The night of Bradford’s departure was quite warm for the time of year.
Ross Douglas sat in front of the cabin he had occupied since coming to
the village. The balmy air was laden with the scent of wild flowers—sweet
with the breath of the damp woodland. La Violette timidly stole to his
side and whispered:
“You are lonely. May I talk to you?”
“Certainly—I’m always glad to have your company,” he replied,—sincerity
in his voice and manner.
In low tones they conversed for some time, aimlessly rambling from one
subject to another. Each put forth an effort to entertain the other; but
in spite of their endeavors the conversation flagged. Silence fell upon
them. The stars peeped out; the moon rose above the tree-tops. At last
the girl sprang from her seat, and with a soft “good-night” slipped away
among the shadows.
Douglas promptly got upon his feet, and calling to Duke—who lay dozing
near the door—entered the hut. The place was in absolute darkness.
Without removing any of his apparel, the young man threw himself upon his
couch, murmuring:
“At last the opportunity has come; and I’m ready to take advantage of
it. I’ll snatch a few hours of sleep. Then when the camp is wrapped in
slumber, I’ll steal into the black forest, and leave this hated place far
behind me. No guards have been placed over me. I can hardly understand
it. But I ought not to complain, if fortune sees fit to favor me for
once. Ah, Amy! God favoring, I shall soon meet you and clasp you to my
heart!”
A short time he lay, open-eyed and thoughtful. Then sighing deeply, he
whispered:
“But I hate to part from La Violette. She’s a sweet, lovable, trusting
child. I have learned to like her very much. And—poor little girl!—she
likes me only too well, I fear. But I’m in nowise to blame. I haven’t
sought to win her heart. I have tried to hold her at arm’s length. But,
simple child of nature that she is, she can’t disguise her feelings. I
pity her. I hate to leave her here—to such a fate. But I can’t take her
with me—it’s out of the question. How lonely she will be! May God keep
and comfort my little wild violet, when I am gone!”
With this fervent utterance, he resolutely closed his eyes and fell
asleep.
An hour passed. Ross was awakened by the voice of the bloodhound. The
animal stood by his master’s bedside, growling fiercely. His bristles
were erect; his eyes, fixed upon the open door, through which the mellow
moonlight was streaming. Douglas raised himself upon his elbow and looked
toward the opening in the wall. A dusky form for one brief moment
darkened the doorway. Then, outlined in the bright moonlight, a stalwart
Indian stepped into the room. Instantly Ross was upon his feet.
“What do you want here?” he demanded angrily, in the Shawnee tongue.
The brave made no reply; but, gliding forward, secured Douglas’s gun
that stood in the corner of the room near the bed. Then he nimbly leaped
through the doorway—and was gone.
Beside himself with rage and disappointment, the young man shouted:
“Take him, Duke!”
Impatiently the bloodhound had been awaiting the word of command. With
a bound he cleared the doorway. Another leap, and he fell upon the
retreating savage, like an avalanche. The warrior dropped the rifle and
drew his knife to defend himself, uttering a blood-curdling yell as he
did so.
Ross hastened to the dog’s assistance. Dark forms slipped from the shadow
of the building, and silently surrounded the combatants. The hound seized
the hand that held the glittering knife, and gave it a wrench that
caused the weapon to fall to the ground. Douglas caught up his rifle,
and watched for a chance to deal the savage a stunning blow. But, at the
favorable moment, a number of warriors threw themselves upon him and bore
him to the earth. Realizing that further resistance would be suicidal, he
ceased to struggle and called off the bloodhound.
A few minutes afterward, he again lay upon his couch of furs in the
cabin, bound hand and foot; while Duke, stretched full length upon the
floor, lolled his red tongue and whined dolefully. Just within the door
stood a guard—silent and motionless as a bronze statue.
The news of the attempted escape and consequent struggle quickly spread
throughout the village, and occasioned no little excitement. Duke had
seriously injured the Indian he had attacked; and the warrior’s comrades
and friends threatened dire vengeance upon the dog and his master. Long
Gun sought to pacify the angry braves—but failed. They openly rebelled
against the chief’s authority, and swore they would kill the hound and
his owner. In his extremity Long Gun went to La Violette and laid the
case before her.
She answered him:
“Have no fear. Your prisoner shall not be harmed. Select those who _will_
obey you, and closely guard him to-night. To-morrow I will interfere in
his behalf.”
Well pleased, Long Gun returned to his post of duty and carried out La
Violette’s instructions. But had he known what was her real intention, he
would not have felt so complacent.
When the Shawnee chief had left her presence, La Violette threw herself
upon her couch and sobbed bitterly:
“Yes, I must save him—save him by giving him his liberty, by parting
from him forever! Oh, it is hard—cruel! For I love him—I love him! But
he must not die—and die he will, if he remains here longer. The warriors
are determined to take his life; they cannot be restrained. He must leave
to-morrow night, at the latest. Oh, Ross—Ross! My love—my love! You will
never know how I worship you—_never_!”
All night long, the village was in a buzz of excitement. Ross Douglas lay
upon his bed, a prey to despairing thoughts and gloomy forebodings. With
wide-open eyes, he peered into the darkness that surrounded him; with
alert ears, he listened to every sound. The hum of many voices came to
him at intervals. Occasionally, the soft breeze that swept through the
door brought a threat or an objurgation. He realized the great mistake he
had made.
“All is over—I am lost!” he muttered chokingly, a black wave of despair
engulfing his soul. “I may as well resign myself to my fate. Ill-luck
has followed me persistently. Joe and Bright Wing are dead, or helpless
captives like myself; Bradford is absent. I’ve not a friend in the
place—except La Violette. And what can _she_ do? Nothing! What _would_
she do, if she could? I don’t know. She wouldn’t give me my liberty, I’m
sure. And I would as lief die as remain longer a prisoner! She loves me?
Yes. But she will not aid me to escape—of course not. She would rather
see me die before her eyes, than resign me to another. What a fool I
was to try to recover my gun! But I was crazy with disappointment. Ah!
Duke, old fellow, you seem to realize the gravity of the situation. Three
times we have contended against these red demons. They’ll not spare us
this time. Well, at least I can die like a man; you can die like a hero.
I wouldn’t care so much—though life is sweet—were it not for Amy and La
Violette. Yes, La Violette! I pity her; I—I——”
Slowly, endlessly, the night dragged itself away. The morning dawned warm
and clear. At sunrise La Violette made her way to the cabin in which the
prisoner was confined. The guard at the door did not oppose her entrance;
but he maintained his position just within the door.
Douglas looked up as the girl’s light footsteps fell upon his ear. He saw
that she was pale and haggard, that her eyelids were swollen with weeping.
“You heard of my ill-fortune and came to me,” he remarked simply.
“Yes,” she replied in a tone scarcely audible. “Do you not want something
to eat?”
“I want nothing.”
“Nothing?” And she eyed him sharply.
“Nothing but my liberty.”
“It is impossible for me to give you that,” she answered hastily, giving
him a look that he could not interpret. “But you must eat something. You
will need all your strength for the ordeal.”
“What do you mean?” he inquired in an unmoved voice.
Unheeding his question, she turned and left the hut. She was gone but a
few minutes. When she returned, she bore a quantity of corn bread and
meat.
“You must eat this—all of it,” she said decidedly. “Here, Duke—here is
your share.”
After she had unbound his hands, Ross sat up and silently devoured the
food to the last crumb.
“I thought you were hungry,” she said as she took the platter from his
hands. “Do you want anything more?”
“I’d like some water.”
She brought it to him.
“That’s all,” he said, as he returned her the cup. “I thank you for your
kindness.”
“And you would like to have your liberty?” she queried in a half-mocking
tone.
“Of course,” he answered gravely.
“To join in a war against my people?”
“Against England,” he corrected.
“My people are allies of the English.”
“Still you can’t blame me for wishing to fight for my country.”
“And you cannot blame me for refusing to liberate you.”
He remained silent. Again she gave him that meaning glance; but he could
not fathom it. At that moment, the sound of voices in angry altercation
came to their ears.
“Secure his hands!” La Violette cried to the guard, as she sprang past
him and planted her slender form in the doorway.
The sight that met her gaze was one calculated to unnerve the bravest
man. Fifty armed warriors had overpowered Long Gun and his faithful few,
and were rushing toward the spot where she stood.
Only too well she knew what it meant. The infuriated mob were bent upon
murdering Ross Douglas.
On they came, brandishing their weapons and yelling like demons. Their
painted faces were contorted with rage; their eyes gleamed with the fire
of their hellish purpose.
The hot blood forsook La Violette’s face, and surged in a sickening flood
to her heart and brain. Her vision grew misty; her limbs trembled. But
she set her white teeth and firmly stood her ground.
The leaders of the mob reached the hut. With angry exclamations, they
came to a sudden halt, as they beheld the daughter of the Prophet barring
the entrance.
“La Violette must stand aside!” shouted a burly warrior. “We want the
young paleface. We mean to kill him—to tear him limb from limb!”
The girl neither spoke nor moved; but she sternly fastened her eyes upon
the speaker—and he recoiled a step.
“Out of the way! Out of the way!” bellowed the mob.
“Never!” she answered in clear, ringing tones.
They surged forward, threatening to crush her under foot. She did not
flinch, but raising her voice to the highest pitch, cried imperiously:
“Hold! I—La Violette—command you!”
They wavered—faltered—paused.
Taking advantage of their temporary indecision, she continued
breathlessly:
“You shall not kill this helpless prisoner! I—the daughter of the
Prophet—command you to disperse. You shall not harm the paleface, unless
you first kill me! Do you dare to kill Tenskwatawa’s daughter—the gift of
the Great Spirit? Make but a move to touch me, and the Great Spirit will
strike you dead in your tracks!”
Her eyes were blazing; her breast heaving. To the superstitious warriors
who faced her, she was the living, breathing embodiment of supernatural
power. Awed into silence, they forgot their purpose and began to draw
away from her dread presence.
“Go—and quickly!” she commanded sternly. “Ere I lose my patience and call
down upon you the curse of the Great Spirit!”
They waited to hear no more; but silently, sullenly shrunk away and
disappeared among the neighboring huts.
“Saved—saved for the present!” La Violette panted, as she staggered into
the cabin and sank in a quivering heap upon the floor.
“La Violette,” Ross called gently.
In answer, she burst into tears and sobbed softly. After a time she
regained control of her feelings, and, arising, went to his side.
“You have saved my life, at the risk of your own,” he said with feeling.
“I have repaid the debt I owed you,” she answered very quietly. “You
will be safe for a time, at least. I must leave you now.”
And ere he could make reply, she had withdrawn from the hut.
Just outside she met Long Gun. The chief’s face wore a crestfallen and
worried expression.
Addressing him in the Shawnee language, she commanded:
“Long Gun will take his men and occupy the cabin. If the mob return to
take the paleface’s life, Long Gun and his warriors will defend him to
the last.”
“Ugh!” replied the Shawnee, with animation unusual to him.
She continued:
“Long Gun will not hesitate to shoot down any that seek to harm the
prisoner—or his dog. La Violette has spoken—Long Gun will obey.”
“Long Gun’s ears are open; he hears and understands,” was the grim reply.
La Violette passed on to the Prophet’s quarters. The latter was preparing
to journey to Fort Wayne, with a hundred warriors, to demand ammunition
of the American commandant of the post.
“Father,” the girl said, as she stood in his presence.
“What does my daughter wish?” he asked kindly.
“You are preparing to leave the village?”
“Yes.”
“To-day?”
“Ugh!”
“You must not go.”
He stared at her in open-mouthed surprise. She hastily explained:
“An attack has just been made upon Fleet Foot’s life. I overawed the mad
warriors; for the present he is safe. But the attempt will be renewed. I
may need your help. You must not leave the village to-day or to-night.”
“Why does my daughter try to save the paleface’s life?” he demanded
angrily.
“Because Fleet Foot saved the life of La Violette,” she answered promptly.
“Ugh!” he ejaculated—and was silent.
“You will do as I desire?” she inquired anxiously.
He nodded sullenly.
“Listen, then,” she went on rapidly. “Fleet Foot must be protected
to-day; to-night he must leave the village.”
“But Scar Face——” Tenskwatawa began, a look of terror creeping over his
repellant features.
“I know what my father would say,” she interrupted. “But I will assume
all responsibility. Fleet Foot shall not remain here to be killed. You
have nothing to fear from Scar Face. I will shield you from his wrath.”
The Prophet hung his head and made no reply; and the girl left the cabin.
As she passed through the doorway and dropped the curtain of skins behind
her, the cowardly wretch muttered shiveringly:
“Scar Face will be very angry. But La Violette will have her way—I am
helpless.”
Then hiding his face in the folds of his blanket, he groaned aloud.
The day passed quietly. Evening came—and the shades of night began to
gather. As soon as it was quite dark, La Violette went to Long Gun and,
drawing him aside, said:
“The enemies of Fleet Foot are gathering in front of the council-lodge.
Soon they will make another attempt to kill him. When they come, he must
not be here. La Violette will take him to her lodge—will hide him where
they dare not enter, where they cannot find him. As soon as Long Gun
hears the mob coming, he and his braves will slip away in the darkness.
Does Long Gun understand?”
Greatly relieved—for he had been apprehensive of the result of the attack
that was sure to come—Long Gun replied:
“La Violette is wise and good. Long Gun will do her bidding.”
“It is well,” she answered simply, and entered the cabin.
Douglas lay upon his couch, dreading what the night might have in
store for him. His guards had given him food and drink, at noon and
early in the evening. Duke sat beside the bed, lovingly licking his
master’s manacled hands and whining softly. Ross first became aware of
La Violette’s presence, when she bent over him, severed his bonds, and
whispered in his ear:
“Come with me—and do not speak or make a noise.”
Without a murmur he arose and meekly accompanied her from the cabin.
Duke silently followed. La Violette’s hut was but a few rods from the
one Douglas had occupied; but she took a circuitous route, to avoid
observation, and approached the building from the rear.
On reaching its interior—which was in absolute darkness—she said in an
agitated undertone:
“Remain here until I return. I will be gone but a few minutes.”
Left alone, Ross threw himself upon the floor, and rubbed and kneaded his
stiffened and swollen limbs. He wondered what La Violette’s intentions
were. While he was still ransacking his brain for an answer, the young
woman returned.
“Fleet Foot,” she called softly, musically, as she stepped within the
room and let fall the curtain of skins.
“Here,” he replied, as he arose to his feet.
Guided by his voice, she found her way to his side, and murmured:
“Here is gun, knife, and ammunition. In the pouch you will find food.”
With the words, she placed the things in his outstretched hands. Now he
understood her intentions. But he said nothing—his heart was too full.
“Have you flint and steel?” she inquired.
“Yes,” he managed to articulate.
“But one thing more—then you must be off. Hold out your right hand.”
He did so; and felt her placing something upon his finger.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper.
“Giving you a ring.”
“A ring?” in surprise.
“Yes; Tenskwatawa’s talisman—the Sign of the Prophet.”
“Why do you do that?” he inquired in wonder and amazement.
“You may be pursued and recaptured—or may fall into the hands of some
roving band of redmen. In either case, the talisman will save your life.
Boldly show it and say that Tenskwatawa gave it to you—that you are under
his protection, that you have his magic power. The warriors—whoever they
may be—will not ask you to prove your assertions. They have been led to
believe that the power lies in the ring. And they heard the Prophet say
at Wildcat Creek, that he would not again give the trinket into the hands
of one who could not use it. It will protect you, Fleet Foot.”
“But how did you obtain it?” he asked in an agitated undertone.
She answered naïvely:
“I went to Tenskwatawa’s lodge, to get the gun and ammunition I have
given you. He was sleeping. I slipped the ring from his finger and came
away.”
“But in so doing haven’t you shorn him of his power?”
“No. There is no virtue in the talisman, except in the Prophet’s
hands. He is cunning. He will tell a miraculous story of its loss—and
straightway procure another. I have robbed him of nothing but the bauble
itself. But you are tarrying too long—you must go at once. Crane Bill,
my aged attendant, may return at any time. She hates all palefaces; she
would raise an alarm. Hark!”
Both listened intently, holding their breaths in their excitement. Fierce
yells came to their ears—yells of fiendish rage and disappointment. Both
knew what the uproar meant; Douglas’s enemies had discovered his escape.
Grasping her companion’s arm with both her trembling hands, La Violette
cried breathlessly:
“Go—go at once! They are searching for you. Soon they will be here. The
cabin will be surrounded and your escape cut off. For my sake—go!”
Slipping his arm around her supple waist, he panted in reply:
“Come with me! This is no place for you. You are not safe here—they’ll
wreak their revenge upon you——”
“No—no!” she answered brokenly. “It is impossible. You could not escape
with me. I am safe here—they will not dare to harm me. Bid me good-by—and
go—go!”
“Come with me, La Violette!” he insisted—tenderest pity, intensest love
in his voice. “Together we will return to the blessings of civilization.
I’ll be your protector—your brother——”
“No!” she interrupted sadly, but firmly—a sob in her throat. “It cannot
be. To-day I have been instrumental in saving you—I may be able to save
others. At least, I can risk my life in trying. I cannot go with you,
Ross. Good-by—good-by forever!”
“Kiss me!” he whispered in her ear.
She lifted her face to his. In the darkness their lips met. Each felt the
tumultuous beating of the other’s heart. For a half minute he strained
her to his breast, ere he released her and softly murmured:
“Good-by, La Violette—and God bless you!”
Then he and his dog were gone—and she was alone. She dropped upon the
bare floor and hid her face. But she did not weep. Her grief over her
loss, her anxiety for his safety, were too great. A blood-curdling whoop
and the patter of moccasined feet, from time to time, came to her ears;
but no one entered the cabin. A prey to suspense, she arose at last and
went out of doors. Douglas’s enemies were continuing their search. She
dimly discerned their dark forms flitting here and there. Aimlessly she
sauntered toward the Prophet’s hut. Just as she reached it, a number of
warriors were entering the door. She followed them; and heard the leader
say to Tenskwatawa, who stood at one end of the room, directly under a
flaring torch stuck into the wall:
“Fleet Foot has escaped. He is in hiding about the village. Does
Tenskwatawa know aught of him?”
The Prophet expanded his chest, and, raising his right hand, said
severely:
“Tenskwatawa is the father of his red children. He does not befriend the
palefaces. Begone!”
At that moment, the speaker chanced to glance at his own hand. He saw
that his ring was gone. An expression of unspeakable surprise overspread
his horrid features. With the whimpering cry of a whipped child, he
dropped upon his knees and began to search for the talisman. Not finding
it, he silently arose to his feet, an expression of absolute imbecility
upon his face. Then appearing to realize the magnitude of the misfortune
that had befallen him, he dropped to the floor in a writhing heap,
moaning and beating his chest.
“Ugh!” ejaculated the leader of the band. “Tenskwatawa has lost his
sign—his power. See! He is weak—he whines like a sick squaw! Ugh!”
And with a parting volley of contemptuous exclamations, the braves
hastily left the room.
La Violette leaned against the wall and calmly looked upon the whining,
moaning wretch at her feet. Now she fully realized what she had done; but
she had no regret. She had done it for the sake of the man she loved!
The Prophet was indeed shorn of his power. From that day forth, his
influence over his people rapidly declined.