the village upon the Mississinewa, and of the bitter disappointment he had met on his return to Franklinton. Last of all, he showed them the Prophet’s ring. Farley gingerly examined the talisman, but said nothing. Bright Wing would not touch the uncanny thing, but shudderingly remarked:
“Tenskwatawa big medicine man—bad Shawnee. Ring very much strong—make redmen sleep. Ugh!”
And he drew away from it.
When Douglas had finished, Farley began his narrative. In conclusion he said:
“Yes, Ross Douglas, me an’ the Injin’s been pris’ners ’mong the Winnebagoes, ever sence we left you—up to a few days ago. A dozen times they was goin’ to kill us, but somethin’ alluz happened jest in the nick o’ time to save us. But look at me! Where’s the beauty that once was mine? Gone—sacrificed by the dang redskins! It’s a sin an’ a shame—it is, by my gran’mother’s shoestrings! An’ we’d ’ave been in the clutches o’ the red devils yit, but the most of ’em took it into the’r heads to jine Tecumseh on his rampage ’g’inst Fort Meigs.That give us a chance to git away. But holy incense! Talk ’bout sufferin’! Hain’t I ’xperienced it? Yit you’ve had a right smart taste y’rself, Ross. Yes, things has come out jest as I told you they would. I said if you left ol’ Sam Larkin’s gal an’ went off to war, she’d marry that scalawag of a Hilliard. An’ she’s done it. But—gol-fer-socks! That’s the way o’ the whole feminine gender. Don’t I know ’em—say? Still I don’t fancy you’re so much disap’inted over the turn things has took, Ross. Eh?”
And Farley smiled quizzically.
“What do you mean, Joe?” Douglas asked quickly.
“Oh! you know well enough what I mean,” the other chuckled. “I think if you could find the little red-haired gal that set you free, you wouldn’t hunt overmuch fer Amy Larkin. That’s my ’pinion, at least.”
“You’re wrong, my old friend,” Douglas hastened to say. “I have been true to Amy Larkin; I trust and believe she has been true to me. I shall continue my search for her—and never rest till I find her; although I have no knowledge of her whereabouts. But I must leave you now, to assist in the preparations for departure.”
“Go ahead!—don’t let us keep you,” Farley assented. “Ol’ Tippecanoe’s in a bad box down there at Fort Meigs, an’ the sooner we all git there, the better. How soon do you think the army’ll be ready to move?”
“By to-morrow morning, at the latest. I’ll see you again this evening. Then we can talk to our heart’s content.”
Douglas hurried from the spot, and Farley and Bright Wing, arising, again sauntered aimlessly about the place, followed by the bloodhound.
In the meantime, preparations for the hurried trip down the river were rapidly going on. Officers were stalking hither and thither, giving sharp commands. Hundreds of men were busily engaged in loading the camp equipage, arms, ammunition, and provisions upon flat, open boats that lay moored at the water’s edge.
All day the work proceeded without intermission. When one set of men became weary, others took their places. By sunset the boats were loaded—everything on board but the men themselves. That night they slept in their dismantled camp, upon the bare ground. At daylight they manned their clumsy vessels and commenced their venturesome voyage down the Maumee.
General Clay had twelve hundred men in his command, and his fleet consisted of eighteen flats of various size. For four days the primitive flotilla moved slowly onward between walls of unbroken forest. The only motive power was the sluggish current, and poles and sweeps in the hands of the sturdy Kentuckians.
The weather was warm and sunshiny. Mating birds twittered and chirped in the budding boughs of the trees along the shore, and reviewed theirnesting-places of the year before. The clear water lapped musically against the sides of the moving craft; and the militiamen, lolling in the genial sunshine, smoked their pipes and chatted cheerily, unaware of the black fate that awaited them.