THE SEVEN HERALDS
Henry, late the next night, was near the Wyandot village, watching it
alone. They had decided to divide their work as the border watch. Part
of them would sleep in the covert, while the others would scout about
the village. That night it was the turn of Shif'less Sol and himself,
but they had separated in order to see more. The shiftless one was now
on the other side of the town, perhaps a mile away.
Henry was in a thick clump of bushes that lay to the north of the house
and tepees. Dogs might stray that way or they might not. If they did, a
rifle shot would silence the first that gave tongue, and he knew that
alone he was too swift in flight to be overtaken by any Indian force.
Although past midnight the heavens were a fine silky blue, shot with a
myriad of stars, and a full rich moon hanging low. Henry, lying almost
flat upon his stomach, with his rifle by his side, was able to see far
into the village. He noted that, despite the lateness of the hour, fires
were burning there, and that warriors, carrying torches, were passing
about. This was unusual. It was always characteristic of his mind not
only to see, but to ask where, when and, above all, why? Now he was
repeatedly asking why of himself, but while asking he never failed to
observe the slightest movement in the village.
Presently he saw Timmendiquas walk from a large lodge and stop by one of
the fires. Standing in the rays of the moon, light from above and
firelight from his side falling upon him the figure of the chief was
like that of some legendary Titan who had fought with the gods. A red
blanket hung over his shoulder, and a single red feather rose aloft in
the defiant scalp lock.
Henry saw the renegade, Simon Girty, approach, and talk with the chief
for a few moments, but he was much too far away to hear what they said.
Then six warriors, one of them, by his dress, a sub-chief, came from the
lodges and stood before Timmendiquas, where they were joined, an instant
later, by the renegade Blackstaffe. The chief took from beneath his
blanket four magnificent belts of wampum, two of which he handed to the
sub-chief and two to the renegade. Timmendiquas said a few words to
every one of them, and, instantly leaving the village they traveled
northward at the swift running walk of the Indian. They passed near
Henry in single file, the sub-chief at the head and Blackstaffe in the
rear, and he noticed then that they carried supplies as if for a long
journey. Their faces were turned toward the Northwest.
Timmendiquas and Girty stood for a moment, watching the men, then turned
back and were lost among the lodges. But Henry rose from his covert and,
hidden among the bushes, came to a rapid conclusion. He knew the
significance of wampum belts and he could guess why these seven men had
departed so swiftly. They were heralds of war. They were on their way to
the far northwest tribes, in order that they might bring them to the
gathering of the savage clans for the invasion of Kentucky.
Henry felt a powerful impulse, an impulse that speedily became a
conviction. Every delay and every reduction of force was a help to the
white men and white women and children down below the Ohio. A week of
time, or the difference of twenty warriors might be their salvation. He
must turn back the messengers, and he must do it with his single hand.
How he longed for the help of the brave and resourceful Shif'less Sol.
But he was a mile away, somewhere in the dark woods and Henry could not
delay. The seven heralds were speeding toward the Northwest, at a pace
that would soon take them far beyond his reach, unless he followed at
once.
Dropping his rifle in the hollow of his arm he swung in behind them. One
could not pick up a trail in dense woods at night, but he had observed
their general direction, and he followed them so swiftly that within a
half hour he saw them, still traveling in Indian file, the chief as
before at the head of the line and Blackstaffe at the rear. The moon had
now faded a little, and the light over the forest turned from silver to
gray. Many of the stars had withdrawn, but on sped the ghostly
procession of seven. No, not of seven only, but of eight, because behind
them at a distance of two hundred yards always followed a youth of great
build, and of wilderness instinct and powers that none of them could
equal.
Chaska, the sub-chief, the Shawnee who led, was an eager and zealous
man, filled with hatred of the white people who had invaded the hunting
grounds of his race. He was anxious to bring as many warriors as he
could to their mighty gathering, even if he had to travel as far as the
farthest and greatest of the Great Lakes. Moreover he was swift of foot,
and he did not spare himself or the others that night. He led them
through bushes and weeds and grass and across the little brooks. Always
the others followed, and no sound whatever came from the file of seven
which was really the file of eight.
The seven heralds traveled all night and all of the next day, always
through forest, and at no time was the eighth figure in the file more
than four hundred yards behind them.
The Indian, through centuries of forest life, had gifts of insight and
of physical faculties amounting to a sixth sense, yet the keenest among
them never suspected, for an instant, that they were eight and not
seven. At noon they sat down in the dry grass of a tiny prairie and ate
dried deer meat. Henry, in the edge of the woods a quarter of a mile
away, also ate dried deer meat. When the seven finished their food and
resumed the march the eighth at the same time finished his food and
resumed the march. Nothing told the seven that the eighth was there, no
voice of the wood, no whisper from Manitou.
The stop had not lasted more than half an hour and the journey led on
through great forests, broken only by tiny prairies. Game abounded
everywhere, and Henry judged that the Indians, according to the custom
among some of the more advanced tribes, had not hunted over it for
several seasons, in order that it might have plenty when they came
again. Ten or a dozen buffaloes were grazing on nearly every little
prairie, splendid deer were in the open and in the woods, but the seven
and also the eighth stopped for none of these, although they would have
been sorely tempted at any other time.
Their speed was undiminished throughout the afternoon, but Henry knew
that they must camp that night. They could not go on forever, and he
could secure, too, the rest that he needed. It might also give him the
chance to do what he wished to do. At least he would have time to plan.
In the late afternoon the character of the day changed. The sun set in a
mackerel sky. A soft wind came moaning out of the Southwest, and drops
of rain were borne on its edge. Darkness shut down close and heavy. No
moon and no stars came out. The rain fell gently, softly, almost as if
it were ashamed, and the voice of the wind was humble and low.
Chaska, Blackstaffe and their men stopped under the interlacing boughs
of two giant oaks, and began to collect firewood. Henry, who had been
able to come much nearer in the dark, knew then that they would remain
there a long time, probably all night, and he was ready to prepare for
his own rest. But he did not do anything until the seven had finished
their task.
He kept at a safe distance, shifting his position from time to time,
until the Indians had gathered all the firewood they needed and were
sitting in a group around the heap. Chaska used the flint and steel and
Henry saw the fire at last blaze up. The seven warmed their food over
the fire and then sat around it in a close and silent circle, with their
blankets drawn over their bodies, and their rifles covered up in their
laps. Sitting thus, Blackstaffe looked like the others and no one would
have known him from an Indian.
Henry had with him, carried usually in a small pack on his back, two
blankets, light in weight but of closely woven fiber, shedding rain, and
very warm. He crouched in a dense growth of bushes, three or four
hundred yards from the Indian fire. Then he put one blanket on the
ground, sat upon it, after the Indian fashion, and put the other blanket
over his head and shoulders, just as the warriors had done. He locked
his hands across his knees, while the barrel of the rifle which rested
between his legs protruded over his shoulder and against the blanket.
Some of the stronger and heavier bushes behind him supported his weight.
He felt perfectly comfortable, and he knew that he would remain so,
unless the rain increased greatly, and of that there was no sign.
Henry, though powerful by nature, and inured to great exertions, was
tired. The seven, including the eighth, had been traveling at a great
pace for more than twenty hours. While the Indians ate their food,
warmed over the fire, he ate his cold from his pocket. Then the great
figure began to relax. His back rested easily against the bushes. The
tenseness and strain were gone from his nerves and muscles. He had not
felt so comfortable, so much at peace in a long time, and yet not three
hundred yards away burned a fire around which sat seven men, any one of
whom would gladly have taken his life.
The clouds moved continually across the sky, blotting out the moon and
every star. The soft, light rain fell without ceasing and its faint
drip, drip in the woods was musical. It took the last particle of strain
and anxiety from Henry's mind and muscles. This voice of the rain was
like the voice of his dreams which sometimes sang to him out of the
leaves. He would triumph in his present task. He was bound to do so,
although he did not yet know the way.
He watched the fire with sleepy eyes. He saw it sink lower and lower. He
saw the seven figures sitting around it become dim and then dimmer,
until they seemed to merge into one solid circle.
As long as he looked at them he did not see a single figure move, and he
knew that they were asleep. He knew that he too would soon be sleeping
and he was willing. But he was resolved not to do so until the darkness
was complete, that is, not until the fire had gone entirely out. He
watched it until it seemed only a single spark in the night. Then it
winked and was gone. At the same time the darkness blotted out the ring
of seven figures.
Henry's eyelids drooped and closed. He raised them weakly once or twice,
but the delicate voice of the light rain in the forest was so soothing
that they stayed down, after the second attempt, and he floated
peacefully to unknown shores, hidden as safely as if he were a thousand
miles from the seven seated and silent figures.
He awoke about midnight and found himself a little stiff from his
crouching position, but dry and rested. The rain was still falling in
gentle, persistent fashion. He rolled up the blanket that had lain
under him but kept the other around his shoulders. All was dark where
the fire and the ring of seven had been, but he knew instinctively that
they were there, bent forward with the blankets about their heads and
shoulders.
He stole forward until he could see them. He was right. Not one in the
circle was missing and not one had moved. Then he passed around them,
and, picking his way in the darkness, went ahead. He had a plan, vague
somewhat, but one which he might use, if the ground developed as he
thought it would. He had noticed that, despite inequalities, the general
trend of the earth was downward. The brooks also ran northward, and he
believed that a river lay across their path not far ahead.
Now he prayed that the rain would cease and that the clouds would go
away so that he might see, and his prayers were answered. A titanic hand
dragged all the clouds off to the eastward, and dim grayish light came
once more over the dripping forest. He saw forty or fifty yards ahead,
and he advanced much faster. The ground continued to drop down, and his
belief came true. At a point four or five miles north of the Indian camp
he reached a narrow but deep river that he could cross only by swimming.
But it was likely a ford could be found near and he looked swiftly for
it.
He went a mile down the stream, without finding shallow water, and, then
coming back, discovered the ford only a hundred yards above his original
point of departure. The water here ran over rocks, and, for a space of
ten or fifteen yards, it was not more than four feet deep. The Indians
undoubtedly knew of this ford, and here they would attempt to cross.
He waded to the other side, rolled up the second blanket, crouched
behind rocks among dense bushes, ate more cold food, and waited. His
rifle lay across his knees, and, at all times, he watched the woods on
the far shore. He was the hunter now, the hunter of men, the most
dangerous figure in the forest, all of his wonderful five senses attuned
to the utmost.
The darkness faded away, as the dawn came up, silver and then gold.
Golden light poured down in a torrent on river, forest and hills. Every
leaf and stem sprang out clear and sharp in the yellow blaze. The
waiting youth never stirred. From his covert in the thicket behind the
rocks he saw everything. He saw a bush stir, when there was no wind, and
then he saw the face of the Indian chief Chaska, appear beside the bush.
After him came the remainder of the seven and they advanced toward the
ford.
Henry raised his rifle and aimed at Chaska. He picked a spot on the
broad and naked chest, where he could make his bullet strike with
absolute certainty. Then he lowered it. He could not fire thus upon an
unsuspecting enemy, although he knew that Chaska would have no such
scruples about him. Pursing his lips he uttered a loud sharp whistle, a
whistle full of warning and menace.
The seven sprang back among the bushes. The eighth on the other side of
the river lay quite still for a little while. Then a sudden puff of wind
blew aside some of the bushes and disclosed a portion of his cap. Chaska
who was the farthest forward of the seven saw the cap and fired. The
Indian is not usually a good marksman, and his bullet cut the bushes,
but Henry, who now had no scruples, was a sharpshooter beyond compare.
Chaska had raised up a little to take aim, and, before the smoke from
his own weapon rose, the rifle on the other side of the river cracked.
Chaska threw up his hands and died as he would have wished to die, on
the field of battle, and with his face to the foe. The others shrank
farther back among the bushes, daunted by the deadly shot, and the
hidden foe who held the ford.
Henry reloaded quietly, and then lay very close among the bushes. Not
only did he watch the forest on the other shore, but all his senses were
keenly alert. For a distance of a full half mile none of the Indians
could cross the river unseen by him, but, in case they went farther and
made the passage he relied upon his ears to warn him of their approach.
For a time nothing stirred. Boughs, bushes and leaves were motionless
and the gold on the surface of the river grew deeper under the rising
sun. Blackstaffe, after the fall of Chaska, was now commander of the
seven heralds, who were but six, and at his word the Indians too were
lying close, for the soul of Blackstaffe, the renegade, was disturbed.
The bullet that had slain Chaska had come from the rifle of a
sharpshooter. Chaska had exposed himself for only an instant and yet he
had been slain. Blackstaffe knew that few could fire with such swift and
deadly aim, but, before this, he had come into unpleasantly close
contact with some who could. His mind leaped at once to the conclusion
that the famous five were in front of him, and he was much afraid.
An hour passed. The beauty of the morning deepened. The river flowed, an
untarnished sheet, now of silver, now of gold as the light fell. Henry
crept some distance to the right, and then an equal distance to left. He
could not hear the movement of any enemy in front of him, and he
believed that they were all yet in the bushes on the other side of the
river. He returned to his old position and the duel of patience went on.
His eyes finally fixed themselves upon a large bush, the leaves of which
were moving. He took the pistol from his belt, cocked it, and put it
upon the rock in front of him. Then he slowly pushed forward the muzzle
of his long and beautiful Kentucky rifle.
It was certainly a duel to the death. No other name described it, and
hundreds of such have been fought and forgotten in the great forests of
North America. The Indian behind the bush was crafty and cunning, one of
the most skillful among the Shawnees. He had marked the spot where an
enemy lay, and was rising a little higher for a better look.
Henry had marked him, too, or rather the movement that was the precursor
of his coming, and when the Shawnee rose in the bush he raised a little
and fired. There was a terrific yell, a figure leaped up convulsively,
and then falling, disappeared. Five shots were fired at Henry, or rather
at the flame from his rifle, but he merely sank back a little, snatched
up the pistol, and sent a second bullet, striking a brown figure which
retreated with a cry to the woods. The remainder, Blackstaffe first
among them, also sprang to cover.
The renegade and the four remaining Indians, one of whom was severely
wounded, conferred as they lay among the trees. Blackstaffe was no
coward, yet his heart was as water within him. He was absolutely sure
now that the terrible five were before them. Two shots had been fired,
but the others were only waiting their chance. His own force was but
five now, only four of whom were effective. He was outnumbered, and he
did not know what to do. The Indians would want to carry out the
important orders of Timmendiquas, but there was the river, and they did
not dare to attempt the crossing.
Henry, in his old position, awaited the result with serene confidence.
The seven heralds were now but five, really four, and not only the
stars, but the sun, the day, time, circumstance and everything were
working for him. He had reloaded his weapons, and he was quite sure now
that Blackstaffe and the Indians would stay together. None of them nor
any two of them would dare to go far upstream or down stream, cross and
attempt to stalk him. Nevertheless he did not relax his vigilance. He
was as much the hunter as ever. Every sense was keenly alert, and that
superior sense or instinct, which may be the essence and flower of the
five was most alert of all.
The duel of patience, which was but a phase of the duel of death, was
resumed. On went the sun up the great concave arch of the heavens,
pouring its beams upon the beautiful earth, but on either side of the
river nothing stirred. The nerves of Blackstaffe, the renegade, were the
first to yield to the strain. He began to believe that the five had gone
away, and, creeping forward to see, he incautiously exposed one hand. It
was only for an instant, but a bullet from the other side of the river
cut a furrow all the way across the back of the hand, stinging and
burning as if a red hot bar had been laid upon it.
Blackstaffe dropped almost flat upon the ground, and looked at his hand
from which the blood was oozing. He knew that it was not hurt seriously,
but the wound stung horribly and tears of mingled pain and mortification
rose to his eyes. He suggested to the warriors that they go back, but
they shook their heads. They feared the wrath of Timmendiquas and the
scorn of their comrades. So Blackstaffe waited, but he was without hope.
He had been miserably trapped by his belief that the five had gone. They
were there, always watching, deadlier sharpshooters than ever.
It was noon now, and a Wyandot, the most zealous of the remaining
Indians, lying flat on his stomach, crept almost to the water's edge,
where he lay among the grass and reeds. Yet he never crept back again.
He stirred the grass and weeds too much, and a bullet, fired by
calculation of his movements, and not by any sight of his figure, slew
him where he lay.
Then a great and terrible fear seized upon the Indians as well as
Blackstaffe. Such deadly shooting as this was beyond their
comprehension. The bullets from the rifles of the unseen marksmen were
guided by the hand of Manitou. The Great Spirit had turned his face away
from them, and helping their wounded comrade, they fled southward as
fast as they could. Blackstaffe, his blazed hand burning like fire, went
with them gladly.
In that journey of twenty hours' northward the seven heralds had
traveled far from the Wyandot village and it was equally as far back to
it. Going northward they had zeal and energy to drive them on, and going
southward they had terror and superstition to drive them back. They
returned as fast as they had gone, and all the time they felt that the
same mysterious and deadly enemy was behind them. Once a bullet, cutting
the leaves near them, hastened their footsteps. The renegade wished to
abandon the wounded man, but the Indians, more humane, would not allow
it.
Henry could have reduced the number of the heralds still further, but
his mind rebelled at useless bloodshed and he was satisfied to let
terror and superstition do their work. He followed them until they were
in sight of the village, guessing the surprise and consternation that
their news would cause. Then he turned aside to find his comrades in the
covert and to tell them what he had done. They admired, but they were
not surprised, knowing him so well.
Meanwhile they waited.