Dave’s cry was answered by a hunter standing close to the stockade. This was the fellow called Putty, a tall, lean specimen of the backwoodsman. As soon as he caught sight of the young rider, he, too, set up a shout. The shout was answered by somebody within the post, and a man hurried forth, bareheaded and coatless.
“Father!” shouted Dave, and rode up to his parent. “Here we are, safe and sound!”
“My own Dave!” answered James Morris, and as the youth dismounted he caught him closely in his arms. “I was expecting you some day this week. So you are well? I am glad of it. And what kind of a trip did you have?”
“It was not bad, father, although we had some adventures we didn’t look for. But what a truly lovely place this is!” Dave gazed around with much interest. “I see you are strengthening the stockade.”
“Yes, we want to feel safe in case of an attack by the French or Indians.”
“Have you had trouble lately?”
“No, Dave, but there are ugly rumors afloat. How is your Uncle Joe, and all the others?”
“Pretty fair. A surgeon was going to operate upon Rodney when I came away. I would have stayed to see how he made out only he said we couldn’t tell anything about it for a week or two, and Sam wanted to take advantage of the good weather.”
By this time Sam Barringford rode up and more handshaking followed. The newcomers were conducted into the post and Dave was taken around by his father, who was almost as eager to exhibit the place as Dave was to view it. To the youth the trading-post was even a superior place than he had imagined from that first letter from his father.
“I wouldn’t want a better place to live,” he remarked, when led from the main building to the stables. “It’s as comfortable as anybody would want and the location is superb. The name Ella Dell just fits it. But how is the situation for trading?”