THE INVASION OF THE ISLAND
The westward villages made but slight resistance to the mountaineers.
They were taken unawares, scattered blindly and many were slain. Some
of the fugitives hid, and others ran to warn the nearer settlements.
The invaders travelled slowly, in spite of Bright Robe’s efforts to
hurry them, stopping to rest and feast in every village and encumbering
themselves with booty and prisoners. Their only prisoners were women.
Bright Robe did his share of the fighting, but was careful to make it
no more than a man’s share. He fought on the ground, like his fellows,
and though he served as guide to the hidden encampments, he played an
inconspicuous part. And so they raided, fought and feasted for three
days, hearing nothing in all that time of Wise-as-a-she-wolf. The main
body held straight to the eastward, and small companies branched off to
the north and south.
On the fourth day of the invasion the mountaineers reached a large
village of deserted lodges. Even the storehouses were empty. The
disappointment angered them, and they pushed forward with more haste.
For three days they travelled, without finding anything of the
islanders except tracks of their snow-shoes and their empty lodges. By
this time, Bright Robe had decided that he had mixed as deeply in the
invasion as was wise, and that nightfall should be the signal for his
southward flight; for his old enemy, wherever he was wandering, would
surely take a hand in the game before long. But he said no word of this
to Black Eagle.
“Let the fool suffer for his foolishness,” he muttered.
The mountaineers were careless soldiers, and sent no scouts ahead of
their army. “What have we to fear from these men with the hearts of
mice and the muscles of women?” sneered Black Eagle. “They run before
us, even before they see our spears. In a few days we will drive them
into the great salt water in the east.”
Shortly after noon they reached another empty village. They rushed
into the lodges, shouted angrily, and fought among themselves for
what little the departed inhabitants had left behind. The five hundred
warriors crowded into the open space, overturning the lodges, and
reviling the islanders. Arrows leaped from the woods on every side. Two
flights sprang forth and tasted blood before the mountaineers realized
what had happened. Then they rallied and dashed for the hidden enemy.
Black Eagle turned furiously upon Bright Robe.
“You have brought us to this trap,” he cried, and struck at him with
his club. The blow fell harmlessly on the magician’s shield; and in a
second in the crush and tumult of the battle they were separated.
Many of the mountaineers who advanced into the woods, to close with
the surrounding enemy, were swiftly forced back to the clearing. Blood
melted the snow, and contending warriors, with their racquets slipped
or broken from their feet, struggled deep in the drifts, stabbing
blindly. Shouts and cries of dismay rang up to the frozen sky. Men
fought hand to hand, even breast to breast,--yes, and tooth to flesh.
The lodges were torn and overturned, and as more men continued to pour
into the clearing the snow was trampled hard as earth and crusted with
frozen blood.
Bright Robe dared not fly openly from the scene and yet he was eager
to get away, fearing always the arrival of Wise-as-a-she-wolf. At last
he broke from the thick of the fight, hurling friend and foe alike
from his path by means of his magic strength. Many sturdy strokes were
aimed at him, but his magic turned them all aside, and he won to the
shelter of the forest without hurt. It was his intention to run to a
safe distance from the battle, hide until dark, and then take flight.
He ran straight through the woods, beating down the occasional warriors
who tried to bar his way. He had travelled nearly a mile, and was clear
of the outskirts of the battle, when, in pausing for breath, he heard
the springing of parted branches close behind him. He turned with ready
club, but saw nothing.
* * * * *
I must turn back a little, and look at the fight from the islanders’
side of it.
From the fugitives from the western villages word of the invasion
travelled quickly to the ears of Run-all-day. Swift runners were
sent in every direction, to warn the clans of the danger and bid
them prepare to fight. The people of the villages which lay in Black
Eagle’s course were told to fall back, with all their possessions,
upon Run-all-day’s country. Then Run-all-day divided his own warriors
and the men who joined him from the other clans, into three bodies of
about four hundred men each. One of these armies, under Jumping Wolf,
was sent forward immediately to encounter the mountaineers on their
probable course. Another was hurried forward in the same direction, but
several miles to the southward. The third was held in readiness near
the villages where the women and children and stores of the fugitives
were sheltered.
Jumping Wolf sent scouts in advance of the little army, to scour the
country for miles. These scouts were not long in finding the invaders,
and for a whole day before the attack the commander was constantly in
receipt of information concerning the approach of the enemy. He did not
rush his men, but advanced at an easy pace, ever on the look-out for a
suitable position in which to stand and strike. When night fell, his
men ate the cooked food that they had brought, dug great trenches in
the snow, and slept without fires. Shortly before noon he arrived at a
large, deserted village, and halted his men. A scout came running to
him.
“They are close at hand,” he said, “and one who guides them is pointing
the way to this village.”
So Jumping Wolf placed his eager warriors in the edge of the woods that
surrounded the clearing in which stood the empty lodges.
“Now is the time for you to put your magic to good use,” he said, to
Featherfoot.
But the youth shook his head. “Unless they have a magician among them,
I shall not use my magic,” he replied, placing a common arrow on the
string of his bow.
The islanders waited patiently, crouching on their thong-woven
racquets, peering eagerly into the clearing. Their bows were strung and
the arrows were loose in their belts, and their hearts were hot for
the battle. At last the invaders appeared, dashing into the clearing
and among the lodges in noisy disorder; and at the sight a thrill of
joy and rage ran through the waiting islanders. The notches of arrows
met the taut strings; and still the chiefs crouched motionless, giving
no sign. The place fairly squirmed with the shouting, dark-skinned
mountaineers. Jumping Wolf raised his hand above his head; up went the
hands of the other chiefs; out leaped the arrows upon the crowding,
struggling invaders. Again the bows were bent and released; and then
the islanders sprang to meet the rallying mountaineers, and struck with
clubs and spears.
It was soon quite evident to Featherfoot that the Beothics had the
upper hand in the engagement, though the invaders were the more
numerous. So he fell back from the struggle for a moment’s rest.
In surveying the struggle from a vantage point at the edge of the
clearing, his attention was attracted by a big stranger who fought
for the mountaineers and yet was lighter of skin. He saw this warrior
suddenly make his way out of the thick of the fight, dashing friend and
foe from his way with a strength that was more than human. He saw him
win, unhurt, to the edge of the clearing, and dart from sight among the
trees. “He fights with strong magic, and shields himself with magic,”
said Featherfoot, and immediately gave chase. As he ran among the
snatching, buffeting branches, he drew his most powerful arrow from his
belt, and pulled the silver robe above his head.
Featherfoot soon came in sight of the stranger. At the sound of
his approach the other turned; but the youth, knowing himself to be
invisible by virtue of the silver robe, halted and unhurriedly set the
magic arrow to the string of the magic bow. So great was the magic of
that arrow, that its weight became as the weight of a small mountain
the moment it hit its mark. There was no pity in Featherfoot’s heart,
for he had seen the strange magician slay both friend and foe, with
weapons from which they had no chance of escape; so he drew the bow
calmly and loosed the shaft. The stranger fell, staggered to his feet,
struck the arrow from his breast and leaped high above the tree-tops.
There he hung for a little, struggling desperately; but when another
arrow found him he dropped back to earth, turning over and over in
his fall. Featherfoot was upon him as soon as he touched the snow.
Knowing now that the stranger was Bright Robe, he bound the nerveless
limbs with magic thongs that no giant could break. Then, undoing the
moccasins from the unresisting feet, he found the red feathers. Quick
as thinking, they were transferred to his own moccasins, and his
snow-shoes were cast aside.
No sooner were the magic feathers in place against the soles of his
feet, than the shrill note of the whistle which old Whispering
Grass had given to Star Flower sounded faintly but terrifically in
Featherfoot’s ears. He sprang into the air and ran swiftly in the
direction of Little Heron’s village, leaving the evil magician bound
and unconscious on the snow.
He caught a blurred glimpse of the battle below, now scattered
and abating in fury, but so dazed and breathless was he with the
frightful speed at which he rushed through the air, his eyes could not
distinguish friend from foe. But whatever the outcome of the battle, he
had heard the whistle and must answer the call. So he ran on, though
his brain reeled, and his eyes ached, and his breath was like ice and
smoke in his throat. Presently, as he became accustomed to the new
manner and rate of travelling, the sensations grew less painful. Soon
he was able to see clearly, and run steadily, and draw his breath with
comparative ease.
Suddenly, as he raced along between the fading sky and the dimming
wastes of the earth, he heard the whispering of flight beside him.
Then he found that the silver robe had slipped from his head, and he
snatched at it with his left hand, to draw it into place.
“Hold,” cried the voice of Wise-as-a-she-wolf, close at his elbow.
“It is I, Featherfoot,” cried the youth in answer, desisting from his
efforts to hide himself beneath the robe and at the same time returning
his club to his belt. At that, the good magician appeared close beside,
and threw his arm about his neck.
“I had my axe raised to strike you, lad,” he whispered. “I thought my
old enemy was in my power at last.”
“I have wounded him and bound him, master,” replied Featherfoot,
breathlessly. “He lies near Diving Beaver’s village, where the warriors
are still fighting. But I have heard the call of the whistle, master,
and must hasten to answer it. Star Flower is in need of me.”
“Go, my son. I, too, have heard the whistle. But now I will hasten
to my warriors,” said the good magician. And so they parted, between
the shadowy wilderness and the darkling sky, with no questions of the
months of separation. Wise-as-a-she-wolf turned in the direction of
Diving Beaver’s encampment, and ran slowly on the icy currents of the
wind. He was still weak with the poison of the little arrow, and felt
the weariness of the long flight which he had just made. He wondered
to feel so little elation of spirit at the knowledge of Bright Robe’s
capture. His thoughts were all of Featherfoot, who was as dear as a son
to him. “Star Flower, Star Flower,” he repeated, and smiled pensively.
“Whoever this Star Flower is, and however she came to possess the
whistle, I think she will teach the lad a magic of which I have no
mastery,” he reflected. “He will build a lodge of bark and skins, and
it will be more beautiful to his eyes than my great house in the pine
wood, with its smokeless lamps and magic walls. He is young, and Youth
is the greatest magician. He loves a woman, and that is the strongest
magic.” Thus, with mingled tenderness and distress, he considered the
case of Featherfoot as he flew to the succour of his warriors.