On the Border with Andrew Jackson
Date: 2021-11-24T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Jackson; Andrew; 1767-1845 -- Juvenile fiction; Alabama -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: On the Border with Andrew Jackson

Author: John T. McIntyre

Illustrator: Frederic A. Anderson

Release date: November 24, 2021 [eBook #66807]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Penn Publishing Company, 1915

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE BORDER WITH ANDREW JACKSON ***

“SO THE INDIANS ARE STILL GATHERING?”

ON THE BORDER
WITH
ANDREW JACKSON

By
JOHN T. McINTYRE

Illustrations by
F. A. Anderson

THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1915

COPYRIGHT
1915 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Contents

I. | In the Creek Country | 7
II. | The Coming of Tecumseh | 21
III. | The Wilderness Trapper | 37
IV. | Attacked by Indians | 53
V. | The Fight on the Knoll | 63
VI. | Sighting the Enemy | 77
VII. | The Onslaught at Fort Mims | 93
VIII. | Old Hickory Appears | 108
IX. | The Blow at Tallushatchee | 124
X. | An Indian Messenger | 132
XI. | Captured by the Creeks | 141
XII. | A Fight—and a Revolt | 160
XIII. | The Beginning of the End | 175
XIV. | The Battle of the Horseshoe | 185
XV. | Life of Andrew Jackson | 194

Illustrations

| PAGE
“So the Indians are Still Gathering?” | Frontispiece
The Trapper was Seated in the Doorway | 45
They Sighted the Fort | 99
The Arrows of the Creeks Rained About Them | 163

On the Border With
Andrew Jackson

CHAPTER I
IN THE CREEK COUNTRY

“Much good place for camp! Heap fine water!”

It was a young Cherokee brave who spoke; from the back of his wiry little sorrel horse he pointed ahead to a small stream which could be seen winding its way among the trees.

“Yes; it looks as if it had been made for a camp, Running Elk,” replied a bronzed athletic white boy. “What do you say, Frank, shall we pitch the tent there to-night?”

Frank Lawrence glanced toward the sun, which was already lowering toward the horizon.

“We might as well, Jack,” replied he. “We couldn’t go much farther, anyway.”

Jack Davis shook the rein of his black horse; and so the three rode toward the stream, which was perhaps a quarter of a mile away. It was late autumn and the year was 1812. The Muscogee country, as the state of Alabama was then called, was green with mighty forests, and in places almost untrodden by the foot of the white man; game was to be met on every hand; and the red huntsmen ranged the hills and valleys, seeking not only food, but their foes as well.

The young Cherokee warrior led a packhorse which bore upon its back provisions and camp equipment. The youthful savage was a handsome, supple fellow, attired in the picturesque dress of his nation, and carrying a bow and quiver of arrows; also a tomahawk and knife hung at his belt.

Jack Davis was about eighteen years of age; he had been born and reared upon the Tennessee border, and had the keen, hardy look which comes of facing nature in her most rugged aspects. Frank Lawrence, on the other hand, was a product of civilization; he was fresh from Richmond; and while he had little of the bronze and none of the woodcraft of the other lad, still, ounce for ounce, it would have been a cunning choice to select the one who would have endured the greater fatigue.

Both wore fringed leggings, hunting shirts and coonskin caps; from the shoulders of each hung a long rifle, powder horn and bullet pouch; in their belts were thrust broad bladed hunting knives and keen edged hatchets.

“Since we got down into this country I’ve noticed a great number of small streams much like the one ahead,” remarked Frank. “It’s as though there were a sort of network of them.”

Jack laughed.

“I noticed that, too, first time I got down this far,” replied he. “Those streams gave the redskins of this region their name. They call themselves Muscogees; but the whites call them Creeks.”

“It seems to me I’ve heard Running Elk speak of them by another name,” said Frank, with a glance at the Cherokee.

“Oh, yes, Red Sticks,” said Jack. “They get that name from the war club they carry, which is always colored red.”

“Red Stick no good,” spoke Running Elk, calmly. “Much bad medicine. Cherokee hate ’um.”

Both the white boys laughed at this unhesitating declaration; their nags loped easily forward over the velvet-like sward toward the creek; they were intent only upon camp, a good supper and a comfortable rest after the long ride through the wilderness. Suddenly Running Elk reined in his sorrel horse so sharply as to throw it back upon its haunches. With a gesture of warning he threw up one hand.

“Stop!” said he.

The white boys scarcely needed the spoken warning; they had noted the young brave’s sudden stop; and their own was almost as short. They were at the top of a hill.

“What is it?” asked Frank, surprised.

But Jack Davis had no need to ask; his sharp eyes, as accustomed as an Indian’s to the signs of the forest, swept the growth of trees ahead, and at once saw the cause of Running Elk’s action.

“Look there,” said he, pointing.

Frank followed the direction of the indicating finger; from above the softly waving tops of the trees curled a slim column of smoke.

“Hello!” said he. “Some one else has camped there.”

All three drew back into the cover of a clump of beech; Jack dismounted and began to examine the ground. And as he worked over it, going from place to place like a keen-scented hound, Frank joined him.

“Any tracks?” he inquired with interest.

“I don’t see any here,” replied the young borderer. “They may have come another way.” Upon his hands and knees, taking advantage of the tall grass, fallen trees and hummocks of earth, he made his way to the right of their own trail. “Keep as close to the ground as you can,” he warned Frank, who followed him. “We don’t know who they are, and as they are almost sure to be on the watch, we don’t want to be seen until we know they’re friends.”

About two score yards from their original stopping place he paused.

“Injuns!” said he.

Frank looked at the signs; there were the hoof tracks of a dozen or more horses; and the broad drag of the poles in the midst of these was unmistakable.

“I suppose none but the redskins drag their camp stuff on poles at their horses’ heels that way, eh?” asked he.

“No,” replied Jack Davis. “But there are other signs, too. If you’ll notice, they rode in single file; Injuns almost always do that and white men never, unless the trail is narrow. And look where one of the redskins dismounted! See the print of his moccasin in the dust? Only Injuns have feet shaped like that.”

They made their way, in the same cautious fashion, back to the place where the young Cherokee guarded the horses.

“They’re Injuns,” said Jack.

Running Elk nodded; he did not seem at all surprised.

“Red Sticks,” spoke he. And then: “How many?”

“About ten—with packhorses, and lodge poles.”

This latter statement seemed to attract the young warrior’s attention. His keen eyes went in the direction of the curling column of smoke as it was lifted above the tree tops.

“Not hunters,” said he. “Party from long way off.”

“What makes you think that, Running Elk?” asked Frank.

“Hunters no carry tepee; pack meat on horses’ backs.”

From their concealment behind the clump of beeches, the three watched the ascending smoke for some little time; then as the sun sank below the line of forest and the shadows began to gather, Jack said:

“Well, it looks as though we couldn’t venture down to the creek, at this point, anyhow; so, if we’re going to have any supper, we’d best be looking for another camping place.”

Remounting, they headed away to the west; darkness came upon them as they reached a narrow ravine. Here they built a small fire, carefully masked so as not to be observed by a chance prowler; some small game, shot during the afternoon, was roasted upon their ramrods, with flour cakes baked upon the gray coals. While they ate, Frank looked soberly at Jack.

“I suppose we’ve been very fortunate in not coming upon any roving Indian bands before now,” said he.

Jack nodded.

“We slid through this whole Creek region as quietly as you please,” said he. “Never had to stop for anything except to kill a bit of meat now and then, and get a little sleep.”

“Well, now that we have run into a lot of reds,” said Frank, “I can’t help blaming myself for dragging you away down here and getting you into danger.”

Jack, as he polished a bone to which some scraps of meat still clung, grinned good-humoredly.

“Danger!” said he. “Why, the Injuns haven’t seen us; and a sight of the smoke from their camp-fire won’t do us any harm.”

The young Virginian also grinned at this; but he resumed, soberly enough:

“Our coming on this band so unexpectedly has made me think. Here we are, away in the heart of this wilderness; there’s possibly not a white man nearer than Fort Mims, and that’s fifty miles away. Of course, we’re armed and our horses are good ones; but, if we were attacked by a party of Creeks of any size, we’d stand a poor chance.”

“We’re taking the regular chance of the border,” said Jack. “No more, no less.”

“I know that; and as it’s a kind of a desperate one, now that I get to thinking about it, it worries me. Not that I care very much for myself,” hastily. “It’s not that; for it’s my affair, and it’s only right that I should meet any of the dangers connected with it. But neither you nor Running Elk are concerned, except through friendly interest in me; and, still, your danger is as great as mine.”

Jack listened to this with attention; but that he did not regard the situation with the same seriousness as his friend was evident by the twinkle in his gray eye.

“Well, seeing that this little expedition of yours is not any different from the hunting trips which Running Elk and myself take now and then, we’re not as ready as you are for the things that are likely to pop out on us suddenly. Richmond’s not like this border-land of ours; and the inconveniences, such as hostile redskins, panthers and other such varmints, are not so big to us as they might look to some one not used to them.” He wiped his mouth upon the sleeve of his hunting shirt and sat comfortably back against a tree. “So don’t worry about us, old boy; this is nothing new to Running Elk and me; just the day’s work, you might say; and if we weren’t down here with you, we’d be somewhere else, just as dangerous, on our own account.”

“Well,” said Frank, “it’s very good of you to look at it that way, Jack, and I hope we’ll come through the trip without any great danger. But just the same I don’t mind admitting that I’ll be pretty well satisfied when it’s over.”

“As such things go,” said Jack, “you ought to be somewhere near the neighborhood of that old French land grant you’re looking for. If my calculations are right, inside a day or so you ought to have it located.”

“Let us hope so,” said Frank, fervently. “Then my trouble will be over.”

But in the dim glow of the masked camp-fire Jack’s face looked somewhat dubious.

“Fact is,” said he, “I think your father made a little mistake when he took that old French grant in payment for a big debt.”

“I hope not,” said Frank, anxiously. “For it’s about all he has now; if it doesn’t turn out fortunately, things will go very badly with him.”

“It’s not so much that I doubt the value of the grant,” said Jack. “But the Creeks claim this whole region; and it would be a hard thing to make good a claim of white ownership, no matter how small the tract. The whole tribe’d be down on you like a landslide before you’d know it.”

“But the government would back me up. The grant is a perfectly honest one; the land was once purchased from the Indians by the French government, which granted it to the man who transferred it to my father. Upon the United States purchasing the control of this territory from Napoleon a few years ago, our government recognized all legitimate claims of this sort; so there should be no real trouble.”

“Maybe not in the courts; but, as I said before, the Creeks will be sure to have a word or two to say.”

As the young Tennesseean spoke, Running Elk, who was reclining upon the ground beside the fire, lifted his head. From across the stillness of the night there came a dull, throbbing sound.

“War drum!” said the Cherokee; and the hands of all three reached for their weapons.

CHAPTER II
THE COMING OF TECUMSEH

The three youths stood there, at their lonely camp-fire, in the heart of the Muscogee wilderness, with darkness all about them, listening to the steady, monotonous beat of the drum.

“That’s kind of a new thing to me,” said Jack Davis. “Sounding a war drum must be a new fashion, eh, Running Elk?”

“Heap big medicine!” replied the young Cherokee. “Big war! Much pow-wow!”

Jack kicked apart the embers which made their small fire; then he trod them out after the manner of an experienced woodsman.

Frank Lawrence, after a space of listening, said:

“There is something unusual in that sound, then, is there, Jack? Out of the ordinary?”

“Never heard it before except in an Indian village when some kind of a ceremony was going on.”

“Before I left Richmond,” said Frank, and there was some concern in his voice, “the newspapers were full of Indian news; reports of all sorts were going about; it seems that the savages had finally put their heads together, and were planning a league of tribes to resist the advance of the white man.”

“Yes; we’ve had the leaders of that thing down here,” said Jack. “But the movement was not among the tribes here on the southwestern border.”

“Ugh!” said Running Elk; and there was that about his exclamation which said he was not quite sure upon the point in question.

“Suppose,” said Frank, “we leave our horses tied here, and move a little nearer to the Indian camp. There may be something going on that will be worth knowing.”

“All right,” agreed Jack, willingly enough. “I’m always curious to learn what the reds are up to myself.”

So the boys saw to their mounts, and the pack animal; then with their long rifles in the hollows of their arms, and Running Elk with his bow ready strung and his quiver of arrows handy for use, they moved quietly forward in the direction of the now intermittent sound.

There was no moon that night; the sky was without stars; nevertheless there came a soft coppery glow through the low hanging clouds which enabled them to make their way along without any great difficulty. But finally the beat of the drum ceased.

“We’ll locate them by the camp-fire,” whispered Jack Davis to Frank. “See, there it is, ahead among the trees.”

Softly their moccasined feet padded the earth; carefully, noiselessly they advanced, flitting from tree to tree, from bush to bush. Because they were in the heart of their own country, the Creeks evidently had no fear of attack; therefore they had placed no sentinels about the camp. And because of this the boys found it possible to approach near enough to get a good view of the encampment through the open places in the tangle of brush.

In a circle sat a score of savages, each wearing a highly ornamental head-dress of colored feathers; their faces were streaked with paints of various colors and they passed a long stemmed, ornamented pipe from one to the other.

“Hello,” breathed Jack, his accustomed eye taking in the unusual features of the scene at a glance. “What does this mean?”

One splendid looking savage, by features evidently a half-breed, attracted the attention of Frank Lawrence.

“That looks like a chief,” said he, in the same low tone as his comrade.

“Heap much chief,” spoke Running Elk. “Him Weatherford.”

This name, dreaded along the entire border, caused a thrill to run through Jack Davis.

“The Red Warrior!” He stared at the famous leader of the Creeks, who sat like a grimly carven statue within the fire-lit circle. “What in the world can he be doing here?”

Frank’s eyes left Weatherford and curiously roved over the remainder of the band; two who sat side by side, and whose commanding personality and different head-dress made them stand out from the others, now claimed his notice.

“They must be out of the ordinary, too,” said he. “They look different, somehow.”

Jack’s eyes went to the two.

“They are not Creeks,” said he, for he was well acquainted with the head-dress of that tribe. “They are strangers.”

“Shawnee,” spoke Running Elk. “One great chief. Other much medicine.”

Frank Lawrence, who stood beside Jack, felt him start suddenly, and heard him draw in a long breath.

“Shawnees!” said Jack in a whisper. “One a great chief, the other a medicine man!” His hand went out and closed upon the arm of the friendly Cherokee. “What more do you know of them, Running Elk?”

“They come to the villages of the Cherokee before last harvest moon. They are from the north. The chief is Tecumseh and the medicine man is Elskwatawa.”

“By Jingo!” Jack’s voice was lifted to such a pitch that Frank quickly grasped him by the shoulder to recall him to a sense of their position. Then in a lower tone, the frontier youth continued: “Then the thing is spreading! These two are down here again trying to get the Creeks and other tribes into the league against the whites!”

Tecumseh, which, translated, means “Wild-Cat-Springing-on-its-Prey,” was a Shawnee, and perhaps one of the most famous and sagacious of all the savage chieftains who figure in the stirring history of the border. At the time in which the boys saw him beside the camp-fire in the Alabama wilderness he was about forty-five years of age. He was the son of a Shawnee chief, but his mother had been a Creek; his birthplace was Old Piqua, near where the town of Springfield, Ohio, now stands. Elskwatawa, which means “the Loud Voice,” was his brother, a Shawnee sorcerer of great fame and known throughout the frontier of that day as the “Prophet.” These two, shrewd and able far above their race, saw that if the advance of the white men were not stopped the power of the Indian would be stripped from him forever.

So they set about forming a confederation of all the tribes, and in a solid body striking a desperate blow to regain the hunting grounds wrested from them by the paleface.

The fame of the Prophet, as has been stated, was very great; the credulous red man looked upon him with awe, and never for a moment thought of doubting any utterances he saw fit to make. Tecumseh shrewdly saw the value of this; with mystic jargon, with religious mummery, the superstitions of the tribes were played upon until the confederation became a thing of fear to the scattered whites in the border settlements. From near and far the savages vowed to follow the commands of the “Great Spirit” as voiced by the Prophet; the Delawares, the Wyandottes, the Ottawas, the Kickapoos, the Winnebagoes and Chippewas had been dancing and preparing for the great blow at the white interloper for many months; and evidently not satisfied with this, the two leaders had secretly made their way south a second time, and were now, most likely, engaged in trying to arouse the Creeks and other nations against the settlers.

All this passed through the minds of Frank and Jack; for they were well acquainted with the force behind the movement; indeed, it had been the one topic talked of in the lonely cabins or the little hamlets at which they halted during the journey through the forest.

“Well, if Tecumseh’s got down here again, and the Prophet with him, there’s likely to be an outbreak,” spoke Jack, with assurance. “For the Creeks have been acting ugly for some time, and it’ll not take much to set them on the war-path.”

Frank turned to Running Elk.

“How did they do with your people?” he asked.

The young savage lifted his taut strung bow.

“Cherokee is friend to paleface,” said he. “Tecumseh he go away much mad.”

“Good!” said Frank. “I hope it happens the same way with the Creeks.”

“Tecumseh is Creek on his mother’s side,” said Jack. “That’ll weigh heavily in his favor—if anything is needed to turn the scale.”

All this talk had been carried on in the most hushed of whispers; and not for a moment had the three taken their eyes from the painted and warlike circle in the glare of the camp-fire. That the Indians were also talking was evident; but the boys were too far away to hear what was being said. After a little while Jack’s curiosity mastered him.

“I wonder if we couldn’t get a little closer without much danger,” whispered he. “Seems to me there must be lots of things in that talk that we ought to know.”

Apparently the other two were of the same mind, for they at once agreed. So softly, and with slow, pantherish steps they parted the brush and moved nearer the savage camp-fire. Not a branch was permitted to rustle, not a twig nor dead leaf to crackle under foot. Jack went first, and the young Cherokee was second; Frank Lawrence stepped as nearly in their tracks as he was able and imitated their movements as nearly as he could make them out in the partial darkness.

By great good fortune, a large green tree had fallen quite close to the spot where the Creek camp was pitched; the three boys, snugly ensconced behind this, had now a vastly improved view of the scene, and, what was of equal interest, could hear almost all that was said. Weatherford was speaking, and Jack, who had a practical acquaintanceship with a number of Indian dialects, had no trouble in understanding the deep-voiced, solemn utterance.

“Word has reached the Muscogee villages of the doings of their brothers, many suns to the north. And the news made us glad.” A murmur went up from the other savages of the Creek nation; it was one of approval of the words of the Red Warrior; and Weatherford proceeded: “Swift runners reached us from the far country of the Shawnees. The Muscogee was glad to hear that the great chief Tecumseh, and Elskwatawa, who speaks the words of wisdom, were once more journeying through the forests to visit their brothers. We have journeyed to meet them; we have smoked the pipe of friendship. Let Tecumseh and Elskwatawa speak.”

For a space after the sonorous voice of Weatherford had died away there was a silence. The circle of fantastically painted and befeathered Indians remained as still as graven images; then the Shawnee chieftain spoke:

“We are glad that the great chief Weatherford speaks with the voice of welcome. We are glad that the chiefs and the old men of the Muscogee greet us with kindness. It is well; for the blood of the Muscogee runs warm in my veins. Many suns have passed since we left the hunting grounds of our tribe to seek council with our brothers; the trails have been long, the rivers swift, the mountain passes hard; but we are here, and we are heavy with the message of the red man’s wrongs.”

Again there was a silence, and then Tecumseh went on:

“It is well that my voice is only for the ears of the old men. For they are wise, and will judge well of what I have to say. Young men are quick, but they have no wisdom; they are strong when the war-whoop sounds, for their knives and tomahawks are keen, and their arrows straight. But in the council they are like young bears. My words are the wisdom of the Muscogee; let the old men give ear.”

Elskwatawa sat silently while his brother spoke. As became a wonder-worker, he was decked with the teeth and claws of bears and hill-cats; a string made up of skulls of squirrels hung from his neck. Totems and charms were plentifully distributed about his person; a broad band, made of the skin of a rattlesnake, was bound about his brow. The lank hair of this sinister looking savage hung down over his shoulders; his eyes were keen and restless. While those of all the others who made up the savage circle were fixed upon Tecumseh, his were darting here and there, restlessly. More than once they shifted in the direction of the fallen gum tree; and each time Running Elk warningly nudged the white boys crouched at his side.

But Jack Davis feared no danger; he noted from time to time the wandering glance of the Prophet; but he felt sure that the savage, no matter how keen his vision, could not penetrate the thick shadows thrown by the branches and stem of the fallen tree.

Tecumseh began to speak in a sing-song voice; item by item he took the aggressions of the paleface; wrong by wrong he took the deeds against his people. On the bravery of the red man he dwelt fervently; of the treachery and evil-doing of the whites he spoke with a tongue of scorn. Bit by bit the tide of his anger grew; key by key his voice lifted until it was shrill with fury. His savage audience was stirred profoundly by his recital; their customary stoicism was gradually shaken off; his rage infected them; they swayed their bodies to and fro, their plumes nodding in the fire-glow.

The interest and attention of Jack Davis was almost equal to that of the Creeks; he leaned forward, drinking in the utterances of the Shawnee eagerly.

“And now,” spoke Tecumseh, “at last the end has come. Suns have risen and gone down upon the white man’s advance, and the red man’s retreat before him. Moons have begun and moons have ended, and more and more the forest rings with the stroke of the axe which means death to the hunting grounds of our fathers. The march of the white man is the march of an evil spirit; the red man must stop this march or his day is done; he must stop it or he will find his grave on the great plains, in the shadow of those mountains beyond which lies another sea.”

The sound of the last word still lingered in the air when the Prophet suddenly leaped erect; his tomahawk was snatched from his belt, his right arm went back like lightning. There was a whistling hum of the weapon as it flew through the air; then the sharp blade bit deep into a branch of the gum tree close to Jack Davis’ head.

CHAPTER III
THE WILDERNESS TRAPPER

The haft of the hatchet was still a-quiver from the Prophet’s cast when Jack Davis’ long rifle spoke in reply. Then, with a hiss, an arrow from the bow of Running Elk found its mark; Frank’s piece cracked sharply, and then all three turned and darted away through the trees.

Behind them arose a terrific din; the Creeks, amazed at the unexpected happening, could, for a space, do nothing but yell their surprise and anger. Then they seized their weapons; arrows began to sing their swift flights over the heads of the running boys; a few rifles spoke spitefully; but in the darkness the aim of the Indians was bad.

As swiftly as they could travel, the lads tore through the woods; emerging from this their way was easier and they could make better time. When about a half a mile from the camp of the Creeks, Jack paused and his comrades drew up beside him. After listening a moment, the youthful borderer said:

“They are not after us; we must have given them a scare.”

“Creek not know how many,” said Running Elk. “Him think plenty white man.”

“Well, I’m glad enough for that,” spoke Frank, as he mopped his face with a handkerchief which he wore about his neck. “It would not be any too comfortable with that crowd pounding at our heels.”

They waited for perhaps a half hour for some sounds of pursuit; but as none came, they resumed their course toward the abandoned camp where their horses were tied.

“At daylight the Creeks will be stirring,” said Jack, “and then they’ll find our tracks and learn how few there are of us. So the best thing we can do is to mount and be on our way before they know too much about us.”

“A good idea,” said Frank.

“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.”

“I hope it never comes,” spoke Frank, fervently. “It will gain nothing for the tribes, and it will cost many an honest man his life.”

“Big war!” said Running Elk, confidently. “Heap fight. Much kill. Prophet great medicine. Injun fool! Soldiers shoot ’um like wolf.”

However, whatever the prospects for an Indian uprising, the mission of the boys at this time was to locate the old land grant, the position of which was set down upon a chart which Frank carried in the breast of his buckskin hunting shirt. Jack now dwelt rather gravely upon the situation; he felt that it would be well to return to the settlements and give warning as to the presence of Tecumseh and the Prophet among the Creeks, but he couldn’t very well see how it could be done at that time. It was daylight and they were seated beside a fire, kindled upon the banks of a small stream, and eating their breakfast of ash cake and baked woodcock when an idea occurred to the youthful borderer.

“We’re not more than a day and a half’s travel from old Joe Grant’s trapping grounds,” said he, delighted at the thought. “Joe will be going to the settlements for traps, powder and provisions to carry on his winter work. If we can reach him before he starts, he’ll carry the news we have to tell.”

Frank was equally pleased at this plan; and after a rest until noon, for both they and their horses were tired out by the all night ride to escape the Creeks, they mounted once more and headed in the direction of the old trapper’s cabin in the woods.

Old Joe Grant was one of those unique backwoods characters so plentiful in the early days of the fur hunters. He had a line of traps, in season, for miles along the banks of the streams; he hunted bear and hill-cats and deer, and lived in a small log house in the shelter of a huge, uprearing rock, in a region into which man, white or red, seldom ventured. Here with a packhorse and a brace of huge dogs, almost as savage as wolves, he had lived for years, only venturing into the settlements in the spring to sell his furs, and in the early fall to lay in his necessities, as Jack had said, for the winter.

THE TRAPPER WAS SEATED IN THE DOORWAY

At about sundown next day as the three were riding through a depression between two hills, they heard the deep bay of dogs; in another quarter of an hour they sighted the lonely cabin. The trapper was seated in the doorway, his rifle at his side, mending a trap. The two white boys shouted and waved their caps as they approached; the huge hounds which had winded them from afar rushed forward, their red jaws gaping, and growling deep in their mighty chests.

“Down, Bully! Down, Snow!” cried the trapper. At sight of the horsemen he had dropped the trap and seized his rifle; but recognizing Jack he arose, shouted once more to the dogs, and advanced with a broad smile.

“Wal, wal!” said he, “this here is a surprise! I wasn’t calculatin’ on no visitors. Howdy, Injun,” to Running Elk. “Light, lads, and have a snack and a shake-down for the night.”

Both Bully and Snow, who was a white dog, had subsided at seeing their master so friendly with the newcomers; they now sniffed inquiringly at the horses’ heels and at the boys themselves when they rode up to the log house and alighted. The lads found a place to picket their horses where there was plenty of grass; then they joined the trapper, who was already gathering dried leaves and twigs to start a fire.

“Got some good fresh pickerel,” stated old Joe, “and some bear meat which was killed only yesterday morning. Hope you got some flour in your pack; bread’s mighty scarce with me just now.”

“We’ve got quite a lot of it,” said Frank, who had been introduced to the old backwoodsman and received a hearty hand-grasp from him.

While the fish and strips of bear meat were cooking at one fire and the bread was baking in the ash of another, the two white boys took a plunge into a deep clear pool which was close at hand, and then ran themselves dry in the last glancing barbs of the sun. Then after they had all four done complete justice to the meal, they drew inside the cabin, where old Joe lighted some home-made candles of bear’s grease; settling back upon the skins of bear, deer and catamount which covered the floor, they fell into a conversation which was one of the most interesting in which Frank Lawrence had ever taken part.

The candles flared yellow, lighting up the rough log walls chinked with clay; from the peak of the roof hung dried roots and herbs gathered by the trapper for medicinal use; heaps of pelts were piled up in one corner; others were stretched upon the walls to dry. Upon the door was the skin of a panther which in life must have been a monster; bears’ claws and teeth, traps, fishing-tackle, hatchets, and axes, and an extra gun also hung upon the wall. There was a huge fireplace at one side, built of stones and dried clay. With a little thrill of content, Frank pictured the cabin as it must be in the winter, with a fire of logs roaring up the chimney’s wide throat; all was snow and cold without, the dreary wilderness stretched away on every hand, but, within, the fire-glow gave off a cheer and comfort missing in a more stately dwelling.

“Wal, what brings you younkers so far down this a-way?” questioned the old man. “Never thought to see anybody this summer.”

Jack informed the trapper as to the nature of their errand in the wilderness; the old man, who had resumed the tinkering at the trap which their arrival had interrupted, listened with many nods of the head.

“Some day them there old French grants will be worth a mighty heap of money,” said he at length when the boy had done. “But, in the first place, they’ll have to be powerful well proven; and then it’ll not be until the Creeks is larned a lesson.”

This naturally brought up the subject of the boys’ journey and as Jack related the adventure with the Creeks, and the words of Tecumseh, the ancient woodsman put the trap aside and gave the matter his undivided attention. After the youngster had related all the details, old Joe began to ask questions; and when Jack had answered these at length, there was a silence. The trapper sat bolt upright, his shoulders resting against the wall, and his heavy white brows bent.

“So them varmint Shawnees have got into the Muscogee country again, have they?” said he. “Well, I’ve been expecting it for some time now; but I didn’t think to hear of it so soon, for all that.”

“As we couldn’t turn back from our hunt just yet,” said Frank, “Jack thought you’d carry the news to the settlements when you went in for your stores.”

“That I will,” replied old Joe, grimly. “I’ll carry it right enough; and I’ll be heading that way in four days’ time. And it won’t be none too pleasant for them to listen to, youngsters; for the Spaniards in Florida and the British on the northern frontier will give the redskins rifles, and ball and powder, and with plenty of them same articles, the varmints’ll be more dangerous than ever.”

“The Spaniards have never been any too friendly on the border,” said Jack, resentfully; “and the Creeks, when it gets too hot for them, will race for Spanish territory.”

“I suppose the outbreak of the war with England will be of great advantage to Tecumseh,” spoke Frank. Congress had only recently declared war against the British because of that nation’s aggression on the sea. “And, if the truth were known, I’ll venture that’s one of his reasons for starting an Indian uprising at this time.”

“Like as not. The Shawnees are a cute lot of redskins,” commented the old trapper. “And Tecumseh and his brother, the medicine man, are the sharpest of them all.”

The boys slept well that night in the trapper’s cabin; and next morning after a good backwoods breakfast, they bid the old man good-bye.

“Take care of yourselves,” said he. “With things as they are, there’s no telling what might happen. Always be on the safe side of anything that turns up, if you can fix it that way. For you are in the enemy’s country, and there are only three of you.”

He shook each of them by the hand.

“If you see my father,” said Jack, “tell him I’m all right and expect to keep that way.”

“I’ll do it, son,” promised old Joe.

“And say that we’ll be back as soon as we can finish up our errand,” said Frank.

The trapper waved his hand to them as they rode away; and the huge dogs barked their good-bye as they disappeared in the green of the forest.

CHAPTER IV
ATTACKED BY INDIANS

Their mounts having had a good rest and the boys themselves being more than usually refreshed, they made considerable progress that day. Night found them at the ford of a large stream.

“Hello,” said Jack, as they drew up at the ford and gazed about, “this looks like a place I’ve seen before.”

“Cache on other side,” said Running Elk, who seldom made a mistake in his observations. “Much dried meat. Put there two snow moons ago.”

Jack’s face lit up with recognition.

“Why, so it is,” said he. “I hadn’t thought we’d gone so far.” Then to Frank he added: “This is the place we’ve been heading for.”

“Is this the Alabama River?” asked the young Virginian.

“Yes,” said Jack. “And from now on we’ll have our bearings pretty well laid out for us. Running Elk and myself hunted hereabouts two winters ago; that’s how we came to have the country so well in mind.”

They forded the river and camped for the night on the opposite bank; next morning, after breakfast, Frank got out his chart, roughly done upon a piece of tanned deerskin in the pigment used by the Indians.

“Here,” said he, his finger indicating the places on the chart, “is the Alabama. Just below is a place where a smaller stream flows into it, and upon the point of land between the two is a small clump of trees under which is written ‘Triple Oaks.’”

“The clump would be three trees, I think,” said Jack, “and pretty big ones, to make them stand out so as to be noticed more than others.”

“I should say so, too,” agreed Frank.

“There is such a place as that not far down-stream,” said Jack. “At least I think there is. I remember some big oaks, just at a place where a creek runs into the river. But how many there are, I don’t know.” Then turning to Running Elk, he asked, “What do you remember about it?”

The young Cherokee’s reply was brief and comprehensive.

“One, two, three,” he counted upon his fingers. “Three oak trees. Grow near creek on river bank. Half a sun’s ride.”

Jack chuckled and nodded to Frank.

“He never forgets anything like that.”

Frank was much gratified.

“Good for you, old chap,” said he, slapping the Cherokee upon the shoulder. To Jack he said: “As we are without instruments, we couldn’t locate the tract without these landmarks, and it’s a great comfort to have some one along who knows where the landmarks are.” Again his fingers went from point to point upon the chart. “Here, to the north, is a hill; and around to the west is a pine forest; I think we ought, by the help of these, to prove if the three oaks you have in mind are the ones in the chart, or no.”

When the horses had finished grazing, they were saddled, and the lads sprang upon their backs with keen excitement. That Running Elk was a most excellent judge of distance as well as topography was soon made manifest. For just about high noon, when the sun was staring like a huge fiery ball from directly overhead, Frank uttered a cry.

“What is it?” demanded Jack, his hand going in the quick, instinctive movement of the frontiersman for his weapon.

“The triple oaks,” was the reply, and Frank pointed over the tree tops.

Sure enough, as they broke through some underbrush upon the river bank, they sighted three massive oaks, growing close together and towering above their neighbors like giants above pigmies. To the left of them flowed a slow shallow stream of yellowish water which entered and discolored the river for some distance below.

“Well, there they are,” said Jack, “just as I saw them last, and as they have been standing for at least a hundred years.”

They all dismounted, and their bridles were thrown across some low limbs close to the water’s edge. Frank got the chart from his saddle-bags, and began unrolling it.

“With any sort of good luck,” said he, “we’ll have this job over sooner than we expected.”

As he spoke he felt a hand upon his shoulder, pressing downward.

“Down!” came the voice of Jack, harshly. “Don’t look up! Down!”

His weeks in the wilderness had not been without their effect upon the young Virginian. He had learned that if a thing must be done in the forest, one must do it promptly and without question. So he at once dropped to the earth; as he did so a flight of arrows sped over his head, and a dozen bullets hummed their course through the trees.

“Red Sticks,” said Running Elk, from behind the gnarled stem of a cottonwood. He fitted an arrow to his bow, and as Frank, astounded by the suddenness of the attack, gazed at him the taut string twanged, and a shrill cry from across the river told of a victim.

Almost at the same moment the long rifle of Jack Davis spoke, and a second yell arose, proving the sureness of his aim. Frank now turned his eyes upon the point of land upon which stood the triple oaks; to his surprise, he saw among the trees all the evidences of a Creek encampment; and a new flight of arrows and volley of rifle shots from behind rocks, stumps and trees, told of the hiding places of the savages.

By great good fortune, the boys’ horses, at the first sound of the rifles of the hostiles, had broken away from their slight restraint and galloped off into the woods, unhurt.

“Keep close to the ground,” warned Jack, “and after them. We must not lose sight of our mounts, or we’re done for.”

Running Elk slipped from tree to tree; Jack crawled along the earth with the supple movements of a snake. Frank followed suit, and in spite of the continuous flight of arrows, they reached unharmed the thick cover of the trees some distance from the river’s brink.

By great good fortune, the packhorse, which was a wise old beast, had brought up a few hundred yards away; and naturally the other horses stopped also, and so were easily caught. The boys sprang upon their backs and went tearing away through the aisles of the forest; and as they did so they heard the yells of the Indians, who now for the first time became aware of their flight.

“Do you think they’ll follow?” asked Frank, as he and Jack rode side by side for a space where the woods was not so dense.

“They will if they have noticed how few we are,” replied the young borderer. “And if they cross the river, our tracks will tell them that.”

After about an hour’s hard riding they slackened their pace, and then at the top of a knoll they halted. They had emerged from the forest some time ago, and from where they were they had a clear view of the surrounding country for miles around.

Away swept the green of the early autumn, all rippling in the breeze and shining in the sunlight. Here and there a splotch of yellow or red marked where the fall had already set its hand. The sky was cloudless and the air very clear.

“It’s the sort of a day when we can see great distances,” said Frank. “I don’t think I remember ever seeing a finer.”

“Well, and just because of that,” said Jack Davis, with the caution of experience, “we’d better not stand here in such full view. If there are any reds on our trail, they’ll mark us, even if they’re still miles away.”

“Ugh!” agreed Running Elk, in prompt approval. “Creek have good eyes. See far!”

So they drew back below the shoulder of the knoll, dismounted and gave the horses a breathing space. Frank, as he watched his friend, saw that his face was serious and that his looks in the direction of the waving green forest which they had left behind were intense. Running Elk also kept his keen black eyes upon the distant woods; as he stood watching, with barbaric composure, he had the appearance of a splendidly wrought bronze, meant to typify vigilance and grace.

Suddenly Jack spoke.

“There they are,” said he, pointing. “There’s a big band of them, and they are following in our tracks like hounds.”

From out the green of the woods came a full score of Creeks. Some were mounted and some were afoot. They carried shields and spears and bows and arrows; and here and there the metal of a rifle barrel glistened as the sun’s rays struck it.

“They seem to come on boldly, and without much thought of concealment,” said Frank, after he had watched them for a moment. “And that is not at all the way I thought Indians made war.”

“Um, Creek no care who see,” stated Running Elk. “Got hill, with ring around him.”

“What’s that?” said Frank, only partly catching the Cherokee’s meaning.

“He means that they’ve got us surrounded,” said Jack Davis. “And he’s right. Just throw a look around.”

Startled, Frank did so; his heart gave a leap and began to beat swifter; from all directions, closing in upon the knoll, were bands of armed savages.

CHAPTER V
THE FIGHT ON THE KNOLL

For a moment or two Frank Lawrence was too startled to speak; but when he could collect his wits his first action was to throw his rifle around in position for use; his second was to look at Jack Davis and the Cherokee hunter.

“Well,” said he, quietly enough, “we seem to be in for it, don’t we?”

“There’s a good hundred of them, all told,” spoke Jack. “I wonder where they all sprang from.”

“Young men,” said Running Elk. “Braves. Old men in council; young men come afterward.”

“That’s it,” cried Jack, grasping at the Cherokee hunter’s meaning. “Weatherford, chief of the Creeks, took his old men forward to hear and talk with Tecumseh and the prophet at the council fire. The young men, or warriors, were left a few days’ march behind; they were on their way to join their chief when we ran into them at the river.”

“Worse luck for us,” grumbled Frank, his eyes on the advancing Indians. “What shall we do?”

It was plain to Jack and Running Elk that the Creeks had used their superior knowledge of the country to their great advantage. They had seen the direction taken by the boys and knowing, very likely, the course they must take through the forest if they desired to make speed, the red men had cunningly thrown parties forward along various paths through the woods, short cuts known only to themselves and the wild things, and so had managed to form a ring about them when they had least expected it.

To stand at the top of the grassy knoll and see the Creeks advance upon all sides was an experience the like of which Frank Lawrence had never undergone before. The sun glanced upon the oily bronze skins of the braves, their eagle and heron plumes nodded in the breeze, their buckskin leggings and quilled and beaded ornaments were interesting and picturesque. But Frank knew that there was something more than show in the force moving so slowly, so surely toward them; he knew that if they were not checked, their presence in such numbers meant almost certain death to him and his friends.

“Do you think they are in range?” asked he, looking at Jack.

Young Davis swept the distant Creeks with an estimating glance.

“Not by fifty yards,” said he. “And we’ll give them twenty-five more than that, for we must not waste any ammunition.”

But Jack did not give the Indians much attention at the moment; as soon as he had answered Frank’s question, he turned to a place at the top of the knoll which had caught his eye a few moments before. This was a bowl-like depression, possibly fifteen yards across and some four feet in depth. The young Tennesseean leaped into this, and walked about, trying it at various places for a view of the sloping sides of the knoll.

“Just the thing,” cried he, excitedly. “Couldn’t have been better placed if it had been made for the occasion.”

Catching Jack’s idea, the others also sprang into the depression.

“Bully!” exclaimed Frank. “It’s quite a fort.”

“Made for fort,” stated Running Elk, whose searching glance had been going about. “Long time ago.”

At once the four horses were driven into the bowl, and made to lie down in the center; then the defenders gave their attention to the oncoming foe.

The Creeks had come on slowly; it was evident that they felt sure of their prey and so were in no great hurry to close in. At the head of the band advancing from the direction of the forest was a tall, evil looking brave carrying a long tufted spear; he seemed to exult in the prospect of bringing death to the white face, and he danced fantastically and flourished the spear.

“They are about in range now,” said Jack Davis, as he threw his long rifle forward. “But hold your fire, Frank, until I have a try.” The piece went to his shoulder, the barrel resting upon the edge of the hollow. “That fellow doing the dancing seems to be mighty pleased,” added the young borderer, grimly. “So I just think I’ll try to make him laugh on the other side of his mouth.”

The long tube of the rifle held steadily upon the exultant savage for an instant; then the weapon cracked; the tufted spear was flung high in the air, as the Creek’s arms went up; and with a yell he dropped prone upon the sward.

A chorus of yells followed this; and while they were still sounding, Frank’s piece spoke clearly and spitefully; a warrior in advance of his fellows, upon the opposite side, screeched his death note and fell to the earth.

At once the bands to which the fallen braves had belonged scattered and fell back. They were still out of bow shot; a few rifles sounded from among them, but the pieces were of obsolete pattern and poor range, so the bullets did no harm. However, the parties upon the two other sides had sustained no loss; and so they came on with a speed greatly increased by the yells and shots.

With cool, practiced hands, the two young riflemen rammed home fresh charges of powder and ball; Frank sprang to one side and Jack to another.

“Sight ’em carefully,” admonished Jack, “and don’t let go until you’re sure of bringing down your Injun.”

Again the long weapons cracked, one after the other, and two more Creeks fell with wide flung arms and yells of pain. And that was not all. The youthful Cherokee had been impatiently waiting a chance to bring his bow into the conflict; the chance had now come. So he rose up beside Frank and the bowstring sang shrilly. The feathered shaft whistled through the air and found its mark; then before the stricken brave had sunk to the ground, the pantherish speed of Running Elk had carried him across the little fort; upon the opposite side, the one covered by Jack, the bowstring sounded again, and another warrior fell, transfixed through the shoulder.

With four more of their number down, the Creeks let fly a perfect rain of arrows; their rifles rang out in a scattered volley, and they came on vengefully. But the ready bow of the Cherokee continued to twang; the rifles of the two young marksmen were reloaded and again laid a brace of warriors low. This was too much for the Creeks; all their ideas of warfare, which was to fight from cover, were against this method of attack. They were in an open position and their enemies were out of sight; it looked like death to advance, so promptly, with the last shots of the two rifles, they broke and fled out of range.

“They don’t seem to have much appetite for lead,” said Jack, as he cleaned out his rifle barrel with a bit of cloth, and proceeded to reload.

Frank duplicated this performance; then with a very sober countenance he said to his friend:

“I say, Jack, as that gang of savages were coming on shooting and yelling like all possessed, it struck me that we were in a rather desperate situation.”

Jack Davis pulled a wry face.

“I never want to see a worse one,” said he, quietly enough, but with a look in his eyes which Frank had never seen there before.

“What do you think of our chances of pulling out of it?” asked Frank, his gaze going to the Indian bands, clustered in council, well out of range.

“Well,” said Jack, “there’s a lot of them, and if they could get at us, they’d soon make an end of the thing.”

“It needs only a rush,” said Frank. “If they had kept at it a few minutes more, it would have done for us.”

“But they didn’t keep at it,” spoke Jack. “And that is the only real thing that we can count on. It’s not the Indian nature to stand up unprotected in the face of rifle fire. Their training is to hunt cover, to stalk their enemy, to creep up and jump on him when he’s not looking for it. One-quarter as many white men would have taken this knoll at the first rush, seeing that there are only three to defend it. But Injuns are different.” He pointed with one outstretched arm toward the discomfited savages. “They have the worst of it and they know it. It’ll surprise me a good deal if they pull themselves together enough to make another attack.”

“What!” Frank Lawrence looked at his friend in surprise. “Do you mean to say there is any chance of their giving up the attempt—of letting us escape?”

But Jack shook his head.

“No,” he said, gravely, “not quite that. But as there is no cover for the redskins on the sides of this knoll, no trees, no rocks, no stumps or anything like that, they might wait for a kind of cover that’s to be found anywhere.”

“What’s that?” asked Frank.

“Darkness.”

The young Virginian felt a cold, creeping shudder run down his back. His imagination pictured the darkness of night falling over this lone place; its stillness, its ominous, brooding depths. He seemed to feel the presence of the Creeks as they crept through the blackness, slowly and with the soft padded tread of panthers. No superiority of rifle fire, no vigilance, no courage would serve under such conditions; it would mean only one thing—massacre.

“If they wait for night and attack us in the dark,” asked Frank, “what can we do?”

“There is only one thing to do in such a case,” said the young borderer. “As soon as darkness settles we must get away from here as best we can. We must not wait for them to spring upon us; we’ll strike a blow at them, and be away in the darkness.”

“Ugh!” said Running Elk, with approval. But that he did not favor every aspect of the proposition was shown when he added, “Creep away like snakes—no noise—no shots. Heap best.”

“Right,” agreed Jack, with a nod. “If it can be done that way, it’ll be best. However, when the time comes, we shall see.”

Minute by minute went by; then an hour passed, but still the Creeks did not renew the attack.

“They don’t seem to be in any hurry about it, at any rate,” said Frank. All three of the youths were leaning over the edge of the depression looking along the slope at the Indians in the distance.

“No,” said Jack. “A half dozen, or so, in killed and wounded is a staggerer to them. They’ll not budge before night, you’ll see that.”

After a time they saw the savages subside and go into camp; however, each band kept its place; the ring about the knoll was preserved; and red skinned sentinels were observed here and there, their keen eyes fixed upon the apex where the boys lay.

“There’ll not be much that’ll escape them,” said Jack. “Injuns have as much patience as a hill-cat at a water hole.”

The afternoon wore away; then the sun began to lower behind the range of waving tree tops and the long shadows began to trail upon the slopes of the knoll. But the Creeks made no sign; craftily they assumed carelessness, lolling about in groups, their horses picketed at some little distances.

“They think to fool us,” said Jack. “It’s their idea not to stir until their movements are covered by darkness; and in that way, so they imagine, they’ll lure us into thinking they are not going to move at all.”

Slowly the shadows thickened; twilight passed and night settled upon the wilds. There were countless stars in the sky; but they seemed very far off and their glimmering cast no light; the moon would not show itself for some hours.

“Now!” said Jack Davis. “If we are going to make the attempt, now is the time. Are you willing, Frank?”

“I’ll follow right after you wherever you go,” replied the young Virginian.

“Get away now, or Creek take ’um scalp,” said Running Elk.

They got their horses to their feet and out of the hollow; Jack had laid his plan before night settled, and he knew what he wanted to do.

“Right after me, one at a time,” said he. “Lead your horses, and when you feel me stop, do the same.”

Down the slope of the knoll went the three, in Indian file; ahead of them all was dusk; around them the silence settled like death.

Half-way down, Jack paused; the others did likewise, as directed, the horses huddling together for companionship. Frank was about to whisper a question as to why they had halted, but Jack stopped him at the first syllable. Then the young Virginian became aware of a movement in the darkness near to them—the soft, steady forward movement of some low lying mass. With a thrill he realized what it meant; the Indians were advancing to the attack.

CHAPTER VI
SIGHTING THE ENEMY

Like the slow lapping of black water the bands of creeping Indians ebbed forward. Frank Lawrence held his rifle ready to fire at the word; and as he stood waiting, he wondered why the command was not given.

But Jack Davis was observant; he had planned the direction of their attempt with an eye to probabilities; and what he had figured upon happening came about in due course. Upon this side of the knoll, but some distance from it, there was a shallow ravine; when the Creeks on this side advanced to the attack earlier in the day, they split their forces at this ravine and came on in two separate bodies. The boy took a desperate chance upon the same thing’s happening in the darkness, and so had led the way, with the ravine directly ahead.

Slowly the creeping redskins moved forward up the knoll; they passed within a dozen yards upon either side of the crouching group and continued unaware of the situation. A minute passed, then another—and when Frank had finally despaired, in the suspense, of Jack’s ever giving the word to go on, it came. Cautiously they urged their animals on down the slope; they were now behind the Creeks; ahead was the whole wide wilderness. A hundred yards or more from the spot where the savages passed them on the hillside, Jack whispered:

“Mount! But go slowly.”

They clambered into the saddle; Running Elk, who had clung to the packhorse during all, kept the faithful beast beside his own horse as they rode along. After having gone something less than a mile they heard a yell, faint, but high pitched and exultant, from the distance; rifles cracked and a flare of light lit the sky.

“They’ve reached the summit of the knoll,” spoke Jack. “And they’ve let drive with everything they had.”

After the scattering of shots there was a short pause; a murmur, dull and sustained, came from the direction of their late fort; then, as though the Indians had just realized the escape of their intended victims, a screech of rage, hate and disappointment swept the still night with shuddering intensity.

“I’m as well satisfied that we didn’t fall into the hands of those gentlemen,” observed Frank, as they rode away at a gallop. “I don’t think they’d stop at much.”

“The Creeks are not the merciful kind,” said Jack. “And they seldom take prisoners.”

“Creek burn and scalp,” stated Running Elk, calmly. “Him no good.”

They rode all that night in order to put as much distance between them and the savage bands as possible; in the morning they had breakfast, saw to their horses and rested for a few hours; then they were off again.

During that day they came upon innumerable Indian signs; in the course of the next they sighted a small party of Creeks headed through the forest, and toward evening they all but stumbled upon a large encampment.

“It looks as though they were gathering for trouble,” said Frank. “The woods are alive with them.”

“Like as not runners have been sent out to the different villages that the Prophet is here,” said Jack. “And, of course, they are all anxious to see him and hear his medicine.”

“Much war,” said Running Elk, as they made away from the vicinity of the savage camp. “Creeks and Shawnee burn blockhouse and white face tepees.”

“Do you think they’ll start soon?” asked Jack.

“No.” The Cherokee hunter shook his head. “Not yet. After the snow’s gone from hills. Tribes all join together. Heap fight.”

“That sounds like the facts,” nodded the young borderer to Frank. “It’ll take some time for Tecumseh to get the tribes together for the blow—if he can do it at all.”

“Next spring, then, a big outbreak may be expected?” said Frank.

“Maybe not so soon. But it will come, sooner or later, mark my words. The Injuns are about ripe for it.”

That night they were unable to light a fire because of the closeness of the Indian bands; and the greater part of the next day they were forced to remain in hiding because of the parties of savages constantly encountered. This went on for some days; they were unable to cook their food the greater part of the time, and had little real rest, for it was necessary to guard against surprise every moment.

After about a week of this sort of thing, Jack, one morning, said to Frank:

“It doesn’t seem as though we were going to locate your father’s land grant in a hurry, does it?”

Frank shook his head.

“No,” said he. “We’ll never be able to move in that direction now. It must be alive with Indians.”

“Too bad,” said Jack. “And we were just on the edge of it, too.”

“What do you think we’d better do?” asked Frank.

“Well, we can’t go back to Tennessee,” replied the young borderer. “That would be as dangerous as trying to locate the land marked on your chart. About the only thing I can see for the present, at least, is to make our way south to Mobile, and halt there for a while until this excitement among the redskins dies out.”

“Good,” said Frank. And the Cherokee hunter grunted his approval.

So from that time on their attempt was not in the direction of Tallapoosa, but toward the fort which stood overlooking the bay at Mobile.

This they searched after a tremendous effort through the wild country; and when they appeared at the stockade, they were stared at in amazement.

“Well, youngsters,” greeted a bluff old officer, who seemed to be in command, “where did you come from?” And when they told him, and related some of their experiences, he and the group of soldiers and frontiersmen who had grouped about opened their eyes still wider.

“Well,” said the commandant, shaking his head, “you’ve had great good fortune, lads. The country you’ve just come out of must be as thick with excited Injuns as a hive is with bees. I wouldn’t venture in there with less than five hundred men.”

Mobile and the section thereabouts was fairly well defended, and had little to fear from an uprising of the Indians alone.

“But the British are getting active,” the boys were told; “they are sending in supplies to the redskins; and the Spaniards are helping them.”

This condition of affairs held during the fall; the boys saw the winter come and spring show itself in its thousands of green shoots and blooms, and still they were forced to remain at Mobile.

The whole Indian country was surcharged with the madness excited in the people by the religious frenzies of the Prophet, who in turn was directed by the shrewd mind of Tecumseh. But some of the tribes through whose country he passed, like the Cherokees, the Choctaws and Chickasaws, turned a deaf ear to his plotting, for they had the wisdom to see that his plans could not succeed. But the others gave the Shawnees their attention, for with England’s aid they felt that they could finally overthrow the other white men.

During the fall while the boys were safe in Mobile, the news came that Tecumseh and the Prophet had visited Toockabatcha, the great village of the Creeks. There were fully five thousand warriors of that nation assembled in the town; the Shawnee chief and the magician, painted and bedecked with all the trappings of savage custom, made their last great appeal. The British officers had told the Prophet that a comet was to appear—giving him the exact time; and the wily savage now used this information to good advantage. Rising before the assembled Creeks in all the impressiveness of paint and ornaments, he proclaimed:

“The Great Spirit will give you a sign. And when that sign comes, the Muscogee must take the war-path. You will see the arm of Tecumseh, the great chief, in the sky. It will be of fire and will be held out to destroy the paleface.”

This prediction made a great impression upon the superstitious Creeks. A saying of Tecumseh, which that leader had probably not meant to be taken literally, also caused great excitement among the savages. A Creek chief known to the white settlers of Alabama as “Big Warrior” had refused to believe that the Great Spirit had sent Tecumseh among them. With upraised hand the Shawnee had said to him:

“You do not believe me, chief of the Muscogees; you think I speak with a crooked tongue. But you shall believe. When I leave your country I will go to Detroit; when I reach there I will stamp my foot upon the earth; and the wigwams of this village will tremble.”

Unquestionably what Tecumseh meant was that the effects of the war which would begin upon his reaching the region of the Great Lakes would be felt as far as Toockabatcha; nevertheless a strange thing is said to have happened. About the time in which he must have reached Detroit, a sharp shock of earthquake shook almost the whole of the Creek country; and the wigwams of Toockabatcha did, indeed, reel and tremble. Instantly the Indians recalled the Shawnee’s words and were filled with fear.

“Tecumseh has reached Detroit!” they cried. “He has struck the earth with his foot and it has trembled.”

This was in December, 1812, and the entire Gulf region was affected by this earth tremor. At about the same time the predicted comet appeared in the sky; and the credulity of the Creeks at once saw in it the fiery arm of Tecumseh.

“War with the white man!” ran through the nation of the Muscogee. “War! The Great Spirit has commanded it!”

Through the remainder of the winter and the next spring, clashes took place between the military and the Indians, who were preparing for the war. Settlers were attacked, hunters were driven from their trapping grounds. At Burnt Corn, a number of whites and half-breeds were assembled for mutual protection; the Creeks attacked, defeated and scattered them. Farms were abandoned, the settlers flocking to the numerous stockades to await the expected onslaught.

Having remained idle, so far as their mission was concerned, through the fall, the winter and the spring, Jack and Frank, together with Running Elk, made up their minds that they could not afford to waste any more time. So, in the month of July, in spite of the protests of the friends they had made at Mobile, they took horse and rode into the wilderness once more.

“It’s a risk,” admitted Jack to his comrades, “but, then, we can’t wait forever.”

“I’d rather face the Creeks than the clock,” stated Frank. “They were the longest hours I ever spent toward the last.”

As for the young Cherokee hunter, he seemed greatly pleased with the venture; the danger, instead of being dreaded in his case, was welcomed.

“Brave must fight,” said he, elatedly. “Not like squaw or papoose.”

“Well, I’d just as leave dodge any fighting at the odds we’ll have to give,” said Jack, drily. “But,” and there was a hopeful note in his voice, “maybe we’ll not be molested much. You see,” to Frank, “that section of the Alabama River where the triple oaks stand has no white settlers; and the Indians at this time are mustering in the neighborhoods they mean to attack. We might go through the entire grant which you’re looking for and not see a single redskin.”

“I hope that turns out the case,” remarked Frank, though it was plain he had no strong expectations of the affair’s proving so. “But let us keep a good lookout, just the same. I haven’t had but a few brushes with the Creeks, but I know they have a habit of turning up just at the time you’re not expecting them.”

But it so happened Jack Davis’ judgment of the conditions of affairs along that section of the river was quite correct. At most times it would have been the region in which to find the Creeks the thickest; but, save for a few villages occupied by old men, and women and children, there were no braves to be seen. Signs were everywhere of parties having passed that way; they came upon the blackened remains of a half hundred camp-fires; but not a single eagle feather was visible anywhere about; not a bow twanged, not a war cry sounded.

Jack Davis was greatly interested in the movements of the parties who had camped on and moved across their track.

“Every one of them is headed for the settlements,” said he. “There must be thousands of them.”

However, they knew that the uprising was expected, and felt that the military authorities and backwoodsmen were alert; so they concerned themselves with the object of their expedition alone. The triple oaks were once more sighted; unmolested this time, they studied the chart upon the deerskin scroll; one by one they located the landmarks set down, blazed trees with their hatchets and explored. The result of five days’ work was that the old grant was shown to be a splendidly located one, having every natural advantage.

“It’s worth thousands,” said Jack, who had a fairly keen eye for such things. “If the Injuns are ever brought to see things in the right light, your father has a fortune here.”

With this fact greatly comforting him, Frank was willing to turn once more toward the settlements; so after one night more in the river bank camp, they took to the saddle and headed for the Tennessee line. After the first day, unmistakable signs of Indians compelled them to change their course somewhat; the twilight of the second day found them in the forest amid a perfect maze of fresh trails.

“They seem to be all around us,” said Jack, as they brought up at last, and sat their horses looking about them.

And he was right; for as the twilight deepened into dusk, and dusk into night, they saw the red twinkle of Creek camp-fires on every hand.

CHAPTER VII
THE ONSLAUGHT AT FORT MIMS

For a time the two white boys and the young Cherokee hunter gazed in silence at the sparkle of the Creek camp-fires; the woods seemed studded with them; hundreds of savages must have been camped within a circle of a half mile.

“It’s almost a miracle how we got into the midst of them like this without seeing any of them, or their seeing us,” said Frank Lawrence.

“We’d been traveling very quietly,” said Jack. “I suppose that accounts for it. But,” and he gazed around at the gleaming sparks of red light among the trees, “we must get out of this, and before daylight. If we don’t, we’ll be caught as sure as the sun rises.”

“No get away in morning,” said Running Elk. “Best go now. Too many warriors to fight.”

In the direction from which they came the camp-fires of the Indians were fewer; so the boys mounted once more and headed in that direction, aiming at a point between two of them which were farthest apart and therefore seemed to afford the best way out.

There followed what they would all remember as one of the most perilous half hours of their lives; but, at length, they were out of the region of the camps and were making good speed away in the darkness.

“Once or twice I thought sure that a sentinel would call to us,” said Frank.

“We were so close to them that they couldn’t help thinking we were members of their own party,” said Jack, “and as they couldn’t make us out in the dark we had a few chances in our favor.”

“Creek heap much sleep on watch,” charged Running Elk, with contempt. “No good!”

The three rode all night; and as morning dawned, they saw signs of the white man’s hand all about them.

“Hello!” cried Frank, “we’re closer to the settlements than I thought.”

“Unless I’m wrong by a good deal,” said Jack, “we’re not far from Fort Mims.”

“Fort there,” said the Cherokee, pointing toward a distant strip of woodland. “Other side of trees.”

They did not go into camp, though tired by their night in the saddle; but cheerily rode toward the fort, feeling that a good breakfast awaited them. An hour’s ride brought them in sight of the fort, which stood on Lake Tensaw.

Fort Mims was built and occupied by a half-breed named Samuel Mims, who had lived there in the wilderness many years. His house was a stout one of logs, and was surrounded by a stockade, pierced by loop-holes for rifle fire in case of attack. The place was only a little distance from the lake; all about it was forest, marsh and ravines. A large gate was let into the stockade at the north and there was another at the south.

When the Creeks began their depredations on the border, the settlers of that section had flocked to Fort Mims. At this time there were some seventy-five men, mostly white, but some also of mixed blood, gathered behind the shelter of the stockade; and with these were a great number of women and children.

A month before, General Claiborne, who was in command of the United States forces in Alabama, dispatched Major Beasley and one hundred and seventy infantry to this place. Claiborne recognized the seriousness of the situation and thought it best to be prepared. When Beasley reached Fort Mims he found an officer and about a score of soldiers already there; and in taking charge, proceeded to organize the settlers into a fighting force, of which a young half-breed named Dixon Bailey was made captain.

A week or so after this force was located at the fort, General Claiborne paid a visit to the place; seeing with a practiced military eye the weakness of its defense, he urged the strengthening of the stockade, and the completing of a blockhouse which had been started some years before, but never finished.

Major Beasley was a man of unquestioned courage; but he was a poor officer. Being of a sanguine, optimistic nature, and with little imagination, he belittled the urgency of the occasion. He had a contempt for the warlike qualities of the red men, and did not think it worth while to erect the defenses recommended by the general. There were six hundred people gathered in the enclosure; and with half of these fighting men, he ridiculed the idea of danger.

The boys stood in a fringe of woods. From there they sighted the fort, and saw one of the gates standing wide.

“And there is no guard,” said the observant Jack Davis. “That looks like a foolish thing to do in a time like this.”

The boys were about to ride forward when Running Elk hurriedly, and in a low tone, said:

“No go! Creek braves out there!”

Drawing in their mounts, Jack and Frank looked keenly about; sure enough, from above the high grass at a point indicated by the young Cherokee, they saw the nodding eagle plumes of a half score savages.

“And watching the fort,” whispered Frank.

“Creek make ring around fort,” said Running Elk.

“It’s true!” said Jack, startled, his roving glance taking in the indications. “They’ve got it surrounded, and are tightening the circle all the time.”

THEY SIGHTED THE FORT

“We must warn the people in the fort,” said Frank. “With that gate open they are in danger.”

“To stir a step in their direction at this time,” said Jack Davis, “would be to run into sure death. Surely, of all the people who are inside there at this time, some one is on the lookout; and they will see the redskins before it is too late.”

Knowing that it would be foolhardy to attempt anything just then, Jack rode his horse into a deep ravine, followed by the others; here they dismounted, and, concealed by a dense growth of trees and underbrush, they crawled up the sides of the ravine and watched the situation with the most acute interest.

Jack had said that surely out of all the people inside the stockade at Fort Mims some one would be on the lookout. This was naturally to be expected—it was the very least that a military officer could do in the heart of a hostile country. Yet it was a thing that Major Beasley had not done. But to leave the stockade gate sprawling open and the fort unguarded was not the least of this officer’s offenses. A day or two before a couple of negroes, who had been sent out to watch some cattle at pasture, had rushed in and reported signs of Indians. A party had been sent out, under an officer, to scout about the country; but they had been very perfunctory in the performance of this grave duty, and returned saying that no Indians were in the neighborhood, and neither had they seen any signs of them.

At this report the negroes were lashed, in spite of their protestations, and things went on in their usual careless spirit.

For several hours the boys watched from the ravine. The advance of the circling savages had stopped; apparently they were waiting some sort of signal. Inside the stockade the women and military cooks were preparing the midday meal; the soldiers were lounging about, the children were romping in the shade of the walls. Another short space of time, and then the drum beat the mess call, telling the soldiers that their food was ready.

Apparently this was the signal. The Creeks arose from out the grass, from behind stumps, from out of hollows. Like magic, hundreds of them, smeared hideously with war paint, armed with scalping knife and tomahawk, with rifle and war club, bounded silently across the level space between them and the fort.

Major Beasley was the first of the defenders to see them.

“Injuns!” he cried as he darted toward the heavy gate. The swift-footed Creeks were also plunging toward this point; seeing that they were discovered, they cast silence aside and the air was filled with the dreaded war-whoop.

Major Beasley reached the gate and threw himself against it with desperate strength. But the savages were too swift; they gained the gateway and before the cumbersome bar could fall they had thrust the gate back, and the ill-fated commander fell before their tomahawks.

Soldiers and settlers both had sprung for their rifles at the first shout of Beasley. But before they could form for any sort of concentrated defense the Creeks poured through the wide open gate like the waters of an angry sea.

Seeing that there was no hope of withstanding the Indians at that point, the defenders, or what remained of them after this first terrible onslaught, fell back with the women and children behind a second line of wall. Here the gate was closed, and lining the wall with deadly rifles the whites began a gallant defense.

The leader of the settlers now took command; and no more gallant fellow than this half-breed ever lived. He kept his men to their frightful task with the most desperate resolution. So bitter was the defense of the settlers and soldiers that the Indians, a great number of them dead under the walls, slackened in their attack. With what booty they could lay hands on they fell back before the terrible rifles.

But their leader was another half-breed, Weatherford, the dreaded “Red Warrior” of the Creeks. Upon the back of a great charger, garbed in all the barbaric splendor of a savage chief, he dashed among his scattering bands. His great voice lifted like a trumpet, burning them with his scorn.

“Are the Muscogees men, or children?” he cried. “Have they the hearts of warriors, or of rabbits? You have asked to be led against the foe; he is before you. Shall your children say their fathers turned their backs upon the paleface? Or will you be able to show by the scalps upon your lodge pole that when your chief called you braves he did not lie?”

Lashed to fury by the scorn of the Red Warrior, the Creeks returned to the assault. Burning arrows were discharged, and soon the buildings behind the second defense were destroyed. The gates were broken in; the settlers now fought penned up in houses which were burning over their heads. Soon all were dead save a party which had closed itself up in a bastion at the north of the fort; these fought doggedly under the courageous direction of their captain, Dixon Bailey. But nothing could withstand the overwhelming strength of the Indians; they stormed the bastion, and in spite of the protests and commands of Weatherford, began their dreadful work of death once more.

In a frenzy of strength some of the troopers broke apart the stakes which formed the outer wall of the bastion. About a half score escaped by this means, among them being the gallant Dixon Bailey. But it was not the fate of this fine fellow to escape with his life; he was bleeding from a half dozen wounds and died a few hundred yards from the doomed fort.

Broken and breathless, the remainder of the little party ran on; a band of Creeks had noted their escape and were in swift pursuit; the whites had about given up hope when they heard a loud “Hello” far ahead.

Amazed, they saw in a fringe of woods two white boys and a friendly Indian, well mounted—and holding a number of Indian ponies by their bridles.

“This way,” shouted one of the lads, a bronzed, bold-faced fellow. “We have mounts for you all, borrowed from the Creeks. Quick now!”

And while the fight-worn men were straining their pounding hearts for just a little more speed, Jack and Frank threw up their long rifles; like whips they cracked and two bronzed warriors tumbled forward. Then Running Elk’s bow sang its song of death and a third went to join his comrades.

While the fugitives clambered upon the backs of the horses, the lads finished reloading. Again the pieces cracked and once more the great Cherokee bow twanged. Amid the death yells of the fallen braves and the ruins of Fort Mims blazing behind them, the fugitives, with Jack and Frank and Running Elk riding behind as a rear guard, dashed away with the news toward the settlements.

CHAPTER VIII
OLD HICKORY APPEARS

The news of the deed of blood at Fort Mims swept along the border like fire; swift riders carried it to the hamlets of Georgia and Tennessee; and in the wake of the tidings went up a cry of vengeance.

Nowhere did the dreadful story have more effect than in West Tennessee. Governor Blount at once called for three thousand volunteers to move against the Creeks, and the hardy backwoodsmen flocked from all points to enlist.

Frank Lawrence, Jack Davis and the young Cherokee hunter, Running Elk, had ridden through the perils of the hostile Indian country and forced their way north by sheer pluck after leaving the fugitives of Fort Mims at a stockade some dozen miles away and making sure that the troops at Fort Stoddart had been notified. And now, when the borderers were pouring in to enlist in the force which was to strike a blow against the Creeks, these three young men were in the thick of the movement.

“A friend of my father, a lawyer named Andrew Jackson, is leader of the state militia,” said Jack. “Suppose we go see him; he’ll tell us what’s best to do.”

But first they consulted the elder Davis, a stout, hardy man who had, like the other farmers, rode into the city to see what was to be done. He shook his head when Jack told him of their idea.

“Of course,” said he, “you lads ought to volunteer. It’s the duty of every youngster on the border to do so. But as for Andy Jackson’s doing anything for you, I don’t think he’ll be able.”

“Why, how’s that?” asked Jack, surprised. “He’s still general of the militia, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” replied the farmer, “but just now he’s ill; in bed with the doctors attending him. A few weeks ago he engaged in a desperate personal affray with the Bentons, and was shot in the shoulder. And I hear the wound is a bad one, and he’s not mending very fast.”

However, the lads, after some consultation with Mr. Davis, made up their minds that it would be a good idea to go on to Nashville anyway.

“It may be,” admitted Mr. Davis, “that he’s taken a turn for the better since I heard from him. News travels slowly, you know.”

Next day Jack and Frank, Running Elk having departed for a visit to the lodges of his people, took horse and rode to Nashville, and went at once to General Jackson’s house. They found him upon a sunny porch in the midst of a committee which had been appointed to offer him the command of the volunteers. He was a long thin man with large bones and a frame of great natural strength. His face was long and gaunt at the best of times, but just now it was haggard from the effects of his wound, and bloodless in color. He lay back in a big chair supported by pillows, and talked to the committee in a low voice.

Frank Lawrence gave one look at the drawn, white face and gaunt frame and whispered to his friend:

“I say, do they really mean to offer this man command of an army? He looks to be dying.”

Jack nodded his head and answered in the same low voice:

“Maybe so. But that won’t make much difference to the general. Anything he sets himself to do, he does; and if he makes up his mind to lead the expedition against the Creeks, he’ll do it, no matter what his condition is.”

Frank, as they stood apart, waiting, looked with much interest at the sick man. He saw a great mop of stubborn hair standing straight up from his head; he saw the powerful jaw and the thin nose of the warrior. But above all he saw the eyes, fiery, indomitable, the eyes of one to whom death meant nothing, but to whom submission was unthinkable.

Andrew Jackson was at this period about forty years of age. He was of Irish ancestry and had been born on the border of the southwest territory. He had been a lawyer, judge, storekeeper, farmer and United States Senator. At this time he was practicing law, farming his place, the Hermitage, and acting as general of the Tennessee militia.

“What authority have you to offer me the leadership of this body of men?” asked Jackson from the depths of his chair.

“The right of citizens of Tennessee, gathered in public conference,” said the spokesman of the committee. “We cannot wait for formal action by the state or national governments; it might be fatal to do so. Even now these red fiends may be gathering for a blow at our frontier.”

The deep-set eyes of the sick man glowed; apparently this was the sort of spirit of which he altogether approved.

“Right!” said he in a voice filled with sudden deep strength. “To prepare quickly is the only way.”

“And you will accept?” asked another of the committee, eagerly.

“My wound is bad,” said Jackson, “and I shall be of less service than I should be otherwise. But, still, I will march. And if the general government will only keep hands off,” grimly, “we shall in the end have peace in Israel.”

After the committee, much elated by their success, had departed, Jack and Frank were brought to the notice of the general.

“Oh, yes,” said he, holding out one gaunt hand to Jack, “I recall you. How is your father?”

“Quite well.” Then presenting Frank, he added: “This is my friend from Virginia, Frank Lawrence.”

The general shook the boy by the hand and had his black servant bring chairs. When they were seated, he looked at them smilingly.

“You both look as though you’d been through some hard service,” said he.

“We have,” replied Jack. “A full year of it. And we’ve just returned.”

They then related to Jackson, in as few words as possible, the story of their expedition to locate the land grant. The general listened to the harrowing tale of the assault upon Fort Mims with frowning brows.

“This is the work of Tecumseh and his brother, the wonder-worker,” said he. “And to repay it means that the Creek nation must feel the weight of the white man’s power. And they shall, if it’s in my power.”

Then Jack spoke of the errand that brought them to the Hermitage, and the general nodded approvingly.

“We’ll need young men like you two, who know the country, to scout ahead of our force. If you volunteer, that shall be your work.”

The two thanked the officer, and left quite buoyantly, riding to the Davis place next day, and there accepting the call for service against the savages. The order went out that the volunteers were to assemble at Fayetteville in October; but before this time arrived the disturbing news came that the Indians were threatening Madison, in the Mississippi territory, which then took in a large portion of the present state of Alabama. From his sick room Jackson sent forward Colonel Coffee, a huge fighting man, who was related to him by marriage. Coffee’s command was but three hundred in number, and consisted of cavalry and mounted riflemen; but these hardy woodsmen had no fear, and rode toward Huntsville, in the threatened district.

On October 4th Jackson was not able to stand on his feet, much less mount a horse, and so was not able to join his command upon the day named. However, three days later, like a gaunt ghost, he rode into camp, his will alone keeping him in the saddle.

Scarcely had he taken command when a rider from Coffee’s column dashed into the camp at Fayetteville with a dispatch saying that the colonel’s small command was in danger of attack by a huge force of Indians. Camp was broken and the Tennesseeans moved forward. In spite of the fact that they had a disabled commander they marched thirty-two miles that day; the end of it found the force near Huntsville, and the news then came that Coffee’s danger was not as pressing as supposed, so Jackson at once went into camp.

Next day he crossed the Tennessee River near Huntsville, and joined Coffee’s little force of horsemen. The first thing to be done now was to find a well located place to be used as a depot of supplies. Under the guidance of Jack Davis, who knew the country like a printed page, they moved up the river to Thompson’s Creek and laid out a work which the commander named Fort Deposit.

While at Fort Deposit preparing for the plunge into the wilderness, the boys one night while reclining upon a blanket outside General Jackson’s tent heard the commander and Colonel Coffee going over the plans for the campaign against the Creeks.

“Right here,” said General Jackson, as he lay weakly back upon a sort of couch of boughs covered by a bearskin, “we have a depot at the most southerly point of the Tennessee River. All our supplies can be sent down to us in boats without trouble. The first thing to do is to open a military road through the forest and over the mountains to the Coosa River, and there establish a second depot. The great idea is to create a permanent communication between East Tennessee and Mobile. Once we reach the Coosa that will be easy, as the Alabama River can be used for the remainder of the way.”

“But in opening this way you’ll encounter many hostile Indians.”

“We’ll destroy all armed bands,” spoke the general. “And not only the bands, but their villages as well.”

At first the boating of the army’s supplies down the Tennessee River met with unforeseen obstacles because of the inexperience of the contractors who had this most important work in charge; then the cutting of a road through the dense forests, the bridging of streams and the continuing the way over the Raccoon and Lookout Mountains to the Ten Islands of the Coosa was a grim labor for even these hardy borderers. However, on about the first of November they reached the Coosa; and here another work was constructed, which was given the name of Fort Strother.

Here there was more trouble and delay by the contractors; but Jackson grasped the situation in his own ready hands, impressed all the horses and wagons in the settlements roundabout, and so the army’s requirements were much relieved.

The military force, as it had progressed into the hostile country, had been joined at different points by small bands of Cherokees. These Indians had long been upon a friendly footing with the whites, and as they were the natural foes of the Creeks they readily consented to join with Jackson against that nation. By the time the fort upon the Coosa was completed the Cherokees numbered some hundreds of young warriors, led by enterprising and warlike chiefs. On the second night at Fort Strother a fresh band of Cherokees came up, and both Jack Davis and Frank Lawrence were delighted to see Running Elk among them.

“How?” said the young hunter, as he threw himself from his horse and shook hands with them, a wide smile upon his face.

“Good,” replied Frank. “And you look quite fresh and lively yourself, Running Elk.”

“Glad to see you,” spoke Jack, who had a great regard for the young brave. “That’s a good sized war party you’ve ridden in with.”

“Much want fight Creeks,” stated Running Elk. “Creek bad medicine. Make big war. All die like wolf.”

The Creek town of Tallushatchee was no great distance from Fort Strother, and this last band of Cherokees, so it seemed, had passed quite close to it in the night.

“Heap Creek warriors at Tallushatchee,” said Running Elk to the two boys, after a time. “Great dance. Council of warriors and chiefs. White chief must be careful.”

As this seemed to be a piece of important information, Jack Davis went to the general’s tent and informed the sentry that he had some important news to communicate.

“The general will see you,” said the sentry, a few moments later as he returned.

Jack entered the tent. He found a number of officers present; among them was Colonel Coffee, the giant leader of the cavalry. The youth saluted General Jackson and upon being asked what he had to say, told of Running Elk’s story of the Creek village. When he had finished, Jackson’s eyes went to Coffee’s face.

“It’s just as you said, colonel,” said he. “They are making ready an attack.”

Coffee nodded, and spoke in a deep voice.

“They’ll attack us within a week,” said he.

But General Jackson shook his head and replied, grimly:

“You are wrong in that, at least. We’ll not await an attack. Take one thousand men and strike at Tallushatchee as hard as you can.”

Coffee sprang alertly to his feet, and pulled his sword belt a hole tighter.

“Now?” he asked eagerly.

“Within an hour,” answered Jackson.

The Creek town lay some thirteen miles to the east, across the Coosa; and the energetic Coffee immediately began getting his men together, horse and foot, for the advance.

As the backwoodsmen and militia were eagerly responding and falling into line, the colonel turned to Jack.

“Do you know that country across the river, Davis?” he inquired.

“Very well,” said Jack. “I’ve hunted it many a time.”

“Then I’ll depend upon you to lead us by the best way,” said Colonel Coffee, “and to give me some notion of the lay of the country in order that I may make my plans for this little job.”

Before the force under the giant colonel forded the river, its commander had a very clear idea of the natural formations; moreover, Jack and Frank, with Running Elk and a scouting party of young Cherokee braves, were riding ahead.

“Looks like a piece of sharp work,” said the young Virginian to his friend.

“Yes,” replied Jack. “We’ll reach Tallushatchee before morning; and if the Creeks are in the frame of mind Running Elk reports, there will be a piece of fighting such as this border hasn’t seen for many a day.”

CHAPTER IX
THE BLOW AT TALLUSHATCHEE

Some few miles from the Creek town Colonel Coffee brought his command to a halt.

“Houston,” said he, to a young ensign who sat his horse near by, “take a few scouts and make a reconnaissance of the village. Find out, if you can, how many redskins there are.”

The ensign, who was Sam Houston, years afterward hero of San Jacinto, and president of the Texan republic, saluted and rode forward; he signaled to Jack, Frank and Running Elk.

“Come on, boys,” said he, in the rough, hearty fashion for which he was noted in the little army of Tennessee. “And you, too, Injun. There’s a little thing or two to be done before daylight grows too strong.”

The four rode on together, while the cavalry dismounted and, with the foot soldiers, lay upon their arms to await their return.

“I don’t think the colonel’ll attack before daylight, though, will he?” asked Frank.

Young Houston laughed.

“I guess not,” said he. “Coffee is a first class fighting man, and that means that he’s going to make sure about the odds—for or against him. If I were leading this crowd, I’d walk into that nest of redskins with every gun going and without asking a question.”

The discipline of this hardy backwoods army was none of the strictest, and the line between officer and private was not very sharply drawn, so Frank was not at all backward in replying.

“But don’t forget, Houston, that Colonel Coffee has his men’s welfare to look to as well as the Creeks to beat. Why run risks with other men’s lives when a little care and prudence will make it unnecessary?”

Again young Houston laughed; and there was a note of recklessness in it which seemed to rise above everything else. For this young man, almost boy, was one of the most fearless spirits of the border. The time was to come, though, when he was to look after the lives of his soldiers with even greater care than Colonel Coffee, when he was many years older, and responsibility had tamed his wild nature.

“I don’t think there would be more danger for us than for the redskins,” stated he, humorously. “Another thing: Here’s a good chance to make a mark in the war; so why not do it?”

About a half mile from Tallushatchee they drew up and dismounted. Making their horses fast among some trees, they stole toward the village with all the secrecy of stalking animals. Through the trees they caught sight of the fires, neglected, but still glowing redly. The huts and lodges lifted before them in dense masses; a sentinel stalked to and fro at intervals around the town; now and then a dog howled dismally.

Because of the sentinels they could not venture too near. However, they were able to count the number of fires, and so were able to reckon upon the number of warriors with a fair degree of accuracy. For a half hour they prowled about the Indian town, endeavoring to learn all that was possible; but then the dogs began to get wind of them; their howls were changed to sharp distrustful barks and the stalking, shadowy sentinels became alert and suspicious.

“About time to draw off, I’d say,” remarked Jack Davis in a low tone.

“Creek all awake soon,” said the Cherokee hunter.

Houston agreed, reluctantly, that this was very likely so, and that remaining in the vicinity of the village, now that they had secured all the information possible, was useless. So they drew off silently as they had approached; when they reached the spot where their horses had been tied, they could hear the savage barking of the village dogs lifted to a higher pitch than ever; and as they mounted and rode away, the other unmistakable noises from the town showed that the hostiles had been aroused from their sleep and were even then preparing to meet the hated paleface.

Houston, a half hour later, had reported the facts they had gathered to Colonel Coffee; and in a few minutes more the entire command, horse and foot, was once more upon the march. As quietly as possible the leader advanced his men toward Tallushatchee and drew a line about it.

Dawn showed itself palely in the eastern sky; the savages caught sight of their foes with the first slanting rays, and a yell of defiance and hate went up from them. The same rays showed Colonel Coffee the strength of the Indian position. In spite of the fact that his force outnumbered that of the Creek warriors, that leader, knowing the work ahead before the Creek nation was subdued, and knowing that every man would be needed, looked troubled.

“They will pick a half hundred off like flies if we rush them as they are now,” said he.

So, craftily, he began to plan to draw them out; by a feint he accomplished this. Thinking they saw a chance to strike a deadly blow, the Creeks rushed forward with exultant yells. But the whites closed around them like a ring of iron and there began a most desperate combat. Rifles cracked, pistols exploded vengefully, tomahawks and hunting knives rose and fell in the mêlée.

It was the first engagement of the sort in which Frank Lawrence had ever been; but he stood shoulder and shoulder with Jack and fired and struck with purpose and deliberation. To all intents he was as steady as a veteran. Jack had taken part in more than one desperate affray with the red men in his expeditions into their hunting country, and so he was more or less familiar with their methods.

“Look out for the wounded Creeks,” he advised Frank as he reloaded his piece. “They are never too weak to strike another blow. And they are not always dead when they appear to be so. They have a habit of lying quiet and entangling your legs when you come within reach, and pulling you down within reach of a knife.”

Colonel Coffee raged among the Indians like an infuriated giant. His great sword rose and fell; he always had a clear space around him which his weapon’s sweep constantly made larger. Ensign Houston fought like a panther. He seemed to glory in the dangers which beset him; wherever the battle raged thickest he plunged with his shining face and wild laugh, and the bravest of the Creeks shrank from his crashing blows.

Tighter and tighter closed the steel-like ring about the red men.

“Remember Fort Mims!” was the slogan of the backwoodsmen. “Strike hard!”

Desperation itself was the conduct of the Creeks; they fought like trapped wolves, ever seeking to break through the circle of their foes. But at length, when the last rifle had cracked, the last pistol had spoken its sharp sentence of death, the last hatchet, sword and knife had ceased to rise and fall, the smoke of the conflict slowly lifted and drifted away. Of the warriors of Tallushatchee more than a hundred and sixty were slain, and the remainder were taken prisoners. And when the white men took their way back to the river through the morning light they bore upon improvised stretchers six of their own men dead, and almost a half hundred wounded.

CHAPTER X
AN INDIAN MESSENGER

At Fort Strother things were going with little smoothness; in spite of all that General Jackson could do, supplies came very irregularly through the forests and across the mountains. As things stood, almost any other commander would have fallen back until arrangements could be made to feed the army; but Jackson held on grimly. He knew that this was the time to strike; if he retreated the savages would at once conclude that it was a sign of fear on the part of the paleface, and so their ravages would have grown greater than ever.

“The contractors must do better!” declared the haggard commander of the forces of Tennessee. “No matter what comes or goes, this force must hold its place. I’ll not retreat!” One gaunt hand was lifted as he spoke; there was a stain of fever in the hollow cheeks, his deep-set eyes glowed lion-like from under his bushy brows. “The men who are risking their lives to protect this border must have food; and if it’s not sent them, those who have neglected their duty will reckon with me.”

Jack and Frank were seated just outside the flap of Jackson’s tent, when the commander spoke these words to his officers within. Jack nodded to his companions.

“I wouldn’t care to be an army contractor and have the general on my trail,” said he. “He wouldn’t stop at much.”

“Not he,” said a young Nashville lawyer, who was in the scouts. “Jackson is a man who accomplishes everything he sets out to do. He does not know what fear is, and has the most resolute will I’ve ever known.”

“Well, it seems to me he’ll need it all,” said an old hunter who had been driven in from the forest by the Creeks, and who had enlisted in the volunteers in an effort to retaliate. “It’s a deal to undertake, this feeding so many men so far away from any place, where supplies can’t be had handily. A small party can carry and kill all it needs for months; but a force like this can’t go further than its supply train can follow.”

It was this same night that Jack and Frank were visiting in the camp of the friendly Cherokees just outside the fort. They sat at a camp-fire with the father of Running Elk, a stately old chief with a hard Cherokee name and great fame as a warrior and hunter. Running Elk was also there, as were numerous braves of the tribe. Conversation with them was most difficult, as everything had to be translated by Running Elk; and as his knowledge of English was very limited, the boys had to work hard to make themselves understood.

It was while they were so engaged that a sudden commotion began upon the outskirts of the camp; loud voices were heard in the Cherokee tongue, then the rush of moccasined feet in the darkness.

“Hello! What’s all that?” asked Jack Davis, looking around.

The Cherokees about the fire had arisen and were talking excitedly among themselves in the laconic Creek jargon.

“What’s happened?” demanded Frank Lawrence of Running Elk.

The young Indian hunter, who had been listening intently to the voices beyond the light circle of the camp-fire, replied:

“Messenger from Talladega. Much hurt.”

In a few moments a group of Cherokees came forward, bearing a burden between them; they approached the fire and the white boys saw that it was an Indian brave whom they carried; as Running Elk had said, he seemed badly wounded.

However, he was strong enough to talk; impressively he began to tell his story to the Indians, but in the midst of it, catching sight of the white youths, he broke off. Holding out his hand to them, appealingly, he said in fairly good English:

“Young paleface, I, Black Bear of the Cherokee people, ask you to carry my message to your chief.”

“Speak, Black Bear,” said Jack, quietly; “and be sure we will do so.”

The wounded Indian lifted himself upon an elbow and proceeded.

“I am of the village of Talladega; we of that village are friends of the white man. Four suns ago the Red Sticks attacked us; they had us ringed about with spears and arrows, and they were as many as the leaves of the forest in summer. We fought, but we were too few to drive them away. Then we held a council, and our old men said we must get a runner through the enemy to bear the news to the white man, our friends.”

“And you are the chosen one, are you?” asked Frank.

“I am the fourth,” said Black Bear, steadily. “The others were killed before they got out of sound of the council lodge.”

“How did you get through?” asked Jack Davis.

The brave grimaced; apparently he had no liking for the methods he had been forced to use.

“The courage of the warrior was no use,” said he. “So another way had to be thought of. I crept through their line with the skin of a hog drawn about me. It was not until I had cast it aside and stood upright that one of their sentinels saw me; and his arrow pierced my shoulder.”

“And yet you made your way here?” cried Frank, wonderingly.

Black Bear nodded, stoically.

“Yes,” said he, “to bring to the white chief the news that his friends of the Cherokee people are in danger.”

Within a very few minutes the two boys were seeking admission to the presence of the commander of the army. Upon being admitted, they found General Jackson seated at a roughly hewn table, writing in the light of a half dozen candles. He lifted his powerful face, now so drawn by long lines of suffering, and looked at them.

“What is it?” he asked, patiently enough. “The sentry says you have news of importance.”

Jack saluted and stepped forward.

“A messenger has just reached the Cherokee camp, general. He’s from the friendly town of Talladega, and carries the news that the place is besieged by the Creeks, and is in great danger.”

Instantly Jackson was upon his feet; the officers in the tent looked up alertly.

“Where is this messenger?” said Jackson. “Let him be brought here, and with an interpreter.”

“He can speak English very well, general,” now spoke Frank Lawrence. “But he’s badly hurt.”

“Very well!” The commander reached for his hat, and the officers prepared to follow him. “Lead the way.”

Seated upon a fallen tree beside the Cherokee fire, General Jackson listened to the story of Black Bear; and when he had heard it all, he looked at his officers.

“This appears to be a most grave situation,” said he, “for the town seems in great danger. From this man’s story the Creeks are in force, and a blow dealt them now would have a double purpose—it would rescue the Indians who are our friends, and it would go far toward breaking the power of the hostiles.”

The opinions of the officers present were that it was an opportunity not to be lost. At once they returned to Jackson’s tent; others of the senior officers were summoned and a brief council of war was held. Before dawn the bugles blew, and the drums rolled; horse and foot, the army of Tennessee fell into column, and with the graying of the eastern sky, pushed across the river and toward Talladega.

CHAPTER XI
CAPTURED BY THE CREEKS

As in all his previous advances, General Jackson sent a body of horsemen before the main column, under command of the giant Colonel Coffee. In advance of these, again, rode the scouts and pathfinders, mostly Indians and hunters who knew the country through which they were passing.

Jack and Frank were in this party of keen-sighted trailers, and rode side by side down the forest aisles and across the shallow streams. Jack regarded his friend with a humorous look.

“This kind of a thing is different from Richmond,” said he. “You wouldn’t find there things so stirring, nor so exciting, of an early morning, I know.”

Frank laughed.

“Well, not usually,” said he. “But,” and he nodded his head, “I’d not have missed it for a good deal. And now that my father has had the news about his land and, according to his letter, is feeling quite comfortable about it, I’m in no hurry to go back to Virginia, I can tell you. Things are not so regular here; but they have a great sight more go in them.”

Frank, while they were still at Fort Deposit, had received a letter from his father, expressing great pleasure at the news sent him; and also telling of the gratification it gave him to hear of his boy’s gallant conduct. It was Jack who had written to tell him of this, without Frank’s knowledge. Frank had been dubious as to the result when he learned of it, but his father’s letter had settled all this.

“Danger, my dear boy,” the old man had written, “is a thing which every man must face in one form or another. That you have faced what has come to you in the performance of your duty pleases me beyond description. And since that other duty (your aid in defending the homes of those who have befriended you) has arisen, I can only say, God bless you. Do what you have to do with all your might, and never think of yourself or me.”

“The old gentleman was always game, I remember,” said Jack, who had been handed this letter by Frank, and who had read it with a great deal of interest. “And I’m glad I wrote him as I did; for he’s as proud of it all as a hen that has a gosling for a chicken.”

Frank laughed once more.

“It’s a very good thing that you did write,” said he, “for now I can stay on down here until all this trouble’s over and not feel that father is worrying about me.”

The country through which they were passing was one of huge timbered stretches, streams, ravines and canebrakes; the scouts were forced to go slowly, searching out the best way for the column of troops to follow; also they were compelled to watch for lurking parties of hostiles.

“They are sure to know of what took place at Tallushatchee,” said Jack to his friend as they rode along. “And they are also sure to be watching us. Creeks don’t need much cover, as I guess you know by this time; and a little attention to the bush and canebrakes’ll not be thrown away.”

The idea of a lurking foe was not at all pleasant to the young Virginian; but he held his rifle ready and set his jaw and guided his nag along without an instant’s hesitation. They had covered half of the thirty miles to Talladega when the formation of the country caused the scouts to separate and advance in detached groups. The two boys still remained together, Jack in advance and Frank close behind; they rode along a narrow ridge which rose up like the vertebræ of some monster; upon all sides of them was lowering tangled forest and canebrake. In the distance they could hear the crashing progress of their fellow scouts, but they could not see any of them because of the tangle.

Then suddenly, without an instant’s warning, a band of Creeks rose up, apparently from their very path; before they had a chance to fire a shot, to strike a blow or make an outcry, they were dragged from their horses; and in a few moments lay bound with thongs of deerskin, and gagged with sticks thrust between their jaws and tied fast.

Silently and expertly the Creek braves performed their task; then with the two prisoners thrown across the horses, they made their way like shadows into the depths.

That it was a war party was plain to the boys by the variously colored paints which streaked their faces, and from the war bonnets of eagle and heron plumes upon their heads. As Jack had guessed, the leaders of the horde surrounding Talladega had sent out groups of spies to watch for the advance of the whites, and the lads had had the bad fortune to stumble upon one of these.

Cleverly, readily, with the sureness of men accustomed to the ground over which they traveled, the Creeks hurried through the forest, aiming to get out of the path of the advancing whites; once they felt they had done this, they veered slightly and headed in the direction of their operations at Talladega. Night fell, but the party of spies pressed on; at length they came in sight of the camp-fires of their main body; they halted, and one of them blew a clear bird-like call. Almost immediately it was answered by a hidden sentinel; then they advanced about twenty-five yards further. A half dozen Creeks rose up from the concealment of stumps and glided from behind trees. Greeting the newcomers, they examined the captives by the light of torches kindled at a masked fire.

“Ugh! much good horse,” spoke a fat brave, as he passed a covetous hand over the animals.

“White face heap jump!” exulted a gaunt savage, hideously disfigured by war paint and pox-marks. His snaky eyes were riveted upon the bound boys and gleamed with wicked anticipation. “Much jump when Muscogee torture.”

The lads were pulled from the horses’ backs; much to their relief, the gags were removed from their mouths and their legs were unbound. However, their hands were kept tied behind their backs; and in this way they were marched forward into the camp of the besiegers.

In the heart of this, surrounded by rank on rank of sleeping and squatting Indians, they were bound back to back to a tree. Three braves were stationed with them as guards; what stir they had caused subsided; apparently their cases had been put aside until morning.

“Well,” said Jack, turning his head as far as possible to get a glimpse of his friend, “we’ve got into a kind of mess, eh?”

“It looks like it,” agreed Frank. “We’ve lost horses, rifles, saddles and everything else.”

“That’s bad enough,” said Jack. “But,” and there was a grave note in his voice, “we stand a fair chance of losing our lives as well.”

There was silence for a moment or two; then Frank said, soberly:

“It’s a bad scrape. I wonder what sort of odds we have against us in the matter of escape.”

“Hush!” said Jack, in a low warning tone.

The three Creek warriors detailed as their guards were moving up and down, silently; they were armed with spears and hatchets and knives, and appeared to be a surly, suspicious trio indeed.

“Hello, I say, Red Stick,” said Jack to one of them. “I’d like a drink of water.”

The guard spoken to looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“Ugh!” spoke he, and went on in his slow pacing to and fro.

“All right,” said the young borderer, “you, then,” to a second, “could you get me some water?”

This savage shook his head and said something to the third guard in the Muscogee tongue. But that brave also seemed puzzled, and growled impatiently like a bear that had been disturbed. Two or three times more Jack tried them; then being satisfied by their manner he said, in a relieved way to Frank:

“I guess you can go on with what you were saying. None of these fellows speaks English.”

“Here we are in the middle of them all,” said the young Virginian, his eyes going about the camp with its hundreds of prostrate and huddled forms, “and as we have no notion about what to-morrow is going to bring us, it would be best, I think, to begin counting our chances of getting away.”

“The only good chance is in General Jackson’s coming up with the army,” said Jack. “But,” and like Frank, he allowed his gaze to go about the sleeping camp, “I’ve heard of men’s escaping from Indian villages with as many chances against them as we have.”

“Who knows?” spoke Frank, hopefully. “We may be as lucky as they.”

“You never can tell what might turn up,” said Jack, his voice colored by the hope he caught in that of his comrade. “Let’s look into the prospects a little.”

Again there was a silence. The guards paced up and down with lagging steps, the sleepers were as motionless as logs; from the depths of the woods came the calls of night birds and the occasional howl of a timber wolf. The fires had grown a dull red; through the thick of the trees a crescent moon was sending pale trails of light.

“Just across from me,” said Frank, who faced the north, “is the sleeping place of one whom I take to be a chief. Maybe he’s the commander of the whole band. At any rate, all our things have been put in his charge, rifles, horses and all.”

“Huh!” said Jack, thoughtfully. “That’s interesting.” He seemed to consider the proposition for a moment, then added: “But, tied up as we are here, I don’t see what good it will do us.”

“Suppose we were not tied up,” said Frank.

Jack caught at something in the tone which caused a thrill to shoot through him.

“What do you mean?” he asked, in a hushed way.

“My hands are untied,” said Frank. “I’ve been working at the thongs for the last half hour. Keep still now; I’m going to see what can be done for yours.”

Jack felt a fumbling about his wrists; the tree to which they were tied was not a very large one, and Frank had no difficulty in reaching around it, even though his back was turned. Frank’s long, strong, clever fingers had been noted in the school at Richmond, and Jack now recalled some of the feats which his friend had then performed. So it was with growing interest and hope that he felt the fumbling at the thongs increase.

“How are you doing?” he asked, anxiously.

“The knot’s the same,” answered Frank, “but I broke my nails badly on my own; so this will be harder.”

However, in a few minutes, Jack, to his keen delight, felt the thong loosen. He had difficulty in restraining the cry of exultation which leaped to his lips, but managed to pass the supreme moment without giving any evidence of the situation. A little more and the thong was loose enough for him to slip his hands through.

“Now,” said Frank, “feel around for the knots in the strip that fasten you to the trunk; once we get them untied we’ll have some sort of a chance, anyway.”

The tree to which they were bound was well within the shadows; they worked quietly, and so did not attract the attention of their guards. The knots were hard to find and when their searching fingers had found them, they were in such difficult positions for working that it was almost impossible to do anything with them. However, they gave themselves steadily and doggedly to the task and, finally, were elated to feel the tough leather give; a few moments afterward their bonds were in such a condition that they could step out whenever it pleased them to do so.

“Now that that’s done,” breathed Jack, “let’s give a little more attention to the lay of the land.”

The quiet of the night, the uneventful nature of their duty, had caused the braves guarding them to lag in their steps. Finally one of them, his war club upon his shoulder, had paused and leaned against a tree. It was not long before the other two had followed suit. However, as all three of them faced the captives there was no apparent increase in the chances of the latter for escape.

“They are keeping their eyes on us,” said Jack, quietly.

“I see they are,” spoke Frank. “Do you suppose they suspect anything?”

“About our being loose? No. If they did, we’d hear from them without delay.”

Stillness hung heavily over the camp. Some distance away, the ring of braves about the town of Talladega occasionally gave evidences of being upon the alert; but the warriors here, perhaps worn out by a day of conflict, slept like tired animals.

“If we only had our rifles and our horses under us,” said Frank, longingly, “we could make a rush for it.”

“Quiet,” said Jack, for he feared their talking might be noticed by the guards. “I think I hear something.”

Jack faced the denser section of the wood in which the Creek camp was pitched. For some little time he had been watching the thin, trailing moonbeams as they filtered through the limbs and clambering vines. The pallid rays gave no light of any consequence; indeed, they only seemed to make the shadows deeper. The rustle of the small wild things of the wood occasionally came from the tangle, but as Jack had looked and watched, there had come a sound which was different, a regular purposeful sound which to his quick ears and attentive mind suggested the advance of some one or something who desired to remain unseen and unheard.

“What is it?” asked Frank, after a space. He had listened but had heard nothing.

“I get a sound now and then,” said Jack. “It comes from off here in the woods, and sounds like some one stealing up to have a look at us.”

“It’s probably one of the Creeks,” whispered Frank.

But Jack, listening, only pressed the speaker’s arm for quiet. For the sound had gone on in the tangle, coming nearer and nearer. It was so faint, even at its loudest, that not once did it attract the attention of the three braves on guard. At times even Jack fancied that he must be mistaken, that it was nothing more than his excited imagination. But then the sound ceased; to his amazement he saw first one form and then another lift itself from the ground. That they were Indians was evident even in the dense shadow; but why they should approach in that silent fashion puzzled Jack extremely.

The three Creeks, all with their faces toward the captives, had their backs to the place where the mysterious night prowlers had appeared, and so they did not see them appear; neither did they see them advance.

Within a half dozen paces of the boys one of the newcomers raised his hand in a warning gesture for silence. There was a characteristic something in the gesture which Jack Davis immediately recognized.

“Running Elk!” was his mental exclamation.

Step by step the Cherokee hunter and his companion advanced. Within springing distance there was a pause; then with the silent bound of the panther, each leaped upon a Creek guard. Without a sound the unsuspecting braves fell under their blows; like lightning they were upon the other one before he fairly realized what had taken place, and with strong bronze fingers twisting about his throat he was borne to the earth.

The lads needed no words to tell them what to do. With a shake they were free of their bonds; a half dozen steps took them to where their horses were tied, the saddles still upon their backs. Near by, and perilously close to the sleeping form of the chief of whom Frank had spoken, were their rifles, powder horns and other equipment; noiselessly possessing themselves of these, they cut the ropes which held their horses and quietly led them toward the spot where Jack had seen Running Elk and his fellow hunter appear.

The third Creek had been quickly disposed of; and now the two Cherokees were free to turn their attention elsewhere.

“Horses, good!” muttered Running Elk in Jack’s ear. “Make ’um fast run—away.”

At the edge of the thicket the boys climbed into the saddle; the two hunters mounted behind them. Then with a word to the faithful nags, they rode unnoticed through the Creek camp. A signal whistle was heard from a sentinel at the outskirts. This was the sign that speed, not silence, was the necessary thing; so they dug their heels into their horses’ ribs and with a scattering flight of arrows dropping harmlessly about them, they dashed away into the forest.

CHAPTER XII
A FIGHT—AND A REVOLT

There was no pursuit by the Creeks, and after the first mile or so the doubly laden horses were permitted to slow down; and then the two Indians slid to the ground and ran easily at their sides, one hand upon the saddle.

A half hour brought them in sight of the spot where Jackson’s men had camped for the night; passing the sentries, they were received by their friends with surprise and enthusiasm.

“Never expected to see either of you again,” said one of the scouts. “Not many get away from the Creeks when they once fall into their hands.”

A little later the two boys rolled themselves in their blankets and went to sleep; they felt that as Jackson was so close to the Indians, the morning would see a battle. And in this they were right.

At sunrise the haggard general was abroad, issuing his commands. The troops were quickly under arms and advancing through the forest.

The force of savages besieging Talladega numbered more than a thousand. They were well armed, having many rifles and muskets supplied by the English, besides their spears, war clubs and bows and arrows. They were worked up to the proper war pitch and did not hesitate to give battle. With yells they greeted the force of frontiersmen, and plunged forward to the fight.

Andrew Jackson had studied the tactics of the Creek nation in warfare, and so had a pretty clear idea of what they would do. With a few orders, he arranged his soldiers in the form of a crescent, the horns pointed forward. His horsemen were placed upon the flanks.

“As the Creeks rush forward, as I think they will do,” said the general to Colonel Coffee, who led the cavalry, “drive forward without delay, and get behind them. Then, as we force them back, let them feel your strength.”

All being ready and the savages, their war cries sounding, filling the air with arrows, Jackson said to Jack Davis:

“Advance on foot with a score of men and engage them with rifle fire; as they advance, fall back until you get the order to stop.”

Promptly Jack passed the word to his fellow scouts. They dismounted and went forward, flitting from tree to tree as they went, firing sharply and making a great pretense of eagerness to push forward. Instantly the arrows of the Creeks rained about them; an occasional bullet clipped the twigs over their heads.

“They are great fellows to waste their ammunition,” said Jack, from behind a huge cottonwood.

THE ARROWS OF THE CREEKS RAINED ABOUT THEM

Frank Lawrence drew a bead upon a particularly active foeman and fired.

“Yes,” said he. “And seeing that it’s so hard to get in their case, you’d think they’d be more careful.”

Here the war-whoops grew shriller and the fire thicker.

“Fall back slowly,” ordered Jack.

The scouts did as directed. Eagerly, triumphantly, the redskins followed; faster and faster the little band under Jack retreated; like a bronze tide the Creeks pursued. This was exactly as Jackson had figured. Coffee’s cavalry was soon in their rear, awaiting the word.

When the party of scouts reached the main body, Jackson signaled for volley firing. Feeling the real weight of the force confronting them for the first time, the Indians retreated. To their consternation they found themselves surrounded; like their brothers at Tallushatchee they were in the center of an iron ring. Bitterly they fought, like rats in a trap, all the time beating at the ring in an effort to break through.

If it had not been for the rawness and confusion on the part of some militia, there is scarcely any doubt that General Jackson would have ended the Creek war right there. But unused to the grimness of a protracted fight the militia at one place gave way; and before they could be rallied, the savages had discovered the break made by their retreat, and poured through it in a frenzied stream.

In this way seven hundred hostiles escaped to face Old Hickory on another day in the wilderness. But even as it was, three hundred of them fell before the rifles of the Tennesseeans; and this, added to the blow dealt the Creeks at Tallushatchee, went a great way toward weakening their power.

Jackson saw the advantage he had gained, and was eager to follow it up; if he had been able to do so he would have been enabled to force the Creeks into another battle before many days and so delivered the blow which failed at Talladega.

But it was not to be so. Many things conspired to prolong the brave Tennesseean’s task. In the first place, much to his amazement, no supplies were being sent them from Fort Strother; indeed, a rider brought the news that the fort itself was almost destitute. To maintain an army in the wilderness without food is of course impossible; and so, instead of pressing forward to the victory which would have ended the war, the army was forced to retreat.

On top of this came the tidings that the brigade of troops left at Fort Strother to protect those wounded at Tallushatchee had been ordered away by the commander of another division which was also operating in the hostile country.

Jackson was never a man of mild temper; and seeing the result of all his work snatched from him in this way caused him to burst into a furious denunciation of all concerned. Raging like a baffled lion he fell back on Fort Strother. Even his friends advised him to continue his retreat to Fort Deposit on the Tennessee.

“You cannot maintain your army here,” he was told. “Go on falling back until you have accumulated enough supplies; then you can push on once more.”

But the stubborn spirit of Jackson was aroused. Weakened as he was by his wound, haggard, worn and really in a dangerous state due to his over-exertion, still he was resolved to retreat no further.

“I’ll hold my position at the Ten Islands,” declared he, “if we have to live on acorns.”

Because of this inefficiency of those who were in charge of the army’s supplies, and because of the loose nature of the terms under which his men had volunteered, General Jackson was soon plunged into a series of crises which would have broken the spirit of a less powerful man. Besides the Tennessee militia, there was a body of men in his force known as the United States volunteers; these troops, because of the lack of food, demanded to be led back to the border. There is no doubt that the army was in a wretched condition, needing not only food, but clothes and shoes as well. However, General Jackson realized that if they were allowed to have their way, the chances were against the advance ever being resumed. So without hesitation he refused to sanction the demand.

Officers and men joined together in a renewal of the petition, giving their reasons in detail. In great anger the commander again refused.

“We were sent out to subdue the hostile Creeks,” said he, sternly, “and until that is done we shall not turn our backs upon the wilderness!”

Finding him unyielding, the militia now became mutinous; they broke ranks and doggedly prepared to take the trail back to the border. But like lightning Jackson acted.

“Forward, volunteers!” he cried, drawing his sword. “We shall see who is commander here.”

The volunteers threw themselves across the path of the dissatisfied militia with ready rifles. Seeing that blood would be shed, and not desiring any such extreme action, the militia officers advised their men to give up their purpose. Sullenly the militia obeyed, and so the first of the mutinies at Fort Strother was at an end.

A little later discontent broke out once more; this time it was the volunteers, and it was the militia, now loyal to the commander, who were called upon to put the outbreak down.

Some time after the settling of this second uprising of the hungry soldiers, Jackson received word that a large store of supplies had arrived at the depot on the Tennessee. Feeling sure that they would at once be forwarded, the general said to his officers:

“Food is at hand; if it is not here in two days, I will consent to fall back.”

But in counting upon the promptness of the contractors, Jackson made a mistake. The supplies did not reach Fort Strother upon the day set; and bitterly disappointed he was forced to give the word to take the border trail. But even then he had not entirely given up.

“I remain behind if only two men will stay with me.”

Instantly a half dozen, Jack Davis and Frank Lawrence among them, stepped forward. Jackson’s deep-set eyes glowed.

“Volunteers!” he cried, sweeping the ranks with his stern gaze. “Volunteers to hold Fort Strother against the Creeks!”

In a few minutes one hundred and nine men had responded; and the army to the tap of a single drum set off for the border. It now looked as though the thing were at an end; but not so. Barely a dozen miles from the fort the returning soldiers met a large herd of cattle being driven forward. This was the meat expected by the general; delighted, the soldiers halted, killed what they required and settled themselves for a feast.

But when they had finished and had formed to resume their homeward march they were astonished to receive the command to face about and return to the fort. At once they rebelled. But General Jackson was on the ground, and at once took the situation in hand.

“Men!” he cried, one hand uplifted, “you have the food you required. In the future things will be better. Turn back. The work the border requires of you is yet to be done.”

A cry of dogged protest went up from the men; one company, in spite of its officers, started forward. With blazing eyes, Jackson rode forward, some of his followers at his side.

“I’ll give you ten seconds to turn back,” he shouted, as he rushed his horse at them. Sullenly, doggedly, muttering their anger, the company fell back upon the main body.

No move was made homeward by any of the others; but at the same time neither did they show any disposition to face about as ordered and march back to the fort. General Jackson threw himself from horse, the pain of his wounded arm forgotten; and he stalked among the rebellious troops with bent brows and blazing eyes.

“Soldiers!” he cried. “You are all men of the border. You know its dangers. In the face of the rising savage tide you swore to serve your state; like brave men you moved forward to strike a blow at the murderers of your fellow settlers. But you have had a change of heart! Why is this? Has the wilderness frightened you? Have the savages, whom you have twice beaten, broken your spirit? You have said it was lack of food which turned your thoughts homeward. Well, here is food in plenty. Be men; march back to Fort Strother in good spirits; and in one month we shall have ended the campaign.”

But the men refused; even while he was speaking, the boldest of them broke their ranks; the others followed suit; in a mass, disorganized, with no thought of anything but their own desires, they moved forward on the road home.

In a fury Jackson seized a rifle from one of them; his left arm was powerless, and he was unable to level the rifle in the usual way. So he stepped back to where his horse was standing; resting the barrel of the weapon across the animal’s neck, he covered the mutineers.

“Let any man among you make a step forward,” he shouted, fiercely, “and I will shoot him as I would a snake.”

Like a statue of wrath and command he stood for a moment—alone. Then Colonel Coffee and another officer, each armed with a rifle, leaped to his side.

“Now, then,” cried Jack Davis to his friend.

Frank answered promptly; and as they moved forward, the remainder of the scouts followed. Then some companies of volunteers, possibly ashamed of their conduct, lined themselves up behind the heroic leader. The mass of disorganized soldiers hesitated and wavered.

“Fall in!” thundered General Jackson. Automatically, the ranks were reformed. “About-face!” They turned toward the wilderness fort once more. “March!”

And away they went, their rifles on their shoulders, sullenly but steadily. The iron will of Jackson had conquered.

CHAPTER XIII
THE BEGINNING OF THE END

The spirit of revolt which had risen up in Jackson’s army would not down. Though unflinchingly faced by him it rose and rose again; for these men of the border lands were wild, uncontrolled fellows who knew no discipline and were accustomed to receive orders from no man.

Once Jackson brought two pieces of artillery to bear upon them, loaded and the gunners with lighted matches in their hands. But as often as he suppressed the mutinies just as often they broke out in a fresh place. So persistent did the thing become that the authorities of the state of Tennessee, and those at Washington, evidently having little hope of securing any real service from such a discontented force, took a hand in the proceedings; the result was that the men were gradually recalled. At one period the indomitable Jackson had but a hundred men left him.

But then the tide turned. Because of his own persistent efforts, those of the authorities whom he aroused, and the good will of those of his officers who had returned to the settlements, a new army was raised. By the middle of the following March some five thousand well conditioned troops were assembled at Fort Strother.

During this entire time of stress and falling away, Jack Davis and Frank Lawrence clung to the cause of the general. And now that his star was once more upon the rise, they were delighted.

“Any other man, almost, would have gone down under that fight and never risen again,” said Jack, admiringly.

“It’ll not be long now before he gets to work again,” said Frank.

“I don’t think it’ll be as easy a task as it would have been some time ago,” observed the young borderer. “The Creeks have pulled themselves together, and they are once more ready to make a fight of it.”

During all this time of trouble at Fort Strother, things had not been at a standstill in the Creek country; that savage tribe had been ravaging and burning; the war-whoop had been heard in many a little hamlet, and the tomahawks and scalping knife had made their presence felt. But the white man had not done much in return. Floyd and a body of Georgia militia had marched against the Indian towns on the lower Tallapoosa. At a place called Autosee, in November, he attacked the redskins and drove them from the field, slaying some two hundred of their warriors. However, though much was expected of him, Floyd did little more. An expedition up the Alabama River under General Claiborne was a failure.

From then on it was seen that if the Creeks were subdued it would be Jackson’s force that would do it.

But while the renewing of his army was in progress, Jackson had not altogether closed his work against the hostiles. He was not the man to pause, even though he had but soldiers enough to man his few pieces of artillery. But by the early part of January, 1814, he had a strong body of men at Fort Strother; though more were on their way, he felt that he need not wait for them.

About eighty miles south of his position on the Coosa River was a fortified camp of Creeks, a place called Tohopeka. At this place the savages were assembling in great numbers; the scouts from Fort Strother had been watching them for some time and keeping the general closely in touch with what was happening there.

One night Jack Davis and Frank Lawrence arrived at the fort, their horses in a lather of foam. At once they went to the commander’s tent and were admitted. The general was seated at his table going over a map he had made of the region, and he looked up as the boys entered.

“Well,” said he, “what is there to report?”

“We’ve been scouting in the neighborhood of Tohopeka for the last week,” said Jack. “And things have reached such a state we thought it best to come in at once.”

“Hah!” The deep-set eyes of the general began to glow. “So the Indians are still gathering?”

“They are,” replied Frank. “All the villages for a hundred miles around the fortifications are pouring braves into it. There is something of great moment about to be attempted.”

“They are better armed than I ever saw Indians before,” put in Jack. “And they are drilling and practicing the maneuvers of the white man’s sort of warfare.”

General Jackson, with a quietness of demeanor which was ominous, asked a number of pertinent questions; and when he had learned all they had to tell, he said:

“That will do. And as you go out, give my compliments to Colonel Coffee and beg him to step into my room.”

When they were outside, Frank said in a low, exultant tone:

“That means a move of some sort, as sure as you live.”

Colonel Coffee was closeted with the commander for perhaps an hour; then other officers of rank were summoned. The result was that on the following day Jackson led a force of nine hundred mounted riflemen, some two hundred Cherokees and a cannon for use against the Creek fortifications.

Five days this little army marched through the wilderness; then camp was made upon the banks of Emuckfan Creek at a place only three miles from the Indian fort against which they were moving. Preparations were made for a sharp blow to be delivered next day; guards were placed about the camp in the charge of alert young woodsmen, among whom were Jack and Frank.

Quiet reigned in the forest; the water of the stream went rippling over the stones in its bed, the wind stirred in the tops of the trees, the stars looked down peacefully. But even in the midst of the quiet, Jack was not at rest.

“I don’t know just why it is,” said he, “but I’ve got the feeling that something is going to happen.”

“It’s the same with me,” replied Frank, in the same whispering tone which his friend had used. There was a short pause, then he added: “I suppose I’m foolish for thinking so, but somehow I’ve got the notion that the Creeks are on the move to-night.”

“What makes you feel that?” asked Jack, and there was a note in his voice which Frank knew as mingled eagerness and alarm.

“I fancied I heard and saw something several times off there to the south and west,” said the young Virginian.

“That settles it,” breathed Jack. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. And the fact that we both saw and heard it shows that it is true.”

Quickly, but with caution, the word was passed to the guard; at once it began to pass from man to man on watch about the camp. Then the lads stole back to the line of tents, and in a few minutes the men were aroused and stood under arms awaiting the word from their officers.

And it was well that they were prepared, for suddenly the forest seemed alive with savages; the night was filled with the war-whoop of the border-land. But to the amazement of the exultant savages, instead of a sleeping camp, they found lines of riflemen. A sleet of lead swept among them, and with yells of rage they fell back into the cover of the woods. Once more, after dawn, the Creeks attacked the white men, but again they were beaten off, and retired to their fort.

Jackson now managed to get sight of this, and also had an opportunity of estimating the number of savages facing him.

“They are too strong!” said he, promptly. “With the force at hand we’ll be taking too many chances in attacking them.”

“You’ll not fall back,” objected the officers.

Jackson nodded and smiled grimly.

“But don’t be afraid, sir,” said he. “The Creeks will still be here when we come again.”

Having made up his mind, Jackson at once set his little army upon its retrograde motion. Eagerly the savages followed, hanging to his flanks persistently. At a stream called the Enotachopco, the Creeks attacked the rear guard fiercely; but with the aid of the six-pounder gun they were held back until the stream was crossed.

On the twelfth day after its departure the army reached Fort Strother once more. The result of the expedition was that the great prospective movement of the Indians was halted and that two hundred of them had fallen in the fighting. Jackson’s loss was twenty-four killed and seventy-one wounded.

CHAPTER XIV
THE BATTLE OF THE HORSESHOE

Not only did the fights at Emuckfan and Enotachopco Creeks dash the spirit of the Indians, but they also gave Jackson’s raw troops a taste of war as it is waged in the wilderness. Instead of harrying the border and setting it ablaze as they had no doubt intended, the savages were content to hold their fort at the bend of the Tallapoosa and await the aggression of the white man.

Being reinforced by more militia and the thirty-ninth regiment of regulars, General Jackson grew quite at ease and confident that success was at last at hand. With three thousand troops he moved down the river, where some thirty miles south he established a new base of supplies called Fort Williams.

“Let me manage to collect enough provisions to last my army but four weeks,” said the commander at this place, “and I will end the war at a blow.”

Just about this time there came the tidings from Fort Stoddart that fifteen hundred men with a great store of supplies were about to move up the Alabama River to a place called Hickory Grounds. This was, perhaps, the most cheerful and helpful news that Jackson had heard in a long time; and from then on he felt safe as to the future. Let him but open the way to that point and his work in the Creek country was done.

So, getting his force under arms, he led them through the forest to the bend of the Tallapoosa where the Creeks had made their stronghold. This bend was much like a horseshoe in shape, and built across the narrow tongue of land was a “snake fence” barrier of logs and earth. Between the wall and the river was a space of perhaps a hundred acres; and in front of the wall trees had been felled to form a shelter for sharp-shooters. The lodges and huts of the Indians were built upon the river’s edge; and here their canoes were tied, to be used in escaping across the river if the fort was carried by the white men.

The leaders of the savages had boasted of the strength of this position, of its possibilities for defense or retreat. In the first of these claims there was some truth; the barrier was strong and the zigzag manner of its building enabled the Indians to sweep an attacking party with a deadly cross fire; but as to retreat in case of need, it lacked every necessary advantage.

Coming in sight of the bend, Jackson put his plan of battle into instant operation. He planted his infantry before the barrier of logs and mounted his two small cannon on a hill eighty yards away where they commanded the Creek position. Colonel Coffee, with the mounted troops and friendly Indians, was instructed to ford the Tallapoosa and hold the opposite bank at the rear of the fort.

Allowing time for the cavalry to accomplish this movement, General Jackson opened with his two pieces of artillery; the shot thudded upon the logs and buried themselves in the earth, but apparently no damage was done.

“It looks as if the guns were too small,” observed Jack Davis, his keen eyes upon the Creek barrier.

“Hark to the redskins hoot!” said Frank, as yells of mockery came from the stronghold.

“That’ll not be for long,” said Jack, grimly. “I see the general’s brows coming together. He’ll be fighting mad in a little while, and then the Indians had better look out.”

But General Jackson knew the position selected by the Creeks was a formidable one, and so held back any desire he might have had to launch a frontal attack. This, he felt sure, would mean the certain death of many of his soldiers; and if the thing could be done without that, he was most anxious so to accomplish it.

While the two small guns were booming, and the riflemen were endeavoring to pick off any Indians who showed themselves, the Cherokees who accompanied Colonel Coffee in his movement toward the rear of the Indian fort introduced a piece of Indian warfare which at once brought matters to a crisis. Running Elk, who was among them, saw the Creek canoes tied upon the opposite bank. Without a word he plunged into the water and began to swim toward them.

At once his fellow braves understood his purpose; they also entered the water and struck out for the further shore. The Cherokees seized the canoes; also they set fire to the Creek huts and lodges. A great blaze went up; the smoke ascended in clouds.

Seeing the flames, the infantry before the barrier of logs could no longer be held in check. They begged of the general to permit them to storm the Indian works, and Jackson, seeing their eagerness and not desiring to dampen their spirits at this critical time, finally gave the word.

With a rush, the white men, both regulars and militia, went at the log wall. Paying no attention to the sleet of arrows and bullets, they scaled it like monkeys. The first over was young Sam Houston; he had an arrow through him almost at his first move; but this did not stop him. With his clubbed rifle sweeping a path among the savages he shouted:

“Come on, boys. Strike hard, and the thing is done.”

Jack and Frank were at his heels; the infantry then came smashing down upon the Creeks; and amid the blaze and smoke of the burning huts the desperate contest was on. Rifle and pistol cracked, bows twanged, sword and tomahawk rose and fell. At length the savages felt that they were being worsted, but when they turned to run they saw that their way was blocked. Again they faced their foe and battled like cornered wolves; they did not ask for quarter and were given none. With the memory of the slaughter at Fort Mims in their minds the whites struck vengefully.

By mid-afternoon the battle was over; the Americans had forty-five men killed and about one hundred and fifty wounded. The Creeks had lost eight hundred in killed, and three hundred were prisoners.

This was the last of the Creeks as a warlike nation; almost the entire remainder of the tribe fled into Florida, where they were protected by the Spanish flag. When General Jackson a little later marched upon those villages which he knew were located upon the lower Tallapoosa, he found them deserted.

“And now,” said Jack Davis, as he and Frank sat, their rifles laid aside in the peace of the Davis farmhouse, “the war is over as far as the Creeks are concerned; and I don’t think there will be much delay about the rights to your father’s land.”

And this proved to be the case; for General Jackson, in his great treaty with the Indians at Fort Jackson some time later, secured great tracts of territory from the subdued savages in payment for the harm which they had done. In this ceded land was the old grant held by Mr. Lawrence, and as soon as his possessions could be removed from Virginia to the border-land, he took possession of it.

Slowly the settlers took up the land all about; but the hunting grounds remained as they had been for many years. And through the aisles of the mighty forests, across the streams which wound like silver threads among the trees, Jack Davis, with Frank Lawrence and the Cherokee brave, Running Elk, often wandered with rifle and bow, stalking deer and hunting bear and panther. Peace was upon all the border-land—a peace which they knew would not have come for many years if it had not been for the invincible resolution of Andrew Jackson.

CHAPTER XV
LIFE OF ANDREW JACKSON

In the year 1765 an Irish workman of Scotch blood, and of the name of Jackson, made up his mind that the grind of poverty in his native land was too great for endurance. So, with infinite labor, he scraped together a little store of gold; and with his wife and two children he took ship for the colonies of America of which he had heard such glowing tales.

George III had been five years king of England, and the French war which gave Canada to the British had just ended when the little family of Jacksons landed at Charleston in South Carolina. Having no money with which to purchase land, they set out with some others for the interior. Here, one hundred and fifty miles from civilization, and in the midst of a wilderness of dark pines, a little clearing was made near Waxhaw Creek, a log cabin erected, and a home established in the new land.

But the clearing bore only one small crop. Then the head of the house sickened and died; the widow was left with fear in her heart as to the future of herself and her two children. However, after the burial, she drove across the border into North Carolina, where her sister had established a home; and there in a log house, only a few days after her arrival, was born Andrew Jackson, seventh president of the republic, and one of its greatest soldiers.

This was on March 15, 1767. About a month afterward Mrs. Jackson with her children set out for the home of her brother-in-law, named Crawford, who lived some distance away. Her sister, Crawford’s wife, was an invalid; and for ten years Mrs. Jackson lived with them as a sort of housekeeper.

In this frontier home Andrew Jackson grew up into a rather ungainly, rough, hot-tempered boy. Among his comrades he was something of a bully. It has been long said of such boys that they are usually cowards; but in Andrew’s case this was not true, for there was no more resolute spirit on the border than his, even at that early day. Andrew’s mother had some thought of making a minister of him; at any rate he was sent to the little log schoolhouse, and was taught to read; his handwriting was wretched and during the whole course of his life he never learned to spell.

During the boyhood of Jackson great questions were on the verge of settlement; the colonies revolted and England set about crushing them under the weight of her trained regiments. During the boy’s ninth year the Declaration of Independence was signed; and in a little while Marion, known on the border as “the Swamp Fox,” Sumpter, known as “the Game Cock,” and other heroes of the wilderness were up in arms and stemming the tide of the red-coated aggression. Amidst the Tory outrages, the assaults of the ferocious dragoons of Tarleton, Hugh Jackson, Andrew’s elder brother, took up his rifle and joined the defenders. He met his death in the fight at Stono.

The old log church was used as an hospital, and Mrs. Jackson was among the women who nursed the wounded Americans. Not long afterward the terrible Tarleton and his men made a rush at Waxhaw; at another time the army under Cornwallis attacked the same place, and the settlers fled from his fury. Six months later the Jacksons returned to the ravaged section. Andrew was now fourteen, tall and thin and seething with the desire to take part in the fighting going on all around him. His first chance was when, as one of the guard of a place attacked by the Tories, he helped to beat them off. Dragoons arrived in time to save the Tories, and among the captured were Andrew and his brother.

It was while he was with the British that Jackson was slashed by a sword in the hands of an officer whose boots he had refused to blacken. Afterward, wan and wasted by neglect and disease, the two boys were exchanged. From this experience the brother died; but the stronger constitution of Andrew carried him through and he recovered. Mrs. Jackson then heard that her nephews were suffering in the British prison pens at Charleston; she hurried to their aid, but was attacked by the fever and died.

Andrew Jackson was now alone in the world, and without a penny. After the war he turned his little stock of learning to good account. He became a backwoods schoolmaster. Then he studied law, worked in a country store, and afterward opened a law office at Nashville in Tennessee. During all of this period Jackson was acquiring a reputation as the wildest and most daring spirit on the frontier; the hot temper of his boyhood had cooled not a jot; he was always ready for any deed of hardihood, and the rough spirits of the border learned to fear his anger.

His marriage, from unusual circumstances attending its contraction, was one which promised many sorrows; but as a matter of fact proved a very happy one. Jackson was sent to Congress from Tennessee, and was afterward made senator. Later he resigned and returned to Nashville. Here at different times he practiced law, kept a store, and farmed. It was at this period that he was made commander of the state militia, and subdued the Creeks. Afterward he became head of the army of the United States in the southwest, and drove back the British at New Orleans.

After defeating the Seminole Indians in Florida, and performing other services of great value to the country, Jackson began a political career full of tumult; he was the most loved and most hated man of his time. He was elected President of the United States in the year 1828, and again four years later. Then he retired to the quiet of the “Hermitage,” near Nashville, as his home was called, and spent the remainder of his life in peace. He died June 8, 1845.

The Stories in this Series are:

IN KENTUCKY WITH DANIEL BOONE
IN THE ROCKIES WITH KIT CARSON
IN TEXAS WITH DAVY CROCKETT
ON THE BORDER WITH ANDREW JACKSON

JOHN T. McINTYRE

MR. McINTYRE was born in Philadelphia. At six years of age he was sent to St. Michael’s Parochial School in that city, and says he considered his education finished when he left it four years later to begin the earning of a living. He was employed as a boy at a great many things, and admits he was very bad at all of them. One of his later jobs was clerk in a secondhand bookstore, where he acquired an overwhelming love for history and also became acquainted with all the masters of English literature. His chief ambition as a boy was to read more than anyone he knew, and he says, “I think I won this race by a million laps.”

He began to write when he was about twenty and he found the way to be rougher than he imagined. Finally he began to get stories into the newspapers, then into the magazines, and at last, in 1902, published his first novel, “The Ragged Edge.” His first book for boys, “Fighting King George,” was published in 1905, and since then thousands of boys have learned to look for a new “McIntyre book” every year. His most popular series, “The Young Continentals,” was begun in 1909. Mr. McIntyre has also written a great many plays, a number of which have been produced professionally, and some novels, including the well-known “Ashton-Kirk” series. His books for boys are:

The Young Continentals at Lexington
The Young Continentals at Bunker Hill
The Young Continentals at Trenton
The Young Continentals at Monmouth
The Boy Tars of 1812
Fighting King George
The Street Singer
With John Paul Jones
In the Rockies with Kit Carson
In Kentucky with Daniel Boone
In Texas with Davy Crockett

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE BORDER WITH ANDREW JACKSON ***

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Table of Contents

- ON THE BORDER WITH ANDREW JACKSON
- Contents
- Illustrations
- CHAPTER I IN THE CREEK COUNTRY
- CHAPTER II THE COMING OF TECUMSEH
- CHAPTER III THE WILDERNESS TRAPPER
- CHAPTER IV ATTACKED BY INDIANS
- CHAPTER V THE FIGHT ON THE KNOLL
- CHAPTER VI SIGHTING THE ENEMY
- CHAPTER VII THE ONSLAUGHT AT FORT MIMS
- CHAPTER VIII OLD HICKORY APPEARS
- CHAPTER IX THE BLOW AT TALLUSHATCHEE
- CHAPTER X AN INDIAN MESSENGER
- CHAPTER XI CAPTURED BY THE CREEKS
- CHAPTER XII A FIGHT—AND A REVOLT
- CHAPTER XIII THE BEGINNING OF THE END
- CHAPTER XIV THE BATTLE OF THE HORSESHOE
- CHAPTER XV LIFE OF ANDREW JACKSON
- JOHN T. McINTYRE
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE