CHAPTER XI
A SCOUT OF SIX
We were now penetrating that sad and devastated region laid waste sorecently by Brant, Butler, and McDonald, from Cobus-Kill on thepleasant river Askalege, to Minnisink on the silvery Delaware--a vastand mournful territory which had been populous and prosperous atwelvemonth since, and was now the very abomination of desolation.
Cherry Valley lay a sunken mass of blood-wet cinders; Wyoming had goneup in a whirlwind of smoke, and the wretched Connecticut inhabitantswere dead or fled; Andrustown was now no more, Springfield, HandsomeBrook, Bowmans, Newtown-Martin--all these pretty English villages werevanished; the forest seedlings already sprouted in the blackenedcellars, and the spotted tree-cats squalled from the girdled orchardsunder the July moon.
Where horses, cows, sheep, men, women, and children had lain dead allover the trampled fields, the tall English grass now waved, yellowingto fragrant hay; horses, barns, sheds--nay, even fences, wagons,ploughs, and haycocks had been laid in cinders. There remained not onething that could burn which had not been burned. Only breeze-stirredashes marked these silent places, with here and there a bit of ironfrom wagon or plough, rusting in the dew, or a steel button from somedead man's coat, or a bone gone chalky white--dumb witnesses that thewrath of England had passed wrapped in the lightning of Divine Right.
But Great Britain's flaming glory had swept still farther westward, forGerman Flatts was gone except for its church and one house, which weretoo near the forts for the destructives to burn. But they had laid inashes more than a hundred humble homes, barns, and mills, and drivenoff more than a thousand cattle, horses, sheep, and oxen, leaving thebarnyard creatures dead or dying, and ten thousand skipples of grainafire.
So it was no wonder that the provisioning of our forces at Otsego hadbeen slow, and that we now had five hundred wagons flying steadilybetween Canajoharie and the lake, to move our stores as they arrived bybatteaux from below. And there were some foolish and impatient folk inCongress, so I heard, who cried out at our delay; and one more sinisterjackass, who had said that our army would never move until a fewgenerals had been court-martialed and shot. And our Major Parr saidthat he wished to God we had the Congress with us so that for once theymight have their bellyful of stratagem and parched corn.
But it is ever so with those home-loving and unsurpassedbutcher-generals, baker-brigadiers, candlestick-colonels, who, yawningin bed, win for us victories while we are merely planning them--and,rolling over, go to sleep with a consciousness of work well done, thecandle snuffed, and the cat locked out for the night.
About eleven o'clock on the first night out, I halted my scout of sixand lay so, fireless, until sun-up. We were not far, then, from thehead of the lake; and when we marched at dawn next morning weencountered a company of Alden's men mending roads as usual; and latercame upon an entire Continental regiment and a company of IrregularRifles, who were marching down to the lake to try out their guns. Longafter we quitted them we heard their heavy firing, and coulddistinguish between the loud and solid "Bang!" of the muskets and thesharper, whip-lash crack of the long rifles.
The territory that now lay before us was a dense and sunlesswilderness, save for the forest openings made by rivers, lakes, andstreams. And it was truly the enemy's own country, where he roamedunchecked except for the pickets of General Sullivan's army, which wasstill slowly concentrating at Tioga Point whither my scout of six wasnow addressed. And the last of our people that we saw was a detail ofAlden's regiment demolishing beaver dams near the lake's outlet which,they informed us, the beavers rebuilt as fast as they were destroyed,to the rage and confusion of our engineers. We saw nothing of theindustrious little animals, who are accustomed to labor while humanbeings sleep, but we saw their felled logs and cunningly devised dams,which a number of our men were attacking with pick and bar, standing inthe water to their arm-pits.
Beyond them, at the Burris Farm, we passed our outlyingpickets--Irregular Riflemen from the Scoharie and Sacandaga, tall,lean, wiry men, whose leaf-brown rifle-dress so perfectly blended withthe tree-trunks that we were aware of them only when they halted us.And, Lord! To see them scowl at my Indians as they let us through, sothat I almost expected a volley in our backs, and was relieved when wewere rid o' them.
When, later, we passed Yokam's Place, we were fairly facing that vastsolitude of twilight which lay between us and the main army's outpostsat the mouth of the Tioga. Except for a very few places on the Ouleout,and the Iroquois towns, the region was uninhabited. But the forest wasbeautiful after its own somewhat appalling fashion, which wasstupendous, majestic, and awe-inspiring to the verge of apprehension.
Under these limitless lanes of enormous trees no sunlight fell, nounderbrush grew. All was still and vague and dusky as in pillaredaisles. There were no birds, no animals, nothing living except thegiant columns which bore a woven canopy of leaves so dense that noglimmer of blue shone through. Centuries had spread the soundlesscarpet that we trod; eons had laid up the high-sprung arches whichvanished far above us where vault and column were dimly merged, losingall form in depthless shadow.
There was an Indian path all the way from the lake, good in places, inothers invisible. We did not use it, fearing an ambush.
The Mohican led us; I followed him; the last Oneida marked the treesfor a new and better trail, and a straighter one not following everybend in the river. And so, in silence we moved southward over gentlysloping ground which our wagons and artillery might easily follow whilethe batteaux fell down the river and our infantry marched on eitherbank, using the path where it existed.
Toward ten o'clock we came within sound of the river again, its softlyrushing roar filling the woods; and after a while, far through theforest dusk, we saw the thin, golden streak of sunlight marking itslonely course.
The trail that the Mohican now selected swung ever nearer to the river,and at last, we could see low willows gilded by the sun, and a patch ofblue above, and a bird flying.
Treading in file, rifles at trail, and knife and hatchet loosened, wemoved on swiftly just within that strip of dusk that divides the forestfrom the river shrub; and I saw the silver water flowing deep andsmooth, where batteaux as well as canoes might pass with unvexed keels;and, over my right shoulder, above the trees, a baby peak, azure andamethyst in a cobalt sky; and a high eagle soaring all alone.
The Mohican had halted; an Oneida ran down to the sandy shore and wadedout into mid-stream; another Oneida was peeling a square of bark from atowering pine. I rubbed the white square dry with my sleeve, and with awood-coal from my pouch I wrote on it:
"Ford, three feet at low water."
The Stockbridge Indian who had stepped behind a river boulder and laidhis rifle in rest across the top, still stood there watching the youngOneida in midstream who, in turn, was intently examining the river bankopposite.
Nothing stirred there, save some butterflies whirling around each otherover a bed of purple milkweed, but we all watched the crossing, riflesat a ready, as the youthful Oneida waded slowly out into the fullsunshine, the spray glittering like beaded topazes on his yellow paint.
Presently he came to a halt, nosing the farther shore like a lean andsuspicious hound at gaze; and stood so minute after minute.
Mayaro, crouching beside me, slowly nodded.
"He has seen something," I whispered.
"And I, too," returned the Mohican quietly.
I looked in vain until the Sagamore, laying his naked arm along mycheek, sighted for me a patch of sand and water close inshore--a tinybay where the current clutched what floated, and spun it slowly aroundin the sunshine.
A dead fish, lying partly on the shore, partly in the water, wasfloating there. I saw it, and for a moment paid it no heed; then in aflash I comprehended. For the silvery river-trout lying there carried aforked willow-twig between gill and gill-cover. Nor was this all; thefish was fresh-caught, for the gills had not puffed out, nor the supplebody stiffened. Every little wavelet rippled its sli
m and limberlength; and a thread of blood trailed from the throat-latch out overthe surface of the water.
Suddenly the young Oneida in mid-stream shrank aside, flattening hisyellow painted body against a boulder, and almost at the same instant arifle spoke.
I heard the bullet smack against the boulder; then the Mohican leapedpast me. For an instant the ford boiled under the silent rush of theOneidas, the Stockbridge Indian, and the Mohican; then they wereacross; and I saw the willows sway and toss where they were chasingsomething human that bounded away through the thicket. I could evenmark, without seeing a living soul, where they caught it and where itwas fighting madly but in utter silence while they were doing it todeath--so eloquent were the feathery willow-tops of the tragedy thatagitated each separate slender stem to frenzy.
Suddenly I turned and looked at the Wyandotte, squatting motionlessbeside me. Why he had remained when the red pack started, I could notunderstand, and with that confused thought in mind I rose, ran down tothe water's edge, the Wyandotte following without a word.
A few yards below the ford a giant walnut tree had fallen, spanning thestream to a gravel-spit; I crossed like a squirrel on this, the burlyWyandotte padding over at my heels, sprang to the bottom sand, and ranup the willow-gully.
They were already dragging out what they had killed; and I came up tothem and looked down on the slain man who had so rashly broughtdestruction upon his own head.
He wore no paint; he was not a warrior but a hunter. "St. Regis," saidthe Mohican briefly.
"The poor fool," I said sadly.
The young Oneida in yellow clapped the scalp against a tree-trunkcarelessly, as though we could not easily see by his blazing eyes andquivering nostrils that this was his first scalp taken in war. Then hewashed the blade of his knife in the river, wiped it dry and sheathedit, and squatted down to braid the dead hair into the hunters-lock.
We found his still smouldering fire and some split fish baking in greenleaves; nets, hooks, spears, and a bark shoulder-basket. And he hadbeen a King's savage truly enough, foraging, no doubt, for Brant orButler, who had great difficulty in maintaining themselves in aterritory which they had so utterly laid waste--for we found in histobacco pouch a few shillings and pennies, and some pewter buttonsstamped, "Butler's Rangers." Also I discovered a line of writing signedby old John Butler himself, recommending the St. Regis to one CaptainService, an uncle of Sir John Johnson, and a great villain who recentlyhad been shot dead by David Elerson, one of my own riflemen, whileattempting to brain Tim Murphy with an axe.
"The poor fool," I repeated, turning away, "Had he not meddled with warwhen his business lay only in hunting, he had gone free or, if we hadcaught him, only as a prisoner to headquarters."
Mayaro shrugged his contempt of the St. Regis hunter; the Oneida youthsat industriously braiding his first trophy; the others had rekindledthe embers of the dead man's fire and were now parching his raw cornand dividing the baked river-trout into six portions.
Mayaro and I ate apart, seated together upon a knoll whence we couldlook down upon the river and upon the fire, which I now ordered to becovered.
From where I sat I could see the burly Wyandotte, squatting with theothers at his feed, and from time to time my glance returned to him.Somehow, though I knew not why, there was about this Indian anindefinable something not entirely reassuring to me; yet, just what itmight be I was not able to say.
Truly enough he had a most villainous countenance, what with his nativeswarthiness and his broken and dented nose, so horridly embellishedwith a gash of red paint. He was broad and squat and fearfullypowerful, being but a bulk of gristly muscle; and when he leaped agully or a brook, he seemed to strike the earth like a ball of rubberand slightly rebound an the light impact. I have seen a sinewy pantherso rebound when hurled from a high tree-top.
The Oneida youth had now braided and oiled his scalp and was stretchingit on a willow hoop, very busy with the pride and importance of hiswork. I glanced at Mayaro and caught a gleam of faint amusement in hiseyes; but his features remained expressionless enough, and it seemed tome that his covert glance rested on the Wyandotte more often than onanybody.
The Mohican, as was customary among all Indians when painted for war,had also repainted his clan ensign, although it was tatooed on hisbreast; and the great Ghost Bear rearing on its hind quarters was nowbrilliantly outlined in scarlet. But he also wore what I had never seenany other Indian wear when painted for any ceremony in North America.For, just below the scarlet bear, was drawn in sapphire blue the ensignof his strange clan-nation--the Spirit Wolf, or Were-Wolf. And a doubleensign worn by any priest, hunter, or warrior I had never beforebeheld. No Delaware wore it unless belonging to the Wolf Clan of theLenni-Lenape, or unless he was a Siwanois Mohican and a Sagamore. Forthere existed nowhere at that time any social and political societyamong any Indian nation which combined clan and tribal, and, in ameasure, national identity, except only among the Siwanois people, whowere all three at the same time.
As I salted my parched corn and ate it, sitting cross-legged on myhillock, my eyes wandered from one Indian to another, reading theirclan insignia; and I saw that my Oneida youth wore the little turtle,as did his comrade; that the Stockbridge Indian had painted a ChristianCross over his tattooed clan-totem--no doubt the work of the ReverendMr. Kirkland--and that the squatting Wyandotte wore the Hawk inbrilliant yellow.
"What is yonder fellow's name?" I asked Mayaro, dropping my voice.
"Black-Snake," replied the Mohican quietly.
"Oh! He seems to wear the Hawk."
The Sagamore's face grew smooth and blank, and he made no comment.
"It's a Western clan, is it not, Mayaro?"
"It is Western, Loskiel."
"That clan does not exist among the Eastern nations?"
"Clans die out, clans are born, clans are altered with the years,Loskiel."
"I never heard of the Hawk Clan at Guy Park," said I.
He said, with elaborate carelessness:
"It exists among the Senecas."
"And apparently among the Wyandottes."
"Apparently."
I said in a low voice:
"Yonder Huron differs from any Indian I ever knew. Yet, in what hediffers I can not say. I have seen Senecas like him physically. ButSenecas and Hurons not only fought but interbred. This Wyandotte mayhave Seneca blood in him."
The Sagamore made no answer, and after a moment I said:
"Why not confess, Mayaro, that you also have been perplexed concerningthis stranger from Fort Pitt? Why not admit that from the moment hejoined us you have had your eye on him--have been furtively studyinghim?"
"Mayaro has two eyes. For what are they unless to observe?"
"And what has my brother observed?"
"That no two people are perfectly similar," he said blandly.
"Very well," I said, vexed, but quite aware that no questions of minecould force the Sagamore to speak unless he was entirely ready. "Isuppose that there exist no real grounds on which to suspect thisWyandotte. But you know as well as do I that he crossed not the riverwith the others when they did to death that wretched St. Regis hunter.Also, that there are Wyandottes in our service at Fortress Pitt, I didnot know before."
I waited a moment, but the Mohican said nothing, and I saw his eyes,veiled like a dreaming bird of prey, so immersed did he seem to be inhis own and secret reflections.
Presently I rose, went down to the fire, felt with my fingers among theashes to be certain no living spark remained, chatted a moment with theOneida youth, praising him till under all his modesty I saw he was liketo burst with pride; then gave the signal for departure.
"Nevertheless," I added, addressing them all, "this is not a scalpingparty; it is the six eyes of an army spying out a way through thiswilderness, so that our wagons, artillery, horses, and cattle may passin safety to Tioga Point.
"Let the Sagamore strike each tree to be marked, as he leads forward.Let the Mole repeat the blow unless otherwi
se checked. Then shall theOneida, Grey-Feather, mark clearly the tree so doubly designated. TheOneida, Tahoontowhee, covers our right flank, marching abreast of theMohican; the Wyandotte, Black-Snake, covers our left flank, keeping theriver bank in view. March!"
All that afternoon we moved along south and west, keeping in touch withthe Susquehanna, which here is called Oak Creek, though it is theself-same stream. And we scouted the river region thoroughly, routingout nothing save startled deer that bounded from their balsam beds andwent off crashing through the osiers, or a band of wild turkeys that,bewildered, ran headlong among us so that Tahoontowhee knocked over twowith his rifle butt, and, slinging them to his shoulders, went forwardburied in plumage like same monstrous feathered goblin of the forest.
The sun was now dropping into the West; the woods on our right haddarkened; on our left a pink light netted the river ripples. Filing inperfect silence, save for the light sound of a hatchet and theslithering of sappy bark, I had noticed, or thought I noticed, that theprogress of the Wyandotte was less quiet than ours, where he ranged ourleft flank, supposedly keeping within the forest shadow.
Once or twice I thought I heard a small stone fall to the willow gully,as though accidentally dislodged by his swiftly passing moccasins.Once, at any rate, I caught the glimmer of the sun striking some bit ofmetal on him, where he had incautiously ranged outside the protectingshadow belt.
That these things were purely accidental I felt sure, yet I did notcare to have them repeated. And for a long while there was neithersound nor sun-glitter from him. Then, without even a glance or a wordfor me, the Mohican quietly dropped back from the lead, waited untilthe last Oneida had passed, and moved swiftly on a diagonal course tothe left, which brought him in the tracks of the Wyandotte.
He continued on that course for a while, I taking his place in thelead, and the Wyandotte unconscious that he was followed. Then theSagamore came gliding into our file again, and as he passed me toresume his lead, he whispered:
"Halt, and return along the bank. The Black-Snake has overrun a fordwhere there are signs for my brother to read and consider."
I turned sharply and lifted my hand; and as the file halted I caught aglimpse of the Oneida, Tahoontowhee, on our right, and motioned him tocross, head the Wyandotte, and return with him. And when in a fewmoments he came toward us, followed by the Huron, I said, addressingthem all:
"There should be a ford hereabouts, if I am not badly mistaken, and Ithink we have accidentally overrun it. Did you see nothing that mightindicate it, Black-Snake, my brother?"
There was a furtive flicker of the Wyandotte's eyes which seemed toinclude everybody before him, then he said very coolly that he had seenno riffle that might indicate shallow water, but that there was a fordnot far below, and we ought to strike it before sunset.
"Halt here," said I, pretending to remain still unconvinced. "Sagamore,do you come with me a rod or so upstream."
"There is no ford within a rod or two," said the Wyandotte stolidly.
And, after we had left the others, the Mohican murmured, as we hastenedon:
"No, not with one rod or two, but the third rod marks it."
Presently, speeding under the outer fringe of trees, I caught sight ofa thin line across the water, slanting from shore to shore--not aripple, but as though the edge of an invisible reef slightly affectedthe smooth-flowing, glassy surface of the stream.
"He might have overlooked that," said I.
The Sagamore's visage became very smooth; and we climbed down among thewillows toward the sand below, and there the Mohican dropped on hishands and knees.
Directly under his eyes I saw the faint print of a moccasin. Startled,I said nothing; the Mohican studied the print for a few moments, then,crouching, crept forward among the sand-willows. I followed; and atlong intervals I could make out the string of moccasin tracks, stillvisible in the loose, dry sand.
"Could it be the St. Regis?" I whispered. "He may have been herespearing fish. These tracks are not new.... And the Wyandotte mighthave overlooked these, too."
"Maybe St. Regis," he said.
We had now crept nearly to the edge of the water, the dry and scarcelydiscernible tracks leading us. But they were no fresher in the dampsand. However, the Mohican did not seem satisfied, so we pulled off ourthigh-moccasins and waded out.
Although the water looked deep enough along the unseen reef, yet wefound nowhere more than four feet, and so crossed to the other side.But before I could set foot on the shelving sand the Mohican pulled meback into the water and pointed. There was no doubting the sign welooked upon. A canoe had landed here within an hour, had been pushedoff again with a paddle without anybody landing. It was as plain as thenose on your face.
Which way had it gone, upstream or down? If it had gone upstream, theWyandotte must have seen it and passed it without reporting it. Inother words, he was a traitor. But if the canoe had gone downstreamfrom this spot, or from some spot on the left bank a little above it,there was nothing to prove that the Wyandotte had seen it. In fact,there was every probability that he had not seen it at all. And I saidas much to the Sagamore.
"Maybe," he replied calmly.
We now cautiously recrossed the stream, scarcely liking our exposedposition, but there was no help for it. After we had dressed, I markedthe trees from the ford across the old path, which was visible here,and so through to our main, spotted trail; the Mohican peeled a squareof bark, I wiped the white spot dry, and wrote with my wood-coal thedepth of water at the crossing; then we moved swiftly forward to jointhe halted scouts.
Mayaro said to me: "We have discovered old moccasin tracks, but no fordand no canoe marks. It is not necessary for the Black-Snake to know."
"Very well," said I calmly. "Do you suspect him!"
"Maybe. Maybe not. But--he once wore his hair in a ridge."
"What!"
"I looked down on him while he ate fish at the St. Regis fire. He hasnot shaved his head since two weeks. There is a thin line dividing hishead, where the hairs at their roots are bent backward. Much oil andbrushing make hairs grow that way."
"But--what Indians wear their hair that way--like the curved ridge on adragoon's helmet?"
"The Eries."
I stared at him without comprehension, for I knew an Erie scalp when Isaw one.
"Not the warriors," he added quietly.
"What in heaven's name do you mean?" I demanded. But we were alreadywithin sight of the others, and I heeded the cautioning touch of hishand on my arm, and was silent.
When we came up to them I said:
"There are no riffles to indicate a ford"--which was true enough--"andon the sand were only moccasin tracks a week old."
"The Black-Snake saw them," said the Wyandotte, so frankly and calmlythat my growing but indefinite suspicions of his loyalty were arrestedfor the moment.
"Why did not the Black-Snake report them?" I asked.
"They were St. Regis, and a week old, as my brother says." And hesmiled at us all so confidingly that I could no longer believe ill ofhim.
"Nevertheless," said I, "we will range out on either flank as far asthe ford which should be less than a mile down stream." And I placedthe Wyandotte between both Oneidas and on the forest side; and as thevalley was dry and open under its huge standing timber, I myself led,notching the trail and keeping a lively eye to the left, wherever Icaught a glimpse of water sparkling.
Presently the Mohican halted in view of the river-bank, making a signfor me to join him, which I did, briefly bidding the Stockbridge Moleto notch the trees in my stead.
"A canoe has passed," said the Sagamore calmly.
"What! You saw it?"
"No, Loskiel. But there was spray on a boulder in a calm pool."
"Perhaps a deer crossed, or a mink or otter crawled across the stone."
"No; the drops were many, but they lay like the first drops of a rain,separate and distinct."
"A great fish leaping might have spattered it."
"
There was no wash against the rock from any fish-swirl."
"Then you believe that there is a canoe ahead of us going with thecurrent?"
"An hour ahead--less, I think."
"Why an hour?"
"The sun is low; the river boulders are not hot. Water might dry onthem in an hour or less. These drops were nearly dry, save one or twowhere the sun made them shine."
"A careless paddle-stroke did it," I said in a low voice.
"No Indian is careless."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, Loskiel, that the boulder was splashed purposely, or thatthere are white men in that canoe."
"Splashed purposely?" I said, bewildered.
"Perhaps. The Black-Snake had the river watch--until you changed ourstations."
"You think it might have been a sign for him from possibleconfederates."
"Maybe. Maybe clumsy white men."
"What white men? No forest runners dare range these woods at such atime as this. Do you mean a scalping party of Butler's men?"
"Maybe."
We had been walking swiftly while we spoke together in low and guardedtones; now I nodded my comprehension, sheered off to the right, tookthe trail-lead, replacing the Stockbridge Mole, and signalled thenearest Oneida, Grey-Feather, to join Mayaro on the left flank. Thismade it necessary for me to call the Wyandotte into touch, which I did;and the other Oneida, the "Night-Hawk," or Tahoontowhee, closed in fromthe extreme outer flank.
The presence of that canoe worried me, nor could I find any explanationfor it. None of our surveyors was out--no scouts had gone in thatdirection. Of course I knew that we were likely to run across scouts orscalping parties of the enemy almost anywhere between the outlet toOtsego Lake and Tioga Point, yet somehow had not expected to encounterthem until we had at least reached the Ouleout.
Another thing; if this phantom canoe was now within an hour of us, andgoing with the current, it must at one time have been very, very closeto us--in fact, just ahead and within sight of the Wyandotte, if,indeed, it had not come silently downstream from behind us and shotpast us in plain view of the Black-Snake.
Was the Wyandotte a traitor? For only he could have seen this. And Iown that I felt more comfortable having him on our right flank in theforest, and away from the river; and as I notched my trees I kept himin view, sideways, and pondered an the little that I knew of him, butcame to no conclusion. For of all things in the world I know less oftreachery and its wiles than of any other stratagem; and so utterly doI misunderstand it, and so profound is my horror of it, that I nevercan credit it to anybody until I see them hanged by the neck for it orshot in hollow square, a-sitting upon their coffins.
Presently I saw the Sagamore stop and make signs to me that the fordwas in sight. Immediately I signalled the Wyandotte and the fartherOneida to close in; and a few moments later we were gathered in theforest shadow above the river, lying on our bellies and gazing far downstream at the distant line of ripples running blood-red under thesunset light.
Was there an ambush there, prepared for us? God knew. Yet, we mustapproach and examine that ford, and pass it, too, and resume our marchon the right bank of the river to avoid the hemlock swamps and rockyhills ahead, which no wagons or artillery could hope to pass.
My first and naturally cautious thought was to creep nearer and thensend the Wyandotte out under cover of our clustered rifles. But if hewere truly in any collusion with an unseen enemy they would never fireon him, and so it would be useless to despatch him on such a mission.
"Wait for the moon," said the Sagamore very quietly.
His low, melodious voice startled me from my thoughts, and I lookedaround at him inquiringly.
"I will go," said the Wyandotte, smiling.
"One man will never draw fire from an ambush," said the Grey-Feathercunningly. "The wild drake swims first into the net; the flock follows."
"Why does my younger brother of the Oneida believe that we need fearany ambush at yonder ford?" asked the Wyandotte so frankly that again Ifelt that I could credit no ill of any man who spoke so fairly.
"Listen to the crows," returned the Oneida. "Their evening call tocouncil is long and deliberate--Kaah! Kaah! Kaah--h! What are theysaying now, Black-Snake, my elder brother?"
I glanced at the Mohican in startled silence, for we all were listeningvery intently to the distant crows.
"They have discovered an owl, perhaps," said the Wyandotte, smiling,"and are tormenting him."
"Or a Mountain Snake," said the Sagamore blandly.
Now, what the Sagamore said so innocently had two meanings. He mighthave meant that the cawing of the crows indicated that they wereobjecting to a rattlesnake sunning on some rock. Also he might havemeant to say that their short, querulous cawing betrayed the presenceof Seneca Indians in ambush.
"Or a Mountain Snake," repeated the Siwanois, with a perfectly blankface. "The red door of the West is still open."
"Or a bear," said the Grey-Feather, cunningly slurring the Caniengaword and swallowing the last syllable so that it might possibly havemeant "Mohawk."
The Wyandotte turned good-humouredly to the Mohican, not pretending tomisunderstand this subtle double entendre and play upon words.
"You, Sagamore of the Loups," he said, carrying out the metaphor, "arecloser to the four-footed people than are we Wyandottes."
"That is true," said the Grey-Feather. "My elder brother, theBlack-Snake, wears the two-legged hawk."
Which, again, if it was meant that way, hinted that the Hawk was analien clan, and neither recognized nor understood by the Oneida. Also,by addressing the Wyandotte as "elder" brother, the Oneida conveyed abroad hint of blood relationship between Huron and Seneca. Yet, thereneed have been nothing definitely offensive in that hint, because amongall the nations a certain amalgamation always took place after aninternational conflict.
The Wyandotte did not lose his temper, nor even, apparently, perceivehow slyly he was being baited by all except myself.
"What is the opinion of the Loup, O Sagamore?" he asked lightly.
"Does my brother the Black-Snake desire to know the Sagamore's opinionconcerning the cawing of yonder crows?"
The Wyandotte inclined his ugly head.
"I think," said the Mohican deliberately, "that there may be a tree-catin their vicinity."
A dead silence followed. The Wyandotte's countenance was still smiling,but I thought the smile had stiffened and become fixed, though not atremour moved him. Yet, what the Mohican had said--always with twomeanings, and one quite natural and innocent--meant, if taken in itssinister sense, that not only might there be Senecas lying in ambush atthe ford, but also emissaries from the Red Priest Amochol himself. Forthe forest lynx, or tree-cat, was the emblem of these people; and everyIndian present knew it.
Still, also, every man there had seen crows gather around and scold alynx lying flattened out on some arching limb.
Whether now there was any particular suspicion of this Wyandotte amongthe other Indians; whether it was merely their unquenchable and nativedistrust of any Huron whatever; whether the subtle chaff were playfulor partly serious, I could not determine from their manner orexpression. All spoke pleasantly and quietly, and with open orexpressionless countenances. And the Wyandotte still smiled, althoughwhat was going on under that urbane mask of his I had no notionwhatsoever.
I turned cautiously, and looked behind us. We were gathered in a kindof natural and moss-grown rocky pulpit, some thirty feet above thestream, and with an open view down its course to the distant riffles.Beyond them the river swung southward, walling our view with itsflanking palisade of living green.
"We camp here," I said quietly. "No fire, of course. Two sentinels--theNight Hawk and the Black-Snake. The guard will be relieved every twohours. Wake me at the first change of watch."
I laid my watch on a rock where all could see it, and, opening my sack,fished out a bit of dried beef and a handful of parched corn.
Mayaro shared with me on my moti
oned invitation; the others fell to intheir respective and characteristic manners, the Oneidas eating likegentlemen and talking together in their low and musical voices; theWyandotte gobbling and stuffing his cheeks like a chipmunk. TheStockbridge Mole, noiseless and mum as the occult and furry animalwhich gave to him his name, nibbled sparingly all alone by himself, andread in his Algonquin Testament between bites.
The last level sun rays stripped with crimson gold the outer edges ofthe woods; the stream ran purple and fire, and the ceaseless sighing ofits waters sounded soft as foliage stirring on high pines.
I said to the Mole in a low voice:
"Brother in Christ, do you find consolation and peace in your Testamentwhen the whole land lies writhing under the talons and bloody beak ofwar?"
The Stockbridge warrior looked up quietly:
"I read the promise of the Prince of Peace, brother, who came to theworld not bearing a sword."
"He came to fulfill, not to destroy," I said.
"So it is written, brother."
"And yet you and I, His followers, go forth armed to slay."
"To prepare a place for Him--His humble instruments--lest His hands besoiled with the justice of God's wrath. What is it that we wade inblood, so that He pass with feet unsoiled?"
"My brother has spoken."
The burning eyes of the calm fanatic were fastened on me, then theyserenely reverted to the printed page on his knees; and he continuedreading and nibbling at his parched and salted corn. If ever a convertbroke bread with the Lord, this red disciple now sat supping in Hispresence, under the immemorial eaves of His leafy temple.
The Grey-Feather, who had been listening, said quietly:
"We Iroquois alone, among all Indians, have always acknowledged oneSpirit. We call Him the Master of Life; you Christians call Him God.And does it truly avail anything with Tharon, O my brother Loskiel, ifI wear the Turtle, or if my brother the Mole paints out the Beaver onhis breast with a Christian cross?"
"So that your religion be good and you live up to it, sign and symbolavail nothing with God or with Tharon," said I.
"Men wear what they love best," said the Mole, lightly touching hiscross.
"But under cross and clan ensign," said I, "lies a man's secret heart.Does the Master of Life judge any man by the colour of his skin or thepaint he wears, or the clothing? Christ's friends were often beggars.Did Tharon ever ask of any man what moccasins he wore?"
The Sagamore said gravely:
"Uncas went naked to the Holder of the Heavens."
It was a wonderful speech for a Sagamore and an Algonquin, for he usedthe Iroquois term to designate the Holder of Heaven. The perfectcourtesy of a Christian gentleman could go no further. And I thought ofour trivial and petty and warring sects, and was silent and ashamed.
The Wyandotte wiped his powerful jaw with a handful of dead leaves, andlooked coldly around at the little circle of men who differed with oneanother so profoundly in their religious beliefs.
"Is this then the hour and the place to discuss such matters, andirritate the Unseen?"
All eyes were instantly turned on the pagan; the Oneidas seemedtroubled; the Sagamore serious. Only the Christian Indian remainedplacid and indifferent, his Testament suspended in his hand. But healso was listening.
As for me, I knew as well as did the others what the pagan and burlyWyandotte meant.
To every Indian--even to many who had been supposedly converted--air,earth, and water still remained thronged with demons. The vast andsunless wilderness was peopled with goblins and fairies. No naturalphenomenon occurred except by their agency. Where the sun went after ithad set, where the moon hid, the stars, the four great winds, the eightthunders--all remained mysteries to these red children of the forest.And to these mysteries demons held the keys. For no star fell,showering the night with incandescence, no comet blazed aloft, itsstreaming hair sweeping from zenith to horizon, no eclipse devoured sunor moon, no sunrise painted the Long House golden, no sunset stainedits lodge-poles crimson, no waters ran, no winds blew, no clouds piledup quivering with lightning, no thunder rumbled, except that it wasdone by demons.
Fur, feather, and silver-scale also had souls, and slyly took counciltogether when alone; the great trees talked to one another in forestdepths; moonlit rocks conversed in secret; and peak whispered to peakabove the flowing currents of the mist.
It was useless to dispute such matters with them, while everyphenomenon of nature remained to them a mystery. For they had brainsand a matchless imagination, and they were obliged to solve thesethings for themselves as best they knew how, each people according toits personal characteristics.
So, among the Onondagas, Oneidas, and Mohawks, evil demons were few,and good fairies many; among the Cayugas good and bad seemed fairlybalanced; but among the sullen, brutal, and bestial Senecas, devils,witches, demons, and goblins were in the vast majority. And theirperverted Erie priesthood, which had debauched some of their ownSachems, was a stench in the nostrils of any orthodox Sachem, and, toan ordained Sagamore, an offense and sacrilege unspeakable.
I sat looking hard at the Wyandotte, inclined to speak, yet unwillingto meddle where intervention must be useless.
His small, unwinking eyes met mine.
"There are demons," he said in a low voice.
"Demons in human form," I nodded. "Some were at Cherry Valley a yearago."
"There are witches," he said.
I shook my head: "None."
"And Giants of Stone, and Flying Heads, and the Dead Hunter, and theLake Serpent," he persisted sullenly.
"There never were either giants or witches," I replied.
The Mole looked up from his Testament in surprise, but said nothing.Yet, by his expression I knew he was thinking of the Witch of Endor,and the Dukes of Edom, and the giants of the scriptures. But it seemedhopeless to modify his religious teachings by any self-developedtheories of mine.
All I desired to do was to keep this pagan Huron from tampering with mywarriors' nerves. And it required but little of the supernatural toaccomplish this.
No Indian, however brave and faithful and wise in battle, howevercunning and tireless and unerring on forest trail or on unchartedwaters, could remain entirely undisturbed by any menace of invisibleevil. For they were an impulsive race, ever curbing their impulses andblindly seeking for reason. But what appealed to their emotions andtheir imagination still affected them most profoundly, and hampered theslow, gradual, but steady development of a noble race emerging by itsown efforts from absolute and utter ignorance.
I said quietly: "After all, the Master of Life stands sentry while theguiltless sleep!"
"Amen," said the Mole, lifting his calm eyes to the roof of leavesabove.
An owl began to hoot--one of those great, fierce cat-owls of the North.Every Indian listened.
The Sagamore said pleasantly to the Wyandotte:
"It is as though he were calling the lynxes together--as Amochol theAccursed summons his Cat-People to the sacrifice."
"I know nothing of Amochol and his sacrifices," said the Wyandottecarelessly.
"Yet you Wyandottes border the Western Gate."
The Huron shrugged.
"Hear the Eared One squall," said Grey-Feather, as the great owl yelledthrough the darkening forest.
"One would think to hear an Erie speaking," said the Sagamore, lookingsteadily at the Black-Snake. But the latter seemed totally unaware ofwhat amounted now to a persistent baiting.
"They say," continued the Sagamore, "that the Erie priesthood learnedfrom the Nez Perces a strange and barbarous fashion."
"What fashion?" asked Grey-Feather, so innocently that I could notdetermine whether he was playing into the Sagamore's hands.
"The fashion of wearing the hair in a short, stiff ridge," said theMohican. "Has the Black-Snake ever seen it worn that way?"
"Never," said the Huron. And there was neither in his voice nor on hisfeatures the slightest tremour that we could discover in the fadinglight of
the afterglow.
I rose to put an end to this, for my own nerves were now on edge; and Idirected the two sentinels to their posts, the Wyandotte and theOneida, Tahoontowhee.
Then I lay down beside the Mohican. All the Indians had unrolled andput on their hunting shirts; I spread my light blanket and pillowed myhead on my pack.
In range of my vision the Mole had dropped to his knees and was prayingwith clasped hands. Shamed, I arose and knelt also, to say in silencemy evening prayer, so often slurred over while I lay prone, or evenentirely neglected.
Then I returned to my blanket to lie awake and think of Lois, until atlast I dreamed of her. But the dream was terrible, and I awoke,sweating, and found the Sagamore seated upright in the darkness besideme.
"Is it time to change the guard?" I asked, still shivering from thehorror of my dream.
"You have scarce yet closed your eyes, Loskiel."
"Why are you seated upright wide awake, my brother?"
"There is evil in the wind."
"There is no wind stirring."
"A witch-wind came slyly while you slept. Did you not dream, Loskiel?"In spite of me I shivered again.
"That is foolishness," said I. "The Wyandotte's silly talk has made uswakeful. Our sentinels watch. Sleep, Mayaro."
"Have you need of sleep, Loskiel?"
"I? No. Sleep you, then, and I will sit awake if it reassures you."
The Sagamore set his mouth close to my ear:
"The Wyandotte is not posted where you placed him."
"What? How do you know?"
"I went out to see. He sits on a rock close to the water."
"Damn him," I muttered angrily. "I'll teach him----"
"No!"
The Mohican's iron grip held me in my place.
"The Night-Hawk understands. Let the Wyandotte remain unrebuked andundisturbed while I creep down to yonder ford."
"I do not intend to reconnoitre the ford until dawn," I whispered.
"Let me go, Loskiel."
"Alone?"
"Secretly and alone. The Siwanois is a magic clan. Their Sagamores seeand hear where others perceive nothing. Let me go, Loskiel."
"Then I go, also."
"No."
"What of our blood-brotherhood, then?"
There was a silence; then the Mohican rose, and taking my hand in hisdrew me noiselessly to my feet beside him.
By sense of touch alone we lifted our rifles from our blankets, blewthe powder from the pans, reprimed. Then, laying my left arm lightly onhis shoulder, I followed his silent figure over the moss and down amongthe huge and phantom trees faintly outlined against the starlit water.