“He is dying—let him rest,” was the planter’s soft answer. And then, for the time being, Maurice Hamilton was silent. From that hour on he mended rapidly, both mentally and physically, until, two months later, he was as well as ever. Benoit Vascal died two days later, and was buried in a common grave, along with the other Frenchmen who had fallen in the battle for the possession of the trading post.
Maurice Hamilton’s story was a long one, and I have no space to relate it here. He was a fairly well-to-do man who, after the death of his beautiful wife and his father and mother, had come to America to seek his fortune. Upon arriving here his twins had been stolen from him by Benoit Vascal, aided by Paul Camont. He had in vain tried to follow the rascals up, although he had received several letters offering to compromise the matter for a certain amount. He said that his wife, when a girl, had received an offer of marriage from Vascal and had refused him, and this had made the Frenchman so bitter. The two gold lockets the twins possessed contained the portraits of Mr. Hamilton’s father and mother.
“This clears up that mystery,” said Dave to Henry. “I must say I am glad of it—on Mr. Hamilton’s account.”
“Yes, and also on account of the twins,” answered his cousin. “But Sam will hate to have them go, and mother and Nell will hate it, too.”
“Well, such things can’t be helped.”
Now that the fighting was over, all hands found a great many things to do in and around the trading post. A new gate was put into place, stronger even than the other, and the stockade generally was also strengthened. The stable was enlarged, so that the numerous horses might have proper quarters, and another room was built to the main building. In the meantime some of the trappers and Indians went out on the hunt and brought in plenty of meat and not a few skins of value.
With the coming of spring came a fresh alarm, and it was not deemed wise to send an expedition eastward. Pontiac was trying his best to combine the Indians in another conspiracy. But his plans failed, and in the end the noted Indian chief fell, brained by a tomahawk in the hands of another Indian. So perished one of the most gifted and at the same time one of the most warlike Indian chiefs this country ever saw.
At last the way seemed clear for a start for Will’s Creek, and an expedition set out, by way of Fort Pitt. Among those to go along were Joseph Morris, Sam Barringford, Mr. Hamilton, and Henry. Mr. Hamilton was feeling in the best of health once more, and he and the old frontiersman had become warm friends. The gentleman wanted to reward Barringford for what he had done, but the latter would not listen to it.
“Let me see them twins now an’ then,” said the old frontiersman. “Thet will be reward enough fer me.” And so it was arranged.
It was a great day when the party reached the Morris homestead. Maurice Hamilton hugged his children tightly to his breast and kissed them repeatedly, and Mrs. Morris was so affected that she wept.