EDWARD STRATEMEYER’S BOOKS

Col. Washington was in the thickest of the fight.—Page [278].

Colonial Series

WITH WASHINGTON IN THE WEST

OR

A SOLDIER BOY’S BATTLES IN THE
WILDERNESS

BY
EDWARD STRATEMEYER
Author of “On to Pekin,” “Between Boer and Briton,” “Old Glory
Series,” “Colonial Series,” “Pan-American Series,” “Great
American Industries Series,” “American Boys’
Life of William McKinley,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY A. B. SHUTE

BOSTON:
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Copyright, 1901, by Lee and Shepard
All rights reserved
With Washington in the West
Norwood Press
Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass.
U.S.A.

PREFACE

“With Washington in the West” is a complete story in itself, but forms the first of several volumes to be known by the general title of “Colonial Series.”

The main character of the book is David Morris, the son of a hardy pioneer who first settles near Will’s Creek (now the town of Cumberland, Virginia), and later on establishes a trading-post on one of the numerous tributaries of the Ohio River.

As a boy David becomes acquainted with George Washington, then but a young man of seventeen. Washington is at work, surveying tracts of land in the beautiful Shenandoah valley, and David is glad enough to go with him as an assistant. Together they ford the rivers and creeks, and climb the mountains, and they do not separate until the ill health of Lawrence Washington compels his brother to return home.

The coming of the English traders into the valley of the Ohio was viewed with suspicion by the French, and it was not long before these traders were served with notices to quit. A notice reaching Mr. Morris, he turned it over to his son, who was to take it to the Virginia authorities and learn whether or not it must be respected. On his way eastward David falls in with the Virginia Rangers, who are under the command of Washington, and learns that there is practically a state of war between the English and French in America. Several trading-posts have been attacked and this being so the youth becomes anxious to return to his father, and throws in his fortunes with Washington as a young soldier. Then follows the march to Great Meadows, the defence of Fort Necessity, and the news that Mr. Morris’ post has been captured by the French and the trader taken prisoner.

Chafing to learn what has become of his parent, David remains at the home of his uncle until the next Spring, when General Braddock arrives with his troops from England. Another campaign against the French is now opened and once again the youth becomes a soldier boy, to witness Braddock’s bitter defeat and Washington’s masterly effort to save the remnant of the army from annihilation.

In the preparation of the historical portions of this work numerous authorities have been consulted, including the Writings of Washington, biographies by a great number of more or less well-known authors, and several colonial histories and books of record. For this reason the author trusts that it is free from any error sufficient to hurt its usefulness. As a story the writer hopes it will find equal favor with the many which have preceded it from his pen.

Edward Stratemeyer.

Newark, N. J.,
May 20, 1901.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I
THE HOMESTEAD IN THE CLEARING

“Uncle Joe, an Indian is coming this way, down the Creek trail.”

“An Indian, Dave! Can you make out who it is?”

“Not yet. He’s in the shadow of the hemlocks.” The youth pointed along the brushwood bordering the watercourse. “There! do you see him?”

“I do. He is trailing a gun, too, and wears white feathers. It must be White Buffalo.”

“White Buffalo! Oh, Uncle Joe, do you think he’d be able to get back so soon?—over the mountains and rivers, and all?”

“These redskins can travel swift enough when they want to, Dave, and like as not your father told him to bring the word back as quick as he could.” Joseph Morris continued to keep his eyes fixed on the trail, which wound in and out under the low-drooping trees. “Yes, it’s White Buffalo, and he’s coming straight for our cabin.”

“I hope he brings good news,” went on Dave Morris. “Shall I go and tell Aunt Lucy? More than likely he’ll want something to eat—they all do when they come here.”

“Yes, tell her to fix up a good supper for the redskin, and tell her, too, to get that new dress goods I bought at Winchester last week out of the way. If she doesn’t White Buffalo will surely want some of it for himself or his squaw—he can’t hold back on bright colors—although he’s not half so much of a beggar as some of them.”

“I will. But, Uncle Joe, you’ll bring him right up to the cabin, won’t you? I’m so impatient to hear from father.”

“Yes, I’ll bring him right up.”

“It seems an age since father went away,” added Dave Morris.

With these words the boy turned away from the bank of the creek and, axe in hand—for he had been helping his uncle cut down some scrub timber on the edge of a small clearing—moved quickly through a patch of corn and then into a belt of timberland composed of beautiful walnut, hickory, and mountain ash. Beyond the belt was a second clearing, long and narrow, spread out upon both banks of a brook flowing into the creek previously mentioned. In the midst of this was a rude but comfortable log cabin, long, low, and narrow, the eaves at one end coming down in a porch-like roof to shelter the kitchen door. There were four rooms in this home in the wilderness and all upon the ground floor, the upper floor under the roof tree being little more than a loft in which to store certain winter supplies.

David Morris was a youth of fourteen, tall, strong, and by no means ill looking. His manner was open and frank, and this disposition made for him ready friends wherever he went. Since earliest childhood he had been used to a life in the open, and this made him appear somewhat older than his years. He could plow a field or cut down a tree almost as well as a man, and he was far from being ignorant of the use of firearms. Indeed, the winter before, he had gone out hunting with old Sam Barringford, one of the best of the hunters and trappers in the Virginia valley, and had acquitted himself in a manner to earn the ardent praise of that individual. As a matter of fact, Dave would rather have gone hunting and fishing any time than stick to the work on the farm, but he knew his duty to his uncle and his aunt and did not seek to evade it.

Dave’s taste for woods and waters—for hunting, trapping and fishing—came to the lad naturally. His grandfather had been of New Jersey stock, and had drifted into Pennsylvania with the thrifty German pioneers who afterward did so much to make that great state what it is to-day. But old Ezra Morris could not remain in sight of the farms and plantations and had gone on south-westward, into what was then termed the great Virginia valley, between the Shenandoah and the upper Potomac Rivers. Here he had built himself a cabin, and it was here that James Morris, the father of Dave, was born and raised. The surroundings were wild, and the majority of neighbors—if those living half a mile or more away could be called such—were Indians.

Although Ezra Morris always sought to be fair with the red men, others in that district cheated the Indians in numerous ways, and as a result the Indians arose one wintry night and slew nearly all the settlers for miles around. Among the victims were Ezra Morris and his wife; and the son James, then a boy of twelve, barely escaped by hiding in a snow-bank behind the cabin. He was found in the woods two days later, nearly frozen to death, and was taken to Winchester by parties living there. At Winchester was his brother Joseph, several years older, who was visiting at the time, and thus escaped the horrors of the massacre.

For several years after this Joseph and James Morris remained in and around Winchester, then a frontier post of considerable importance, and during that time the elder brother married Lucy Smiley, who had just come over from England with her brother, who was in the employ of William Fairfax of Belvoir. Several years later James Morris also married, and both families settled near what was called Will’s Creek, not a great distance from the present city of Cumberland. It was here that Dave was born and also his cousins, Rodney, Henry, and little Nell.

At first all went well with both families, but one day Rodney Morris had a bad fall from a tree which injured his leg and rendered him lame. This was a great misfortune, for the young man had been a much needed help to his father and his uncle, but a greater trial followed in the sudden and unexpected death of James Morris’ wife, who was taken with a chill one Saturday noon and expired on the following Sunday morning.

This blow almost stunned both the husband and the son, and it may truly be said that the former never got over it. As soon after the funeral as possible the father placed his son in his brother’s care and took to the woods, and none of his folks saw him for nearly a year. When he returned his pale and haggard face showed plainly that even in the depths of the wilderness beyond the Blue Ridge he had not been able to get away from his great grief.

During his wanderings James Morris had gone West as far as a stream of water called by the Indians Kinotah. He described the river as very lovely and one upon which a trader with a little means might set up a trading-post to great advantage. One particular spot, which he named Ella Dell, in memory of his wife, continually haunted him, and he told his brother and his son that some day he intended to go back to it. He reported that the Indians were now very friendly and that many of those who had conducted the massacre of years gone by were dead.

Neither of the brothers was blessed with much money, and the opportunities for making any were small, so the idea of opening a trading-post had, for the time being, to be abandoned. All the Morrises, with the exception of Rodney the cripple, worked hard on the farm, and even Rodney did what he could to keep himself employed. During this time Henry Morris made a trip as far East as Annapolis, and on returning told of a stop-off at Lawrence Washington’s magnificent estate at Mount Vernon, so called in honor of Admiral Vernon, under whom Lawrence Washington had served in West Indian waters.

“They are a fine people, those Washingtons,” Henry Morris had declared. “Mr. Lawrence Washington is a thorough gentleman, and his brother George is as nice a boy as any in these parts. And, oh, what a plantation they’ve got! Nearly a thousand slaves, and so many horses I couldn’t count them. I can tell you a place like that is something worth while.”

“The Washingtons have always been rich,” had been Joseph Morris’ answer. “And Lawrence Washington lost nothing by marrying William Fairfax’s daughter. Those families own more land than they know what to do with.”

“Old Lord Fairfax was there,” Henry had continued. “He takes a great interest in George Washington. George is learning surveying at school, and Lord Fairfax said he might give him the work of surveying his estate some day.” And so the talk had run on, for in those days Lord Fairfax was a personage of great importance in that neighborhood, and the Washingtons were also well known.

One day there came a sudden and unexpected windfall to the Morrises. A distant relative who lived in New Jersey died and left to each brother the sum of twelve hundred pounds—about six thousand dollars—and also a quantity of household goods, cattle and horses. At once James Morris journeyed to New Jersey after the fortune, going both for himself and as his brother’s legally appointed agent. This trip in those days was a long one, and had to be made on horseback for the greater part of the distance. The mission took four months, and when Dave’s father returned he brought with him a train of sixteen pack-saddle horses, some carrying furniture which had originally come from England and which could not be duplicated in the colonies.

As soon as the furniture and other effects had been left at the cabin near Will’s Creek, James Morris had announced his intention of using his part of the inheritance in establishing a trading business with the Indians on the Kinotah. “I know there is money to be made in it,” was the way he reasoned to his brother. “A good deal more money than is to be made here at farming.”

The idea pleased Joseph Morris, but he was loath to go further into the wilderness with his wife and his little daughter, and with a son who was a cripple, and after a long conference it was decided that James Morris should start out alone, using a thousand pounds belonging to both, and also the pack horses, and leaving Dave with his uncle.

It grieved Dave to be left behind, yet, as his father thought it best, he did not complain, only begging that he might be permitted to join his parent at the trading-post at some time not too far in the future. To this the father had promised that the lad might make the trip during the year following, if all went well.

The hopeful pioneer had fitted out his trading expedition at Winchester, with goods brought from Annapolis, and with his pack horses loaded with trinkets, bright colored blankets and cloths, and other things dear to the heart and eye of the red men, had set off for the great “Western Country” as some people of that time called the western portion of Pennsylvania. Here the virgin forests were almost trackless, the only trails being those of the Indians and the deer and other wild animals. Bridges there were none, and every river had to be either forded or swum, and the journey through the vast mountain gaps was perilous in the extreme. The party consisted of James Morris, two old hunters known as Tony and Putty, and half a dozen Indians under the leadership of White Buffalo. It was agreed that as soon as the Kinotah was reached and the trading-post established White Buffalo should be sent back with the news.

CHAPTER II
WHITE BUFFALO BRINGS NEWS

When Dave entered the cabin homestead he found his Aunt Lucy and his cousin Rodney, the cripple, hard at work making tallow candles, the only kind of light used about the place after sundown. Over a fire in the dooryard hung a kettle full of soft tallow and on the kitchen floor rested the metal moulds for forming the candles after the wicks had been placed in from end to end. The best of the candles were made in this manner, but Rodney was making a commoner sort by simply dipping wicks into the fat and hanging them up to harden, repeating this process until the prospective lights were of the desired thickness.

“Why, Dave, what brings you back so soon?” cried Mrs. Morris, somewhat startled at his unexpected appearance. “I didn’t blow the horn for supper.”

“White Buffalo is coming, and Uncle Joe told me to tell you that he would probably be hungry, and for you to get those new dress goods out of the way before the redskin saw ’em. If you don’t he’ll most likely tell you he dreamed you gave them to him for his squaw, or something like that.”

“Mercy on us, White Buffalo! Yes, I will get them out of sight, every one! He is a good-enough Indian, but, oh, every one of ’em is such a beggar! What did he say of your father, Dave?”

“I didn’t see him to talk to, Aunt Lucy—I came away before he came up. But Uncle Joe said he would bring him right up to the cabin. Shall I help clear the kitchen floor?”

“Yes, we are about done for to-day, and Rodney is more than tired, I can see that plainly. Rodney, you just go and rest yourself on the bed, Dave and I can get this mess out of the way in a jiffy.”

“I’m willing enough,” answered Rodney, with a deep drawn sigh, and rising from his rush-seated chair he hobbled out of the kitchen to the next room.

“Do you want me to kill anything for supper—a couple of chickens or ducks?” queried Dave, as he began gathering up the still warm candle moulds.

“No; Henry shot a deer right after dinner—down by the old salt lick—dropped him, so he said, without the least bit of trouble. He’s down at the shed now dressing it. We can have that,—and I’ll make some corn cakes—the kind those Indians like. You had better bring me in some more wood. I’ll take care of the rest of the candles. And tell Henry to fetch along a nice piece of that deer meat, and a jug of that yellow apple cider.” And so speaking Mrs. Morris bustled around at a lively rate, that she might have the kitchen in order when her husband appeared with their Indian guest.

At the cattle shed, a rude affair of rough logs and tree branches, Dave found his cousin Henry tacking up the deer-skin to dry and tan in the sun. Henry was a short, stout youth and a good deal of the same turn of mind as his mother.

“I’ll bring up a good-enough piece of meat for any redskin,” he said, after listening to Dave. “I’m glad White Buffalo has come, although I didn’t expect to see him for a fortnight, or until the next new moon. Everything must have gone along swimmingly with your father.”

“I hope so, Henry.”

In a few minutes Henry brought up the venison, and Dave followed with the extra wood, and soon Mrs. Morris had a roaring fire with which to prepare the evening repast. There was, of course, no stove, only a rude brick oven, and the meat was placed on a spit to broil, the oven being used for the corn cakes and for other things the lady of the cabin wished to bake. From chains overhead hung a pot and an iron kettle with water, and also a smaller kettle in which Mrs. Morris brewed herself some tea. As the cooking progressed most of the smoke went up the broad chimney but some came into the kitchen, and the ceiling, where hung numerous things to dry, was covered with soot in consequence.

The table was bare of linen or oilcloth, but scrubbed to a snowy whiteness. Plates were laid for all, but at the place to be occupied by White Buffalo a short bench was drawn up, that the Indian chief might eat from the level of his lap should he prefer to do so. The knives and forks, the latter quite new, were of iron, and Joseph Morris, like many other old pioneers, preferred to use his pocket-knife when cutting food. Napkins there were none, but a bucket of water stood in a corner and above it was a towel hung on a cow-horn, for the use of anyone who wished to keep his fingers or mouth clean. And yet this cabin was furnished as well as those of thousands of other pioneers.

The supper was well under way when Joseph Morris appeared at the edge of the homestead clearing side by side with White Buffalo, who slackened his pace to a dignified walk when approaching the cabin. The Indian was of the tribe of Delawares, tall, thin, and as straight as an arrow. His eyes were black and bright, and his mouth showed a set of teeth as clean and polished as those of a wolf. His headgear consisted principally of white feathers, tipped with yellow to imitate gold, and over his shoulder he carried a small blanket of buffalo hide, dyed white with yellow spots, the spots being somewhat in the shape of wolves’ heads. This signified, in the Indian language, that he was White Buffalo, son of Yellow Wolf, a former powerful chief of the Delawares.

As the Indian came up Dave ran out to meet him and shake his hand. “I am very glad to see White Buffalo,” he said. “I hope you bring good news of my father,” and he pressed the red man’s hand warmly.

“How-how!” answered the Indian in return, meaning, “how do you do?” Then he looked at Dave steadily for a few seconds. “The white boy’s father was well when I left him, eight sleeps ago. He must still be well,” he went on.

“I am glad to hear that, White Buffalo. Did he find the spot he visited before?”

At this question a proud look came into the Indian’s face. “Yes, he found the spot, but not alone. White Buffalo was told how the place looked, and he hunted it up for the white boy’s father.”

“White Buffalo has brought a long letter from your father,” put in Joseph Morris. “I know you are impatient to read it, so you may do so before we have supper,” and he handed the communication to his nephew. Then he led the Indian into the cabin, where Mrs. Morris and the others greeted him as warmly as had Dave, for all but little Nell knew the old chief well and liked him.

The letter from James Morris was straight to the point and characteristic of the man, and ran, in part, as follows:

“The journey to this spot was a hard one. We had great difficulty in crossing the rivers, and at one of the fords Bess, a good black mare, lost her footing and was drowned before we could catch her and take off her packs.

“Two days before we reached the Kinotah we came upon a band of very dirty Indians under the leadership of Fox Head, a Miami. They begged for many things and we had at last to drive them off. I got two of White Buffalo’s braves to trail them for several miles, and they brought back word that Fox Head was very bitter against me. Fearing an attack that night I moved our camp to the south of the regular trail, but the Miamis have not appeared since.

“In consequence of moving from the trail I lost the lay of the land for twenty-four hours, and had to call on White Buffalo to aid me in locating the Kinotah. This he did with great ease, and by high noon the day following we reached the point I have named Ella Dell, and before night were hard at work establishing our trading camp.

“At present our post consists of a strong log cabin built in the shape of a cross, and is located in the angle formed by the Kinotah and a creek I have called Indian Brook, for the Indians use it greatly when in quest of fish. Game is plentiful and I have arranged it so that Tony and Putty can go out and shoot. The Indians are already bringing in their hides and furs, but a good deal of what they have is old and I have given them to understand that I want only that which is new and of the best. I believe that by next year the trade will be a well paying one.

“I am sorely in need of a number of things, and on another sheet have made out a list. If you will buy them at Winchester or Annapolis and pack them well on two horses, White Buffalo has agreed to bring them to me without delay. To the list you can add anything new which you may see and which you think would be attractive for trading purposes.

“Give my best wish and love to all, and tell Dave that I think of him constantly and that I trust all goes well until we meet. Perhaps when White Buffalo makes another trip I will write him personally, but just now my hands are too full, and I am writing this while the others are sleeping.

“Before closing, I must mention that the French are pushing into this territory fast, and that I heard from two of the Indians that they consider this land as belonging to them. I always considered that it belonged to our colonies. As yet I have not met any of the French traders, but have been told that a number of them are located further west, on the Ohio River. Unless this question of whose land it really is, is settled soon, it may bring serious difficulties in the future.”

Dave read the letter with deep interest, not once but several times. Communications of this sort were not common in those days, and each letter received was treasured for a long while afterward. He wished his father had written to him personally, but understanding the situation, did not complain.

When he entered the kitchen he found the family and White Buffalo assembled around the table. Placing the letter on a shelf he slipped into his own seat. A moment of silence followed, and then Joseph Morris offered a humble prayer and gave thanks to God for the food of which they were about to partake. During this White Buffalo sat as motionless as a statue, nor did he speak a word while the food was handed around. He ate from the bench, and if he wanted a thing took it, otherwise he simply motioned it away.

The meal over, Joseph Morris brought forth some of his best tobacco and filled a new clay pipe, one of the red variety with a long stem. He took a few puffs, then handed the pipe to White Buffalo who did the same. Then the Indian produced his own pipe and went through the same performance. After this both smoked freely, and the tongue of White Buffalo loosened readily.

“I have seen many places which were fair to look upon, but none more fair than Ella Dell,” said he. “In days to come the spot will bring many doubloons to the pockets of the Morrises. The game love the spot, the deer and the fish cannot stay away from it, and the river makes sweet music as it passes it by.”

“Yes, my brother told us of it before,” answered Joseph Morris. “It was continually in his mind. I sincerely trust we can make our title good to it. But what do you know of the French around there?”

At this the brow of White Buffalo clouded. “The French are not my friends, nor are they the friends of the English who have gone toward the setting sun. The French would keep that fair land for themselves, and send away both the English and the Indians. Sooner or later there will be war because of this.”

“War!” cried Dave.

The Indian nodded gravely. “The French and the English are at peace, but when they buried the hatchet many moons ago none of the great warriors spoke of the lands between here and the Father of Waters,” he went on, meaning by Father of Waters the Mississippi River. “I have heard the story from White Thunder, and also from Tanacharisson, the Half-king. The French have sailed upon the Father of Waters and claim all the lands which drain therein; the English claim this land because of a treaty made many winters ago with the Iroquois. And the Indian who lives upon the land, what of him, with his squaw and his pappoose? If the French or the English take the land he will have nothing, and he and his squaw and his pappoose can starve. Yes, the hatchet will be dug up again.”

“It sounds reasonable, White Buffalo,” answered Joseph Morris, after a thoughtful pause. “But if war should come because of this, I think the Indians ought to stand in with the English.”

“White Buffalo will stand with his white friends. But he cannot speak for those of other tribes. Many will fight with those who promise the most, for we are but children when it comes to dealing with the white man. I have lived with you long and I know you better than do most of my people. The Indian is wise, but his wisdom is of the woods and not of books. The white man can cheat him if he will, and the Indian will be none the wiser.”

Here the conversation changed and Joseph Morris went over the list his brother had sent him. Before retiring that night it was decided that he should depart for Winchester and Annapolis the next day, leaving White Buffalo to remain at the cabin until his return.

“Can’t I go with you and help buy those things?” asked Dave of his uncle.

“Would you like to go very much, Dave?”

“I would.”

“Then you shall go. And now let us off to bed, for it is growing late.”

A few minutes later the occupants of the cabin retired, leaving White Buffalo to make himself comfortable, as suited him, on the kitchen floor in front of the dying fire.

CHAPTER III
IN THE FOREST

Dave and his cousin Henry occupied a small bedroom at the north end of the cabin. Like the other apartments, this was unplastered excepting for some clay stuck in the chinks to keep out the wind. The room boasted of one window, a foot and a half square, and fitted with a heavy wooden shutter, to be closed in winter, or when there was danger of an attack.

Three-quarters of the floor space was taken up by the heavy four-posted bedstead, built of black walnut and hickory and almost as hard and as heavy as iron. The bed was corded with rawhide, on which rested a mattress of straw and a long pillow filled with chicken feathers. In front of the bed, and directly under the window, ran a bench the length of the room, and above was a row of pegs upon which the boys could hang their clothing. The ceiling was so low that the boys could jump up and touch it with ease.

By the time the boys had said their prayers and retired, a deep silence had fallen on the cabin and its surroundings, broken only by the faint gurgling of the brook as it tumbled along over the rocks and the soft fall breeze as it swept through the forest beyond the clearing, sending the golden leaves down in showers. Presently the moon shone over the top of the distant mountains, tipping the brook here and there with silver. The shining of the orb of night seemed to displease the wolves, and soon one and another let up a lonely howl, ending in a chorus which was truly dismal. But those in the cabin were used to such sounds and were not disturbed. White Buffalo uttered a long sigh and then began to snore, as if in answer to the beasts outside.

The moon still hung low in the heavens, as if loath to give place to the rising sun, when Joseph Morris arose, followed by his wife, and set about preparing the morning meal. White Buffalo was already up and sat on the doorstep, cutting out a wooden trinket with his knife. With this trinket he intended to make friends with little Nell, who so far, had proved rather afraid of him.

“White Buffalo make little Nell a wooden pappoose,” he said, when the six-year-old came from her bedroom and shyly approached to see what he was doing. “Little Nell can dress the pappoose and make much play.”

“Oh, a doll!” cried the girl, and much of her shyness vanished. She looked it over. “Why, it hasn’t any arms!”

“White Buffalo make arms by-me-by, and feet, too. Make arms and feet fast with sticks, so little Nell can move them and make head fast with stick, too, so pappoose can look over shoulder and all around. Heap big pappoose then, much proud!”

“That will be nice,” answered Nell and smiled frankly into the Indian’s face. Then the two consulted about the length of the legs and arms to be put on the doll, and before breakfast was ready they were firm friends. When finished the doll was decidedly crude and had a strong Indian expression on its straight-nosed face, but this Nell did not seem to mind. She possessed but few toys and this was her first doll, and she cherished it accordingly.

Joseph Morris felt that he would have to go direct to Annapolis for the majority of the things his brother wished, so preparations for such a journey were made. Such a trip was quite an event, and Henry Morris was sent around to several of the neighbors, who might desire some commission executed in town. Annapolis was rapidly becoming a place of considerable importance, with a growing trade in tobacco, hemp, and other commodities.

It was a cool, crisp day when Joseph Morris and Dave set out on their journey. They were on horseback, and several neighbors came to see them off and incidentally to load them with further commissions, which had been forgotten until the last moment.

“Take care of yourself, Joseph,” said Mrs. Morris, on parting. “And you be careful, too, Dave,” and then she kissed both her husband and her nephew affectionately. Little Nell also came in for a hug and a kiss, and the others for a handshake.

The distance to the trading-post at Will’s Creek was three miles, and the distance from the post to Winchester, then nothing but another frontier post, was about forty-five miles. But the wagon road from one place to the other had not yet been cut through, and the trail ran in and out along the river and through the forest, making the distance to be traversed at least sixty miles. The mountain pass was a difficult one and at one point ran around the edge of a cliff forty to fifty feet high. Here a tumble for man or beast to the jagged rocks below would have meant instant death.

But Dave thought of none of these perils as he rode beside his uncle or directly behind him. He had a good mount and a good rifle, and his aunt had fairly stuffed their saddle bags with good things to be eaten on the way. The lad saw nothing but a grand outing ahead and whistled cheerily in consequence.

Mr. Morris was more thoughtful and so pre-occupied that he scarcely noticed Dave’s rendering of “The Pirate’s Lady, Oh!” and of “Lucy Locket Lost Her Pocket,” afterward known universally as “Yankee Doodle.” The tunes were whistled half a dozen times, and then of a sudden the lad turned to his relative.

“Uncle Joe, what are you so silent about? You haven’t spoken since we passed the old fish hole.”

“Is that so, Dave?” was the answer. “Well, to tell the truth I was thinking of many things—of the articles we are to buy and where I could probably get them cheapest, and of the talk we had with White Buffalo about the trouble with the French.”

“Do you think we will have trouble with the French?”

“I cannot see how it can be avoided. As I understand it, when the treaty of peace was signed at Aix-la-Chapelle nothing was said about the English and French possessions in western America. Now the French discoverers have sailed down the Ohio and the Mississippi, and consequently they may claim the land by right of discovery, especially when they realize the value for trading-posts and for cattle and farm lands.”

“But can they claim the land when they sail only on the water?”

“They hold that a discoverer sailing along an unknown river can lay claim to all lands drained by that river, or by creeks flowing into it. But this is absurd when it comes to such a stream as the Mississippi which is the basin for miles and miles of territory, or even with such a river as the Ohio.”

“When did they discover the Mississippi?”

“About seventy-five years ago one Padre Marquette sailed down the stream for several hundred miles, in company with a friend named Joliet. They were French subjects and took possession, so-styled, in the name of the King of France.”

“But what about our claim?”

“Well, to tell the truth, our claim isn’t much better than that of the French. In 1741 the commissioners from Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania met a number of head chiefs of the Six Nations, and the Indians, for four hundred pounds, gave up all their claims to the land lying this side of the Mississippi.”

“Well, that claim ought to be all right, it seems to me.”

“It is all right for the land this side of the Alleghany Mountains, but as for the other I doubt if the Six Nations had any right to deed it away. They never lived on it and the story that they once conquered it is only a tradition.”

“Well, who does the land belong to?”

“To the Indians first, and then to the white people who establish themselves on it. As to what nation shall rule, our country and France will have to settle that between them.”

“Then war must surely come?”

“Probably; although the folks in Europe may have enough of fighting for the present. Very few have forgotten the hardships of the last struggle or the distress which followed. For myself, I do not wish to live to see another war, either with the Indians or the French.”

“Have the French any regular settlement on the Ohio and the Mississippi?”

“I don’t know of any settlement on the Mississippi, but their fur traders are on the upper Ohio, Sam Barringford met several of them when he was on a hunt with White Buffalo. He said they were a lawless set, some of them half-breeds, and they would get the Indians drunk on rum and then literally rob them of their pelts. I shouldn’t be surprised if the Indians rose up some time and wiped them all out in revenge.”

“If the French traders are that sort do you think they will bring trouble to father?”

“They are not all that sort. Here and there you will find a good-enough fellow. As to bringing trouble, though, that’s another question. You know when an Indian goes on the warpath he is apt to get excited and then perhaps one trader will look just as black to him as another. But your father didn’t go to trade in rum, and he expected to give the redskins honest value for their hides, so they may remain his friends even if they do rise.”

“I think war is a dreadful thing, Uncle Joe, and I can’t see why civilized nations should fight each other. It’s bad enough for the redskins to do that.”

“True enough, Dave, but I imagine there will be fighting to the end of time. It’s a sort of court of last resort, you know; first folks argue, then they make demands, and at last they fight, and there doesn’t seem to be any help for it. But it’s truly a pity England and France can’t agree—they’ve pitched into each other so many times.”

The pair had now reached the end of the trail beside the creek and for the time being the conversation came to an end. There was a small brook to ford and then the side of a hill to climb. Here the giant trees sent their roots sprawling in all directions and they had to proceed with care lest one of the steeds might stumble and break a leg. The forest was dense, for a woodman’s axe had never yet entered it, and in some spots the gloom was intense while at others the faint rays of sunshine piercing the boughs above served only to intensify the darkness. In spots the trail was very damp and the trees covered with fungi, in other places there were patches of green moss as soft as the most delicate carpet. Here and there the boughs hung so low they had to lift them to get past.

“What a solitude!” remarked Joseph Morris, as they came to a halt in a glade surrounded by stately walnuts. They held up their heads to listen. Not a sound broke the stillness close around them. From afar came the songs of birds and the chant of some swamp frogs. Around them floated butterflies of various hues, and presently came a cluster of honey bees, heading for an old tree they had just passed. At once all else was forgotten by Joseph Morris but the bees.

“A bee tree, Dave!” he cried. “See, we are in luck for once!”

“A bee tree, true enough!” echoed the youth. “It ought to be pretty well filled with honey by this time, too. Of course you’ll mark it, Uncle Joe.”

“To be sure, although I shouldn’t forget it very easily—being so close to this opening and so near to the trail. But we’ll mark it, so that nobody else can claim it between now and the time we come for the honey.”

Approaching the tree with caution Joseph Morris noticed the bees go into an opening just above the lower branches. His experienced eye told him that there was here a hive of considerable size with a good many pounds of honey in it. He marked the tree with care, so that it now became his property by right of discovery.

“We’ll gather in that honey just as soon as we return from Annapolis,” he said. “It will please mother I’m sure, for we are short on sweets for this winter.”

And then they proceeded once more on their way.

CHAPTER IV
DEER SHOOTING BY MOONLIGHT

Night found Dave and his uncle at the cabin of a settler named Risley, an Englishman who had come to the neighborhood a year before. Visitors were far from frequent in those days and the newcomers were made heartily welcome by the farmer and his wife. The former insisted on helping them care for their horses, while the latter bustled about to prepare a substantial meal for their benefit.

“It does one good to set eyes on another face,” remarked Uriah Risley, when they were gathered around his rough-hewn table, partaking of a stew in an iron pot set in their midst. “It is so different here from life in Sussex, where we came from. The good wife thought she should die of loneliness when we first settled. But now she is somewhat used to it. Is that not so, Catherine?”

“Truly it is, Uriah,” answered the spouse. “In dear Lenfield Glen we had neighbors by the score, and the smoke of a hundred chimneys went up of a sunrise; here we have nothing but trees and water and blue sky until I am weary of gazing upon it all.”

“It won’t be so for many years,” put in Joseph Morris. “The settlers are coming in more and more every year.”

“I’ve heard some talk of a company being started to take up the lands in the West,” said Uriah Risley. “I believe Lord Fairfax and others are behind the scheme.”

“To get ahead of the French?”

“Aye. I’d like to see the thing go through, too—’twould bring more faces to this district.”

“I cannot say that I object to the solitude, so long as the Indians do not molest us,” said Joseph Morris. “I love the woods and the lonely rivers—I have grown so used to them that they seem part of my life.”

Uriah Risley nodded to show he understood. “I believe you. But Catherine and I are used to having friends around. Why, the poor wife nearly cried her eyes out the first night we were here—nay, nay, do not deny it, for it’s nothing to be ashamed of, Caddy. She said the mountains and the tall, black-looking trees seemed to fairly press in on her.”

“And they do that—at times,” answered Joseph Morris. “I know the feeling. But it will pass away, Mistress Risley, and you will get to love the trees as you love the furniture of your house—and know them just as well.”

The supper was not a dainty affair, but the riders were hungry and ate long and heartily. After the meal Dave insisted upon helping Mrs. Risley get in the wood and water, while his uncle and the owner of the cabin sat by the doorstep smoking and talking.

The moon was rising over the distant trees when of a sudden Joseph Morris leaped up and reached for his rifle, which he had placed behind the kitchen door, “A deer—down at the end of the clearing, where the brook makes a turn!” he whispered. “If you don’t make a noise perhaps I can bring him down.”

“It’s a long shot,” returned Uriah Risley, who was no marksman at all, measured by the proficiency of the old pioneers. “I can scarcely see the animal.”

“I see him,” put in Dave. “There, he is turning up the brook!”

By this time Joseph Morris had his rifle and was examining the flint-lock. The weapon was in good condition for use, and he tiptoed his way out of the cabin, and crouching low, made for a stump standing fifty feet closer to the brook.

“Let us keep in the shadow,” whispered Dave, who wished to give his uncle all the advantage possible, and the Englishman, his wife, and the boy huddled up in the sheltered doorway. A silence of several minutes followed. Joseph Morris had gained the stump and was on his knees behind it, with his rifle barrel leveled across the top.

“I don’t see the deer anymore,” came in a husky tone from Uriah Risley. “He must have got frightened and run away.”

“No, he is there, behind the brush,” answered Dave. “Hist! here he comes!”

All became silent, and Mrs. Risley breathed hard in anticipation of hearing the rifle go off. Step by step the deer came out of the shadow of the forest until the brookside was gained. For a moment it disappeared, behind some brush, then came into view at the other end. Its head was down and only its back could be seen.

Dave looked at his uncle. Joseph Morris still rested behind the stump as motionless as a statue. Presently he let out a short, sharp, hissing whistle. Instantly the head of the deer came up, and the animal was all attention, staring in the direction from whence the sound had come.

Bang! The shot from the rifle echoed and re-echoed through the night air and across the distant mountain. The deer gave a mighty leap into the air, then fell with a splash into the brook and lay kicking convulsively.

“Good! You’ve got him!” shouted Dave, and ran down the clearing with his uncle behind him and the Risleys bringing up the rear. By the time they reached the game the deer had ceased to kick and was calmly breathing its last, with eyes wide open in painful wonder. They hauled the animal out of the brook, and Joseph Morris speedily put it out of its misery by cutting its throat.

“A fine shot!” remarked Dave. “Straight through the neck. It’s something to be proud of—especially in this uncertain light.”

“A remarkable shot!” cried Uriah Risley. “I couldn’t do that if I practised a thousand years! And you took your time, too.”

“The brush hid him a bit and I wanted him to raise his head,” explained Mr. Morris. “Yes, it was a good shot, but I’ve seen plenty equal to it. You can have venison for a week now, and longer.”

“Don’t you want the meat?”

“No, I’ll take the skin and leave the meat to you for your hospitality to Dave and me. Perhaps we’ll stop again on our return from Annapolis.”

“Do, and we’ll do our best by you,” put in Mrs. Risley. “I’ve been longing for some fresh venison these three weeks back, but Uriah was not equal to bringing a deer down.”

“You should practice more with your rifle,” said Joseph Morris, to the cabin owner. “A pound or two spent on powder and ball is often well invested. Dave, here, I am proud to say, can shoot almost as well as myself, and so can my own boys at home.”

“I will take the advice,” answered Uriah Risley. “For such deer meat as this is certainly worth some shillings, not to speak of the worth of the hide.”

The game was brought up to the house, and by the light of a pitch pine torch, the Morrises skinned it and then turned the carcass over to the Risleys.

“Don’t leave it outside,” said Joseph Morris. “This is the night for wolves to be around, and they will make short work of the meat if once they get at it.” And the meat was hung up at the roof of a cattle shed adjoining the cabin.

The Risley homestead boasted of but two rooms, the living apartment and a small bedroom. Under such conditions there was nothing for Dave and his uncle to do but to wrap themselves in their blankets and make themselves comfortable before the kitchen fire. But this was no new experience for them and Dave slept as soundly as though in his corded bed at home. Once during the night he heard the wolves at the cattle shed, but they soon went off disappointed, and did not return.

The Morrises expected to make an early start, but Mrs. Risley would not hear of their leaving without a substantial breakfast and they had to sit down while she made them some pancakes and broiled a fish her husband had caught in the brook the day before. To these were added some blackberry jam and some coffee. The Englishman apologized that he could not offer his visitors any ale.

“I miss my measure for meals sadly,” he observed. “But we have none in the wood and no pot-house handy, so I have to rest content without it.”

“Water is good enough for me,” answered Joseph Morris. “I care for no liquor, saving it be a hot toddy when I have been in the wet and cold and am afraid of taking sick.”

The day was bright and the weather warmer than it had been, and Mr. Morris and Dave rode off in the best of spirits, the Risleys watching them until a bend in the trail hid them from view. To the Risleys the visit was an event to be remembered. Perhaps no other white person would visit the lonely cabin for weeks and perhaps not even a red man would cross the threshold.

As the Morrises approached Winchester the cabins of the pioneers increased, until several could be seen at a time, far up on the mountain sides, or set snug in the valley below. Winchester was a fairly large trading-post, and here, at certain times in the year the hunters, trappers and farmers did considerable business.

When they entered the place they found that a band of Indians had come in several hours before. The red men had brought in the fruits of their summer hunt, which they were exchanging for metal and glass ornaments, highly colored but cheap blankets and cloths, and liquor and sugar. The two latter articles were in active demand, and many of the Indians insisted on carrying the rum on the inside instead of in bottles, and this made them exceedingly noisy. Here and there a brave partly under the influence of drink would become quarrelsome, but the majority indulged in nothing more dangerous than singing, whooping and dancing.

“Much drink, much good jolly time,” said one red man, as he rolled up to Dave and caught the youth by both shoulders. Then he insisted upon rubbing his nose against Dave’s, a not unusual Indian token of friendship.

“You’d be better to leave the drink alone,” returned Dave, in disgust, as he tried to release himself.

“White man’s fire-water heap good,” grunted the Indian. “Make Turtle Foot feel young again.”

“You may think so, but I don’t. Now let me go.”

“White boy no go yet. White boy drink with Turtle Foot. Feel like big brave. See!”

As the Indian concluded he pulled from under his blanket a large bottle still half full of rum. Holding tight to Dave with one hand, he held the bottle in the other and pulled the cork with his teeth. Then he shoved the liquor to the lad.

“Take drink—heap good fire-water,” he grunted. “Turtle Foot treat—Indian big heart.”

“Thank you, but I don’t wish to drink,” said Dave, as calmly as he could. He was alone with the red man, his uncle having gone inside the post, leaving him in care of the horses. Near at hand were half a dozen other Indians all whooping as if trying to split somebody’s ears.

“White boy must drink with Turtle Foot,” insisted the red man in an ugly manner.

“I won’t—and that’s an end on it!” cried Dave, his temper rising. “Now let me go I tell you!” And he gave the Indian a shove that sent him sprawling flat on his back. At once the other Indians stopped whooping and set up a roar at the expense of their fallen companion.

“Turtle Foot has lost his legs,” said one, in the Miami tongue. “He is as a pappoose in the hands of the white boy.”

“Turtle Foot cannot drink fire-water like we can,” said another. “And he cannot make the white boy drink. He had better return to the squaws and sell his fire-water for a bracelet,” and then another roar went up.

With a snort like that of an angry beast, Turtle Foot turned over on the ground and scrambled to his feet. Fearing trouble, Dave started for the doorway to the trading-post. Then he thought of the horses tied some distance away and hesitated, fearing to leave them unwatched. In another moment Turtle Foot staggered up to him and caught him again by the arm.

“White boy shall pay!” he cried, in a rage, and now one hand slid under his blanket and came forth again clutching a long hunting knife.

CHAPTER V
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

It must be confessed that Dave was both startled and dismayed by the sudden turn affairs had taken. He had not wished to quarrel with Turtle Foot from the start, but the half drunken Indian was one of those persistent fellows who could not be avoided.

“Put down that knife!” he said, in as steady a voice as he could command. “Put it down!” And then he caught hold of the red man’s wrist and held on with all his strength. At once the fellow began to struggle, and Indian and boy swayed back and forth in front of the trading-post. The other Indians looked on in expectancy, but nobody tried to stop Turtle Foot in his evil intention to injure the youth.

Strange as it may appear, Dave did not think to cry out until it was too late, and even if he had done so, it is doubtful if he would have been heard above the general uproar the Indians were making. He felt himself pressed back against a stockade and then his foot slipped in a puddle of water and he went down on his knees. Instantly the Indian’s hand left his arm and glided to his throat and the red man held the knife aloft in front of his eyes.

“Consarn you!”

The exclamation came very much in the nature of an explosion, and was followed by the leap of a white man directly behind the Indian. Like a flash Turtle Foot was yanked backward by his hair and his hunting knife twisted from his grasp. Then the newcomer raised the Indian bodily over his head, rushed across the roadway, and threw the fellow into a ditch, where he went to the bottom with a loud splash.

“Thar, you miserable critter, lie thar and cool off! If you ever dare to tech this lad ag’in I’ll split your wizen fer you! The idee of you a-coming to the post to git rum and then cutting up sech a shindy as this! Clar out with you afore I kick you so full of holes your own squaw won’t know you! And you other redskins, you behave yourselves, or I’ll cut loose, and thar will be some tall shooting and knifing going on, I’ll warrant you!” And the speaker ended with a fist shaking that made the Indians retreat in all directions. They knew the man who spoke and knew he meant all that he said.

“Sam Barringford!” ejaculated Dave, joyfully, as he arose to his feet. “I’m mighty glad you came.”

Like a flash Turtle Foot was yanked backward.—Page [42].

“I’m glad myself, Dave,” returned the old hunter. “But tell me, what made him so sot ag’in you?”

“He got mad because I wouldn’t drink with him.”

“Did, hey? Wall, Turtle Foot always was a fool, and he’s a heap wuss when he’s in liquor.” Sam Barringford looked over to where the Indian was extricating himself from the mud. “Mind what I told you!” he shouted. “Git right away from here! You can come back for your knife to-morrow. I’ll leave it with Seth Crosby!” And not daring to remonstrate Turtle Foot limped down the trail away from the trading-post.

Sam Barringford was a typical hunter and trapper of that period, and well known throughout the whole of the Virginia valley, both to the whites and the red men. He was a man of fifty, tall, broad-shouldered, and with muscles of iron. His hair was long, as was his beard, and from under a shaggy pair of eyebrows peered a pair of black eyes as sharp as those of some wild beast. The look of his face was one of decision, yet not unpleasant, and his voice had a peculiar drawl to it that was whimsical in the extreme.

The hunter was dressed in buckskin, with a wide fringe to his leggings. On his feet he wore a pair of Indian moccasins, and on his head rested a coonskin cap with the tail falling over his back. Around his waist was a broad belt containing a hunting knife and a horn of powder, shot and ball, and across his back was slung a rifle which he had nicknamed Old Trusty, as good a piece of firearm as to be found anywhere.

“The Injuns are as foolish as some white folks when it comes to rum,” was Barringford’s comment, as he and Dave walked to where the horses were tied up. “They know it hurts ’em, and yet they won’t leave it alone. Ain’t here alone, are you?”

“No, Uncle Joe is inside the post. He left me to watch the horses. We are on our way to Annapolis to buy some things for father.”

“Then he’s settled on the Kinotah? I’m glad to hear of that, lad. He ought to do well. I shall hunt him up the next time I git out to that region. Took Tony and Putty with him, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“Them twins is all right and rattlin’ good shots to boot. He’ll do well if he treats the Injuns half right—and I know he will.”

“But what do you think of the French, Sam?”

The old hunter shook his head slowly. “Ain’t no telling what them garlic eaters will do—their mind ain’t the same two days. I’ve heard tell they claim the whole Ohio valley. But they might as well claim the whole airth and done with it.”

“I’ve been talking with Uncle Joe about it and he is afraid the peace won’t last. Nothing was said about Lake Erie or the Ohio valley in the treaty.”

“Then the French will make trouble, if they can git the Injuns to side with them—and I suppose they can, or, at least, they can git some of them—those up around the lakes. You see the Frenchman is the slickest talker on airth and he can make the redskin believe a whole lot what ain’t so.”

The old hunter and Dave continued to discuss the subject for a while longer, and then Joseph Morris came out of the trading-post in a hurry, having just heard that an Indian had attacked his nephew.

“What was it all about?” he questioned, and when told showed how much he was disturbed. “The rascal! He ought not to be allowed near the post! He might have killed you had not Sam come up. Sam, I owe you one for that,” he went on, warmly, catching the trapper by the hands.

“I suppose Turtle Foot will remember me, if ever we meet again,” said Dave.

“No doubt on that, lad,” answered Barringford. “But when you do meet him put on a bold front, and my word on it, he’ll sneak in double-quick order.”

The frolics of the Indians had now been resumed, and a number of backwoodsmen had come in to have a good time also. Some of these fellows were half-breeds and many wore the dress of their red brethren. They were a wild, lawless crowd and, on the whole, more to be feared than the Indians themselves. Soon the liquor was flowing freely, the Indians were dancing and whooping madly, and the backwoodsmen were shouting themselves hoarse and shooting their firearms into the night air. This orgy kept up until two o’clock in the morning, when it died away gradually, the Indians slinking off into the woods and the backwoodsmen dropping wherever it was convenient in drunken slumber.

Joseph Morris had secured accommodations for himself and Dave at a cabin close to the post, and hither they retired, leaving their horses in care of Sam Barringford, who tethered them to a tree in the woods and went to sleep beside them as innocently and as free from care as a child. When the carousal in the village broke up some of the Indians came toward Barringford, but as soon as they recognized the old hunter they took great pains to leave him undisturbed.

Dave slept but little that night previous to the end of the noise, and he sat for a long while at the cabin window looking at what was going on in the moonlight. He had witnessed such a scene before, when a white man and an Indian had been seriously hurt, and he anticipated similar results now. But this anticipation was not fulfilled, for with all the shooting, leaping, shoving and wrestling nobody was injured, and the most that anybody suffered was the tearing of his clothing. One backwoodsman who had refused to pay for liquor for his friends was ridden on a sharp rail, but this act was carried out more in fun than as a punishment.

When Dave came out in the morning and walked toward the trading-post and around it he felt somewhat astonished at the turn affairs had taken. One backwoodsman had aroused another, and all had stolen off as meekly and quietly as had the red men several hours before. The post was almost deserted in consequence and appeared more lonely than ever.

“It’s a way those fellows have,” said one of the traders to Dave. “They go out into the woods for weeks at a time and you never see hide nor hair of ’em. Then of a sudden the Indians come in and the half-breeds and the rest follow, and they kick up such a shindy as you saw. It seems they have got to break loose—they jest can’t help themselves. And they don’t mean no harm by it neither—at least the most of ’em don’t. That Turtle Foot is an exception, and if he don’t look out he’ll get a knife in his back some day.”

Sam Barringford was bound for the home of Lord Fairfax, but had business at Winchester which would keep him at the post for a day longer, so he had to part with the Morrises when they resumed their journey, much as he would like to have accompanied them, for he was strongly attached to Dave.

“Lord Fairfax is a great hunter, you know,” he explained. “But his style is the English one—behind the hounds. Now he wants to git right out in the woods after big game, and he’s offered me a pistole a day for my services, and I’ve closed with him for a month. It’s not bad pay in these times, and he says he may make it more, if I show him something worth bringing down, and I think I can.” And Joseph Morris agreed that it was a good offer, for a pistole in those days was worth about three dollars and sixty cents.

“Is Lord Fairfax going alone?” asked Dave.

“No, he is going to take Lawrence Washington and several others with him. I am calculating on a fine time, for my lord is a good liver and has the finest horses in this section of the country.”

“I know he has a fine estate,” put in Joseph Morris.

“Nothing finer. I read some of the reports that young George Washington brought in—you know he surveyed the tract for Lord Fairfax. He noted down all about the soil and the timber, and the water power and all. I can tell you that young fellow is a smart one. I don’t wonder that they have made him a public surveyor. Lord Fairfax is sure a surveyor from England couldn’t have been more accurate.”

“I should like to see a surveyor at work,” said Dave. “It’s always been a good deal of a mystery to me how they measured land, especially from one hill or mountain to another.”

“Perhaps you’ll meet Washington on your way to Annapolis, lad; he’s out somewhere in the neighborhood of the Shenandoah, surveying a grant of land for a man named Burger. The north end of the grant lies at Heckwell’s Creek.”

“We intended to cross near Heckwell’s,” said Joseph Morris. “How is the river?”

“Very low now and you’ll have no trouble;” and after a few words more the friends parted, and the Morrises continued on their journey.

The route was now directly eastward, across the broad and fertile valley of the beautiful Shenandoah, the name of which, in the Indian tongue, means, “Daughter of the Stars.” Here the forests were still immense, but broken by wide patches of luxuriant grass and “islands” of wild flowers, some of which were still in bloom. The scene was truly entrancing, and often Joseph Morris would call a halt and point out one object or another of special interest.

“How people can box themselves up in a city when they might come forth to enjoy something like this is past my understanding,” he said once. “Was ever air purer or sweeter, or music more full of melody than that which yonder birds are giving us? And listen to the murmur of that brook as it trickles along through the brush and over the rocks; it is a psalm in itself.”

“It certainly is grand, Uncle Joe. If only a painter could set it all down on canvas and show it to the folks that live in such a city as London!”

“Aye, but he couldn’t, for the breath of the life that is here would be missing. To me every tree and bush, and patch of grass, can talk as well as can yonder brook and the birds. And what painter could put that talk in his picture, or that feeling that comes over one as he stands here under such a blue sky? No, it’s not possible, and painters must know it, unless they be truly conceited.”

At midday they came to a halt under the wide-spreading branches of a gigantic oak, a veritable monarch of the forest, standing like a sentinel on a grassy knoll overlooking a wide creek flowing into the Shenandoah several miles beyond. For the last hour the trail had been uncertain, with many wet and slippery spots to avoid, and they had moved forward slowly and with care.

Both felt like eating something warm, and while Mr. Morris got out the provisions, Dave stirred round with a hatchet with which to cut some firewood. There was little on the knoll and he descended and walked over an opening to where grew some brush. Here lay a fallen tree with several dry branches well suited to his purpose.

Dave was hard at work chopping off one of the branches when a noise coming from the woods beyond the brush attracted his attention. There was a cry and then a thrashing around of a human being.

“Hullo, what’s up there?” he called out, and leaving the fallen tree, started in the direction from whence the sounds proceeded. Running through a strip of the woods, he reached a series of rocks where there was another open patch with a spring.

Just as Dave came to the opening a gun went off, and as the smoke cleared away the first thing he saw was a snake twirling and twisting on the ground in its death agonies. Several other snakes were close by, and in their midst was a young man who was doing his best to get away from the reptiles.

Dave had often encountered snakes on the farm, so he was not as frightened as he might otherwise have been. As the young man started to club one of the reptiles with the stock of his gun, Dave aimed a blow with his hatchet at another, and in a few seconds two more of the snakes were put in a condition where they could do no further harm. Then the young man and the boy attacked the remaining snakes, but these glided away between the rocks, and in less than five minutes after it had begun the battle was over and the snakes had departed to return no more.

“That was warm work,” remarked Dave, as he wiped the bloody hatchet on the grass. “Did that first snake bite you?”

“He struck at my boot, but the leather was too thick for him,” was the answer, delivered in quite a cool tone considering the excitement which had just passed. “I must thank you for coming to my assistance.”

“You were lucky to escape so easily. I know a man who got in a nest of snakes like that and was bitten three times.”

“I was somewhat on my guard, as it happens. I imagined there might be snakes around these rocks. But I had to come here.”

“Had to come here?”

“Yes. You see, I am surveying this tract of land.”

“Oh, then you are Mr. George Washington, the public surveyor?” cried Dave.

“I am.”

CHAPTER VI
GEORGE WASHINGTON THE SURVEYOR

At the time Dave Morris first met George Washington, the future President of the United States and “Father of His Country,” as he has affectionately been called, was about nineteen years of age. He was tall, well proportioned, muscular and athletic and showed well the advantages of his temperate mode of living. His eyes were blue and penetrating, and his face, while not severe, showed a quiet reserve and a dignity that made him what he soon after became—a natural leader of men.

It was on the 22d day of February, 1732, that George Washington first saw the light of day, in an old family homestead on Bridges Creek, near where that stream empties into the Potomac river. The homestead was an old-fashioned affair, with sloping roofs coming almost to the ground and with a wide and substantial chimney at each end. It had come into the possession of Colonel John Washington, the future President’s great grandfather years before, and upon the colonel’s death had been left in the family. It was a beautiful spot, but in later years was allowed to go to decay.

The father of the future President was named Augustine, and he was married twice. By his first marriage he had a son Lawrence, of whom we shall hear more later, and several other children. His second marriage was to Mary, the daughter of Colonel Ball, and by this he had George and three other sons and two daughters. Thus it will be seen that the Washington family was quite an extensive one.

George was still a small boy when his father gave up the homestead at Bridges Creek, and moved to a place opposite Fredericksburg, on a bit of rising ground bordering the Rappahannock. The family were well to do, and, as was the custom of many rich folk, Lawrence, the oldest son, was sent to England to be educated. But George had no such advantage, and his first schooling was obtained at a modest country school of the neighborhood, kept by a Mr. Hobby, who was both schoolmaster and parish sexton.

At school George proved a quick and diligent scholar, and there are still preserved some of his copy and other books in which he wrote and ciphered, showing a neatness and orderliness which followed him all through life. He even wrote out for himself a series of Rules of Conduct, which are to-day models of etiquette. He was a champion runner, jumper and swimmer, and many anecdotes have been told showing how he won contests, and how he brought to grief the bully of the school. In those days the wars with the Indians were fresh in the public mind, and Washington with his school fellows played Indians and soldiers, with wooden guns and rude bows and arrows of their own making. Once such play ended in a grand fight that became real, and then Washington did his best to separate the contestants. After the fight was over the schoolmaster called the boys together and asked for an explanation. Each of the boys took his own part, declaring the others in the wrong. In despair the teacher called on Washington, and asked what he knew of the matter. At once Washington stood up and spoke like a lawyer in court, giving the details with great clearness and showing how one was about as much to blame as another, and pleading that the boys be forgiven all around, as they had not meant to make the fight real when they started. The school teacher agreed to let the matter drop if the boys would promise to fight no more, and this the lads did, and separated with a cheer for Washington and with their general good feeling restored.

When Lawrence Washington returned from England, a well educated and highly polished young man of twenty-one, the mother country was having a great deal of trouble with Spain, who had interfered with her commerce on the high seas. This led to the raising of some troops for a campaign in the West Indies, and George’s elder brother obtained a captain’s commission and served under Admiral Vernon and General Wentworth for nearly two years. This service filled George, who was but eight years old, with military fervor, and he forthwith organized the schoolboys into a military company and drilled them on the green—the foundation stone of his great military leadership of the future.

When George was eleven years of age his father died, leaving him to the tender care of his mother and his two older half-brothers. The youth had now outgrown the advantages of the school kept by Mr. Hobby, and consequently was sent to live at Bridges Creek, with his half-brother Augustine, who was married and had settled there. Here George attended a school kept by a Mr. Williams, and was as diligent as ever in his studies, although always preferring those of the more practical kind, reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, history and the making out of bills, accounts and the like. He also studied surveying, and often went out for practice in this art, so that he might master it thoroughly. In the meantime, he did not forget his athletic exercises and his horsemanship, and it was said that he could ride as well and throw a stone as far as anybody of his age.

Shortly after his father’s death, Lawrence Washington had married the daughter of William Fairfax, who was then living in Virginia, and managing the large estates of his cousin, Lord Fairfax,—estates which lay upon both sides of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Lawrence had settled at Mount Vernon, named, as told before, after his old commander, and he was now an influential member of the community, belonging to the House of Burgesses, and acting as adjutant-general of the district. Here George was a frequent visitor, and here he became at one time possessed with a desire to join the navy, his brother’s visitors filling him with stories of the glories of such a life. A midshipman’s warrant was obtained for him, his baggage was packed, and all was made ready for his departure. But at the last moment Mrs. Washington broke down and begged her son to remain at home.

“But how can I refuse now I have enlisted?” said George.

“If you go you will break your mother’s heart,” was the sobbed-out answer.

At this George stood for several minutes in deep silence. A struggle was going on in his breast. At last he caught his mother around the neck.

“I will stay at home,” he said, softly. “I can’t go away and see you suffer.”

His baggage was brought ashore, the midshipman’s warrant annulled, and George returned to school. Some few called him a coward for this, but he did not care, for his conscience told him that he had done what was right.

When George gave up school and came to stay again at Mount Vernon he was a frequent visitor at Belvoir, the home of the Fairfaxes, but a few miles away. Here he had a companion in George Fairfax, the son of the manager of the estate, and the two were often out hunting or fishing together. In the meantime, Lord Fairfax, a nobleman of sixty, had come on from England. He was a great hunter and often took the two Georges with him behind his hounds. He took a special liking to Washington and treated him very much as a son, and one day, learning that Washington had studied surveying, asked to see some of the young man’s maps. These were brought and inspected, and at the conclusion of the interview Lord Fairfax made Washington an offer that he survey the estates, and offered him from a doubloon to six pistoles per day, according to the work accomplished. George Fairfax was to accompany the young surveyor.

The compact was made and the young surveyor, but sixteen years old, and clad in plain buckskin and hunting shirt, started out, accompanied by George Fairfax. At times they had attendants with them, but not always. It was the month of March and the snow still lay deep in the mountain passes, and the rivers were much swollen. The two traveled for miles along the Shenandoah, making surveys and maps, the accuracy of which are to-day beyond dispute. It was a life to which Washington was unaccustomed, yet he never complained. For the most part they slept in the open, in the “howling wilderness,” with only the canopy of stars above them. Once they stopped at the cabin of a squatter and the vermin in the bed drove George out in the middle of the night; again they were out in their tent when a big storm came up and blew the tent to shreds and sent their traps flying in all directions. Once Washington’s bed caught fire and he would have been sadly burnt had not his companion awakened him. He now met many Indians, and one day witnessed a war dance, which, however, ended in nothing more than a drunk on the part of the red men. They had to hunt a large portion of their food and had to go hungry several times, when fish and game failed to appear. The Indians were always suspicious of them, and viewed the doings of the young surveyor with awe, and inspected the marks set up with exceeding curiosity. “White man make mark what for?” asked one old Indian, and when Washington tried to explain he went on: “Dis red man’s land, white man no need to mark him,” and strode off in disgust and wrath. That night George and his companion lay awake with their guns in their hands, fearing the old Indian might come back to harm them, but the old warrior did not reappear.

When the surveys were completed, Washington returned to Mount Vernon, drew them up into proper shape, and presented them to Lord Fairfax. His lordship was greatly pleased with the work done and listened closely to all George had to tell him about the soil, the timber in the forests, the currents of the streams, and other matters of importance.

“It was a great work for a young man like you, George,” he said. “A great work. You ought to be a public surveyor.”

“I wouldn’t mind having the position,” answered Washington.

“Then you shall have it—if my influence counts for anything,” replied Lord Fairfax.

Shortly after this his lordship called upon Lawrence Washington, and the three talked it over between them. It was agreed that the opening might prove of value to George in the future, for in the heads of older men there was already a scheme for forming a company to develop the region beyond the Blue Ridge.

“I shall give up Belvoir, go across the Blue Ridge and establish myself at Greenway Court,” said Lord Fairfax. “Then when I am settled we can perfect our schemes. George is honest, fearless, and has a sound judgment in all things, and he will be the man we shall need. He ought to become a public surveyor by all means. Then all his transactions will have a legal standing and will go on record.” And so it was settled.

Washington entered on his new duties with as much faithfulness as ever, and soon he was overcrowded with work, for it was known that he was thoroughly reliable, and there were very few surveyors, considering the many grants of land which had to be mapped out. To him the days and the months passed swiftly. When he needed a rest he either visited his brother and mother, or else went to see Lord Fairfax at Greenway Court, which became a noted resort for all sorts of visitors, who hunted and danced to their hearts’ content. At Greenway Court Washington met many in high life some of whom, when the War of the Revolution broke out, remained his warmest friends, while others became his bitterest enemies.

One day a man named Burger came to Washington and asked him to survey a grant of land near Heckwell’s Creek. Burger was a German who had emigrated to Virginia from Pennsylvania, and he had met Washington while the young surveyor was out for Lord Fairfax, and had helped carry the baggage over a much swollen stream.

“I cannot pay you now, Mr. Washington,” said Burger, “but I will pay you when I am settled down, take my word on it.”

“I will trust you willingly, Mr. Burger,” answered the young surveyor. “I haven’t forgotten the service you rendered me a couple of years ago. You can pay me when you can afford it.” And then he left for Heckwell’s Creek, and went to work. He had been out two days, locating some former landmarks which a storm had partly washed away, when he encountered the nest of snakes, and fell in with Dave as just described.

CHAPTER VII
THE CAMP IN THE MOUNTAIN GAP

Joseph Morris was now coming up, gun in hand, to learn the meaning of the shot which had been fired. He looked with surprise at the dead snakes and then at his nephew and the stranger.

“This is Mr. Washington, the surveyor,” said Dave, and then he added: “This is my uncle, Mr. Joseph Morris. I am Dave Morris. We come from back of Will’s Creek.”

“I have heard of the Morrises before,” said Washington, as he shook hands with Joseph Morris.

“And I have heard of you, sir, and have met your brother Lawrence,” answered Dave’s uncle. “You seem to have had a lively time of it,” he continued, and kicked one of the snakes with his foot to make sure that it was dead.

“Yes, I did have. But your nephew came to my aid, and between us we made short work of the reptiles. Master David, I owe you my thanks, and more.”

Washington bowed as he spoke, and Dave bowed in return. “It wasn’t much I did,” said the youth. “You frightened them pretty well when you fired that shot. It’s lucky you had your gun in hand.”

At this the surveyor smiled faintly. “I was out trying to stir up some dinner,” he said. “You see, I left all my traps over at Denton’s and I did not wish to go back until to-morrow. I thought it would be easy to pick up a bird or two, or a pair of squirrels.”

“If that is the case, will you not come and eat with us?” said Mr. Morris. “We were just preparing our midday meal. We have a-plenty and you will be heartily welcome.”

At first Washington demurred, not wishing to intrude, but soon he saw that the invitation was genuine, and he consented to join the Morrises.

“I left some of my surveying outfit behind yonder rocks,” he said. “I will bring them over and then help with your fire,” and this he did, and soon he and Dave were bringing in armfuls of wood. In half an hour the meal was ready and the three sat down to partake of it.