THE GREATER POWERS
When the Shawnee chief rose to talk he stood at one side of the open
space, scarcely twenty feet from the corner of the council house in
which Henry lay hidden, and as he said what he had to say in the usual
oratorical manner of the Indians upon such occasions, the youth easily
heard every word.
Red Eagle spoke in Shawnee, which Henry surmised was a kindred language
to that of the village, and which it was obvious they easily understood.
He told them a startling tale. He said that far in the south five white
scouts and foresters, two of whom were only boys in years, although one
of the boys was the largest and strongest of the five, had kept the
Indians from destroying the white settlements in Kain-tuck-ee. By trick
and device, by wile and stratagem, they had turned back many an attack.
It was not their numbers, but the cunning they used and the evil spirits
they summoned to their aid that made them so powerful and dangerous.
Until the five were removed the Indians could not roam their ancient
hunting grounds in content.
So the Shawnees, the Miamis, the Wyandots, the Delawares and the kindred
tribes had organized to pursue the five to the death. They had struck
the trail of one, the youth who was the largest, the strongest and the
most formidable of them all, and they had never ceased to follow it.
Twice they had drawn around him a ring through which it seemed possible
for nothing human to break, but on each occasion he had called to the
evil spirits, his friends, and they had answered him with such effect
that he had vanished like a bird at night.
Murmurs of wonder came from the listening crowd. Truly, the young white
warrior was of marvelous prowess, and it would not be well for one of
them alone to meet him, when he not only had his formidable weapons, but
could summon to his help spirits yet more dreadful. They cast
apprehensive glances at the deep woods into which he had fled.
Red Eagle was an impressive orator, and the forest setting was
admirable. The great Shawnee chief stood full six feet in height, his
brow was broad and his eyes clear and sparkling. He made but few
gestures, and he spoke in a full voice that carried far. Before him were
the people of the village, and behind him was the great forest, blazing
in autumn red. The renegades, Blackstaffe and Wyatt, stood near, each
leaning against a tree trunk, following closely all that Red Eagle said.
They, too, wished the destruction of the great youth, but their enmity
to him was baser than that of the Indians, since it was an innate
jealousy and hatred, and not a hostility based upon difference of race
and interest.
When Henry looked at the renegades the desire to laugh was strong again.
What rage they would feel if they ever came to know that when Red Eagle
was making his address with his veteran warriors around him, the
fugitive, for whose capture or death a red army had striven in vain for
days, lay at his ease within fifty or sixty feet of them, a buffalo robe
of the Indians' themselves, his bed, and one of their own houses his
shelter!
Red Eagle continued, in his round, full voice, telling them he had
tracked the fugitive northward, his warriors picking up the trail again,
and that he must have passed near their village. He wished to know if
they had seen any trace of him, and he asked their help in the hunt. A
middle-aged man, evidently the head of the village, replied with equal
dignity, but in a dialect that Henry could not understand. Still, he
assumed that it was a full assent, as, a few minutes after he had
finished, ten warriors of the village, taking their weapons, went into
the forest, and Henry knew that they were looking for him or his trail.
But Red Eagle, his warriors and the renegades remained by the fire,
still resting, because they were weary, very weary, no fugitive before
ever having led them such a troublesome chase.
Red Eagle, the Shawnee chief, was a statesman as well as a warrior.
While it was true that young Ware was helped by evil spirits, he felt
that the pursuit must be maintained nevertheless. Ware was the great
champion of the white people, who far to the south were cutting down
the forest and building houses. He had acquired a wonderful name. His
own deeds were marvelous, but superstition had added to the terror that
he carried among the Indians. He must be removed. The necessity for it
grew greater and more pressing every day. All the Indian power must be
turned upon him, and when the task was achieved they could deal with his
four comrades. He had talked over the problem with Yellow Panther, first
chief of the Miamis, a man full of years, wise in council and great on
the war path, and he had agreed with him fully that the pursuit must be
maintained, even if it went to the Great Lakes, or those other great
lakes in the far misty Canadian region beyond.
Now, Red Eagle, as he rested by the fire and received the hospitality of
the tiny tribe in the wilderness, was very thoughtful. Intellect as well
as prowess had made him a great chief; like the one whom he pursued, he
loved the forest, and when he looked upon it now, in all its glowing
colors of autumn, the glossy browns, the blazing reds and the soft
yellows, he was not willing for a single one of its trees to be cut
down. And while he meant to carry the pursuit to the very rim of the
world he knew, if need be, he did not withhold admiration and a certain
liking for the fugitive.
Red Eagle glanced at the renegades, who had sat down now before the fire
and who were in a half doze. Although they were useful to the Indians,
who valued them for many reasons, he felt a strong aversion toward them
at that moment. He knew that if Ware were taken they would clamor at
once for his life. None would be more eager for the torture than they,
but Red Eagle had another plan in his mind. The principle of adoption
was strong among the Indians. Captives were often received into the
tribes, and Ware, with death as the alternative, might become a splendid
young adopted son for him and, in time, the greatest chief of the
Shawnees. He would not come as a renegade, like Blackstaffe and Wyatt,
but as a valiant prisoner taken fairly in battle, to whom was left no
other choice.
It was to the credit of Red Eagle's heart and brain, as he sat deeply
pondering, that he evolved such a plan, but he made one mistake. High as
he estimated the mental and physical powers of the fugitive to be, he
did not estimate them high enough. Few would have had the strength of
will that Henry displayed then to lie quiet in the council house while
his enemies were all about him and the warriors were searching the
forest around for his trail. It was fortunate, in truth, that the snow
had come and passed, hiding any possible traces he might have left.
His conviction that he was safe, for the present at least, remained. He
knew there was no occasion for the chiefs to enter the sacred building
in which he lay, and the others would not dare to do so. Nothing
troubled him at present but thirst. His throat and mouth were dry and
craved water, as one in the desert, but he knew that he must endure.
Late in the day, the warriors of the village who had gone out to look
for his trail began to return, and when they had made their reports,
Henry knew by the disappointment evident on the faces of Red Eagle and
the renegades, that they had found nothing. He saw the Shawnee chief
give orders to his own men, half of whom plunged into the forest to the
northward and disappeared. They reckoned that he had gone on, and,
spreading out in the usual fan fashion, would continue the pursuit. But
it seemed that Red Eagle, with the remainder of his immediate force and
the renegades, intended to pass the night in the village.
A supper of great abundance and variety was served to the Shawnee chief
and his men, and, when he saw the pure fresh drinking water brought to
them, Henry raged inwardly. They had not taken him yet, but already he
was being put to the torture. It was bitter irony that he should suffer
so much for water when the forest contained countless streams and pools.
He shut his teeth tight together and waited for the coming of the night,
now not far away. The lack of water would drive him out of the council
house, and in the dark he must seize anything that looked like an
opportunity.
He hoped for the clouds again and another veil of snow, however thin,
but his hopes were not fulfilled. When the slow dusk came, he lifted the
buffalo curtain and emerged from his corner, feeling an intense relief,
despite the shooting pain, because he could stand up again. Then he
stretched and rubbed himself until all the soreness was gone from his
muscles, and, standing there, tried to think of a way to escape.
His eyes, used to the dark of the room, fell upon a great headdress of
twisted buffalo horns, profusely decorated with feathers. A long coat of
buffalo skin adorned with feathers and porcupine quills in strange
designs lay beside it upon the poles. He had seen many such equipments.
It was a sort of regalia worn by Indian dancers, and now and then by
great chiefs upon solemn occasions.
He looked at it, idly at first, and then with growing interest, as an
idea was born in his brain. The dress must be almost sacred in
character, or it would not be left here in the council house, and kind
fortune had certainly put it on the poles for his particular use. Once
more he was thoroughly convinced that he was watched over by the greater
powers, not because of any especial merit of his, but for reasons of
their own, and he clothed himself in the headdress and the strange,
variegated robe that fell to his ankles. Then even Shif'less Sol would
have had to take a third look to know him.
Henry's heart beat high and fast. He was thoroughly convinced that he
had found a way. He had now only to use that rarest and greatest of
qualities, patience, and, by a supreme exertion of the will, he managed
to wait until it was far into the night.
Red Eagle had gone into one of the log cabins, and was probably asleep.
Henry, from the crack, was not able to see what had become of the
renegades, but he surmised that they, too, were sleeping somewhere. Two
of the fires still burned in the open, but nobody watched beside them,
and he judged that the time was ripe for the trial.
He gave a final touch to the headdress and the buffalo robe. He would
have been glad to have seen himself in a glass, but he was sure,
nevertheless, that he looked his part of a great medicine man, a
reincarnation of some ancient chief who had come back to spend a while
within the sacred precincts of the council house. His rifle he managed
to hide beneath the great painted coat, at the same time holding it
convenient for his use, and, lifting the curtain of buffalo robe, he
stepped out.
It was neither a dark nor a fair night, but much fleecy vapor was
floating between earth and sky, imparting to the village and the forest
a misty, unreal effect which was suited admirably to Henry's purpose,
enlarging his figure and giving to it a fantastic and weird effect.
Knowing it, and having the utmost confidence in himself, he chose a path
directly through the center of the open, walking slowly, but taking
strides of great length and stepping from tiptoe to tiptoe.
Two Indian sentinels, a Shawnee and a native of the village, were dozing
by the wall of one of the log cabins, when they heard the step in the
open. They lifted heavy eyelids and beheld a gigantic figure, attired in
a garb that ordinary mortals do not wear, stalking toward the forest,
caring nothing for the sentinels, the village or anything else. They
were in the midway region between sleeping and waking, when images are
printed upon the brain in confused or exaggerated shapes, and the
mysterious visitor, who was even then taking his departure, seemed to
them at least fifteen feet high, while, from under the headdress of
twisted buffalo horns, two great eyes, hot and blazing like coals,
stared at them. This terrifying figure, as they gazed upon it, raised a
huge hand full of menace and shook it at them. They gave a yell of
terror and darted into the forest.
Red Eagle, sleeping the sleep of the just and tired, heard the shout of
alarm, and it impinged so heavily upon his unconscious brain that he was
shocked at once into an awakening. He leaped to his feet and ran out of
the cabin, just in time to meet the head chief of the village coming out
of another one. The two stared at each other, and then they saw the
great figure, in its mystic apparel, just where forest and open met.
Each uttered a gasp, and, before they could gasp a second time, the
apparition was gone among the trees, vanishing from their stupefied gaze
like a wisp of smoke before the wind. Then Red Eagle and his host, great
and wise chiefs though they were, looked at each other again and
trembled.
Henry meanwhile was racing through the forest and toward the north,
always toward the north, and as he ran he shook with laughter. He had
seen the look of dismay on the faces of the Indians and he rejoiced. He
was sorry that he had not seen Braxton Wyatt and Blackstaffe too. Their
minds were less subject to superstition than those of the red men, but
no doubt in the first minute or two they were frightened also if they
saw him.
Yet he believed that the renegades would arouse the Indians and perhaps
would suspect that the terrific stranger, who had come and departed so
mysteriously, was none other than the fugitive himself. He did not care
if they did; in truth, he rather hoped they would. He could imagine
their mortification and disappointment, and since they had gone to dwell
with strangers and fight their own people, it was only a fraction of
what they deserved.
The great headdress of twisted buffalo horns was heavy and the big
painted buffalo coat flapped around him, but he would not discard them
yet. Stray warriors might be in the forest near the village, and, if so,
he wished to reserve for them his awful and threatening appearance. But
he could not stand them more than a mile. Then he threw the headdress
into a creek, hoping that it would float away with the current, but,
thinking he would have further use for it, he kept the painted coat.
Then he crossed the creek and resumed his northward flight at great
speed.
He did not stop until dawn, when he felt that he was safe, for a day at
least, from pursuit. He had brought with him what was left of the deer
meat, and, sitting down by the bank of a small brook, he ate, drinking
afterward of the clear stream and giving thanks. He had been saved again
in a miraculous manner. When skill and strength themselves would have
been of no avail, fortune had put the council house and the ceremonial
robes in his way. He could not doubt that the greater powers were
working in his behalf, and he felt all the elation that comes from the
assurance of continued victory.
But it was a bleak dawn. A cold sun was rising in a cold, blue sky.
There was no snow now, but the dry grass was white with frost, and
whenever the wind stirred a little, the dead leaves fell with a dry
rustle. He retreated deeper into the thicket, and he was glad that he
had kept the great painted coat, as he wrapped himself in it from head
to foot and lay down between two fallen logs, with the dense bushes over
his head.
He must find another interval of rest and sleep, and feeling that his
best chance lay here, he drew the coat very close. It kept him
thoroughly warm, and, as soon as his nerves settled into their normal
condition, he slept.
He awoke before noon, and the morning was still frosty and cold. Yet the
wilderness was more beautiful than ever. The frost had merely deepened
its colors. While many dead leaves had fallen, myriads remained, and
they had taken on more intense and glowing tints. The air had all the
purity and tonic of an American autumn. The light winds were the breath
of life itself.
He ate the last of the deer, and then he found bunches of wild grapes,
small and bitter sweet, but refreshing. Later in the day he must secure
game, though he still felt averse to shooting anything, since the
creatures of the forest had saved him more than once. But in the end it
would come to it.
It was a rolling country, and, walking to the crest of the highest
ridge, he examined it in all directions. He saw only the great forest in
its reds and yellows and browns, and he was alone in it, its uncrowned
king, if he chose to call himself so.
Although the country was new to him, Henry believed that he was about
two hundred and fifty miles north of the Ohio and in the region
inhabited by the warlike northwestern tribes. Several of their great
villages must lie not very far to the east of him, and he smiled at the
thought that he was leading the pursuit back to the homes of the
pursuers. He wondered what his comrades were doing, but he believed that
they would remain in the swamp, or near it, until he came back.
Not knowing what else to do, he moved northward again, and presently
heard a low, monotonous sound, which after a little listening he decided
to be Indian squaws chanting. Further listening convinced him that there
were only two voices, and he approached cautiously among the trees.
Two Indian women, one quite young and the other quite old, were cooking
by the side of a small brook, in which they had evidently been washing
deerskin clothing earlier in the day, as it now lay drying on the bank.
Probably they were the wife and mother of some warrior preparing for his
return from the hunt. Henry took little interest in the deerskins they
had washed, but his attention was concentrated quickly upon their
cooking.
They were broiling a fat, juicy wild turkey. He had an especially tender
tooth for wild turkey, particularly when it was young and fat. It, more
than anything else, was his staff of life, and now he set covetous eyes
upon the one that was broiling over the coals. He did not like to rob
women, but it must be done, and he bethought himself of his painted
coat. Pulling it high over his head, concealing his rifle under it and
uttering a tremendous woof, he stalked into the open in which the fire
was burning.
The two Indian women, when they beheld the apparition, uttered
simultaneous screams and fled into the forest, while the hungry young
robber, lifting their turkey from the fire, where it was already well
broiled, disappeared among the trees in the opposite direction, happy to
have secured his rations through the aid of fright only and without
violence. He knew, however, that he could not afford to satisfy his
hunger just then. Warriors, and perhaps a village, could not be far
away, and the men, divining that the fright of the women was caused by a
human being, would soon come in pursuit. So he went at least two or
three miles before he sat down and ate a substantial dinner, reserving
the remainder for future use. Truly the wild turkey was his best friend.
That night he lay again in the forest, and he was devoutly glad that he
had saved the painted robe. The climate of the great valley is fickle,
and it rapidly turned colder again. Raw winds whistled through the
woods, and he had difficulty in finding a sheltered place where, even
with the aid of the robe, he could keep warm. He selected at last a tiny
glen, well grown with tall bushes on every side, heaped up parallel rows
of dead leaves, and then, lying down between them, wrapped in the robe,
fell asleep.
When he awoke his face felt cold, and opening his eyes, he found that it
had good reason to be so. It was covered with snow, and upon the robe
itself the snow lay deep. The whole forest was white, and, as he stood
up, he heard branches cracking beneath the weight that had gathered on
them in the night. It had come down in thick and great flakes, but so
softly that it had failed to awaken him.
Henry, despite his courage and strength, was alarmed. It is one thing
even for the best trained to live in the forest in summer, but quite
another in winter. Nor was the aspect of the sky encouraging. It was
somber with clouds, and, even as he looked at it, the snow began to fall
again. It was not an ordinary snow, but the clouds just ripped their
bottoms out and let their entire burden fall at once. A huge white
cataract seemed to fill the whole air, and Henry's alarm deepened into
dismay. The snow would soon be six inches deep, then a foot, and what
was he to do?
He was thankful once more for the painted robe, and also for the wild
turkey that he had pilfered, and knowing that he must keep warm, he
started on a dreary walk toward the north. The snow was pouring so hard
that he could scarcely see, but he heard a sound to his right, and
presently he was able to discern an immense stag floundering in some
undergrowth in which its hoofs seemed to be caught.
Henry could easily have shot the deer and it would have furnished an
unlimited supply of food, at a time when he might be snowed up for days.
He always believed afterward, too, that the deer expected to be killed,
as it ceased its struggles and looked at him with great, pathetic eyes.
It was a magnificent stag, the largest he had ever seen, but he had no
heart to shoot. His own eyes met the appealing gaze from those of the
king of the woods and he felt sorry. Nothing could have induced him to
shoot. He sincerely hoped that the stag would pull free, and as the
thought came to him the wish was fulfilled.
The left forefoot, which was entangled, suddenly came loose and unhurt.
Never did Henry see a transformation more rapid and complete. The stag,
before pathetic and depressed, a beaten beast, expanded in the twinkling
of an eye into a mighty monarch of the forest. He stood erect, threw
back his great head in a gesture of triumph, looked once more at the
human being whom nature had taught him instinctively to dread, but who
had not harmed him when he was at his mercy, then stalked away, until he
was lost behind the white veil of the snowy fall.
Henry felt gladness. He was glad that he had not shot, and he was glad
that the stag had released his foot, or otherwise he would have perished
under the teeth of wolves. Then he addressed himself to his own peril,
which was great and increasing. He hunted the deepest portions of the
woods, but the snow sought him there. He stood under the trees of the
thickest boughs, but the white fall gradually poured through, heaping
upon his head, his shoulders and the folds of his robe. He would brush
it off and move on to another place, merely to find it gathering again,
and, by and by, his great muscles began to feel weariness. He plodded
for hours in the deepening snow, seeking a refuge from this persistent
and deadly fall, but finding none. A sort of despair, almost unknown to
him, oppressed him for a little while. He had fought off innumerable
attacks of warlike and powerful savages, he had triumphed over hardships
and dangers the very name of which would make the ordinary man shudder,
and here he was about to be conquered by a mere shift of the wind that
brought snow.
He could have shouted aloud in anger, but instead he summoned all his
courage and strength anew and continued his hunt for a refuge.