BAD NEWS
Roger slept late that morning, and his aunt would not let Adrian awaken him, much as the country boy desired to hear more of his cousin's adventures. It was almost ten o'clock when Roger came downstairs, rubbing his eyes. He found no one about the house but Clara, who greeted him with a smile and an invitation to sit down to a fresh hot breakfast she had prepared.
"Well, I must say I'm getting into lazy ways," was the boy's remark. "I'm used to getting up earlier than this when I'm home. Where's everybody except you?"
"Oh, father's picking some apples, Ade's gone up in the vineyard, mother's gone over to Mrs. Took's to borrow some molasses, the hired man's picking cucumbers, and I—"
"You have to stay home to bother getting me some breakfast," finished Roger. "I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble."
"It isn't any trouble at all," protested Clara, earnestly. "Mother said you must have a good sleep to make up for what you lost last night. My! But you must have been frightened. How's your back? We're all so glad you are safe that you can sleep until noon if you want to. Did you dream of wild-cats and Indians?"
"Answering your last question first, I will say I didn't dream at all," said Roger, smiling. "As for my back, I'd hardly know I was scratched. That's fine salve. I've had plenty of sleep, thank you, and I feel very well. Quite ready for breakfast, too, for I'm hungry," he added, as he sat down in front of the nicely browned cakes, the hot coffee, and the meat. He ate heartily, and just as he finished his aunt came in from the neighbor's. She was glad to see he had suffered no ill effects from his exposure in the woods, and his encounter with the wild-cat. While he was talking to Mrs. Kimball and Clara, Adrian came to the house.
"Sagoola!" said the country boy, smiling at his cousin.
"Sagoola!" replied Roger. "Say, Ade, what does that mean? Johnny Green called it to me when he met me in the woods. I had to guess at it."
"That's Onondaga Indian for 'How do you do?' or 'Hello!' just as it happens."
"Oh," said Roger, comprehending. "Well, I sagoola pretty well. How are you?"
"Same."
"Say," broke in Mr. Kimball, who had come in unperceived, "I want t' say you boys was purty smart t' pitch in 'n' sell them grapes th' way ye did arter ye found Andrews didn't want 'em. Mighty smart 'n' good I call it. Too bad ye hed t' hev a accident jest when ye was gittin' back, but then it come out all right. Each a' ye is entitled t' a dollar fer th' day's work."
"We didn't do it for money," spoke up Roger, "and besides, I only helped a little bit."
"I know all 'bout thet," said Mr. Kimball, "but ye got a leetle better price 'n Andrews would 'a' paid, 'n' I'm used t' givin' commissions on sales, so it's a matter a' business 'ith me."
He pulled out a canvas bag from deep in his trousers pocket, extracted from it two big shining silver dollars, and gave one to each of the boys.
"Thar's yer pay," he said. "Mind, I ain't givin' it t' ye. Ye airned it fair 'n' square, 'n' ye kin do jest's ye like 'ith it."
The money was more than either of the boys were in the habit of receiving except, perhaps, around Christmas, and they hardly knew what to do with the coin. Roger held his in an undecided manner.
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Adrian. "This will do to buy some ammunition with, and we can go squirrel hunting. I was just wishing for some cash to get the cartridges, and now we have it. Did you ever go after squirrels, Roger?"
"I never had a chance."
"Well, we'll go some day next week. I've got a gun, and I can borrow Porter Amidown's for you. It'll be lots of sport, and besides, we can get a mess of squirrels for dinner, and that'll save buying meat."
"I'll wait 'til I see yer squirrels 'fore I let th' butcher go by," remarked Mrs. Kimball, dryly.
"Wa'al, I've got t' git back t' th' orchard," said Mr. Kimball, after a pause, and he left to resume his work.
"Want to come up in the vineyard and watch me pick grapes?" asked Adrian of his cousin.
"I'll come up if you'll let me help a little," agreed the city boy. "I don't want to simply look on."
"Now ye must be careful, Roger," cautioned Mrs. Kimball. "Land, a body'd never think ye'd spent all night in th' woods, keepin' company 'ith a wild-cat thet most took yer skin off. Don't ye go t' pickin' grapes 'n' openin' th' sores agin. Ef ye go Ade'll hev t' make ye keep still."
"All right, mother," agreed Roger's cousin, and the two boys started off.
The place where the grapes grew was on the side of a gently sloping hill, about a quarter of a mile back of the house. The vines were twined over wires strung between posts, and were planted in rows about ten feet apart, so there was plenty of chance for the sun to get at the fruit, Old Sol's rays being needed to ripen the big purple, red, and white clusters. The boys walked up a little path back of the farmhouse, through the barnyard, up past the corn-crib, and the melon patch, past the yard where a flock of white Wyandotte chickens were cackling, and so on, up to where the air was fragrant with the bloom of the grapes.
"I'm picking Wordens," said Adrian, referring to the variety of the fruit he was gathering.
"How many kinds have you?" asked Roger.
"Well, we've got Concords, Isabellas, Niagaras, Delawares, Wordens, and Catawbas."
"I thought all grapes were alike."
"They're as different as people," said Adrian. "Some folks won't eat anything but Concords. Others want Wordens, and I like them best myself, but dad, he won't eat any but the white Niagaras."
Adrian reached over, cut off a big bunch of purple beauties, and ate them, while Roger did likewise, and it seemed that he had never before tasted such sweet grapes. The ones he occasionally had in New York were not nearly as fresh and good as these, right off the vines.
"Well," announced Adrian finally, throwing down the cleaned-off stem, "I must get to work. I've only got to fill forty more baskets, and then I can have the rest of the day to myself."
In between the rows of vines he had scattered small unfilled grape baskets. These were to be packed with the ripe bunches and loaded on a wheelbarrow, to be taken to the barn, and then the next day they would be sent to Syracuse. Adrian began to work, and Roger insisted that at least he be allowed to scatter the empty receptacles where they would be handy for his cousin. He also took the filled ones out to the end of the rows as Adrian finished with each.
Snip-snap went the scissors Adrian used to cut off the finest bunches. Before laying them in the baskets he removed any spoiled or imperfect fruit, so that the clusters would present a uniformly fine appearance, and bring a better price than if sent to market carelessly. Adrian worked rapidly, now that he did not have to stop to distribute the empty baskets or carry the full ones to the end of the row, and in much shorter time than Roger expected the forty were filled. As he placed the last one on the wheelbarrow Adrian remarked:
"Well, that's done. Want to go to Cardiff now?" for that was the way every one spoke of going up to the centre of the village.
"Would we have time to go to the Indian Reservation?" asked Roger, eagerly, for he had been thinking with anticipation all the morning of the news he had heard concerning the near location of the redmen.
"Well, hardly before dinner," replied Adrian. "It's three miles there. But we can go this afternoon."
"Then let's go."
"All right. We'll take a rest until the dinner horn blows."
So the boys went down to the barn with the last of the grapes. As they approached they were greeted by the barking of a dog, and a brown setter ran out to gambol about Adrian.
"Whose dog?" asked Roger, looking at the beautiful animal.
"Mine," replied Adrian. "He ran off to the woods Saturday, and he must have just come back. He does it every once in a while. Gets sort of wild and likes to strike out for himself. But he's always glad to come back. Hi! Jack, old fellow!" and Adrian, setting the wheelbarrow down, ran along swiftly, to be followed by the joyfully barking dog.
The two had a regular romp on the grass.
"Here, old chap!" called Adrian, suddenly, and Jack stopped short in his running to look at his young master with bright eyes and cocked-up ears. "Come here, sir! I'll introduce you to my cousin Roger."
Adrian led the dog by one ear up to Roger. The intelligent animal sniffed the boy a bit, and then the tail which had dropped began to wag quickly to and fro.
"He likes you all right," announced Adrian. "Shake hands with him, Jack."
The animal lifted his right paw up to Roger, who took it in his hand.
"He's a fine bird dog," commented Adrian, the introduction over. "We'll take him along when we go hunting."
Then Jack decided he was hungry, so he raced to the house, barking loudly. The boys took the grapes into the barn, and after they had been stowed away, Adrian lifted from a basket two large fine muskmelons. Next he produced a knife and a small bag of salt, when he and Roger proceeded to eat the fruit.
"This is the way dad and I like our melons," he announced to his cousin, as he cut off a luscious slice. It didn't take long to finish the fruit, and about an hour later, after they had amused themselves by jumping around in the hay, they were quite ready for dinner, when they heard Mrs. Kimball blow the horn vigorously. They announced at the table their intention of going to the Indian Castle, and after the meal was over and they had rested up a bit they started, Jack the dog barking joyously on ahead of them.
The way to the Reservation, or the Castle, as every one in Cardiff called it, was up the main road to the north, a long level stretch of highway, lying between pleasant farm lands. The three miles seemed rather short to Roger, and after a little more than an hour's tramp, they came to a group of log cabins.
"What are those?" asked the city boy.
"Indian houses."
"Is that where they live? I thought they had tents," and Roger's voice showed his disappointment.
"These aren't wild Indians," said Adrian. "They have to live here all the year. The government gives them this land and they raise crops on it, or rather their squaws do; for the Indians let the women do most of the work, same as they did when Columbus discovered this country, as we read in our history books."
Just then, at the door of one of the cabins, appeared a man who seemed to be a negro, and Roger could see several dark-skinned children peeping out from behind the man.
"What are colored folks doing on the Reservation, Adrian?"
"They're not colored; that's an Indian. He's Pete Smith. You see lots of the Indians are very dark, and they look a little like negroes at a distance."
"Well, he certainly don't look like the Indians you see in pictures," commented Roger.
The boys kept on. The little log cabins became more numerous now, and in the fields about them could be observed many Indian squaws at work, husking corn or gathering pumpkins and tomatoes. Once in a while a male Indian would be seen at work, probably because he had no squaw.
The boys now approached a cabin larger than any of the others near it. Adrian, coming opposite it, pointed to something fastened on the front wall.
"Do you know what that is?" he asked his cousin.
"What? Where?"
"Tacked up on the side of the cabin."
"Oh, that? Why, it looks like a piece of fur."
"Don't you know what it is?"
"No."
"That's the varmint which tried to eat you up last night."
"Not the wild-cat?"
"The very same. This is where Johnny Green lives. He's skinned the animal. That's its hide."
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 coon, too."
"You did? Where?"
"Down back Bill Eaton's place. Here um hide," and he held up the pelt of a raccoon 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 'bloody 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' foreclose th' mortgage."
This was bad news indeed, and Adrian sank limply in a chair, while Roger looked helplessly on.