“And now for the post, and father!” cried Dave, on arising the morning following. He was impatient to be off and could hardly wait to eat the well-cooked deer meat which the Indian squaws prepared. With the meat were served some flat cakes made of Indian meal, which were as delicious as any the youth had ever tasted, and water sweetened with honey and flavored with mint.
“It’s curious we haven’t seen any wild animals lately,” remarked Dave, as he rode along. “I haven’t sighted as much as a rabbit or a fox for two days.”
“The Indians bring down everything around here, Dave. That is why they have to go so far away when they are on a big hunt. In years to come game will be as scarce around here as it now is around the lower Potomac.”
“Do the Indians ever let up on the game during the breeding season?”
“Some tribes do but not many. The majority of the redskins believe in bringing down everything in sight, jest as some foolish white men do. If the whites git out here in force, and hunt as they’ve been a-hunting, they’ll kill off everything byme-by.”
The trail kept close to the river and they could plainly hear the water as it rushed along, between the brushwood and the rocks, on its way to the mighty Ohio, and even more mighty Mississippi. It was certainly a beautiful stream, and Dave could readily see why it had charmed his parent.
“I’m going out on it in a canoe some day,” he said. “It will be great sport I know.”
“So it will, Dave, and I’ll go with ye,” returned his companion.
The stop for dinner was a short one, and they would not have halted at all had not the pack horses needed a rest. Dave was so impatient he could scarcely sit still. Barringford understood the feeling and said nothing, and did not delay the rest beyond what he thought was necessary.
It was four o’clock when Dave gave a sudden wild whoop. He had caught sight of a stockade through the branches of the low-hanging trees. “There is the post, Sam!” he cried, and made off at the top of his horse’s speed.