SENT INTO EXILE.
Splitlog shrugged his shoulders and turned to his braves.
The lives of many brave men hung upon his savage caprices, and the
silence that followed O’Neill’s last and bitter words seemed palpable.
The Wyandot hated, detested the British, Colonel O’Neill particularly;
but he had sold his nation to the English cause, and he must not, in a
single act, manifest an abatement of zeal. The colonel, under whose
command Splitlog had already fought, had said that Royal Funk’s
disobedience should be punished with death, and the Indian believed that
he spoke to the king.
But the British soldiers were demanding something of a trial for the
outlaw, and his Indians were joining in the clamor. So far as he was
personally concerned, he would not punish Funk, and here was an
opportunity to favor the forest freebooter. Funk, no doubt, had done
Splitlog a service in days gone by, and an Indian never forgets such an
action.
He stood before the outlaw a moment in silence, and then spoke.
“Splitlog hears the voices of his people,” he said. “He will not strike
the Night-Hawk until they have pronounced on his fate. He,” pointing to
Funk, “has lived long among the Wyandots; they know him—he is brave.”
As the Indian paused, O’Neill stepped forward, and laid his hand on the
naked shoulder. The Briton’s face was still aflame with rage.
“Say nothing for nor against him, chief,” he said, in the Wyandot
tongue. “Tell your braves to say life or death, and that quickly.”
He snapped the words out fiercely, and darted a malignant look at
Splitlog as he turned away:
“I’ll pay you for this, you scarlet dog,” he murmured, under his breath.
“I’ll pay you for lying, see if I don’t.”
Splitlog smiled contemptuously, and bit his nether lip.
“Down with you, Wyandots,” he cried, angrily, flashing his eyes over his
armed nation. “Down like wolves, and let the warriors who vote for life
hold up their guns.”
Like one man the red assembly dropped to the ground, and near two
hundred guns were held on high!
A majority voted for life.
“I knew they’d do it,” hissed O’Neill. “And Splitlog sanctions the
decision. My men shall not vote.”
A stern determination clothed the last words, and they were yet
quivering on his lips when the chief, with a triumph which his best
dissimulative arts could not conceal, turned upon him:
“Now let the red-coats vote,” cried Splitlog. “If many of them say
‘death,’ the waters of the Huron shall roll over the Night-Hawk.”
An eager gleam of hope lit up the colonel’s eyes at this.
Sword in hand he leaped upon the log near the Night-Hawk captain.
“You who vote for life will advance ten paces westward. Right
about—face. Forward—march!”
Many a Briton obeyed the military command, and the colonel ordered a
sergeant to count the ayes.
Two hundred and one men voted for life, and strange to say, _a like
number had kept their places_!
“I vote for death!” said the colonel, when he had informed Splitlog of
the even counts; “therefore I make a majority, and the outlaw dies.”
“Did Splitlog vote?” cried the chief. “No! he left it to his men. But he
will look to the vote of the red-coats. He says that the Night-Hawk
shall fly from the land of the Wyandots before the sun sweeps over the
bosom of the Huron again, and he shall never return. Does this suit the
king’s soldier?”
“He should die. We, his own people, say as much,” said O’Neill.
“But Indians say, ‘Live, Night-Hawk.’ Splitlog must listen to his
people; when they say ‘No,’ he must not say ‘Yes.’”
“So be it, then. But he shall not take his captive along.”
“Whatever is his he may keep,” answered the Indian, and then he looked
up at Royal Funk.
“Night-Hawk, you are free to go,” he said. “After this night, let these
forests hear your tread no more. Splitlog and his braves say so.”
“Agreed,” answered Funk. “I accept your mercy. I go, never to return.
Soldiers who voted for my life, I thank you; and, Colonel O’Neill, my
fervent prayer is that we may meet again.”
“Amen!” grated the Briton. “I echo your prayer from the bottom of my
heart!”
“Come, boys,” said the outlaw, descending from his perch, and addressing
his band in a low tone, “we’ll leave this accursed place at once, or so
soon as we can get off. We’ll go down the river in barges, and after a
while strike over land toward Detroit. There’s no use in talking. Our
days are up in the ‘fire-lands,’ though I’d like to linger here to
settle scores with Wolf-Cap.”
The Night-Hawks expressed their willingness to follow their leader, but
they abominated the thought of a forced exile. They had lorded it over
the fire-lands until they believed themselves invincible, but they had
discovered one at whose command they must depart.
“Well, Miss Huldah, we are going to leave the old fire-lands, and we’re
never coming back any more. What do you think about that?”
For a moment the settler’s child said nothing. She stood before the
outlaw in the little tent which Colonel O’Neill had given him, when they
were on better terms than now, and looked up into his darkly handsome
face.
“Of course, sir, I do not wish to go,” were the words that fell from her
lips, at last. “But I know ’tis useless for me to appeal to you.”
“Utterly useless, Huldah,” he answered, calmly. “I will offer you no
violence, and none shall come to you from any one. But let me tell you
now that I am very passionate, and that no hand shall snatch you from
me. I will make no avowal of love; this is not the place for such; but
if I did not love you I would return you to the old man who, in _your_
presence calls you child. Huldah, tell me how many lovers you possess?”
“None, unless I must regard you as such,” she answered, with a faint
smile.
“You should have thought a moment before you spoke. There’s Wolf-Cap—”
“His hair is gray in many places,” said Huldah, interrupting him. “He is
not my lover.”
“Granted; but hasn’t some young hunter in Fort Strong looked softly into
your eyes? Speak truly, Huldah Armstrong—I want to know.”
For a moment the settler’s daughter recalled the daring young men who
had bravely defended their loved ones in the besieged fort, and a flush
of crimson mantled her fair cheeks.
“I think I have no lover,” she said, looking up again.
“But you blushed while you thought,” said the outlaw, quickly; “and
blushes, like figures, Huldah, do not lie. Some young buck-skin-clad
fellow has made your heart beat fast behind the walls of the doomed
fort. Tell me his name.”
“Why would you know?”
“I would kill him, if he escaped the massacre. Huldah, I will endure no
rivals for your hand. Remember this. But you have skipped a lover.”
The fair girl, whose cheeks had grown pale beneath the vengeful words,
looked surprised.
“Yes, you possess a third lover, Huldah. Can you not name him?”
“I can not. Your words are fraught with mystery,” she replied.
“Colonel O’Neill is your lover. He tried to have me shot, that he might
possess you. What do you think of your red-coated Adonis? He’s the
handsomest of all your lovers—isn’t he, Huldah?”
The outlaw laughed at his sarcastic question, and turned to talk to one
of his men, whose face appeared at the opening.
A short conversation in a low whisper passed between the Night-Hawks,
when the face disappeared, and Funk turned to his captive again.
“We won’t get off till near sundown,” he said. “That liveried dog has
refused to loan us his boats, and Splitlog has been compelled to send to
the mouth of the Catauga for several of his own. By heavens! Huldah, I
want to meet that man away from his men. I’d promote Major Gosnoke to
the colonelcy with a bullet. There’s something devilish afoot. I feel
it. This night will witness treacherous deeds. O’Neill will not give you
up tamely—neither will I!”
A moment later the outlaw walked from the tent, and Huldah Armstrong
heard him say a few words to the Night-Hawks who guarded her, before he
walked away.
The long hours of that summer day waned, and not a shot was fired at the
fort. It was a painful silence to the girl, and told of bloody scenes
during the coming darkness. She could see the charred roof from her
prison, but not a besieged form greeted her eye.
By and by the trees on the river-bank cast long shadows, and Splitlog,
followed by numerous warriors and a few soldiers, was seen approaching
the outlaw’s tent.
Five Night-Hawks received the company with lowering gaze, and a word
from the chief drew out Roy Funk and his prisoner.
“We’re ready, chief,” said the Night-Hawk leader.
“Then to the river,” replied Splitlog, pointing to the water. “The boats
wait for the Night-Hawks of the fire-lands.”
The entire party marched down to the river, where an outlaw and several
Indians guarded two large and strong boats.
“This is the beginning of our journey, Huldah,” said Roy Funk, as he
gently lifted the settler’s daughter into one of the barks. “The
beginning, I say; God knows what the ending will be.”
His words implied grave doubts of a safe termination of the voyage; but
the next moment he was talking cheerfully to his men and the chief.
“We’ll see you again, Splitlog,” called the outlaw, as the boats were
cast from their moorings. “We’ll drink fire-water some day over our
doings in the fire-lands. But remember what I whispered in your ear:
watch him, as you would a snake!”
Then the outlaws seized the pliant paddles, and the two big boats moved
rapidly down the current.
For the dusk that stretched before the voyagers seemed to breathe of a
lurking foe.
Splitlog and his companions watched the boats until a bend in the river
hid them from sight.
“Now,” said the chief, turning away, “the white man’s fort falls. The
night is coming on, and the flames of the big timbers must light the
sky.”
But other scenes than the taking of the block-house, were to demand the
Wyandot’s attention before dawn.