CHAPTER XI
DANIEL BOONE, THE PILOT OF THE SETTLERS
“Well, that settles it!” said Sandy, disconsolately, as he looked at his brother.
“The box is certainly gone,” replied Bob, trying not to show his feelings more than he could help, because he felt sure Sandy must be close to the breaking-down point.
“And we’ll never see our fine belt again,” continued the other. “I wonder if the chief would feel like giving us another, in case he learned of our losing this one?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” Bob returned, with a shake of his head. “In the first place, how could we hope to see Pontiac, when by now he may be many hundreds of miles away from here, for he belongs up near the lakes, where the Pottawottomies have their lodges, along with the Sacs and the Chippewas? Then again, even if we dared take that adventurous journey, and escaped all the perils of the wilderness, perhaps Pontiac would believe he had done all he should for us, and refuse to hand over another belt. I’m afraid we’ll never set eyes on that wampum again.”
“Unless,” remarked Sandy, with the sanguine nature of youth, “those trappers should strike out for the trading posts along the Mississippi, and we’d happen to run across them, some time or other. And I can tell you this, Bob, if ever I do meet with either of those rascals, I’m bound to make him hand over our property.”
“I believe you would,” declared Bob, his own eyes snapping as he saw the look of determination on the face of his brother.
It was a hard task for Bob to inform his parents of their loss. Sandy shirked the unpleasant duty, and remained away while his brother went to find the others. He was moody and silent the rest of the day, a most unusual circumstance for one possessed of so bright and sunny a disposition. In the course of time this feeling would wear off in a measure, but the loss of that valued wampum belt was going to worry Sandy more than a little.