"We must scout the Doom Trail," I said as we carried the canoe
through the water-gate and deposited it within the stockade. "I will
write the governor at once of affairs at Jagara and La Vierge du
Bois. But this last business makes it necessary he should have sure
intelligence of what passes to Canada."
"_Ja_," agreed Corlaer slowly. "Budt I hafe another scheme we might
try first--tonight."
"What?"
He surveyed the scores of dwindling canoes, their silvery birchen
sides agleam in the sunlight, their dripping paddle-blades shining as
the paddlers drove them along.
"They will make camp by sunset at der point of der three rocks. Am I
right, Ta-wan-ne-ars?"
The Seneca assented.
"That is eight--ten--miles from here. _Ja_, we can make it."
"Make what?" I asked impatiently.
"Der distance. Andt my plan."
"What plan, man?"
"To put der grin on der other side of Joncaire's face, by ----! Now
you listen."
And he outlined an undertaking which seemed absurdly simple until I
chanced to look up and see that fleet of canoes clouding the eastern
horizon of the lake.
"They are too many for us," I objected.
"_Ja_, if they know we come," he admitted. "Budt they do not. Andt
I hafe seen brandy-kegs in among der furs."
"It is well worth trying," said Ta-wan-ne-ars deliberately. "If it
succeeds it will set back the plans of Onontio and Murray."
"Andt if it does not, then you tell der Gofernor Peter Corlaer tried
once too often to get der joke back on Joncaire."
With which sage comment, Peter took himself off to arrange with the
post commandant for drawing certain supplies we should require for
this new expedition.
Two hours later an express left Oswego with dispatches for Governor
Burnet, describing the situation at Jagara and our experiences at La
Vierge du Bois, as well as the passage of Joncaire's argosy of furs,
the greatest haul which had so far been made by either country that
year on the frontier. Before the gate was slammed shut again we
three slipped out and waved good-by to the garrison on the walls.
We traveled parallel with the shore of the lake and made no effort to
set a fast pace. Ta-wan-ne-ars and I were still tired from our
exertions in escaping the hellish abode of the False Faces. We were
glad to halt when we glimpsed the glow of fires on the beach ahead of
us.
From this point our advance was more cautious, and we parted company
with Corlaer in some bushes, whence we could distinguish figures
dancing around the flames and hear the distant yells of the guests of
Joncaire as they caroused on his thoughtful provision of brandy. The
Dutchman stripped to his belt. Ta-wan-ne-ars relieved him of his
musket, powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and I shouldered his clothes
and pack.
"By der blasted pine--a goodt mile beyondt der other side," whispered
Peter as he waded into the water.
"You are sure you can stay afloat so long!" I asked with some
misgiving.
"_Ja_," he said scornfully. "When you hear a noise like a fish
rising three times, that is Peter."
He settled knife and tomahawk against either thigh, slung a spare
flask of powder beside them, sank forward to his chin and began to
cleave the water with powerful, overhand strokes.
"A merry evening to you," I called gently.
A grunt was my answer.
"We must hurry, brother," admonished Ta-wan-ne-ars.
He started off at right angles with the path we had been following,
and we fetched a circle around the group of fires, coming ultimately
to a high point above the shore half a mile beyond them. Here we
rested, both because our weariness was very great and because we
desired to witness Peter's exploit, and, if need be, be prepared to
aid him.
It was past midnight, and the fires had burned low and the
brandy-drinkers soaked themselves stupid. Not a sound came to us,
except for the calling of a wolf from the heavy timber inshore and
the croaking of water-birds.
'Twas Ta-wan-ne-ars' eagle vision which saw the danger-signal. He
gripped my arm.
"Look, brother," he hissed.
I looked, and a flame spurted upward between the fires and the water.
There was a sharp explosion. A long minute elapsed, and then a
chorus of excited yells rose, dropped and was sustained.
The flame mounted higher, and we could see figures running this way
and that in confusion. A musket barked. Others echoed it.
"They saw him in the water," remarked Ta-wan-ne-ars.
"Do you think he escaped?" I asked.
"We should hear the scalp-yell if he was taken or killed. Hark!
They still babble like animals."
We listened for ten minutes, and whilst the yelling continued, with
intermittent shooting, there was nothing to indicate triumph or
satisfaction. In the meantime the flames which Peter had kindled,
after flourishing grandly, gradually died out as the awakened savages
removed those canoes which had not caught fire and threw water on
such as were only smoldering.
We waited another five minutes to make sure the search did not trend
in our direction, but the bewildered tools of Joncaire were convinced
the attack had come from Oswego and the shouting and firing shifted
away from us toward the fort. So we picked up our burdens and
descended between boulders and stunted trees to a little bay which
was marked by the shattered stump of a pine.
Half an hour passed uneventfully. Then the steady lapping of the
water against the beach was disturbed by the splash a fish makes in
rising. It was repeated twice. Ta-wan-ne-ars leaned over and
splashed the water thrice with his hand. A grunt boomed out of the
darkness. Ripples spread in a widening circle, and a huge form
stepped noiselessly ashore, ignoring our helping hands.
"Oof, that was a goodt joke on Joncaire," muttered Peter. "Some
canoes I smash with der ax andt some I blow up with der powder andt
more are burnedt. Where are my clothes? I am soaked like der
muskrat. _Ja_, when we get to der woods I findt me a bear and gife
myself a rub with grease. I hafe bubbles under my skin."
"You were long in coming," said Ta-wan-ne-ars. "My brother is not
hurt?"
"_Nein, nein_. Those drunken swine couldt not hit me. I swam far
oudt andt at der first up der lake to fool them. Then I turned andt
swam back under der water. Ooof, what a swim! I tell you I hafe
bubbles under my skin! _Ja_!"
"Did you damage them much?" I asked eagerly.
Peter suspended the operation of struggling into his shirt and
chuckled shrilly.
"I wouldt gife much to see der face of that Joncaire when he counts
his canoes andt der fur-packs he has left. Twice now we get der joke
on him."
Wet as he was, with the water dripping from his lank hair, he
insisted upon quitting that dangerous locality at once. We tramped
across country until the sun was high, and we stumbled upon an
isolated family of Onondagas, who made us free of their _ga-no-sote_.
They relieved Peter's principal want by furnishing him bear's grease,
with which he anointed himself vigorously before sleeping.
We spent two days with these people, recuperating in preparation for
the stern task ahead of us. After parting with them we continued in
leisurely fashion eastward, keeping well to the north of the Great
Trail of the Long House and avoiding as much as possible contact with
the Onondagas, Oneidas and Mohawks whose countries we traversed.
Some ten days after leaving Oswego we found ourselves on the verge of
that untracked domain which was roamed by the Keepers of the Doom
Trail.
Here we paused to take counsel with one another.
"Somewhere this side of the Mohawk the Trail begins," said
Ta-wan-ne-ars. "Shall we follow the river and scout for signs there?"
"'Tis there the Keepers must be most vigilant," I suggested.
"_Ja_," spoke up Peter, "andt if we do not come to harm, yet Murray
will know we watch."
"What then?" asked Ta-wan-ne-ars.
"Let us scout der country well back from der river. You know aboudt
where lies La Vierge du Bois. It shouldt not be difficult to strike
der line of der Trail."
This plan we agreed upon, and, so that we might not be constrained to
use our muskets in the forbidden territory, we obtained from a Mohawk
village a quantity of jerked meat and parched corn mixed with maple
sugar ample to sustain us for a week or more. And in order to assure
that our departure would be free from the observation of spies we
left our last camp after dark and in two parties, Ta-wan-ne-ars and
myself going in one direction and Peter in another.
Our meeting-place was a grove on the bank of a creek, one of the
tributaries of the Mohawk. We reached it without observation, and
lay in concealment most of the day, starting again in the late
afternoon and moving warily through the forest, following no
particular course, but addressing ourselves rather to the effacement
of all evidence of our passage.
We discovered nothing, and the next day and many others went by with
no better luck. Sometimes we encountered the slots of deer or bear,
and the woodcraft of my comrades would be baffled temporarily until
they had proved beyond doubt that the trace was not used by human
feet. Once we came upon signs of old encampments, and diligently
scouted the vicinity, only to be convinced they were the relics of
some casual hunting-party.
Our provisions were exhausted, and we were compelled to live from
hand to mouth upon such game as Ta-wan-ne-ars could snare or kill
with his tomahawk--and certes he was wondrous proficient in both
arts. But we kept on, bearing always eastward and quartering the
country in every direction. Game there was in plenty, sure testimony
that man seldom came here; dense underbrush linked the towering
trunks; there was not so much as a footprint in hundreds of square
miles to reveal human occupancy.
Yet in the very midst of this deserted wilderness we came upon what
we sought. We had abandoned the headwaters of the Mohawk and were
following one of its middle branches, a shallow stream with pebbly,
shelving banks, wading close inshore so as not to disturb the
close-growing shrubbery. We all saw it simultaneously--a tattered,
weather-stained fragment of canvas, caught on a snag in the current.
I fished it out with my musket-barrel.
"A pack-cofer," declared Peter immediately.
"And safely identified," I added, putting my finger on an
unmistakable thistle in green paint with three-quarters of a letter
"M" above it.
A mile farther on Ta-wan-ne-ars exclaimed and pointed upward to the
trunk of a tall elm. Partly shaded by the foliage of the lower
boughs a deep blaze was revealed in the bark.
We waded ashore and investigated. The underbrush was as thick as
elsewhere, but presently Peter gave a heave with his bull-like
shoulders and a whole section of growths, which had been laced
together with vines on a backing of boughs, lifted gate-fashion.
Beyond stretched a narrow alley, whose carpet of grass showed it to
be seldom traveled.
"If this be not the Doom Trail 'tis worth a look none the less," I
whispered.
Peter nodded, and slipped through the opening. I followed him, and
Ta-wan-ne-ars brought up the rear.
Here in this hidden path the forest noises became remote. Even the
birds ceased to twitter overhead, and the slightest stirring of the
treetops made us drop to earth in expectancy of attack. Yet when the
attack came we were taken completely by surprize.
We had progressed some five miles from the beginning of the trail,
and had reached a point where it forked--or perhaps I should say was
joined by a second trail. At any rate the united trails continued
into a beaver swamp, where they disappeared. We scouted the swamp,
but could see no signs of a path across it; and Peter led the way to
the right, intending to encircle it.
The beavers had thinned the timber hereabout and cut down most of the
brushwood, so that we walked at ease between wide-spaced trunks. We
were all of us alert, but the first warning that we were under
observation was a green-feathered arrow which sang between Peter and
me and buried its head in the ground.
"Don'dt fire, whatefer you do," muttered Peter as he threw himself
behind the nearest trunk.
Ta-wan-ne-ars and I copied his example. I found myself on the right
of the three. The others had selected standing trunks. I had
chosen, perforce, a fallen giant which some forest wind had
overthrown. I crawled along the trunk into the tangle of roots, and
from there gained a clump of bushes growing about the hole from which
it had been torn. I could see Ta-wan-ne-ars crouched behind his
trunk, with his musket beside him and his tomahawk in his hand.
Peter was concealed from view.
The green-feathered arrow had ceased quivering and I idly followed
the angle of its inclination. My eyes traveled forward--and focused
upon a hideous painted face which peered from a screen of sumac.
The watcher motioned behind him, and a second painted visage glided
to his side. Ta-wan-ne-ars, seeking to draw their fire, thrust out
the end of his scalp-lock, and the first watcher instantly drew bow
and sent an arrow that grazed the trunk.
Nothing happened for a while. The Keepers waited, and Ta-wan-ne-ars
and Peter remained under cover. I surveyed the situation. From the
hole in which I lay a depression of the ground ran eastward past the
lair of the Cahnuagas in the sumac clump. I started to crawl up it,
dragging my musket after me, but before I had gone a dozen feet I was
obliged to abandon the gun in order to insure that my progress should
be silent.
Ta-wan-ne-ars, aware that I was up to something, called to Peter, and
the two of them executed a series of feints which kept the Keepers
occupied. When I was parallel with the sumac clump I sought shelter
under a patch of wild blackberry-bushes. Cautiously parting my
screen--which was exceedingly thorny and painful--I was able to view
the Keepers from the rear. They were ensconced in what was evidently
a permanent sentry-post. Beyond the sumacs was a low bark hut masked
with boughs. At their feet were muskets. The bows they held were
employed for the purpose of adding mystery to their attack.
So accustomed were the Keepers to the overpowering spell of the Doom
Trail, which weakened the nerves of all trespassers, that they were
wholly confident of the success of their tactics in first frightening
us and afterward running us down at pleasure. They stood behind the
sumac screen, their bushy feather head-dresses close together, grins
of anticipation cracking the paint on their evil faces.
I worked myself a little more in rear of their position, then rose
quietly and drew knife and tomahawk. I was an amateur at casting the
ax, but this was no time for hesitation. I flung it with all my
might, and yelled the nearest approach I could compass to the
war-whoop.
The tomahawk struck one of the Keepers with the flat of its blade,
felling him. The other savage turned quickly and loosed his arrow at
me, aiming wide in his confusion. He stooped for his musket, but I
was on him with my knife and he was forced to leap back and meet me
on even terms. Ta-wan-ne-ars and Peter came running between the
trees, whooping encouragement.
They arrived in the nick of time, for the Cahnuaga I had tried to
tomahawk was on his feet, ready to shoot me as I dodged the
knife-blade of his mate. The Seneca brained this man with the butt
of his gun, and Peter methodically tripped my adversary and helped me
pinion him.
Ta-wan-ne-ars paused long enough to remove what was left of the scalp
of his victim, then crossed to us and set his bloody knife to the
throat of the survivor.
"Is it to be torture or a quick death, Cahnuaga dog!" he demanded.
The red eyes of the Keeper glared at him. "Death," the man spat, and
strove to gnaw at the hands which held him.
"Then speak truly. Who travels Doom Trail today?"
"Nobody. We watch always."
Ta-wan-ne-ars pricked him slightly.
"You watch always," assented the Seneca. "Yes. And who comes?"
A shout echoed through the forest aisles. The red eyes of the
Cahnuaga flared exultantly. His mouth opened.
"Yaaa-aaaa-aaa-ah--"
Ta-wan-ne-ars drove his point home, and the scream ended in an awful
bubbling gasp.
The shout was repeated.