Part 13 (1/2)

Roger stared with much interest at the fur, stretched out to tan. A few hours before it had been a wild-cat bent on doing him mischief. Just then Johnny Green stalked out of his cabin.

”Sagoola!” he exclaimed, pleasantly, grinning expansively in recognition of Roger and Adrian.

”Sagoola!” replied Adrian. ”Glad to see you, Johnny. Get home all right last night?”

”Sartin, sure. Got c.o.o.n, too.”

”You did? Where?”

”Down back Bill Eaton's place. Here um hide,” and he held up the pelt of a racc.o.o.n he had shot and skinned.

”Have you got any bows and arrows you don't want?” asked Adrian, with the freedom of an old acquaintance.

”Mebby so,” grinned Johnny, and he went back into his cabin to return with two small but well-made hickory bows and several arrows, feather tipped, but with blunt ends. He gave the weapons to the boys, who thanked him heartily.

”Stop and get some honey when you're up our way,” said Adrian, giving the invitation as a sort of payment for the gift. Then the boys kept on.

They walked to nearly the centre of the Reservation, where the Castle, as the long white Council House was called, stood. It was the most substantial building in the Indian village, being constructed of boards.

”The braves have their green corn and succotash dance here every year,”

explained Adrian. ”They had one about two months ago. I wish you'd been here. They give a regular performance like a war dance, only it's to make the Great Spirit, so they think, give a good corn harvest. The Indians rattle dried corn in bladders and circle about the middle of the room, howling and shouting as if they were crazy. It's great, I tell you. Dad took me once.”

”I'd like to have seen it,” said Roger. ”Maybe I'll stay until next year; then I can.”

From the Castle the boys went to the bridge which spanned a little stream that flowed through the Indian village.

”They say a terrible battle was once fought along this creek,” said Adrian, as they cast pebbles into the brook. ”The early white settlers in this part of the country and the old Onondaga Indians pitched into each other right on the bank of this stream, and lots were killed on both sides. The story goes that the waters ran red with blood that day, and even to the present time the Indians here have a name for this creek which means 'b.l.o.o.d.y water.'”

”Well,” said Roger, after they had been walking about for some time looking at the different sights, ”I guess we'd better be getting back.

Hadn't we? It'll be pretty near dark when we reach Cardiff.”

Adrian agreed with him. The sun was already dipping well over toward the western hills, and whistling to Jack, who was romping about with some Indian dogs, Adrian and Roger started homeward. They tried shooting with their bows, sending the arrows far on ahead of them and then picking them up, to give them another flight into the air. They moved on briskly, and just as the sun was sinking out of sight, they arrived at Hank Mack's store. A few minutes later the boys were at their home.

They stopped at the spouting spring for a drink of cool, sparkling water, and then entered the house.

They had no sooner reached the kitchen than they were aware that something had occurred. Mr. Kimball was standing in the middle of the floor, holding a letter in his hand. Mrs. Kimball sat in a chair, and it could be seen that she had been crying. Clara stood near her mother.

”Wh--what's the matter?” asked Adrian, in great alarm. ”Has something happened?”

For a moment no one answered him.

”What is it, dad,” he persisted, ”bad news?”

”Yep, son, it's bad news,” replied his father, brokenly.

”What is it?”

”Th' money your father invested in railroad sheers is all lost,” burst out Mrs. Kimball, ”'n' Nate Jackson has wrote t' say he's goin' t'