With Ethan Allen at Ticonderoga
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It had been a very cold night and the ice was frozen solidly about the traps. The catch had been good, too, and both of these facts delayed the young trapper more than common. There were fish lines to examine, also, for some of the traps were baited with fish which was considered particularly tempting food for certain of the beasts they wished to catch. It was long past noon when Enoch got back to the camp for dinner, and then he had gone over but half the line of traps. When he started in the other direction after hastily eating the meal, he knew he should be out until past moonrise, and told Lot so.
“I’ll come and meet you,” said his campmate.
“No need. Reckon I can find my way back alone,” said Enoch. “The moon’ll be up by seven and it’s nigh full.”
It was so, yet Enoch had no thought when he left the camp that he would be as long delayed as he was. It was full moonrise, before the boy had examined the last trap. He had a goodly load on turning his face campward and was glad of the company of his rifle as he heard the wolves clamoring in the forest. The bitter cold would make them ravenous by now, for many of the more easily caught animals had retired for the winter, while the strong crust on the snow enabled the deer to outdistance their shaggy enemies. While still three miles or more from camp he heard the beasts howling so savagely that he really became alarmed and would have thrown down his pack and run had he not shrunk from so betraying his fear to Lot.
He knew, too, by the nature of the wolves’ cries that they were close on the track of some quarry, and that it could not be his trail they were following, for they were approaching the creek through the timber on the western side of the stream. But the sound of the chase drew rapidly nearer, and desperately as Enoch hurried he could not distance the pack. The western bank was high and sloping just here and with anxious eyes the boy looked up the white incline, where the trees stood rather far apart, to catch the first glimpse possible of the wolves and their prey. Suddenly there came into view several dark objects moving swiftly over the snow. One was ahead, flitting from tree to tree, its identity almost indistinguishable at first. Then, with almost a shriek of horror, Enoch recognized the wolves’ quarry as a human being!
The pursued was on snow-shoes and coming to a steeper part of the creek bank, at once slid down to the ice. After him, their red tongues hanging to their breasts, and baying at every leap, came a round dozen of the ravenous creatures. Enoch saw that the unfortunate man was armed with a gun, but that evidently the weapon had been injured in some way, for he did not make use of it to beat off the wolves. He limped as he ran, too, and the young trapper saw plainly that the pack would overtake and pull him down in a very few moments.
Once upon the ice the beasts spread out and almost surrounded him. While he limped on most awkwardly, the strong, sharp claws of the wolves helped them over the surface and soon the leader–a gaunt, gray monster with cropped ears and scarred back–leaped to seize the prey. Enoch, without a thought of his own danger, had hurried on, re-priming his rifle as he ran; but he was scarcely within fair gun-shot when the wolf leaped. The beast caught the fugitive by the shoulder, and its weight dragged the man down. He tripped upon his snow-shoes and in an instant was falling face-downward on the ice with the pack of hungry beasts fighting above him!
Enoch fired his rifle into the midst of the pack as he ran, but although one of the wolves rolled over, kicking convulsively upon the ice, the others scarcely noticed the attack. So eager were they to get at the quarry which they had followed far, that the shot did not frighten them. But the boy was among them in a moment, his gun clubbed, and a fierce desire in his heart to slay the horrid beasts.
He really thought the fallen man was killed, and his attack was inspired wholly by a desire for revenge. He laid about him with the gun-stock in a most furious fashion, and the wolves were soon cleared from above their prostrate victim. His attack quelled the courage of the pack for a little, and even the leader shrank away, howling dolefully. But the respite was not sufficient to allow Enoch to reload his gun.
When the brutes fell back, the man upon the ice showed that he was by no means dead, though his exhaustion was plain. He struggled to his knees, and reaching up seized the hunting-knife from Enoch’s belt, and the small axe with which the latter had cut the ice away from his traps. With one of these weapons in each hand he crouched in readiness to defend himself when the wolves should renew their attack.
And he had not long to wait, for both hunger and natural ferocity urged them on. Suddenly the leader, with a savage snarl which fairly turned the blood cold in Enoch’s veins, cast itself full at him!
Raised upon his hind legs the old timber-wolf, the hero of a thousand fights with other pack-leaders, or with the young upstarts of his own tribe, was fully as tall as his antagonist. The sight of its wide red jaws, from which the froth flew as it does from the lips of a mad dog, the gleaming yellow teeth, the capacious throat which seemed fairly to steam with the fetid breath expelled from the beast’s lungs, almost overcame young Harding. For the moment he was enthralled by the terrifying appearance of the wolf, and his arms lacked the strength necessary to swing his gun.
The charge would surely have overborne him had Enoch not slipped upon the ice as he shrank back, and providentially he fell upon one knee. The wolf had sprung at his throat and the pioneer lad’s sinking to the ice caused the beast to leap clear over both the human actors in the drama. But as its lean gray body flashed past, the stranger reached up and with Enoch’s keen hunting-knife slit a great wound in the exposed body. A wild yell rose above the clamor of the pack and the old wolf rolled over and over on the ice in the agonies of death, the blood spurting from the wound at every pump of its heart.
Instantly half the pack sprang upon the dying leader, every male desiring to be master, and all doubtless bearing upon their own bodies marks of the wounded beast’s displeasure. This change of front enabled Enoch to recover both his equilibrium and his presence of mind; and when the other beasts gathered courage to attack him in turn, he was ready to beat them off with his gun and to ably assist his companion in continuing the slaughter. The wolf he had first shot was attacked by its comrades, too, for at the smell and taste of blood the creatures showed all the characteristics of cannibals.
Nevertheless, Enoch and the man crouching at his feet, had all they could do to defend themselves from the charges of the remaining wolves. If the beasts sprang high the boy met them with long-arm swings of his rifle; if they fell short the axe or the knife flashed and the wolves limped away with savage howls, their blood dyeing the frozen surface of the creek. For yards about the besieged the ice soon had the appearance of a mighty strife and although he had only received a scratch or two himself, Enoch was well spattered with blood.
Hunger and the issue from their own veins drowned the natural cowardice of the canines. They charged blindly, and as fast as one went down beneath the blows of Enoch’s gun, or was seriously wounded by his companion, another wolf sprang to the attack. Three already lay dead on the ice, torn limb from limb by their comrades, and three others limped upon the outer edge of the circle, seriously wounded; but still the fierce brutes sprang at their prey, and sprang again!
Involuntarily Enoch shouted aloud at every blow he struck, but his companion maintained a desperate silence. The boy did not cry out because he expected any aid; yet assistance was within call. A figure came running over the ice from up stream and the sharp crack of a rifle announced the approach of Lot Breckenridge, who had come out to meet his friend. Another wolf rolled over in the throes of death, to be seized by its companions and torn to pieces with horrid cries. Lot came on with shouts of encouragement and together with Enoch laid about him with clubbed rifle until the remaining wolves, their cries now turned to yelps of fear, stampeded from the scene of the battle and sought safety in the forest, from the edge of which they howled their disappointment at their antagonists.
It was Lot who first regained his breath and spoke. “Zuckers! but that was a great fight,” he cried, hugging Enoch in his joy at finding him practically unhurt. “But you look as though you had been killin’ beeves, Nuck. And who’s this with you?” The individual in question rose stiffly to his feet with a significant “Umph!” “Why!” exclaimed Lot, “it’s an Injin–it’s Crow Wing! Where’d you pick him up, Nuck?”
Enoch was vastly astonished to see whom he had befriended. “I had no idea who it was,” he said. “How came you in this country, Crow Wing?”
The Indian, now grown to be a tall and magnificent looking warrior, was breathing heavily and had some difficulty in answering for a moment. He stood, too, on one foot, holding up his left one like a lamed stork. “Umph!” he grunted at last, “White boys in good time. Save Injin sure!” He gravely offered his hand first to Enoch and then to Lot. “Crow Wing lame. Hurt foot–break gun–wolves come howl, howl, howl! No can scare ’em; no can make fire; no can run good. Umph!”
“You’ll have to go to our camp,” said Enoch. “You can’t travel on that foot. You’ve sprained or broken it.”
Crow Wing nodded. He made no sign that the foot hurt him, excepting by holding it off the ice. “Some wolf pelts good,” he remarked, sententiously.
Lot had already turned away to examine the dead beasts. Only two skins were fit to be stripped from the carcasses and added to the pelts Enoch had brought from the traps. The two white boys quickly obtained these and then, with the Indian hobbling between them, and leaning on their shoulders, the trio made their way to camp through the moonlight, while the remaining wolves slunk back to the scene of the battle and devoured their dead comrades.
CHAPTER XIV
THE TESTIMONY OF CROW WING
The natures of the white man and the red are so opposed that it was impossible from the beginning of our North American history that either should really understand the sentiments and desires of the other. In the eyes of the Indian the most stoical and repressive white man was little better than a garrulous old woman. The “Yenghese,” as the Indians called the English, were less criticised on this point than were the French; but the latter, being an imitative race, more easily adapted themselves to the manner and life of the red man, and therefore won his confidence if not his respect.
Crow Wing displayed neither astonishment at finding the two white boys here, nor pain at the serious accident which had overtaken him. And it would have been a waste of time to urge him to explain more fully his being in this neighborhood. When he was ready to speak he would do so, and long after Lot Breckenridge was asleep, rolled up in his blanket and with his feet to the fire which blazed at the opening of the hut, did Enoch wait for the story. Crow Wing waited until he had slowly smoked out the little brass-bowled pipe which he carried with tobacco in a pouch at his belt. This pouch of tobacco and another of parched Indian corn, were all the provisions the ordinary Indian carried when on the march. The forest must supply his larder from time to time as he had need; and if game was scarce the red man went uncomplainingly with empty stomach.
“Harding and Lot found much pelt?” he said, questioningly, waving his hand at the bales of furs in the back of the shelter.
“So-so. We can’t complain, Crow Wing. You were trapping, too?”
“Yonder,” replied the Indian, pointing to the west. “Crow Wing look at trap; wolves met him; wolves very hungry; make much mad when hungry. Umph!”
“And they attacked you right away?”
“Umph! Me shoot; then club gun. Hit tree first time; break gun; then run some more. Catch foot and fall; much hurt. That all.”
“Are you alone at your camp yonder?”
“Umph!” said the Indian, nodding affirmatively.
“You had better stay here till your foot’s well. I reckon that gun can be repaired, too. Only the stock is broken.”
The Indian’s eyes gleamed, showing that this statement pleased him vastly. Crow Wing’s “fire-tube” was his most precious possession. “Me thought no good,” he said.
“I know of a man in Bennington who can fix it,” declared Enoch. “Have you many pelts at your camp?”
On his fingers Crow Wing showed how many beaver skins, otter pelts, wolf hides, and other and less worthy furs, he had obtained. He also stated that he had three steel wolf traps and two beaver or otter traps which he had obtained from a farmer for whom he had worked.
“We can bring ’em all over here. Lot and I will go for them. You can’t get around on that foot much for several weeks. It’s bad. You ’tend camp and stretch pelts, while Lot and I look out for the traps. Then, when we go home, you take one third of the pelts.”
Crow Wing thought of this silently for a moment and then held out his hand with gravity. “Good! Crow Wing go to Bennington with Harding and Lot; sell pelts there and get gun fixed. Umph!”
Although Enoch had suggested this scheme upon his own responsibility he knew Lot would agree to it. Really, it was a good thing for all three. Crow Wing’s gun was useless, and his lame foot made traveling next to impossible for a while. But he could keep camp all right and look after the pelts. The traps the Indian had would be of much service to the white boys and would increase their own gains not a little. So upon this amicable basis the Indian joined the party and the next day Lot and Enoch, directed by Crow Wing, traveled to the Indian’s camp and packed back both the traps and the skins.
The boys learned that Crow Wing’s people now resided in New York colony, on the shores of Lake George, and that the young warrior had not been east of the Twenty-Mile Line since the raid of Simon Halpen upon the Widow Harding’s cabin. By patient questioning Enoch learned that Halpen had lived for months at a time with the tribe, but that he was not an adopted member of it, and was not altogether trusted by Crow Wing’s people.
“When burn cabin, old chief–my father–be told. Injins friends with Bennin’ton men; friends with York men, too. But Hawknose,” the Indian’s sobriquet for Simon Halpen, “sent away. He never come back.”
“You have hunted with him?” said Enoch, with some eagerness. “You were with him that day–you know–long ago; the day the Yorkers came up to James Breckenridge’s farm?”
Crow Wing made no reply for some time, gazing with gloomy eyes into the fire. Finally he said, speaking in an oracular manner, yet brokenly as he always did, for the English tongue was hard to him: “Jonas Harding not friend to Injin; Injin not friend to him. You friend to Crow Wing. You fight Crow Wing; fight ’um fair; when foot well we fight once more? Umph!”
Enoch laughed. “I’ll wrastle you any time you like, Crow Wing. But you can beat me running.”
The Indian, undisturbed, went on: “You not like father; you not speak Injin like he be slave-man; Injin free!” and he said it proudly, for the redskins looked down upon the negroes because they were the slaves of the colonists. “Hawknose no like Jonas Harding; he own your land; he buy it from Great Father of York and he buy it from Injin. All land Injin’s once,” he added, with a cloud upon his face. “Injin come with Hawknose to measure land; white man bring little thing to measure it; Jonas Harding throw Hawknose in creek and more white men beat him. White man, like Injin, feel he squaw when beat. Hawknose mad; tell Injin he kill Jonas Harding; drive you from land.”
“But father was killed by a buck in the forest,” said Enoch, carefully hiding the emotion he felt.
“Umph!” grunted Crow Wing, and would say nothing further at the time.
Lot, although he had been often a companion of the Indian when the latter lived near his uncle’s farm, looked upon him just as he did upon Sambo, Breckenridge’s slave boy. He had played with him, swam with him, learned to use the bow and arrow under Crow Wing’s instruction, and had gained something of forest lore from the Indian youth; but he had no respect for him, or for his peculiarities. He had not learned at ’Siah Bolderwood’s knee of the really admirable qualities of these people whom the whites were pleased to call “savages.” Lot made no objection to Crow Wing’s joining them, for his presence, and the use of his traps, was a very good thing for them. He patronized the Indian, however, and was not above suggesting that, as the redman was so ignorant, it would not really be necessary to divide the pelts in even thirds at the end of the season.
“The trader won’t give him but about so much for them, anyway, no matter how many he offers,” he said to Enoch. “You know how it is with them. Injins can’t count and the traders fool ’em and cheat ’em. We’d better take some of his ourselves and so get some good out of them.”
“That isn’t honest, Lot!” cried Enoch, hotly.
“Huh! it’s honest enough. We won’t be cheating the Injin, for they’ll do him no good. And there’s no use in the traders makin’ so much on him.”
“Then we’ll go with him and see that the traders treat him honestly,” declared young Harding.
“Zuckers!” exclaimed the careless Lot. “Catch me putting myself out that way for a redskin.”
“You’re glad enough to use his traps, Lot!” cried Enoch. And the two old friends came very near having a falling out over the matter. Lot simply followed the example of the older settlers whom he knew. It was no particular sin to cheat an Indian. They were too much like children to look out for themselves in a bargain, anyway.
But as week followed week, Crow Wing’s manner toward Enoch Harding showed that he had adopted him, Indian fashion, as “brother.” Not that the red youth displayed any affection; that was beneath a brave. But he appreciated Enoch’s respectful treatment of him. Crow Wing treasured this in his mind and, when the spring came, and they packed their bales of furs by canoe and hand-sled to Bennington, and Enoch took pains to make the traders pay the Indian quite as liberally as they did Lot and himself for his furs, his gratitude blossomed in its fulness.
Lot went home to see his mother; but Enoch took Crow Wing to the Harding house with him and gave him an old canoe in which the red youth could make his way by water and portage to his home on the shores of Lake George. Crow Wing did not go near the house when Enoch met his mother and the younger Hardings after his long absence; but he sat down to dinner with them and if he used his fingers oftener than his hunting knife to prepare his food it was not remarked, for forks were not always used by the settlers themselves at that day. His gravity awed the younger children, while Bryce admired his proportions openly. The Indian youth was certainly a magnificently built fellow.
Before he went away he sat beside the creek and silently smoked a farewell pipe while his white friend waited for his last words. Enoch believed Crow Wing had something to tell him regarding Simon Halpen and that the time for speech had come; but knowing his nature the white youth had not tried to hurry this confidence.
“Hawknose come here once more–what you do?” Crow Wing asked, when the pipe was finished.
“Simon Halpen is my enemy. If you have an enemy what do you do?” returned Enoch, with some emotion.
The Indian nodded. “Hawknose, Jonas Harding’s enemy. No deer kill Jonas Harding. Hawknose yonder then,” and he waved his hand toward the deer-lick at which the dead settler had been found three years before.
“How does Crow Wing know that?” queried the white boy, eagerly.
“Crow Wing there, too.”
“You saw him – ” began Enoch, but the Indian cut him short with an emphatic “Umph! No see. Hear shot. Shot kill doe. Jonas Harding kill doe. Gun empty.”
“Yes, we found the gun and the dead doe. And there were marks of a big buck all about the place and father–was dead.”
“Hawknose there,” said the Indian, gravely. “Crow Wing see him–running. Pass him–so,” with a gesture which led Enoch to believe that the running Halpen had crossed the Indian’s path within a few feet. “He no see Crow Wing. He run fast–look back over shoulder. And blood–blood on shirt–blood on hands–blood on gun! Go wash ’em in river. Then run more.”
“You saw him running away from the lick?” gasped Enoch. “But there were no footprints but father’s near the place. Only the hoof prints of the big buck.”
“Umph! Crow Wing no see big deer; no hear ’um. But see Hawknose run,” said the Indian significantly.
“But I can’t understand how Halpen could have killed him, Crow Wing. He did not shoot him, and if he had been near enough to strike father down, why did his moccasins leave no mark?”
The Indian rose gravely. “Some time we see. Crow Wing come back here. Harding go with him to deer-lick. Look, look–find out, mebbe.”
“But after three years how can anything be found?” demanded Enoch, in despair.
“Will see,” returned Crow Wing, and, without further word, entered the canoe and pushed out into the river. Nor did he turn about to look at the white youth once while the canoe was in sight. But he left Enoch Harding stirred to his depths by the brief and significant conversation. The youth did not understand how Simon Halpen could have compassed his father’s death; yet Crow Wing evidently suspected something which he had not seen fit to divulge.
CHAPTER XV
THE STORM CLOUD GATHERS
Enoch scarce knew Bryce after his winter’s absence. The younger boy had felt the responsibility of his position as head of the family pro tem and although he had lost none of his cheeriness and love of action, he had gained some cautiousness. His care for little Henry and the girls was delightful and Mrs. Harding was undoubtedly proud of him. Although kept at home almost continually by his duties, Bryce had been able to trap enough beavers to buy the rifle which he had long wanted and on the first training day after the roads dried up in the spring, he went with Enoch to Bennington and was enrolled in Captain Baker’s company.
And during this year of ’74 the train bands became of more importance than ever before. While in Boston and in other cities of the colonies, meetings were held in secret and companies of minute men were drilled by stealth, here in the Grants the Whigs trained openly, and the reason for it was known, too. The course of the foolish King and his ministers was widening the breach between the mother country and the American colonies until, when the Continental Congress met on September 5th of this year, royal authority was suspended almost everywhere but in the New York Colony. Within its confines were the strongest and most influential Tories, while the Dutch, who made up a goodly share of the population, although becoming good patriots in the end and warmly supporting the struggling nation which was born of that Congress, were phlegmatic of nature and slow to rouse.
During these months so pregnant with coming trouble, the controversy between the land jobbers and the Grants waned but little. The Yorkers had received so many sharp lessons, however, that they were careful to attack no settlers who were within reach of assistance from any body of Green Mountain Boys. And as Allen, Warner, and Cochran had many “hide-outs” in the hills, where they kept munitions of war and to which they summoned their followers by means which actually seemed to savor of the Black Art to their enemies, it was difficult for the Yorkers to know where it was really safe to carry on their attacks against the peaceful grantees. Being “viewed” became a most serious matter indeed, and many a luckless surveyor or other underling of the sheriff of Albany, carried the blue-seal of the Green Mountain Boys upon his person for months after an unexpected meeting with those rangers of the forest.
But the Yorkers kept away from Benningford and the surrounding district. More farms had been taken up there by Hampshire grantees than in other parts of the disputed ground and the reign of the Green Mountain Boys was supreme. The Hardings had been very happy since the building of the new house, and, as there had been a school established in the vicinity, the girls and Harry attended for six months in the year. Kate had grown to be a tall girl and looked like her mother, while Mary and Harry were becoming of considerable use outside of, as well as in, the house.