The boys went ahead, their reeds at tilt, like spearmen of feudal days. Each carried small darts, tipped with steel, with thistle-down tied at the opposite ends. A rabbit flashed from under a bush as they advanced, and stopped fifty feet away. The older boy slipped a dart into his reed, brought it to a steady aim, filled his lungs and cheeks, and put all his young strength into the puff that sent the twelve-inch arrow on its course. The rabbit leaped from its mound of moss, and fell struggling with the dart in its side. A partridge that perched in the limbs of a hickory came tumbling down when the younger boy tried his skill. With dignified pride, Tall Grass said to Davy:
“Some day big chiefs!”
The boys soon secured all the game they could carry, Tall Grass not offering his aid, and the party started to return. Suddenly a terrifying yell rang through the woods, startling the Indians until they saw a grin on Davy’s face. The noise of feet was heard, and there soon appeared what was intended to represent a warrior in full attire, with paint, turkey-feathers, bow and arrows, scalping-knife, and moccasins. As the strange creature came closer, the Indians saw that it was a white boy, evidently half-witted. He had trailed them all the way, and had sounded his war-cry in what seemed to him the fittest spot for dark and bloody deeds. Tall Grass gave him a disgusted glance and turned away.
“Heap fool!” was all he said.
The boy was allowed to go back with them, and was shown the use of the blow-gun. He afterwards made one, and became of some use in hunting small game, but he never could get rid of the notion that he was an Indian warrior. He was known as Loony Joe.
Some weeks later the Creek chief, Little Warrior, who had gone north with Tecumseh, returned to Alabama with his thirty braves, of the war faction of their nation. In the Chickasaw country, not far north of where Davy lived, they murdered several families of settlers in cold blood. The leaders of the Creek nation, which was at peace with the whites, answered the demands of the United States Government by hunting down and killing the whole party. Justice was satisfied, but the war faction of the Creeks grew fiercer and angrier with each rising sun. The Alabamas, an associated tribe, became especially truculent, and killed one of the mail-carriers employed by the Government. When Big Warrior sent a Creek messenger to the same tribe, inviting their chiefs to a council, they murdered his envoy, and a desultory war began.
The danger of an Indian uprising became imminent during 1812, and after the United States had formally declared war against Great Britain, on June 18th, every pioneer looked to his rifle and supply of ammunition. While Tecumseh’s messengers were distributing the calendars of red sticks to the Creek chieftains, the British warship Guerrière was taking New England sailors from the decks of American vessels in sight of New York City. England was landing supplies and agents at Pensacola, for use among the restless Indians, the Spanish acting as go-betweens. Uncle Sam was surrounded by the growling dogs of war, without a friend in the world.
While thus the clash of arms drew near, Davy still hunted and farmed and trapped on Bean’s Creek, adding to his fame as a rifleman, and, as he said when he had become known in Congress, “laying the foundation of all his future greatness.” We should not blame him for his overestimate of his own importance, when the flattering attentions of great men, who were equally great politicians, had been thrust upon him. If he at one time seriously thought that he might become President, only his lack of education made his imaginings unjustifiable in a nation that has so often chosen its leaders from the humble cabins of the poor.