The old man rose with difficulty from his seat, and, with the rifle in his right hand, with which also he was obliged to handle a crutch, he hobbled into the Castle. I hastened down to the river, excited by the prospect of an adventure that night with the Indians. I was a boy of only thirteen, and the idea was an immense one. I was to go out into the forest and recapture the horses--an undertaking which might have taxed all the skill and courage of a person of mature age and experience. But I considered myself equal to the mission upon which I was to be sent. I had been brought up in a log cabin, and even as a child had made long hunting and trapping tramps with old Matt Rockwood. I had stood before angry Indians, as well as thieving and drunken ones. I had shot deer, bears, and wolves, as well as smaller game, with my rifle.
Old Matt had always taught me that there was nothing in the world to be afraid of but one's own self--a philosophy which was very pretty in theory, but not always capable of being reduced to practice. But I certainly was not afraid of an Indian, or of any number of them. From my rough old guardian I had acquired a certain contempt for them; but I had never passed through an Indian war or an Indian massacre. I had heard of the savage Blackfeet, and other tribes, who were not to be contemned, but I had never seen any of them.
I hastily completed the stringing of my fish, thinking all the time how I should conduct the expedition in which I was to engage. Indeed, I could think of nothing else; for, although I had often been away on similar excursions, it was always in company with my guardian, while on the present occasion I was to manage for myself. I forgot that I was hungry, and only lived in the brilliant schemes for recovering the horses, capturing the camp, and even wiping out the Indians themselves. I was bent on desperate deeds, and intended to convince old Matt that I was worthy of the confidence he reposed in me.
"You have been lucky to-day, Phil Farringford," said a voice near me, as I rose from the bottom of the boat to step on shore.
It was Mr. Mellowtone, an old neighbor of ours, who had squatted on an island in the river. He was a good friend of mine, and I regarded him with the utmost love and respect. He had taught me to read and write, and furnished me books, which had been both a comfort and a blessing to me.