TIT FOR TAT
YES, it was Blue Jacket, but apparently a wreck of the young Indian
whom Sandy had last seen under the friendly roof of the new Armstrong
cabin.
He was blackened with smoke, his buckskin garments showing holes that
the forest fire had burned; the proud feather that had once adorned his
scalp-lock hung low over his ear, and broken; he seemed hardly able to
drag himself past the wondering squaws, and reach the centre of the
triple ring of warriors.
But it was Blue Jacket, alive and in the flesh, for all that.
"Glory! he has come home just in time to save me!" Sandy kept saying to
himself, as he stared. "And that terrible old medicine man was going to
seal my fate! Glory! could there be any greater luck? And didn't dear
old Bob say the bread we cast upon the waters might return ere many
days? Yes, it has come back, principal and interest!"
Every eye was fastened upon the figure of the young brave. Not one
present at the council fire but knew he had a story to tell that would
thrill their souls. Even the squaws, seldom allowed to listen to the
serious councils around the sacred fire, bent forward, the better not
to lose a single word.
Blue Jacket began to speak. At first his manner was sedate. He was
telling of how he had fought in that night battle, of the wound that
had left him on the field and how he crept away, hoping to return to
his lodge among his people.
Then Sandy, who could fairly interpret from his manner, knew that he
spoke of finding himself alone, weakened from loss of blood, and unable
to even call for assistance.
Expecting to become the prey of wild beasts during the night, he had,
with the stoicism of the red man, awaited the end calmly. Then came the
paleface boys. His bronzed face lighted up as he told how they tenderly
carried him to the brow of the hill overlooking the river, and cared
for his wounds.
Now he became dramatic in his recital, and held his hearers spellbound.
Surely he was speaking of that white mother now, telling how she
advised that he be cared for and made well. It was such a revelation,
so entirely different from all that the savage Indian nature
understood, that the old men wagged their heads from time to time, and
looked at one another helplessly.
Blue Jacket went on. Now he was telling of one paleface warrior who
had sought his life, and how those boys stood between. Sandy guessed
this. He was hanging on the excited words of the young Shawanee just as
though he could fully grasp the full sense of the harangue.
Suddenly Blue Jacket ceased. Striding forward as well as his lame leg
would permit, he threw a protecting arm across the shoulders of Sandy,
as he faced once more the throng of red men.
"My brother!"
That was all he said, but his manner told the story. He stood ready
to sacrifice his life, if need be, to save this paleface lad from the
stake. Simple, yet eloquent beyond description, was his attitude as he
thus stood there.
Would his will prevail? Had his rough eloquence reached the hearts of
those sons of the wilderness?
In years to come the name of Blue Jacket was fated to pass into the
pages of history as a famous Indian orator, who could sway the minds
of his people as few others were able. And in this fierce harangue,
delivered in his youth, he made a reputation as a leader which was to
follow him in all after years.
The old men exchanged looks. They nodded their heads gravely.
"I surely believe he has turned the scale!" breathed the anxious Sandy,
noting these significant signs.
The shrewd old medicine man could not always foretell the weather; but
he was able to discern a sudden change in the wind of popular approval.
Before this dramatic coming of the young and wounded brave he knew the
consensus of opinion ran strongly toward putting the prisoner to the
stake. It was different now!
And so the wily old fellow once more started his incantations and
whirlings, just as though he were taking them up at the point where he
had been interrupted; but with a decided difference that even Sandy
could notice.
His manner now was not fierce and ugly; he no longer made swift
downward strokes with his extended arms, but extended them upward in a
beseeching manner, as though imploring Manitou to have mercy.
Then, after a supreme exhibition of his powers, with a great rattling
of wampum belt, and jangling metal discs that were strung about his
person, he moved over to where Sandy stood, with the dusky protecting
arm of Blue Jacket still flung about his shoulders.
Holding his hands above the white prisoner, the medicine man uttered
a string of words, amid much bobbings of the head. Although he could
interpret not a single expression, Sandy knew full well that in this
way the wizard was declaring he had been taken under the especial
charge of the Great Spirit, and that henceforth no Shawanee hand should
be raised against a member of the Armstrong family.
The French trader had listened to all this with a sneer on his lips,
while his face grew dark as though it pleased him not a bit.
Sandy had little discretion, as we have seen more than once. With his
usual impetuosity he could not restrain himself from flashing a look of
triumph toward Jacques Larue. The trader saw it, and gritted his teeth.
After that, he would doubtless feel more than ever a vicious spite
against anything that bore the brand of an Armstrong.
"Come!" said Blue Jacket, leading Sandy away.
"With the greatest of pleasure," replied that worthy, feeling as though
a tremendous weight had been taken from his shoulders, as indeed was
the case.
The young Shawanee led his white brother to his lodge, where an old
squaw, his mother undoubtedly, proudly awaited them. Nothing was too
good for the paleface who had saved the life of her boy. But first of
all, Sandy insisted upon the wounds of the young warrior being dressed.
"You must have been caught in the fire, too, Blue Jacket!" he declared,
as he noted the condition of the warrior's scanty garments, which at
least had been whole at the time he was in the new settlement.
"Much time, Sandy. Near gone when reach creek and dive in!" replied the
other, simply.
And that was all he could be persuaded to say about his adventure,
yet Sandy felt positive that the young brave must have gone through a
thrilling experience, with the fire surrounding him, and wounded in the
bargain. He could picture what Blue Jacket declined to relate.
"They have spared my life, Blue Jacket," observed the white boy, after
a time, when he had assisted the squaw to bind up the reopened wound
of the brave once more; "but do they mean to keep me here a prisoner?
Am I to never see my people again--dear old Bob, Kate, father, and my
mother?"
The budding warrior looked at him, and actually a faint smile came upon
his face. Sandy could not remember having ever seen him show so much
feeling before.
"You wait, Sandy," he said in a low voice; "leave that to Blue Jacket.
Give word Bob you be free. Me no fail! Never forget him mother, not
much!"
But Sandy had caught one word that riveted his attention.
"When did you promise Bob to save me? Where did you see him, Blue
Jacket?" he demanded, eagerly.
"Me leave since sunset. Bob fix best can," and saying this the young
Indian pointed down at his injured limb.
"Do you mean that you have been with my brother since the fire?" cried
Sandy, his face lighting up with a great joy, for that would tell him
Bob could not have been injured in the forest conflagration, as he had
greatly feared.
Blue Jacket nodded gravely in the affirmative. English words did not
come readily to his lips, and, when he could make a gesture take their
place, he seldom failed to do so.
"Bob find in creek. Him help 'long. Leg bad; much limp. Blue Jacket
make like papoose. Get here just in time. Not much good. Ugh!" he
grunted.
"Then Bob came along with you?" persisted Sandy, determined to drag the
whole truth out by degrees.
"Come 'long, yes. No think safe enter village. Hide in woods. Wait till
fox him bark three times. Bob know. Bob safe!"
"Hurrah! that's good news you're telling me, Blue Jacket!" exclaimed
Sandy, exultantly. "So Bob is safe, and near at hand right now! Why,
he never even went back to the settlement to tell the story, and get
assistance. Surely he is a brother to be proud of. Tell me, Blue
Jacket, did he send any message by you? Have you got any of the white
man's writing to give me?"
Whereupon the other gravely drew something from the bosom of his torn
hunting shirt, and extended it to Sandy.
"Me forget. Bob say all right. No can understand spider crawl on bark.
Sandy know. Bob tell," he said quaintly.
There were not many words, and these had been scratched by some
sharp-pointed flint, so that it was only with an effort that the boy
could make them out by the light of the fire in front of the lodge.
"SANDY:--Keep up a brave heart. We are going to get you out
of there to-night. Trust Blue Jacket. He is true as steel.
Bring gun.
"BOB."
Sandy smiled as he saw that reference to the old musket; and yet, after
all, it was not so strange that cautious, wise Bob should remember how
much of their anticipated pleasure in hunting during the months that
were ahead would be taken away if Sandy were without a weapon.
He read the message aloud to his friend. Blue Jacket evidently saw
nothing singular about that mention of a gun. He knew what it meant to
be without the means of obtaining food in that great wilderness. What
bow and arrows, a tomahawk, or a crude knife, meant to an Indian, a gun
stood for in the eyes of a white man. And so Blue Jacket only nodded
his head gravely as he listened, saying finally:
"Get gun all right. No fear. Much skins here. Swap with brave for gun.
Go now."
He evidently believed in striking while the iron was hot, for, stooping
down, he gathered in his arms several valuable skins, among them some
beautiful otter pelts, and started out.
The squaw never raised a finger to interfere, yet she knew that Blue
Jacket was very weak and sore from his tremendous exertions in trying
to escape from the pursuing fire. And she was his mother, too. But then
Sandy realized that Indian mothers differed in many respects from those
of white boys. Blue Jacket, was he not a warrior now, and as such fully
competent to decide for himself? The old squaw no doubt would have held
her tongue had he declared it to be his intention to start back to the
white settlement with Sandy, even though she knew it must be the means
of bringing about his death.
Sure enough, Blue Jacket must have gauged well the temper of the
brave who had obtained the old flintlock musket, and knew just how
to wheedle him out of his recent prize, for, when the young Indian
returned, he placed in Sandy's eager hands not only the gun, but all
other things taken from the prisoner at the time he fell into the
hands of the four Shawanee warriors--his powder horn, carved with
considerable rude skill by Bob, the bullet pouch decorated with colored
porcupine quills, his hatchet, knife, and even the little bag, in which
Sandy was accustomed to keeping his flint and steel, some dry tinder
for starting fires, and a few trifling odds and ends.
"Why, my brother!" cried the delighted white boy, "you are a bigger
medicine man than the old fellow who danced, and shook those hollow
gourds with the dried beans inside. Here are all my belongings, with
not one thing missing. Oh! I tell you, it was a fine day I discovered
you there in the grass, Blue Jacket. For you have returned what little
we did a dozen fold!"
But evidently the young Indian had his own ideas about that, for he
shook his head, and made a grimace. He would never forget how those
boys had stood between when the irate settler, Anthony Brady, demanded
his blood!
"No can repay. Armstrong name never can forget. You see. To-night we go
away. Bob wait to show way home. Blue Jacket him not able go far. Much
sorry!" he said, as he limped about the lodge to try his poor limb.
But Sandy gripped the Shawanee's hand, while his boyish face fairly
beamed with the affection he felt toward the gallant young savage.