CHAPTER XVI

SAVED BY A WINDSTORM

The two young hunters had been asleep perhaps ten minutes when a form stole forward from behind a corner post in the old council-house.

The form was that of a young Seneca warrior, Boka the Fox, a red man known for miles around for his skill in hunting and fishing. No matter who went out with him Boka the Fox usually got the biggest turkey, the biggest deer, and very often the biggest fish.

Boka the Fox was alone. He had been spying in the vicinity of Fort Pitt, and was now on his way westward to report what he had seen. The storm had overtaken him, and fancy had caused him to seek shelter in the deserted village. He had come up just at the arrival of Dave and Henry and had heard the gunshots when the rabbits were brought down.

Despite the snowstorm, Boka the Fox waited around patiently for some chance to do the whites an injury. He had only his hunting knife with him—a weapon taken from a murdered frontiersman some months before. His bow had been broken the day before and his tomahawk had been lost during a wild flight to get away from some soldiers who had seen him on the trail and fired several shots after his retreating form.

Not to remain out in the howling storm—for the wind was growing wilder every moment—Boka the Fox had wormed his way into a small recess close to the rude fireplace of which this council-house boasted. I say boasted, for the majority of such places had only an open place where a fire might be built, the smoke rising directly to the outer air.

In his warm corner the red warrior waited patiently for Dave and Henry to go to sleep. Several times he was in danger of being discovered, and he kept his hand on the handle of his knife, ready to battle the instant he was seen. He heard every word that was spoken, but understood only a little.

The wind was now whistling shrilly around the old council-house, causing the dilapidated building to creak and groan and quiver from end to end. With so much noise, Boka the Fox stepped forward boldly to the center of the room. The fire was still bright, and he could distinctly see the faces of the two youths as they slept.

“Boka must kill both before either awakens,” murmured the Indian in his native tongue. “Then he can take their guns and all of their belongings and fly as soon as the storm ceases.”

He dropped the blanket he had been wearing, so that he might be free to act, and draw himself up, knife in hand,—a tall, slim figure, with a face full of shrewdness and treachery.

As he took a step towards Dave the wind came up once more, shaking the old building worse than ever. Henry turned uneasily in his sleep, and gave a deep sigh. The Indian turned toward the youth, thinking to kill him before he had a chance to rouse up.

There was now a sudden spell of silence—so unusual and so impressive that the Indian was compelled to stop in his dastardly work and listen. It was as if the wind had ceased utterly.

Then, with almost the quickness of lightning, came a strange humming sound, accompanied by the cracking of trees and tree-limbs, and the fierce pelting of hard snow as it swept along on the wings of a tornado. The onrush of the elements was directly for the old council-house, and in a twinkling the building was caught up and fairly blown into the air.

“Henry!” gasped Dave, as he found himself rolled over and over in the snow. “What in the world is this?”

There was no answer—indeed, no answer could have been heard above that terrible shrieking and humming of the wind. In the path of the tornado the trees were being mowed down from one end of the forest to the other. Branches were flying in all directions, and when Dave tried to rise he found himself powerless to do so. He was rolled over and over again, and at last brought up against a tree-stump, out of breath and completely bewildered.

Inside of five minutes the tornado was a thing of the past and the wind died down to a moderate breeze. The fire that had been built in the old council-house had been blown in a heap between two old tree-stumps and was still blazing away, thus affording some light. Where the two youths had been sleeping were half a dozen broken and twisted tree-limbs, partly covered with snow.

It took Dave some little time to recover his breath. He had to feel of himself, to make sure that no limbs were broken. He looked around for Henry, but his cousin was nowhere in sight.

“Henry!” he called, loudly. “Where are you? Henry!”

He repeated the cry many times, walking slowly around the wreck of the council-house and among the trees which had been blown down in that vicinity. At last came a faint response, and running in the direction of the sound he found poor Henry wedged under some heavy tree-branches.

“Tak—take them off!” gasped the prisoner. “I—I can hardly breathe.”

To remove the big limbs was impossible, but after a good deal of maneuvering, Dave managed to raise one branch a little and Henry crawled through the snow from underneath. Then he sat on the branch panting for breath.

“It’s a windstorm,” said Dave. “About the worst I ever saw.”

“Whe—where is the house?”

“Gone—the wind took it up like a kite. Henry, we can be thankful that we weren’t killed.”

“You are right. Oh, how my breast hurts!”

“Any ribs broken, do you think?”

“No, I think I—I am scraped more than anything else,” answered the injured one.

As the fire was in a safe place, Dave stirred it up and helped Henry to a spot where he might keep warm. Then Dave dragged some tree-branches up in a semicircle, to keep off what little was left of the wind.

“We’ll have to look for our guns and traps,” said Henry. “Have you any idea where they are?”

“They can’t be far off, Henry. But why not wait until morning?”

“It’s not safe. Some wild animal might attack us.”

Taking a firebrand Dave made a torch of it and began a hunt. Soon he came across Henry’s rifle and other things. Then he brought out of the snow a hunting knife.

“Hullo! Whose hunting knife is this?” he asked, examining it carefully. “Henry, you didn’t have this, did you?”

“I did not,” was the answer. “I never saw it before. Let me see. It’s got the initials R. D. C. on it. I don’t know anybody by those letters, do you?”

“Old Dick Capenfeld. He was killed by the Indians several weeks ago.”

“I’d like to know how the knife got here.”

The young hunters looked the blade over, and then both sat down by the fire. Presently Henry feel asleep once more, and after a bit Dave followed his example.

When they awoke it was dawn, and the storm had cleared away completely. The fire had died down, but it was easily replenished, and then both of the youths began a systematic hunt for the rest of their belongings. Henry declared that he felt all right, saving for a certain stiffness across the chest, where the tree-limb had held him down.

Dave was stirring among some heavy tree-branches when he leaped back with a loud cry.

“An Indian!”

“An Indian! Where?” came from Henry, and he caught up his rifle.

“Here—between the tree-limbs. I—I reckon he is dead.”

Henry ran to the spot, and both of the young hunters gazed at Boka the Fox. The tornado had caught up the Indian and landed him head first in the branches of a tree laid low by the mighty wind. In turning over the red warrior had been unable to save himself, and his neck had been broken, killing him instantly.

“This beats the kingdom!” cried Dave. “Henry, that Indian must have been on hand when the tornado occurred!”

“Like as not he was watching us.”

“And maybe he was going to kill us.”

“The finding of that hunting knife makes it look that way, Dave.”

“Perhaps there are more near by.”

The two young hunters looked around without delay—Henry holding his rifle ready for use, should a warrior appear. They were greatly upset and did not quiet down for half an hour.

“He must have been alone,” said Henry, at last. “Where he came from there is no telling. Well, if he was going to kill us, it was a lucky thing that the tornado came along as it did and stopped him.”

They continued their search in the snow and among the fallen trees, and presently uncovered Dave’s rifle and the rest of the traps, and also the last of the rabbits. This they spitted over the fire and ate for breakfast.

“Now we may as well get back to the fort—before another storm overtakes us,” said Henry.

“What about the Indian?”

“Leave him where he is. I reckon the wolves will take care of him. I am not going to bother myself on his account.”

“I hope the tornado didn’t overtake father and his party,” went on Dave. “It’s a wonder we weren’t killed.”

“Yes, we can certainly be thankful,—not only because we escaped from the windstorm, but for escaping from that Indian.”

The wind had swept the snow into great drifts or ridges, and they knew they would have to make wide detours in order to escape the worst of these piles. They kicked out the fire, picked up their traps and the blanket of the dead Indian, and set out.

It was a hard, exhausting journey, and they often stopped to rest. On their way they saw in the distance a small deer, stalled in a snowdrift, and Henry could not resist the temptation to fire. The deer leaped into the air, threw up a flurry of snow, and then disappeared from view.

“There’s something to take to the fort!” cried the young hunter.

“It will be all we can carry,” observed Dave.

“What! you wouldn’t leave a deer behind, would you?” questioned Henry, reproachfully.

“Oh, no.”

With care they worked their way around to where the deer had disappeared in the snow. To do this they had to cross a hollow, where they sank up to their waists.

“Look out, or you’ll get stuck!” sang out Dave, and just then Henry sank to his armpits. He floundered around a good deal before he emerged from the hollow, blowing like a winded ox.

The deer had fallen over a small cliff, and they had something of a task raising it up. But at last they had the game secure, and they carried it between them, slung on a long, slender pole.

“Hurrah! I see the fort!” cried Dave, an hour later, as they drew to the top of a long hill. “The worst of the trip is over.”

He was right, and by noon they reached Fort Pitt. They were glad to rest and eat a hearty dinner, after which they told their story. The effects of the windstorm had been felt at the fort, but no great damage had been done.