A wagon-and-pack-train was slowly winding its way through the trackless
wilds of the valley of the Wabash. Like some monstrous serpent, it
dragged its sinuous body along the margin of the boundless prairie that
stretched away to the north and west, and wormed itself in and out among
the clumps of scrubby trees that marked the course of the stream. Ahead
of it rode a compact body of mounted men; and on both sides and behind,
marched a straggling mass of soldiers.
The wheels of the heavily laden vehicles half buried themselves in the
soft loam of the valley. “Squeak! Creak!” were the tortured cries of the
wooden axles. Whips cracked and drivers swore; horses neighed and oxen
bellowed. William Henry Harrison, governor of Indiana Territory, was on
his way to the Prophet’s Town, to make peace or war with its inhabitants.
It was the fifth of November, 1811; and the sunless day was drawing to
a close. The wind, biting and keen, swept across the prairie from the
northwest, bringing with it driving clouds of mist-like rain and stinging
snow-pellets. The officers and mounted men buttoned their coats closely
about them and, dropping their chins upon their breasts, rode forward
in silence. The weary soldiers laboriously trudged onward—and grumbled.
The veiled sun sank lower and lower in the west. The wind, increasing
in force, grew colder. Dark shadows stole out of the scrub and threw
themselves across the prairie. Night was settling down.
All through the summer and fall, the heterogeneous band of Indians at the
Prophet’s Town upon the Upper Wabash had increased in numbers. Bold and
savage warriors from various tribes—prompted by the words and example
of the eloquent and sagacious Tecumseh, and inspired by the fanatical
zeal of the cunning and bloodthirsty Prophet—had taken up the hatchet
and expressed a readiness to make war upon the Americans. Aided and
abetted by the British—who still manifested a rancorous hostility toward
the United States—they had made petty incursions into the defenseless
settlements, bent on pillage and murder.
For several years the wily leader of the warlike Shawnees, Tecumseh, had
been visiting the tribes of the north, west, and south, urging them to
form a confederacy that would be powerful enough to eject the Americans
from the Mississippi and Ohio valleys. He was a brave, resolute, and
ambitious man; and had faith in the feasibility and success of his
project.
Harrison, as governor of Indiana Territory, had become aware of
Tecumseh’s scheme and had realized the great danger that threatened the
growing but unprotected settlements, and had taken prompt measures.
Empowered by his commission, he had held a council with Tecumseh and a
number of his followers, at Vincennes, in 1810. But the haughty Shawnee
had retired from the governor’s presence, angry and defiant. Then
Harrison had apprised the government at Philadelphia of the state of
affairs and had asked for aid. The Fourth regiment of regulars, under
Colonel Boyd, had been sent to him. And with these troops and several
companies of Kentucky and Indiana militia—nine hundred men in all—he
had left Vincennes, on the twenty-eighth of September, and taken up his
march for the Prophet’s Town, resolved to make a lasting peace or strike
a telling blow, while Tecumseh was absent on a mission to the southern
tribes.
About seventy miles up the Wabash he had built Fort Harrison. Then, on
the twenty-ninth of October, he had left the place garrisoned, and had
resumed his journey toward the Prophet’s Town.
He was now moving along the northwestern bank of the Wabash, a short
distance from the village he sought.
The long line of vehicles and troops came to a sudden stop. Tired horses
lowered their heads to the cutting blast and shivered. Weary oxen leaned
heavily against the wagon-tongues. Footsore soldiers threw themselves
upon the damp ground and feelingly rubbed their aching limbs. Drivers
stamped their feet and slapped their palms together to restore the
circulation to their benumbed members. Far down toward the rear of the
line, a militiaman was singing:
“I left my home in ol’ Kaintuck,
An’ my wife an’ babes behind me;
An’ if the Injins gits my scalp,
My folks ’ll never find me.”
“An’ by the everlastin’ Kinnikinnick, I don’t b’lieve his fam’ly ’ld
grieve much ’bout him, if he’s in the habit o’ singin’ that tune ’round
home!” growled a tall angular ox-driver, resting his arm upon the yoke
and whipping the water from his fur-cap, with the butt of his gad. “Did
anybody on earth ever hear such a dang caterwaulin’? Whew, but I’m cold
an’ hungry!
“Drivin’ oxen ain’t to my likin’—not, by a dang sight! But here I am
doin’ menial servitude fer my country, when I never disgraced myself by
doin’ anything o’ the kind fer Joe Farley. ’Pears that I’ve become the
plaything o’ fate—it does, by Melindy! Come out here to fight Injins an’
help save the gover’ment; an’ they’ve set me to whackin’ bulls. By my
gran’mother’s goggles, I ain’t a-goin’ to stand it! I’ll desert an’ go
over to the redskins, bag an’ baggage! ’Tain’t fair—’tain’t. Jest ’cause
a driver gits sick an’ has to be left at Fort Harrison, they take an’ put
me in his place. I ort to be out scoutin’ with Ross Douglas an’ Bright
Wing. An’ I would ’ave been—dang it!—but my limber tongue got the best o’
me an’ let out that I’d druv oxen, w’en a boy.
“Well, ther’s one consolation, anyhow. We’re purty near to the end o’ our
journey; an’ then I’ll git to tote a rifle ag’in an’ feel like a man.
Whoa, there, you brindle-hided brute! What in the dangnation ’re you
tryin’ to _do_? Think you can crawl through that bow? Whoa, I say! Bless
my peepers, if I ever _did_ see such a c’ntrary critter, anyhow! _Whoa_,
now!”
And Farley applied the gad to the ribs of the lank ox, as though he were
energetically beating a bass drum.
At the head of the long column, a little knot of mounted officers were
holding a consultation in low tones. The central figure of the group was
a tall, spare man of middle age. He sat his horse—a wiry chestnut sorrel
of trim form and slender limbs—with the ease and grace of a practiced
and fearless horseman. His nose was large; his smooth-shaven features
were irregular. But his face was redeemed from plainness by a pair of
dark, penetrating eyes and a mouth indicative of courage and resolution.
Intelligence and benevolence beamed from his rugged countenance. He wore
the uniform of the United States army; and his arms consisted of a brace
of pistols and a sword.
Shaking the rain-drops from his military cocked hat, he replaced it atop
his dark wavy hair and remarked:
“I’m loath to camp here—especially as none of the scouts have returned
to inform us of the designs and movements of the enemy. We are nearing
the hostile village, I’m certain. It can’t be many miles away. Here we
have the open plain on three sides of us. We should be unprotected from
a surprise; and as you well know, Colonel Boyd, a surprise is what we
have to fear—a surprise in the early morning when the troops are soundly
sleeping. I would prefer a more sheltered place. And it gives me some
concern, that none of the scouts have yet returned. I can’t understand
it.”
“May I offer a suggestion, governor?” asked the man addressed as Colonel
Boyd, gracefully saluting his superior officer.
“Certainly.” And Governor Harrison bowed low over the pommel of his
saddle.
“Then, this is what I would suggest: That we form a semi-circular
barricade of our wagons, and encamp under their cover. Also, that we
double the usual number of our sentries. I like the site no better than
you do, but men and teams are exhausted—and we can go no farther. We must
make the best of it.”
“Very well,” Harrison answered decidedly. “I don’t like the plan. But
perhaps extra vigilance will save us from a night-attack; that is, if
the Indians be in the vicinity—which we do not know. Give the command,
colonel. The men are impatient.”
This order the governor addressed to Colonel Owen, one of his aides.
The officer whirled his horse and dashed away. At that moment two men,
followed by a large dog, emerged from the fringe of woodland, and with
rapid strides approached the group of officers.
“Whom have we here?” muttered Harrison, straining his eyes through the
semi-gloom. “Ah! scouts. Now we shall know something positive of the
savages.”
As the two shadowy figures drew near, the governor spurred forward
to meet them. The other officers followed his example; and soon the
two scouts were surrounded by a ring of jingling spurs and rattling
scabbards. One of the newcomers stopped suddenly and looked hurriedly
about him, as though seeking a chance to escape. The other advanced
boldly until he stood at the commander’s side. Then he lifted his hat and
announced with quiet dignity:
“Governor, I have the honor to inform you that my companion and myself
have performed our mission, and are ready to report.”
“Who are you?” inquired the commander, bending forward and peering into
the speaker’s face.
“Ross Douglas—a scout in your service.”
“Yes, to be sure,” Harrison answered. “I should have known you from your
manner. But the darkness bothered me. And your companion?”
“Bright Wing, the Wyandot.”
“I am ready to receive your report.”
“Here?”
“Yes—and at once.”
“We went up the valley as you directed. We continued our course until we
came in sight of the Prophet’s Town——”
“You are sure that you made no mistake—that you saw the Prophet’s Town?”
Harrison interrupted.
“We made no mistake,” Douglas replied a little stiffly.
Without heeding the young scout’s tone or manner, the governor continued:
“And how far are we from it?”
“About ten miles.”
“Did you encounter any savages?”
“A few—when we were within a short distance of the place.”
“You saw no large body of Indians—nothing like a war-party?”
“None.”
“How did those you saw deport themselves?”
“They fled.”
“In the direction of their village?”
“They did.”
“In what language did you address them?”
“We tried several different Indian tongues.”
“Judging from what you know of Indian character, and what you have seen
to-day, Douglas, do you think the savages desire peace or war?”
“War,” Ross answered promptly and emphatically.
“The reasons for your opinion, if you please,” the commander said
quietly.
“Had they desired peace,” was the quick reply, “a deputation of their
chiefs—headed by the Prophet himself—would have met you ere this. They
have been aware of your coming. They mean to give you battle.”
Several of the officers nodded their heads in acquiescence of the opinion
expressed, but the governor murmured in a low, musing tone:
“You may be right, Douglas; but I can hardly believe that you are.”
Then huskily, a shade of alarm in his voice:
“You don’t think they will attack us here—under cover of the darkness?”
“I do not.”
“Very well. I believe that’s all. Call at my tent early in the morning. I
want you and the Wyandot to act as interpreters, as we approach the town.
But why doesn’t he come forward—why does he stand off by himself?”
“He is an Indian,” Ross answered simply.
Smiling at the reply he had received, the governor turned and rode away
in the gathering darkness, accompanied by his staff.
“Bright Wing,” Douglas called.
“Ugh! Me here,” the Wyandot answered, gliding to his friend’s side.
“Where is Duke?” Ross asked, glancing around.
“Duke him gone hunt meat—him big heap hungry dog,” was the guttural reply.
“Well, I’m big heap hungry myself,” Douglas laughed as he shifted his
gun from one shoulder to the other. “Come; let’s find Joe and have some
supper.”
By this time the wagons had been arranged in a semicircle inclosing
several acres of prairie. Soldiers were busy erecting tents and lighting
camp-fires. Teamsters were watering their jaded beasts at the river and
feeding them in the inclosure. The two scouts threaded their way among
the mass of men and animals, until they reached the farther end of the
area.
There Farley had picketed his two yoke of oxen, and, assisted by a number
of militiamen, was unloading his vehicle. Their camp-fire blazed and
crackled cheerily; and about it a half-dozen soldiers were preparing to
cook their evening meal. As Douglas and Bright Wing drew near they heard
Joe saying whimsically:
“Go ’way, Duke, an’ behave y’rself. Have some manners, an’ wait till y’r
victuals is cooked. Drat it all, I never _did_ see such a hungry dog!
I’ve give him ’bout two pound o’ raw meat, an’ he’s lickin’ his chops fer
more. By cracky! If he gits much hungrier, he’ll eat me an’ the oxen.
Git out o’ the road, you rascal, ’r I’ll fall over you. Wher’ve you been
all day—an’ wher’s y’r master? No use to roll y’r eyes an’ whine—I ain’t
a-goin’ to feed you no more. I wish you could talk—I do, by Samanthy! It
makes me feel sort o’ creepy an’ uneasy—you a-comin’ in here, an’ no sign
o’ y’r master ’r the Injin.
“Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! Why _can’t_ a dog talk? They’ve got sense
an’ they’ve got souls, an’ they _ort_ to have the power o’ speech. Do git
out from under my feet, ’r you an’ me’ll have a fallin’ out d’rectly.
Hello! Here comes y’r pardners.”
“Good evening, Joe,” Douglas cried. “What’s the prospect for a hot
supper?”
“Fair to middlin’,” Farley answered, a comical expression overspreading
his ugly features. “One o’ the fellers is mixin’ up a corn pone, an’
we’ve got plenty o’ meat an’ coffee. But you come jest in the nick o’
time—you did, by ginger!”
“Why so?”
Seating himself by the fire, Ross smiled as he extended his hands toward
the red blaze.
“Well, you see, it’s this way, Ross Douglas,” Farley replied, winking
at the militiamen: “Y’r dog come in with such a pow’rful appetite that
he was likely to eat us out o’ house an’ home. I had to choke him off
’r ther’ wouldn’t ’ave been anything left fer us _human_ critters. An’
I’ve been watchin’ him keerful ever sence, fer fear he’d begin on me ’r
the oxen. You ort to give him somethin’ to improve his eatin’ capacity,
Ross—you re’ly ort. I’m ’feard he’s goin’ into a decline.”
Douglas rubbed his hands and joined in the laugh that went around. Bright
Wing sniffed the savory odors of the cooking food and grunted:
“Duke him much smart dog—him smell meat far off. Him find it soon—very
quick. Him walk far—work hard. Then him eat.”
Again the militiamen roared in glee. The prospect of a warm supper and
a night’s rest had put them in a good humor. The Wyandot’s stern visage
relaxed into a smile; but Joe cried in an injured tone:
“Well, if workin’ hard gives anybody a right to eat, I ort to eat ’bout a
ton to-night. A man that’s tramped twenty miles in the cold an’ wet—an’
whacked bulls every step o’ the way—ort to feed on the fat o’ the land.
Nothin’s too good fer him. He’s earned a right to go to glory—wher’ ther’
ain’t no fightin’ Injins n’r drivin’ oxen, if I’ve been rightly informed.
“But still things ain’t as bad as they might be. Mortals ortn’t to
complain, fer fear things might git worse. An’ nobody ever hears _me_
doin’ it. The only time in my whole life that I ever give way to a fit o’
complainin’, was when a dozen women was wantin’ to marry me at once—an’
I had to leave the settlement to git red of ’em. Gol-fer-socks! I never
_saw_ the like—I never _did_. They was jest _crazy_ over my beauty. But
ther’s no use in rakin’ up the past an’ makin’ you fellers feel sorry.
From the way that pone smells it’s gittin’ done. Le’s have supper. Whew!
But the steam o’ that coffee tickles a feller’s nose. Eat, drink, an’
be merry, I say; fer to-morrer the redskins may have our scalps an’ the
buzzards be pickin’ our bones.”
The hungry scouts and militiamen needed no second invitation. Seating
themselves about the camp-fire, they ate and drank with a relish born of
exercise in the open air. After they had finished, and filled and lighted
their pipes, they talked over the events of the day and speculated about
what the morrow would bring forth.
The wind fell and the rain ceased, but the broken and ragged clouds
continued to scud across the starlit heavens. The twinkling camp-fires
burned low. Drowsy officers sought the shelter of their tents. Privates
rolled themselves in their blankets and, with their feet to the fading
embers, fell asleep. Silence rested upon the camp—broken only by the
faint murmur of voices here and there, or the restless pawing of some
tethered steed. Beyond the barricade of wagons a double line of sentries
was on guard.
One by one Ross Douglas’s companions sought slumber. At last he alone
remained sitting by the dying fire, his hand caressing the head of the
bloodhound that lay stretched beside him. He was thinking of Amy—the girl
he had left behind him.
“Dear child!” he whispered to himself. “Perhaps I should not have left
her as I did. Her lot will not be pleasant, I fear. But I couldn’t help
it—I felt that duty called me. And already I have been able to render
some slight service to my country. When I return to her, I’ll devote my
life to her care and comfort——”
He broke off suddenly and flung up his head, that had been resting upon
his hand. The silence was disturbed by the voice of a man lustily
singing:
“I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,
In the cabin with the’r mother;
And if the Injins kills the’r pap,
They’ll never git another.”
The words were lamely strung together; and their meaning was somewhat
ambiguous. But Ross was in a sad mood; and the homely sentiment of the
improvised song touched him.
“Poor fellow!” the young scout muttered under his breath, as he arose
and sauntered in the direction whence the voice came. “His words may be
premonitory of the fate that awaits him.”
After walking a few rods, he came upon the singer seated with his toes in
the ashes of an expiring fire.
“Hello, friend!” Ross cried cheerily. “You seem to be suffering from an
attack of homesickness.”
“Y-e-s, I am a little homesick,” the fellow admitted reluctantly.
“You see, I left the little woman an’ the babies ’way down in ol’
Kaintuck. An’ sometimes I git to feelin’ that somehow I’ll never see ’em
ag’in.”—And a sob was in his big, coarse voice.—“I thought ev’rybody was
asleep an’ I’d jest sing a bit. Some people cries when they’re sad—_I_
sing. It always makes me feel better, too. Hope I didn’t wake you up with
my bellerin’.”
“Oh, no!” Douglas hastened to say. “I was awake. But probably both of us
had better try to sleep; it is late.”
“I s’pect we had,”—admitted the Kentuckian—and lapsed into silence.
Ross retraced his steps to his own fire and lay down. But restlessness
had possession of him. Again the voice of the singer fell upon his ears.
This time Bright Wing opened wide his black eyes and sat erect; and
Farley rolled over, grumbling sleepily:
“Dodrot the critter! Can’t he quit his caterwaulin’ day n’r night? He ort
to be off on a desert island by hisself.”
Joe’s voice ended in a long-drawn snore. Bright Wing nodded a few times
and rolled over upon the damp ground, his head wrapped in his blanket.
Douglas threw some dry wood upon the fire and continued his vigil. An
hour passed. Utter silence reigned around him. Presently the bloodhound
growled ominously and sprang to his feet. Ross laid a restraining hand
upon him and commanded him to lie down. But Duke refused to obey. Instead
he broke from his master’s grasp and disappeared in the darkness.
“What does it mean?” Ross muttered as he hastily arose and set off in
pursuit of the animal.
He caught a glimpse of the shadowy form of the bloodhound flitting past
one of the dying camp-fires—going in the direction of the river. Silently
but swiftly he followed. On reaching the bank of the stream, he stopped
in the black shadows of the trees and strained his eyes and ears, in
a vain effort to catch sight or sound of the dog. But all was silent
blackness. He was on the point of calling the animal, when a faint,
buzzing hum greeted his sense of hearing. The sound was a series of
whispered syllables. Dropping upon hands and knees, he crept toward the
river’s edge. Suddenly he dropped flat upon his face and lay motionless.
The sharp snap of a breaking twig, a few feet ahead of him, had warned
him that he was close upon the speakers. Then he distinctly heard these
words:
“Negro’s all right—fix him in the morning—no failure—be off.”
Immediately following this came the sound of rippling water. Some small
object was stealthily pushing away from the shore. Douglas hastily arose
and swiftly but silently retraced his steps to the edge of the timber.
There he met Bright Wing and Farley.
“What’s up—what’re you nosin’ ’round out here fer?” inquired the latter
in a strident whisper.
“Sh!” cautioned Ross, laying his hand upon Joe’s arm.
At that moment a man stepped from the edge of the wood and started across
the area, toward the barricade of wagons. He had taken but a few steps
in the open, when a black body rose in front of him; and Duke’s low,
threatening growl broke the oppressive stillness.
“Good fellow, good fellow!” the man said wheedlingly.
But Duke refused to be moved from his path or his purpose. The man
attempted to go around him, but the sagacious animal headed him off and
growled more threateningly.
“Curse the brute!” the man muttered fiercely. “I don’t dare to shoot
him—the report of a pistol would bring a dozen soldiers to the spot. What
am I to do?”
Douglas stepped forward, remarking placidly:
“I wouldn’t think of shooting the dog, if I were you. His owner might
raise objections. Perhaps I can help you out of your dilemma.”—Then to
the dog:—“Here, Duke! Come here and lie down.”
Reluctantly the bloodhound obeyed, still growling. Farley and Bright
Wing kept their distance. The man had recoiled a step. Now he recovered
himself and mumbled surlily:
“What’s you an’ y’r infernal cur out here stoppin’ honest people fer?”
“What were _you_ doing at the river shore?” Ross returned boldly.
The man’s hand flew to his belt. Dimly Douglas discerned the shadowy
movement. Bright Wing’s eagle eyes saw it, too; and the sharp click of
his flintlock broke the stillness. The man peered in the direction whence
the ominous sound came—and his hand dropped to his side, as he answered
in a husky voice:
“I was jest wanderin’ ’round the camp—I couldn’t sleep. I was goin’ back
to my place when y’r dog stopped me. You’d better keep the cross brute
tied up o’ nights, ’r somebody ’ll kill him. Git out o’ my way.”
And he made a move to leave the spot.
“Wait a moment,” Douglas requested. “When you spoke to the dog, your
language marked you as an educated gentleman. Explain.”
“I don’t have to give no explanations to you ’bout anything—you ain’t no
officer,” was the defiant reply.
And the fellow stalked away in the darkness.
Farley could restrain himself no longer. Hurrying to Douglas’s side, he
asked excitedly:
“What’s it all mean, Ross?”
“I don’t know,” was the truthful answer.
“Did you know the feller?”
“No—I couldn’t see his face.”
“He’s one o’ the soldiers, ain’t he?”
“I don’t know, Joe,” Ross replied rather impatiently. “Let’s go back to
our places.”
As the three friends moved across the inclosed space, toward the site
of their camp-fire, they were met by an officer of the guard, who cried
angrily:
“You men go back to your places and stay there. You know it is against
the regulations to stray about the camp at this time of night. The next
time you break the rules, I’ll report you.”
Farley was ready to fling back an angry retort, but Douglas headed him
off with:
“We meant no harm, lieutenant. And we thank you for your consideration.”
Much mollified, the officer resumed his rounds. In silence the three
friends reached their place of bivouac, and, rolling themselves in
their blankets, sought repose. But what Ross Douglas had seen and heard
rendered him still more wakeful. He racked his brain for a solution of
the mystery—but found none. Who was the man he had encountered—and what
had he been doing at the river-side?
“Treachery of some kind is afoot,” the young scout murmured to himself.
“Perhaps I should have caught the mysterious personage and delivered him
into the hands of the guard. But what could I have proven—what charge
could I have brought against him? And now I’ve not the faintest idea who
he was, whence he came, or what was his purpose. He tried to disguise his
voice; he altered his language. He sought to conceal his identity—and he
succeeded. There’s nothing to do but watch and wait. But black treachery
of some kind is among us.”
An hour passed. Ross Douglas’s lids were closed, and his breathing was
deep and regular.
[Illustration]