Wetzel, the Scout; or, The Captives of the WildernessEllis, Edward Sylvester
General
Wetzel, the Scout; or, The Captives of the Wilderness
Ellis, Edward Sylvester
Dime novels; Frontier and pioneer life -- Fiction; Ohio River Valley -- Fiction; Shawnee Indians -- Fiction
Moffat had rowed several hundred yards as silently as possible, when he
was startled by hearing a movement in the bushes. He dropped his oars
instantly, seized his rifle, and sank into the bottom of the boat.
Fixing his gaze upon the shore, he imagined he could see a dark body
half in the bushes and half in the water, struggling as though it
wounded. Not daring to fire, he rowed within a short distance, and
called out just loud enough to reach it:
“Is that you, Kingman?”
“I am of that opinion. What’s the news?”
“I have just found a poor dog, half drowned, in the water.”
“Why don’t you pick him up, then?”
“Afraid he might swim away, if I should try.”
“Try, and see whether he will.”
Moffat rowed up to him, and took him in.
“Now pull for the other shore,” said Kingman, “for I have had enough of
this for the present.”
In going across, nothing occurred to alarm them, and our two friends
related to each other their experience since they parted. Moffat gave it
as his opinion that Kingman had had quite an adventure—something that
would do to tell when they got home.
“But where do you suppose that Shawnee of yours is?” asked Moffat.
“I suppose he is watching behind that tree yet,” laughed Kingman. “You
haven’t told me yet how you came by this canoe.”
“Oh, there is little to tell of that. When our company dropped their
doors with which they were carrying the Injin fort, and I found every
man was for himself, and all for no, I thought I’d try a journey on my
own hook. So I dug for the woods until I supposed I was clear of the
crowd, when I made tracks for the river. Just before I got there, I come
’cross two little Injin boys—little devils out shooting our men and
learning to scalp on their own hook; and, would you believe it, the
confounded imps had a couple top-knots they had haggled off of some poor
fellow’s head. They found them half dead, I suppose, and then shot and
finished them. They didn’t happen to have loaded their guns yet, and the
way I walked into their meat-houses was a caution to bears. That split
in that rifle stock came from splitting both their heads. I laid ’em out
stark and stiff, so that there’s no likelihood of their lifting the hair
of any more of our boys for a considerable time. Wal, as their guns
wan’t of any use to me, I let ’em alone, and just took their ammunition,
and went on down the river. After going a half mile or so, I stumbled
onto this canoe pulled in snug under the bank. As the owner wasn’t about
to ask permission, I _borrowed_ it until I could return it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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