CHAPTER XVIII

RUNNING INTO A TRAP

“There is the post!”

It was James Morris who said this. He was slightly in advance of the others, and coming around a bend of the Ohio River caught sight of the place which had cost him so much hard work to establish.

As my old readers know, the trading post proper was a substantial building of heavy logs, containing four rooms, the main one of which was usually devoted to trading with the trappers and Indians. Near by was a storehouse of two rooms, with a stable attached for horses and cattle.

The site of the trading post was a small bluff fronting the broad Ohio, and not far away was a gurgling brook, with some rough rocks beyond. The buildings and grounds were surrounded by a strong palisade of sharpened logs, containing, at a convenient point, a gate ten feet in width, locked by two heavy crossbars. The palisade contained many loopholes for shooting purposes in case of attack. Around the outside of the palisade the ground had been cleared for a short distance, but otherwise, excepting for the river, the unbroken forest stretched for many miles. To-day this same locality is dotted with rich farms and villages, with a railroad running through it, and where the canoes of Indians and white hunters used to ride there now plow steamboats and tugboats. And yet this was but a hundred and forty-odd years ago! What wonderful strides our country is making, and who can imagine what the next hundred and forty years will bring forth?

James Morris called a halt, and all gathered around him, wondering what the next move was to be. They looked toward the trading post. The great gate of the palisade was wide open and there appeared to be no sign of life anywhere.

“Looks deserted, don’t it?” remarked Tony Jadwin. He had helped to erect the place and knew every nook and corner as well as did its owner.

“It certainly does,” answered James Morris. “But we must not take too much for granted.”

“’Pears like I kin see tracks in the snow, near the gate,” remarked Peaceful Jones. “What do ye think on’t, Pomeroy?”

“Some tracks thar certain, but the wind has swept ’em so ye can’t tell ef they belong to man or beast.”

“Let us walk through the forest and look at the other side of the place,” said James Morris, and this was done. Try their best they could see nobody, and from the branches of a tree Tony Jadwin announced that the door to the main building stood wide open.

“Then it’s empty,” said Pomeroy. “Because, if anybuddy war thar, they’d shet it in sech weather as this.”

At last James Morris concluded to venture through the gate, and did so, gun in hand, and followed by the others. A look around the broad grounds revealed nobody, and with a heart that beat strangely, the trader advanced toward the main building.

“Ho! Within there!” he called out, sharply.

He waited, but there was no answer, nor did anybody appear.

“Reckon we’ve got it all to ourselves,” said Pomeroy. “Either Bevoir an’ his crowd ain’t got here yit, or else they are out on a hunt, or somethin’ else.”

“I’ll soon make sure,” said Tony Jadwin, and entered the main building, and James Morris followed him. It was rather dark within, and for the moment they could see next to nothing. Jadwin walked to one side of the room, while the trader stepped to the doorway of the next room. In the meanwhile Pomeroy entered also, leaving only Peaceful Jones outside.

It was then that the scene changed as if by magic. From several places of concealment Jean Bevoir, Benoit Vascal, and a number of Indians under Moon Eye leaped forth and fell upon the three newcomers. James Morris was sent flat on the floor, face downward, so that he could not use his gun, and Tony Jadwin received a blow from a club that stretched him lifeless. Two Indians pounced upon Pomeroy, who uttered a loud cry for assistance. A moment later a tomahawk split Pomeroy’s skull in twain, killing him instantly.

Peaceful Jones ran forward and was just in time to see Pomeroy go down, with the hatchet still sticking in his head. He fired at one of the Indians, shooting him through the heart. Then a rifle rang out within the building, and Peaceful Jones felt a bullet graze his shoulder.

“Come on out o’ thet!” he roared. “This is too hot fer us!”

“Save yourself!” came faintly from James Morris. “We are trapped! They mean to massacre us!”

His cries were cut short by two pistol shots. Then followed sounds of several blows, and James Morris appeared at the doorway, his face covered with blood. He took one more step forward, and with a gasp sank down in a heap.

From the storehouse now poured half a dozen Indians, armed with bows and arrows and tomahawks. Realizing that it would be useless to fight such a number of the enemy, and satisfied in his own mind that all of his companions were either killed or mortally wounded, Peaceful Jones turned and ran for the rear of the main building. Three arrows whizzed beside him, and a bullet from a pistol flew close to his ear.

“After heem! He must not escape!” came in the voice of Jean Bevoir. “Ve must keel dem all!”

Reaching the back of the main building, Peaceful Jones did not pause. In the snow lay some brushwood, and he caught up a branch of this, and, holding it behind him, continued to run. Two more arrows were sent after him and lodged in the tree-branch, thus saving him from further injury.

As he came close to the corner of the palisade he wondered what he had best do next. The Indians were after him hot-footed and so was one of the Frenchmen. He felt that to make a stand would mean certain death.

He had thus far gained a spot used the year before for sawing and splitting wood. A big saw-buck was still standing there, and he picked it up with ease and continued to run. Reaching the palisade, he stood the saw-buck up on one end and climbed to the top.

“Stop!” roared a voice, in French, and a rifle rang out. The bullet this time struck Peaceful Jones in the left shoulder, inflicting an ugly and painful wound. He gave a grunt, mounted the sharp points of the palisade, and dropped outside. Then, with all the strength that was left to him, he started for the nearest patch of timber, sixty yards distant. As he entered the timber some more arrows flew towards him, but went shy of their mark.

The trapper was now weak from the loss of blood, which was flowing down from his shoulder to his hand. But he staggered on, knowing that he now had no time to stop and bind up his wound. He rushed straight into the forest and staggered onward until he came to a clump of low-branched trees. Then, to “cut the trail,” as it was called, he pulled himself up into the trees by his uninjured arm and climbed from one tree to another, and so on, until a hundred feet had been covered. Then he dropped on some rocks, which the wind had swept clear of snow, and went forward as before, gritting his teeth, to keep himself from fainting from loss of blood.

It was well for Peaceful Jones that night was coming on, and in the depths of the forest it was growing dark. Plucky though he was to the last degree, he was but human, and now felt that he might drop from sheer exhaustion at any moment. He looked for some sort of a hiding-place, and reaching a cedar tree growing in a split of the rocks, dove under it.

For a good quarter of an hour the trapper did little but hold his hand tightly over his wound and pant for breath, leaning against the tree in the meanwhile with eyes closed. He could do nothing more to save himself, and was in that condition of mind when capture or escape meant little or nothing to him.

But as his breath came back to him, and none of the Indians or Frenchmen appeared, a spark of hope came to his breast. He tore off his heavy coat and his hunting shirt and examined the wound from which he had suffered the most. The bullet had passed directly through the flesh and some lint was sticking in the wound. He took out the lint, cleaned the wound with soft snow, and bound it up as best he could with a handkerchief and a bandage he carried for emergencies. Then he drew on his hunting shirt once more and his coat, closed his eyes, and fell back in a sort of stupor.

It was pitch-dark when Peaceful Jones came to himself once more. At a distance he heard a murmur of voices. Some Indians and a Frenchman were holding a conversation.

“I can see nothing of a trail,” said one of the Indians, in his native tongue. “I doubt if he came this way.”

“He must not be allowed to get away,” said the Frenchman, also in the Indian tongue. “Dead men are best, since they tell no tales.”

“Are the others all dead?” asked another Indian.

“Dead or dying.”

“It was lucky that Moon Eye discovered their coming in time,” said the first Indian who had spoken. “We set a nice trap for them.”

The Indians and the Frenchman continued to talk, in the meantime moving away from the cedar tree, so that Peaceful Jones made out no more of the conversation. He himself could speak the Indian language and understood every word that had been spoken.

The news filled his heart with grief. All his companions were either dead or dying and the enemy were doing their best to find and slay him. He felt that only by the help of Providence would he be enabled to escape. He was not a very religious man, but he breathed a silent prayer to Heaven that he might be spared, if for no other purpose than to carry the sad news back to Fort Pitt.

An hour went by, and the Indians and the Frenchman left the vicinity entirely. But then came something else to disturb and alarm him.

A small bear stepped into view, sniffing the air suspiciously. His den was among the rocks close to the cedar under which the hunter was resting. He came forward slowly, as if knowing by instinct that all was not right.

At first Peaceful Jones was alarmed, then a sudden grim smile came to his bronzed features. He drew his long hunting knife and waited for the bear to come within striking distance.

“Your life or mine—an’ it ain’t goin’ to be me ef I kin help it,” he muttered to himself.

The bear came to the cedar and pushed a branch aside with his nose. Like lightning, Peaceful Jones leaped forward and made a plunge with his hunting knife. Then the blade was withdrawn and slashed rapidly across the animal’s throat. There was a grunt, a gasp, and the animal fell down in its tracks, gave a convulsive shudder, and lay dead.

Weak as he was, the old trapper managed to draw the game under the cedar and kicked some fresh snow over the spot where the blood had flowed. Then he took his hunting knife, cut out a piece of bear meat, and began to suck and gnaw upon it like some wild animal. It was a primitive meal, and might have made another person sick, but it satisfied him and gave him strength,—and strength was what he needed above anything else.

The morning brought a light snowstorm, for which he was thankful, since it would cover up his tracks. As soon as he felt able to do so, he cut himself a big chunk of the bear meat, slung it over his shoulder, and set off, in the direction of the Kinotah. He plunged directly into the great forest, afraid to take to any of the trails leading eastward for fear he would run into the enemy once again.