CHAPTER XIII

BLUE JACKET

"How will this place do?" asked Bob, coming to a halt, and the boys gently lowered their burden to the ground.

"Just the place where I'd like to see our cabin raised, with that fine view of the river up and down," declared the other, enthusiastically.

"And that is why I chose it," answered Bob with a smile. "If we are already at work here, father and mother will naturally come along to us, and the thing is done without any fuss."

The young Indian had not said a single word since making the assertion that his name was Blue Jacket, and that he was a brave, not a boy.

Those keen black eyes had observed all that the Armstrong lads did with an ever-increasing knowledge of what it meant. There was something in their manner of handling him that spoke louder than words to the wild heart of this child of the forest; and already he had begun to feel confidence in them.

"Now, start a blaze as soon as you like, Sandy. By the time they get here the fire will be good and hot, so that water will heat in a jiffy."

They had made the wounded Indian as comfortable as possible; and he lay there, apparently content to watch them work. Possibly he expected that, when the white men, against whom his hand had so recently been raised, should arrive on the scene, his fate must be a matter of minutes; but an Indian never shows emotion, and fear, in his eyes, is the symptom of a coward.

Sandy immediately gathered some wood. He had had long experience in making fires, and gloried in the opportunity to show his skill.

"There, how does that look?" he demanded presently, when, after having used his flint and steel with good results, the flying sparks quickly caught in the dry tinder, and flames began to creep up amidst the gathered wood.

"As fine as the finest," returned his brother, who knew Sandy's weakness, and never let a chance to cater to it pass by; "and unless my ears deceive me I think I heard voices just then up-river."

"You are right, brother," declared the younger lad, pointing; "for there they come, with Pat O'Mara, bless his heart, at the head of the line."

The wounded Indian never even started, and yet a quiver of alarm must certainly have passed through his agonized frame. He simply turned his gaze toward the setting sun, as though, if the worst came, he wished to feast his eyes for the last time on that glorious spectacle. For the clouds floating in space had begun to take on a most gorgeous tint, as though the mysterious unknown country beyond might be putting on a holiday dress to welcome him to the Happy Hunting Grounds of the red man.

Then the long line of horses and pioneers arrived on the spot that had been picked out by Colonel Boone as the prettiest site for a settlement he knew of along the upper Ohio.

Various exclamations of rapture and delight broke forth. The magical beauty of the scene overpowered all alike. Men and women stood there, drinking in the river view as seen in the fading light of the sun; and, when they turned to exchange sentiments, they were unanimously favorable.

"It is Paradise!" cried one woman, who had suffered greatly during the long pilgrimage across mountains and wilderness.

Pat O'Mara was the happiest of the whole group. He did not expect to put up a cabin home, for his nature compelled him to be a rover; but, since he had guided these pioneers along the way into the Promised Land, naturally he felt elated because they were thrilled and pleased with their new homeland.

And then again, Pat had the greatest admiration for that chief of pioneers, Daniel Boone, who had selected this site as the proper spot for a future white man's town.

"Now, plase lave all thot till another day," he called out, presently; "and pay attintion till the juties av the hour. Sure, they be fires to sthart, fuel to chop, and some protiction to be made aginst an attack av the rids. To worrk thin, iverybody!"

Seeing their two boys standing at a certain point, David Armstrong, his good wife, and Kate, leading the two horses, made toward them. From the fact that there was already quite a heap of firewood piled up they took it for granted that Bob wished them to camp on that particular spot for some reason or other.

Suddenly Kate gave utterance to a bubbling cry of alarm.

"What is it!" demanded her father, startled, since he could only imagine that the young girl might have turned her ankle at just the last stage of their long journey.

"Look behind the boys, father! An Indian!" she exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger toward Bob.

David, too, discovered the form just at that moment, and was also visibly disturbed. But he noticed that both boys were showing not the least sign of any alarm, and from that understood there could be no danger.

Perhaps, also, his renewed confidence arose from the fact that the Indian was lying on his back, and not in the act of creeping forward, as if intent on sinking his tomahawk into the bodies of the lads.

"What is this, Bob, Sandy?" he asked, as he stood over the form of the Shawanee, who met his gaze without a flicker of emotion.

"We found the poor fellow near by, father. He is wounded, and was slowly bleeding to death," said Bob hastily, and not a little anxiously.

"And Bob couldn't keep from helping him; you know his failing, father. What we want now is a kettle in which to heat some water," remarked Sandy, making a movement to secure the implement he had in mind, and which, in company with other cooking utensils, dangled from the back of the leading horse.

"Stop! what is this you mean to do?" asked David Armstrong uneasily.

"Save the poor fellow's life, perhaps. He has an even chance if I can cleanse that ugly wound," replied Bob, meeting his father's eye steadily.

"But he must have been one of those savages who tried to rush our camp night before last; the wound is from one of our own bullets!" David went on, shaking his head, as though he did not wholly believe it right they should nurse a viper only to have him sting them.

Bob looked appealingly at his mother. Well he knew where to go for backing in a case like this; nor did he make any mistake.

"David, for shame! Would you let the poor boy die, even though his skin be different from ours? Do we learn this in the Good Book? Is it not written that we bind up the hurts of our enemies, and thus cover their heads with ashes of reproach? What if it were one of our dear lads, in an Indian village--would you wish him to be treated like a dog? We have come here to live, and it becomes us to set a Christian example to these poor heathen."

David Armstrong was far from being a hard man at heart. Like most of the early pioneers he had imbibed strong ideas concerning the heroic measures necessary to hold their own against the grievous perils that menaced them on every side. And, doubtless, he, in common with most of the men in the ranks of those who invaded the wilderness, believed that the "only good Indian was a dead Indian." But, as always, he was dominated by the sweet influence of his gentle wife.

"Boys, your mother knows best," he said, presently; "and it is better that you take pattern from her, than follow in my footsteps. Do what you think is right, and we will hope no evil follows."

Of course the young Indian had listened to all this talk closely. He might not understand what sentiment influenced the wife and mother; but he could see the noble pity that shone in her eyes as she bent above him.

Still, not by the slightest expression did he betray any satisfaction that may have passed through his heart at the knowledge that he was not to be ruthlessly put to death as he had anticipated. That would have ill become a warrior, which, boy though he seemed to be, he had so proudly proclaimed himself.

Meanwhile Sandy made his way down to the edge of the flowing river and filled his kettle with water which he placed upon the stones composing the rude but effective fireplace. It would only take five or ten minutes to heat this sufficiently for the purpose of the amateur surgeon.

David busied himself relieving the animals of their several loads, in which both Bob and Kate assisted. Rude shelters in the shape of tents would have to serve them for the present, until cabins could be provided; but, ere another sun set, the chances were that several houses would be started, for these pioneers were quick workers, once they set their shoulders to anything.

Bob knew that no time should be lost in washing that inflamed wound, and applying some of the wholesome soothing lotion which his mother prided herself in making. Well he knew its wonderful properties in a case of this kind, and he believed that it would allay the dangerous stage of that injury as nothing else might, hence his desire to make haste in applying it. The others could in the meantime be erecting the tent and gathering their scanty household goods under its friendly shelter.

When he found the water warm enough for his purpose he went to work. Most of the pioneers were too busily engaged just then in settling on locations for the night to bother hanging around to see what occupied the attention of the Armstrong lads; but, of course, the smaller children quickly discovered the presence of a real Indian in the camp, and the news speedily circulated around.

Pat O'Mara himself came over to assist his particular friends, and when he saw what task was being done his eyes opened round with wonder.

"Begorra! an' is it a horsepital ye've stharted already, Bob?" he asked, as he leaned over to look, and then started at seeing a copper-colored face with a pair of snapping black eyes fastened defiantly on his own countenance. "Phat! a ridskin it is ye are afther havin' here? Sure, it's the first toime I iver saw a white lad nurse a sick Injun bye!"

When the prospect of death itself could not induce the Shawanee to show signs of emotion, this likening him to a youth, as in the previous instance, seemed to arouse him. An Indian hates above all things to be called a squaw or a child. He sat up, despite the restraining hand of Bob, and smote himself proudly on the chest, once again exclaiming angrily:

"Blue Jacket, him no boy--warrior--big brave, ugh!"

"Well," remarked Pat with a quizzical smile, "I reckons as how what ye sez is all quite thrue, Blue Jacket. And if so be this foine lad chooses to coddle yees back to loife agin, phat business is it av ours? On'y it sames till me 'tis a great waste av toime an' liniment. But, Bob, look out ye don't lose yer patient, lad."

"Lose him, Pat?" echoed the other, pausing in the act of binding up the limb, after having used the precious, magical ointment given to him by his mother. "What can you mean? I feel sure he'll come around all right. He's young, and with good blood in his veins. Surely the chances are ten to one--"

Bob stopped right there. Suddenly he comprehended what the kindly Irish trapper meant, when he spoke in that way. Following the meaning look of the other he saw that a man was hurriedly approaching them. He carried a gun in his hand, and there was an ugly expression on his bearded face.

This man was a pioneer named Brady. He had come from the section of Carolina where the Boone family had lived, and was meaning to hew himself a new home in the great western wilderness.

Anthony Brady was the father of a family, and a fair sample of the early pioneer, but he hated Indians above all living things, looking upon them as only fit to be shot and hewed down whenever possible.

Bob knew that Anthony had had a brother dangerously wounded in that warm engagement when the Shawanees attempted to carry the camp. This must have aggravated Brady's already bitter feeling for the red men, and, hearing that the Armstrong boys were meaning to nurse one of the wounded foemen back to life, he was filled with rage that such a thing should ever be allowed.

And Bob felt that Blue Jacket was in more peril right then than when he lay on the ground, weakened by his wound, and left to perish.