IN THE LION'S DEN.
The Panther was in the ugliest mood conceivable. Missionary Finley was
well aware of this before approaching and addressing him. Consequently,
when the chieftain called him a dog and declared he should die, the good
man was neither silenced nor overthrown, though it would be untrue to
say he was not alarmed for his own safety, but he had counted the cost
before making the venture.
"Wa-on-mon did not always look upon the missionary as a dog," he said,
with gentle dignity; "he once called him brother."
"It was because he spoke with a single tongue and was the friend of the
red man," The Panther made haste to say, with no abatement in the
ferocity of expression or manner.
"The missionary always speaks with a single tongue, and he will be the
friend of the red man as long as he lives."
If possible, the wrath of voice and action became more venomous on the
part of The Panther. He unfolded his arms, so as to give facility of
gesture, and with one step forward placed himself so near the white man
that the two could have embraced each other with little change of
position. Then he bent his hideous countenance until the gleaming eyes,
the dangling hair, the white teeth and the painted features were almost
against the mild, beneficent face, which did not shrink or show the
slightest change of looks.
One of the warriors then threw additional wood on the fire, and the
blaze of light lit up the scene as if at noon-day. The Shawanoes
instinctively drew back, so as to leave the principal figures not only
in prominent view, but apart from the others. No one presumed to take
any part in the disputation, but in the stillness and general hush the
words of both were audible to every warrior present.
Little Mabel Ashbridge was perplexed and uncertain what she ought to say
or do, if indeed, she could say or do anything. She did not recognize
the white man who suddenly appeared and addressed the dreadful Indian in
a tongue she could not understand, for it will be remembered that,
although the missionary had joined the company of fugitives some time
before, she saw his countenance for the first time when it reflected the
glow of the firelight.
Had Finley given her one encouraging word, or even look, she would have
rushed to his arms and begged him to take her to her parents and
brother. This would have been a dangerous diversion, and, dreading it,
the missionary carefully acted as though he had no knowledge of her
presence, but she was in his field of vision, and while talking with the
savage chieftain he knew the child, mute and wondering, was seated on
the log and intently watching both.
As The Panther stepped forward in the manner described, and thrust his
baleful countenance into that of the white man, he said, with atrocious
fierceness:
"The missionary lies; he has the forked tongue of the serpent, and like
all the pale-faces, he is the enemy of the red man."
"But Wa-on-mon once said he was the friend of the missionary; why does
he say now that he is an enemy?"
"Did he not fight against the Shawanoes this night? Did he not help the
pale face dogs to flee across the river in the boat?"
These questions were expected by Finley, and his tact, delicacy and
skill were tested to the utmost in meeting them. Following the practice
of The Panther, he continued referring to himself in the third person.
"The missionary gives his days and nights to help those that are in need
of help, and he does not ask whether their color is white or black or
red. He was on his way to visit the red men that Wa-on-mon once said
were the brothers of the missionary, when he came upon some of his own
people who were in sore distress. He did what he could to help them, and
then left to speak to Wa-on-mon."
"And why does he wish to speak to Wa-on-mon?"
It was a subtle question. The cunning Indian suspected the errand of the
good man, but its avowal at this juncture would have been fatal; it must
be parried.
"When the missionary last entered the lodge of Wa-on-mon, he did not ask
him why he wished to speak to him, but gave him welcome. Wa-on-mon now
speaks in another way."
"Because the missionary does not seek Wa-on-mon for himself, but for
another; the missionary's heart is not red, but is white."
"It is red and white, for it loves the white man and the red man. The
heart of Wa-on-mon is red, and he therefore loves his people. Should not
the missionary feel thus toward those whom the Great Spirit is pleased
to make white?"
"The Indian is the child of the Great Spirit; the pale-face is the child
of the evil spirit; these are the hunting grounds of the red man, and
the pale-face has no right here."
It was the same old plea which Finley had heard from the first day he
held converse with a member of the American race, and which he knew
would be dinned into his ears to the very end, but he never listened to
it with impatience.
"The hunting grounds are broad and long, the streams are deep and full
of fish, the woods abound with game, there is room for the red men and
pale-faces to live beside each other."
"But they can never live beside each other!" exclaimed The Panther, with
a deadlier flash of the eye; "the pale-faces are dogs; they steal the
hunting grounds from the Indians; they rob and cheat them; they shoot
our warriors and then call us brothers!"
No words can picture the scorn which the chieftain threw into these
expressions. He flung his head back with an upward graceful swing of the
arms, which added immense force to his declaration. It was an
unconscious but a fine dramatic effect.
The chief difficulty in a "pow-wow" of this nature was that the balance
of argument was invariably on the side of the Indian. The white men had
invaded the hunting grounds of the aborigines. The French and Indian war
was a prodigious struggle between the two rival nations of Europe as to
which should own those hunting grounds; neither thought or cared for the
rights of the red man; they had never done so.
The history of the settlement of this country, as has been said, is
simply a history of violence, wrong, fraud, rapine, injustice,
persecution, and crime on the part of the Caucasian against the
American, relieved now and then, at remote periods, by such wise and
beneficent acts as the Quaker treaty under the old tree at Shackamaxon,
and stained with the hue of hell by such crimes as the massacre of the
Moravian Indians, the capture of the Seminole chieftain Osceola under a
flag of truce, the slaughter in later days of Colonel Chivington, and
innumerable other instances of barbarity never surpassed by the most
ferocious savages of the dark continent.
"Many of the pale-faces are evil," said the missionary. "The words of
Wa-on-mon are true of a great number, I am sorry to say, but they are
not true of all."
"They are true of all. They are true of the missionary."
The firelight showed a deeper flush that sprang to the face of the good
man, who was not, and never could be, fully freed of much of the old
Adam that lingered in his nature. His impulse was strong to smite the
chieftain to the earth for his deadly insult, but Finley always held
such promptings well in hand, and the duskier hue on each health-tinted
cheek was the only evidence that his feelings had been stirred. His
voice was as low and softly modulated as a woman's. He folded both arms
over the muzzle of his rifle, whose stock rested on the leaves at his
feet, and remained calmly confronting the savage chieftain, who more
than once seemed ready to snatch out his knife and drive it into the
heart of the man of God.
"The eyes of Wa-on-mon are not in the sunlight; the smoke is in them;
when the sun drives away the smoke he will see the missionary as he saw
him when they hunted the deer and buffalo and bear together, and when
they helped the Wyandot, Kush-la-ka, to his wigwam."
This allusion was to an incident only a few months old. Kush-la-ka was
almost mortally wounded in a death struggle with an immense bear, and
would have perished had not The Panther and Finley looked after him and
helped him to his own home.
The good man hoped the recall of the occurrence would stir a responsive
chord in the heart of the chieftain, and open the way for uttering the
prayer which he had not yet dared to hint; but the failure was absolute;
the mood of The Panther was too sullen, too revengeful, too deeply
stirred by the memory of recent wrongs for it to be amenable (as it
occasionally had been) to gentle influences. He persisted in regarding
the missionary as a presumptuous and execrated enemy.
"Wa-on-mon is on the war-path," he fairly hissed; "he is the enemy of
all the pale faces."
"Wa-on-mon is a great chieftain; the heart of the missionary is grieved.
Wa-on-mon speaks as he feels, and the missionary will dispute him no
more."
This abrupt collapse, as it may be termed, of the visitor was unexpected
by the Shawanoe. It was a masterful stroke, and produced an immediate
effect, though so slight in its nature that a man less observant than
Finley would have failed to perceive it.
"Why does the missionary come to the camp of Wa-on-mon when more than
one of the Shawanoes have fallen by the rifles of the pale-faces?"
"And the rifles of the Shawanoes have done grievous harm among the
pale-faces?"
"The heart of Wa-on-mon rejoices to learn that!" exclaimed the
chieftain; "how many of them have fallen?"
"There is mourning among my people; one of them fell dead at my side,
and others are grievously hurt."
"There shall be more mourning, for not one of them shall be spared to
reach the block-house! They shall all be cut off."
"The will of the Great Spirit shall be done."
"And why does the missionary come to the camp of Wa-on-mon? He has been
asked the question before."
"And has answered," Finley was quick to say, hesitating to avow the
whole truth, even though it was evident it was known from the first to
the chieftain.
"Cannot the missionary speak with a single tongue? Does he come to seek
Wa-on-mon alone?"
"No," was the prompt response.
"Who comes he to see?"
"The little captive in the hands of Wa-on-mon."
"She is there," said the chief, pointing to the fallen tree upon which
little Mabel sat; "he can see her; he may speak to her."
"The missionary thanks Wa-on-mon--may he call him his brother?"
"No," was the sharp response, "the missionary and Wa-on-mon were once
brothers, but they are so no longer."
"The missionary thanks Wa-on-mon, but he is not, as yet, ready to talk
to the suffering little one."
"Little time remains to do so; she dies at sunrise."
"That is several hours distant; in the meanwhile, the missionary would
speak to Wa-on-mon of the child."
"What does he wish to say?"
"He has a prayer to make."
"What is the prayer?" asked the chief, well aware what it was.
"Wa-on-mon has two little ones, a warrior and a sweet girl. The
missionary has played and talked with them and held them on his knee;
does Wa-on-mon believe that the missionary would not risk his life to
save them from harm?"
Finley paused, but there was no response. The way had been opened at
last, and it was too late now to turn back. He must press forward to the
final solution, no matter what that should prove to be, but all the
signs were ominous of the worst.
The question was anything but pleasing to the chieftain. He was silent a
minute, and replied by means of a pointed question himself:
"Is the child on the tree the child of the missionary?"
"No, but she is the daughter of a friend; she is not a warrior who fires
a gun at the Shawanoes of Wa-on-mon; she has harmed none of them."
"But her parents did; to harm her will hurt them more than will a bullet
fired from the gun of the chieftain; therefore, Wa-on-mon will kill
her."
"Let Wa-on-mon listen to the good spirit that whispers in his ears; let
him show the same kindness to the prisoner that the missionary will show
to the pappoose of the great chieftain; that the father of the captive
would show to the children of Wa-on-mon if the Great Spirit gave them to
him."
"The missionary speaks with a double tongue; he lies; he is a dog, and
he must say such words no more!" broke in The Panther, with a voice, a
manner, and a glare that showed his patience was exhausted. "The
missionary deserves the death of a dog, but he may go back to his
people; he cannot take the child with him; she shall die when the sun
rises."
"If the missionary cannot take the child of his friend with him then he
will not go back to him."
"If he stays till the sun shows itself above the woods then he shall
die."
Finley saw it would not do to hesitate longer. The moment had come for
him to fall back on the last and only recourse left, and much as he
regretted the act (for it was at variance with his principles), he now
made it promptly and with a skill, a cunning and a delicacy that could
not be excelled.