"The Indian knew it was there and knew we were coming, and used it for bait," I mused.

"A five-year-old child would know that," was the scornful rejoinder. "But what no five-year-old on Howard's Creek would 'a' done was to go for to git it after I'd called a halt. You must 'a' been foolish in your mind. The Injun took a spot where he could line his gun on the moccasin. The growth cut off any sight of the trace 'cept where the moccasin lay. All he had to do was to line it and shoot when you stooped over it. The second he couldn't see the moccasin he'd know some one's body was between it and him. He heard me bawl out, but he didn't git sight of you till you was over it, and by that time my old hoss give you a belt and made you keep on moving."

"He undershot, yet as I was bending close to it he would have bagged me," I said. "I have to thank you for saving my life."

"Part of a day's work," he carelessly observed. "Wal, seeing as the skunk has skedaddled, we might as well push on rather smart and tell the fellers there's a loose red round these parts."

When we entered the settlement we saw men and women gathered in front of the Davis cabin, frankly curious to see the newcomers and eager to volley them with questions. I joined the group and through a window beheld Patsy in animated conversation with what women could crowd inside. Mrs. Davis was very proud of her cousin's daughter and was preening herself considerably.

Patsy's cheeks were flushed and her tongue was racing as only a woman's can. As she talked I could see she was trying to get used to the table of split slabs and its four round legs set in auger-holes, the pewter tableware and the spoons and bowls fashioned from wood, and the gourds and hard-shell squash hollowed out for noggings.

With a slant of half-veiled eyes she also was studying the women's linsey petticoats and bare feet, for now that it was warm weather many dispensed with any foot-covering. In turn the women were openly examining the texture and style of her town gown, and shrilly calling on one another to come and admire her soft leather boots.

I did not see Dale, and Davis informed me he was inspecting the fort. As Ward was not in sight I assumed he, too, was at the fort. Making my way to the window, I caught Patsy's eye and handed her her lost moccasin.

She stared at the moccasin in bewilderment, but what with the newness of her experience and the voluble praise of the women and the open-eyed admiration of the men, she was finely excited. She forgot to ask where I found the moccasin or how I happened to be there. She was in the act of giving me a smile and a nod when Mrs. Davis tugged her to the right-about.

Realizing it was useless to strive for the girl's attention until the neighbors returned to their cabins, I walked to the fort, leading my horse. Hughes was there ahead of me and stood with a group of sullen-faced men who were being addressed by Ericus Dale.

"I say there ain't going to be any war," he cried as I took a position behind him. "The Indians don't want war. They want trade. Take a pack of goods on your horse and walk into a Shawnee village and see how quick they'll quit the war-post to buy red paint and cloth.

"Open a keg of New England rum among the Mingos and see how quick they'll drop their axes and hunt for tin dippers. Take blankets and beads to the Wyandots and watch them hang up white wampum. Take——"

"Oh, that's all fool talk!" thundered Hughes crowding forward and staring angrily into the trader's deep-set eyes. "You can't lead a pack-hoss fifty miles from this creek without losing your hair, neighbor."

"I can! I will!" wrathfully replied Dale. "I've traded for years with the Indians. I never yet went to them with a gun in my hand. If ever I need protection, they'll protect me. They are my friends. This war is all wrong. You can have it if you insist. But if you'd rather have trade, then you needn't build any more forts west of the Alleghanies."

Hughes laughed hoarsely and called out to the silent settlers:

"What do you fellers say to all this twaddle? Any of you believe it?"

Uncle Dick, whom I had left whetting his knife on the stones of the Davis fireplace, gave a cackling laugh and answered:

"Believe it? No! But it's fun to hear him splutter."

The men smiled grimly. They had held back from affronting their neighbor's cousin. They looked upon Dale much as they looked on Baby Kirst when he came to the settlement and whimpered because he could not find ripe berries to pick. They were deciding that Dale was mentally irresponsible; only his malady took a different twist than did Baby's. He was an Indian-lover instead of hater. Dale's dark face flushed purple with anger. By an effort he controlled himself and said:

"All right. You men want a fight. I'm afraid you'll have it. But I tell you that if Dunmore would call off that dog of a Connolly at Fort Pitt I could go among the Ohio Indians and make a peace which would last."

"How about the Injuns being willing for us to go down into the Kentucky country?" spoke up Moulton.

"If you want peace with the Indian, you must let him keep a place to hunt and live in. He can't live if you take away his hunting-grounds."

"Then let's take 'em away so they'll die out tarnation fast," cried Elijah Runner.

Drawing himself up and speaking with much dignity, Dale said:

"I am sorry for any of you men who came out here to make homes if you will let a few Indian-killers, who never make homes, spoil your chances for getting ahead."

"We don't go for to kill every Injun we see," said Davis, heretofore silent. "I'm a fambly-man. I don't want Injuns butchered here in the settlement like as Ike Crabtree done for Cherokee Billy. No sense in that."

"That's what I say, too," agreed another. And this endorsement of Davis' view became quite general. Of course I had known right along that the settlers as a whole did not look with favor upon indiscriminate slaughter of the natives. Dale nodded his approval and said:

"Well, that's something. Only you don't go far enough."

Hughes angrily took up the talk, declaring:

"You cabin-men are mighty tickled to have us Injun-hating fellers come along when there's any chance of trouble. I've noticed that right along."

"Course we are, Jesse," agreed Davis. "But that don't mean we're mighty glad when some of you kill a friendly Injun in the settlement and, by doing so, bring the fighting to us."

"I 'low we've outstayed our welcome," Hughes grimly continued. "You folks foller this man's trail and it'll lead you all to the stake. I'm moving on to-night."

"Don't go away mad, Jesse," piped up old Uncle Dick. "Talk don't hurt nothin'. Stick along an' git your fingers into the fightin' what's bound to come."

"I'm going away to kill Injuns," was the calm reply. "That's my business."

"Hacker, Scott 'n' me will go along with you," said Runner. "Now that Howard's Creek has got a trader to keep the Injuns off, we ain't needed here no more."

"I can keep the Indians away," cried Dale. "When I offer them my belts, they'll be glad to receive them. You send them a few trade-belts in place of the bloody ax and they'll be your friends, too."

"Bah!" roared Hughes, too disgusted to talk.

"What does the white Injun say?" yelled one of the young men.

He had barely put the query before John Ward stalked through the fort door and stood at Dale's elbow. Speaking slowly and stressing his words in that jerky fashion that marks an Indian's speech in English, he said:

"The trader is right. I have been a prisoner among Indians for many years. I know their minds. Dale can go anywhere among Indians where he has been before, and no hand will be lifted against him."

"You're a liar!" passionately cried Hughes, his hand creeping to his belt.

Ward folded his arms across his deep chest and stared in silence at Hughes for nearly a minute; then slowly said:

"No Indian ever called me that. It's a man of my own race that uses the word to me."

"And a mighty cheap sample of his race," boomed Dale, his heavy face convulsed with rage. "A cheap killer, who must strike from behind! Faugh! It's creatures like you——" With an animal screech Hughes jumped for him. Before we could seize the infuriated man Ward's arm was thrust across his chest and with the rigidity of a bar of iron stopped the assault. Before Hughes could pull knife or ax from his belt we hustled him into the background. His three friends scowled ferociously but offered no interference. It was obvious that the settlers as a body would not tolerate any attack on Dale.

Inarticulate with rage, Hughes beckoned for Hacker, Scott and Runner to follow him. A few rods away he halted and called out:

"Dale, I'll live to hear how your red friends have danced your scalp. Then I'll go out and shoot some of them. That white Injun beside you will be one of the first to stick burning splinters into your carcass. He's lived with redskins too long to forget his red tricks. Come on, fellers."

This sorry disturbance depressed the spirits of the settlers. War was on, and there was none of the Howard's Creek men who believed that any change in their attitude could prevent the Ohio Indians from slaying at every opportunity. No matter how much they might decry the acts of Hughes and his mates in time of peace, there was no denying the fighting-value of the quartet when it came to war.

No word was spoken until the last of the four killers had filed away to secure their horses and be gone. Then Davis said:

"Time to eat, Ericus. Let's go back and see how the women-folks is gettin' along."

"Keep that white scum from this creek until I can carry a bag of talk to Cornstalk and Logan and you won't need any armed bullies to protect you," said Dale.

"We ain't askin' of 'em to look after us, nor you with your white belts, neither," shrilly proclaimed Uncle Dick.

Some of the younger men laughed.

Dale reddened, but turned to walk with his cousin without making any answer. He all but bumped into me.

"Why, Morris!" he greeted, staring at me in surprise. "You bob up everywhere. Will you go with me to the Scioto villages?"

"Go as what?" I cautiously asked. The men gathered closer about us.

"Go as a trader, carrying white wampum. Go to make peace with the Shawnees," slowly replied Dale, his eyes burning with the fire of fanaticism.

"Not hankering for slow fires, nor to have squaws heap coals on my head, I must refuse," I retorted. "But I'll go with you or any man, as a scout."

"In your blood, too," he jeered. "I didn't suppose you'd been out here long enough to lose your head."

"I'd certainly lose it if the Shawnees got me," I good-naturedly retorted. My poor jest brought a rumble of laughter from the men and added to Dale's resentment, which I greatly regretted.

John Ward glided to my side and said:

"You talk like a child. I have been long among the Indians. They did not take my head."

I didn't like the fellow. There was something of the snake in his way of stealthily approaching. I could not get it out of my head that he must be half-red. Had he been all Indian, I might have found something in him to fancy; for there were red men whom I had liked and had respected immensely. But Ward impressed me as being neither white nor red. He stirred my bile. Without thinking much, I shot back at him:

"Perhaps they did something worse to you than to take your head. Are you sure they didn't take your heart?"

He turned on his heel and stalked away. Dale snarled:

"You're worse than Hughes and those other fools. You even hate a poor white man who has been held prisoner by the Indians. He comes back to his people and you welcome him by telling him he's a renegade. Shame on you!"

"No call for that sort of talk to Ward at all!" denounced Davis.

"What call had Ward to say he was a fool?" loudly demanded one of the young men.

"I shouldn't have said that," I admitted, now much ashamed of my hot-headedness. "I'll say as much to Ward when I see him next. If he'd look and act more like a white man then I'd keep remembering that he is white. But I shouldn't have said that."

"Morris, that's much better," said Dale. "I'll tell him what you said and you needn't eat your words a second time in public. I admire you for conquering yourself and saying it."

Uncle Dick did not relish my retraction, and his near-sighted eyes glared at me in disgust.

"Too much talkin'. Scouts oughter be out. Our friends, th' killers, have quit us."

Glad to be alone, I volunteered:

"I'll scout half the circle, striking west, then south, returning on the east side."

Moulton, a quiet, soft-spoken fellow, but a very demon in a fight, picked up his rifle and waved his hand to his wife and little girl and trotted in the opposite direction, calling back over his shoulder:

"I'll go east, north and half-down the west side."

I finished on the north leg at the point where Moulton had commenced his scout. I made no discoveries while out. I walked to the fort and was glad to see that Moulton had but recently come in. I returned to the Davis cabin and passed behind it. So far as I could observe no sentinels had been posted on the east side of the clearing. In front of the cabin burned a big fire and there was a confusion of voices.

I gained a position at the end of the cabin, and from the shadows viewed the scene. It was old to me, but new to Patsy, and she was deeply interested. The young men had erected a war-post, and had painted the upper half red. Now they were dancing and cavorting around the post like so many red heathens, bowing their heads nearly to the ground and then throwing them far back. They were stripped to the waist and had painted their faces, and as they danced they stuck their axes into the post and whooped and howled according to the Indian ceremony of declaring war.

"I don't like it!" I heard Dale protest.

"But the boys only wanted Patsy to see how the Injuns git ready for war," defended Mrs. Davis. "An', lor'! Ain't she all took up by it!"

"But it's the way the border men declared war after the murder at Yellow Creek," declared Dale. "They stripped and painted and struck the post and danced around it."

"They'll be through mighty soon now, Ericus," soothed Davis, who was uneasy between his fears of displeasing his wife's cousin and giving offense to the young men. "They meant well."

"All such actions mean ill for the settlers," growled Dale. "They'd best finish at once."

Davis did not have to incur his neighbors' ill-will by asking the dancers to cease their ceremony, as Dale's speech was closely followed by a volley from the west side of the clearing. A dancer went down, coughing and clawing at his throat, while yelps of surprise and pain told me others had been wounded. I raised my rifle and fired toward the flashes.

With the promptness of seasoned veterans the young men kicked the fire to pieces and grabbed up their rifles and advanced toward the hidden foe, their movements being barely perceptible even while within reach of the light streaming from the cabins.

It was not until I had fired and was reloading that I was conscious of Patsy's ear-splitting shrieks. I heard her father fiercely command her to be still, then command Davis to recall the young men now lost in the darkness. A stentorian voice began shouting:

"All women to the fort! Put out all lights!"

One by one the candles were extinguished. Patsy was silent, and across the clearing came the low voices of the women, driving their children before them and urging them to hurry. Dark forms were discernible close at hand and were those settlers apportioned to defend the fort.

Davis was commanding his wife to take Patsy to the fort while there was yet time, and she was refusing. The savages must have heard the men and women leaving the outlying cabins, for they started to rush from the woods only to fall back before a brisk volley from the young men now scouting well to the front.

I walked to the cabin door just as the war-whoop of the Shawnees announced an attack in force. I was standing by Patsy's side, but she did not see me. She had both hands clapped over her ears, her lips parted but uttering no sound. Now there came a rush of feet and the young men fell back, some making into the fort, others, as previously assigned, entering the cabins close to the fort. Three came to the Davis cabin, and I entered with them, leading Patsy. Some one, I think it was Davis, dragged Dale inside.

The trader seemed to be paralyzed, for he had remained voiceless during the stirring events. And it had all been a matter of a few minutes. I jumped through the doorway just as a young man began closing it. The Shawnees were yelling like demons and approaching to close range very cautiously, feeling out each rod of the ground.

The sally of the young men had taught them they could not have all things their own way. I scouted toward the fort to make sure all the women and children had made cover, but before I could reach the log walls I heard Dale's voice shouting for attention. I dropped behind a stump, and as the savages ceased their howling I heard him hoarsely crying:

"It is the Pack-Horse-Man speaking. Do the Shawnees fire guns at the Pack-Horse-Man? My friends live here. Do the Shawnees hurt the friends of the Pack-Horse-Man? I give you a belt to wash the red paint from your faces. I give you a belt to make the road smooth between the Greenbriar and the Scioto. By this belt the nettles and rocks shall be removed from the road. I will cover the bones of your dead, if any fell to-night, with many presents."

He was either very brave or crazy. For now he left the cabin and began walking toward the hidden Shawnees, his confident voice repeating the fact he was the red man's friend, that he brought white belts, that the red and white men should eat from one dish, and that a hole should be dug to the middle of the earth and the war-ax buried there and a mighty river turned from its ancient bed to flow over the spot so that the ax could never be found.

His amazing boldness brought the hush of death over cabins and forts. My horse, secured in the small stockaded paddock near the fort, whinnied for me to come to him, and his call in that tense stillness set my nerves to jumping madly. Dale was now close to the warriors. Every minute I expected to see a streak of fire, or hear the crunch of an ax. Trailing my rifle and bent double, I stole after him. From the forest a deep voice shouted:

"The belts of the Pack-Horse-Man are good belts. Black Hoof's warriors do not harm the friends of the Pack-Horse-Man. Sleep with your cabin doors open to-night and you shall hear nothing but the call of the night birds and the voice of the little owl talking with the dead."

I now discovered that the Shawnees had silently retreated to the woods at the beginning of Dale's advance. The declaration of peace as given by the Indian—and I was convinced it was the famous Black Hoof talking—was in the Shawnee tongue. Dale faced to the cabins and fort and triumphantly interpreted it. From deep in the forest came a pulsating cry, the farewell of the marauders, as they swiftly fell back toward New River. I was suspicious of some Indian trick and yelled a warning for the men to keep in the cabins.

Dale became very angry, and upbraided me:

"It's the like of you that spoils the Indian's heart. You men have heard what the Black Hoof says. You men and women of Howard's Creek are foolish to believe this young fool's words. The Shawnees have gone. You heard their travel-cry. They have left none behind to harm by treachery. I told you I could keep the Indians from attacking this settlement. Could your friends, the killers, have sent them away so quickly? I think not. Open your doors. Light your candles. Make merry if you will. There is nothing in the forest to harm you."

"Keep inside till I and some of the young men have scouted the woods. Three men from the fort will be enough," I loudly shouted.

Dale was furious, but that was nothing when the women and children had to be remembered. Soon a soft pattering of moccasins, and three youths stood before me. Choosing one, I set off in the direction the Indians apparently had taken. The other two were to separate, one scouting south and the other north, to discover any attempt at a surprise attack by swinging back to the creek in a half-circle.

My companion and I, although hampered by the darkness, penetrated some miles toward New River. In returning, we separated, one swinging south and the other north. The first morning light was burning the mists from the creek when I reentered the clearing. My companion came in an hour later. The other two had returned much earlier, having had a much shorter course to cover. We all made the same report; no signs of Indians except those left by them in their retreat.

I sat outside the Davis cabin and Patsy brought me some food. She was very proud of her father and carried her small figure right grandly. Her attitude toward the women was that of a protector; and they, dear souls, so thankful to be alive, so eager to accept the new faith, fairly worshiped the girl.

The one exception was the Widow McCabe. She paid homage to no one. And while she said nothing to the chorus of admiring exclamations directed at the trader there was the same cold glint in the slate-gray eyes, and she walked about with her skirts tucked up and an ax in her hand.

I made no effort to talk with Patsy. Her frame of mind was too exalted for speech with a skeptical worm. She smiled kindly on me, much as a goddess designs to sweeten the life of a mortal with a glance. She smiled in gentle rebuke as she noted my torn and stained garments and the moccasins so sadly in need of patching.

"You silly boy! It wasn't necessary. When will you learn, Morris?" It was not intended that I should answer this, for she turned away graciously to receive the blessings of the women. Thus, vicariously, was Ericus Dale recognized as a great man. And the trader walked among the morning clouds. For some hours the savor of his triumph stifled speech, and he wandered about while the women paid their tribute through his daughter.

Nor were the men lacking in appreciation. The younger generation remained silent, secretly wishing their bravery and marksmanship had scattered the foe, yet unable to deny that Dale's medicine had been very powerful. Those with families stared upon him as they might gaze on one who had looked on David.

They congregated around the Davis cabin after the morning meal and forgot there was much work to be done. They were eager to renew their fires of this new faith by listening to him. And after his exaltation had softened enough to permit of speech the trader once more harangued them on his influence over the natives. He was constantly in motion, his swinging arms keeping a path clear as he strode through the group and back again and addressed the mountains and horizon. He was too full of the sweets of a peaceful victory to confine his utterance to any individual, and he spoke to the whole frontier.

He concluded a long and eloquent speech by saying:

"So after all, as you settlers have learned, the Ohio tribes, yes, and all tribes, will always hark to the one word—trade. They are now dependent upon the white man for traps and guns, even their women's clothing. Trade with them and they will remain your friends, for your goods they must have.

"You can plant your war-posts three feet apart along the whole length of Virginia, and you'll always have work for your rifles and axes until the last Indian-hunter is killed. I admit they can be exterminated, but you'll pay an awful price in doing it. But give them a chance to live, carry trade-belts to them, and you shall have peace."

Even Uncle Dick, the aged one, had nothing to say. But it was Patsy I was watching while Dale talked. She never took her eyes from him, and her gaze was idolatrous in its love. She believed in his powers implicitly; and to bask in the reflection of his greatness was the sweetest triumph she had ever experienced. Throughout that day the scouts were busy in the forest, ranging very far on the track of Black Hoof's band. When they began dropping in after sundown all their reports were alike.

There were no Indian-signs besides those left by the departing Shawnee band. This band, said the scouts, was very large and quite sufficient to cause the settlement much trouble and inevitable losses. There was no mistaking the story told by the trail. The Indians had marched rapidly, swinging north.

Every emotion, unless it be that of love, must have its ebb; and by nightfall the settlers were returning to their old caution. Dale did not relish this outcropping of old habits. Throwing open the door of the Davis cabin after Davis had closed and barred it, he cried: "Let us have air. There is no danger. You're like silly children afraid of the dark. Your scouts have told you there are no Indians near. Yet the minute the sun sets you imagine the woods are full of them. I will go out alone and unarmed and I will shout my name. If any Shawnee who was not in Black Hoof's band hears my voice he will come to me. After he learns I have friends here on Howard's Creek, he will go away. Give me time to act before that scoundrel Connolly can stir up more trouble and I'll make a lasting peace between the Greenbriar, the Clinch and the Holston and the Ohio tribes; and I'll make Dunmore look like a fool."

His overpowering personality, his massive way of asserting things made a deep impression on the simple folks. They asked only for a chance to plant and reap. When he went out alone that night he brought them deep under his spell. As he plunged into the forest and stumbled about he took pains to advertise his presence. Unknown to the settlers, I trailed him. I was within ten feet of him when he halted and shouted his name, and in their language called on the Shawnees to come to him.

For half an hour he wandered about, proclaiming he was the Pack-Horse-Man, the ancient friend of the Shawnees and Mingos. Let him be a fool according to Jesse Hughes' notion, yet he was a very brave man. He had the courage to attempt proof of his belief in the honesty of the Shawnees.

I trailed him back to the cabin door. I saw the girl's radiant face as she proudly threw her arms about his neck. I saw the great pride in his own face as he stood in the middle of the floor and harshly demanded:

"Now, who will you believe; Dale, the trader, or Hughes, the killer?"

It was all mighty dramatic, and it was not surprising that it should affect the settlers keenly. It shook my skepticism a bit, but only for the moment. If I could not feel a full confidence in John Ward, born white, how could I place a deep and abiding trust in those who were born red? Had not Cornstalk and other chiefs, the best of their breed, sworn friendship to the whites in Virginia in 1759 and during Pontiac's War? Had they not feasted with old friends, and then, catching them off their guard, chopped them down? Black Hoof had drawn off his raiders; so far, so good. But I looked to my flints none the less carefully that night and made the rounds to see that reliable men were on guard. The night passed with nothing to disturb the settlement's rest.



CHAPTER VII

LOST SISTER

Patsy stood in the doorway of the Davis cabin when I approached to pay my respects. She was wearing a linsey petticoat and a short gown for an overskirt. Her mass of wonderful hair was partly confined by a calico cap, and on her feet were my gift moccasins. She believed she was conforming to the frontier standard of dress, but she was as much out of place as a butterfly at a bear-baiting. Before I could speak she was advancing toward me, her hands on her hips, her head tilted back, and demanding:

"What do you say now about the influence of trade and the trader?"

She did not ask that she might learn my opinion; she firmly believed there was but one thing I could say. She was in an exultant mood and happy to parade her triumph. Of course she was proud of her father and was viewing him as the deliverer of the settlement. Without waiting for me to answer she excitedly continued:

"And your long rifle! And the rifles of all these other men! What good would they have done? They spoke night before last, and the Indians kept up their attack. Then my father spoke and the Indians have gone! John Ward, who was out scouting when the Indians attacked, says they greatly outnumbered us and were led by Black Hoof, one of their greatest chiefs. He says they would have captured or killed us if not for my father. Now, Mr. Rifleman, what do you think about the influence of an honest trader?"

I would not have shaken her pride in her father even had that accomplishment been possible. To convince her—which was not possible—that her father's success was no success at all, that Black Hoof's behavior was simply an Indian trick to lull us into a foolish sense of security, would mean to alienate even her friendship, let alone killing all chance of her ever reciprocating my love.

While not deeply experienced with women, my instinct early taught me that my sex is most unwise in proving to a woman that she is wrong. She will hold such procedure to be the man's greatest fault. It is far better to let her discover her own errors, and even then pretend you still cling to her first reasoning, thereby permitting her to convince you that she was wrong.

On the other hand there was, I sensed, a peril in the situation, a peril to Howard's Creek, that made my seeming acquiescence in her opinion very distasteful to me. I had no proof of my suspicions except my knowledge of Indian nature and my familiarity with frontier history. A red man can be capable of great and lasting friendships. But to judge him, when he is at war, by the standards of the white race is worse than foolish.

Cornstalk, according to his blood, was a great man. Under certain conditions I would trust him with my life as implicitly as I would trust any white man. Under certain conditions I would repose this same trust in him although he was at war with my race. But when placed among the combatants opposing him, I knew there was no subterfuge even that great warrior would not use to attain success.

So I said nothing of my doubts, nothing of my vague suspicions concerning John Ward. I felt a strong antipathy toward the fellow, and I realized this dislike might prejudice me to a degree not warranted by the facts. To put it mildly, his status puzzled me. If he were an escaped prisoner then he had committed one of the gravest sins in the red man's entire category.

To be taken into the tribe, to be adopted after his white blood had been washed out by solemn ceremony, and then to run away, meant the stake and horrible preliminary tortures should he be recaptured. As a prize such a runaway would be more eagerly sought than any settler. And yet the fellow was back on the fringe of imminent danger and ranging the woods unconcernedly. His captivity must have taught him that every war-party would be instructed to bring him in alive if possible.

"What's the matter with you, Basdel?" demanded the girl sharply as she turned and walked by my side toward the Davis cabin. "You act queer. Do you begrudge giving my father his due? Aren't you thankful he was here to stop the attack?"

"If he were here alone, yes. But I am terribly worried because you are here, Patsy."

"But that's doubting my father's influence!" she rebuked, her eyes lighting war-signals.

"When one has loved, one stops reasoning," I quickly defended. "I can not bear to see even a shadow of a chance of harm come to you."

"That was said very pretty," she smiled, her gaze all softness.

Then with calm pride she unfastened several strings of white wampum from around her slender waist and holding them up simply said:

"My father's belts."

Among the strings was a strip some seven or eight rows in width and two hundred beads long. It was pictographic and showed a man leading a pack-horse along a white road to a wigwam. The figures, like the road, were worked in white beads, the background being dark for contrast.

Refastening them about her waist, she said:

"There is no danger for me here so long as I wear my father's belts. There are none of the Ohio Indians who would refuse to accept them and respect them. When they see the Pack-Horse-Man walking along the white road to their villages they will lift that belt up very high."

"When one sees you, there should be no need of belts," I ventured.

She smiled graciously and lightly patted my fringed sleeve, and ignoring my fervid declaration, she gently reminded:

"Even if I had no belts I am no better than any of the other women on the creek. Don't think for a moment I would hide behind my father's trade wampum. The belts must protect all of us, or none of us. But there is no more danger for me than there is for them even if I threw the belts away. Not so much; because I am Ericus Dale's daughter. Basdel, it makes me unhappy to fear that when we leave here the danger may return to these people. I carry my safety with me. I wish I could leave it for them. I wish a general and lasting peace could be made."

"God knows I wish the same," I cried. "As for being no better than these other women, I agree to that." And she became suddenly thoughtful. "In judging from a Howard's Creek standpoint you are not so good in many ways. Rather, I should say, not so valuable."

"You measure a woman's value as you do your guns and horses," she murmured.

Her calmness was rather ominous, and I feared I had bungled. Yet my meaning should have been transparent even to a child. To make sure she had not misconstrued me I explained:

"You know what I mean, no matter how I appear to measure you. In making a new country a woman on the edge of things must have certain qualities that the town woman does not possess, does not need to possess. It's because of these qualities that the new country becomes possible as a place to live in; then the town woman develops. Two hundred miles east are conditions that resulted from the rugged qualities of the first women on the first frontier.

"Those first women helped to make it safe for their children's children. Now it's behind the frontier and women of your kind live there. In other words"—I was growing a trifle desperate, for her gaze, while persistent, was rather blank—"you don't fit in out here. I doubt if you know how to run bullets or load a gun or throw an ax. I'm sure you'd find it very disagreeable to go barefooted. It isn't your place. Your values shine when you are back in town. That's why I'm sorry you're here."

"I haven't shot a rifle, but I could learn," she quietly remarked.

"I believe that," I heartily agreed. "But could you take an ax and stand between a drove of children and what you believed to be a band of Indians about to break from cover and begin their work of killing? I saw the Widow McCabe do that. I saw the little Moulton woman, armed with an ax, run to meet the attack."

"It's hardly sensible to ask if I could have done this or that. Who knows what I could have done? I shall never have to deal with what is past. And there was a time, I suppose, when all these women were new to the frontier. At least I should be allowed time to learn certain things before you apply your measuring-rod, sir!"

"That's right," I admitted. "I was rather unjust, but the fact remains that just now you are out of place and not used to this life and its dangers."

"I feel very cross at you. You pass over my father's great work for the settlement with scarcely a word. You complain because I am here and look different from Mrs. Davis. I can't help my looks."

"You are adorable. Already see the havoc you've wrought among the unmarried men. Observe how many times each finds an errand that takes him by this cabin door. How slow they are to scout the woods and seek signs. No; you can't help your looks, and it results there are few men who can resist loving you. There's not a youngster in this settlement who's not up to his neck in love with you already. And there's not one of them who does not realize that you would be the poorest mate he could pick so long as he must live on the border."

"I'm glad to hear just what you believe about me," she muttered. "But you're bewildering. It seems I'm a rare prize for any man and a most uncomfortable burden."

"Oh, dash it all, Patsy! You understand that what I've said applies to Howard's Creek. If we were standing two hundred miles due east I should say directly the opposite."

Of course she understood my true meaning, and of course in her heart she agreed with it. She was town-bred and therefore was intended for the town. Yet so strangely stubborn and eccentric is a woman's reasoning that she can feel resentment toward a man because he has brains enough to comprehend the same simple truth that she comprehends.

Had there been no danger from the Indians I could have scored a bull's-eye with her by baldly declaring her to be the most valuable asset the frontier ever had received; and she would have dimpled and smiled and but faintly demurred, knowing I was a rock-ribbed liar for asserting it, and yet liking me the more for the ridiculous exaggeration. That is one reason why it is more sensible and much more satisfactory to quarrel with a man than a woman.

With the tenacity which her sex displays when believing a male is trying to avoid some issue, she coldly reminded:

"Talk, talk, but not a word yet as to what my father did two nights ago."

"It was one of the most splendid exhibitions of faith and moral courage I ever witnessed."

Her gaze grew kindly again and she halted and stared up into my eyes, flushed with pleasure, and waited to hear more encomiums.

"I never before saw one man rush out and confront a war-party. Then his going out alone last night and prowling about through the dark forest! That was magnificent. Your father is one of the bravest men I ever saw."

She rubbed a pink finger against her nose and tilted her head and weighed my words thoughtfully. Obviously I had omitted something; for with a little frown worrying her fair forehead she began:

"But—but there's something else you haven't said. What about his influence over the Indians? You thought him foolish to take me over the mountains. You now admit you were foolish to think that?"

She was waiting for me to complete my confessional. If the element of danger had been absent how gladly I would have lied to her! How quickly I would have won her approval by proclaiming myself the greatest dolt in Virginia and her father the wisest man in the world! But to accede to everything she said and believed would be an endorsement of her presence on the creek. I had had no idea of ousting myself from her good graces when I went to find her that morning. Now the test had come, and her welfare was involved; to be true to her as well as to myself I was forced to say:

"I still think it was most dangerous for you to come here. I believe your father acted very unwisely, no matter how much be believes in his influence over the Indians. And I would thank God if you were back in Williamsburg."

Her hands dropped to her side. The smiling eyes grew hard.

"Go on!" she curtly commanded.

"I've damned myself in your opinion already. Isn't that enough? Don't make me pay double for being honest."

"Honest?" she jeered. "You've deliberately dodged my question. I asked you what you thought of my father's power with the Indians. You rant about his wickedness in bringing me here. For the last time I ask you to answer my question and finish your list of my father's faults."

As if to make more steep the precipice down which from her esteem I was about to plunge there came the voice of her father, loudly addressing the settlers.

"You people ought to wake up," he was saying. "Was it your rifles, or was it trade that stopped an attack on these cabins night before last? When will you learn that you can not stop Indian wars until you've killed every Indian this side the mountains? Has there ever been a time when you or your fathers could stop their raids with rifles? Well, you've seen one raid stopped by the influence of trade."

As he paused for breath the girl quietly said:

"Now, answer me."

And I blurted out:

"I don't have any idea that Black Hoof and his warriors will hesitate a second in sacking Howard's Creek because of anything your father has said or could say. I honestly believe the Shawnees are playing a game, that they are hoping the settlers are silly enough to think themselves safe. I am convinced that once Black Hoof believes the settlers are in that frame of mind he will return and strike just as venomously as the Shawnees struck in the old French War and in Pontiac's War, after feasting with the whites and making them believe the red man was their friend."

She straightened and drew a deep breath, and in a low voice said:

"At last you've answered me. Now go!"

I withdrew from the cabin and from the group of men. Dale's heavy voice was doubly hateful in my ears. The settlement was a small place. Patsy had dismissed me, and there was scarcely room for me without my presence giving her annoyance. I went to the cabin where I had left my few belongings and filled my powder-horn and shot-pouch. I renewed my stock of flints and added to my roll of buckskins, not forgetting a fresh supply of "whangs" for sewing my moccasins. While thus engaged Uncle Dick came in and began sharpening his knife at the fireplace.

"Why do that?" I morosely asked. "You are safe from Indian attacks now the trader has told the Shawnees you are under his protection."

He leered at me cunningly and ran his thumb along the edge of the knife and muttered:

"If some o' th' varmints will only git within strikin'-distance! They sure ran away night before last, but how far did they go? Dale seems to have a pert amount o' authority over 'em; but how long's he goin' to stay here? He can't go trapezin' up 'n' down these valleys and keep men 'n' women from bein' killed by jest hangin' some white wampum on 'em."

"What do the men think?"

"Them that has famblies are hopin' th' critters won't come back. Younger men want to git a crack at 'em. Two nights ago th' younkers thought Dale was mighty strong medicine. A night or two of sleep leaves 'em 'lowin' th' creek may be safe s'long as he sticks here. Some t'others spit it right out that Black Hoof is playin' one o' his Injun games. If that pert young petticoat wa'n't here mebbe we could git some o' th' young men out into th' woods for to do some real scoutin'.

"If my eyes was right I'd go. As it is, th' young folks keep runnin' a circle round th' settlement, lickety-larrup, an' their minds is on th' gal, an' they wouldn't see a buf'lo if one crossed their path. Then they hustle back an' say as how they ain't seen nothin'. I 'low some o' th' older men will have to scout."

"I'm going out. I'll find the Indians' trail and follow it," I told him.

"That'll be neighborly of you. If they chase you back an' git within stickin'-distance I'll soon have their in'ards out to dry."

I decided to leave my horse, as the travel would take me through rough places. Shouldering my rifle, I struck for the western side of the clearing. Dale had disappeared, gone into the Davis cabin, I assumed, as John Ward was lying on the ground near the door. I hadn't seen much of Ward for two days. Davis and Moulton were drawing leather through a tan trough, and I turned aside to speak with them. They noticed I was fitted out for a scout and their faces lighted a bit.

"Ward's been out ag'in and says the reds went north toward Tygart's Valley. He follered 'em quite some considerable. If you can find any new signs an' can fetch us word——"

"That's what I'm going out for, Davis. How do you feel about the doings of night before last?"

He scratched his chin and after a bit of hesitation answered:

"Wife's cousin is a mighty smart man. Powerful smart. I 'low he knows a heap 'bout Injuns. Been with 'em so much. But we're sorter uneasy. More so to-day than we was yesterday. This waiting to see what'll happen is most as bad, if not worse, than to have a fight an' have it over with. Once a parcel of Injuns strikes, it either cleans us out or is licked an' don't want no more for a long time. Still Dale has a master lot of power among the Injuns. But we'll be glad to know you're out looking for fresh footing. Their trail oughter be easy to foller, as there was a smart number of 'em had hosses."

"I'll find the trail easy enough, and I'll satisfy myself they are still making toward the Ohio or have swung back," I assured him. "While I'm gone keep the young men in the woods and post sentinels. Don't get careless. Don't let the children wander from the cabins. I'm free to tell you, Davis, that I don't believe for a second that you've seen the last of Black Hoof and his men. Have all those living in the outlying cabins use the fort to-night."

After reaching the woods, I turned and looked back. Dale was standing in the doorway with one hand resting on the shoulder of John Ward. Ward was talking to Patsy, whose dainty figure could not be disguised by the coarse linsey gown.

The man Ward must have lost some of his taciturnity, for the girl was laughing gaily at whatever he was saying. I observed that Dale was still feeling very important in his role of protector, for as he stepped from the doorway he walked with a swagger. Well, God give that he was right and that the menace had passed from Howard's Creek.

I found the trail where it turned back toward Tygart's Valley, even as John Ward had reported, and followed it up the Greenbriar. The country here was very fertile on both sides of the river and would make rich farms should the danger from the Indians ever permit it to be settled. Farther back from the river on each hand the country was broken and mountainous and afforded excellent hiding-places for large bodies of Indians, as only rattlesnakes, copperheads, wolves and wildcats lived there.

My mood was equal to overdaring, and all because of Patsy Dale. When the sun swung into its western arc I halted where a large number of warriors had broken their fast. I ate some food and pushed on. After two miles of travel I came to a branching of the trail. Two of the band had turned off to the northeast. My interest instantly shifted from the main trail to the smaller one, for I assumed the two were scouting some particular neighborhood, and that by following it I would learn the object of their attention and be enabled to give warning.

That done, the footing would lead me back to the main band. The signs were few and barely sufficient to allow me to keep up the pursuit. It was not until I came to a spring, the overflow of which had made muck of the ground, that I was afforded an opportunity to inspect the two sets of tracks. One set was made by moccasins almost as small as those I had given to Patricia Dale.

But why a squaw on a war-path? It was very puzzling. From the amount of moisture already seeped into the tracks I estimated the two of them had stood there within thirty minutes. My pursuit became more cautious. Not more than twenty rods from the spring I came to a trail swinging in from the east, as shown by a broken vine and a bent bush.

The newcomer had moved carelessly and had fallen in behind the two Indians. I stuck to the trail until the diminished sunlight warned me it would soon be too dark to continue. Then I caught a whiff of burning wood and in ten minutes I was reconnoitering a tiny glade.

My first glance took in a small fire; my second glance dwelt upon a scene that sent me into the open on the jump. An Indian sat at the foot of a walnut-tree, his legs crossed and his empty hands hanging over his knees. At one side crouched a squaw, her long hair falling on each side of her face and hiding her profile. In a direct line between me and the warrior stood Shelby Cousin, his rifle bearing on the warrior.

My step caused him to turn, expecting to behold another native. The man on the ground made no attempt to take advantage of the interruption; and in the next second Cousin's long double-barrel rifle was again aiming at the painted chest.

"Don't go for to try any sp'ilin' o' my game," warned Cousin without looking at me.

"They're scouts from a big band of Shawnees now making toward Tygart's Valley," I informed him. "Can't we learn something from them?"

"I'm going to kill this one now. The squaw can go. Crabtree would snuff her out, but I ain't reached the p'int where I can do that yet."

"You coward!" cried the squaw in excellent English.

Cousin darted a puzzled glance at her. His victim seemed to be indifferent to his fate; nor did the woman offer to interfere.

"She's a white woman!" I cried. For a sunbeam straggled through the growth and rested on the long hair and revealed it to be fine and brown and never to be mistaken for the coarse black locks of an Indian.

"White?" faltered Cousin, lowering his rifle. "Watch that devil, Morris!"

I dropped on a log with my rifle across my knees. Cousin strode to the woman and caught her by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet. For a long minute the two stared.

"Shelby?"

The words dropped from her lips in a sibilous crescendo as her blood drove her to a display of emotion.

Cousin's hands slowly advanced and pushed back the long locks. He advanced his face close to hers, and I knew his slight form was trembling. Then he staggered back and jerkily brought his arm across his eyes.

"God! It's my sister!" I heard him mutter.

I leaped to my feet, crying out for him to be a man. He remained motionless with his arm across his face, helpless to defend himself. I turned to the woman. Whatever light had shone in her eyes when memory forced his name from her lips had departed.

Her face was cold and immobile as she met my wild gaze. There was a streak of yellow paint running from the bridge of her nose to the parting of her brown hair. Her skin was as dark as any Shawnee's, but her eyes held the blue of the cornflower.

I tried to discover points of resemblance between her and the boy and succeeded only when she turned her head in profile; then they were very much alike. He lowered his arm to look over it, and she watched him without changing her expression.

With a hoarse cry he straightened and answering the impulse in his heart, sprang toward her, his arms outstretched to enfold her. She gave ground, not hastily as though wishing to avoid his embrace, but with a sinuous twist of her lithe body, and she repulsed him by raising her hand. He stared at her stupidly, and mumbled:

"You remember me. You called my name. You know I am your brother. You know we lived on Keeney's Knob. You remember the creek——"

"I remember," she quietly interrupted. "A very long time ago. Very long. I am a Shawnee now. My heart is red."

Her words stunned him for a bit, then he managed to gasp out, "Who is this man?" And he glared at the warrior seated at the foot of the tree.

"My husband."

The boy's mouth popped open, but without uttering a sound he stooped and grabbed for his rifle. I placed my foot on it and seized his arm and pleaded with him to regain his senses before he took any action. During all this the warrior remained as passive as the tree-roots against which he half-reclined.

After a brief hysterical outburst Cousin stood erect and ceased struggling with me. And all the time his sister had watched us speculatively, her gaze as cold and impersonal as though she had been looking at a rock. It was very hideous. It was one of those damnable situations which must end at once, and to which there can be no end. For the boy to kill his sister's husband was an awful thing to contemplate.

I pulled the lad back and softly whispered:

"You can't do it. The blood would always be between you two. She has changed. She believes she is red. Take her aside and talk with her. If she will go with you make for the mountains and get her to the settlements."

"An' him?"

"I will wait an hour. If you two do not return before an hour—Well, he will not bother you."

At first he did not seem to understand; then he seized my free hand and gripped it tightly. Taking his rifle, he approached the girl and took her by the arm.

"Come," he gently told her. "We must talk, you and I. I have hunted for you for years."

She was suspicious of us two, but she did not resist him.

"Wait," she said.

She glided to the savage and leaned over him and said something. Then she was back to her brother, and the two disappeared into the woods.

I drew a line on the savage and in Shawnee demanded:

"Throw me the knife she gave you."

Glaring at me sullenly, he flipped the knife toward the fire and resumed his attitude of abstraction. I had never killed an unarmed Indian. I had never shot one in cold blood. The office of executioner did not appeal, but repulsive as it was it would not do for the boy to kill his savage brother-in-law. Lost Sister and the savage were man and wife, even if married according to the Indian custom.

Nor would it do for a woman of Virginia to be redeemed to civilization with a red husband roaming at large. No. The fellow must die, and I had the nasty work to do. The glade was thickening with shadows, but the sunlight still marked the top of an elm and made glorious the zenith. When the light died from the heavens I would assassinate the man.

This would give him a scant hour, but a dozen or fifteen minutes of life could make small difference. Then again, once the dusk filled the glade my impassive victim would become alert and up to some of his devilish tricks. He did not change his position except as he turned his head to gaze fixedly at the western forest wall. One could imagine him to be ignorant of my presence.

"Where does Black Hoof lead his warriors?" I asked him.

Without deflecting his gaze he answered:

"Back to their homes on the Scioto."

"The white trader, the Pack-Horse-Man, spoke words that drive them back?"

It was either a trick of the dying light, or else I detected an almost imperceptible twitching of the grim lips. After a short pause he said:

"The Shawnees are not driven. They will pick up the end of the peace-belt. They will not drop it on the ground again. Tah-gah-jute (Logan) does not wish for war. He has taken ten scalps for every one taken from his people at Baker's house. He has covered the dead. The Pack-Horse-Man spoke wise words."

"This white woman? You know she must go back to her people."

Again the faint twitching of the lips. When he spoke it was to say:

"She can go where she will or where she is made to go. If she is taken to the white settlements she will run away and go back to the Scioto. Her people are red. After the French War, after Pontiac's War, it was the same. White prisoners were returned to the white people. Many of them escaped and came back to us."

His voice was calm and positive and my confidence in the girl's willingness to return to civilization was shaken. She had been as stolid as her red mate in my presence, but I had believed that nature would conquer her ten years' of savagery once she was alone with her brother.

The light had left the top of the elm and the fleecy clouds overhead were no longer dazzling because of their borrowed splendor. I cocked my rifle. The savage folded his arms as he caught the sound, but his gaze toward the west never wavered. To nerve myself into shooting the fellow in cold blood I made myself think of the girl's terrible fate, and was succeeding rapidly when a light step sounded behind me and her low voice was saying:

"My brother is at the spring. You will find him there."

I rose and dropped the rifle into the hollow of my left arm and stared at her incredulously. It had happened before, the rebellion of white prisoners at quitting their captors. Yet the girl's refusal was astounding.

"You would not go with him?"

"I am here. I go to my people," she answered. "He is waiting for you. The squaws would laugh at him. He is very weak."

With an oath I whirled toward the Indian. Had he made a move or had he reflected her disdain with a smile, his white-red wife surely would have been a widow on the spot. But he had not shifted his position. To all appearances he was not even interested in his wife's return. And she too now ignored me, and busied herself in gathering up their few belongings and slinging them on her back. Then she went to him, and in disgust and rage I left them and sped through the darkening woods to the spring where I had first seen the imprints of her tiny moccasins.

Cousin was there, seated and his head bowed on his chest, a waiting victim for the first Indian scout who might happen along.

I dragged him to his feet and harshly said:

"Come! We must go. Your white sister is dead. Your search is ended. Your sister died in the raid on Keeney's Knob."

"My little sister," he whispered.

He went with me passively enough, and he did not speak until we had struck into the main trail of the Shawnees. Then he asked:

"You did not kill him?"

"No."

"It's best that way. There're 'nough others. They'll pay for it."

I abandoned my plan of following the war-party farther and was only anxious to get my companion back to the protection of Howard's Creek. We followed the back-trail for a few miles and then were forced by the night to make a camp. I opened my supply of smoked meat and found a spring. I did not dare to risk a fire. But he would not eat. Only once did he speak that night, and that was to say:

"I must keep clear o' the settlements. If I don't I'll do as Ike Crabtree does, kill in sight o' the cabins."

In the morning he ate some of my food; not as if he were hungry, but as if forcing himself to a disagreeable task. He seemed to be perfectly willing to go on with me, but he did not speak of the girl again.

When we drew near the creek he began to look about him. He at once recognized the surroundings and made a heroic effort to control himself. When we swung into the clearing there was nothing in his appearance to denote the terrible experience he had passed through.

Now that we were back I was beset by a fear, that the sight of Patricia in all her loveliness would be an overwhelming shock to his poor brain. It was with great relief that I got him to the Moulton cabin without his glimpsing Patsy.

"You can tell 'em if you want to. S'pose they'll l'arn it some time," he said to me as we reached the door and met Mrs. Moulton and her little girl. With that he passed inside and seated himself in a corner and bowed his head.

I drew Mrs. Moulton aside and briefly explained his great sorrow. With rich sympathy she stole into the cabin and began mothering him, patting his shoulders and stroking the long hair back from his wan face.

My own affairs became of small importance when measured beside this tragedy. I had no trepidation now in facing Patricia. I walked boldly to the Davis cabin and thrust my head in the door. Only Davis and his wife were there.

"Where are the Dales?" I bruskly asked.

"Gone," grunted Davis in disgust.

"Gone back home?" I eagerly asked.

"What do you think!" babbled Mrs. Davis. "Cousin Ericus has took that gal down toward the Clinch. He 'lows now he's goin' to keep the Injuns out of that valley—"

"Good God! Why did you let them go?"

Davis snorted angrily, and exclaimed:

"Let 'em go! How ye goin' to stop her? 'Twas she that was bound to be movin' on. Just made her daddy go."

"When did they start?"

"Right after you lit out. Seems 's if th' gal couldn't git shut o' this creek quick 'nough."

I ran from the cabin to get my horse and start in immediate pursuit. By the time I reached the animal, well rested during my absence, I became more reasonable. After all Black Hoof was traveling north. There would be small chance of another band raiding down the Clinch for some time at least. I needed rest. Night travel would advance me but slowly. I would start early in the morning.



CHAPTER VIII

IN ABB'S VALLEY

Orioles and mocking-birds sang in the openings, and startled deer fled before our advance as Shelby Cousin and I rode for the Clinch. The heat of July was tempered by a breeze out of the north, and the heavens were filled with hurrying white argosies. So it had ever been since the white man came to these pleasant ridges and rich bottom-lands; perfume, song, gracious valleys, and the lurking red evil.

Cousin had regained his self-control overnight and outwardly appeared to be thoroughly composed. He talked but little, and then only when I took the lead. I refrained from mentioning the tragedy of yesterday and the sun was noon-high before he brought the matter up.

"I couldn't kill that feller," he abruptly informed me.

There was no preface to indicate whom he meant, but I knew and nodded sympathetically.

"An' I'd ruther kill him than all the rest o' the Injuns 'tween here 'n' Detroit," he added after a long pause.

"She will never come back to us?" I asked; for he had given no details of his interview with his sister.

"She'll never come back. For a time I'd a mind to drag her away, but she was so cold to me, so Injun-like in her way of lettin' me know it wouldn't do no good, that I give it up. You see she was only a child when captured. Women caught when much older'n her have gone for to choose a wigwam to a cabin."

"Do you wish I had shot him?"

"No. If it could happen in a open fight—that's different. It wouldn't do any good to hurt her by killin' him. But I wish he was dead!"

We stopped and ate and rode several miles before either of us spoke again. Then I said:

"There's a girl ahead, about your age."

He was disturbed to hear it and I feared he would wish to leave me.

"I don't want her captured by Indians," I added.

"God forbid it!" he hoarsely cried.

Having prepared him for seeing Patricia, I shifted his line of thought by asking, "What do you think of John Ward?"

"Injun."

I said nothing and after a few minutes he went on:

"Took by Injuns when a little boy, just like Tavenor Ross and George Collet was took. I've heard traders tell about the three of 'em. When they're took so young they grow up just as much Injuns as if they was born red. Ward's that way. Must be. Look at the sister I lost!"

"But Ward comes back to settlements. He even crosses the mountains. He says he escaped."

"He wouldn't be travelin' round these parts if he was a' 'scaped prisoner. As for crossin' the mountains he might 'a' gone for to see what he could see. Cornstalk has spies all up an' down the frontier. I 'low them two we met yesterday was bent on spyin'. God! That's a' awful thought! But I ain't got no sister. It was a red woman we seen. She 'n' her man was spyin'. If not that why should they be makin' east into the mountains? I 'low he was to stay hid while 'nother 'scaped prisoner rode down into some settlement."

From that speech on I do not remember that he spoke of his sister as being any kin of his. When he must mention her he usually styled her, "That woman who's turned red."

To get his thoughts away from her I rattled on about my trip to Richfield and told of my experiences in returning over the mountains. After I had narrated Hughes' quick action in saving me from an assassin's bullet Cousin jerked up his head and said:

"Moccasin, one you give to that there young woman we're now followin'?"

I nodded, and he continued:

"I 'low it was John Ward who tried to pot you. He stole the moccasin and sneaked back an' laid the trap. Prob'ly laid it for whoever come along without knowin' who would walk into it. You was mighty lucky to have Hughes there." I had never connected Ward with that attempt on my life.

"The Dales believe Ward to be what he pretends—an escaped prisoner," I said.

"Course they do," sighed the boy. "The country's full of fools. After he's led 'em to the stake an' they begin to roast they'll wake up an' reckon that there's something wrong with his white blood."

His matter-of-fact way of expressing it made my blood congeal. It was unthinkable to imagine Patsy Dale in the hands of the Indians. I urged my horse to a sharper clip, but Cousin warned me:

"No use hurryin'. Save your nag for the time when you'll need him mighty bad. I 'low we can overtake 'em afore anything happens."

We had discovered no fresh Indian-signs. Black Hoof and his braves were far north of us. We knew scouts were ranging up the Clinch and Holston, and that the people were forting from Fort Chiswell to the head of the Holston, and that practically all the settlers had left Rich Valley between Walker's Mountain and the north fork of the Holston.

Nearly all the settlers had come off the heads of Sandy and Walker's Creeks and were building forts at David Doack's mill on the Clinch and on the head waters of the middle fork of the Holston, as well as at Gasper Kinder's place in Poor Valley.

Cornstalk must know the time was near when the whites would send an army against the Shawnee towns north of the Ohio, and he was too cunning a warrior to risk sending many of his men into southwestern Virginia. Black Hoof was there with a large force, but he could not tarry without leaving the Scioto towns uncovered.

Therefore my opinion coincided with my companion's, once my first flurry of fear was expended. The Dales were in no immediate danger, and if any hostile band was below New River it would be a small one. Once more I allowed my horse to take his time. I began to find room for wondering how I was to overcome my embarrassment once we did come up with the Dales.

Ericus Dale would rant and indulge in abuse. Patricia would be remembering my lack of faith in her father's influence over the natives. She would want none of my company. But if Cousin and I could trail them unseen until they entered a small settlement at the head of the Bluestone, where they would be sure to pause before making for the head of the Clinch, we could pretend we were scouting far south and had met them by accident; then we could ride on ahead of them.

Their trail was simple to follow. The Dales were mounted and Ward was afoot and leading a pack-horse. We came to their several camps, and at each of these I observed the girl was wearing my moccasins. When Cousin would behold the small imprint his face would twist in anguish. Poor devil!

For three days we leisurely followed them, and each sunrise found me entertaining fewer fears for the girl's safety. We timed our progress so as to pitch our last camp within a mile of the settlement in Abb's Valley on the Bluestone, intending to reconnoiter it for signs of the Dales before showing ourselves.

The valley was about ten miles long and very narrow and possessing unusually fertile soil. It was named after Absalom Looney, a hunter, who claimed to have discovered it. Cousin informed me there were three cabins and a small fort in the valley when he last visited it. At that time one of the families was planning to cross the mountains and sacrifice the summer's planting.

"Mebbe they've all come off since then. Or them that's stayed may be killed an' sculped by this time," he added.

"Whatever may have happened to the settlers is all finished by this time and there can be no danger for the Dales," I declared.

"I 'low they're packin' their worst danger along with 'em," he mumbled.

"Meaning John Ward?"

"Meaning him," was the terse answer.

This set all my fears to galloping again, and they rode one another close. What if Ward were the creature Cousin pictured him? Then he must have designs on the Dales, and he would persuade them to travel in a direction which would lead them into a trap. If Ward were "red" he already had planned just where he would bag his game.

Against this line of reasoning was our failure to discover fresh signs, and the fact that Black Hoof's band was making north. Then one fear drew ahead of all others, and I was thrown into a panic lest Ward plotted to count his coup unaided and would murder the trader and his daughter. I rose from the fire and announced my intention of proceeding to the valley settlement that night. I told Cousin my fears.

"That's just so much foolishness," he told me. "If Ward's up to them sort o' tricks he'd 'a' made his kill when only a few miles from Howard's Creek, when he was that much closer to Black Hoof's band. Then he'd 'a' sneaked north to j'in his red friends and dance his sculps. But we've found all their camps, and nothin' has happened. They're safe so far."

It was near morning before I could sleep and I awoke at sunrise. Cousin was missing. I investigated and discovered he had gone on foot, so I assumed he was out to kill some meat to pack into the settlement. I prepared something to eat and finished my portion and was kneeling to drink from a spring when I heard him coming through the woods. He was running and making much noise, and I had a presentiment that something very evil had happened. Before he came into view he called my name sharply.

"All right! I'm here! What is it?" I answered.

"Devil's come for his pay!" he snapped as he burst through the last of the growth. "Only two miles west fresh tracks of big war-party makin' south. They're makin' for Abb's Valley. That white-Injun devil fixed it up. Goin' to gobble the settlers along with your fool friends. If we can't stop 'em they'll git every white in the valley sure's Sabba'day preachin'!"

Until that moment I had never dreamed of the exquisite torture that the threat of an Indian raid could induce. I secured my weapons and mounted without realizing what I was doing. My first coherent thought was one of amazement to behold Cousin stuffing smoked meat into his pack with one hand while the other held a tough morsel for his teeth to tear at. He ate like a famished wolf.

"Can't fight without some linin'," he mumbled. "An' we'll take what's left along. May git in a corner an' have mighty little time for cookin'."

I urged my horse into a gallop. Cousin tore after me, angrily calling on me to wait. I was in no mood to wait, and endeavored to get even more speed out of my animal. Then Cousin brought me to my senses by yelling:

"All right! Kill 'em if you want to!"

I pulled in and he drove alongside, crying:

"First thing you know you'll be runnin' into a nest o' them devils. Their path and our path draws together an' enters the valley as one path."

"But we must reach the valley ahead of them!"

"Can't be did," he discouraged. "Best we can do is to sneak up on 'em without bein' seen."

As a last hope I suggested:

"Perhaps after all they know nothing about the Dales."

"They know 'bout Abb's Valley. It's Black Hoof's band. Made off north, then swung back down here, keepin' clear o' Howard's Creek. If they clean out Abb's Valley they'll clean out the creek on their way home."

Scant consolation in all this. It was a great relief to reach the Bluestone and prepare for action. We spanceled our horses in a tiny opening well surrounded by woods. Cousin was familiar with the country and led the way. Instead of making for the mouth of the narrow valley we gained the end of one of its enclosing ridges and scouted along the slope.

When we halted and Cousin carefully parted the bushes I observed we were behind three cabins and high enough up the slope to see over them. The valley at this point was not more than fifty rods wide, and appeared to be even less because of the long walls stretching away for ten miles.

Some children were laughing at their play and were hidden from view as long as they kept close to the door of the middle cabin. A dog was growling and barking, but as he did not join the sport of the little ones we concluded he was tied. One of the red cabins, that nearest to the mouth of the valley, did not appear to be occupied.

Through the small window of the cabin farthest up the valley I glimpsed two persons moving about when they passed between the window and the open door. A few rods farther out toward the middle of the valley and nearer the Bluestone than the unoccupied cabin, were the four walls of what had been intended for a fort. It lacked the roof. For some reason the men had suspended work on it, being too few to complete it, or else deciding the cabins furnished sufficient protection.

Three men, all strangers to me, now entered our line of vision as they walked out from the shelter of the middle cabin. Cousin told me their names. The tall man with the long black beard was Granville, one of the original settlers. He and his wife and two children, with Mrs. Granville's sister, lived in the middle cabin. A short swarthy man was Nate Dicks. He had sent his family over the mountains and was staying behind to gather the season's crops, explained Cousin. The third man was along in years and walked with a limp.

"That's the old Englishman. All the name he goes by. No kin to any one on this side the ocean, he says. He lives with the Granvilles. The empty cabin belonged to the Drakes. They pulled out early this spring. Dicks lives in the t'other-end cabin."

"I make out at least two people in there now," I murmured.

"They'll be the Dales. Dicks's prob'ly sleepin' in the Granville cabin."

My heart behaved badly for a minute.

"Listen to that pup!" softly exclaimed Cousin, his brows drawing down. "The fools have him tied up, an they ain't got sense 'nough to hark to what he's tryin' to tell 'em."

"We're here ahead of the Indians. Let's go down," I urged.

"Wait! Look across!" He pointed to the wall of woods opposite our hiding-place. John Ward had broken cover and was stalking toward the cabins. The black cloth he wore around his head gave him a sinister, piratical appearance and his feet tracked like an Indian's.

I would have descended the slope but Cousin clutched my arm, whispering:

"If there ain't no Injuns across the valley we can afford to wait a bit. If there is, our goin' down would hurry up their attack. It won't do to call out an' scare 'em so they'll scatter. As they are now they can fort themselves in the shake of a dog's tail."

Two women, Mrs. Granville and her sister, now walked back of the middle cabin and picked up some wood. Both were barefooted, and I was close enough to read the expression of constant fear on each face. As they stooped for the wood their gaze was continually roving over the woods on our ridge, and often their fingers fumbled for a fagot while their eyes persisted in examining the forest.

Now Dale and Patsy emerged from their cabin and walked to meet Ward. Cousin groaned aloud as he beheld the girl. There was something in her appearance to remind him of his lost sister. Ericus Dale greeted Ward with a wide flourish of his hand. Ward was emotionless as a Shawnee chief. Granville and Dicks hurried to join the three, anxious no doubt to learn the result of Ward's scouting.

His report seemed to please the men, for Granville laid aside his rifle and began chopping a long log into fireplace lengths. Dicks walked toward the middle cabin, lustily singing:

"Ye patriot souls who love to sing, What serves your country and your king, In wealth, peace, and royal estate; Attention give whilst I rehearse A modern fact in jingling verse."

This song, six or seven lengthy stanzas in all, was written by Mr. George Campbell, an Irish gentleman, and was popular along the frontier. It was sung to the tune of the Black Joke, and commemorated the successful efforts of Captain James Smith to prevent Philadelphia traders from sending weapons of war to the northwest tribes shortly after the treaty of 1765 was concluded.

Dicks was finishing the first stanza as he entered the cabin. He broke off sharply to rebuke the dog. Soon he came out with a bag. At about a hundred yards from the cabin, and farther up the valley than any of them, was the lick-block. Dicks was walking toward this. Several horses broke from the growth across the valley and ran toward the cabins.

"Almost act like they was skeered," whispered Cousin.

"Coming in to be salted," I corrected as the horses swerved and galloped toward the block. Dicks was ambling along slowly and reverting to his song. The dog suddenly darted from the cabin and streaked after Dicks, a piece of rawhide trailing from his neck. As he ran he made a great outcry. Dicks was very angry to have his vocal efforts interrupted, and he halted and swung the bag of salt in an attempt to hit the dog, all the while commanding him to go back. The horses were now at the block and stepping about uneasily.

"I never guessed that! Come on! Something will bu'st loose in a minute!" groaned Cousin.

We started to slide down the bank, when a terrible tragedy took place before our eyes. As Dicks was emptying the salt on to the lick-block the horses sprang back and bolted in alarm, and an Indian's topknot, decorated with wild-turkey feathers, bobbed up from behind the block. Dicks seemed to be paralyzed. The savage struck him with his ax and the unfortunate man went down, dead before he lost his footing. In the next second the dog, a huge brute of mongrel breed, cleared the block and closed his jaws on the murderer's neck.

This was a signal for Cousin's prophecy to come true. A deafening chorus of howls burst from the woods opposite the cabins, and a volley of bullets rained among the settlers. Mrs. Granville and the two children dropped. The old Englishman, standing nearer the cabins, staggered and turned around two or three times. Granville, unharmed, picked up the body of his wife.

The old Englishman was very brave, for he limped forward and managed to gather up the children, one under each arm. Granville's sister was practical enough to secure her brother-in-law's rifle and ax. The three, with their dead, made for the middle cabin.

All this happened in the wink of an eye. The Dales and Ward, walking toward the end cabin when Dicks was killed, halted and stood as if stupefied. None of the bullets had reached them. The girl seized her father's arm and led him to shelter. He was unhurt, but he moved with shuffling steps, much like a tavern-loafer soggy from rum.

We ran to enter the nearest cabin, which happened to be Granville's, but the door was slammed and barred before we could round the corner.

"In here!" sharply cried Cousin, darting through the doorway of the empty cabin.

As I piled in after him I saw Patsy and Dale entering their cabin, but Ward, the white Indian, was running to cover up the valley. And not a savage had shown himself with the exception of the one who had counted coup at the lick-block. This fellow was still in sight and extremely busy.

With our door ajar we watched the ghastly struggle between the faithful mongrel and the assassin. The Indian had lost his ax but had managed to draw his knife. The dog's teeth were buried in his throat before he could get his blade loose. I raised my rifle but Cousin laughed and knocked it aside and cried:

"Let him make his kill! It's his coup!"

The warrior staggered clear of the block, his desperate plight blinding him to all else. His eyes were protruding. He stabbed blindly. I cried out in pain as I saw the knife sink to the hilt. But the faithful beast had locked his jaws and the weight of his body was already ripping the red throat open. Dead dog and dying warrior fell side by side. The dog had counted the first coup for the whites.

Now we caught our first view of the enemy. A long line of Shawnees emerged from the woods, running and leaping and jumping from side to side, sinking behind stumps and vanishing behind the scattered trees.

"We've got time to make the ridge back o' here," spoke up Cousin. "We's fools to come in here. S'pose we go."

"You go! I must stick," I told him.

"We can do 'em more good out in the open than by bein' cooped up in here," he quietly reasoned.

"You go. I can't leave the girl."

"Then bar the door," he commanded.

I did so, and through a loophole knocked over a savage who had paused in the open to brandish a war-ax thickly decorated with either feathers or scalps.

"Good! We'll make a fine fight of it!" grimly said Cousin as he stepped from a loophole at the back of the cabin. "It's too late for us to make the ridge now. It's crawlin' with the vermin."

His bearing was exceedingly cheerful as he posted himself at the front of the cabin, his double-barrel rifle ready for a snap-shot. He fired the two barrels almost together, and laughed boisterously.

"Two tryin' to hide behind one small tree," he explained. "Got one dead an' sp'iled t'other."

As yet not a shot had been fired from the other two cabins. A voice called from the Granville cabin. I found a chink in the wall and beheld the face of the Englishman peering from the small end window.

"Who's there?" he kept demanding in a shrill voice.

"Two white scouts. Get to shooting!"

He could not see me but he heard me, and vanished to help in the defense. Cousin had reloaded and was watching the valley closely. Bullets were plunking into the log walls, but I knew none of the savages were exposing themselves, else my companion would be shooting. From the Granville cabin several shots were fired without any effect so far as we could make out. Then again the Englishman was calling us. I went forward.

"Hear what I say?" he cried.

I answered that we could.

"Ericus Dale says for us to stop shooting or he can't save us," he informed us.

"He can't save himself!" I yelled back.

"He thinks he can save all of us."

"He couldn't save the man at the lick-block," I reminded.

"Aye. There's sorry truth in that."

"This valley's a trap. John Ward, the white Indian, led him and his daughter into it," I shouted.

"God help and pity us!" he groaned. Then more calmly, "Ward came back from the woods this morning and said there were no signs of Indians."

"He met them and talked with them, and planned how they should surprise you people. The warrior at the lick-block knew Dicks would discover him, so he showed himself and made his kill."

"Aye. That is reasonable thinking."

"What losses in there?" I asked. I thrust my knife-blade between the logs so he might know where I was standing and cease rolling his eyes in his efforts to locate me.

His old face screwed up in pain.

"Mistress Granville and the two children, shot dead. Perhaps it's best that way. I'm wounded—that don't count. You going to keep on shooting?"

"As long as we can pull trigger."

"I'll tell Granville. He wants to save his sister if he can."

"Then he must fight. Tell him so," I warned.

I turned back to Cousin. He was scowling savagely through his peephole. "Take the back side 'n' watch for signs on the ridge," he mumbled. "Them out front are huggin' dirt an' not tryin' to git nearer. They're waitin' for somethin'."

At the back of the cabin I found a tiny chink and applied my eye. My first thought was that a comet was streaming down into my face. The long war-arrow, weighted with a blazing mass of pitch-smeared moss, stuck in a log a few inches below my peephole. From the ridge came a howl of triumph.

By thrusting my knife-blade through the hole and against the shaft of the arrow I managed to dislodge it, and it burned itself out against the huge bottom log. We did not fear fire until the arrows stuck in the roof. The same thought was in Cousin's mind. He did not look around, but he had smelled the smoke and he directed:

"Climb up an' work the roof-poles apart a bit so's you can knock 'em off the roof when they land."

I soon had the poles slightly separated in two places. As I finished a dozen flying brands poured down on the Granville cabin and ours. One arrow lodged on our roof close to the eves. Two were burning on the ridgepole of the Granville cabin. The others either stuck harmlessly in the logs or overshot and stood so many torches in the ground. By means of the table I scrambled back to the roof and managed to knock the menace to the ground. While I was thus engaged Cousin fired both barrels.

"What luck?" I asked as I jumped to the floor.

"Just bein' neighborly," he growled as he rapidly loaded. "Shot them two arrers off the next roof."

Suddenly the savage howling ceased; nor were there any more fire-arrows. Then the Englishman began shouting. He was once more calling us. I answered and wriggled the knife-blade between the logs. Sure of my attention he loudly informed us: "Dale passes the word for us to stop fighting. Says he's going to save us."

"To the devil with Dale!" snarled Cousin, showing his teeth like a wolf.

"He's going out to talk with 'em," added the Englishman.

"Lord! What a fool!" lamented Cousin.

"He's going now," continued the Englishman.

I darted to Cousin's side and peered out. We heard the bar drop from the end cabin; then Dale came into view, walking with a swagger toward the concealed savages. In one hand he held up a string of white wampum. And as he slowly advanced he shouted in the Shawnee language:

"Do my brothers fire on their brother? Do they harm their brother's friends? Does the Pack-Horse-Man ask his red brothers to be kind only to have his words fall on dead ears? I bring you belts. My daughter in the cabin also brings belts to the Shawnees and Mingos and the Delawares."

"Let our white brother come close," called a deep guttural voice.

"That'll be Black Hoof himself," excitedly muttered Cousin, darting his gaze over the valley in search of the stone or log which hid the great chief from view.

"Don't shoot! They'll butcher him if you do!" I warned.

"They'll worse'n butcher him if I don't," gritted Cousin. Yet he held his fire, for the excellent reason he could see nothing to shoot at.

"Tell your people not to fire," again called Black Hoof's powerful voice.

Dale faced the cabins and waved his white wampum, crying:

"I am saving your lives. You men in the lower cabin, throw down your arms!"

"Like thunder!" grunted Cousin.

"He's fairly among them!" I gasped.

Dale had come to a stop and was turning his head and glancing from one point to another on the ground as he talked. His voice had its old confident ring, and there was a slight smile on his lips as he rehearsed his friendship for the red people and reminded them how often he visited their villages and smoked their pipes.

When he ceased Black Hoof called out:

"We will lift a peace-pipe to our good friend, the Pack-Horse-Man. We will cover his friends with the smoke. Let him tell his friends not to be afraid and to throw down their guns."

Dale was sure of Granville's and the Englishman's behavior, and he addressed his warning to Cousin and me, calling on us in a stentorian voice to offer no resistance if we valued our lives. He ended by yelling:

"Catahecassa, war-chief of the Shawnees, spares your lives."

Without giving us time to speak, he waved a hand and commanded:

"It's all right, Patricia! Come out!"

"Stay where you are!" I screamed, my voice muffled by the four stout walls. I jumped to tear the bar from the door, but Cousin hurled me aside, panting:

"Too late! God! To think such a woman should walk into their bloody trap!"

His words sent me to the loophole. Patricia Dale was walking composedly toward her father, her slim hands holding up her belts. She winced as she passed the lick-block and got a glimpse of the dead savage and the dead dog. Then her gaze remained steady on her father's calm face.

Black Hoof said something, but there was a pounding in my ears which prevented me from hearing it. I guessed it, though, when Dale called out:

"All you who would be spared come out and leave your guns behind!"

He had barely spoken before the Englishman's voice excitedly called:

"You two scouts in there."

I gave him heed and he informed me: "Granville and his sister say they are going out. Do you go out?"

"We shall stay here. It's better for you to die where you are," I told him.

"Ay, I think it's better myself. Well, I'm old and hungry to be with the children again."

The Englishman was a brave man, and very sensible. He recognized Fate when it paused to stare him in the eye. My companion was panting for breath and was standing back so as to rest the muzzle of his rifle just inside the loophole. A glance revealed his deadly purpose. A tall warrior was now on his feet. I knew him to be Black Hoof. I had seen him at Fort Pitt during one of those rare lulls between wars.

Cousin was fairly out of his head with the lust to kill the chief, but the Shawnee took no chances. He was careful to keep the girl and her father between him and the cabins. I pushed Cousin's gun aside and fiercely upbraided him for placing the Dales' lives in jeopardy.

"You fool!" he cried. "They're gone already. Are you, too, blind? If you love that gal out there and want to do her the greatest kindness a man can ever do to a border woman, shoot her!"

Granville began shouting:

"Me 'n' my sister are comin' out. We surrender. Tell 'em, Mr. Dale! God knows 'nough blood's been spilt."

I heard their cabin door open. Then it closed with a bang and we heard the heavy bar drop into place. For a moment I believed they had changed their minds; then they crossed our line of vision, the man walking ahead with empty hands held high, his sister walking behind and wildly waving a white cloth. It was the Englishman, skeptical, because of our advice, who dropped the bar.

Cousin began muttering under his breath. I soon discovered the reason. John Ward was approaching the group from the opposite side of the valley and trying to keep some of the whites between him and our cabin. The nearer he drew to the group, the easier this maneuver was. Ward had made a half-circuit of the valley and was advancing through the lines of hidden braves. Cousin would have tried a shot at the renegade if not for fear of instant reprisal on the girl. It was horrible to hear him curse and moan as he nursed the set of triggers.

"Shut up!" I whispered. "Watch them close!"

I meant Granville and his sister; for as they entered the zone held by the enemy I observed a clump of low bushes dipping and swaying behind them. The woman saw something that frightened her, for she pressed close to her brother and shook the white cloth toward the ground. The grotesque fancy came into my head that she would do the same thing if she wanted to shoo some chickens out of a garden.

Granville and his sister walked up to Black Hoof, the woman still waving the cloth to make sure the chief beheld it and recognized its sacred character. Dale turned to give Cousin, the Englishman and me one last chance to save our lives; and the hideous work began.

John Ward seized Patricia from behind, holding her by her arms as a bulwark against our lead. Black Hoof with a lightning gesture raised his ax and struck Dale with the flat of it, sending him crashing to the ground. Almost at the same moment two devils leaped from the ground and with their axes struck Granville and his sister from behind. Black Hoof dropped behind his log the moment he struck Dale.

Ward remained standing, sheltered by the girl. But the two who had killed Granville and his sister forgot us in their lust to secure the scalps. I got one as he was kneeling on the man, and Cousin shot the other through the head before he could touch the woman. I shall never forget the terrible scream which burst from the lips of Patricia Dale. Then she went limp and her head sagged over Ward's arms, and he began to walk backward with her to the forest.

I ran to the door and Cousin stuck out his foot and tripped me, and my head hit against the logs, and for a minute confused me beyond the possibility of action. When I would have renewed my efforts to pursue and die in attempting the rescue of the girl Ward was dragging her into the woods. Cousin's arm was around my neck, and as he pulled me back he passionately cried:

"Will it help her to git killed? The ground's alive with 'em! You can't more'n show your head afore they'd have your hair!"

I got to a loophole and looked out. Several guns banged and the bullets pattered into the logs. There was no sign of life in the valley beyond this scattering volley, however. Ward and the girl were gone. The dead Indian and dog were partly in view among the weeds beside the lick-block. The gown of the dead woman made a little patch of melancholy color against the green of the grass and ranker ground growth. Granville had been dragged behind some bushes to be scalped. I came near firing when I beheld two Shawnees making for the timber.

"Fellers we potted," murmured Cousin. "They've hitched cords to 'em an' are draggin' 'em to the woods so's no one'll git their hair."

From the Granville cabin a gun roared loudly; and an Indian, clawing at his bloody breast, shot up in the heart of a clump of bushes and pitched forward on his face.

"Lawdy! But the Englisher must 'a' used 'bout a pint o' buckshot!" exclaimed Cousin admiringly. "Pretty smart, too! He traced the cord back to where th' Injun was haulin' on it, an' trusted to his medicine to make the spreadin' buckshot fetch somethin'. Wish he had smoothbores an' a few pounds o' shot!"

Yells of rage and a furious volley against the two cabins evidenced how the enemy viewed the Englishman's success. Again the smoothbore roared and a handful of balls scoured another thicket. A warrior leaped from cover and started to run to the woods. Cousin shot him off his feet before he could make a rod.

Our admiration for the smoothbore and its wholesale tactics was beyond expression. The Indians, also, thoroughly appreciated its efficacy, and there was a general backward movement toward the woods. No savage showed himself except for a flash of bronze leg, or the flutter of a hand, too transient for even Cousin to take advantage of. The Englishman fired again, but flushed no game.

"We oughter be goin'," Cousin mused. "But the ridge behind us is still alive with 'em. Reckon we must wait till it gits dark."

"Wait till night? Oh, I can't do that!" I cried.

"Your gal may be skeered to death, but she ain't been hurt any yet," he encouraged. "She's safe till they git her back to the towns. Black Hoof is too smart to hurt her now. If he gits into a tight corner afore he reaches the Ohio he'll need her to buy an open path with. She ain't in no danger s'long as he wants her on hand to swap if the settlers git him penned."

"No danger? And in the hands of that damned renegade!"

"Catahecassa is boss o' that band. Ward was only a spy. They may burn your gal when they git back on the Scioto where every one can enjoy it. But she won't be hurt any this side o' the Ohio. Our first job is to git clear o' this cabin an' valley. Then we must head those dogs off an' do the next job right."

His words cleared my mind of madness. Instead of the dark forest, forty rods away, marking the end of everything, I need not entirely despair until the girl reached the Scioto.

"They've hitched a rope to Dale an' are draggin' him to the woods. The damn fool ain't dead yet. Black Hoof fetched him a crack with the flat of his ax, but they'll roast him to a frizzle by 'n' by if our medicine don't fetch him out of it."