"Please do not preach to-day," said Nell, raising her eyes
imploringly to Jim's face.
"Nellie, I must conduct the services as usual. I can not shirk my
duty, nor let these renegades see I fear to face them."
"I have such a queer feeling. I am afraid. I don't want to be left
alone. Please do not leave me."
Jim strode nervously up and down the length of the room. Nell's worn
face, her beseeching eyes and trembling hands touched his heart.
Rather than almost anything else, he desired to please her, to
strengthen her; yet how could he shirk his duty?
"Nellie, what is it you fear?" he asked, holding her hands tightly.
"Oh, I don't know what--everything. Uncle is growing weaker every
day. Look at Mr. Young; he is only a shadow of his former self, and
this anxiety is wearing Mr. Heckewelder out. He is more concerned
than he dares admit. You needn't shake your head, for I know it.
Then those Indians who are waiting, waiting--for God only knows
what! Worse than all to me, I saw that renegade, that fearful beast
who made way with poor dear Kate!"
Nell burst into tears, and leaned sobbing on Jim's shoulder.
"Nell, I've kept my courage only because of you," replied Jim, his
voice trembling slightly.
She looked up quickly. Something in the pale face which was bent
over her told that now, if ever, was the time for a woman to forget
herself, and to cheer, to inspire those around her.
"I am a silly baby, and selfish!" she cried, freeing herself from
his hold. "Always thinking of myself." She turned away and wiped the
tears from her eyes. "Go, Jim, do your duty; I'll stand by and help
you all a woman can."
* * *
The missionaries were consulting in Heckewelder's cabin. Zeisberger
had returned that morning, and his aggressive, dominating spirit was
just what they needed in an hour like this. He raised the downcast
spirits of the ministers.
"Hold the service? I should say we will," he declared, waving his
hands. "What have we to be afraid of?"
"I do not know," answered Heckewelder, shaking his head doubtfully.
"I do not know what to fear. Girty himself told me he bore us no ill
will; but I hardly believe him. All this silence, this ominous
waiting perplexes, bewilders me."
"Gentlemen, our duty at least is plain," said Jim, impressively.
"The faith of these Christian Indians in us is so absolute that they
have no fear. They believe in God, and in us. These threatening
savages have failed signally to impress our Christians. If we do not
hold the service they will think we fear Girty, and that might have
a bad influence."
"I am in favor of postponing the preaching for a few days. I tell
you I am afraid of Girty's Indians, not for myself, but for these
Christians whom we love so well. I am afraid." Heckewelder's face
bore testimony to his anxious dread.
"You are our leader; we have but to obey," said Edwards. "Yet I
think we owe it to our converts to stick to our work until we are
forced by violence to desist."
"Ah! What form will that violence take?" cried Heckewelder, his face
white. "You cannot tell what these savages mean. I fear! I fear!"
"Listen, Heckewelder, you must remember we had this to go through
once before," put in Zeisberger earnestly. "In '78 Girty came down
on us like a wolf on the fold. He had not so many Indians at his
beck and call as now; but he harangued for days, trying to scare us
and our handful of Christians. He set his drunken fiends to frighten
us, and he failed. We stuck it out and won. He's trying the same
game. Let us stand against him, and hold our services as usual. We
should trust in God!"
"Never give up!" cried Jim.
"Gentlemen, you are right; you shame me, even though I feel that I
understand the situation and its dread possibilities better than any
one of you. Whatever befalls we'll stick to our post. I thank you
for reviving the spirit in my cowardly heart. We will hold the
service to-day as usual and to make it more impressive, each shall
address the congregation in turn."
"And, if need be, we will give our lives for our Christians," said
Young, raising his pale face.
* * *
The deep mellow peals of the church bell awoke the slumbering
echoes. Scarcely had its melody died away in the forest when a line
of Indians issued from the church and marched toward the maple
grove. Men, women, youths, maidens and children.
Glickhican, the old Delaware chief, headed the line. His step was
firm, his head erect, his face calm in its noble austerity. His
followers likewise expressed in their countenances the steadfastness
of their belief. The maidens' heads were bowed, but with shyness,
not fear. The children were happy, their bright faces expressive of
the joy they felt in the anticipation of listening to their beloved
teachers.
This procession passed between rows of painted savages, standing
immovable, with folded arms, and somber eyes.
No sooner had the Christians reached the maple grove, when from all
over the clearing appeared hostile Indians, who took positions near
the knoll where the missionaries stood.
Heckewelder's faithful little band awaited him on the platform. The
converted Indians seated themselves as usual at the foot of the
knoll. The other savages crowded closely on both sides. They carried
their weapons, and maintained the same silence that had so
singularly marked their mood of the last twenty-four hours. No human
skill could have divined their intention. This coldness might be
only habitual reserve, and it might be anything else.
Heckewelder approached at the same time that Simon Girty and his
band of renegades appeared. With the renegades were Pipe and Half
King. These two came slowly across the clearing, passed through the
opening in the crowd, and stopped close to the platform.
Heckewelder went hurriedly up to his missionaries. He seemed beside
himself with excitement, and spoke with difficulty.
"Do not preach to-day. I have been warned again," he said, in a low
voice.
"Do you forbid it?" inquired Edwards.
"No, no. I have not that authority, but I implore it. Wait, wait
until the Indians are in a better mood."
Edwards left the group, and, stepping upon the platform, faced the
Christians.
At the same moment Half King stalked majestically from before his
party. He carried no weapon save a black, knotted war-club. A
surging forward of the crowd of savages behind him showed the
intense interest which his action had aroused. He walked forward
until he stood half way between the platform and the converts. He
ran his evil glance slowly over the Christians, and then rested it
upon Edwards.
"Half King's orders are to be obeyed. Let the paleface keep his
mouth closed," he cried in the Indian tongue. The imperious command
came as a thunderbolt from a clear sky. The missionaries behind
Edwards stood bewildered, awaiting the outcome.
But Edwards, without a moment's hesitation, calmly lifted his hand
and spoke.
"Beloved Christians, we meet to-day as we have met before, as we
hope to meet in---"
"Spang!"
The whistling of a bullet over the heads of the Christians
accompanied the loud report of a rifle. All presently plainly heard
the leaden missile strike. Edwards wheeled, clutching his side,
breathed hard, and then fell heavily without uttering a cry. He had
been shot by an Indian concealed in the thicket.
For a moment no one moved, nor spoke. The missionaries were stricken
with horror; the converts seemed turned to stone, and the hostile
throng waited silently, as they had for hours.
"He's shot! He's shot! Oh, I feared this!" cried Heckewelder,
running forward. The missionaries followed him. Edwards was lying on
his back, with a bloody hand pressed to his side.
"Dave, Dave, how is it with you?" asked Heckewelder, in a voice low
with fear.
"Not bad. It's too far out to be bad, but it knocked me over,"
answered Edwards, weakly. "Give me--water."
They carried him from the platform, and laid him on the grass under
a tree.
Young pressed Edwards' hand; he murmured something that sounded like
a prayer, and then walked straight upon the platform, as he raised
his face, which was sublime with a white light.
"Paleface! Back!" roared Half King, as he waved his war-club.
"You Indian dog! Be silent!"
Young's clear voice rolled out on the quiet air so imperiously, so
powerful in its wonderful scorn and passion, that the hostile
savages were overcome by awe, and the Christians thrilled anew with
reverential love.
Young spoke again in a voice which had lost its passion, and was
singularly sweet in its richness.
"Beloved Christians, if it is God's will that we must die to prove
our faith, then as we have taught you how to live, so we can show
you how to die---"
"Spang!"
Again a whistling sound came with the bellow of an overcharged
rifle; again the sickening thud of a bullet striking flesh.
Young fell backwards from the platform.
The missionaries laid him beside Edwards, and then stood in
shuddering silence. A smile shone on Young's pale face; a stream of
dark blood welled from his breast. His lips moved; he whispered:
"I ask no more--God's will."
Jim looked down once at his brother missionaries; then with blanched
face, but resolute and stern, he marched toward the platform.
Heckewelder ran after him, and dragged him back.
"No! no! no! My God! Would you be killed? Oh! I tried to prevent
this!" cried Heckewelder, wringing his hands.
One long, fierce, exultant yell pealed throughout the grove. It came
from those silent breasts in which was pent up hatred; it greeted
this action which proclaimed victory over the missionaries.
All eyes turned on Half King. With measured stride he paced to and
fro before the Christian Indians.
Neither cowering nor shrinking marked their manner; to a man, to a
child, they rose with proud mien, heads erect and eyes flashing.
This mighty chief with his blood-thirsty crew could burn the Village
of Peace, could annihilate the Christians, but he could never change
their hope and trust in God.
"Blinded fools!" cried Half King. "The Huron is wise; he tells no
lies. Many moons ago he told the Christians they were sitting half
way between two angry gods, who stood with mouths open wide and
looking ferociously at each other. If they did not move back out of
the road they would be ground to powder by the teeth of one or the
other, or both. Half King urged them to leave the peaceful village,
to forget the paleface God; to take their horses, and flocks, and
return to their homes. The Christians scorned the Huron King's
counsel. The sun has set for the Village of Peace. The time has
come. Pipe and the Huron are powerful. They will not listen to the
paleface God. They will burn the Village of Peace. Death to the
Christians!"
Half King threw the black war-club with a passionate energy on the
grass before the Indians.
They heard this decree of death with unflinching front. Even the
children were quiet. Not a face paled, not an eye was lowered.
Half King cast their doom in their teeth. The Christians eyed him
with unspoken scorn.
"My God! My God! It is worse than I thought!" moaned Heckewelder.
"Utter ruin! Murder! Murder!"
In the momentary silence which followed his outburst, a tiny cloud
of blue-white smoke came from the ferns overhanging a cliff.
Crack!
All heard the shot of a rifle; all noticed the difference between
its clear, ringing intonation and the loud reports of the other two.
All distinctly heard the zip of a bullet as it whistled over their
heads.
All? No, not all. One did not hear that speeding bullet. He who was
the central figure in this tragic scene, he who had doomed the
Christians might have seen that tiny puff of smoke which heralded
his own doom, but before the ringing report could reach his ears a
small blue hole appeared, as if by magic, over his left eye, and
pulse, and sense, and life had fled forever.
Half King, great, cruel chieftain, stood still for an instant as if
he had been an image of stone; his haughty head lost its erect
poise, the fierceness seemed to fade from his dark face, his proud
plume waved gracefully as he swayed to and fro, and then fell before
the Christians, inert and lifeless.
No one moved; it was as if no one breathed. The superstitious
savages awaited fearfully another rifle shot; another lightning
stroke, another visitation from the paleface's God.
But Jim Girty, with a cunning born of his terrible fear, had
recognized the ring of that rifle. He had felt the zip of a bullet
which could just as readily have found his brain as Half King's. He
had stood there as fair a mark as the cruel Huron, yet the Avenger
had not chosen him. Was he reserved for a different fate? Was not
such a death too merciful for the frontier Deathshead? He yelled in
his craven fear:
"Le vent de la Mort!"
The well known, dreaded appellation aroused the savages from a
fearful stupor into a fierce manifestation of hatred. A tremendous
yell rent the air. Instantly the scene changed.