JIM LONG-KNIFE

By Florance Walton Taylor

Illustrated by
Dirk Gringhuis

ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY
Chicago Illinois

Second Printing 1967
Copyright 1959 by
ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY
L. C. Card 59-9656

Published simultaneously in the Dominion of Canada by George J. McLeod, Limited, Toronto. Printed in
the U.S.A.

Dedication
To Alan’s three little queens;
Elizabeth,
Leslie,
Sarah.

Permission is gratefully acknowledged for the use of material from “George Rogers Clark Papers” in Vol. 8 of the Collections of the Illinois State Historical Library, edited by James Alton James, copyright 1912.

Minnemung

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I. [A Strange Guest] 7 II. [Was It a Trick?] 25 III. [An Exchange at the Salt Lick] 42 IV. [Winter with the Potawatomis] 57 V. [The Long Knives] 74 VI. [On to Kaskaskia] 94 VII. [No Adoption] 108 VIII. [A Peaceful Interval] 120 IX. [Through the Drowned Lands] 137 X. [Capture of Vincennes] 155

Chapter I
A STRANGE GUEST

Thirteen-year-old Jim Hudson thumped a melon with practiced fingers, then pulled it from the vine and laid it in a pile with the others. He wiped his hot forehead with his sweaty shirtsleeve, turning with a smile toward his mother. “Look, Ma!” he called, “See how many melons we have. And how fine the turnips and corn look.”

Ma Hudson, her rifle across her knees, was sitting on a large stump in the little clearing. She turned at the sound of Jim’s voice, and smiled wearily at her towheaded boy. “Yes, Jim. We’ll have plenty to eat this winter, I’m thinking.”

Jim moved on to another vine and glanced along the row to where his father was kneeling. Ma pushed her sunbonnet back over her faded yellow hair and resumed her watch into the wilderness surrounding the clearing.

All during the spring and summer the Hudsons had worked in this fashion. Jim and Pa had planted their crops and enlarged the clearing by felling trees, while Ma had sat ready with the Kentucky rifle, and looked for hostile Indians.

This year of 1777 was a fearful one for Kentucky settlers. Some had been captured or killed by Indians; others had returned to Virginia discouraged by repeated Indian attacks. The Hudsons, however, had not been molested and Pa Hudson was determined to stay on his land. It was the first farm he had ever owned; he loved every inch of this lush Kentucky wilderness. He and Jim continued to gather melons. Jim worked faster than his father, because each time Pa moved from one vine to another, he had to pick up his rifle lying close by on the ground.

Suddenly Jim raised his head and listened. Then he turned to his father. “Pa, I hear something groaning. Do you?”

Pa seized his rifle and was on his feet immediately. “Where, son?”

Jim cocked his head toward the right. “Over there. Listen. There it is again.”

At this moment Ma Hudson called, “Pa, I hear groaning.” She was already picking her way among the stumps toward the sound, the rifle grasped firmly in her hands.

Pa went striding through the melon patch. “Wait, Ma. Let me go first.” Soon he was ahead of her, with Jim beside him.

The three made their way through the tangled brambles into woods so dense the Hudsons seemed to be walking in twilight. Quite suddenly they saw a bridled horse standing quietly just ahead of them. In a moment the groaning sound came again, this time to the left of where Jim was standing.

He whirled around, scrambled over a large fallen tree and cried, “Why, here’s a boy! Kind of a small boy, too.” Jim started to stoop down toward the prostrate form.

Pa sprang to his side. “Wait a minute, son.” He peered through the gloom and saw an Indian boy smaller than Jim, dressed in a long blue cloth shirt, his face streaked with hideous vermilion. “Maybe this is a trick,” Pa muttered. “Perhaps he’s been put here to lure us into a trap.” Holding his rifle ready, Pa started looking about in the shadowy woods.

Ma Hudson’s hands trembled as she held her rifle and looked down at the boy. “Pa, he’s hurt. Look at his shoulder. This is no trick.”

Pa handed his rifle to Jim. “You watch with Ma, while I have a look at him.” He dropped to his knees to examine the boy, mumbling, “I’m still afraid it’s an Indian trick.”

As Pa turned the boy to one side, he saw an ugly wound where the blue shirt was torn from one shoulder. Then he looked closely at the wound. “Why, I can see a bone too, Ma. I think he’s broken his shoulder.”

Ma forgot about the possibility of other Indians lurking near, as she ventured closer to Pa to look at the boy again. “Pa, he’s not as old as Jim. We’ll have to take care of him. We can’t leave him here.”

“No, reckon we can’t,” Pa replied, as he tried to lift the Indian boy from the tangled underbrush. But the boy’s body was enmeshed in a stout wild grapevine. Pa took out his long knife and began slashing at the tangled vine.

At this moment, the Indian boy groaned and opened his eyes. He looked up at the Hudsons in alarm. When he saw Pa’s long knife, he was terrified and cried out, “Shemolsea! Shemolsea!”

“What did you say?” Jim asked, but the boy had lost consciousness again.

When Pa had freed the boy from the vine, he gathered him in his arms and turned to Jim. “You go ahead with the rifle, Jim, and Ma, you walk behind me. Mind you both keep a sharp lookout. We’ll have to take him back to the cabin.”

“But Pa,” put in Jim, “what’ll we do about the horse?” He nodded toward the animal standing a few feet away.

“Bring him along. And tie him up in our lean-to next to Nellie. But not too close to our horse. She might nip him.”

The Hudsons took the boy and his horse back to their cabin without seeing another human being. While Jim tethered the horse at a safe distance from Nellie, Ma flew about the cabin getting water, her home-made soap, and clean rags for Pa. He set the wounded boy’s broken bone as best he could, supporting it with a rude splint. Then with Ma’s help, he washed the wound with soap and bound the shoulder with rags to hold the bone securely in place.

When they had finished Pa shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s lost a lot of blood. He’ll be a while getting well.”

Ma turned to Jim who was standing in the doorway of the cabin. “Jim, we’ll have to put him in your bed. He’s awfully weak.”

Jim nodded. “Sure, Ma. He’s welcome to it. I can sleep on the floor.”

Pa Hudson laid the boy carefully on Jim’s bed, muttering all the while. “I don’t like harboring an Indian in my house. No, sir, I don’t.” Then he turned to Jim. “You stand guard at the door with Ma’s rifle and I’ll go back for the melons. Some Indians might come swooping in here to get him.”

Ma’s eyes flashed as she stooped to pick up her rifle from the floor. “No, Jim. You go help your pa. I’ll stand guard.”

“All right. We’ll be right back,” Jim said; he dashed out to join his father.

When they had brought all the melons up to the cabin and stacked them in the shade, they fed and watered the Indian boy’s horse. Inside the cabin again they found the boy sound asleep. Now and then, Ma glanced at him as she prepared supper. “Shall we wake him, Pa, and give him something to eat?”

Pa studied the Indian for a few minutes. “No. He’s breathing all right but seems in pain. Probably wouldn’t want to eat anyway. Let’s not bother him.”

After supper the Hudsons conversed in low tones. “Where do you suppose he came from, Pa?” Ma asked.

Pa shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but now we know the Indians have been near our farm.”

Ma’s blue eyes widened and she shivered slightly. “It makes me fearful, Pa. I’ve never really been afraid before.” She laid a thin, work-worn hand on her husband’s brawny one. “Let’s go back to Virginia.”

Jim glanced quickly at his father and saw Pa’s face set in a stubborn mask. He was not surprised to hear his father say, “We can’t go all the way back there alone, Ma. It’s too dangerous. And there’s nothing back in Virginia for us. We were indentured servants, remember. I want to hang on to our farm, all four hundred acres of it.”

Ma sighed and smoothed back her faded blond hair. “But we’re free now, Pa. We finished our time of service before we came out here three years ago. And I’d like Jim to have some schooling.”

Pa shook his head. “There’d be no future for us in Virginia. We have no money to start back there. Here we have land, our own land. And this is going to be a wonderful country. As for school, you can teach Jim the way you’ve been doing. Weren’t you a governess in one of the big houses of Virginia?”

Jim had been looking from one to the other of his parents, his clear blue eyes sparkling. “Please, Ma,” he said, “I want to stay here. You can teach me lots more, and I can help Pa to clear and plant the land.”

Pa nodded to Jim and smiled in approval. “There’s big men out here, too, from the finest families of Virginia. Men like James Harrod, Robert Todd, Simon Kenton and George Rogers Clark.

“You certainly remember Clark, Ma. His father’s land joined where we worked. George Rogers Clark will figure out some way to stop the redskins. You surely don’t intend to let one lone Indian boy scare you away from our home.”

Ma tried to smile. “No. No Pa, of course not. But we can’t be sure there aren’t other Indians near at hand.”

“That’s true,” Pa agreed. “You and Jim go to bed. I’ll sit up for a while and listen for any unusual sounds.”

Ma shook her head. “I’ll stay up with you. Jim, I’ll make a pallet for you.” She got up and fixed a comfortable bed on the floor for Jim. Then she sat down in the cabin doorway beside her husband.

Jim glanced at the Indian boy lying so quietly in his bed, dropped down on the pallet and went to sleep.

Ma and Pa Hudson continued to sit in the doorway, rifles by their side, and to stare out into the silent black night.

When Jim awakened the next morning, Ma had breakfast ready and the Indian boy was looking solemnly at him from his bed.

Jim jumped up. “Good morning, boy,” he said with a smile. “What’s your name?”

The Indian boy did not reply but kept his brown eyes fixed on Jim.

Ma put a pewter bowl containing steaming hot grits at Jim’s place on the table. “Wash your hands and face, son.”

“Yes’m.” Jim poured some water into the washbasin and began splashing water on his face and hands. As soon as he had finished he carried a pan of water to their strange guest, so he could wash his face.

But the Indian boy just stared at him and did not move.

Ma came over and stood beside the boy. “Come now, boy,” she said briskly, “I’ll wash your hands and face. Then you must have some breakfast.” As she turned one hand over and began to wash it, he tried to sit up, but fell back on the bed with a groan.

“Poor boy. Your shoulder must hurt badly.” Ma tried to soothe him as she continued with the washing. “I’ll have to get this awful stuff off your face.” But when she began scrubbing his face, he groaned again and tried to turn away.

“Maybe it means something to him to wear that vermilion streak,” Jim suggested. “Looks like mud, doesn’t it? Or it could be he doesn’t like water.”

Ma wasn’t able to get the Indian boy’s face thoroughly clean. She brought a bowl of hot grits to him. “Here, boy, try to eat some of this.” She held a spoonful of grits to his lips.

The boy tasted it gingerly, found it good and opened his mouth for more. Ma fed him the contents of the bowl while Jim and Pa ate their breakfast.

For several days the Hudsons’ strange guest rested in Jim’s bed. Now and then he tried to sit up only to lie down again with a low moan. With Ma’s good food, however, and excellent care, he did improve and seemed to be less frightened at being with the white family.

Little by little he and Jim began trying to talk to each other. By signs, gestures, and a word or two, each boy began to learn a few words of the other’s language.

Jim learned that the Indian boy’s name was Wahbunou, which meant The Juggler, and that he had been pulled from his horse when it galloped under a large thorn tree. One of the low branches had brushed him off and a large thorn had pierced his shoulder. He had fallen on a jagged stump and into the tangled wild grapevine, where the Hudsons had found him. But Jim was not able to find out what he was doing near their clearing.

As for Pa, he was disturbed because the Indian boy had been riding so near their farm. Every night after Ma and Jim were asleep, he rose from his bed and sat in the cabin doorway with his rifle ready. But no Indians appeared.

Sometime later Wahbunou was able to be up and about in the cabin. He would watch Pa clean and oil his Deckard rifle, but he never offered to touch it. Soon he began walking around the clearing with Jim and Ma Hudson. He followed Ma everywhere, gratitude for her care shining in his brown eyes.

One morning Pa said, “We’d best have a look at that shoulder, Wahbunou, to see if it’s healing properly.” But when Pa tried to remove the rag bandage, Wahbunou jerked away like a wounded animal, terror in his eyes.

“Come now, Wahbunou, I just want to look at it,” Pa said. “I promise not to hurt you.”

But Wahbunou would not permit Pa to touch the bandage.

“Maybe I can show him something new, Pa, and get him calmed down a bit so you can have a look,” Jim suggested. “I’ll get your drum, Pa. Maybe he’s never seen a drum.”

Pa shrugged. “Indians have drums, Jim, though not like ours. All right, get it down for him.”

Jim climbed on a chair and lifted Pa’s drum from its place on the top of Ma’s high cupboard. “Look, Wahbunou.” Jim took the drumsticks and played a short ruffle on the drum.

Wahbunou seemed interested; he smiled as he reached for one of the sticks. He grasped it gingerly, turning it over and over, finally returning it to Jim who played another ruffle and a loud roll. Wahbunou smiled again and reached for the drum.

Jim nodded. “If you let Pa look at your shoulder, you may have it.” Jim pointed to the Indian boy’s shoulder and then to his father.

Wahbunou drew back, but finally nodded.

Pa took the bandage off, and gently pulled the rough splint back far enough to look at the boy’s shoulder. Then as gently, he replaced it. “Your wound is healing fine, Wahbunou. Soon you’ll be as good as new.”

Jim handed the drum to Wahbunou and the Indian boy beat out a queer, rhythmical sound with the palm of his hand. He didn’t seem to know how to use the drumsticks. Then the boys took turns beating it. Jim could make many fancy rolls and ruffles, but Wahbunou could make only the one sound.

One day was like another at the cabin until nights began to grow much cooler. Pa said any day now there would be a frost, so they’d soon have to harvest the turnips and corn.

Wahbunou’s shoulder healed nicely and Pa finally took off the bandage and splint. Now that it was cooler and his shirt was in shreds, Ma said Wahbunou should have a new outfit of clothes. She had been sewing for Pa and Jim, so she made Wahbunou a homespun shirt and trousers. In his new clothes Wahbunou looked like any Kentucky boy, save for his copper-colored skin and straight, coarse black hair.

Not many days after Pa had removed Wahbunou’s bandage, Ma awakened Pa and Jim earlier than usual. “Jim! Pa!” she cried. “Wake up! He’s gone.”

“Gone! Who’s gone?” Pa asked.

“Wahbunou. He’s not in his bed.”

Jim had scrambled into his clothes. “He’s probably outside, Ma,” he cried as he dashed out-of-doors. But when Jim looked around their dooryard and in the shed, he saw that Wahbunou’s horse was gone. He ran back into the house. “Pa, Wahbunou must be gone. His horse isn’t in the shed with Nellie, either.”

The Hudsons could not believe that Wahbunou would leave without telling them good-bye; they spent a long time looking for him. But Wahbunou and his horse were nowhere in sight.

Finally Ma fixed breakfast. As she put bowls on the table, she sighed and said, “I can’t understand why he wanted to leave us. He recovered so nicely and seemed happy here.”

Jim looked up from his food. “But Ma, maybe he wanted to go back to his own people. I sure would if I were with the Indians or some other strange folks.”

Ma shrugged and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “That was the wrong thing for him to do, Jim——go away without telling us good-bye. Sneaking off in the night.”

Pa looked up at his wife, his brown eyes thoughtful. “Now, Ma, I don’t think he did anything so wrong. He was probably afraid we would try to keep him from going, so he just left quietly in the night. I don’t believe he was ungrateful. As Jim says, he probably longed for his own people.”

Jim finished his breakfast in silence and then suddenly said, “Do you suppose some of the Indians came for him?” Jim’s eyes flashed in excitement.

Pa picked up his rifle and put on his homespun jacket. “I don’t think they did, Jim, but I’ll have a look around to see if there are new tracks of any kind. I believe I would have heard them. He probably just rode off alone.”

Ma began to take away the pewter bowls. “I don’t like it at all. I feel queer, as if we were surrounded by Indians. I’m afraid we aren’t safe here any more.”

Chapter II
WAS IT A TRICK?

Not long after Wahbunou’s disappearance, a chill north wind blew into the lush Kentucky valley, warning the Hudsons that winter was not far away. Frosty mornings greeted them, and the trees putting on their mantles of brown, red and gold, told them it was time to harvest both turnips and corn.

Jim and Pa spent several days gathering them, while Ma did sentinel duty sitting on a stump with her rifle ready for use. But she was uneasy while on guard, jumping at each snap of a twig.

Finally the corn was shucked and piled high in one corner of the cabin. Pa stored the turnips in a deep hole near the lean-to, so they would keep all winter. One nippy day when the harvest was finished, Pa turned to Jim after breakfast. “Jim, let’s go hunting today. I’d like to lay in a supply of game before it gets any colder.”

Jim’s blue eyes sparkled. “Today, Pa?”

“Today’s as good as any time, Jim.”

Ma looked troubled. “Must you go, Pa?”

Pa nodded and patted his wife’s shoulder awkwardly. “Now Ma, you’ve been nervous and upset ever since Wahbunou went away. I’d think you’d want us to go hunting. Only yesterday you said you were tired of living on rabbit. You’ll be all right here, but don’t leave the cabin. We’ll be home by early evening.”

Ma squared her shoulders and bristled a little. “Pa, I haven’t been any more upset than usual. You know I’ve never liked this country; I want to go back to Virginia.” She sighed. “I do know we need fresh meat. Well, I’ll spend the day spinning my flax.”

Pa’s brown eyes sparkled in relief. “That’s a good girl, Ma. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get a deer. Then you’ll have a deerskin to make a jacket and some leggings.”

“Or maybe we’ll get a bear,” Jim boasted.

Soon they were ready to go. Jim was dressed exactly like his father. Each wore home-made moccasins, fur caps, loose thin homespun trousers, topped by long fringed hunting shirts reaching nearly to their knees. Their shirts were held in at the waist by broad belts.

Pa hung his long knife from his belt and Jim started down the clearing, carrying Pa’s heavy flintlock rifle. It was as long as Jim was tall and difficult for him to carry, but he tried to manage it proudly.

As Pa went striding through the thick woods, Jim did his best to keep up with him. Now and then a squirrel darted along in front of them, or a few wild turkeys flew over their heads, frightened by their approach.

Jim stopped and started to raise his rifle. “Let’s shoot some turkeys, Pa. Ma always likes to cook turkey.”

Pa smiled and shook his head. “Not now, Jim. We’re out for bigger game. On the way back we’ll bag a few squirrels and turkeys. Then we won’t have to carry them so far.”

A little farther on, Pa said, “If you should happen to see a bear or deer, Jim, don’t be in a hurry to fire. Wait until the animal is close to you. That Deckard works best if you fire it at close range. Always remember, son, don’t get excited and fire too soon.”

“I’ll remember, Pa.”

Along about noon Jim suddenly froze in his tracks, certain that he had seen a deer. Pa stopped, glanced in the direction Jim was looking and nodded. The deer evidently had not picked up their scent, as it continued to wander slowly toward them.

Without a sound Jim brought his rifle to rest in a nearby tree notch and waited. When it seemed the approaching deer would surely see them, he fired.

“Good boy, Jim,” Pa cried excitedly. “You got him on the first shot.”

Jim was elated because it was his very first deer. Of course he had shot rabbits near their cabin, but a deer was a real triumph. Pa cut a long limb from a tree and stripped off its branches. Then he trussed the deer’s legs with a long strip of wild grapevine.

“Now, Jim, help me to run this limb between the deer’s legs, so we can carry it easily.”

In a jiffy they had the deer slung from the limb. Pa put one end of the limb on Jim’s shoulder and the other on his own, so they could carry the animal through the forest without difficulty. It was a fine young buck, and would furnish plenty of meat for them, perhaps even a new hunting shirt.

“Better give me the rifle now, Jim. It’s most too heavy for you with that limb on your shoulder. We’ll work our way home by Coon Hollow Trace. There’s always plenty of game in that neighborhood.”

When they arrived at Coon Hollow, a small crossroads in the forest, Jim said, “Look, Pa. I think I see someone coming down that trace.” He nodded toward the north.

Instantly Pa laid the deer on the ground and held his rifle ready. He peered ahead for a moment, then said, “I see two men, Jim, and I think one’s leading a pack horse. We’ll wait a little.”

As the men came nearer, Pa suddenly recognized the taller one. “George Rogers Clark! As I live and breathe.” Then he raised his arm in greeting. “Howdy, Mr. Clark. I don’t reckon you remember me. I’m Jim Hudson. I used to work the land bordering your father’s farm back in Virginia. And this is my son, Jim.”

The tall, red-haired man looked at Pa Hudson for a moment and then smiled, his hazel eyes shining and friendly. He shook hands with Jim, then with Pa. “Of course I remember you, Hudson.” He gestured toward his companion. “This is Tom Shelton. He’s one of the settlers going back to Virginia with me.”

“Howdy,” Tom Shelton said, shaking Pa’s hand.

George Rogers Clark looked inquiringly at the Hudsons. Then he asked, “What are you doing out here so far from Virginia?”

“We came out here three years ago,” Pa replied, “to take up a claim. It’s wonderful land; my boy and I are clearing it as fast as we can.”

While Pa talked about his dreams for his claim, Jim stared at the splendidly built man his father had called Mr. Clark. He was taller than Pa, young too, and most impressive-looking.

Tom Shelton shook his head when Pa paused for breath. “No more Kentucky for me. I’m beat. I can’t take these Indian raids any longer. Last week finished me. My nearest neighbors were attacked and taken prisoners. I got all my possessions with me.” He nodded toward the heavily laden pack horse. “Many of us settlers are going back with Colonel Clark. Better join us, Hudson.”

“Colonel Clark!” Pa exclaimed. “So you’re a colonel now, sir.”

The colonel seemed not to have heard Pa’s exclamation. He shook his head gravely. “This Indian situation is bad. They’re more stirred up than ever this season.”

Pa bristled. “There’s no Indians going to scare me off my land. I got a good warm cabin and quite a few acres cleared. I’m staying.”

Colonel Clark nodded and smiled. “I like your spirit, Hudson, but if I were you, I’d take my family and crops up to Harrodsburg. Stay there until these Indians quiet down a little.”

Pa shook his head. “I mean to stay, sir. I got through last winter all right. We’ve never been molested.”

Colonel Clark put his hand on Pa’s shoulder. “We could use more brave men like you out here, Hudson, but the Indians are really on the warpath now. I can’t prove it, but I hear Hamilton’s paying the Indians for all of the prisoners they deliver to him at Detroit—paying them well, too.”

“Hamilton? Who’s he, sir?”

“The British commander in charge of all the western country, stationed at Detroit. I hear he’s got the Indians really aroused. Better take your family to Harrodsburg for a while.”

Pa scratched his ear. “Harrodsburg? That’s a far piece from here. Why not to McClellan’s Fort?”

The colonel looked grim. “Haven’t you heard, Hudson? Burned out by the Indians early this year.”

“Think it over, Hudson,” put in Tom Shelton. “Better stay alive in the fort than dead on your claim. Or better yet, go back to Virginia with us. We’ll be leaving in a few days, won’t we, Colonel?”

Clark nodded. “As soon as I get the settlers together who want to go back with me. I’ll be back in the spring.”

Pa shifted from one foot to the other. “That’s good news, sir, that you’ll be back. Thanks for your advice. I’ll think it over, but I’m not going back to Virginia. We got to be getting along home now.”

The colonel shook hands again with Pa and Jim. “Glad to have seen you, Hudson. Good luck. Better get up to Harrodsburg as soon as you can.” He and Shelton moved off along the trace.

When the men had gone and Jim and Pa had been trudging along for a while, Jim asked, “Pa, should we go to Harrodsburg?”

Pa didn’t reply for so long Jim was afraid he had made him angry. Finally Pa sighed and said, “I know your ma has been mighty upset since Wahbunou disappeared. And Colonel Clark’s not one to be aroused without cause. Maybe we ought to take our meat and provisions to the fort, at least until this Indian scare blows over. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you and Ma.”

“But I wouldn’t want to lose our farm, Pa.”

“We wouldn’t lose it, Jim. No Indian’s going to squat very long on our land. They’re a roving people. The worst they could do would be to burn our cabin, and we could build another one, I guess. But I haven’t made up my mind yet, Jim. Better not say anything to your ma about our meeting with Colonel Clark today. No use getting her excited.”

“No,” Jim agreed. “She’s upset enough as it is.”

“If I decide we should go,” Pa continued, “she’ll be glad enough to leave the farm and stay at the fort. So mind now, not a word to Ma.”

Jim nodded. “I wouldn’t want to worry Ma.”

On the way home they shot a squirrel and several wild turkeys, so when they arrived at their cabin, they were well laden with the day’s trophies.

“Oh, Pa!” Ma cried, running out to meet them, her blond hair flying. “I thought you’d never come.” She clapped her hands when she saw the deer hanging from the limb. “Oh, a deer! Now we’ll have plenty of meat.”

Pa smiled and pointed toward Jim. “He shot the deer, Ma. Got him on the first shot. We have a squirrel and some turkeys too, so we’ve a lot of work to do these next few days, jerking this meat.”

The next morning was quite cold as a north wind had risen in the valley during the night. But the Hudsons began working early anyway. Jim helped Pa cut the deer meat into long strips and spread it to dry in the sun.

Pa glanced toward the sun. “I think maybe we’ll have to smoke this meat after all, Jim. This sun isn’t warm enough to cure meat.”

Once the norther had passed, however, the weather did warm considerably; Pa said they were feeling the last breath of summer. While father and son worked with the meat, Ma made two new shirts for them and a linsey woolsey dress for herself. She didn’t mention Indians again, but she seemed to be uneasy as soon as night fell.

On the evening they had the meat laid by, Pa said casually to his wife, “Ma, I think we’ll take our provisions and go up to Harrodsburg for a while.”

Jim glanced quickly at his father to see if he had seen or heard anything alarming, but Pa’s face showed nothing at all.

Ma gasped in surprise. “To Harrodsburg, Pa? Do you mean to the fort? Why?”

“Well, I’ve noticed you seem mighty jumpy lately and I thought we’d take our provisions and join the settlers at the fort for a while. It would give you a rest and a chance to hear the news and talk to someone else besides me and Jim. It would be a change.”

Ma’s face glowed in anticipation and relief. “Oh, Pa, let’s do it. Let’s go tomorrow before winter sets in and makes us prisoners here.”

Pa shook his head. “I’m not sure we can go tomorrow. But we’ll start packing.”

Ma leaned forward in her chair and searched her husband’s face anxiously. “What’s made you decide to leave our cabin, Pa? Have you seen signs of Indians?”

Jim looked at his father again as Pa replied almost too casually, “Haven’t seen anything, Ma. But we’ve done the chores and the harvesting, so we can leave the farm for a spell now. Just got a hankering to see people.”

Pa’s answer seemed to satisfy Ma Hudson because she was up early next morning, and beginning to pack before Jim and Pa were awake. “I’ll take my pots and the spinning wheel,” she said after breakfast, glancing around their cabin.

Pa shook his head. “You can’t take all that stuff, Ma. We’ve only one horse, remember. We can’t put everything we own on Nellie’s back. They’ll have cooking utensils at the fort and I’m sure some one will have a spinning wheel. We’ll take just the corn, turnips and all of our meat.”

“May I take your drum, Pa?” put in Jim. “I’ll carry it. I can have fun playing it for the other boys at the fort.”

Pa hesitated, glancing up at the drum. Then he smiled. “I guess if you want to be responsible for it, you may take the drum. But mind, you hang on to it.”

Finally they had the corn packed in two stout cloth sacks and hung on one side of their horse’s saddle. Pa put the meat in a peddler’s pack which he had brought from Virginia, with most of the turnips on top of the meat. This pack he slung from the other side of the horse’s saddle.

Ma had tied a change of clothes and moccasins for each of them in a large square of cloth.

When they were ready to leave, Ma sat on the horse, holding the pack of clothes, while Pa led the horse with one hand and carried his trusty Deckard with the other. Jim walked behind the horse, carrying Ma’s rifle, the treasured drum and drumsticks.

As they left their clearing Pa said, “We’ll come home as soon as we can.”

They trudged along silently, their moccasins and the horse’s hoofs, swishing softly through the fallen leaves. Sometimes Ma hummed softly to herself as if she were happy to be on the way to Harrodsburg. But Pa gazed resolutely ahead.

They heard no other sounds for a mile or so.

Then without warning, they found themselves surrounded by a dozen hideously painted Indians. Neither Pa nor Jim could raise their rifles before the Indians had seized and securely bound them.

In trying to raise his rifle, Jim had dropped his drum and sticks, but he was too frightened to notice this.

Ma screamed in terror as one of the Indians leaped upon her horse Nellie, tied Ma’s hands and rode off with her into the woods. Two other Indians tied leather thongs around Jim and Pa’s waists and began dragging them along behind Ma’s captor.

The rest of the band picked up the rifles, drum and sticks and followed along, their whooping and yelling piercing the calm autumn stillness.

Jim was terrified. He wondered if his father were; yet he could do nothing but stumble along behind the Indian who kept jerking the leather thong.

Although Jim was frightened, he did not forget what Pa had said when they found Wahbunou in the woods. Had it been a trick? Were these Indians some of Wahbunou’s people? Was this the thanks the Hudsons received for caring for him?

Chapter III
AN EXCHANGE AT THE SALT LICK

The Indians dragged Jim and his father rapidly through the woods until the Hudsons thought they could go no farther. They were happy to reach a small clearing where more Indians were waiting with their women, children and extra horses. To Jim’s relief he saw his mother still sitting on their old Nellie.

During her ride, Ma’s usually neat blond hair had fallen down over her shoulders. Half a dozen women were crowding around her, fingering her hair and talking excitedly to each other. When they caught sight of Jim’s towhead, they laughed and ran their fingers over his hair, too.

Several men were going through the peddler’s pack of food. After one look, they dumped the turnips on the ground. But the meat they carefully repacked.

Pa tried to smile reassuringly at Ma and Jim, but one of the men clapped him on the head, picked him up as though he were a feather and dumped him head down across a horse. Then the Indian climbed on behind him. In a moment a second man had done the same to Jim. At once the band rode off with their three white prisoners toward the north.

About dusk they stopped for the night by a small stream. Pulling the Hudsons from their horses, they tied Pa and Jim to one tree, Ma to another. Several women began making fires and filling kettles with water; while other women prepared supper. The children laughed and scampered in and out of the stream. The men paid no attention to their three white prisoners, but sat quietly along the bank of the stream, talking in very low tones.

Jim’s head ached so badly from his jolting, upside-down ride through the woods that he could scarcely see. He was glad, though, that his parents were still with him. He looked at the half-grown children playing around the camp, expecting to see Wahbunou, but the boy was not among them.

Ma Hudson was still so frightened she couldn’t talk, but she was not so shaken up as Pa or Jim, because she at least had ridden upright.

When supper was ready, one old woman brought scant servings of stew in small gourds to the Hudsons, and three small dry corncakes. Ma wasn’t able to eat a bite, but Pa and Jim found the stew surprisingly good. They could have eaten another helping, but the woman did not bring them any more.

After the Indians had eaten their fill, the women banked the fires for the night; men and boys relaxed on the ground. Poor Ma Hudson had either fainted from fright or had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

Pa turned his head slightly toward Jim and whispered, “I’m afraid it was a trick, Jim. Putting Wahbunou with his injured shoulder near our clearing, I mean. He probably reported we could be taken prisoner easily, since we had no near neighbors to help us.”

Jim glanced toward the Indian group, then at his father. “But, Pa, Wahbunou isn’t with these Indians. All the men and boys are sitting right over there together. Besides, we don’t even know if this is Wahbunou’s tribe.”

Pa looked at the group. Then he nodded his head. “You’re right, son. He isn’t there.”

Jim wriggled a bit trying to loosen the thongs which bound him, but with no success. “I wonder what they’ll do with us now, Pa.”

Pa tried to shake his dark hair away from his eyes. “Well, since they didn’t kill us on the spot, I wonder if they intend to deliver us to Hamilton in Detroit. You remember Colonel Clark said the British commander there was paying the Indians to bring white prisoners to him.”

Jim nodded. “Yes, I remember. But why, Pa? And where is this Detroit?”

“You remember when I was in Harrodsburg last year I heard about Great Britain waging a war with our countrymen back east. Now I think this British Hamilton in Detroit is figuring on winning all our Kentucky territory by having the Indians fight for him. They are to scare the settlers into returning back home or to capture them for Hamilton. I’m not sure where Detroit is, but I think it lies far to the north.”

Jim glanced toward the Indians again. “Look, Pa. They have our rifles and drum.”

Two men were examining the rifles carefully, while the rest of the Indians were passing drum and sticks from hand to hand. One of them began to beat the drum with his hand, making a low rhythmical sound similar to what Wahbunou had made in the Hudson’s cabin.

Jim listened intently to the Indians’ conversation, but he couldn’t understand anything. The words sounded like those Wahbunou had taught him, yet they were somehow different, so that Jim couldn’t get even an idea of what was said.

At last they stopped talking and began rolling in their blankets to sleep. Two men came over to the Hudsons, untied Pa and Jim, dragged them to separate trees and secured them again. One Indian rolled in a blanket beside Jim and the other beside Pa. But they offered no blankets to them, nor to Ma Hudson now fifty feet away.

The next morning they gave their prisoners a small amount of food. Ma tasted it and ate a little, but Pa and Jim ate all the Indians gave them. After breakfast, the women packed all the camp equipment together; the men tied the Hudsons’ hands, set them upright on horses and scrambled up behind them.

The entire party rode rapidly toward the north and west, arriving late in the afternoon at the broad Ohio River. The men chopped down poplar trees and began building a raft. Jim and Pa Hudson watched in amazement to see how quickly these Indians completed it.

Then they ferried women, children and equipment across the river. While some Indians guided the raft, others swam their horses to the far side. When all were safely transported, the band set up their camp for the night.

For several days they continued in a northwesterly direction. On a bright cool day they stopped at noon at a salt lick. The Hudsons realized the Indians would stay here for a while, because the women dug a trench, filling it with a great amount of firewood.

When their fires had burned to a bed of red-hot coals, they drew water from the lick and poured it into big salt kettles. These they placed over the hot glowing coals. Some women kept adding firewood to keep the salt water boiling; others began cooking over a second fire.

Pa, Ma and Jim were permitted to walk about the salt lick as far as the long leash around their waists permitted. But the Indians tied them to trees far enough apart so they could not come close to each other. Pa always would smile encouragingly at Ma and Jim, but he was never permitted to touch them. Two Indians were stationed to watch the prisoners, to prevent their escape.

The Indians wanted to build up their supply of salt, so the trench fires under the kettles were not allowed to go out. Several women took turns piling on firewood during the first night.

In the evening one man brought Jim’s drum to him, gesturing for him to play it. Jim played his loudest and best, executing ruffles and long rolls for their entertainment. The Indians loved these sounds and his skill with drumsticks, so kept him playing until quite late.

The next afternoon a new group of Indians arrived at the lick; but they kept a long distance away from the trench fires and did not offer to mingle with the first band. They also set up camp and dug a long trench, making a fire and filling their kettles with the brine. This salt lick was evidently common ground, since neither Indian band paid attention to the other.

By nightfall, the women were able to scrape the first salt from the kettles, spread it on rough boards to dry, and to fill the kettles with fresh brine.

Again the men had Jim play his drum for them. Soon they were swinging their bodies and clapping their hands in time with the drum. Once by the light of campfires, Jim thought he saw shadowy figures creeping close, as if to listen to his playing. He felt uneasy about what they wanted, but he continued to play even louder than before.

In the morning, when the women finally decided they had enough salt for the winter, they began packing their kettles and preparing to leave the salt lick. A few minutes before the band was ready to go, Jim saw four stalwart Indian men advancing rapidly toward them from the other camp. They came near and began making a fire in front of Jim’s group.

The men of Jim’s camp held a hurried consultation. Then one of them stepped forward, raising his right arm high above his head. Immediately the four visitors came up to him. He motioned for them to be seated; he and his companions sat down, too.

As they talked, Jim thought they must be arguing about some important question. After a long conversation, one visitor rose and walked back to his camp. He soon returned with a white man bound exactly like Pa Hudson.

At a signal from the group sitting on the ground, Jim’s guard suddenly untied his leash and led him over to the strangers.

More arguing went on, but the men of Jim’s camp kept shaking their heads. Again one visitor returned to his camp, carrying back a handsomely painted buffalo robe which he spread in front of the council. Jim’s band examined the robe carefully and nodded their heads. One of them called to the watching men. Immediately an Indian brought Pa Hudson’s drum and sticks to the council.

The visitors rose from the ground, handed their white prisoner and the buffalo robe to Jim’s band, and motioned to Jim to pick up his drum and sticks. As soon as Jim obeyed, one visitor picked up his leash and led him toward the other camp.

Frightened now, Jim looked back at his parents. Pa was alarmed and Ma, tearful, was holding out her arms toward him, but both of them were still tied to the trees.

When Jim reached the new camp, several men and boys swarmed around him. From their midst, a strangely familiar figure rushed over to Jim and took off his leash.

“Jim! Jim!” he cried. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Wahbunou.”

Jim dropped his drum in surprise as Wahbunou gave him a friendly thump on the shoulder. “Wahbunou!” he gasped.

Wahbunou was so excited he could scarcely speak, but he had much to tell his friend Jim. “My father and I persuaded Chief Minnemung to trade our white prisoner for you. We couldn’t bear to see you remain with the Shawnees. Then we Potawatomis made a fire in front of their camp to show we wanted to counsel with them.”

“Shawnees!” Jim cried out in terror, looking back toward his father and mother. The Shawnees, however, were now mounted and moving away from the salt lick. Jim could still see his parents riding on separate horses with their Indian guards, and looking hopelessly toward the Potawatomi camp where Jim had gone.

Jim turned frantically to Wahbunou. “Wahbunou——my parents! Where are they going? Don’t let the Shawnees take them away.”

Wahbunou shook his head sadly. “I tried, Jim, I really did. I wanted to have your parents traded to us along with you. But Chief Minnemung was interested only in you and your drum. The drum helped me arrange the trade, too.”

“The drum? What do you mean, Wahbunou?”

“The other night,” Wahbunou began, “we heard you playing your drum. It was the first time my people, the Potawatomis, had heard such playing. I knew it was not an Indian beating that drum, because I had heard you play like that in your cabin; so I persuaded Chief Minnemung and my father to creep close to the Shawnee camp to listen. It was then I saw you and your parents. I realized you were prisoners of those Shawnees.”

“But my parents, Wahbunou. Why aren’t they here with me?”

Wahbunou continued patiently. “I asked Chief Minnemung to see if he could get all of you transferred to us. I told him and all our Potawatomi clan how good you were to me when I hurt my shoulder. I pleaded, but Chief Minnemung wanted only you and your drum. Why Jim, he traded his handsomest buffalo robe for your drum.”

“But my parents will be unhappy separated from me,” Jim persisted.

Wahbunou sighed and nodded. “I know, Jim. But I think no harm will come to them now, because the Shawnees are on their way to Detroit to deliver their prisoners to the great British Hamilton. He pays the Indians well for white prisoners.” Wahbunou picked up the drum and sticks. “Come, Jim, I want you to meet my family because soon we will be breaking camp.”

Wahbunou’s parents, brothers and sisters welcomed Jim heartily into their group. His mother stroked Jim’s towhead and said, “Welcome, friend. We Potawatomis will be good to you.”

In a short time the Indians began packing to leave the salt lick. When they were ready, Wahbunou said, “Jim, you are to ride with me because we do not have extra horses.” He led Jim over to his horse. Jim recognized it as the one he had tied in their lean-to alongside Nellie.

The boys climbed up on the horse. “Now,” Wahbunou explained, “we are going to our winter camp. It is still a long distance away. Hang on tight, Jim, because we’ll be riding hard today.”

Jim did as he was told, but with a heavy heart. Here he was—going to some strange place with Wahbunou and the Potawatomis, while his mother and father were prisoners of the Shawnees. He swallowed hard, wondering if he would ever see them again.

Chapter IV
WINTER WITH THE POTAWATOMIS

The Potawatomis rode hard for several days against a biting northwest wind. Finally they stopped on the banks of the Au Sable River, in a wide valley protected by rolling hills. It was an ideal camp site because the hills protected the Indians from bitter winter winds.

Several families had already arrived. Wahbunou told Jim that these people were members of another clan in his tribe. His clan, the Golden Carp, always tried to return to this camp to hear news of their relatives and to share in the tribe’s winter sports.

The women began immediately setting up wigwams. These they made with poles fastened to the ground in a circle, and the tops drawn together in a cone. They covered this framework with their aquapois, or reed mats made of cattail flags, to shut out snows and winter winds.

The men rested a few days, then decided to go on a short hunting trip to get fresh meat. Early in the morning of the hunt, the men painted their faces with the vermilion, which Jim had first seen on Wahbunou’s face.

“Wahbunou,” Jim said, “why are the men painting their faces?”

Wahbunou turned from watching his father prepare for the trip. “They always wear it, Jim, when they go hunting or riding for a war raid. The day you found me in your country, I was on a hunting trip with my father and the other men. But I became separated from the rest. I was trying to catch up with them when I was brushed off my horse and broke my shoulder.”

“Do you usually hunt near our farm?”

“Oh, no. That was the farthest south and east we had ever ridden. But hunting wasn’t good in the places we knew. If you had not found me I would have died, because my people did not miss me until they returned to camp.”

Jim looked puzzled. “But didn’t they hunt for you?”

“Oh, yes, for several days. My father said they finally gave me up for lost, thinking I had been killed by a bear.”

“Then it wasn’t a trick that you happened near our clearing?”

“Trick?” It was Wahbunou’s turn to look puzzled. “What do you mean, Jim?”

Jim hesitated. “My father wondered if you had been placed near our farm to spy on us, and see if we could be easily captured.”

“Jim! My people would not do that. We have not raided any cabins this year. The prisoner we traded to the Shawnees had fired on Chief Minnemung. We had to capture him. And anyway, Chief Minnemung wanted his knife and gun.”

While the boys talked the men finished their preparations and were ready to go. Suddenly Chief Minnemung swung down from his horse and walked toward Jim. “You ride with me today,” he said, putting his hand on Jim’s shoulder.

Wahbunou gasped in surprise because none of the Indian boys had been asked to go on this hunting trip. Jim looked up at the tall, haughty chief, magnificent in his painted buffalo robe; he started to say he didn’t care to go. But the expression on Minnemung’s face told him this was not an invitation but a command.

“Yes—yes, sir,” he managed, wishing with all his heart he did not have to accompany the chief. “What shall I do to get ready?”

Chief Minnemung looked at him for a moment. “All right as you are. Come.” Then he turned and stalked back to his horse.

“It is a great privilege, Jim,” Wahbunou whispered, still amazed by the chief’s order.

Jim got on the horse behind the chief and the party of eighteen set out for the hunt. After they had ridden a little way into the forest, they separated into groups of two or three going in different directions.

But Chief Minnemung and Jim went alone. As they rode along Jim noticed that the chief was carrying a rifle like his father’s, and wearing a long knife also like his father’s in a wampum belt which girded his beautiful robe.

Jim pointed to the rifle. “You have a gun like my father’s.”

Chief Minnemung grinned a hideous grin through his streaked vermilion paint. “Shemolsea,” he grunted. Then he patted the big knife and again said, “Shemolsea.”

Suddenly Chief Minnemung reined in his horse. Then he tried to sight his rifle, but could not do it on the horse, so slid quietly to the ground. Once again he tried to sight the rifle. Jim looked to see what the chief’s quarry was. In the distance he saw a black bear, but it was too far away to shoot.

The Indian kept fumbling with the rifle and suddenly the sound of a shot broke the stillness of the forest. Chief Minnemung shouted in triumph and dropped the gun. He had fired the rifle. But his triumph was short-lived, for his shout was answered by an unearthly moan. He had wounded the bear which was now charging toward him. The old chief stood frozen in his tracks when he realized the rifle shot had not killed the bear.

Jim slid off the horse, grabbed the rifle from the ground, reloaded it and waited. The bear was coming nearer and Jim knew he must not miss his aim. The wounded animal would kill them, if he did not kill it first.

When the bear was only a few feet away, Jim fired. This time the aim was deadly accurate, piercing the bear between the eyes. It fell in its tracks.

Chief Minnemung waited a few moments, then turned to Jim. “White boy, Jim, you have saved Chief Minnemung’s life. I will not forget this moment. Minnemung not know how to use Shemolsea gun.”

The old chief was quite shaken and nervous, but with Jim’s help, he managed to truss the bear and get it back to camp. When the women and children saw Jim and Chief Minnemung returning with the big bear, they ran out to meet them, yelling in delight.

“Bear meat!” Wahbunou cried. “Now we’ll have a feast. Chief Minnemung got a bear with Shemolsea gun.”

The chief was grinning in delight, but never a word did he say about Jim’s shooting the bear. He took all the credit for the kill and did not so much as glance at Jim. Jim would have liked to tell Wahbunou he had killed the bear, but he was afraid Chief Minnemung would be angry, so he said nothing.

Late in the day the other men returned with squirrels and wild turkeys, but no large game. For several days the camp feasted on bear meat, while all the Indians praised their chief for bringing home such a prize. The chief still kept silent about Jim.

Soon winter came to the camp and the ground was covered with snow. Then the children had lots of fun. Wahbunou showed Jim how to make a sled, using buffalo ribs for the runners and hides for the seat. Jim found it was a fine sled and had fun coasting down the hills with the other children.

One morning when the snow was packed very hard, Wahbunou said, “Come on, Jim, we’re going to play Snow Snake.”

“Snow Snake? What kind of game is that?”

“We play it by teams with snow-snake poles,” Wahbunou explained. He took Jim to a long level playground in the valley where the other children had gathered. They chose sides, having six to a team. Then they drew lots to see who would throw the first pole. Wahbunou drew the first throw.

He picked up the hickory pole, the ends of which were carved like the head of a snake. He held it high and threw it with all his strength. The pole shot through the air for quite a distance and fell to the ground far from him. An older boy and girl served as scorekeepers and measured the length of its flight.

“Now, Jim,” Wahbunou urged, “do your best.”

Jim stepped forward and tried to throw the pole as far as Wahbunou had, but it fell far short. Jim sighed. “I’m no good at this game.”

“You’ll soon learn, Jim,” comforted Wahbunou.

Jim did learn to throw the snow-snake pole as well as the other boys. Sometimes Chief Minnemung walked out to watch the children; he always smiled when Jim threw it farther than the others. Quite often during the winter the chief called Jim to his Wigwam, to play Pa Hudson’s drum for him and sometimes for all the Indians.

Jim grew tall during the winter, had plenty of food and was snug and warm in the wigwam. He would have been happy with the Potawatomis if only his parents had been with him. But often at night he could not sleep, because he kept seeing his parents riding sadly away with the Shawnees.

After a long, cold winter, spring came again to the valley. One fine day Wahbunou told Jim he had heard the men say they would be moving out of winter camp the next morning.

“But tonight, Jim,” Wahbunou went on, “we shall watch the dance of the women. This dance celebrates the beginning of our summer wanderings. Then we’ll break up into small bands again and we won’t see the rest of our clan until next winter.”

Jim looked doubtful. “The dance of the women, Wahbunou? What is that?”

“Wait and see, Jim. Wait and see.”

When the women came out of their wigwams in their ceremonial dresses, Jim scarcely recognized any of them. They had greased their hair until it shone in the glow of the campfires, painted their faces with vermilion and put on long white chemises, over which they had strung all the wampum necklaces they possessed.