SILVER HAND, THE WYANDOT.
The reader has heard Wolf-Cap aver that he was not an illegal squatter
on the fire-lands, and while he prepares to sustain the defiance nailed
to his cabin door, let us inquire into the meaning of his declaration,
and thereby, if possible, add to the interest of our story.
The “fire-lands” were not, as the casual reader would suppose, a tract
of country blackened and rendered barren almost by the flames. On the
contrary, their broad acres, well watered by majestic rivers, teemed
with plenty, and even their _indolent_ farmer to-day finds no
starvelings about his premises.
Erie, Huron, and a small part of Ottawa counties, comprise that portion
of the Western Ohio Reserve known as the fire-lands. The tract embraces
five hundred thousand acres, and the term “fire-lands” originated from
the circumstance of the State of Connecticut having granted these lands,
in 1792, as a donation, to certain sufferers by fire occasioned by the
English during the Revolutionary war, particularly at New London,
Fairfield and Norwalk. Connecticut, at that time, holding jurisdiction
over much land in Ohio, made other grants, of a nature similar to the
above, and to this day the Western Reserve is often called by its old
title—New Connecticut.
Though Wolf-Cap, or Card Belt, was not a sufferer at English hands, he
had a right to the ground on which his little cabin stood. That right
was a grant from the proprietors of the fire-lands; but he had had the
misfortune to lose the document while _en route_ to his claim. He had
trapped along the streams of his native State, Connecticut, until they
refused to yield the wished-for supply of fur-bearing animals, and,
longing for a new pelt El Dorado, he fell in with the inducements
offered by the settlements of New Connecticut.
He established his claim to a certain spot of ground, notwithstanding
the loss of the title, and erected his cabin, in 1811. A treaty had
previously been made with the Wyandots, who inhabited a portion of the
ground, and until the breaking out of the war of 1812, the red denizens
of the fire-lands had kept the promises of the treaty unbroken.
But in the settlement of the fire-lands, as in the settlement of all new
countries, a class of rough characters appeared on the surface. These
were, in the greater part, Canadian trappers, who were dwelling on the
grant prior to its change of owners, and they refused to accede to the
demands of the legal squatters. They had no right to the land, for they
had been English soldiers, and disturbers of the peace between whites
and Indians.
They drove honest squatters from their homes, and carried on a reign of
terror throughout the fire-lands, until the Connecticut company overawed
them with settlers. Still they carried on their lawlessness. At midnight
they would break into some squatter’s cabin and demand a sight of his
deed; and if the poor man could not produce it, as was often the case,
considering the poor facilities extant those days for preserving paper
documents, he would be hustled from his door, and the torch applied to
the logs.
Wolf-Cap’s domicil was invaded one night, two months prior to the
opening of hostilities; but he gave the Night-Hawks—as the outlaws were
called—such a warm reception, that they were glad to depart without
accomplishing their purpose. In the affray one of the scoundrels was
fatally shot by the trapper, and their numbers thus reduced to nine.
The leader of the band was a rather handsome, brigandisa sort of man,
boasting of the name of Royal Funk. He had served under Arnold in his
descent upon Connecticut, and followed other Tories to the West after
the patriot struggle. He had a commanding eye, and a nature fitted to
lord it over a lot of low characters like those whom he drew around him
in New Connecticut, and christened the Night-Hawks.
Their villainies were brought to a close by the declaration of war. One
day they left the fire-lands, and joined the British army of the
North-west, and the settlers breathed freer. They devoutly wished that
every Night-Hawk might fall beneath American bullets, and for months the
tract enjoyed a peace that seemed a foretaste of the one quiet peace
called blessed!
British gold drew hundreds of savages to the flag of St. George; but a
portion of the Wyandots adhered heroically to the American cause. The
fire-land settlers centered all their hopes on Hull. If he would repulse
the allies before Detroit, their homes were safe. If the General failed,
then the Night-Hawks and their red helpers would return to devastate
homes illy defended.
Therefore, the reader can imagine the terror spread throughout the grant
by the wild message of Johnny Appleseed: “The tribes of the heathen are
round about your doors, and a devouring flame followeth after them.”
“We are going to help Proctor. When we return, look out, usurper.”
Such words Wolf-Cap found chalked on his cabin door, on his return from
Sandusky, one day in the spring lately passed. He saw that he had saved
his life by being absent, and he awaited with impatience and anxiety the
result of British operations in the North-west. Noble-minded and
courageous, almost to a fault, he did not fear the threats of the
Night-Hawks, as the reader has seen by his defiance; but the unprotected
settlers called forth his sympathy.
“I’ll help take Huldah to Strong’s,” he said, looking at his dog, after
posting his defiance, “and then I’ll make this cabin our castle, Dick. I
don’t know as I’ve got much to live for, since Bessie left me, and I’ll
try to rid the people of several of their plagues afore I go. Here be
six rifles an’ plenty o’ ammunition, and we’ll drop a doe to-night, if
it gets cloudy.”
The trapper hailed the approach of night with joy, and locking Yellow
Dick within the cabin, took up the trail to Levi Armstrong’s hut. His
frequent visits to the cabin had traced a well-defined trail, and as he
hurried along, he planned for the future, which cast gloomy clouds over
him—hunted man as he was.
“Just let any body touch one o’ Huldah Armstrong’s black hairs,” he
suddenly exclaimed, aloud. “Just let ’em do it, I say, and, be he white
or red, I’ll let a ray of sunshine through his heart. That girl is just
the purest, fairest creature in New Connecticut, and I’m her champion, I
am—Card Belt. I love that girl,” and in the gloaming a crimson flush
appeared on his cheek; “but not like a _young_ man. No! I’m old enough
to be her father, and I love her because she looks like Bessie. I often
wonder if she will ever have a young lover. Ah! if she gets down to
Strong’s, the young bucks will go up over her face, and they won’t be
able to drop an Indian for looking into her eyes.”
He communed thus with himself until he reached the creek near
Armstrong’s clearing, when the whiz of a bullet broke his train of
thoughts, and brought him to a sudden halt.
“That’s close,” he ejaculated, glancing at the work made by the ball in
the tree near his head. “But a miss is as good as a mile, and I’ll show
the greaser that two men can play with rifles at the same time.”
The next moment he sunk into the tall grass that lined the margin of the
stream, resolved to outwit his foe.
“I begin to see through the mist,” he said, with a broad smile, a moment
after disappearing among the grass. “Silver Hand is up to one of his old
tricks again. Curse that Indian! I’ve got to break him of such
practices. He shoots too uncommon close, sometimes.”
Then a bird-call issued from the trapper’s throat, and was answered from
a spot a short distance away, on the opposite bank of the stream.
“I knew it was that red-skin,” and with the last word the trapper’s cap
appeared above the grass. “Howsomever it is best to be cautious—there!”
A slight noise told that the cap had been struck by some object, and the
hunter lowered it to find it perforated by an arrow of singular
workmanship.
Then, placing the cap on his head without withdrawing the shaft, he rose
to his feet simultaneously with the appearance of a tufted Indian beyond
the murky water.
A minute later and the twain had met.
“Silver Hand, you haven’t visited a fellow much o’ late,” said Wolf-Cap,
looking into the black eyes of the prepossessing young Wyandot. “I
wasn’t looking for you hereabouts; but you’re the very chap I wanted to
see.”
“Silver Hand glad to see Wolf-Cap, too,” said the Indian. “He much to
tell white brother ’bout the big white coward in the north.”
“I don’t want to talk about Hull, chief,” said the trapper. “I swear
away down in my heart when I think of his cowardice. But we have work to
do. The frontiers swarm with fiends now, and I go to guide a family to
Strong’s fort. Of course you’re going with me, Silver Hand; we’ll talk
as we walk.”
The trapper started forward with a look at the Indian but the red arm
darted forward and touched his arm.
“Wolf-Cap need go no further—house empty,” said Silver Hand.
“Whose house?” and a deathly pallor overspread the settler’s face, and
told how he dreaded to hear the Wyandot’s answer.
“The house of the tall old pale-face and pretty girl.”
“Empty, Silver Hand? You must be mistaken. They were to wait for me.”
“But they gone, sure,” persisted the chief. “Silver Hand stop at cabin
to tell them about the big coward; but he find nobody in house. The dog,
too, was gone; but Silver Hand find paper on the door—paper with
pale-face words on it.”
The chief produced a piece of paper from his bosom as he spoke, and
handed it to the trapper.
It was night now, but the light of the rising moon enabled Wolf-Cap to
decipher the rude writing on the sheet.
“We have gone to Strong’s with the Logans. We left at sundown, and you
will find us in the old fort.”
Thus read the message on the door, and the trapper bit his lip when he
looked up at the young warrior.
“Mebbe we’ll find ’em there and mebbe we won’t,” he said angrily. “I
guess the Logans were frightened nigh to death, and would give old Levi
no rest, until he promised to guide them to Strong’s. I thought he had a
head of his own, and he promised to wait for me, too.”
Wolf-Cap was silent for several moments, and the Indian regarded him
with a puzzled expression of countenance.
“When pale-faces leave lodge?” he questioned at length.
“At sundown. They’re not half-way to Strong’s now. We’ll let ’em go,
though, Silver Hand; but we could intercept them if we wanted to. Old
Levi needs a lesson for his action.”
“But his girl too putty to be in the woods at night. Bad Wyandots and
Night-Hawks come down together from the north, and—”
“There! that’s enough, chief,” interrupted the trapper. “I could let old
Levi go; but Huldah, never! Come! we kin catch ’em at the mouth of Eel
Creek, for they’ve taken the black-deer trail to Strong’s. It’ll take
fast travelin’, Silver Hand; but we kin do it. You an’ me kin do any
thing.”
Silver Hand sprung to the task with great eagerness, and wheeling to the
left, the twain hurried down the right bank of the creek. A rapid march
of several hours brought them to the objective point; and Silver Hand at
once dropped upon all-fours to examine the trail.
“Party gone by!” he said at last, looking up at the trapper. “Old
settler, young man and four squaws. They walkin’ fast, too—almost run.”
“The—deuce!” exclaimed Wolf-Cap, much chagrined at the result of their
journey. “But,” with a faint smile of satisfaction; “I’m glad they
passed this point safely. It argues well for their arrival at Strong’s.
How long since did they pass, Silver Hand?”
The Wyandot examined the trail again.
“Only little while ago; grass still bent down.”
“Then we stand some chances of catching them this side of Strong’s.”
“Yes, by fast walkin’.”
“I’ll see ’em inside the fort afore I go back to my hut,” said Wolf-Cap
with determination. “Royal Funk and me for it, then, for I tell you,
Silver—”
The distant report of a rifle broke his sentence, and caused him to
shoot an anxious look into the Wyandot’s eyes.
Three more faint reports followed the first, and Wolf-Cap was about to
spring forward, when Silver Hand thrust him backward toward the rushes
that grew about the mouth of the creek.
“Chief—”
“‘Sh!”
The swift tread of feet was heard, and nine dark forms darted past the
couple’s concealment, and disappeared in the darkness that hid from them
the flash of the distant rifles.
Without a word, and at the same moment, the trail-hunters leaped to
their feet.
For a moment they listened to the dying footsteps, and Silver Hand was
the first to speak.
“Wolf-Cap count ’em?” he asked.
“Yes. American bullets have spared every Night-Hawk,” grated the
trapper. “We must call ’em back,” and drawing a pistol from his belt he
discharged it in the air.
The next second the admirable counterfeit of a death-yell pealed from
the Wyandot’s throat, and the twain shrunk back into the rushes again to
await the result of their stratagem.
“They’re comin’ back, chief,” said the trapper in a low tone. “Now, come
with me. We’ll git between ’em an’ our friends if we can.”
Certain sounds told them that at least a goodly portion of the outlaws
were returning, and silently they entered the water and waded away.
The sounds of battle toward Strong’s had died in the gloom, and an
impenetrable vail of fearful mystery hung over the fate of the
fugitives.