When the boys got back as far as Winchester, they found Sam Barringford there, waiting for them. Through another settler, Joseph Morris had heard of a skilled surgeon who was stopping at the post, and he had sent Barringford to interview the medical man, in hope of getting him to doctor Rodney’s lameness. The old hunter had met the surgeon, and now the four journeyed to the Morris homestead together.
“To be sure I’ll go west with ye, Dave,” said the old hunter. “Nothing would suit me better.”
The arrival of the surgeon at the homestead put Mrs. Morris in a flutter, and preparations were at once made to operate upon Rodney, who was willing to undergo any amount of pain if only he could be cured. Dave would have liked to see the operation, but Barringford advised that they take advantage of the fine weather and push on.
“With some of the Indians on the warpath it may take us some time to get to the post,” he said. “And we don’t want to be caught in the heavy fall rains.”
A day later saw them on their way, all those left behind wishing them God-speed.
“Take good care of yourself, Dave,” were Joseph Morris’ last words. “And tell your father to give up the post, even if he is making money, rather than run the risk of losing his life.” And so nephew and uncle parted, not to meet again for many a long day.
CHAPTER XVII
CARRIED DOWN THE RIVER
It has truthfully been said that in those days the principal trails west of the Shenandoah were those which had been made by the wild animals and the Indians, and these trails never ran in anything like straight lines, but wound in and out around every obstruction. Even the Indians rarely made an improvement, no matter how necessary, so that the trails remained as they were for generation after generation.
Dave had experienced some of the difficulties of trail following in his trips from Will’s Creek to the East, but he had not been out over a day on the journey westward before he realized that what had been left behind was as child’s play to what was before him. On every hand was the gigantic primeval forest, where the towering, rough-barked trees had never yet felt the edge of a white man’s axe. The roots, heavy and snake-like, sprawled in all directions, and growing between these were short, sturdy bushes and creeping vines, often overlapping the trail, as though to keep back any human intruder. Where there was an open spot the grass would be tall and rank and often ingrown with wild flowers. Here butterflies and insects would be numerous. From the forest itself would come the constant song of the wild birds and from the pools and hollows the steady chant of frogs and lizards, mingled occasionally with the gurgle of water falling over distant rocks.
“How lonely!” said the boy more than once. “How lonely in spite of the birds and the wild animals!”