With George Washington into the wilderness

by Edwin L. Sabin

Robert studied the prints in the leafy mould. They were not plain enough to read; they might be Delaware, might be Mingo, might be Ottawa, and might be enemy moccasins. At any rate his business was to follow them until he found Scarouady, or else where they were going, and what the owners were doing.

So he looked and listened, and he took after the moccasins, as if he were a dog trailing. The trail led on and on, winding among the giant trees and skirting the parks. He kept his ears open and his eyes fixed, with little darts side to side; and the trail was so fresh that it made his heart thump. Something told him that these were stranger moccasins. Where was Scarouady?

Then an Indian leaped at him from behind a tree.

Robert was quick. This was no Scarouady, and was no joke. Even as he ducked and leaped, himself, and the Indian crashed by, he glimpsed a bushy head and black and yellow paint, and he knew that the Indian was from the south—likely a Cherokee or Catawba again. And away he ran, like a rabbit, full speed into the forest, with the Indian hard after.

Robert the Hunter was swift, but the Indian was swift, too. Whenever the Hunter looked behind he saw the fellow coming, with great bounds, his tomahawk raised and a grin on his painted face. He was a slender, light-skinned man, with thick hair. Yes, it was a Cherokee, and a warrior. He did not shoot, or throw his tomahawk; evidently he wished to catch this boy alive.

The Hunter had no notion of being caught and carried south. He did not take the time to fit an arrow to his bow; that would be later when he was winded and had turned at bay behind a tree of his own. He simply ran, with the Cherokee in close pursuit. His throat grew dry, and his breath grew short as he doubled and dodged, but he could not shake the Cherokee off.

It was a hot race. Robert looked behind again. The long-legged Cherokee had gained on him. They had run a mile, as it seemed to Robert. Now another fallen tree trunk barred his way. He gave a leap and a scramble, and landed plump into a growling furry body, which whirled upon him, while smaller bodies scampered right and left.

He ducked back just in time. This was a mother bear with two late cubs, half grown. And she barred the way. The Cherokee was coming. The mother bear, bristling, sniffed at Robert, then sniffed the air beyond him, and the Cherokee could be heard. Then the Hunter chuckled, and crouched low, under the log. He was to see some fun. The mother bear paid little attention to him, for he was quiet; but just as the Cherokee sprang through the screen of branches above the log she rose, and his great leap landed him into her arms.

Wah! What a noise, of bear and Cherokee language and of threshing and wrestling! The Cherokee stabbed with the knife, the mother bear bit and struck; and Robert crawled away and ran again, laughing.

Hark! That was a rifle report—Scarouady’s rifle ringing among the trees. The Hunter well knew the sharp bark of Scarouady’s gun. When that gun spoke, it signaled either meat or scalp. He paid no more attention to the bear-and-man fight, but ran for the place from which Scarouady’s rifle had sounded.