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Updated: May 25, 2025
His eyes had retreated deeper into the sockets, and his thick lips, once so firm and domineering, were loose and flabby. Black Hoof stirred him contemptuously with his foot. Dale dragged himself to a sitting posture and began shivering as if suffering from ague. "Oh, my God, Morris!" he groaned. "The Pack-Horse-Man can save his life," sententiously began Black Hoof.
Do the Shawnees fire guns at the Pack-Horse-Man? My friends live here. Do the Shawnees hurt the friends of the Pack-Horse-Man? I give you a belt to wash the red paint from your faces. I give you a belt to make the road smooth between the Greenbriar and the Scioto. By this belt the nettles and rocks shall be removed from the road.
The sally of the young men had taught them they could not have all things their own way. I scouted toward the fort to make sure all the women and children had made cover, but before I could reach the log walls I heard Dale's voice shouting for attention. I dropped behind a stump, and as the savages ceased their howling I heard him hoarsely crying: "It is the Pack-Horse-Man speaking.
Tell her all I have said." With that he dragged me back to my tree. For a few minutes the chief's horrible threat dulled my mind to the point of stupidity. He waited for me to collect my thoughts. At last I managed to ask: "What you said back there was a trick of course? You would never torture the daughter of the Pack-Horse-Man?" "Unless he does as told she must die," he calmly assured me.
Trailing my rifle and bent double, I stole after him. From the forest a deep voice shouted: "The belts of the Pack-Horse-Man are good belts. Black Hoof's warriors do not harm the friends of the Pack-Horse-Man. Sleep with your cabin doors open to-night and you shall hear nothing but the call of the night birds and the voice of the little owl talking with the dead."
For half an hour he wandered about, proclaiming he was the Pack-Horse-Man, the ancient friend of the Shawnees and Mingos. Let him be a fool according to Jesse Hughes' notion, yet he was a very brave man. He had the courage to attempt proof of his belief in the honesty of the Shawnees. I trailed him back to the cabin door. I saw the girl's radiant face as she proudly threw her arms about his neck.
His voice had its old confident ring, and there was a slight smile on his lips as he rehearsed his friendship for the red people and reminded them how often he visited their villages and smoked their pipes. When he ceased Black Hoof called out: "We will lift a peace-pipe to our good friend, the Pack-Horse-Man. We will cover his friends with the smoke.
When they see the Pack-Horse-Man walking along the white road to their villages they will lift that belt up very high." "When one sees you, there should be no need of belts," I ventured. She smiled graciously and lightly patted my fringed sleeve, and ignoring my fervid declaration, she gently reminded: "Even if I had no belts I am no better than any of the other women on the creek.
Does the Pack-Horse-Man ask his red brothers to be kind only to have his words fall on dead ears? I bring you belts. My daughter in the cabin also brings belts to the Shawnees and Mingos and the Delawares." "Let our white brother come close," called a deep guttural voice.
Without deflecting his gaze he answered: "Back to their homes on the Scioto." "The white trader, the Pack-Horse-Man, spoke words that drive them back?" It was either a trick of the dying light, or else I detected an almost imperceptible twitching of the grim lips. After a short pause he said: "The Shawnees are not driven. They will pick up the end of the peace-belt.
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