It was the middle of the forenoon. Ross Douglas stood at one of the
openings in the palisade, moodily watching the stream of savages filing
through the gateway and setting out upon their journey toward Wildcat
Creek, twenty miles away. The sun was bright; the air was light and
warm. But Ross’s heart was cold and heavy. His emotions were at war.
He condemned the impetuosity that had led him into such a trap, and
pronounced himself a fool. He cursed the cowardice of the soldiers who
had neglected to follow up their advantage, and had left him to fall into
the hands of the Indians. And he gritted his teeth when he thought of
Bradford, who—as he thought—had meanly deceived and tricked him. Then his
thoughts reverted to Franklinton and Amy Larkin—and he groaned aloud.
“Let’s be moving; we have a long tramp before us.”
He glanced up and encountered the gaze of Bradford.
“What’s our destination?” Ross inquired stiffly.
“We are going to camp on Wildcat Creek, twenty miles from here,” Bradford
returned pleasantly.
“Shall we cover the whole distance to-day?”
“Certainly.”
“It’s a long jaunt.”
“Do you consider it so?” in evident surprise.
“Yes; it’s a longer walk than I feel inclined to undertake.”
“Aren’t you used to long journeys afoot?”
“Yes; but I’m not accustomed to making them against my will.”
“Oh”—and the older man smiled. “Perhaps you’d prefer to ride.”
“I’m no horseman.”
“I can easily overcome that difficulty.”
“How?”
“I can have you tied on the animal’s back,” was the frigid reply.
Douglas remained silent; he was too angry to speak.
“Come, now,” Bradford said coaxingly. “There’s no use in kicking
against fate. You’re going with me—willingly or unwillingly. I would be
your friend. Don’t force me to deal harshly with you. You hate me, I
know. But I have your good at heart, and I’m your friend, in spite of
appearances—in spite of all you may say or think.”
Tears were in the speaker’s eyes, and his voice was trembling. Ross
looked at him wonderingly. For a half minute both were silent. Then the
younger man said quietly:
“I’m ready.”
Side by side, the two dropped into the moving line and passed through the
gateway.
For an hour they walked onward over the uneven ground, neither
speaking. Squads of savages were on all sides of them, all bearing in a
south-easterly direction. Some were mounted, some were afoot. All were
in a panic to escape from the vicinity of Harrison’s army. Squaws and
children bent and groaned under their burdens, as they stumbled along;
but the haughty warriors, bearing their arms only, scorned to offer them
assistance.
Another hour passed. The sun had almost reached the zenith. The way was
growing rougher, but with dogged persistence the rabble pressed forward.
All this time the silence between Douglas and his companion remained
unbroken. Now the latter laid his hand upon the former’s arm and said:
“You have had nothing to eat to-day?”
“Nothing.”
“I have some dried-beef. Will you share it with me?”
“Gladly.”
They drew out of the line, and seated themselves by the side of a
small stream. Bradford produced a quantity of dried-beef and a horn
drinking-cup from the pouch that hung at his side. Silently they ate of
the food and drank of the water from the brook. Duke seated himself upon
his haunches and begged for his share. Ross patted the hound’s head
and tossed him several strips of the cured flesh. Seeing which Bradford
remarked:
“You’d better eat that meat yourself or save it for another meal. The
Indians, in their haste, have left behind nearly all their supplies.
There’s not food enough among them to last twenty-four hours; and the
chance of procuring more isn’t good. Don’t you see how the braves are
scowling at you as they pass? When there’s scarcity of food, the Indian
eats sparingly; his dog fasts.”
“Yes, I know,” Douglas returned as he dropped another piece of beef into
Duke’s capacious mouth. “I’m not unacquainted with their customs.”
“And when famine threatens,” Bradford pursued, “they kill and eat their
dogs.”
“I’m aware of the fact.”
“Do you catch my meaning?”
“I do.”
Neither again spoke for some moments. Ross noted that some of the Indians
that passed were munching parched corn and nibbling pieces of dried-beef.
Others had no food at all, apparently. They looked gaunt and haggard, but
stoically plodded onward, without a murmur.
“Well, what do you think about it?” Bradford asked suddenly.
“About what?” was the quiet rejoinder.
“You know what I mean. Shall I shoot the dog?”
“Of course not,” Ross answered unmoved.
“You can step aside and——”
“You’re considerate of my feelings.”
“Believe me, it’s better so,” Bradford went on earnestly.
“It takes a large quantity of food to appease the hunger of fifteen
hundred human beings. The supply is meager. Scarcity is already here;
absolute want will soon arrive.”
“A flattering prospect you hold out to your guest,” Ross remarked dryly.
“I’m telling you the truth, at any rate. By the way, how much better off
would you be with Governor Harrison? I know that the supplies of the
army were almost exhausted two days ago. By this time, the soldiers are
feasting on horse-flesh.”
“I should be a free man, at least,” Douglas interrupted in a tone of deep
dejection.
Bradford sighed as he resumed:
“At this season of the year, game is scarce in this locality. If the
worst comes, the savages will kill and eat all the horses and dogs in
camp—your own surly brute included.”
“Not until they have disposed of me,” Ross answered, his eyes flashing,
his nostrils dilated.
“That’s just what I fear. The dog will get you into trouble. Let me put a
bullet through his brain.”
“The moment you do, I’ll put one through yours,” was the fierce reply.
“Let me hear no more on the subject. That dog is one of the true and
disinterested friends I’m fortunate enough to have. He’d give his life
for me—I’d shed my blood for him.”
Again Bradford sighed deeply; but he said no more.
They arose, shouldered their guns, and resumed their toilsome march. Just
as they dropped into the moving line of savages, Tenskwatawa, mounted
upon a magnificent black horse,—a gift of the English government,—rode
past them. At the side of the clean-limbed steed, trotted a nimble,
sure-footed gray pony; and seated upon its back was a young woman. The
robe of rich furs that enveloped her person neatly concealed the fact
that she rode astride. The hood of her cloak was thrown back, and a
cataract of fine red-gold hair rippled down her shoulders. Her face
was beautiful, her skin milk-white and satiny; and her eyes were the
violet-blue of the midsummer skies. The rein she held in her small
shapely hand was of braided horsehair, ornamented with shells and
jingling coins; and the housings of her plump palfrey were of crimson
cloth, trimmed with a fringe of gold.
The Prophet sat stiffly erect in the saddle, looking neither to the right
nor to the left; but not so, his fair companion. Douglas and Bradford
stepped aside to let the riders pass. As they did so, the prisoner
glanced up and encountered the young woman’s gaze fixed upon him. He
could not remove his eyes from her face; he did not try to do so. Boldly
he stared at her until her lids dropped, her cheeks flamed, and the
faintest hint of a smile parted her red lips, revealing a row of even,
white teeth. Then she shyly peeped at him from under her long lashes;
and turning aside her face, rode on.
Ross was surprised; excited. He stood staring after the lovely
apparition—his lips apart, his chest heaving—until Bradford, touching him
on the arm, said:
“What’s the matter—have you seen a ghost?”
“An angel, rather,” Douglas replied so solemnly that his companion burst
out laughing.
But the younger man did not join in the older’s merriment. Instead, he
asked impatiently:
“Who is she?”
“An Indian squaw.”
And Bradford continued to laugh as though greatly amused.
“Squaw!” Ross answered in a tone of deep disgust. “She’s no squaw—not a
half-breed, even. She’s a vision of loveliness. If she be mortal, she’s a
pure Caucasian. Who is she?”
“Tenskwatawa’s daughter,” replied Bradford, his bright eyes twinkling
mischievously.
“The Prophet’s daughter—bah!” was the scornful rejoinder. “Do you expect
me to believe so transparent a falsehood? Do you think me blind? She’s a
Caucasian, I tell you. Her eyes, her complexion, her hair—all indicate
the fact.”
“You forget there are red-headed Indians,” Bradford suggested.
“I forget nothing. I have seen red-haired savages. But their complexions
were swarthy, their eyes black.”
“And I’ve seen them fair, with blue eyes and auburn hair.”
“They were of mixed blood, then,” Douglas said positively.
“Possibly.”
“Possibly! You know they were. No Indian, male or female, pure blood or
cross-breed, could be as fair as this young woman. Her features, her
manner, her every characteristic bespeaks the white blood in her veins
and stamps her as a white woman. You’re trying to deceive me. Now tell
me. Who is she?”
“I have told you what Tenskwatawa says and what his tribe believes. Like
you, he calls her an angel, and tells how the Great Spirit sent her to
him.”
Again Bradford was smiling, a peculiar, unfathomable smile.
“The lying impostor stole her somewhere,” Ross answered earnestly.
His companion continued to smile, but said nothing.
“How long has she been among the savages?” the younger man pursued.
“Since her birth, perhaps. How should I know.”
“But you _do_ know.”
Again the older man was silent.
“Why do you refuse to answer my questions?” Ross cried irritably.
Once more that peculiar, fleeting smile elevated the corners of
Bradford’s mouth and accentuated the puckered scar upon his cheek.
Swiftly the two strode forward, overtaking and passing groups of
stragglers, as they went. Descending into the river valley, they
overhauled the main body of savages; and with them crossed the stream. As
they were toiling up the opposite slope, Douglas turned to his companion
and asked suddenly:
“What’s her name?”
“The Indians call her La Violette,” Bradford answered, as he gave a hitch
to the pouch at his side and shifted his gun from one shoulder to the
other.
“Ah!” Ross ejaculated.
“What do you mean by that knowing exclamation?” the older man inquired
sharply.
“Nothing; only——”
“Only what?”
“That’s not an Indian name.”
“No?”
“No, it’s not. It’s French.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“And it signifies?”
“You know its significance as well as I. La Violette means the violet.”
“Well?”
“Her name confirms my belief. She’s a white woman.”
“Ah!”
“Yes. The appellation refers to the color of her eyes.”
“Do you think she’s French?”
“I don’t know—but _you_ do, Hiram Bradford. Some person familiar with the
French language gave her the name. She’s a prisoner—was kidnapped when a
child, probably.”
“What a keen observer and logician you are,” Bradford chuckled dryly.
“I’m no blind fool, at any rate,” Douglas retorted angrily.
Then in an injured, half-pleading tone:
“Why don’t you tell me all you know of her?”
“Why should I?” laughed the other, huskily. “You’re making your own
observations and drawing your own conclusions. And no doubt your
preconceived opinions would remain unshaken, no matter what I might say.”
“I have formed my opinions from what you’ve told me and what I’ve seen.”
“Is it possible you give credence to my words?”
“Of course”—in a surprised tone. “Why not?”
“I know of no reason except this: You hate me—consider me an enemy—and
doubt my integrity.”
Bradford said this in a voice thick with emotion. Ross stopped and stared
hard at the speaker. He felt himself imperceptibly drawn toward the man.
His heart was gradually softening—as wax in a warm hand. To relieve his
embarrassment and conceal his feelings, he returned gruffly:
“But you have told me the truth in this instance?”
“So far as I’ve told you anything—yes. But why are you so interested
in the Prophet’s daughter? Are you so susceptible—are you already
smitten—that you insist on throwing such a glamor of romance around her?”
“Nonsense!” Douglas exclaimed.
But his cheeks flushed; and he did not meet his companion’s steady gaze.
“Have a care!” Bradford cried.—And Ross could not tell from his
countenance, whether he meant his words in jest or in earnest.—“You must
not set your affections there. The Prophet’s angelic daughter cannot be
for such as you—a despised paleface, a member of the Seventeen Fires.
Tenskwatawa has placed her above all things earthly. His followers
idolize her—worship her. She has as much influence with them, almost, as
the Prophet or Tecumseh. Stern chiefs have sighed for her; young braves
have died for her. Her smile is considered a benediction; her frown, a
calamity. Her word is law. It is said she twists Tenskwatawa around her
finger and holds Tecumseh under her thumb——”
“And you accuse me of throwing a glamor of romance around her,” Ross
smilingly interrupted.
Bradford laughed heartily and continued:
“At any rate, you’ll do well to heed my warning. I don’t want to see you
cut into giblets, for daring to aspire to her heart and hand. Shun her
presence as you would shun a pestilence. Tenskwatawa’s daughter is not
for you.”
Douglas, looking at the speaker, again encountered that inscrutable smile.
Both remained thoughtful and silent for some time—all the while steadily
plodding onward. The sun declined toward the western horizon. The surface
of the country through which they were passing was seamed with gullies
and ravines. The trail sprang from one, only to tumble headlong into
another. Precipitous hills succeeded sloping elevations. The forest grew
denser. Just as the sun dropped into the brown billows of the prairie
beyond the Wabash and disappeared, the long line of weary and hungry
savages began to descend into the valley of Wildcat Creek.
Here the trail was narrow and difficult. Douglas and his companion were
marching with the main body of Indians—immediately behind Tenskwatawa and
his daughter. The shadows gathered around them; the air grew chill. The
sharp click of a hoof upon a loose stone, or the guttural exclamation of
a stumbling brave alone broke the silence. Into Ross Douglas’s mind came
the thought to dart into the bushes, that bordered the winding path, and
attempt to escape. Hurriedly he glanced around him—impatiently he awaited
a favorable opportunity.
“Don’t think of such a thing,” said Bradford’s husky voice in his ear.
Douglas started. Was it possible his companion read his thoughts? He
returned in a tone of well-assumed surprise:
“Don’t think of what?”
“You have it in mind to try to escape,” was the quiet reply. “Banish the
thought—the attempt means death. Don’t you see the braves have drawn
close around us and are watching your every movement?”
“Y-e-s,” Ross hesitatingly admitted. “At whose order has it been done?”
“Mine.”
“I didn’t hear you speak.”
“It wasn’t necessary—a sign was sufficient. No, you’d be taking a
foolhardy risk to——”
The sentence was cut short by a storm of shouts and exclamations coming
from the head of the column, farther down the trail. A pack-horse,
stumbling, had fallen from the narrow path into a deep ravine. The
tumult raised by the savages frightened several others of the beasts of
burden; and they whirled and came flying back up the trail. These in
turn stampeded others still—and the whole swept the narrow way like an
avalanche.
Ross Douglas heard and understood all. In the panic that was sure
to ensue he saw a chance to escape. To right and to left sprang the
warriors. Ross loosened the knife in his belt, firmly gripped his rifle,
and was ready to dart away in the darkness.
“Quick!” shouted Bradford. “Let’s scramble up this bank. Quick—or we
shall be trampled to death!”
Grabbing Douglas by the arm, he sought to drag him in that direction.
But the younger man held back. The thunderous roar of the galloping
horses drew nearer. They turned a sharp bend in the road and loomed into
view. In the gloom they resembled a rapidly approaching thundercloud.
Tenskwatawa’s black steed neighed wildly and, taking the bit in his
teeth, whirled and dashed away. The gray pony crouched in its tracks and
trembled. Douglas jerked loose from his companion’s restraining grasp
and leaped toward the brink of the ravine on the right, intending to
drop into the depths. But at that moment La Violette’s shrill scream of
affright smote upon his ear. Abandoning all idea of escape, forgetting
his own danger—everything, he threw down his gun and sprang to her
assistance.
“My God!” groaned Bradford, staggering toward a place of safety. “Both
will be killed! In my excitement I didn’t think of _her_. Too late—too
late!”
Reaching the bank on the left, he sank upon the ground and covered his
face with his hands.
A bound brought Douglas to the young woman’s side. It was the work of
a moment, to snatch her from the saddle and bear her limp form up the
slope. Relieved of its fair burden, the terrorized pony turned and fled
up the trail, with the stampeding pack-horses snorting and panting behind
it. As they labored up the steep grade, with their heavy packs still
clinging tenaciously to them, their terror gradually subsided; and near
the top of the hill, the Indians surrounded and caught them.
When the stampede had thundered by, Bradford got upon his feet and
stared wildly around. In the deep gloom he caught a dim outline of
Douglas supporting the trembling form of La Violette. Running to them, he
exclaimed in a voice faltering with emotion:
“Both of you are alive. But are you unharmed?”
“Unharmed and untouched,” Ross replied calmly.
“Thank God!” was the fervent response.
The young woman lifted her head from Douglas’s shoulder and, gently
withdrawing from his embrace, said tremulously:
“I sincerely thank you for rescuing me from death. But I do not know you.
Will you tell me to whom I owe my life?”
She spoke in excellent English, but with a slightly foreign accent. After
a moment’s silence, Ross answered:
“My name is Ross Douglas.”
“You are an American?”
“I am.”
“And a prisoner?”
“Yes.”
Extending a small, warm hand—which Douglas quickly imprisoned in his
broad palm—she remarked naïvely:
“You risked your life to rescue me from danger, although you are an enemy
of my people. I will not forget your valor. I will do what I can to
procure your release——”
“Perhaps, La Violette, you are not aware that your rescuer is _my_
prisoner,” Bradford interjected, laughing.
Petulantly stamping her moccasined foot, she replied proudly:
“I neither know nor care _whose_ prisoner he is. He has saved me from a
horrible death; I will befriend him.”
Then hastily withdrawing her hand from Ross’s detaining clasp:
“But my father! Where is he?”
“Have no fear for Tenskwatawa’s safety,” Bradford said in reassuring
tones. “His horse carried him out of danger. Ah! I hear the sound of
hoofs. He’s returning.”
The panic-stricken savages were resuming the march. Down the trail came
a body of braves with the runaway pack-horses. At their head rode the
Prophet, leading his daughter’s pony.
“La Violette! La Violette!” he called wailingly.
“Here, father—here I am,” she answered in a clear, bird-like voice, as
she descended to the trail.
Tenskwatawa sprang to the ground and, enfolding her in his strong arms,
murmured gutturally:
“The Great Spirit is very kind. He spared your life, my daughter.”
“Yes, father,” La Violette assented; “but the young paleface carried me
out of the way of danger.”
“Who?” in a low, fierce tone.
“Fleet Foot,” Bradford answered from the darkness.
“Ugh!” the Prophet grunted ungraciously.
Then he quickly lifted the young woman to her saddle; and, remounting
his own steed, again set forward. Bradford and Douglas closely followed
the two. The young scout had recovered his rifle, and was again watching
for a chance to dart away in the darkness. But the Indians were close
about—the risk was too great. He felt that in saving La Violette’s life
he had thrown away his one opportunity of regaining his freedom; and he
tried to condemn himself for a sentimental fool. But when he essayed to
shape the thought in his mind, the girl’s fair face arose before him and
rebuked him.
An hour after darkness had fallen, the Indians encamped upon the site of
an old village. Several ramshackle huts were still standing. Two of these
Tenskwatawa appropriated to his own and his daughter’s use. Bradford
seized upon a third for himself and his prisoner.
Soon huge fires were blazing along the banks of the stream, effectually
dispelling the cold and darkness. The savages cooked a liberal part of
the food they had; and—like true children of the forest—feasted upon it,
nor asked how or whence more was to be obtained.
In the middle of the dirt floor of one of the cabins standing near the
creek bank a fire burned brightly. The smoke escaped through a hole in
the dilapidated bark roof. On opposite sides of the pile of blazing
faggots sat Bradford and Douglas.
“Are you sorry you didn’t escape at the time of the stampede?” the former
asked suddenly.
“Of course,” returned the other, without looking up. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh!” Bradford chuckled, “I thought perhaps the fact that you had formed
the acquaintance of the charming La Violette—and had received her promise
of aid—had reconciled you to captivity.”
“It’s unnecessary to make answer to such a nonsensical supposition,” Ross
replied pettishly.
Then after a moment’s silence:
“How long do you mean to keep me prisoner?”
“Truly, I don’t know.”
“A few weeks?”
“Yes; or months—or years.”
“Humph! Do you take me for a child?” Ross cried scornfully.
“Oh, no!” was the suave reply.
“Do you expect me to make no further effort to escape?”
“I trust you won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be useless—dangerous.”
“Useless! What’s to hinder me from stabbing you to the heart, at this
very moment, and making my escape in the darkness?”
“Peep out at the door,” Bradford returned coolly. “There’s a better
answer to your question than I can give you.”
Ross acted upon his companion’s suggestion, and beheld two stalwart
braves standing guard, one on each side of the doorway. Returning to the
fire, the young man flung himself upon the ground and maintained a moody
silence.
“There—there!” the older man murmured kindly. “Don’t take it to heart.
I must be cruel to be kind. To-day I’ve allowed you to keep your arms,
thinking you might need them to defend yourself against the defeated and
maddened Indians. But that danger is past. And now I must ask you to give
them up. Will you hand them over quietly or must I force you to give them
up?”
“Why should I make useless resistance?” Douglas cried passionately. “You
have me in your power—your red fiends stand ready to do your bidding.
Take my arms. But, remember—you shall pay dearly for the indignities you
are heaping upon me!”
Hiram Bradford sighed deeply as he arose and passed Ross’s gun and knife
through the door, to one of the guards outside. Then, rolling himself in
his blanket and hugging his own rifle to his breast, he remarked:
“I’m going to try to sleep. You’d better follow my example.”
Douglas made no reply. Duke curled up at his master’s side, and lay
blinking at the red coals. The fires gradually burned down; and slumber
and silence fell upon the camp.