CHAPTER XXII

A FIGHT AMONG WILD BEASTS

“There is no use in talking, this is certainly slow traveling. If it wasn’t for the pack-horses we could get along twice as fast.”

It was Henry who spoke, and he addressed his father. The pair were trudging along the snow-clad trail, with Dave and Sam Barringford slightly in advance. It was a mild, clear day in January, with the sun kissing every mound of white and causing it to glitter as if with diamonds.

The little expedition had been on the march four days, and all evidence of civilization had been left behind. They were taking what Sam Barringford and two of the other frontiersmen considered a “short cut” on the route to Fort Pitt. Whether or not they would stop at the fort when they arrived in that vicinity was still an open question. On the one hand, they did not wish to lose the time to do so, and on the other, they wanted to make certain that no news from the West had come to the stronghold during their absence.

So far they had seen no trace of the Indians—indeed, they had met no strangers of any kind. The loneliness of the wilderness winter was on all sides of them. Sometimes they journeyed for hours through the untracked snow without a single sound disturbing them. At times this oppressiveness was hard on Dave and caused him to grow so “blue” that he hardly knew what to do. Henry tried to cheer him up, but with little success.

The frontiersmen were all of the silent kind—their calling had rendered them so—and conversation dragged, enlivened only now and then by the talk of the men who urged along the horses. The steeds did their best, but the footing was uncertain, and more than once they went down into pitfalls partly covered with snow and had to be hauled out by main strength.

“The Injuns have certainly left this neighborhood,” observed Sam Barringford, after another spell of silence. “Not a sign on ’em anywhere.”

“I am glad of that,” answered Joseph Morris. “I want to meet nobody until we arrive at Fort Pitt or the trading post.”

“When I war to Fort Cumberland I heard a report about Pontiac,” went on the old frontiersman. “They said he war goin’ west—to stir up the redskins along the Mississippi and lower Ohio, to make another attack on the English. It war said the French trappers an’ traders would help him.”

“Such a thing is possible,” answered Joseph Morris. “Of one thing I am certain: Pontiac will not rest until he has either won a victory or been killed.”

It was true that Pontiac was again active, this time close to the banks of the Illinois River. Here he essayed to unite the western tribes against the English,—a work that availed him little.

The Indian uprisings at Fort Pitt, Detroit, and other points had created a terrible feeling against the red men in all portions of the Colonies, but this hatred was most bitter in Pennsylvania, especially in Paxton township, where a large body of settlers of Irish and Scotch blood organized themselves into a command popularly known as the Paxton Boys. This command hunted down the Indians on all sides, and even slaughtered a harmless tribe, living under the protection of some Moravian missionaries.

“Down with all redskins!” was their cry, and they moved upon Lancaster, where some Indians had taken refuge in the workhouse. The doors were battered down and all of the Indians slain, and then the Paxton Boys marched down to Philadelphia, to capture some of the enemy who had fled to that city. To hold the maddened frontiersmen in check, Benjamin Franklin aided in forming a body of militia, and these compelled the Paxton Boys to leave without further bloodshed. The killing of the friendly Indians was looked upon by the law-abiding citizens as an outrage and the feeling against the Paxton Boys was very bitter. On their side, the Paxton Boys contended that the Indians had all proved treacherous more or less and that “the only good Indian was the dead Indian,”—a saying that soon became a household word among a certain class of the communities.

In many cases, after the meeting at Johnson Hall, the Indians were compelled to give up their captives, and this brought on numerous affecting scenes. Some women and children had been separated from their people for several years, and had made warm ties among the Indians. A number had even married red men and had children, and these did not want to separate from their husbands. Some little children had completely forgotten their real parents, and when taken from the Indians cried loudly, much to the distress of their mothers and fathers.

“Look! look!” cried one poor woman. “My own child, my Bessie, does not know me!”

“And look you!” said one man. “My Johanna has married an Indian and they have two children! I would rather she were dead!” And the settler turned and would have nothing more to do with his own flesh and blood. Tradition says of this man that in years after the Indian husband of his daughter saved him from being massacred during an uprising, and he was taken to safety by a grandson whom he had disowned.

One day after another went by, and still the expedition under Joseph Morris wended its way westward through the wilderness. So far the weather had remained fine, but at the end of a week it began to thaw and then there set in a misty rain, disagreeable in the extreme. The trail was sloppy, and if a person slipped down he was bound to get wet through and through.

“This is fine weather in which to catch cold,” grumbled Henry. The only thing he objected to when being out was rain.

During the rain and mist, which lasted for two whole days, they made but slow progress. Each night they went into camp early, and spent several hours in getting dry and making themselves half comfortable.

On the morning of the day when it cleared off, Henry and Dave were in advance, in company with Sam Barringford. They were looking for game, and hoped to stir up some rabbits, if not something larger.

“I see some partridges!” cried Henry, presently, and was about to take aim, when a sudden loud snapping and snarling broke upon the air, coming from the forest on their left.

“Wild animals!” cried Dave. “Don’t you think so, Sam?”

“I do,” was the short answer. “Come on an’ see wot they be.”

The old frontiersman led the way, and soon the party of three came upon a scene that thrilled them with interest.

In a little glade in the forest lay a dead deer, the blood still pouring from a big bite in the throat. Close at hand were a small panther and a full-grown wildcat, tightly locked together, and biting and snapping in the most vicious manner possible. At one moment the wildcat would be on top, then the panther, and then they would roll over and over, the snow and fur flying in all directions. The blood was flowing from a gash in the panther’s side and the wildcat’s left ear was slitted into shreds.

“Here is a fight surely!” whispered Barringford. “They mean business, they do!”

“What shall we do?” whispered Dave. The sight thrilled him to the core.

“Let ’em have it out, lad—ain’t no ust to interfere in sech a muss as thet.”

The two animals were certainly “having it out.” Over and over they went and the fur continued to fly. The wildcat now had the panther by the neck, while the latter was twisted half around and was clawing frantically, trying to reach its enemy’s vitals.

“Looks as if the wildcat would get the best of it,” observed Henry. But at that moment the larger beast shook the hold of the other, and swinging around caught the wildcat in the stomach with its claws. Then the wildcat closed in with another snarl, catching the panther in the lower jaw. It was a death-like grip that could not be shaken, and the animals fell over on their sides. The fur and snow continued to fly, but both animals soon grew weaker. There was a last struggle, a gasp from the wildcat, and then that animal stretched out dead. The hold on the panther’s jaw relaxed and slowly the panther staggered up. It went but a few steps, then fell down, gave a grunt or two, and began to kick feebly.

“Both on ’em done fer!” said Sam Barringford. “It war certainly a great fight.”

“The painter ain’t dead yet!” cried Henry. “Look out!”

They turned and saw that the panther was trying to get up. It had discovered the intruders and wanted to fight. It gave a feeble leap, but failed to reach them.

“I’ll fix thet painter,” murmured Barringford, and drew his hunting knife.

“Don’t touch him—let him go,” pleaded Dave. “He made such a good fight against the wildcat.” The panther had turned towards the bushes. Now it slunk out of sight, so weak that it could scarcely drag one foot after another. Before they left the spot they saw the animal breathe its last.

They examined the deer and found it had suffered nothing but the gaping wound in the throat, made evidently by the wildcat.

“This is a prize,” said Henry. “It saves us the trouble of shooting one.”

“I suppose the wildcat brought the deer down and the painter wanted to steal it,” said Dave. “It’s a pretty good-sized deer for a wildcat to tackle.”

“I reckon as how the wildcat war half starved an’ got desprit,” spoke up the old frontiersman. “He must have jumped down on the deer from some tree and hung on till the deer war dead.”

The others had by this time come up, and they looked at the deer with interest. The game was slung over the back of one of the horses and the onward march resumed. That night all enjoyed the fresh venison.

On the following day they came to a fair-sized river, and there encamped for their noonday repast. Taking an axe, Henry cut a round hole in the ice and brought forth his fishing lines.

“Going to try fishing, eh?” said Dave. “All right, I’ll do what I can to help.”

They soon had their lines ready, and baiting up, allowed them to sink through the hole. The fish were sluggish, and for a long time they got no bite. But then came a lazy tug, and hauling in, Henry brought up a fat fish that weighed all of two pounds.

“Good for you, Henry!” cried his cousin. “You always were lucky at this sort of thing.”

“Not always,” answered Henry, grimly. “I have fished through the ice more than once and caught next to nothing.”

“I’ll never forget how I once brought up a snake and then fell into the water,” went on Dave, recalling an incident already related in detail in this series. “No more snakes for me. I hate——Gracious! Look at that! A snake as sure as you’re born!”

Dave’s line and hook came up. On the end was something dark and slimy. Henry started back and then gave a laugh.

“Only an old tree-root, Dave!” he cried, merrily. “Don’t holler before you are hurt.”

“I was thinking of that other snake,” answered his cousin, somewhat sheepishly. He dropped in his hook again. “Hope I get a bite this time.”

His wish was gratified. Fishing proved so good that the youths persuaded Mr. Morris to let them continue for awhile, and in less than an hour they had a full mess for supper. The men enjoyed the change greatly, and told Henry and Dave they could go fishing at every river the expedition crossed.