I
Streaks of red ran upward, and in answer the great gray eye of the
wilderness lifted its mist-fringed lid. From the green depths came the
fluting of a lone wood-thrush. Through them an owl flew on velvety wings
for his home in the heart of a primeval poplar. A cougar leaped from the
low limb of an oak, missed, and a shuddering deer streaked through a
forest aisle, bounded into a little clearing, stopped rigid, sniffed a
deadlier enemy, and whirled into the wilderness again. Still deeper in
the depths a boy with a bow and arrow and naked, except for scalp-lock
and breech-clout, sprang from sleep and again took flight along a
buffalo trail. Again, not far behind him, three grunting savages were
taking up the print of his moccasined feet.
An hour before a red flare rose within the staked enclosure that was
reared in the centre of the little clearing, and above it smoke was soon
rising. Before the first glimmer of day the gates yawned a little and
three dim shapes appeared and moved leisurely for the woods--each man
with a long flintlock rifle in the hollow of his arm, a hunting-knife in
his belt, and a coonskin cap on his head. At either end of the stockade
a watchtower of oak became visible and in each a sleepy sentinel yawned
and sniffed the welcome smell of frying venison below him. In the pound
at one end of the fort, and close to the eastern side, a horse whinnied,
and a few minutes later when a boy slipped through the gates with feed
in his arms there was more whinnying and the stamping of impatient feet.
"Gol darn ye!" the boy yelled, "can't ye wait till a feller gits _his_
breakfast?"
A voice deep, lazy, and resonant came from the watch-tower above:
"Well, I'm purty hungry myself."
"See any Injuns, Dave?"
"Not more'n a thousand or two, I reckon." The boy laughed:
"Well, I reckon you won't see any while I'm around--they're afeerd o'
_me_."
"I don't blame 'em, Bud. I reckon that blunderbuss o' yours would come
might' nigh goin' through a pat o' butter at twenty yards." The sentinel
rose towering to the full of his stature, stretched his mighty arms with
a yawn, and lightly leaped, rifle in hand, into the enclosure. A girl
climbing the rude ladder to the tower stopped midway.
"Mornin', Dave!"
"Mornin', Polly!"
"I was comin' to wake you up," she smiled.
"I just waked up," he yawned, humoring the jest.
"You don't seem to have much use for this ladder."
"Not unless I'm goin' up; and I wouldn't then if I could jump as high as
I can fall." He went toward her to help her down.
"I wouldn't climb very high," she said, and scorning his hand with a
tantalizing little grimace she leaped as lightly as had he to the
ground. Two older women who sat about a kettle of steaming clothes
watched her.
"Look at Polly Conrad, won't ye? I declare that gal----"
"Lyddy!" cried Polly, "bring Dave's breakfast!"
At the door of each log cabin, as solidly built as a little fort, a
hunter was cleaning a long rifle. At the western angle two men were
strengthening the pickets of the palisade. About the fire two mothers
were suckling babes at naked breasts. A boy was stringing a bow, and
another was hurling a small tomahawk at an oaken post, while a third who
was carrying wood for the open fire cried hotly:
"Come on here, you two, an' he'p me with this wood!" And grumbling they
came, for that fort harbored no idler, irrespective of age or sex.
At the fire a tall girl rose, pushed a mass of sunburned hair from her
heated forehead, and a flush not from the fire fused with her smile.
"I reckon Dave can walk this far--he don't look very puny."
A voice vibrant with sarcasm rose from one of the women about the
steaming kettle.
"Honor!" she cried, "Honor Sanders!"
In a doorway near, a third girl was framed--deep-eyed, deep-breasted.
"Honor!" cried the old woman, "stop wastin' yo' time with that weavin'
in thar an' come out here an' he'p these two gals to git Dave his
breakfast." Dave Yandell laughed loudly.
"Come on, Honor," he called, but the girl turned and the whir of a loom
started again like the humming of bees. Lydia Noe handed the hunter a
pan of deer-meat and corn bread, and Polly poured him a cup of steaming
liquid made from sassafras leaves. Unheeding for a moment the food in
his lap, Dave looked up into Polly's black eyes, shifted to Lydia,
swerved to the door whence came the whir of the loom.
"You are looking very handsome this morning, Polly," he said gravely,
"and Lydia is lovelier even than usual, and Honor is a woodland dream."
He shook his head. "No," he said, "I really couldn't."
"Couldn't what?" asked Polly, though she knew some nonsense was coming.
"Be happy even with two, if t'other were far away."
"I reckon you'll have to try some day--with all of us far away," said the
gentle Lydia.
"No doubt, no doubt." He fell upon his breakfast.
"Purple, crimson, and gold--daughters of the sun--such are not for the
poor hunter--alack, alack!"
"Poor boy!" said Lydia, and Polly looked at her with quickening wonder.
Rallying Dave with soft-voiced mockery was a new phase in Lydia. Dave
gave his hunting-knife a pathetic flourish.
"And when the Virginia gallants come, where will poor Dave be?"
Polly's answer cut with sarcasm, but not at Dave.
"Dave will be busy cuttin' wood an' killin' food for 'em--an' keepin' 'em
from gettin' scalped by Indians."
"I wonder," said Lydia, "if they'll have long hair like Dave?" Dave
shook his long locks with mock pride.
"Yes, but it won't be their own an' it'll be _powdered_."
"Lord, I'd like to see the first Indian who takes one of their scalps."
Polly laughed, but there was a shudder in Lydia's smile. Dave rose.
"I'm goin' to sleep till dinner--don't let anybody wake me," he said, and
at once both the girls were serious and kind.
"We won't, Dave."
Cow-bells began to clang at the edge of the forest.
"There they are," cried Polly. "Come on, Lyddy."
The two girls picked up piggins and squeezed through the opening between
the heavy gates. The young hunter entered a door and within threw
himself across a rude bed, face down.
"Honor!" cried one of the old women, "you go an' git a bucket o' water."
The whir stopped instantly, the girl stepped with a sort of slow majesty
from the cabin, and, entering the next, paused on the threshold as her
eyes caught the powerful figure stretched on the bed and already in
heavy sleep. As she stepped softly for the bucket she could not forbear
another shy swift glance; she felt the flush in her face and to conceal
it she turned her head angrily when she came out. A few minutes later
she was at the spring and ladling water into her pail with a gourd. Near
by the other two girls were milking--each with her forehead against the
soft flank of a dun-colored cow whose hoofs were stained with the juice
of wild strawberries. Honor dipped lazily. When her bucket was full she
fell a-dreaming, and when the girls were through with their task they
turned to find her with deep, unseeing eyes on the dark wilderness.
"Boo!" cried Polly, startling her, and then teasingly:
"Are you in love with Dave, too, Honor?"
The girl reddened.
"No," she whipped out, "an' I ain't goin' to be." And then she reddened
again angrily as Polly's hearty laugh told her she had given herself
away. For a moment the three stood like wood-nymphs about the spring,
vigorous, clear-eyed, richly dowered with health and color and body and
limb--typical mothers-to-be of a wilderness race. And as Honor turned
abruptly for the fort, a shot came from the woods followed by a
war-whoop that stopped the blood shuddering in their veins.
"Oh, my God!" each cried, and catching at their wet skirts they fled in
terror through the long grass. They heard the quick commotion in the
fort, heard sharp commands, cries of warning, frantic calls for them to
hurry, saw strained faces at the gates, saw Dave bound through and rush
toward them. And from the forest there was nothing but its silence until
that was again broken--this time by a loud laugh--the laugh of a white
man. Then at the edge of the wilderness appeared--the fool. Behind him
followed the other two who had gone out that morning, one with a deer
swung about his shoulders, and all could hear the oaths of both as they
cursed the fool in front who had given shot and war-whoop to frighten
women and make them run. Dave stood still, but his lips, too, were busy
with curses, and from the fort came curses--an avalanche of them. The
sickly smile passed from the face of the fellow, shame took its place,
and when he fronted the terrible eyes of old Jerome Sanders at the gate,
that face grew white with fear.
"Thar ain't an Injun in a hundred miles," he stammered, and then he
shrank down as though he were almost going to his knees, when suddenly
old Jerome slipped his long rifle from his shoulder and fired past the
fellow's head with a simultaneous roar of command:
"Git in--ever'body--git in--quick!"
From a watch-tower, too, a rifle had cracked. A naked savage had bounded
into a spot of sunlight that quivered on the buffalo trail a hundred
yards deep in the forest and leaped lithely aside into the bushes--both
rifles had missed. Deeper from the woods came two war-whoops--real
ones--and in the silence that followed the gates were swiftly closed and
barred, and a keen-eyed rifleman was at every port-hole in the fort.
From the tower old Jerome saw reeds begin to shake in a cane-brake to
the left of the spring.
"Look thar!" he called, and three rifles, with his own, covered the
spot. A small brown arm was thrust above the shaking reeds, with the
palm of the hand toward the fort--the peace sign of the Indian--and a
moment later a naked boy sprang from the cane-brake and ran toward the
blockhouse, with a bow and arrow in his left hand and his right
stretched above his head, its pleading palm still outward.
"Don't shoot!--don't nobody shoot!" shouted the old man. No shot came
from the fort, but from the woods came yells of rage, and as the boy
streaked through the clearing an arrow whistled past his head.
"Let him in!" shouted Jerome, and as Dave opened the gates another arrow
hurtled between the boy's upraised arm and his body and stuck quivering
in one of its upright bars. The boy slid through and stood panting,
shrinking, wild-eyed. The arrow had grazed his skin, and when Dave
lifted his arm and looked at the oozing drops of blood he gave a
startled oath, for he saw a flash of white under the loosened
breech-clout below. The boy understood. Quickly he pushed the clout
aside on his thigh that all might see, nodded gravely, and proudly
tapped his breast.
"Paleface!" he half grunted, "white man!"
The wilds were quiet. The boy pointed to them and held up three fingers
to indicate that there were only three red men there, and shook his head
to say there would be no attack from them. Old Jerome studied the little
stranger closely, wondering what new trick those red devils were trying
now to play. Mother Sanders and Mother Noe, the boys of the fort, the
gigantic brothers to Lydia, Adam and Noel, the three girls had gathered
about him, as he stood with the innocence of Eden before the fall.
"The fust thing to do," said Mother Sanders, "is to git some clothes for
the little heathen." Whereat Lydia flushed and Dave made an impatient
gesture for silence.
"What's your name?" The boy shook his head and looked eagerly around.
"Français--French?" he asked, and in turn the big woodsman shook his
head--nobody there spoke French. However, Dave knew a little Shawnee, a
good deal of the sign-language, and the boy seemed to understand a good
many words in English; so that the big woodsman pieced out his story
with considerable accuracy, and turned to tell it to Jerome. The Indians
had crossed the Big River, were as many as the leaves, and meant to
attack the whites. For the first time they had allowed the boy to go on
a war-party. Some one had treated him badly--he pointed out the bruises
of cuffs and kicks on his body. The Indians called him White Arrow, and
he knew he was white from the girdle of untanned skin under his
breech-clout and because the Indian boys taunted him. Asked why he had
come to the fort, he pointed again to his bruises, put both hands
against his breast, and stretched them wide as though he would seek
shelter in the arms of his own race and take them to his heart; and for
the first time a smile came to his face that showed him plainly as a
curious product of his race and the savage forces that for years had
been moulding him. That smile could have never come to the face of an
Indian. No Indian would ever have so lost himself in his own emotions.
No white man would have used his gestures and the symbols of nature to
which he appealed. Only an Indian could have shown such a cruel,
vindictive, merciless fire in his eyes when he told of his wrongs, and
when he saw tears in Lydia's eyes, the first burning in his life came to
his own, and brushing across them with fierce shame he turned Indian
stoic again and stood with his arms folded over his bow and arrows at
his breast, looking neither to right nor left, as though he were waiting
for judgment at their hands and cared little what his fate might be, as
perfect from head to foot as a statue of the ancient little god, who, in
him, had forsaken the couches of love for the tents of war.