CHAPTER XII

HOME ONCE MORE

The route to the river was a rough one, over jagged rocks and around stunted growths of evergreens and elderberry bushes, with here and there a bramble bush or a tangle of wild grapes. Often the men stumbled, and it was with difficulty that the horses got through without throwing their loads.

Not a word was spoken, Rodney cautioning all to silence. Every eye and ear was on the alert. Who knew but what they might be running into an ambush of the worst kind?

When the watercourse was gained,—a small stream flowing to the southeastward,—they came to a halt in a small grove of hemlocks and walnuts. Not another Indian had appeared, for which all were thankful.

The din to the northward was now growing less, and Rodney was certain that White Buffalo and his handfuls of braves were in retreat, not daring to meet the superior force under Moon Eye.

On gaining the vicinity his Indian friend had mentioned to him, Rodney lost no time in looking around for Sam Barringford.

“Sam!” he called, softly. “Sam, are you here?”

“Rodney!” came in a weak voice. “Here I be—an’ glad ye have come!”

The old frontiersman was up in a short, wide-spreading tree, where White Buffalo and another friendly red man had placed him. He was weak from his encounter with the enemy and glad to have the young soldier and the others come to his aid.

“I had what ye might call a putty clost shave,” said Barringford. “They got me down an’ one o’ the rascals war a-goin’ to sculp me when Moon Eye cuts in an’ says to let me alone—he would torture me into tellin’ em’ some o’ the white folks’ secrets—about the fort an’ the soldiers on the march, an’ sech. They war a-goin’ to burn me at a stake—jest as them Injuns war goin’ to burn me when I war on my way to Detroit with Dave,—when White Buffalo plays a trick on ’em.”

“What did he do, Sam?”

“Got one o’ his followers to wave a torch from some rocks. The feller war kivered with a white blanket an’ I reckon they took him fer a ghost. When Moon Eye’s crowd war lookin’ at the figger in white, White Buffalo come up to me, fixed up as one o’ the enemy, an’ cuts me loose. I didn’t know him myself till he spoke. The disguise did the trick, and we got away into the forest. Then I dropped, I war thet weak, and they brung me here. Then he said he would do what he could fer ye—an’ he must have kept his word, or ye wouldn’t be here,” concluded the old frontiersman.

White Buffalo had mentioned another spot—down the river—where the party of whites might wait until morning for the Delawares to join them. Helping Sam Barringford upon one of the horses that had been carrying supplies, they set off for the place mentioned, reaching it without mishap just as day was breaking.

By this time the entire party was so worn out that half the number were glad to throw themselves down to rest, leaving the others on guard for two hours, when they were relieved by their companions. A light breakfast was served, no campfire being lit for fear the smoke might attract the attention of the enemy.

It was well toward noon when White Buffalo came in, he and his followers having had to make a wide detour, in order to escape another encounter with Moon Eye. White Buffalo had been struck in the left forearm by a tomahawk, an ugly but not a serious cut, and one brave had received an arrow in the fleshy part of the leg.

“Do you think they are coming this way?” was Rodney’s first question.

“There is no telling what they will do next,” answered the aged Indian chief. “White Buffalo and his followers drew them as far northward as possible—we could do no more. Rodney had better travel eastward as fast as he can. In that direction alone lies safety.”

Without delay the march was once more begun, first to a fording spot across the stream and then directly eastward. They moved onward until long after sunset, covering at least fifteen miles, over a broken deer trail that was rough in the extreme. On the way one horse—that carrying Nell and little Tom—stepped into a hole and went down, throwing both children into the bushes.

“Are you hurt, Nell?” asked Rodney, rushing up in alarm.

“I—I think not!” she gasped. “But I don’t like such tumbles at all!”

“Bad horse, to go down with Tom,” said the little boy.

“He couldn’t help it,” answered Rodney. “I am glad you are not injured,” he added, heartily, and picked the boy up in his arms while Nell arose unaided.

The horse was in a bad way, having broken his leg and dislocated his shoulder. To put him out of his misery, Rodney had one of the Indians kill him with several blows from a tomahawk. Then Nell and Tom were placed on another horse, and the party went on as before.

The next day found them once more on the regular road. Not a sign of the enemy had been seen and all began to breathe a little easier.

“I think we are out of it at last,” said Rodney. “We are getting pretty well on to the east now.”

“Right you are,” answered Casbury.

“That White Buffalo is a pretty good Injun after all, so he is,” admitted Malloy.

They had now reached what in past years had been the foremost of the homesteads along the army road. The places were burned down without exception, only the blackened ruins showing where log cabins and stables had stood. The owners had long since either fled or been killed.

“It may be a long while before this is settled again,” said Rodney.

“Perhaps not, lad,” answered one of the frontiersmen. “As soon as it is known the Indians are under control some folks will come out again, and others will follow,” and this proved to be true. Inside of three years there were more settlements along the Forbes and the Braddock roads than ever before.

Feeling themselves fairly free from danger, they did not push along quite so rapidly. This rested the horses and was also more comfortable for Sam Barringford, who had suffered more than he cared to admit.

“Rodney will not want White Buffalo any more,” said the aged chief one morning, when they were within two days’ journey of Fort Cumberland. “White Buffalo must go elsewhere.”

“Won’t you come home with me?” asked the young soldier. “Father will be glad to see you, I know.”

“White Buffalo must attend to the affairs of his tribe,” was the reply, and soon the aged chief departed with his followers, stating that if it was possible he would stop at Fort Pitt and let James Morris, Dave, and Henry know how they had come through without great loss. Rodney thanked the Indian for all he had done and shook hands warmly, and Barringford did the same. It was a long while, and many startling things occurred, before they saw White Buffalo again.

The thoughts of Rodney and his sister turned homeward now, and both were anxious to see the old homestead once more. The twins did not remember much, having been away so long, but they were glad to get away from “the shooting Indians” as Artie called them.

It was a cold but clear day when the expedition reached Fort Cumberland. Here the regulars reported, as they had been told to do, and were properly discharged from further service in the army. Rodney, Barringford, and the others also told their stories and delivered a message sent by Colonel Bouquet, who was still near Fort Pitt, trying to locate Pontiac.

All was now comparatively quiet around Fort Cumberland. To the southward, a small band of Indians had appeared a few weeks before and attacked some white and colored people, carrying two colored girls, slaves of a Mr. Bowman, into captivity. To the northward, the enemy had fallen on a band of Moravians while at their devotions and slaughtered one of the leaders and two young women. The Moravians were very bitter and wanted the English army to drive the red men to the far west, beyond the Mississippi.

Leaving the others at Fort Cumberland, Rodney took the horses and set off for the Morris homestead, in company with Barringford, Nell, and the twins. The route was now familiar even to Nell, and she watched eagerly for the first sign of the cabin.

“Papa! I see papa!” she cried, as they made a turn along the brook road, and soon they saw Joseph Morris walking toward them, rifle in hand, for none of the settlers thought of going out without being armed.

“Rodney! and Nell!” burst from Joseph Morris’s lips, and he came running up with a beaming face. He kissed his little daughter several times. “Glad you are back! And you too, Sam,” he added to the old frontiersman. “And how are the twins?” and he chucked them under the chin.

“I am glad to be back,” said Rodney. “It seems like an age since I went away and joined the soldiers.”

They did not stop to tell their story, for it was only a step more to the log cabin. Mrs. Morris, the kindest of motherly women, came rushing out of the door to greet them.

“Nell, my Nell!” she burst out, and hugged her daughter over and over again, while the tears of joy streamed down her face. “Oh, how glad I am that you are back!”

“And I am glad too, mamma,” said Nell. “Oh, it’s been such a very, very long time since the Indians took me!”

“And Rodney!” went on Mrs. Morris, kissing his sunburnt cheek. “How did you stand it? Didn’t the old lameness bother you?” And then she hugged the twins and shook hands with Sam Barringford. It was indeed a happy meeting all around.

“You must stay home, at least for the winter,” said Joseph Morris to his son. “You have seen enough of peril for a time.”

“I am willing to stay home,” said Rodney. “But I think I ought to join Uncle Jim and Dave and Henry in the spring.”

He told all the news that evening, sitting around the kitchen fire, and Barringford and little Nell also told their tales. The old frontiersman wanted to know if any letter had come from England regarding the twins.

“Nothing as yet,” said Joseph Morris. “But it is something to know that their father’s name is Maurice Hamilton, and that he is well-to-do. Some day we shall probably hear from him.”

Much about the homestead had been destroyed by the Indians, but Joseph Morris had worked hard to get things into shape again. Family stores had been brought in, from Fort Cumberland and from Annapolis, and the settler had cut a pile of wood for winter use.

“I hope all goes well with those left at Fort Pitt,” said Joseph Morris. “It is said here that the Indians are very bitter out there.”

“They certainly are,” answered Rodney.

“It’s a pity Pontiac was not slain. He is the head and front of this constant fighting. More than likely he will try to get up another conspiracy before long.”

“Your neighbor, Jack Spader, just told me some news,” said Sam Barringford, who sat on the doorstep, taking his ease in the sunshine. “It is reported at Fort Cumberland that the Indians are going to make another attack on Fort Pitt. Nobody seems to know where the report started.”

“I trust it is not true,” replied Rodney.

“So do I,” added Mrs. Morris, “for the sake of Henry, and your uncle, and Cousin Dave.”

“Well, they will have to do what they can to take care of themselves,” said Joseph Morris. “Perhaps we shall have our own hands full here this winter. The Indians have made no preparations for cold weather, and rather than starve they may attack us.”