Marching on Niagara: or, The Soldier Boys of the Old Frontier. Stratemeyer Edward

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      Henry did so. It was a small blaze, apparently, and in the direction where stood Risley's cabin.

      "Can that be an Indian camp-fire?" went on the younger hunter.

      "I don't think so, Dave. It's worse than that."

      "Worse? Oh, Henry, do you think it is Risley's cabin that is burning?"

      "Just what I do think. See, the flame is growing brighter. Either it's the cabin or that cattle shed he has been building. Come on; we'll soon know."

      Henry now set off on a run through the timber, picking the way with all the skill of an old frontiersman. Dave kept close behind his cousin. As they advanced they saw the fire more plainly and beheld it spread out and mount further skyward. It was Uriah Risley's cabin beyond a doubt, and now the new cattle shed had caught and was also being consumed by the devouring element.

      "This is the work of the redskins," panted Henry, as they leaped over rough rocks and tore their way through a clump of saplings. "And it proves beyond a doubt that they are on the war-path."

      While he was speaking a gun-shot sounded out, coming from a great distance. Another report followed and then all became as silent as before.

      "That must be Risley, or somebody else, fighting the Indians off," said Dave. "We'll have to be careful or we'll run into a trap."

      "Keep in the timber," answered Henry. "For all we know there may be a hundred redskins in this vicinity. Hark! They are around the cabin sure enough."

      They listened and amid the crackling of the flames they now heard the whooping and yelling of a score of Indians, while the flickering glare showed to them the dusky forms moving in one direction and another. Some of the Indians had found a demijohn of liquor belonging to the Englishman and were gulping this down in great glee, while others paraded around with various spoils of war in their hands.

      "I'd like to give 'em a shot – they deserve it," muttered Dave.

      "Don't you do it," interposed Henry, hastily. "They'd be on us like a wind-fall."

      "What do you suppose has become of Mr. Risley and his wife?"

      "Heaven alone knows, Dave. I trust they have escaped."

      "If that was Mr. Risley shooting, do you suppose his wife is with him?"

      "There is no telling. Perhaps he wasn't home when the Indians came up. If that's so then Mrs. Risley is either dead or a prisoner."

      "Was she alone?"

      "I think so – at least I didn't hear of anybody going over lately."

      "I wonder if we can't get a bit closer without being seen? Perhaps we can learn something to our advantage."

      "We might skirt the timber a bit. But be careful, and if the Indians come for us we had better run without stopping to fire, – unless, of course, they get too close," added Henry.

      Once again he led the way, slowly and cautiously, flitting from one tree to another in absolute silence. The fire was now at its height, lighting up the sky for a long distance around. The sparks were blowing in their direction, but the light fall of snow had wet the trees and brushwood, so no harm was done.

      Presently they found themselves again close to the brook, which at this point crossed a garden patch that Uriah Risley had gotten into shape the season before. At the side of the brook was a roughly constructed milk-house, made of large stones for walls and untrimmed timbers for a roof. Behind this the boys crouched, to take another view of what was going on in the center of the clearing.

      The Indians who had been drinking from the demijohn were growing hilarious and their wild whooping could be heard for a long distance. At the start of the fire some furniture had been hauled forth, a chest of drawers and a bureau, and now some of the redmen set to work to break open both articles, to see what they contained.

      "They are after everything of value they can lay hands on," muttered Dave. "What a shame! Do you see anything of – ?"

      The young hunter broke off short, for at that instant came a low moan of pain from the interior of the milk-house.

      "Are you – you white people!" came in a gasp. "If you are, for the love of heaven – sa – save me!"

      "It's Mrs. Risley!" burst out Dave, for he remembered that voice well. He raised his head up to a crack in the rude planking. "Mrs. Risley, are you alone?" he questioned. "It is I, Dave Morris, who is speaking."

      "Dave Morris!" A groan followed. "Oh, Davy, lad, save me, won't you? I am almost dead!"

      "I'll do what I can for you, Mrs. Risley. My cousin Henry is with me. We were out hunting when the Indians almost captured us. The woods are full of them. Is Mr. Risley around?"

      "No, he went to Will's Creek on business. I saw the Indians coming and I tried to run away. But they shot at me with their arrows and one passed through my left shoulder. Then I pretended to go into the house and hide, and when they came in I leaped through a back window and ran for this place. I got into the water up to my shoulders and pulled a bit of a board over my head, to keep out of sight. They came down here and I thought sure they'd find me, but they did not. But I am nearly perished with the cold, and the wound from the arrow has made me very faint. You will help me, won't you?"

      "To be sure we'll help you," put in Henry. "But all we can do at present is to lead you into the woods, and you can have my dry jacket if you want it. We had better start directly for our house."

      "I see a glare of a fire. Have they – they – ?" The poor woman could not finish.

      "Yes, I am sorry to say the cabin is about burnt up," said Dave. "But come, if your husband isn't around, we had better not waste time here. We may be needed at home. It may be just as bad there, you know."

      Both of the young hunters crawled around to the milk-house door and went inside. The board was quickly raised and they helped Mrs. Risley from the watery hole in which she had been squatting with her chin resting on her knees. She was so chilled and stiff, and so weak from her wound, she could scarcely stand, and they had literally to carry her into the timber whence they had come.

      CHAPTER V

      UPRISING OF THE INDIANS

      Supporting Mrs. Risley between them, the two youths did not stop until they had passed into the timber for a distance of five or six rods. They had crossed the stream once more and now reached a slight knoll from which they could see the cabin, which still blazed away, although the roof and one side had fallen in.

      The faint light from the conflagration, sifting through the bare tree branches, was the only light they had, and by this they set the sufferer down and proceeded to make her as comfortable as possible. As fortune would have it, Dave wore two jackets, both somewhat thin. One of these he gave to Henry, who in turn gave his thick jacket to Mrs. Risley.

      "You – you are quite sure you can spare it?" she asked.

      "Yes, yes," answered Henry. "I am sorry I can't give you something to put over your dress, but I haven't anything. Before you put on the jacket let me bind up that arrow wound."

      There was now no time to stand upon ceremony and she allowed him to dress the wound with all the skill he could muster, Dave in the meantime keeping watch, that the Indians might not СКАЧАТЬ