DEATH’S DOINGS.
The brushwood which the Indians heaped against the door of Oliver
Blount’s home, had been gathered on the edge of the clearing and was
quite dry. The bark films were soon ignited by the flints, and in less
time than we can record a single sentence, the little boughs were
cracking in the ruddy blaze.
Segowatha, who, on account of his wound, lay at the foot of a tree
some distance from the cottage, commanded his braves to draw back from
the scene, and with a single exception they obeyed. That exception
was Jules Bardue, the Yellow Chief, as he had been termed for several
years. He had suddenly disappeared, though Segowatha made no inquiries
regarding his absence, nor manifested any uneasiness about it.
The creole was a privileged character among the north-western
Indians. He had not always dwelt among the tribes of the Illinois
country. He had been an attache to Sir William Johnson’s estate in
New York, and amid its beauties he first encountered the girl he now
sought--Catherine Blount. Then she was a pretty little blonde of
fifteen, and he a manly-looking fellow of one and twenty. He threw
himself before Miss Kate whenever an opportunity presented, and when he
discovered that the beauty did not love him--when, in indignant tones,
she bade him remain from her side, he obeyed the instincts of a bad
heart and grossly insulted her.
As young as she was--a mere child in years--Kate Blount had imbibed to
no little degree her father’s resentful nature, and it was with great
difficulty that the creole wrenched from her the pistol which had
flashed from her bosom to avenge the insult he had offered.
To what violence his passion might have led we can only guess, for
from among the shadows of the forest trees a veritable giant sprung
upon him; strong arms encircled him, and, before he could think with
calmness, he found himself stripped and bound to a tree. Kate Blount
had suddenly disappeared, and before him stood her irate father, armed
with a bundle of switches. Jules Bardue did not beg for mercy; he was
not that kind of a man. On the contrary he gritted his teeth until
sixty terrible blows had stripped the flesh from his back, and he was
unbound and hurled almost senseless to the ground.
The next morning the creole, or Frenchman as he was called by many, did
not make his appearance at Sir William’s lodge; nor was he ever seen
near it again. He feared the wrath of Oliver Blount, and had left the
country for his own and the country’s good.
He fled to the new Illinois; lived at Cahokia awhile, then joined the
Pottawatomies, and became their Yellow Chief. He knew that Oliver
Blount intended to emigrate to the Illinois country sometime, and the
Yellow Chief’s frequent incursions into that Paradise told that he
watched and waited for father and daughter--for his revenge.
Fully thirty paces from trader Blount’s cottage the Indians watched
the progress of their devilish work, and when they beheld the flames
licking up the door with their forked tongues, they exchanged “ughs”
of supreme satisfaction. The besieged would not permit themselves to
be roasted to death, and every minute the dusky demons expected to
hear the submissive cry. A cordon of braves encircled the cottage thus
cutting off the retreat of the doomed ones.
But while this was transpiring, a merciful Providence was interposing
a saving hand, for a suddenly-gathered storm-cloud burst over the
cottage; the gates of the upper deep opened, and threatened to deluge
every thing.
The superstitious Indians, surprised and alarmed at this sudden burst
of lightning and rain, left their stations and gathered around the
wounded chief.
Despite his wounds, Segowatha sprung to his feet.
“Back to your places, braves!” he yelled, facing the shrinking savages
with drawn tomahawk. “The Manitou merely waters the earth, and he will
smile soon.”
Sullenly the warriors returned to their posts, and again the cottage
was encircled by the tomahawk and scalping-knife.
The drenching rain, driven in upon the porch by the wind, effectually
extinguished the flames; and when the storm at last had subsided, an
Indian approached the house, to discover a door so charred that it must
yield to a slight assault.
Not a sound proceeded from the cottage, and the Indians, who now crept
forward like snakes to the attack, wondered at the silence. When they
reached the foot of the porch they rose in a body and threw themselves
against the door.
It made no resistance, and the savages, with horrible yells, rushed
pell-mell into the cottage. Beyond the portal they met a determined
resistance, but it was from a dog. With an almost human yell, Pontiac
darted at the foremost Indian’s throat, and dragged the torn wretch to
the floor. The entire band sprung upon the dog, and a minute later he
was literally hacked to pieces with their knives.
Where were Kate Blount and the hunted Peoria?
The savages rushed into the second chamber; but it was tenantless. The
ladder which was wont to invite ingress to the attic was missing, and
with some difficulty the red demons gained the upper story. A moment
later a yell of mingled rage and disappointment pealed from their
throats, and while it echoed throughout the gloomy recesses of the
drenched forest, they congregated beneath an opening in the roof, and
gazed bewildered at the stars which seem to laugh at their defeat.
The birds had flown!
Segowatha greeted this announcement with a groan of rage, and in angry
tones he summoned the rear guards into his presence. Tremblingly they
approached, and told him that while they guarded the house, the twain
had not escaped.
“But while you acted like squaws they crept from the lodge,” cried the
War Wolf with terrific mien. “I will have no such braves with me!”
As he spoke he buried his hatchet in the brain of the foremost guard,
and turned with murderous intention upon the second. But, his strength
failed him; the weapon dropped from his hand, and a sub-chief supported
him with his arms.
“Shall we throw ourselves upon the snake’s trail?”
“No, no!” said Segowatha, his face suddenly growing pale, and a
convulsive shudder passing over his giant frame. “The War Wolf must go
to his people; the Peoria’s bullet struck deep. Segowatha is near the
dark river. But give the snake’s den to the fire, and call the Yellow
Chief back.”
With the bare thought of their war-chief’s approaching end, the savages
gave themselves over to a rage which knew no bounds, and defies
description.
They flew to the work of destruction; they ripped the weather boarding
from the cottage, and split it with their hatchets, piling it in the
lower rooms. Presently the flints were applied again, and soon Oliver
Blount’s home was wrapped in flames. While the tongues of fire licked
up the toil of years, a chief repeated the shrill cry of the night-hawk
three times in rapid succession. Then they waited anxiously for the
coming of some one, but, whoever that one was, he did not come.
The demons danced about the trader’s burning home; they tore down the
neat fence that surrounded it, and cast it into the fire; they applied
their hatchets to the beautiful silver maples which afforded delicious
shade, and gave them to the devouring element. In short, they spared
nothing, even tearing up the broad stones which led to the well, and
hurling them with terrible yells after the trees.
At last the cottage was destroyed, and, ready for more hellish work,
the Indians turned to Segowatha for orders. The dying chief, for it was
plain that he was approaching the river of death, smiled upon their
work and inquired regarding the creole.
“He comes not,” answered a young chief--the Lone Wolf, “like a cowardly
dog he has deserted us. We will whip him with canes when he sneaks back
to our lodges.”
“The Yellow Chief went to watch the spot where the fur-trader keeps his
boat,” said Segowatha. “But Segowatha can not dream why he comes not.
He must have heard the hawk cry.”
“He may have filled his ears with leaves,” said Lone Wolf, who, though
a Pottawatomie, bore no good thoughts for Jules Bardue. “He watches
yet, perhaps. We will hunt the dog.”
Touching a warrior’s arm lightly, the young Indian bounded toward
Cahokia Creek, followed by the red-skin whom his touch had summoned.
A path led from the cottage to the creek, which almost encircled it,
and the two Indians were not long in reaching the stream. Suddenly Lone
Wolf’s companion uttered an “ugh” expressive of horror, and dropped
before a dark object which lay near the water.
“The Yellow Chief!” exclaimed Lone Wolf.
A brief examination proved the creole to be still living, and just
recovering from the deathly swoon into which a terrible blow had hurled
him.
A glance about the star-lit spot showed evidences of a fierce struggle,
and the missing boat told the result of the combat.
The Indians lifted the Yellow Chief and bore him to Segowatha.
The War Wolf raised himself on his elbow, and for a long time looked
down into the creole’s face without speaking.
“Segowatha leads the red-men of the big lake no more,” he said, at
last, in the calmest of tones, which the Indian loves to assume when he
stands upon the threshold of death. “The Manitou grips his hand now,
and the War Wolf must go. Warriors--Pottawatomies, Ojibwas,” his eyes
swept the circle of tawny faces, “who followed Segowatha hither, you
must swear.”
In the momentary pause that followed, thirty hatchets flew aloft, and
thirty hands covered the hearts of their respective owners.
“Swear!” cried the dying War Wolf--“swear to hunt to earth the Peoria
skunk and the white house-snake who crawls after him. Swear to tear the
hearts from all whom she loves--her bearded father, the Pale Giant, and
the boy with long hair. Segowatha hates them all!”
“We swear!” cried Lone Wolf. “Warriors, by our chieftain’s blood we
swear all this.”
With the last word the young brave dyed his hands in the warm blood
that gushed afresh from Segowatha’s wounds, and the other red-skins
followed his example.
“I swear, too!” unexpectedly cried a voice in French, and, raising
himself with a mighty effort, the Yellow Chief thrust his hand into
Segowatha’s blood. “Ha! ha! we will hunt them down--the fugitives of
the Illinois! Oh, that they were here now!”
Exhaustion then again followed, and he dropped to the ground, and a
moment later a terrific yell, uttered simultaneously by thirty pair of
lips, told that the mighty War Wolf of the Pottawatomies had stepped
into the impenetrable future.
Over Segowatha’s corpse an Ojibwa dropped with a groan, and two others
staggered to their feet to fall to the earth, a second later, wounded
to the death.
The uninjured red-skins griped their rifles; but not a foe was to be
seen. Everywhere the silence of death reigned supreme!