Camp-fire and Wigwam

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                              CAMP-FIRE AND WIGWAM.

                                By EDWARD S. ELLIS

AUTHOR OF "NED IN THE BLOCK-HOUSE," "NED IN THE WOODS," "NED ON THE
RIVER," "THE LOST TRAIL," ETC.


PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES.

COPYRIGHT, 1885,
BY PORTER & COATES.




[Illustration: JACK'S WRESTLING BOUT WITH THE YOUNG INDIAN.]




CONTENTS.


        I.--AT HOME

       II.--A DOUBTFUL ENTERPRISE

      III.--WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED

       IV.--CAPTORS AND CAPTIVES

        V.--JOURNEYING SOUTHWARD

       VI.--AN INVOLUNTARY BATH

      VII.--TWO VISITORS

     VIII.--A SURPRISE

       IX.--BY THE CAMP-FIRE

        X.--WAITING AND HOPING

       XI.--THROUGH THE FOREST

      XII.--THE SIGNAL FIRES

     XIII.--THE INDIAN VILLAGE

      XIV.--ON THE MOUNTAIN CREST

       XV.--THE RETURN AND DEPARTURE

      XVI.--A PERPLEXING QUESTION

     XVII.--TWO ACQUAINTANCES AND FRIENDS

    XVIII.--THE TRAPPERS

      XIX.--DEERFOOT'S WOODCRAFT

       XX.--SAUK AND SHAWANOE

      XXI.--CHRISTIAN AND PAGAN

     XXII.--AN ABORIGINAL SERMON

    XXIII.--IN THE LODGE OF OGALLAH

     XXIV.--A ROW

      XXV.--THE WAR FEAST

     XXVI.--AN ALARMING DISCOVERY

    XXVII.--"GAH-HAW-GE"

   XXVIII.--A PATIENT OF THE MEDICINE MAN

     XXIX.--CONVALESCENCE

      XXX.--OUT IN THE WORLD

     XXXI.--JOURNEYING EASTWARD

    XXXII.--A MISCALCULATION

   XXXIII.--CONCLUSION




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


JACK'S WRESTLING BOUT WITH THE YOUNG INDIAN

A NARROW ESCAPE

THE SIGNAL

DEERFOOT'S VICTORY




CAMP-FIRE AND WIGWAM.




CHAPTER I.

AT HOME.


On the evening of a dismal, rainy day in spring, a mother and her son
were sitting in their log-cabin home in the southern portion of the
present State of Missouri. The settlement bore the name of Martinsville,
in honor of the leader of the little party of pioneers who had left
Kentucky some months before, and, crossing the Mississippi, located in
that portion of the vast territory known at that time as Louisiana.

There were precisely twenty cabins, all of which had been constructed
with a view to rugged strength, durability, and comfort. Lusty arms had
felled the trees, that were cut the proper length and dovetailed in the
usual manner at the corners, the crevices being filled with a species of
plaster, made almost entirely from yellow clay. The interiors were
generally divided into two apartments, with a broad fireplace and the
rude furniture of the border. Colonel Martin himself, with the
assistance of his two full-grown sons, erected a more pretentious
dwelling with two stories and a loft, but the other houses, as has
already been stated, were of such a simple and familiar character that
the American reader needs no further description.

Mrs. Carleton was a widow, whose husband had been slain by Indians in
Kentucky some time previous, and who, in the daily requirement of her
duties, and in her great love for her only child, Jack, found some
relief from the dreadful sorrow that overshadowed her life. Kind
neighbors had lent willing hands, and her home was as well made as any
in the settlement. Jack and his companion, Otto Relstaub, had arrived
only a couple of days before, and each had wrought so hard in his
respective household that they had scarcely found time to speak to or
see each other.

The evening meal had been eaten, the things cleared away, and wood
heaped upon the fire which filled the little room with cheerful
illumination. The mother was seated at one side, the silent
spinning-wheel just beyond, while her deft fingers were busy with her
knitting. Jack was half reclining on a rude bench opposite, recounting,
in his boyish fashion, the adventures of himself and Otto on their
memorable journey, which has been fully told in the "Lost Trail."

The good mother possessed an education beyond the ordinary, and, knowing
its great value, insisted upon her son improving his spare moments in
study. Jack was well informed for his years, for no one could have been
blessed with a better teacher, counselor, and friend, than he was. Even
now, when we reintroduce him to the reader, he held an old-fashioned
spelling-book in his hand. He had tried to give his attention to his
lesson, but, boy-like, his mind persisted in wandering, and his mother,
looking fondly across the fire, was so pleased to hear him chat and to
ask and answer questions, that she could not find it in her heart to
chide him.

"You have never seen Deerfoot, have you, mother?" he asked, abruptly
breaking in on his own narrative.

"Yes, I have seen him; he saved the life of your father."

"What!" exclaimed Jack, straightening up and staring at his parent in
open-mouthed amazement: "I never heard of that before."

"Didn't Deerfoot tell you?"

"He never hinted anything of the kind.