Chapter I
The Camp on the River

"Waal? What did yer see? Clear, I reckon."

Jim Hardman looked up swiftly as a couple of tall figures came silently into the clearing in the centre of which the camp fire burned, and he paused for a moment in the task which occupied him. He was squatting on his heels, after the fashion of the Indians and of all backwoodsmen, and was engaged in cleaning the long barrel of his musket, turning the weapon over with loving care, as if it were a child to whom he was devoted. Indeed Jim had no more faithful friend or servant. For this long musket had been his companion on many and many a hunting and prospecting expedition during the past twenty years. He scarcely ever laid it down, but carried it the day long, usually ready in his hands, or when the times were peaceful and quiet, slung across his slender shoulders. Jim could tell tales of how this faithful weapon had brought down buffalo and deer and many another animal, and had helped him to gather the stores of skins in exchange for which he obtained those few luxuries which his simple nature needed. In his more communicative moods he could narrate how the bullets which he had moulded with the aid of a hot camp fire and a supply of lead had been directed against men, against the fierce Indian inhabitants of this Ohio valley, who for years past had waged a ceaseless and pitiless warfare against all white invaders of their old hunting grounds.

Indeed, "Hunting" Jim, as he was styled and known by all the backwoodsmen in those parts, had need to care for his weapon, for without it he would be lost, and his life would be at the mercy of the first redskin who crossed his path.

"Waal?" he repeated, in his backwoods drawl, as he vigorously rubbed at the shining barrel. "Reckon we're through 'em. There ain't a one in sight. Ef there is, Steve and Silver Fox'll know all about 'em."

He looked with approval at his weapon, and getting to his feet he slung it across his shoulders. Then he stepped softly across to the fire, and bending over it, pushed the long ramrod suspended over the embers a little farther on to the forked sticks which held it. A couple of pieces of bear meat were skewered upon the rod, and had been frizzling there for the past quarter of an hour. Now, as they were placed right over the heat they set up a low-voiced but merry tune, while an appetizing odour assailed the nostrils of the two who had come to the camp. One of these two was without doubt a Red Indian, for he was decked elaborately after the custom of his race; his face was freely daubed with paint, which gave him a hideous and cruel appearance that a feathered head-dress served to increase. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with long, sinewy arms and legs, and gave one the impression that he was in perfect condition and trained to stand the utmost hardship. He nodded to Jim, and took his place in front of the fire, squatted on his heels, and stared silently at the embers. A minute later he opened his lips and spoke in the Indian tongue, his gaze still fixed on the fire.

"My brothers can sleep and eat in peace and contentment," he said, in tones which were dignified and not unmusical. "Silver Fox and the pale-face youth whom you call Steve, but known to us as Hawk, for his eyes are keen, keener even than are mine or my brother's, – have been through the forest and have watched the river. Our enemies have gone, vanished into the woods. We know this for certain, for we came upon their track. They were journeying towards the head waters of the river."

It was a long speech for Silver Fox, and having delivered it, he felt for the buckskin bag in which he carried his precious store of tobacco, filled his pipe and set fire to the weed by taking one of the burning sticks in his long, thin fingers and lifting it to the bowl.

Meanwhile his companion, who had emerged with him from the thick forest which surrounded the camp, advanced to the fire, sniffed appreciatively, and glanced at the meat which frizzled over the flames, in a manner which showed that the sight was a pleasant one. Then he slipped his musket from his shoulders, and stood for a moment to his full height, thoughtfully regarding Silver Fox and Hunting Jim. He, too, was tall and lissom. From the top of his coon-skin cap to the bottom of his soft moccasins he measured a good six feet. He was dressed in a leather shirt elaborately fringed, as was the habit with all hunters, while his legs were encased in fringed leather leggings and in soft moccasins, all of which he had manufactured from skins he himself had obtained. Stephen Mainwaring looked a typical backwoodsman, and as the sun struck upon his well-developed figure, upon his open face, all tanned with long exposure to the wind and the weather, and upon his strong brown arms and hands, even his bitterest enemy would have been forced to admit that he was a fine young fellow, that there was as much strength in his face, in that square, resolute chin, and in those steady, fearless-looking eyes as could well be found, and that his whole appearance gave promise of honesty, a sterling good nature, and a temper which was not to be easily ruffled. Had there been any doubt on the last point Steve's joviality on this fine summer's morning would soon have set the matter at rest. He might only that moment have risen from his blanket, so fresh and gay was he, and no one would have dreamed that he and Silver Fox had been tramping the forest since night had fallen, scouting for an enemy whom they and their comrades had good cause to fear. He sat down suddenly, dragged off his soaked moccasins, and his coon-skin hat, which glistened with the heavy dew that had fallen upon it, and placed them close to the embers. Then he turned a jovial face to Jim.

"Waal, I reckon you can smoke that ere pipe of yours with ease and comfort, Jim," he sang out, imitating exactly the drawl of the huntsman. "Reckon Silver Fox and I can eat jest all we're able to get our fingers on, and can then put in a bit of sleep. There ain't no Injuns this side of forty mile away."

He laughed merrily as Jim looked severely at him, and taking the ramrod in his hand, turned it so as to expose the farther side of the meat to the heat.

"All's clear," he went on suddenly, in his natural tones, speaking in a manner which showed that though he looked a typical backwoodsman he had had an education, and as regards his conversation, was fit to mix with the gentry of New York, or those of Boston or Charlestown, or even with those of London itself.

"That's a lad for yer, Judge," said Jim, scowling playfully at Steve, and then turning to one of the other figures standing or sitting about the camp. "This Hawk gets born out in the settlements and gets took straight away right into the backwoods. He larns to sit a scrawny pony when he's no higher than a dozen piled-up dollars, and to shoot a gun when he ain't got the strength to stand up to the jar one of these muskets gives. Reckon I've seen him knocked endways with the kick many and many a time."

He looked for an answer, and waited while the broad-shouldered backwoodsman whom he addressed sat up and stared thoughtfully back at him and then at Steve, who squatted by the fire. "Judge" Mainwaring, as he was usually styled, was a big-boned, burly man, bearded and as rugged as the oaks which grew in the wood. His eyes were deep-set and thoughtful, and he had the air of a man who reflects, who says little, and that only after due consideration. Indeed Judge Mainwaring had a reputation for wisdom in the backwoods. No man was more respected in the neighbourhood of the Mohawk country, and there was no more skilful hunter, no more courageous Indian tracker than this big man. He spoke seldom, and then always to the point, and in a manner which proved that he had at one time been very different from these rough, honest fellows of the backwoods with whom he now spent his days. Jim and his comrades had had a talk about Tom Mainwaring or the Judge, many and many a time, and had even endeavoured to worm some of his history from him. But always without success.

"Reckon we'd better shut up," said Jim, after one of these many conversations, when he and Judge and some five others had been gathered at Tom Mainwaring's log hut in the backwoods. "He don't mean to tell whar he's from, nor what he was, and small blame to him. He's here, stout and plucky, a good shot, and jest the fiercest hater I knows of them varmint of redskins. Reckon that's enough."

"And need he's had to hate them too," another had added. "Reckon Judge don't care for much after the boy, than to get even with them varmint."

That was indeed the case. No one knew Tom Mainwaring's history, or could even conjecture where he came from, what calling he had followed or what his fortunes had been. To the many questions with which he had at first been bombarded he had replied shortly and with perfect good temper, but in such a manner that none of those who were so curious were any the wiser. Yes, he knew Boston, and New York, and London. He had lived in all three, and he knew France. That was as far as he could or would go, and the settlers who had picked their holdings in the Ohio valley, to the south of the giant lakes of Erie and Ontario, had to be content. He had come to them one fine spring time, a silent man, bringing a wife and a young son on the back of the one horse which he led. He had set up his log hut like the rest, and had fished and shot, and exchanged his pelts for the few necessaries required by these pioneers of the American forests beyond the Alleghany Mountains. His wife was French, that they knew for a fact; while Judge, and in due course Steve also, could speak the language fluently. But where he came from, why this educated man, who lacked nothing, not even dollars, for it was an open secret that he had abundant means, – should come to the backwoods and there bury himself and his wife and boy none could imagine. But it was apparent that, whatever the reason was, Tom Mainwaring had no need to be ashamed of it. His honest dealings with others, his high principles, and the manner in which he had devoted himself to the education of his boy had proved over and over again that whatever the mystery, there was nothing about it that could call a blush of shame to his cheeks.

As to his undying hate of the Indians, that was easily explained. After all, he did not differ very much in that from the few neighbours who surrounded him. But he had undoubtedly more cause for hatred. That same mystery which was for ever a source of wondering curiosity to these rough pioneers of the forest, took Tom Mainwaring over the Alleghany mountains once in a while in the direction of the American coast. Perhaps he went to New York, perhaps to Boston, and it was even possible, seeing that on occasion he had been absent for six months, that he had been to England – wherever he went, one of these journeys had caused him to leave his wife and child in the care of friendly neighbours, and during his absence these unhappy people had been raided by the relentless Indians, the women of the party had been killed, while Steve and one other who happened to be picking berries in the forest, had alone escaped.