On the Border with Andrew Jackson

by John T. McIntyre

“Creek good trailer,” admitted Running Elk. “Find track, like wolf.”

Accordingly they saddled, untied and mounted their horses; then in Indian file they rode away in the semi-darkness of the coppery sky.

Jack Davis and Frank Lawrence had been friends for almost ten years. Jack’s father was a prosperous farmer with a great tract of land which he had won from the wilderness of Tennessee, and the boy had been brought up at the plow in the planting season, harvesting the crop in the autumn, and in the fall and winter ranging the woods with his rifle, accompanied by friendly Indians, or by some old trapper who had spent his life in the wilds.

But there had been three years in which Jack had gone to school. The school selected for him had been at Richmond and kept by a dapper, kindly old Frenchman who knew much, and had the knack of imparting it. It was here that Jack and Frank first met; they became chums, and during those weeks in which the schoolmaster saw fit to close his establishment at Christmas time, and during the heated term Jack was always carried enthusiastically away to the fine old house on the banks of the James, outside the city.

Frank’s father had then been a man of wealth and social position, but things, as his son had told Jack beside the camp that night, had changed. He had great losses in various ventures. And now this old French grant in the heart of the Creek country, once looked upon lightly enough, was all that stood between the old gentleman and real want.

Frank had realized this with a shock, and at once he set about turning the land to some practical account. First it had to be located, and that meant a journey through the wilderness. With the thought of this journey came one of Jack.

“The very fellow to go with me!” Frank had exclaimed. “He’s as learned in the lore of the woods as the oldest trapper.”

So away rode Frank into Tennessee and put the matter before his friend. Jack leaped at the idea; a venture into the woods appealed to him mightily; and at once he sent word to a Cherokee village, two score miles distant, for the young hunter, Running Elk, companion of many an exploit with the wild denizens of the forest.

They had been out something like two weeks when they met with the adventure related in the preceding chapter; but save for two bears and a panther, which gave Frank a very thrilling moment, they had had few experiences. But the scene at the savage camp-fire, the streaked faces of the Creek council, the words of the Red Warrior and of Tecumseh had been ominous and impressed themselves upon the boys’ minds.

“If the Injuns ever really join together for a war against the whites, they’ll sweep the border like flame for a while,” observed Jack, soberly, as they rode along. “The settlers are far apart, and the soldiers would be a long time getting into action.”