Many were the times that Dave wished to set out for his father’s trading-post but his uncle objected. “The country is now a hostile one, lad,” Joseph Morris would reason. “You would fall into the hands of the French or be killed and scalped by their Indian friends. And even if you escaped, what could you do at the post after you got there?”
“But, Uncle Joe, I can’t help but think of father night and day. He has certainly had some kind of trouble with the French by this time.”
“Let us hope for the best, Dave. Your father is a shrewd man and he has some shrewd men with him. He may compromise with the French and all may go well.”
One day Dave was on his way to Will’s Creek to learn the latest news, when he saw a man riding toward him on horseback. He gave a shout as he recognized the rider as Sam Barringford.
“Sam!” he cried, joyfully. And then as the two came closer his face fell. “Why, you have been wounded! Your face is all scratched up and your arm is bandaged! You have been in a fight.”
“Yes, Dave, I’ve been in a fight,” was the answer, as Barringford drew rein. “More’n thet, I’ve been a prisoner of the Injuns.”
“Too bad! And father——”
Barringford dropped his head, not being able to face Dave. “Sorry, lad, but I can’t say much about your father. Ye see, the redskins took him one way and me t’other.”
“Oh!” Dave gave a sharp gasp. “Then the post was attacked?”
“It was, a fortnight ago, by a body of French under thet villian Jean Bevoir and a band of Injuns under Fox Head. They came on us ’most a hundred strong, and right in the middle of the day, too. As soon as the guard saw ’em, we tried to close the stockade gate, but some rascal had blocked it, and the Frenchmen and redskins poured inside like water over a dam. Oh, lad, it was terrible, the fight that followed! Jackson was killed, and Phendell, and Weingate, and every one else was more or less wounded. We took a last stand in the log cabin, but the Injuns set fire to it and drove us out like rats.”