[Illustration: “SO THE INDIANS ARE STILL GATHERING?”] ON THE BORDER WITH ANDREW JACKSON _By_ JOHN T. McINTYRE _Illustrations by_ F. A. Anderson [Illustration] THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 1915 COPYRIGHT 1915 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY [Illustration] Contents I. IN THE CREEK COUNTRY 7 II. THE COMING OF TECUMSEH 21 III. THE WILDERNESS TRAPPER 37 IV. ATTACKED BY INDIANS 53 V. THE FIGHT ON THE KNOLL 63 VI. SIGHTING THE ENEMY 77 VII. THE ONSLAUGHT AT FORT MIMS 93 VIII. OLD HICKORY APPEARS 108 IX. THE BLOW AT TALLUSHATCHEE 124 X. AN INDIAN MESSENGER 132 XI. CAPTURED BY THE CREEKS 141 XII. A FIGHT--AND A REVOLT 160 XIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE END 175 XIV. THE BATTLE OF THE HORSESHOE 185 XV. LIFE OF ANDREW JACKSON 194 Illustrations PAGE “SO THE INDIANS ARE STILL GATHERING?” _Frontispiece_ THE TRAPPER WAS SEATED IN THE DOORWAY 45 THEY SIGHTED THE FORT 99 THE ARROWS OF THE CREEKS RAINED ABOUT THEM 163 On the Border With Andrew Jackson CHAPTER I IN THE CREEK COUNTRY “Much good place for camp! Heap fine water!” It was a young Cherokee brave who spoke; from the back of his wiry little sorrel horse he pointed ahead to a small stream which could be seen winding its way among the trees. “Yes; it looks as if it had been made for a camp, Running Elk,” replied a bronzed athletic white boy. “What do you say, Frank, shall we pitch the tent there to-night?” Frank Lawrence glanced toward the sun, which was already lowering toward the horizon. “We might as well, Jack,” replied he. “We couldn’t go much farther, anyway.” Jack Davis shook the rein of his black horse; and so the three rode toward the stream, which was perhaps a quarter of a mile away. It was late autumn and the year was 1812. The Muscogee country, as the state of Alabama was then called, was green with mighty forests, and in places almost untrodden by the foot of the white man; game was to be met on every hand; and the red huntsmen ranged the hills and valleys, seeking not only food, but their foes as well. The young Cherokee warrior led a packhorse which bore upon its back provisions and camp equipment. The youthful savage was a handsome, supple fellow, attired in the picturesque dress of his nation, and carrying a bow and quiver of arrows; also a tomahawk and knife hung at his belt. Jack Davis was about eighteen years of age; he had been born and reared upon the Tennessee border, and had the keen, hardy look which comes of facing nature in her most rugged aspects. Frank Lawrence, on the other hand, was a product of civilization; he was fresh from Richmond; and while he had little of the bronze and none of the woodcraft of the other lad, still, ounce for ounce, it would have been a cunning choice to select the one who would have endured the greater fatigue. Both wore fringed leggings, hunting shirts and coonskin caps; from the shoulders of each hung a long rifle, powder horn and bullet pouch; in their belts were thrust broad bladed hunting knives and keen edged hatchets. “Since we got down into this country I’ve noticed a great number of small streams much like the one ahead,” remarked Frank. “It’s as though there were a sort of network of them.” Jack laughed. “I noticed that, too, first time I got down this far,” replied he. “Those streams gave the redskins of this region their name. They call themselves Muscogees; but the whites call them Creeks.” “It seems to me I’ve heard Running Elk speak of them by another name,” said Frank, with a glance at the Cherokee. “Oh, yes, Red Sticks,” said Jack. “They get that name from the war club they carry, which is always colored red.” “Red Stick no good,” spoke Running Elk, calmly. “Much bad medicine. Cherokee hate ’um.” Both the white boys laughed at this unhesitating declaration; their nags loped easily forward over the velvet-like sward toward the creek; they were intent only upon camp, a good supper and a comfortable rest after the long ride through the wilderness. Suddenly Running Elk reined in his sorrel horse so sharply as to throw it back upon its haunches. With a gesture of warning he threw up one hand. “Stop!” said he. The white boys scarcely needed the spoken warning; they had noted the young brave’s sudden stop; and their own was almost as short. They were at the top of a hill. “What is it?” asked Frank, surprised. But Jack Davis had no need to ask; his sharp eyes, as accustomed as an Indian’s to the signs of the forest, swept the growth of trees ahead, and at once saw the cause of Running Elk’s action. “Look there,” said he, pointing. Frank followed the direction of the indicating finger; from above the softly waving tops of the trees curled a slim column of smoke. “Hello!” said he. “Some one else has camped there.” All three drew back into the cover of a clump of beech; Jack dismounted and began to examine the ground. And as he worked over it, going from place to place like a keen-scented hound, Frank joined him. “Any tracks?” he inquired with interest. “I don’t see any here,” replied the young borderer. “They may have come another way.” Upon his hands and knees, taking advantage of the tall grass, fallen trees and hummocks of earth, he made his way to the right of their own trail. “Keep as close to the ground as you can,” he warned Frank, who followed him. “We don’t know who they are, and as they are almost sure to be on the watch, we don’t want to be seen until we know they’re friends.” About two score yards from their original stopping place he paused. “Injuns!” said he. Frank looked at the signs; there were the hoof tracks of a dozen or more horses; and the broad drag of the poles in the midst of these was unmistakable. “I suppose none but the redskins drag their camp stuff on poles at their horses’ heels that way, eh?” asked he. “No,” replied Jack Davis. “But there are other signs, too. If you’ll notice, they rode in single file; Injuns almost always do that and white men never, unless the trail is narrow. And look where one of the redskins dismounted! See the print of his moccasin in the dust? Only Injuns have feet shaped like that.” They made their way, in the same cautious fashion, back to the place where the young Cherokee guarded the horses. “They’re Injuns,” said Jack. Running Elk nodded; he did not seem at all surprised. “Red Sticks,” spoke he. And then: “How many?” “About ten--with packhorses, and lodge poles.” This latter statement seemed to attract the young warrior’s attention. His keen eyes went in the direction of the curling column of smoke as it was lifted above the tree tops. “Not hunters,” said he. “Party from long way off.” “What makes you think that, Running Elk?” asked Frank. “Hunters no carry tepee; pack meat on horses’ backs.” From their concealment behind the clump of beeches, the three watched the ascending smoke for some little time; then as the sun sank below the line of forest and the shadows began to gather, Jack said: “Well, it looks as though we couldn’t venture down to the creek, at this point, anyhow; so, if we’re going to have any supper, we’d best be looking for another camping place.” Remounting, they headed away to the west; darkness came upon them as they reached a narrow ravine. Here they built a small fire, carefully masked so as not to be observed by a chance prowler; some small game, shot during the afternoon, was roasted upon their ramrods, with flour cakes baked upon the gray coals. While they ate, Frank looked soberly at Jack. “I suppose we’ve been very fortunate in not coming upon any roving Indian bands before now,” said he. Jack nodded. “We slid through this whole Creek region as quietly as you please,” said he. “Never had to stop for anything except to kill a bit of meat now and then, and get a little sleep.” “Well, now that we have run into a lot of reds,” said Frank, “I can’t help blaming myself for dragging you away down here and getting you into danger.” Jack, as he polished a bone to which some scraps of meat still clung, grinned good-humoredly. “Danger!” said he. “Why, the Injuns haven’t seen us; and a sight of the smoke from their camp-fire won’t do us any harm.” The young Virginian also grinned at this; but he resumed, soberly enough: “Our coming on this band so unexpectedly has made me think. Here we are, away in the heart of this wilderness; there’s possibly not a white man nearer than Fort Mims, and that’s fifty miles away. Of course, we’re armed and our horses are good ones; but, if we were attacked by a party of Creeks of any size, we’d stand a poor chance.” “We’re taking the regular chance of the border,” said Jack. “No more, no less.” “I know that; and as it’s a kind of a desperate one, now that I get to thinking about it, it worries me. Not that I care very much for myself,” hastily. “It’s not that; for it’s my affair, and it’s only right that I should meet any of the dangers connected with it. But neither you nor Running Elk are concerned, except through friendly interest in me; and, still, your danger is as great as mine.” Jack listened to this with attention; but that he did not regard the situation with the same seriousness as his friend was evident by the twinkle in his gray eye. “Well, seeing that this little expedition of yours is not any different from the hunting trips which Running Elk and myself take now and then, we’re not as ready as you are for the things that are likely to pop out on us suddenly. Richmond’s not like this border-land of ours; and the inconveniences, such as hostile redskins, panthers and other such varmints, are not so big to us as they might look to some one not used to them.” He wiped his mouth upon the sleeve of his hunting shirt and sat comfortably back against a tree. “So don’t worry about us, old boy; this is nothing new to Running Elk and me; just the day’s work, you might say; and if we weren’t down here with you, we’d be somewhere else, just as dangerous, on our own account.” “Well,” said Frank, “it’s very good of you to look at it that way, Jack, and I hope we’ll come through the trip without any great danger. But just the same I don’t mind admitting that I’ll be pretty well satisfied when it’s over.” “As such things go,” said Jack, “you ought to be somewhere near the neighborhood of that old French land grant you’re looking for. If my calculations are right, inside a day or so you ought to have it located.” “Let us hope so,” said Frank, fervently. “Then my trouble will be over.” But in the dim glow of the masked camp-fire Jack’s face looked somewhat dubious. “Fact is,” said he, “I think your father made a little mistake when he took that old French grant in payment for a big debt.” “I hope not,” said Frank, anxiously. “For it’s about all he has now; if it doesn’t turn out fortunately, things will go very badly with him.” “It’s not so much that I doubt the value of the grant,” said Jack. “But the Creeks claim this whole region; and it would be a hard thing to make good a claim of white ownership, no matter how small the tract. The whole tribe’d be down on you like a landslide before you’d know it.” “But the government would back me up. The grant is a perfectly honest one; the land was once purchased from the Indians by the French government, which granted it to the man who transferred it to my father. Upon the United States purchasing the control of this territory from Napoleon a few years ago, our government recognized all legitimate claims of this sort; so there should be no real trouble.” “Maybe not in the courts; but, as I said before, the Creeks will be sure to have a word or two to say.” As the young Tennesseean spoke, Running Elk, who was reclining upon the ground beside the fire, lifted his head. From across the stillness of the night there came a dull, throbbing sound. “War drum!” said the Cherokee; and the hands of all three reached for their weapons. CHAPTER II THE COMING OF TECUMSEH The three youths stood there, at their lonely camp-fire, in the heart of the Muscogee wilderness, with darkness all about them, listening to the steady, monotonous beat of the drum. “That’s kind of a new thing to me,” said Jack Davis. “Sounding a war drum must be a new fashion, eh, Running Elk?” “Heap big medicine!” replied the young Cherokee. “Big war! Much pow-wow!” Jack kicked apart the embers which made their small fire; then he trod them out after the manner of an experienced woodsman. Frank Lawrence, after a space of listening, said: “There is something unusual in that sound, then, is there, Jack? Out of the ordinary?” “Never heard it before except in an Indian village when some kind of a ceremony was going on.” “Before I left Richmond,” said Frank, and there was some concern in his voice, “the newspapers were full of Indian news; reports of all sorts were going about; it seems that the savages had finally put their heads together, and were planning a league of tribes to resist the advance of the white man.” “Yes; we’ve had the leaders of that thing down here,” said Jack. “But the movement was not among the tribes here on the southwestern border.” “Ugh!” said Running Elk; and there was that about his exclamation which said he was not quite sure upon the point in question. “Suppose,” said Frank, “we leave our horses tied here, and move a little nearer to the Indian camp. There may be something going on that will be worth knowing.” “All right,” agreed Jack, willingly enough. “I’m always curious to learn what the reds are up to myself.” So the boys saw to their mounts, and the pack animal; then with their long rifles in the hollows of their arms, and Running Elk with his bow ready strung and his quiver of arrows handy for use, they moved quietly forward in the direction of the now intermittent sound. There was no moon that night; the sky was without stars; nevertheless there came a soft coppery glow through the low hanging clouds which enabled them to make their way along without any great difficulty. But finally the beat of the drum ceased. “We’ll locate them by the camp-fire,” whispered Jack Davis to Frank. “See, there it is, ahead among the trees.” Softly their moccasined feet padded the earth; carefully, noiselessly they advanced, flitting from tree to tree, from bush to bush. Because they were in the heart of their own country, the Creeks evidently had no fear of attack; therefore they had placed no sentinels about the camp. And because of this the boys found it possible to approach near enough to get a good view of the encampment through the open places in the tangle of brush. In a circle sat a score of savages, each wearing a highly ornamental head-dress of colored feathers; their faces were streaked with paints of various colors and they passed a long stemmed, ornamented pipe from one to the other. “Hello,” breathed Jack, his accustomed eye taking in the unusual features of the scene at a glance. “What does this mean?” One splendid looking savage, by features evidently a half-breed, attracted the attention of Frank Lawrence. “That looks like a chief,” said he, in the same low tone as his comrade. “Heap much chief,” spoke Running Elk. “Him Weatherford.” This name, dreaded along the entire border, caused a thrill to run through Jack Davis. “The Red Warrior!” He stared at the famous leader of the Creeks, who sat like a grimly carven statue within the fire-lit circle. “What in the world can he be doing here?” Frank’s eyes left Weatherford and curiously roved over the remainder of the band; two who sat side by side, and whose commanding personality and different head-dress made them stand out from the others, now claimed his notice. “They must be out of the ordinary, too,” said he. “They look different, somehow.” Jack’s eyes went to the two. “They are not Creeks,” said he, for he was well acquainted with the head-dress of that tribe. “They are strangers.” “Shawnee,” spoke Running Elk. “One great chief. Other much medicine.” Frank Lawrence, who stood beside Jack, felt him start suddenly, and heard him draw in a long breath. “Shawnees!” said Jack in a whisper. “One a great chief, the other a medicine man!” His hand went out and closed upon the arm of the friendly Cherokee. “What more do you know of them, Running Elk?” “They come to the villages of the Cherokee before last harvest moon. They are from the north. The chief is Tecumseh and the medicine man is Elskwatawa.” “By Jingo!” Jack’s voice was lifted to such a pitch that Frank quickly grasped him by the shoulder to recall him to a sense of their position. Then in a lower tone, the frontier youth continued: “Then the thing _is_ spreading! These two are down here again trying to get the Creeks and other tribes into the league against the whites!” Tecumseh, which, translated, means “Wild-Cat-Springing-on-its-Prey,” was a Shawnee, and perhaps one of the most famous and sagacious of all the savage chieftains who figure in the stirring history of the border. At the time in which the boys saw him beside the camp-fire in the Alabama wilderness he was about forty-five years of age. He was the son of a Shawnee chief, but his mother had been a Creek; his birthplace was Old Piqua, near where the town of Springfield, Ohio, now stands. Elskwatawa, which means “the Loud Voice,” was his brother, a Shawnee sorcerer of great fame and known throughout the frontier of that day as the “Prophet.” These two, shrewd and able far above their race, saw that if the advance of the white men were not stopped the power of the Indian would be stripped from him forever. So they set about forming a confederation of all the tribes, and in a solid body striking a desperate blow to regain the hunting grounds wrested from them by the paleface. The fame of the Prophet, as has been stated, was very great; the credulous red man looked upon him with awe, and never for a moment thought of doubting any utterances he saw fit to make. Tecumseh shrewdly saw the value of this; with mystic jargon, with religious mummery, the superstitions of the tribes were played upon until the confederation became a thing of fear to the scattered whites in the border settlements. From near and far the savages vowed to follow the commands of the “Great Spirit” as voiced by the Prophet; the Delawares, the Wyandottes, the Ottawas, the Kickapoos, the Winnebagoes and Chippewas had been dancing and preparing for the great blow at the white interloper for many months; and evidently not satisfied with this, the two leaders had secretly made their way south a second time, and were now, most likely, engaged in trying to arouse the Creeks and other nations against the settlers. All this passed through the minds of Frank and Jack; for they were well acquainted with the force behind the movement; indeed, it had been the one topic talked of in the lonely cabins or the little hamlets at which they halted during the journey through the forest. “Well, if Tecumseh’s got down here again, and the Prophet with him, there’s likely to be an outbreak,” spoke Jack, with assurance. “For the Creeks have been acting ugly for some time, and it’ll not take much to set them on the war-path.” Frank turned to Running Elk. “How did they do with your people?” he asked. The young savage lifted his taut strung bow. “Cherokee is friend to paleface,” said he. “Tecumseh he go away much mad.” “Good!” said Frank. “I hope it happens the same way with the Creeks.” “Tecumseh is Creek on his mother’s side,” said Jack. “That’ll weigh heavily in his favor--if anything is needed to turn the scale.” All this talk had been carried on in the most hushed of whispers; and not for a moment had the three taken their eyes from the painted and warlike circle in the glare of the camp-fire. That the Indians were also talking was evident; but the boys were too far away to hear what was being said. After a little while Jack’s curiosity mastered him. “I wonder if we couldn’t get a little closer without much danger,” whispered he. “Seems to me there must be lots of things in that talk that we ought to know.” Apparently the other two were of the same mind, for they at once agreed. So softly, and with slow, pantherish steps they parted the brush and moved nearer the savage camp-fire. Not a branch was permitted to rustle, not a twig nor dead leaf to crackle under foot. Jack went first, and the young Cherokee was second; Frank Lawrence stepped as nearly in their tracks as he was able and imitated their movements as nearly as he could make them out in the partial darkness. By great good fortune, a large green tree had fallen quite close to the spot where the Creek camp was pitched; the three boys, snugly ensconced behind this, had now a vastly improved view of the scene, and, what was of equal interest, could hear almost all that was said. Weatherford was speaking, and Jack, who had a practical acquaintanceship with a number of Indian dialects, had no trouble in understanding the deep-voiced, solemn utterance. “Word has reached the Muscogee villages of the doings of their brothers, many suns to the north. And the news made us glad.” A murmur went up from the other savages of the Creek nation; it was one of approval of the words of the Red Warrior; and Weatherford proceeded: “Swift runners reached us from the far country of the Shawnees. The Muscogee was glad to hear that the great chief Tecumseh, and Elskwatawa, who speaks the words of wisdom, were once more journeying through the forests to visit their brothers. We have journeyed to meet them; we have smoked the pipe of friendship. Let Tecumseh and Elskwatawa speak.” For a space after the sonorous voice of Weatherford had died away there was a silence. The circle of fantastically painted and befeathered Indians remained as still as graven images; then the Shawnee chieftain spoke: “We are glad that the great chief Weatherford speaks with the voice of welcome. We are glad that the chiefs and the old men of the Muscogee greet us with kindness. It is well; for the blood of the Muscogee runs warm in my veins. Many suns have passed since we left the hunting grounds of our tribe to seek council with our brothers; the trails have been long, the rivers swift, the mountain passes hard; but we are here, and we are heavy with the message of the red man’s wrongs.” Again there was a silence, and then Tecumseh went on: “It is well that my voice is only for the ears of the old men. For they are wise, and will judge well of what I have to say. Young men are quick, but they have no wisdom; they are strong when the war-whoop sounds, for their knives and tomahawks are keen, and their arrows straight. But in the council they are like young bears. My words are the wisdom of the Muscogee; let the old men give ear.” Elskwatawa sat silently while his brother spoke. As became a wonder-worker, he was decked with the teeth and claws of bears and hill-cats; a string made up of skulls of squirrels hung from his neck. Totems and charms were plentifully distributed about his person; a broad band, made of the skin of a rattlesnake, was bound about his brow. The lank hair of this sinister looking savage hung down over his shoulders; his eyes were keen and restless. While those of all the others who made up the savage circle were fixed upon Tecumseh, his were darting here and there, restlessly. More than once they shifted in the direction of the fallen gum tree; and each time Running Elk warningly nudged the white boys crouched at his side. But Jack Davis feared no danger; he noted from time to time the wandering glance of the Prophet; but he felt sure that the savage, no matter how keen his vision, could not penetrate the thick shadows thrown by the branches and stem of the fallen tree. Tecumseh began to speak in a sing-song voice; item by item he took the aggressions of the paleface; wrong by wrong he took the deeds against his people. On the bravery of the red man he dwelt fervently; of the treachery and evil-doing of the whites he spoke with a tongue of scorn. Bit by bit the tide of his anger grew; key by key his voice lifted until it was shrill with fury. His savage audience was stirred profoundly by his recital; their customary stoicism was gradually shaken off; his rage infected them; they swayed their bodies to and fro, their plumes nodding in the fire-glow. The interest and attention of Jack Davis was almost equal to that of the Creeks; he leaned forward, drinking in the utterances of the Shawnee eagerly. “And now,” spoke Tecumseh, “at last the end has come. Suns have risen and gone down upon the white man’s advance, and the red man’s retreat before him. Moons have begun and moons have ended, and more and more the forest rings with the stroke of the axe which means death to the hunting grounds of our fathers. The march of the white man is the march of an evil spirit; the red man must stop this march or his day is done; he must stop it or he will find his grave on the great plains, in the shadow of those mountains beyond which lies another sea.” The sound of the last word still lingered in the air when the Prophet suddenly leaped erect; his tomahawk was snatched from his belt, his right arm went back like lightning. There was a whistling hum of the weapon as it flew through the air; then the sharp blade bit deep into a branch of the gum tree close to Jack Davis’ head. CHAPTER III THE WILDERNESS TRAPPER The haft of the hatchet was still a-quiver from the Prophet’s cast when Jack Davis’ long rifle spoke in reply. Then, with a hiss, an arrow from the bow of Running Elk found its mark; Frank’s piece cracked sharply, and then all three turned and darted away through the trees. Behind them arose a terrific din; the Creeks, amazed at the unexpected happening, could, for a space, do nothing but yell their surprise and anger. Then they seized their weapons; arrows began to sing their swift flights over the heads of the running boys; a few rifles spoke spitefully; but in the darkness the aim of the Indians was bad. As swiftly as they could travel, the lads tore through the woods; emerging from this their way was easier and they could make better time. When about a half a mile from the camp of the Creeks, Jack paused and his comrades drew up beside him. After listening a moment, the youthful borderer said: “They are not after us; we must have given them a scare.” “Creek not know how many,” said Running Elk. “Him think plenty white man.” “Well, I’m glad enough for that,” spoke Frank, as he mopped his face with a handkerchief which he wore about his neck. “It would not be any too comfortable with that crowd pounding at our heels.” They waited for perhaps a half hour for some sounds of pursuit; but as none came, they resumed their course toward the abandoned camp where their horses were tied. “At daylight the Creeks will be stirring,” said Jack, “and then they’ll find our tracks and learn how few there are of us. So the best thing we can do is to mount and be on our way before they know too much about us.” “A good idea,” said Frank. “Creek good trailer,” admitted Running Elk. “Find track, like wolf.” Accordingly they saddled, untied and mounted their horses; then in Indian file they rode away in the semi-darkness of the coppery sky. Jack Davis and Frank Lawrence had been friends for almost ten years. Jack’s father was a prosperous farmer with a great tract of land which he had won from the wilderness of Tennessee, and the boy had been brought up at the plow in the planting season, harvesting the crop in the autumn, and in the fall and winter ranging the woods with his rifle, accompanied by friendly Indians, or by some old trapper who had spent his life in the wilds. But there had been three years in which Jack had gone to school. The school selected for him had been at Richmond and kept by a dapper, kindly old Frenchman who knew much, and had the knack of imparting it. It was here that Jack and Frank first met; they became chums, and during those weeks in which the schoolmaster saw fit to close his establishment at Christmas time, and during the heated term Jack was always carried enthusiastically away to the fine old house on the banks of the James, outside the city. Frank’s father had then been a man of wealth and social position, but things, as his son had told Jack beside the camp that night, had changed. He had great losses in various ventures. And now this old French grant in the heart of the Creek country, once looked upon lightly enough, was all that stood between the old gentleman and real want. Frank had realized this with a shock, and at once he set about turning the land to some practical account. First it had to be located, and that meant a journey through the wilderness. With the thought of this journey came one of Jack. “The very fellow to go with me!” Frank had exclaimed. “He’s as learned in the lore of the woods as the oldest trapper.” So away rode Frank into Tennessee and put the matter before his friend. Jack leaped at the idea; a venture into the woods appealed to him mightily; and at once he sent word to a Cherokee village, two score miles distant, for the young hunter, Running Elk, companion of many an exploit with the wild denizens of the forest. They had been out something like two weeks when they met with the adventure related in the preceding chapter; but save for two bears and a panther, which gave Frank a very thrilling moment, they had had few experiences. But the scene at the savage camp-fire, the streaked faces of the Creek council, the words of the Red Warrior and of Tecumseh had been ominous and impressed themselves upon the boys’ minds. “If the Injuns ever really join together for a war against the whites, they’ll sweep the border like flame for a while,” observed Jack, soberly, as they rode along. “The settlers are far apart, and the soldiers would be a long time getting into action.” “I hope it never comes,” spoke Frank, fervently. “It will gain nothing for the tribes, and it will cost many an honest man his life.” “Big war!” said Running Elk, confidently. “Heap fight. Much kill. Prophet great medicine. Injun fool! Soldiers shoot ’um like wolf.” However, whatever the prospects for an Indian uprising, the mission of the boys at this time was to locate the old land grant, the position of which was set down upon a chart which Frank carried in the breast of his buckskin hunting shirt. Jack now dwelt rather gravely upon the situation; he felt that it would be well to return to the settlements and give warning as to the presence of Tecumseh and the Prophet among the Creeks, but he couldn’t very well see how it could be done at that time. It was daylight and they were seated beside a fire, kindled upon the banks of a small stream, and eating their breakfast of ash cake and baked woodcock when an idea occurred to the youthful borderer. “We’re not more than a day and a half’s travel from old Joe Grant’s trapping grounds,” said he, delighted at the thought. “Joe will be going to the settlements for traps, powder and provisions to carry on his winter work. If we can reach him before he starts, he’ll carry the news we have to tell.” Frank was equally pleased at this plan; and after a rest until noon, for both they and their horses were tired out by the all night ride to escape the Creeks, they mounted once more and headed in the direction of the old trapper’s cabin in the woods. Old Joe Grant was one of those unique backwoods characters so plentiful in the early days of the fur hunters. He had a line of traps, in season, for miles along the banks of the streams; he hunted bear and hill-cats and deer, and lived in a small log house in the shelter of a huge, uprearing rock, in a region into which man, white or red, seldom ventured. Here with a packhorse and a brace of huge dogs, almost as savage as wolves, he had lived for years, only venturing into the settlements in the spring to sell his furs, and in the early fall to lay in his necessities, as Jack had said, for the winter. [Illustration: THE TRAPPER WAS SEATED IN THE DOORWAY] At about sundown next day as the three were riding through a depression between two hills, they heard the deep bay of dogs; in another quarter of an hour they sighted the lonely cabin. The trapper was seated in the doorway, his rifle at his side, mending a trap. The two white boys shouted and waved their caps as they approached; the huge hounds which had winded them from afar rushed forward, their red jaws gaping, and growling deep in their mighty chests. “Down, Bully! Down, Snow!” cried the trapper. At sight of the horsemen he had dropped the trap and seized his rifle; but recognizing Jack he arose, shouted once more to the dogs, and advanced with a broad smile. “Wal, wal!” said he, “this here is a surprise! I wasn’t calculatin’ on no visitors. Howdy, Injun,” to Running Elk. “Light, lads, and have a snack and a shake-down for the night.” Both Bully and Snow, who was a white dog, had subsided at seeing their master so friendly with the newcomers; they now sniffed inquiringly at the horses’ heels and at the boys themselves when they rode up to the log house and alighted. The lads found a place to picket their horses where there was plenty of grass; then they joined the trapper, who was already gathering dried leaves and twigs to start a fire. “Got some good fresh pickerel,” stated old Joe, “and some bear meat which was killed only yesterday morning. Hope you got some flour in your pack; bread’s mighty scarce with me just now.” “We’ve got quite a lot of it,” said Frank, who had been introduced to the old backwoodsman and received a hearty hand-grasp from him. While the fish and strips of bear meat were cooking at one fire and the bread was baking in the ash of another, the two white boys took a plunge into a deep clear pool which was close at hand, and then ran themselves dry in the last glancing barbs of the sun. Then after they had all four done complete justice to the meal, they drew inside the cabin, where old Joe lighted some home-made candles of bear’s grease; settling back upon the skins of bear, deer and catamount which covered the floor, they fell into a conversation which was one of the most interesting in which Frank Lawrence had ever taken part. The candles flared yellow, lighting up the rough log walls chinked with clay; from the peak of the roof hung dried roots and herbs gathered by the trapper for medicinal use; heaps of pelts were piled up in one corner; others were stretched upon the walls to dry. Upon the door was the skin of a panther which in life must have been a monster; bears’ claws and teeth, traps, fishing-tackle, hatchets, and axes, and an extra gun also hung upon the wall. There was a huge fireplace at one side, built of stones and dried clay. With a little thrill of content, Frank pictured the cabin as it must be in the winter, with a fire of logs roaring up the chimney’s wide throat; all was snow and cold without, the dreary wilderness stretched away on every hand, but, within, the fire-glow gave off a cheer and comfort missing in a more stately dwelling. “Wal, what brings you younkers so far down this a-way?” questioned the old man. “Never thought to see anybody this summer.” Jack informed the trapper as to the nature of their errand in the wilderness; the old man, who had resumed the tinkering at the trap which their arrival had interrupted, listened with many nods of the head. “Some day them there old French grants will be worth a mighty heap of money,” said he at length when the boy had done. “But, in the first place, they’ll have to be powerful well proven; and then it’ll not be until the Creeks is larned a lesson.” This naturally brought up the subject of the boys’ journey and as Jack related the adventure with the Creeks, and the words of Tecumseh, the ancient woodsman put the trap aside and gave the matter his undivided attention. After the youngster had related all the details, old Joe began to ask questions; and when Jack had answered these at length, there was a silence. The trapper sat bolt upright, his shoulders resting against the wall, and his heavy white brows bent. “So them varmint Shawnees have got into the Muscogee country again, have they?” said he. “Well, I’ve been expecting it for some time now; but I didn’t think to hear of it so soon, for all that.” “As we couldn’t turn back from our hunt just yet,” said Frank, “Jack thought you’d carry the news to the settlements when you went in for your stores.” “That I will,” replied old Joe, grimly. “I’ll carry it right enough; and I’ll be heading that way in four days’ time. And it won’t be none too pleasant for them to listen to, youngsters; for the Spaniards in Florida and the British on the northern frontier will give the redskins rifles, and ball and powder, and with plenty of them same articles, the varmints’ll be more dangerous than ever.” “The Spaniards have never been any too friendly on the border,” said Jack, resentfully; “and the Creeks, when it gets too hot for them, will race for Spanish territory.” “I suppose the outbreak of the war with England will be of great advantage to Tecumseh,” spoke Frank. Congress had only recently declared war against the British because of that nation’s aggression on the sea. “And, if the truth were known, I’ll venture that’s one of his reasons for starting an Indian uprising at this time.” “Like as not. The Shawnees are a cute lot of redskins,” commented the old trapper. “And Tecumseh and his brother, the medicine man, are the sharpest of them all.” The boys slept well that night in the trapper’s cabin; and next morning after a good backwoods breakfast, they bid the old man good-bye. “Take care of yourselves,” said he. “With things as they are, there’s no telling what might happen. Always be on the safe side of anything that turns up, if you can fix it that way. For you are in the enemy’s country, and there are only three of you.” He shook each of them by the hand. “If you see my father,” said Jack, “tell him I’m all right and expect to keep that way.” “I’ll do it, son,” promised old Joe. “And say that we’ll be back as soon as we can finish up our errand,” said Frank. The trapper waved his hand to them as they rode away; and the huge dogs barked their good-bye as they disappeared in the green of the forest. CHAPTER IV ATTACKED BY INDIANS Their mounts having had a good rest and the boys themselves being more than usually refreshed, they made considerable progress that day. Night found them at the ford of a large stream. “Hello,” said Jack, as they drew up at the ford and gazed about, “this looks like a place I’ve seen before.” “Cache on other side,” said Running Elk, who seldom made a mistake in his observations. “Much dried meat. Put there two snow moons ago.” Jack’s face lit up with recognition. “Why, so it is,” said he. “I hadn’t thought we’d gone so far.” Then to Frank he added: “This is the place we’ve been heading for.” “Is this the Alabama River?” asked the young Virginian. “Yes,” said Jack. “And from now on we’ll have our bearings pretty well laid out for us. Running Elk and myself hunted hereabouts two winters ago; that’s how we came to have the country so well in mind.” They forded the river and camped for the night on the opposite bank; next morning, after breakfast, Frank got out his chart, roughly done upon a piece of tanned deerskin in the pigment used by the Indians. “Here,” said he, his finger indicating the places on the chart, “is the Alabama. Just below is a place where a smaller stream flows into it, and upon the point of land between the two is a small clump of trees under which is written ‘Triple Oaks.’” “The clump would be three trees, I think,” said Jack, “and pretty big ones, to make them stand out so as to be noticed more than others.” “I should say so, too,” agreed Frank. “There is such a place as that not far down-stream,” said Jack. “At least I think there is. I remember some big oaks, just at a place where a creek runs into the river. But how many there are, I don’t know.” Then turning to Running Elk, he asked, “What do you remember about it?” The young Cherokee’s reply was brief and comprehensive. “One, two, three,” he counted upon his fingers. “Three oak trees. Grow near creek on river bank. Half a sun’s ride.” Jack chuckled and nodded to Frank. “He never forgets anything like that.” Frank was much gratified. “Good for you, old chap,” said he, slapping the Cherokee upon the shoulder. To Jack he said: “As we are without instruments, we couldn’t locate the tract without these landmarks, and it’s a great comfort to have some one along who knows where the landmarks are.” Again his fingers went from point to point upon the chart. “Here, to the north, is a hill; and around to the west is a pine forest; I think we ought, by the help of these, to prove if the three oaks you have in mind are the ones in the chart, or no.” When the horses had finished grazing, they were saddled, and the lads sprang upon their backs with keen excitement. That Running Elk was a most excellent judge of distance as well as topography was soon made manifest. For just about high noon, when the sun was staring like a huge fiery ball from directly overhead, Frank uttered a cry. “What is it?” demanded Jack, his hand going in the quick, instinctive movement of the frontiersman for his weapon. “The triple oaks,” was the reply, and Frank pointed over the tree tops. Sure enough, as they broke through some underbrush upon the river bank, they sighted three massive oaks, growing close together and towering above their neighbors like giants above pigmies. To the left of them flowed a slow shallow stream of yellowish water which entered and discolored the river for some distance below. “Well, there they are,” said Jack, “just as I saw them last, and as they have been standing for at least a hundred years.” They all dismounted, and their bridles were thrown across some low limbs close to the water’s edge. Frank got the chart from his saddle-bags, and began unrolling it. “With any sort of good luck,” said he, “we’ll have this job over sooner than we expected.” As he spoke he felt a hand upon his shoulder, pressing downward. “Down!” came the voice of Jack, harshly. “Don’t look up! Down!” His weeks in the wilderness had not been without their effect upon the young Virginian. He had learned that if a thing must be done in the forest, one must do it promptly and without question. So he at once dropped to the earth; as he did so a flight of arrows sped over his head, and a dozen bullets hummed their course through the trees. “Red Sticks,” said Running Elk, from behind the gnarled stem of a cottonwood. He fitted an arrow to his bow, and as Frank, astounded by the suddenness of the attack, gazed at him the taut string twanged, and a shrill cry from across the river told of a victim. Almost at the same moment the long rifle of Jack Davis spoke, and a second yell arose, proving the sureness of his aim. Frank now turned his eyes upon the point of land upon which stood the triple oaks; to his surprise, he saw among the trees all the evidences of a Creek encampment; and a new flight of arrows and volley of rifle shots from behind rocks, stumps and trees, told of the hiding places of the savages. By great good fortune, the boys’ horses, at the first sound of the rifles of the hostiles, had broken away from their slight restraint and galloped off into the woods, unhurt. “Keep close to the ground,” warned Jack, “and after them. We must not lose sight of our mounts, or we’re done for.” Running Elk slipped from tree to tree; Jack crawled along the earth with the supple movements of a snake. Frank followed suit, and in spite of the continuous flight of arrows, they reached unharmed the thick cover of the trees some distance from the river’s brink. By great good fortune, the packhorse, which was a wise old beast, had brought up a few hundred yards away; and naturally the other horses stopped also, and so were easily caught. The boys sprang upon their backs and went tearing away through the aisles of the forest; and as they did so they heard the yells of the Indians, who now for the first time became aware of their flight. “Do you think they’ll follow?” asked Frank, as he and Jack rode side by side for a space where the woods was not so dense. “They will if they have noticed how few we are,” replied the young borderer. “And if they cross the river, our tracks will tell them that.” After about an hour’s hard riding they slackened their pace, and then at the top of a knoll they halted. They had emerged from the forest some time ago, and from where they were they had a clear view of the surrounding country for miles around. Away swept the green of the early autumn, all rippling in the breeze and shining in the sunlight. Here and there a splotch of yellow or red marked where the fall had already set its hand. The sky was cloudless and the air very clear. “It’s the sort of a day when we can see great distances,” said Frank. “I don’t think I remember ever seeing a finer.” “Well, and just because of that,” said Jack Davis, with the caution of experience, “we’d better not stand here in such full view. If there are any reds on our trail, they’ll mark us, even if they’re still miles
{'title': 'On the Border with Andrew Jackson by John T. McIntyre', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}