Newspapers / The Pilot (Southern Pines, … / April 28, 1922, edition 1 / Page 2
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Tally rand and Firefly By J. nacNEILL JOHNSON I CHAPTER IV. , Mr. Studebolt’s boat was named The Dolphin, and his oarsmen were stalwart young nesrro men named Ned and Bill. We might here state that if all slave masters had been of the type of Mr. Studebolt, slavery would have been a blessing to the negro race for another century or two at least; but unfortunately Mr. Studebolt was the exception instead of the rule, and it is our purpose to show some of the cruelties of slavery . as we proceed with these stories. Mr. Studebolt sat in the prow of The Dolphin with his face turned up the river. Bill and Ned drove the boat rapidly forward. Not a word was spoken, only the sonorous song of the boatmen. Occasionally a steam packet was met or passed, and on these occasions Mr. Studebolt raised his hand politely to the officers on the bridge of the steamer; and as he was known by all the steamboat captains on the river, they invariably tipped their caps in token of their great re spect for the wealthy planter. About noon Mr. Studebolt spoke to the oarsmen: “Tired boys?” but they replied that they were not tired. Then about 2 o’clock Mr. Studebolt spoke again: “Hungry, boys?” They de nied that they were hungry, but there was a note of weakness in their de nial that caused Mr. Studebolt to order the nose of the boat to be run into the bank, where he lashed the Dolphin to a tree. He then took out a large basket and handed out to Bill and Ned bis cuits, fried chicken, and a great many other good things. He also took a bucket and brought fresh water from a brook that poured into the river at that place. * After they had eaten lunch and rested half an hour, Mr. Studebolt called out: “All aboard!” unlashed The Dolphin and pushed off from shore. The oarsmen again bent their wiry bodies to their work, and the Dolphin shot merrily on. When night over took the travelers Mr. Studebolt be gan to scan the east bank for a good camping place. They soon came to a neat little bay, and cjuickly steered The Dolphin into it, and in a few moments they were cooking supper in real camp fashion. That night they heard the long, doleful howls of the wolves; but they were too far away to take much no tice of, and they slept and rested till the scream and whistle of the wild ducks told them the new day was at hand, and they built up their camp fire and cooked breakfast and made coffee—coffee, you know, is much bet ter at a camp fire than anywhere else. Mr. Studebolt then spoke to the oarsmen, and said: “If I am correctly informed as to the location of our friend’s home, we are nearly half way.” Then he said in a kindly voice: “You boys need not pull so hard to day; we shall camp tonight at the mouth of Boone’s Creek; we can reach there before night by easy rowing.” The second day’s rowing was much like the first, but a little slower; and before sundown they moored The Dol phin in the mouth of Boone's Creek, and there they spent the night. After an early breakfast of fresh fish cataght with hooks on the spot, they continued their journey, and at about ten o’clock they arrived at a point from which they could see an Indian wigwam some two hundred yards from the east bank of the river, and Mr. Studebolt knew it was the home of Old Horseshoe. They tied up The Dolphin and Mr. Studebolt ordered Bill and Ned to re main with the boat until he returned, and he took his long range rifle in one hand, two long pipes and a bag of Killekenick tobacco in the other hand, and marched boldly up to Old Horseshoe’s wigwam. The Old man was sitting on a big rock near the door of the wigwam greasing his sore thumb with bear’s grease, and Wenona, his wife, and Minnehaha, his young daughter, were skinning a squirrel in the door of the tent. Mr. Studebolt walked up to Old Horseshoe, and said: “Great Chief, I have called to demand why you tried to kill my boy ?” Old Horseshoe did not move a muscle, but looked for an instant into Mr. Studebolt’s clear eye, then his own eyes dropped to the ground, and he said: “Your son good boy; make great man.” This statement was rather irrelevant, as it did not answer Mr. Studebolt’s ques tion, but his acquaintance with the Indian mode of speech led him to be lieve that it was intended to be friend ly. Then Mr. Studebolt extended both his hands towards Old Horseshoe, one hand held his rifle and the other the pipes and tobacco. He simply said: “Which shall it be?” Old Horseshoe hesitated a moment, then reached for the hand that held the pipes and bag of Killekenick to bacco. Mr. Studebolt stood the gun against the tree, and filled both the pipes with tobacco, and handed one of them to Old Horseshoe, scratched a match and lit both the pipes. The two men sat^n silence, and smoked the Pipe of Peace. When the smoking was over both men arose to their feet, and the si lence was broken by Old Horseshoe: “Great White Chief, Old Horseshoe shall be your friend, as long as the Wild Goose flies south at the fall of the leaf—as long as the Opache re turns to see the new grass grow—as long as the Great Father of Waters flow—Old Horseshoe and all his de scendants shall live in love with Great White Chief, and his children’s chil dren’s children!” The two men clasped hands at this pledge of friendship, while Wenona and Minnehaha, who had been watch ing the proceedings, shouted for joy in the wigwam. Then Mr. Stmdebolt presented his long range rifle, and a hundred car tridges* to Old Horseshoe; and Old Horseshoe tried to give Mr. Stude bolt all his wolf scalps—he had about four thousand—and all his otter skins, but Mr. Studebolt would not take them, but told the old man he must carry them to St. Louis, for the bounty of five dollars for each scalp was good only in the state where the wolves were killed. Then they talked about Firefly, and it was decided that Firefly should re main with Tallyrand as long as he (Continued on page 7) ♦> I NORNAN KLINE CARTHAGE, N. C. | General Contractor | All kinds of Building Material f SAVE Youi’ve Got! YOUR PROPERTY YOUR INCOME INSURE IT DO IT NOW D. A. McLAUCHLIN, Agent VASS, N. C. 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The Pilot (Southern Pines, N.C.)
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April 28, 1922, edition 1
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