CHAPTER XXXI

DAYS OF PEACE—CONCLUSION

It was indeed James Morris who lay on the ground at Jean Bevoir’s feet.

The trader had not been killed, only seriously wounded, and for days had lain between life and death, in the care of an old Indian medicine man. Many a time the French trader had thought to slay him, but had hesitated, thinking he might some day make use of his prisoner.

James Morris was still so weak that he could do nothing for himself, yet Jean Bevoir wanted him to mount a horse and ride away, to a cave up the river, where, in years gone by, the French trader and his trappers had had a regular rendezvous.

It made Dave’s blood boil to see his father so abused, and forgetful of everything else, he ran forward, leveling his rifle at Bevoir’s head as he did so.

“Dave! My son Dave!” cried James Morris, and there was a ring of relief and joy in his tones.

“Father!” was all the son answered. He still kept his eyes on the French trader, who shrank back in consternation.

“Come on, all of you!” cried Joseph Morris, who now saw that further secrecy would be useless. “Surrender, you villains, or we’ll shoot you down like dogs!”

“Thet’s the talk!” came from Barringford, and as he saw one of the Indians raise a gun he shot the warrior through the heart.

The next instant the entire camp was in alarm. Thinking a large body of English had arrived, the few Indians present took to their heels and disappeared into the forest as if by magic. The Frenchmen tried to follow, fighting as they did so. Jean Bevoir aimed a pistol at Dave and fired, the bullet striking the youth in the side. As he staggered and fell Henry fired at the French trader, and so did two others, and Bevoir threw up his arms and pitched headlong into the smoldering campfire, scattering the embers in all directions.

Inside of five minutes the battle was at an end and the English were in complete possession of the camp and had also gained possession of their horses and a large portion of their stores. What was left of the French and Indians disappeared, and that was the last seen of them.

Dave’s wound was but slight, and his first thoughts were of his father. The two embraced over and over again, the tears of joy standing in the eyes of each. Joseph Morris, Henry, and Barringford were likewise more than happy to learn that the trader was really alive.

“I am the only one living to tell the tale,” said James Morris. “The others were killed or mortally wounded.”

“Not all,” answered Dave. “Peaceful Jones escaped and told us the news, and that is what brought us here so quickly.”

“You have had a great fight. I could hear some of the shooting,” continued the trader.

“Yes, and we might have had the worst of it, only White Buffalo came to our aid.”

“And where is he now?”

“Gone in pursuit of Moon Eye and his followers.”

After that James Morris told his story in detail, to which Dave and the others listened with much interest.

“At first I was kept at the post,” said he. “Jean Bevoir pretended to be kind and considerate, but I soon found out his object. He had drawn up some documents stating that I surrendered to him all my rights and interests in the trading post and he wanted me to sign them. When I refused he got angry and wanted to kill me. But some of the men interfered and then I was brought to this place. Then, of a sudden, I was treated better again. From the Indians I learned that Bevoir had an idea that if he got cornered later on he would use me in some way for his benefit—as a hostage, or something like that.”

“Just what he wanted to do with me, when I was a prisoner,” said Henry. “It is queer that I didn’t see you when I was here,” he added.

“They must have kept us apart purposely, Henry.” James Morris drew a long breath. “How good it feels to be together once more. I declare, it seems to brace me up wonderfully!” And his face showed his relief.

Somebody had dragged Jean Bevoir’s body from the fire just after the man fell. The trader was not yet dead, and lay groaning and writhing in a fearful manner. Nothing could be done for him, and he died at sunrise. It was the last of a misspent life, full of golden opportunities which the rascal had trampled under foot. His body was laid in a hollow and some flat stones placed over it, to keep off the wild animals. His pockets were searched and the fraudulent documents confiscated by Joseph Morris.

“We must get back to the post as soon as we can,” said Barringford, after the excitement was over. “Remember, we don’t know how matters are a-goin’ there.”

“I have heard no shots,” answered Henry. “And that is a good sign.”

“I do not see how anything can be wrong there,” said Dave. “We have wound up the Bevoir crowd and you can trust White Buffalo to take care of Moon Eye’s tribe.”

Nevertheless, the start for the trading post was made as soon as matters could be gotten into shape for the journey. The two sick men were carried on stretchers made of blankets tied to long poles, and all took turns at the task. Dave did not mind the load at all, and in the joy at finding his parent forgot all about his own injuries, which, fortunately, proved slight.

The strange man who was sick wanted to know what it all meant, and smiled when told. Then he heaved a sudden sigh.

“I, too, have had many troubles,” he said. “Many, many troubles. I wish that I could get some help.”

“We will aid you all we can,” said Henry, kindly.

“Yes, yes, I know. But my head—it is not clear. My brain whirls when I try to think. The past is such a blank!”

“You were hit on the head, that’s the trouble,” went on the youth. “But I think you will get over it soon.”

“Perhaps—some days I know I feel better. But then my head whirls again and I am in the dark! Oh, it is awful!” And the sick man sighed as before.

“Can’t you remember where you came from at all?”

“I remember the sea—the great boundless ocean, and a great storm. I was alone then—all alone. And I remember before that,—a beautiful garden and kind friends and relatives, and the babies, the beautiful babies! And then I remember—I remember——” The man paused. “It is cloudy again—dark—I can remember nothing, nothing!” And he lay back and closed his eyes.

“Maybe as how he’ll never be jest right ag’in,” whispered Sam Barringford. “It’s terribul, no two ways on’t! I wish I could do somethin’ fer him.”

“It will take time,” said Joseph Morris. “It is useless to worry him now, it will only make matters worse.” And so they let the strange man rest in peace. They had previously searched his pockets, but had found nothing by which he could be identified.

The journey to the trading post accomplished, they found matters quiet there. No more of the enemy had appeared, and nothing had been seen of White Buffalo and his followers. The old Delaware chief came in about noon, bringing the news that Moon Eye’s tribe had been completely shattered.

“They will never trouble my white friends again,” said White Buffalo. “Those who are left alive have learned a lesson which they will never forget.”

The old Indian chief was more than glad to learn that James Morris was living, and shook hands warmly.

“You have done me and mine a great service, White Buffalo,” said the trader, gratefully. “We shall not forget it.”

“White Buffalo knows his real friends,” answered the aged chief, calmly. “He is glad to serve them.” Then he and his warriors went off to get something to eat, for they had had nothing since the day before. They were treated to the best the post afforded.

Among those found living after the battle at the post was Benoit Vascal. He had been sorely wounded and trampled upon in the mêlée, and it was evident he could not long survive his hurts. He was placed on a rude couch and there he remained, since he could swallow neither food nor water. He groaned continually and bitterly bewailed the fate that had brought him to the place.

When the strange sick man was brought in he was placed on a cot not far from where Benoit Vascal was resting. For some time the two did not notice each other. Then, of a sudden, the Frenchman glanced at the other and uttered a shriek of amazement and terror.

“’Tis he! ’Tis he! Tis the judgment!” he screamed in French. “Take him away! I cannot bear to face him!”

At the sound of Vascal’s voice the strange sick man turned over and gave him a wandering look. Then he also started up and gave a cry.

“You! you!” he screamed. “You! I know you, Benoit Vascal! What have you done with my children!” He staggered from his couch, fell forward, and caught the Frenchman by the arm. “Tell me! My children, what of them?”

“What’s the matter here?” demanded Sam Barringford, who chanced to be close by.

“This man!” panted the strange sick man. “He—he stole my children! He is the rascal I have been hunting for—he and another, a Paul Camont. They took my twin boys! Ah, I remember it all now! Where are my children? Don’t dare to say you killed them!”

“Your children—twins,” gasped the old frontiersman. “Can it be possible thet you air Mr. Maurice Hamilton?”

“Yes! yes! that is my name! How strange I could not think of it before. Maurice Hamilton, yes, of London.”

“Well, by the eternal!” came faintly from Barringford. He looked at the sick man sharply. “It must be so—ye look alike, same eyes, same nose, an’ all. This staggers me!”

“Let me go!” came faintly from Benoit Vascal. “He has ze children—I haf zem not, no! Let me go!” for the other man now held him by the throat.

The cries and loud talking had attracted a crowd, and all pushed forward to learn the cause of the disturbance.

“It’s the greatest thing ye ever heard tell on,” said Sam Barringford. “This man is Maurice Hamilton, and the father o’ the twins.”

“Can it be possible!” exclaimed Dave.

“But where—where are my children?” asked Maurice Hamilton.

“They are safe—leas’wise they war, the last I heard o’ ’em,” answered Barringford. “But this gits me! I never dreamed o’ sech a thing.”

“Nor did I,” added Joseph Morris.

After that there remained nothing to do but to tell Maurice Hamilton all about his little ones, how Barringford had found them, and how they had been cared for ever since by the Morrises. The sick man could not take it all in, but he understood enough and the tears of joy streamed down his wan face.

“How I long to see them—my darling boys!” he murmured.

“And you shall see them,” said Joseph Morris. “But first you must get well.”

“And what of—of that rascal who robbed me?”

“He is dying—let him rest,” was the planter’s soft answer. And then, for the time being, Maurice Hamilton was silent. From that hour on he mended rapidly, both mentally and physically, until, two months later, he was as well as ever. Benoit Vascal died two days later, and was buried in a common grave, along with the other Frenchmen who had fallen in the battle for the possession of the trading post.

Maurice Hamilton’s story was a long one, and I have no space to relate it here. He was a fairly well-to-do man who, after the death of his beautiful wife and his father and mother, had come to America to seek his fortune. Upon arriving here his twins had been stolen from him by Benoit Vascal, aided by Paul Camont. He had in vain tried to follow the rascals up, although he had received several letters offering to compromise the matter for a certain amount. He said that his wife, when a girl, had received an offer of marriage from Vascal and had refused him, and this had made the Frenchman so bitter. The two gold lockets the twins possessed contained the portraits of Mr. Hamilton’s father and mother.

“This clears up that mystery,” said Dave to Henry. “I must say I am glad of it—on Mr. Hamilton’s account.”

“Yes, and also on account of the twins,” answered his cousin. “But Sam will hate to have them go, and mother and Nell will hate it, too.”

“Well, such things can’t be helped.”

Now that the fighting was over, all hands found a great many things to do in and around the trading post. A new gate was put into place, stronger even than the other, and the stockade generally was also strengthened. The stable was enlarged, so that the numerous horses might have proper quarters, and another room was built to the main building. In the meantime some of the trappers and Indians went out on the hunt and brought in plenty of meat and not a few skins of value.

With the coming of spring came a fresh alarm, and it was not deemed wise to send an expedition eastward. Pontiac was trying his best to combine the Indians in another conspiracy. But his plans failed, and in the end the noted Indian chief fell, brained by a tomahawk in the hands of another Indian. So perished one of the most gifted and at the same time one of the most warlike Indian chiefs this country ever saw.

At last the way seemed clear for a start for Will’s Creek, and an expedition set out, by way of Fort Pitt. Among those to go along were Joseph Morris, Sam Barringford, Mr. Hamilton, and Henry. Mr. Hamilton was feeling in the best of health once more, and he and the old frontiersman had become warm friends. The gentleman wanted to reward Barringford for what he had done, but the latter would not listen to it.

“Let me see them twins now an’ then,” said the old frontiersman. “Thet will be reward enough fer me.” And so it was arranged.

It was a great day when the party reached the Morris homestead. Maurice Hamilton hugged his children tightly to his breast and kissed them repeatedly, and Mrs. Morris was so affected that she wept.

“They are good boys,” she said. “I’ll hate awfully to have them go away.”

“Then supposing I leave them here for the present?” answered Maurice Hamilton. “I have no home of my own.”

“Yes! yes! Do leave them, please!” cried Nell; and so it was arranged, much to the satisfaction of all concerned.

Here let me add a few words and then bring to a close this story of “Trail and Trading Post,” and likewise this “Colonial Series.”

During the ensuing summer matters fared very well both at the Morris homestead and at the trading post. The twins grew up healthy and strong, and looked upon Sam Barringford as their uncle, which pleased the old frontiersman mightily. Mr. Hamilton came and went, for he had property on the St. Lawrence and near Philadelphia to look after. He was glad to have his children in such excellent care.

“I hope them little chaps never see sech fightin’ as we’ve seen,” said Barringford to Henry one day, as he was dancing both on his knees.

“I don’t think they will,” answered Henry. But he was mistaken. The twins did see some spirited fighting—during the Revolutionary War—the particulars of which I may relate some other time. They were such sturdy, manly chaps that nobody could help but like them.

During the summer the trading post was attacked just once, by a band of Indians, under an old chief who in years gone by had been one of the Morrises’ worst foes. The warriors were defeated without a loss among the whites, while the Indians lost several men, including the chief. After that the red men remained away from that territory for many years to come.

As soon as peace was firmly established, other traders flocked to the Ohio, followed by regular settlers. Many of the posts were valuable, but none more so than that belonging to the Morrises. More than this, James Morris and Dave dealt fairly by all who wished to do business with them, be they whites or Indians, and as a consequence they soon established a reputation that was known far and wide. The very best skins and furs were offered to them, and they began to make money rapidly.

“How things have changed since first we came out here,” said Dave one day. “And what a number of events have happened since then!”

“Let us be thankful that all has ended well,” replied his father. “Many have suffered deeply, while we have escaped.”

“I am thankful,” said Dave, reverently. “Very thankful indeed!”

White Buffalo, who stood near, nodded his head slowly.

“The Great Spirit has watched over us all,” said he. “Blessed be the Great Spirit, both of the white man and of the Indians.”

THE END

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