“When did you discover his absence, Joe?” was Douglas’s first question.
“Jest this minute,” Farley replied promptly. “That dang Kaintuckian waked
me up with his caterwaulin’—an’ I found the Injin gone. Then I called
you. Listen to that critter squallin’—an’ he calls it singin’!”
“What can have become of the Wyandot?” Ross asked, unheeding Joe’s
complaining tone—as he arose and peered into the shadows.
“Don’t know,” Joe answered, with an expressive shake of the head. “But I
know what _will_ become o’ him, if he goes nosin’ ’round the camp.”
“What?”
“Some o’ the sentries ’ll take him fer a prowlin’ redskin from the town
over yander, an’ put an ounce o’ lead into him—that’s what.”
“That’s ’bout so,” growled one of the militiamen from under his blanket.
“You are right,” Ross admitted. “I’ll make a circuit of the camp and try
to find him.”
“An’ while you’re gone, kill that Kaintuckian ’r have the officer o’ the
guard buck an’ gag him,” Farley snarled as he again threw himself upon
the ground.
Douglas failed to find his red comrade and returned to his place by the
fire.
“See anything o’ the Injin?” Joe sleepily inquired.
“No,” was the monosyllabic reply.
“Well turn in an’ go to sleep. He’s able to take keer of hisself. Injins
is Injins—the best you can make of ’em. They’re jest like other wild
varmints—always prowlin’ ’round o’ nights. He’ll turn up in the mornin’.
Go to sleep.”
Douglas was worn out with the day’s toil and excitement; so, rolling
himself in his blanket, he lay down. While he slumbers, let us follow
Bright Wing.
The Wyandot had left the others sleeping, and had stolen to the outskirts
of the camp. While Ross was searching for him, he was in hiding behind
one of the wagons, awaiting a chance to slip through the line of
sentries. At last his patience was rewarded; and with consummate skill
and cunning, he wormed through the tall grass and bushes growing along
the slope upon which the camp was situated. When he found himself safely
beyond the lines, he nimbly arose to his feet and sped across the strip
of wet prairie lying between the camp and the town of the Prophet.
On nearing the latter place, he halted and carefully reconnoitered.
Apparently convinced the way was clear, he boldly ascended the grade
leading to the village, and found himself under the walls of the
fortified town.
The Prophet’s Town was a sacred place—the Mecca of his fanatical
followers. Here he muttered incantations and performed miracles; here he
blessed the faithful and condemned to perdition all unbelievers. Many
pilgrims came and went each day. And on this night the place was full of
fierce warriors—mad with fanaticism and thirsting for blood.
The town itself consisted of a large number of flimsily constructed
log-cabins and lodges of poles and skins. These rude habitations were
scattered irregularly over several acres of ground. The council lodge—or
cabin—was centrally located. Surrounding the whole was a palisade
of poles and logs. Two or three narrow openings in the wall served
as gateways. To-night they were closely guarded; for the enemy lay
without—and within important business was engaging the attention of
chiefs and braves.
Bright Wing crouched in the shadow of the palisade and listened intently.
The din of many voices came to his ears. Above the sullen, monotonous
roar, occasionally arose the exultant whoop of some excited brave.
Through a crack between two of the upright timbers, the Wyandot caught
a glimpse of flaring torches and flaming bonfires. For a brief moment
he glued his eyes to the opening. Then he arose and ran along the outer
side of the wall, until he came to a point where a log-cabin occupied an
angle—filling the space between two wings of the palisade. Near it was a
guarded gateway. Like a squirrel the Indian clambered up the projecting
ends of the logs of the hut—and boldly dropped to the ground within the
inclosure.
“Ugh!” was the startled grunt of one of the guards at the gateway.
“What is it?” inquired his companion in the Shawnee tongue.
“A noise at the cabin,” was the answer.
“It was the wind rattling the bark upon the roof.”
“It may have been a paleface.”
“No!”—Contemptuously.—“The palefaces are cowards. They fear the wonderful
power of Tenskwatawa—The Open Door.”
The two guards lapsed into silence. Bright Wing cautiously arose to his
feet and, dodging from cabin to cabin, made his way toward the center of
the village. At last he reached a spot where he could look out upon the
square in which stood the council lodge—the Prophet’s temple.
The space was ablaze with fires and torches. A dense mass of savages,
talking, whooping, and gesticulating, surged around the entrance to the
lodge. Many different tribes were represented. The young Wyandot saw
several members of his own tribe among the half-nude fanatics. Thinking,
therefore, that his presence would not arouse suspicion, he resolved to
mingle with the excited braves and learn what plans were afoot.
Slowly he edged forward until he reached the outskirts of the crowd.
Apparently no one took notice of him—all eyes were fixed upon the door
of the council lodge. He elbowed his way into the surging mass and stood
still—his finger upon the trigger of his rifle.
The braves were in war-paint and feathers. All were fully armed. Shoulder
to shoulder, stood Winnebago and Wyandot; cheek by jowl, were Shawnees
and Pottawatomies.
Suddenly a mighty shout went up from the savage horde. It was prolonged
for several minutes. A thousand bronzed warriors bellowed themselves
hoarse. They danced, and swayed, and gyrated. Squaws and children added
their piercing treble to the thunderous bass of the men. “Tenskwatawa!”
was the cry. Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the tumult subsided.
Naught but the heavy breathing of the multitude could be heard.
Bright Wing riveted his gaze upon the front of the council lodge.
A procession was issuing from the doorway. First came a number of
torchbearers, walking two abreast. They stepped apart on reaching
the open air, to form an avenue through which passed a dozen forms
fantastically clad and painted, making a hideous din by beating shallow
drums and rattling strings of dried deer-hoofs. These were followed by
a group of dignified chiefs in full war-dress. Last of all appeared a
solitary figure, awful in its grotesqueness—the horrible vision of a
nightmare.
“Tenskwatawa!” was the whisper that arose. It began in the front rank of
the crowd and ran toward the rear, until every pair of lips in the sea
of faces was moving. “Tenskwatawa! The Open Door!” Then a deathlike hush
fell upon them.
The grotesque figure was that of the Prophet. He ascended a small
platform to the right of the door of the council lodge, and stood looking
out over the heads of torchbearers, musicians, and chiefs. The glare of
blazing torches fell upon him. A buffalo-robe enveloped his body. The
horns surmounted his head and gave him a demoniac aspect. The tail of the
animal, whose skin he had assumed, trailed upon the ground behind him.
His hideous, repellent face—in which shrewdness, avarice, and cruelty
were reflected—was striped and smeared with black and yellow paints. From
nose and ears depended large silver crescents; and around his neck was a
string of bears’-claws. His one eye twinkled balefully.
For a full minute he stood with folded arms. Then he slowly raised his
right hand toward the black heavens. As he did so, a ring upon his index
finger caught the rays of the red and smoking torches and emitted a
fitful stream of sparkles.
“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” wailed and sobbed the
throng of savages.
Many of them prostrated themselves to the earth, some in
convulsions—frothing at the mouth and gibbering incoherently; others in
a state of cataleptic rigidity—their eyes wide open and staring, their
limbs immovably fixed.
The Prophet’s lips moved; but no words came forth. He was praying.
At last he dropped his arm to a horizontal position, and, slowly and
impressively moving his hand from side to side, began in low-pitched,
resonant tones:
“Arise, children. I come to you with a message from the Great Spirit.”
The groveling braves got upon their feet, and, leaning forward, listened
eagerly to every word that fell from his lips.
He continued:
“The forests and streams belong to the redmen. The Great Spirit gave
them to his wild children. The palefaces have stolen our lands. The
Great Spirit is displeased with his children that they have tamely
submitted. All this you have heard before. The time has come for action.
You must strike a blow to recover your own. The palefaces are without
the gates. They come to take from us the little we have left. This is
holy ground—the feet of our enemies shall not defile it. They come at a
time when your great leader—the noble Tecumseh—is absent. They think to
force you to submit to their propositions. They demand a council. We have
promised to meet them. But we shall meet them to-night—not to-morrow. We
shall take with us the _tomahawk_—not the _peace-pipe_. Our guns shall
speak for us. My children, the Great Spirit sends you this message.”
Tenskwatawa paused to note the effect of his words. The warriors silently
gripped their weapons and, with blazing eyes, waited for him to proceed.
Pitching his voice in a higher key, he resumed:
“The black man has returned to the palefaces. I have put a spell upon
him—he will perform his mission. Ere the turn of the night the great
paleface chief will be in the spirit land, with his fathers. Then will
fear seize upon his warriors. In the early morning, my children, you will
fall upon them and destroy them. The Great Spirit has promised me the
victory. Darkness will shelter the redmen—while a great light will reveal
the palefaces. I have brewed a drink of which each of you shall sip—and
shall not taste death. Bullets shall pass him by—and long knives shall
refuse to harm him. The Great Spirit has promised—and I have told you. I
have put a spell upon the palefaces. Already one-half of them are dead or
crazy. The victory shall be yours—the Great Spirit has promised.”
Again he paused, his one eye fixed upon the sea of dusky faces before
him. The braves stood spellbound—awed to silence by his words and manner.
Raising his voice to the highest pitch, he cried:
“If there be a coward among you, let him eat dirt and stay with the
squaws. I would lead you myself, but the Great Spirit forbids. But my
power shall be with you—my sign shall accompany you. See!”
Again he raised his right hand; and again the ring upon his finger
scintillated dazzlingly.
“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” was the awe-stricken
whisper of the multitude.
“Listen!” shouted Tenskwatawa. “Three brave chiefs shall lead
you—Winnemac, White Loon, and Stone-Eater. I have said that my sign shall
go with you. So it shall. See! I place it upon the noble Winnemac’s
finger. It shall bring you victory over our enemies. My children, I have
spoken.”
Wrapping the buffalo-skin closely around him, he descended the platform
and re-entered the council lodge. The chiefs, musicians, and torchbearers
followed him, in order. Then the pent enthusiasm of the warriors broke
loose. They whooped, howled, and danced; they embraced each other and
rolled over and over upon the ground. In a fanatical frenzy, they caught
up burning firebrands and ran hither and thither. For several minutes
pandemonium reigned.
Bright Wing had learned all he desired. He turned to slip away
unmolested, and had reached the edge of the crowd and was rapidly making
his way toward the palisade, when he came face to face with a white man.
The Wyandot uttered a grunt of surprise, as he recognized the form and
features of Hiram Bradford.
“Hello!” cried the latter. “Where are you running so fast, my red
friend—and what are you doing here?”
The young Indian haughtily drew himself erect and retorted:
“Bright Wing among his people. What paleface scout do here.”
“Good—very good!” Bradford chuckled huskily. “Well, I’ll answer your
question, Wyandot, and then you shall answer mine. I’m here as an agent
of the British, and I’m doing what I can to help your people to recover
what belongs to them. Now, what are _you_ doing here?”
“Bright Wing come help, too,” was the quick reply.
“Y-e-s,” the scar-faced scout answered doubtingly, “but you’ve been among
the palefaces—I saw you there, you know. You’ve been scouting for them.”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing grunted. “_You_ scout for palefaces, too. Me see _you_
there.”
Bradford was disconcerted by the Wyandot’s shrewd replies. Now he cried
irritably:
“Let’s understand each other, my red friend. I was among the Americans as
a spy. What were you doing in their service?”
“Bright Wing him spy, too,” was the unmoved rejoinder.
“And you have left them and come to fight with your people?”
“Ugh! me fight with friends. Paleface fight with redmen?”
“No,” Bradford reluctantly admitted; “I shan’t fight with them. I can
better help them in another way. Where are you going?”
“Bright Wing him go find friends. Good-night.”
The Wyandot stalked away, leaving Bradford staring after him.
“It may be all right,” muttered the latter, “but I greatly doubt it. I
suspect that cunning fellow’s here as a spy. But how did he pass the
guards at the gate? Ah! here comes Gray Wolf!”
Gray Wolf was a gigantic, vicious-looking Shawnee. Evidently he and
Bradford were old acquaintances. They held a hurried conversation. Then
Gray Wolf hastened away in pursuit of Bright Wing. He came upon the
Wyandot in an obscure corner of the inclosure, just as the latter was
preparing to scale the palisade.
“Why is my brother here by himself?” the Shawnee suavely asked in his own
tongue.
“Perhaps it pleases him to be alone,” Bright Wing answered haughtily, in
the same language.
“And perhaps he means to leave the village?”
“And if he does, has he not the same right to go and come as the birds of
the air or the beasts of the forest?”
“But Tenskwatawa has given orders that none shall leave the village until
the appointed time. I know my brother. He is Bright Wing, a Wyandot.”
“And _I_ know my brother. _He_ is Gray Wolf, a Shawnee.”
The two warriors stood glaring at each other in the darkness. Gray Wolf
was the first to speak again. He said in a low, intense tone of voice:
“My brother is the friend of the palefaces—the enemy of his race.”
Bright Wing replied proudly:
“The words that fall from my brother’s lips are not the words of truth.
Bright Wing is the true friend of his race.”
“Does he stand ready to prove it?” Gray Wolf asked sneeringly.
“He does,” was the frigid reply.
“Has he the Sign of the Prophet?”
“He has.”
“Bright Wing has a forked tongue—it refuses to speak the truth,” Gray
Wolf cried triumphantly. “Many have _seen_ the Sign of the Prophet, and
felt its power—but Tenskwatawa alone _has_ it.”
“Gray Wolf knows that he lies!” Bright Wing answered fiercely. “For at
this moment Winnemac bears the Sign of the Prophet.”
The Shawnee was taken aback. The answer was unexpected. He growled
savagely:
“Bright Wing is the dog of the palefaces. What does he here?”
The Wyandot leaned forward and hissed in the other’s ear:
“He comes to tear the throat of the wolf that helped to murder the great
and kind chief, Leatherlips. Die, whelp of a Shawnee!”
Gray Wolf tried to spring out of reach of his Nemesis, shaping his lips
for a war-whoop, as he did so. But the Wyandot’s tomahawk descended and
buried itself in the Shawnee’s brain. The whoop ended as a death-rattle
in his throat. His great bulk sank to earth, an inert mass. One bubbling
expiration of the breath—and Gray Wolf was a corpse.
Bright Wing wiped the blood from his tomahawk and replaced it in his
belt. Then he whipped out his scalping-knife, muttering in his own tongue:
“He helped to murder my father. His footprints will blight the flowers
and grass no more. The Great Spirit willed that Gray Wolf should die by
the hand of Bright Wing——”
He closed the sentence abruptly, and jerking off the reeking scalp of the
Shawnee, caught up his rifle and darted away in the darkness. The sound
of approaching footsteps had come to his quick ears.
A minute later a prolonged war-whoop reverberated from one end of the
village to the other. In answer to it came a hundred others. All was
excitement and confusion. Torches bobbed and flared here and there. An
enemy was in the camp.
Bright Wing flattened his form against the sloping roof of a cabin—where
he had taken refuge—and breathlessly awaited the outcome. The hut upon
which he was perched stood near the edge of the inclosure, and the roof
sloped toward the palisade. He was far from the blazing bonfires, and
darkness sheltered him. His enemies searched high and low, but failed
to discover him. Three or four times groups of them stood under the low
eaves and jabbered in guttural accents. Gradually the excitement subsided
and darkness and silence reigned.
Hours slipped by, but Bright Wing did not dare to leave his hiding-place.
He realized fully the dangers that beset him, and he shuddered, thinking
of his white friends. He must give them warning. But how? He thought of
many reckless plans, but abandoned each in turn.
Midnight passed—and morning was drawing nigh. Again the town was astir.
The Wyandot heard the buzz of myriad voices, and knew what it meant. The
allied tribes were preparing for the attack. He stretched his cramped
limbs and cautiously descended to the ground. If he was to give warning,
he must be off at once. He would make an attempt—no matter how reckless.
For several minutes he stood in the shadow of the low building, vainly
striving to map out a plan of procedure. The steady tramp of hundreds
of moccasined feet greeted his ears. The Prophet’s braves were marching
forth to battle.
Bright Wing ran to the palisade and sought to scale it. Failing at one
point he tried another. Frantically he dug his fingers and toes into the
crevices between the upright timbers. His efforts were fruitless. He did
not dare to approach the spot where he had entered the inclosure; the
guards near at hand were alert. The tramp-tramp of the marching warriors
drew nearer. They were approaching the northeastern gate. The Wyandot
made a final effort to climb the wall—and fell back. His heart sickened.
Was he doomed to failure? The thought made him desperate. Recklessly he
strode to the northeastern gateway and assayed to pass out. The click of
a gun-lock brought him to a standstill. A guard stepped from the shadow
and said:
“Has my brother the Sign of the Prophet?”
“He has _seen_ it,” Bright Wing mumbled, “but Tenskwatawa alone _has_ it.”
“Why does my brother seek to go out alone?”
“At the order of the great Winnemac he goes to scout,” was the
quick-witted reply.
“Ugh!” ejaculated the sentry, taking a step backward.
The nimble-footed Wyandot darted through the gateway and disappeared—just
as the head of the column of braves came in sight.
Down the incline, across the swampy prairie, and up the slope leading
to the camp of the whites, Bright Wing sped like the wind—never pausing
until he drew near the line of sentries. The sky was thickly clouded;
a gentle drizzle was falling. Dropping upon the ground, he watched and
waited for a chance to elude the vigilance of the pickets. A white man
would have given the alarm, by stepping forward and permitting himself to
be challenged; but the proud Wyandot scorned to do anything of the kind.
Minutes passed. Suddenly, a light footfall attracted his attention; and
the next moment Duke’s cold muzzle touched his hand.
“Go ’way—go to master!” Bright Wing commanded in a stern whisper.
In answer the dog threw up his nose and sniffed the damp air. Then with a
low growl, he bounded away toward camp.
“Duke him smell redmen,” the Wyandot muttered to himself. “Me must go in
quick—right away.”
Little by little he wriggled forward—the sentry pacing his beat within a
few feet of him. The next instant the intrepid young brave was upon his
feet. Like a scudding cloud he glided to the barricade of wagons, and
disappeared among them. A moment later he bent over the sleeping form of
Ross Douglas and, shaking him roughly, cried:
“Wake, Fleet Foot!”—The Indian name of his white friend.—“Up! Up!
Winnemac and heap many braves come—come soon.”
Douglas threw off his blanket, and, leaping to his feet, cried excitedly:
“Did you say the Indians are coming, Bright Wing?”
“Ugh!” grunted the imperturbable Wyandot. “Come quick soon—sight many.”
“You mean they’re almost upon us?”
“Ugh!”
“How did you learn the fact?”
“Bright Wing go to Prophet’s Town—learn big heap.”
Duke now dashed into the circle of light and out again, barking
furiously. His hoarse voice wakened Farley and his messmates. They
stumbled to their feet, sleepily rubbing their eyes.
“What in dingnation’s all this hullabaloo ’bout, anyhow?” Joe demanded
irritably.
“The Indians are upon us!” cried Ross. “Secure your arms—and make
yourselves ready for battle. I’m off to warn the officers.”
And striking the breech of his rifle, to prime it, Douglas bounded away
toward the governor’s tent.
“Jest as I pr’dicted,” Farley growled. “Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!
Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! Did anybody ever hear o’ such
dang fools as Injins is? Git up in the _night_ to fight! Dodrot that
Kaintuckian! He’s the cause o’ all this—he is, by the Queen o’ Sheby!
He might ’ave knowed his caterwaulin’ ’ld bring on a rumpus—even Injins
can’t stand no such unearthly noise as he makes. Great snakes—it’s darker
’n a squaw’s pocket!”
It was about four o’clock in the morning—the darkest hour in the
twenty-four. The moon had risen, but was veiled by heavy clouds. The
rain still fell. The smoldering camp-fires shed a faint, uncertain light
over the scene. Governor Harrison had already arisen and was sitting by
the fire in front of his tent. He had just pulled on his boots and was
conversing with the members of his staff, who sprawled upon blankets, in
a circle around the red embers. They were waiting for the signal to turn
out. In a few minutes the drum would have beaten reveille. Of a sudden
the report of a rifle, followed by an Indian yell, broke the stillness of
the camp, and brought the officers to their feet.
“What’s the meaning of that?” Harrison asked sharply.
At that moment Ross Douglas leaped into the circle of light, shouting:
“An attack! An attack, governor! The savages are upon us! A sentry has
just fired upon one and——”
His words were drowned in a torrent of Indian war-whoops. Then followed
the crash and roar of discharging firearms. A streak of flame ran along
the western picket line. The sentries came flying into camp. The Indians
were making an onslaught on the left wing.
In a moment all was bustle and excitement. The suddenness of the attack
almost caused a panic. But the commander was the firm rock upon which the
wave of consternation broke. Hastily mounting his horse, he dashed toward
the point of conflict, shouting his orders right and left as he went.
Drum and bugle called to arms. The soldiers tumbled out, formed in line,
and rushed to meet the foe. The battle was on in earnest.
The fires were stamped out, leaving the camp in darkness. Pandemonium
broke loose. The rattle of discharging rifles grew to a roar. The
redmen’s war-whoops were answered by yells. The castanet-like click of
rattling strings of deer-hoofs mingled with the muttering roll of drums
and the piercing peals of bugles. Terrified oxen lowed and bellowed;
frightened pack and draught horses neighed shrilly as they broke their
tethers, and ran madly about the camp. Officers—pistol in hand—rode along
the lines, encouraging their men to stand firm.
The impetuosity of the savages—born of ignorance and fanaticism—was a
fair match for the cool valor of the whites. Neither party would give
ground. The battle spread until it raged fiercely upon three sides of
the camp. The Indians forgot their ancient tactics and boldly fought
in the open. They met the soldiers face to face—and madly charged the
lines of bayonets. Again and again the opposing forces came together
with a reeling shock. Blood drenched the dead grass. Curses and groans
commingled; and over all rose the weird voice of Tenskwatawa—upon an
eminence a short distance away—chanting his war-song.
Major Daviess and Colonel White fell mortally wounded. Captain Spencer
and his lieutenants were all dead; and Captain Warwick was dying. Colonel
Owen dropped at the governor’s side. He was mounted upon a white horse
at the time; and as Harrison had ridden a white horse on the previous
day, undoubtedly the Indians mistook the aide for the commander. Dead and
dying braves and soldiers lay thick upon the hotly contested field.
During the battle Harrison spurred from one part of the camp to another,
disposing his troops to the best advantage. His officers begged him not
to expose himself, but he persisted in being where the fire was hottest.
His courage and coolness did much to hold the men steady under the deadly
fusillade in the darkness. One ball pierced his hat rim and another cut
a lock of hair from his temple—but still he rode unharmed through the
scathing fire. Seeing an ensign—a Frenchman—sheltering himself behind a
tree, the governor cried, angrily:
“Out from behind that tree, you cowardly rascal!”
“Me not behind ze tree,” explained the ensign; “ze tree in front of me.
Zere, ze tree—here, my position. What can I _do_, governor?”
With a laugh Harrison rode on and left the fellow.
A Winnebago broke through the lines of militia and dropped dead within
the camp. A tall militiaman sprang forward to scalp the prostrate
savage—but received a death-wound.
“Served him right!” snarled Joe Farley, who was loading and firing with
the rapidity and precision of a piece of machinery. “Tryin’ to make an
Injin of hisself—the heathen!”
The left flank began to give way before the desperate and persistent foe.
Ross Douglas and Bright Wing were fighting side by side, in that quarter.
A half-dozen warriors sprang through the broken lines, brandishing their
arms and yelling fiendishly. Four of them fell dead in their tracks.
Douglas and his comrade engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with the other
two. The Wyandot quickly dispatched his opponent, but Ross was not so
fortunate. His foot slipped upon the blood-soaked sod, and he fell
prostrate. His savage foe, with raised tomahawk, was upon him. The young
scout closed his eyes, expecting death. But the next moment the Indian
lay gasping for breath, with Duke’s keen fangs buried in his throat.
“Ugh! Duke him here at right time!” grunted Bright Wing, as he rammed
home another charge.
The ends of the broken line swung into place—and still the battle raged.
The rain ceased to fall; the sky began to clear. Darkness gave place to
dawn. The commander ordered a charge all along the lines. Inch by inch
the savages gave way—in spite of the bravery of their chiefs, and the
inspiration of Tenskwatawa’s war-song. At last they could stand the cold
steel of the bayonets no longer. They broke and fled. Down the slope and
across the boggy prairie, toward their town, they hastened, carrying many
of their dead and wounded with them. Victory had perched upon Harrison’s
banner; and the palefaces had won the battle of Tippecanoe.
The victorious troops pursued the fleeing savages, until the yielding
surface of the wet prairie compelled the mounted riflemen to halt. Then
the whole force returned to camp. The whites had lost one hundred and
eighty in killed and wounded; the Indians, probably, had lost an equal
number.
At sunrise squads of soldiers were engaged in burying the dead and
carrying the wounded to the surgeon’s quarters. Joe Farley was on the
detail. At the southwestern angle of the camp, he came upon the body
of a tall and lank militiaman. The man lay upon his side—a contorted,
blood-stained heap. His head rested upon his arm, and his face was
partially concealed. Supposing that the poor fellow was dead, Farley
caught him by the shoulder, to turn him over. The dying man moaned
feebly. Bending over him, Joe said tenderly:
“I didn’t mean to be rough, friend, I thought you was—was—are you hurt
bad?”
The blue lips moved—and these words were breathed into Farley’s face:
“I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,
In the cabin with the’r mother;
And now the’r pap has got his death—
An’ they’ll—never git—an-oth-er!”
The faint voice ended in a whispering quaver. Joe sprang erect, his limbs
trembling, his face as white as chalk.
“Poor critter!” he murmured, pityingly. “He’s dyin’; but he’s still
thinkin’ of his wife an’ children. Poor little woman—an’ poor little
boys an’ gals—down in ol’ Kaintuck! You’ll never git another husband an’
father, that’s a fact; not one that’ll think as much of you, anyhow. His
words has come true. He must ’ave had a prem’nition o’ what was in store
fer him. Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! I’m sorry fer him—poor feller! An’ I
wish I hadn’t growled so much ’bout his caterwaulin’—I do, by Katherine!
But I thought he was jest foolin’—I didn’t know he was pourin’ out his
soul in singin’.”
Joe broke off suddenly and dashed the tears from his eyes. The dying
Kentuckian gave one expiring groan—and passed over the dark river. The
woodman stood silently looking down at the lump of senseless clay for
several minutes. Then he turned and strode away, muttering:
“I don’t like this buryin’ business, nohow. It makes me down in the
mouth. It’s worse ’n drivin’ oxen, by a long shot. Poor little boys an’
gals down in ol’ Kaintuck! They ain’t got no pap now—they’ll never be
rocked to sleep in his arms no more.”
He stopped and shook his head sadly, reflectively.
“Where Fleet Foot and Duke?”
Farley glanced up and beheld Bright Wing at his side.
“Ross an’ the bloodhoun’?” he inquired.
“Ugh!”
“I don’t know. But where you find one of ’em you’ll find t’other, most
likely. I hain’t set eyes on the dog sence last night, but I saw his
master this mornin’—jest after the Injins broke an’ run. You’ll find ’em
both ’round the camp somewheres.”
“Me look—no find,” answered the Wyandot with a positive shake of the
head.
“Well,” Joe returned dryly, “I wouldn’t lose no sleep ’bout ’em, Injin,
if I was you. They’re able to take keer o’ the’rselves.”
“Me look much long time—no find dog—no find master,” the Indian persisted.
“That so?” Joe replied—a shade of uneasiness in his tone. “Well, you’ve
got nothin’ else to do—so go _on_ huntin’. When I git through with this
bloody business o’ helpin’ to take keer o’ the dead an’ wounded, I’ll
take a look ’round with you. By the way, I’m gittin’ most pow’rful
hungry. But a feller told me a little bit ago the beef an’ meal was all
gone, an’ some of us ’ld have to eat hoss flesh fer our breakfast. Fer my
part, I ain’t a _hankerin’_. I can go purty nigh anything, but I draw the
line at hoss-steaks. It’s a sight worse ’n havin’ a lot o’ women in love
with you. W’y, Injin, one time so many female genders got in love with
me, I——”
The voluble fellow stopped speaking and looked around. The Wyandot had
disappeared.
“By my gran’mother’s ear-trumpet!” muttered Joe. “That redskin comes an’
goes like a shadder. S’pose he didn’t like my talk ’bout women-folks. He
must ’ave some ol’ love affair ranklin’ in his gizzard. I’m mighty awful
hungry, I swan. Well, if I can’t eat, I can smoke.”
And filling and lighting his pipe, he hurried away to procure help in
removing the body of the Kentuckian to the place of burial.
After a scant breakfast, the soldiers busied themselves about the camp,
righting overturned vehicles, securing stampeded animals, interring the
dead, and throwing up a ring of fortifications. Governor Harrison deemed
the latter proceeding a necessary precaution. He thought the savages
might renew the battle as soon as darkness came again.
The day passed. Night came—a night of feverish expectancy and unrest to
the exhausted soldiers. Joe Farley and Bright Wing did not sleep, but sat
by the fire all night long, starting at every unusual sound and longing
for morning. All the afternoon they had searched for Ross Douglas and his
dog, but had found no trace of either. It was the opinion of all to whom
they spoke, that the rash young scout had ventured too far in pursuit of
the savages and had been killed or captured.
Dawn came at last. After breakfast, General Wells took the dragoons and
mounted riflemen and went to reconnoiter the Prophet’s Town. Farley and
Bright Wing obtained permission to accompany the detachment.
The general found the place deserted. But one inhabitant remained within
its walls—a chief with a broken leg. The whites dressed his wound and
made other provision for him, and told him to say to his people that if
they would desert the standard of the Prophet and return to their own
tribes, they would be forgiven.
The troops found a large quantity of corn, which was very acceptable;
also some hogs and domestic fowls. These they removed to their camp.
The savages had fled precipitately, leaving many of their arms and
household utensils behind them. A large number of the guns were yet
wrapped in the coverings in which the British had imported them.
Farley and Bright Wing found no trace of their friend, until they
were slowly and sadly returning to camp. Then, a hundred yards from
the northeastern gate of the palisade, Joe picked up a silver button
belonging to Douglas’s hunting-shirt. He showed it to the Wyandot,
who simply nodded meaningly and pointed in the direction in which the
Prophet’s followers had fled. On reaching camp, Farley carried the
memento to Governor Harrison and remarked:
“Gov’nor, Ross Douglas has been missin’ sence the battle. I picked up
this button close to the Prophet’s Town. Ross is a pris’ner ’mong the
Injins, as sure’s shootin’—him an’ his dog, too.”
“How did it happen?” cried Harrison.
“I don’t know. But me and Bright Wing wants to foller the dang redskins
an’ try to rescue him——”
“It’s madness to think of such a thing,” the governor interrupted.
“You’ll throw away your lives to no purpose.”
“It don’t make no differ’nce,” Joe said doggedly. “Life ain’t worth
_much_ to such poor scamps as me, at best—an’ it won’t be worth _nothin’_
if Ross Douglas is tortured an’ killed by the Injins. No, gov’nor, me an’
Bright Wing’s goin’ after him. You’ll give us leave to go—an’ not have
us desert, won’t you, gov’nor?”
Joe asked the question pleadingly, tears standing in his pale, watery
eyes.
“Yes, _go_!” Harrison said, grasping the woodman’s calloused hand. “I
discharge you here and now. And may the Almighty’s protecting power
accompany you!”
“Amen! Thank you, gov’nor—an’ good-by,” Farley answered.
That afternoon Farley and Bright Wing shouldered their rifles and set
out on the trail of the Indians. The next day the army started upon the
return journey to Fort Harrison and Vincennes—the wagons loaded with
wounded soldiers. The campaign had been short, sharp, and effective.
[Illustration]