“Murder!”
The gruesome word seemed to ring through the silent room.
“Murder!” ejaculated old Nokomis, aghast. “It is a mistake. Who would
kill White Eagle? There lives not an Indian in the whole country round
who does not love him. No, No.”
There was horror on the face of the young man regarding her so
steadfastly. Her withered, wrinkled face was honest enough, her tones
genuine.
“No!” exclaimed Mr. Maybee, recovering from the stupor into which
Warren’s words had thrown him. “Blame my skin! where’s the blud?”
Warren regarded him steadily a moment, then said, “Look! Internal
hemorrhage.”
He half raised the body and pointed to a bullet hole in the back.
“By the Etarn’l!” was Maybee’s horrified exclamation. “Must ’a bled to
death whilst we was comin’.”
Warren nodded.
“God in heaven!” cried Judah, sinking on his knees beside the bed of
skins. “It is true! But who has done it? Who could be so cruel? No one
lives here but ourselves. Murdered! My father! My master!”
“Hush!” said Mr. Maybee, sternly. “Hush. ’Tain’t no time fer cryin’ nor
makin’ a fuss. Tell us all you know about this business.”
“He went out after supper to look after the canoes. In a short time we
heard a shout and then a cry, ‘Help! help!’ and we ran to him, Winona
and I. He was leaning against a tree, and said nothing but, ‘Get me to
the house; get a doctor, I am hurt.’ We flew to do his bidding. The
rest you know.”
Maxwell’s brain was in a tumult of confusion. Thoughts flew rapidly
through it. Suddenly he had been aroused from his solitary life in a
strange land to become an actor in a local tragedy. The man lying on
the bed of skins had certainly been murdered. Who then was the assassin?
Again he looked at Nokomis, who was intently watching him. She shook
her head mournfully in answer to his unasked question. Mr. Maybee was
nonplussed. “What’s to be done? Terrible! Murder! Why, it will kill the
girl.”
Warren Maxwell started. For a moment he had forgotten the delicate
child in the next room rendered so suddenly an orphan, and in so
fearful a fashion.
“A doctor must be summoned to certify to cause of death, and the police
authorities must be notified,” Warren said at length. “Right you are,
pard,” returned Maybee. “I’m hanged ef this business hain’t knocked
the spots out of yours truly. I’ll take the boat and Judah here, and be
back by sunrise.”
He turned away, but Judah lingered, giving a wistful look into
Maxwell’s face.
“Yes,” said Warren, laying his hand on the lad’s shoulder, “I will tell
her.”
With a gesture of thanks Judah followed Mr. Maybee out into the night.
Pulling himself together, Warren, followed by Nokomis, entered the room
where he had left Winona. She lay on the bed where he had placed her,
still unconscious, her long hair lank with the rain, streamed about her
face; her lips were slightly parted, even younger and more beautiful
than he had at first thought; and as he remembered her story and the
position that the death of her father placed her in, his soul went out
to her in infinite pity.
“Poor child! Poor little thing!” he mused. “Heaven must have sent me
here at this awful moment. You shall not be friendless if I can help
you.”
He questioned Nokomis closely. The old woman shook her head.
“Alone except for old Nokomis and Judah. White Eagle loved her very
much. Old Nokomis will take care of her.”
Between them the girl was restored to consciousness, and learned the
truth of her father’s death told by Warren as gently as possible. She
heard him with a stunned expression, pale lips and strained eyes;
suddenly, as she realized the meaning of his words, she uttered a
piercing cry, and sprang up exclaiming:
“My father! Oh, my father! Murdered!”
She would have rushed from the room. She struggled with Warren, trying
with her small fingers to unclasp his, which with tenderness held her;
she turned almost fiercely upon him for staying her. The paroxysm died
as quickly as it came, leaving her weak and exhausted.
Ebenezer Maybee returned at sunrise, bringing men with him. The great
storm had cleared the air of the electric heat, and the morning was
gloriously beautiful. The dark forest trees were rich in the sunshine,
the streams and waters of the lakes laughed and rippled as happily as
if no terrible storm had just passed, carrying in its trail the mystery
of a foul and deadly crime. Search revealed no trace of the assassin;
no clue. There were but two strangers in the city who had visited the
island, and they immediately joined the searchers when they learned
of the tragedy. The storm had obliterated all traces of the murderer.
There was nothing missing in the humble home that held so little to
tempt the cupidity of a thief. There was not even a scrap of paper
found to tell who White Eagle might have been in earlier, happier days.
Everyone seemed to regard Warren Maxwell as the person in authority.
The police consulted him, referred to him; Mr. Maybee confided in him,
and Winona clung to him with slender brown fingers like bands of steel.
As far as Warren could learn, she had no friend in the world but the
hotel keeper. What a different life this poor child’s must have been
from any he had ever known.
Old Nokomis repeated many times a day: “Surely it was the Great Father
must have sent you to us.”
Judah walked about all day with a dazed expression on his face, crying
silently but bitterly, and a growing look of sullen fury on his dark
face that told of bitter thoughts within. Over and over again his lips
unconsciously formed the words:
“I’ll find him when I’m older if he’s on top of the earth, and then
it’ll be him or me who will lie as my poor master lies in there to-day.”
Then came the funeral. The Indians gathered from all the adjoining
cities and towns and from the Canada shore, to see the body of the man
they had lived and respected committed to the ground. They buried him
beneath the giant pine against which he was found leaning, wounded to
death. Curiosity attracted many of the white inhabitants, among whom
were the two strangers referred to in the first part of this narrative.
Two days after the funeral, Mr. Maybee and Warren sat in the latter’s
room talking of Winona and Judah.
“It was a fortunit thing for us all, Mr. Maxwell, that you happened to
be aroun’ during this hyar tryin’ time. You’ve been a friend in need,
sir, durn me ef you ain’t.”
“Yes;” replied Warren, smiling at the other’s quaint speech, “it was
a time that would have made any one a friend to those two helpless
children.”
“Maybe, maybe,” returned the hotel keeper, dubiously. “But you must
remember that every man warn’t built with a soul in his carcass; some
of ’em’s only got a piece of liver whar the heart orter be.” Warren
smiled again.
“Mr. Maybee, I want to ask you a question----”
“Go ahead, steamboat; what’s the question?”
“What is to become of Winona after I leave this place? It is different
with the boy--he can manage somehow--but the girl; that is what
troubles me.”
“Look hyar, young feller;” said Maybee, stretching out a big, brown
hand. “I don’ guess she’ll ever have to say she’s got no friend while
Ebenezer Maybee’s proprietor of the Grand Island Ho-tel. My wife’s
plum crazy to git that young kidabid. We’s only awaitin’ till the new
of this unfortunit recurrence has blowed over, and she gits a little
used to bein’ without her pa. As fer Judah, thar’s plenty to do roun’
the stables ef he likes. But, Lor,’ that Injun-nigger! You can’t tame
him down to be just an’ onery galoot like the most of ’em you see out
hyar. White Eagle taught him to speak like a senator, ride bareback
like a hull circus; he can shoot a bird on the wing and hunt and fish
like all natur. Fac’.” he added noting Warren’s look of amusement.
“Truth is,--neither of them two forlorn critters realizes what ‘bein’
a nigger’ means; they have no idee of thar true position in this
unfrien’ly world. God knows I pity ’em.” But to Warren Maxwell it
seemed almost sacrilege--the thought of that beautiful child maturing
into womanhood among such uncouth surroundings. His mind revolted at
the bare idea. At length he said with a sigh:
“What a pity it is that we know nothing of White Eagle’s antecedents.
There may be those living who would be glad to take the child.”
“He was a gentleman, as your class counts ’em, Mr. Maxwell. But
he never breathed a word what he was, an’ he kept away from his
equals--meanin’ white men.”
“And few men do that without a reason,” replied Maxwell. “Do you know
whether he was English or German?”
Mr. Maybee shook his head. “He warn’t Dutch, that’s certain; he was a
white man all right. I cal’late he mote ’a been English.”
“Mr. Maybee, I’e been thinking over the matter seriously, and I have
determined to write home and see if something can’t be done to educate
these children and make them useful members of society. In England,
neither their color nor race will be against them. They will be happier
there than here. Now, if I can satisfy you that my standing and
character are all right, would you object to their going with me when I
sail in about three months from now?”
Mr. Maybee gazed at him in open-mouthed wonder. “Yer jokin’?” he said
at length, incredulously.
“No, I mean it.”
Still Mr. Maybee gazed in amazement. Could it be possible that he heard
aright?
“Je-rusalem! but I don’t know what to say. We don’ need no satisfyin’
’bout you; that’s all right. But the idea of your thinkin’ about
edjicatin’ them two Injin-niggers. You’ve plum got me. An’ too, I
cal’lated some on gittin’ the gal fer my wife. Still it would be good
fer the gal--durn me, but it would.”
Then he turned and grasped Warren’s hand hard.
“Mr. Maxwell, you’re a white man. I jes’ froze to you, I did the fus’
night you poked yer head in the door.”
“And I to you,” replied Warren, as he returned the warm hand-pressure.
“Don’ you ever be skeery whilst yer in Amerika an’ Ebenezer Maybee’s
on top o’ the earth. By the Etarn’l, I’ll stick to you like a burr to
a cotton bush, durn me ef I don’t.”
Again the men clasped hands to seal the bond of brotherhood.
“Meantime, Mr. Maybee, I wish you to take charge of them. I am called
to Virginia on important business. I will leave a sum of money in your
hands to be used for their needs while I am gone. When I return, I
shall be able to tell just what I can do, and the day I shall leave for
England.”
Mr. Maybee promised all he asked, and then retired to the bar-room
to astonish his cronies there by a recital of what the English gent
proposed to do for two “friendless niggers.” Maxwell rowed over to the
island to tell Winona of his departure and the arrangements made for
her welfare. He laughed softly to himself as he thought of his own
twenty-eight years and his cool assumption of the role of Winona’s
guardian. Yet he was not sorry. Upon the whole, he was glad she had
been surrendered to his care, that there would be no one to intrude
between them; and he felt that the girl would also be glad; she
appeared to rely upon him with child-like innocence and faith. How
could he fail to see that the brown eyes clouded when he went away, and
brightened when he approached?
He secured the boat and directed his steps to the tall pine where she
usually sat now. She was sitting there by the new-made grave, her hands
folded listlessly in her lap. Her eyes were fixed upon the sunlit waves
and were the very home of sorrow. At that moment, turning she beheld
him. A sudden radiance swept over the girl’s features. Sorrow had
matured her wonderfully.
“Ah! it is you. I have been waiting you.”
“You were sure I would come,” he smiled, taking her hand and seating
himself beside her.
“Yes. And I know you never break your word--never. You said you wished
to speak to me of my future.”
“Exactly. I could not go to England and leave you here alone and
friendless, Winona,” he replied. “I could not bear it.”
The girl shivered. A month ago, she was a happy, careless child; to-day
she had a woman’s heart and endurance. Of course he must go sometime,
this kind friend; what should she do then?
“Yet I must stay. I have nowhere else to go.”
“Surely you know of some friends--relatives?”
She shook her head.
“Papa never spoke of any. He used to say that we two had only each
other to love, poor papa. Oh!” with a piteous burst of grief, “I wanted
no one else but papa, and now he is gone.”
“As He gave, so He has a right to take, Winona,” said Warren, gravely.
He saw that she was indeed “cast upon his care;” surely there must have
been some dark shadow in White Eagle’s past life to cause him to bury
himself here in a wilderness among savages. Well, it must be as he had
planned. He explained to Winona all that he had told Mr. Maybee.
“And you will take Judah with you?”
“Certainly,” replied Warren, “You shall not be separated.” The girl
heaved a deep sigh of content. “I will go with you to your home gladly.”
Judah was as pleased as Winona when told of the plans for the future.
Each looked upon Warren Maxwell as a god. Judah went with him to the
mainland. Winona saw him depart bravely. She watched the boat until
they effected a landing. Once he turned and waved his hat toward the
spot where she was standing. When he was no longer visible she threw
herself down upon the new-made grave in an abandonment of grief,
weeping passionately.
* * * * *
One month from that day Warren Maxwell, bright, smiling and filled
with pleasurable anticipations drew rein again before the Grand Island
Hotel. As before, ’Tavius was there to take his horse; Mr. Maybee met
him at the door; but about them both was an air of restraint.
“Well, Mr. Maybee,” he said gaily, “How are you, and how are my island
protéges? I’ll row over after dinner and surprise them.”
“Come with me, Mr. Maxwell, I have something to tell you,” replied his
host gravely.
Surprised at his solemn manner, Warren followed him to the chamber he
had occupied on the occasion of his first visit. “It’s a sorry tale
sir, I must tell you; and in all my life I never befo’ felt ashamed of
bein’ an American citizen. But I can be bought cheap, sir; less than
half price’ll git me.”
“The day after you lef’ thar was a claim put in by two men who had been
stoppin’ roun’ hyar fer a month or more lo-catin thar game, the durned
skunks. They was the owners of White Eagle’s wife an’ Judah’s mother,
sir--nigger traders from Missouri, sir. They puts in a claim fer the
two children under the new act for the rendition of fugitive slaves
jes’ passed by Congress, an’ they swep’ the deck before we knowed it
or had time to say ‘scat.’ Ef we’d had the least warnin’, Mr. Maxwell,
we’d a slipped the boy an’ gal over to Canidy in no time, but you never
know where a sneakin’ nigger thief is goin’ to hit ye, ’tain’t like
fightin’ a man. Before we knowed it they had ’em as slick as grease an’
was gone.”
“But how could they take the children? They were both born free. It was
an illegal proceeding,” cried Warren in amazement.”
“The child follows the condition of the mother. That’s the law.”
“My God, Mr. Maybee,” exclaimed Warren as a light broke in upon his
mind. “Where is she now--the poor, pretty child?”
“Down on a Missouri plantation, held as a slave!”
“My God!” Warren gazed at him for a time bereft of speech, dazed by a
calamity too great for his mind to grasp. “My God! can such things be?”