Dressed as an Indian, Erskine rode forth next morning with a wampum belt
and a talk for the council north where the British were to meet Shawnee,
Iroquois, and Algonquin, and urge them to enter the great war that was
just breaking forth. There was open and angry protest against sending so
young a lad on so great a mission, but the old chief haughtily brushed
it aside:
"He is young but his feet are swift, his arm is strong, his heart good,
and his head is old. He speaks the tongue of the paleface. Besides, he
is my son."
One question the boy asked as he made ready:
"The white woman must not be burned while I am gone?"
"No," promised the old chief. And so White Arrow fared forth. Four days
he rode through the north woods, and on the fifth he strode through the
streets of a town that was yet filled with great forest trees: a town at
which he had spent three winters when the game was scarce and the tribe
had moved north for good. He lodged with no chief but slept in the woods
with his feet to the fire. The next night he slipped to the house of the
old priest, Father André, who had taught him some religion and a little
French, and the old man welcomed him as a son, though he noted sadly his
Indian dress and was distressed when he heard the lad's mission. He was
quickly relieved.
"I am no royalist," he said.
"Nor am I," said Erskine. "I came because Kahtoo, who seemed nigh to
death, begged me to come. There is much intrigue about him, and he could
trust no other. I am only a messenger and I shall speak his talk; but my
heart is with the Americans and I shall fight with them." The old priest
put his fingers to his lips:
"Sh-h-h! It is not wise. Are you not known?"
Erskine hesitated.
Earlier that morning he had seen three officers riding in. Following was
a youth not in uniform though he carried a sword. On the contrary, he
was dressed like an English dandy, and then he found himself face to
face with Dane Grey. With no sign of recognition the boy had met his
eyes squarely and passed on.
"There is but one man who does know me and he did not recognize me. His
name is Dane Grey. I am wondering what he is doing here. Can you find
out for me and let me know?" The old priest nodded and Erskine slipped
back to the woods.
At sunrise the great council began. On his way Erskine met Grey, who
apparently was leaving with a band of traders for Detroit. Again Erskine
met his eyes and this time Grey smiled:
"Aren't you White Arrow?" Somehow the tone with which he spoke the name
was an insult.
"Yes."
"Then it's true. We heard that you had left your friends at the fort and
become an Indian again."
"Yes?"
"So you are not only going to fight with the Indians against the whites,
but with the British against America?"
"What I am going to do is no business of yours," Erskine said quietly,
"but I hope we shall not be on the same side. We may meet again."
Grey's face was already red with drink and it turned purple with anger.
"When you tried to stab me do you remember what I said?" Erskine nodded
contemptuously.
"Well, I repeat it. Whatever the side, I'll fight you anywhere at any
time and in any way you please."
"Why not now?"
"This is not the time for private quarrels and you know it."
Erskine bowed slightly--an act that came oddly from an Indian head-dress.
"I can wait--and I shall not forget. The day will come."
The old priest touched Erskine's shoulder as the angry youth rode away.
"I cannot make it out," he said. "He claims to represent an English fur
company. His talk is British but he told one man--last night when he was
drunk--that he could have a commission in the American army."
The council-fire was built, the flames crackled and the smoke rolled
upward and swept through the leafless trees. Three British agents sat on
blankets and around them the chiefs were ringed. All day the powwow
lasted. Each agent spoke and the burden of his talk varied very little.
The American palefaces had driven the Indian over the great wall. They
were killing his deer, buffalo, and elk, robbing him of his land and
pushing him ever backward. They were many and they would become more.
The British were the Indian's friends--the Americans were his enemies and
theirs; could they choose to fight with their enemies rather than with
their friends? Each chief answered in turn, and each cast forward his
wampum until only Erskine, who had sat silent, remained, and Pontiac
himself turned to him.
"What says the son of Kahtoo?"
Even as he rose the lad saw creeping to the outer ring his enemy Crooked
Lightning, but he appeared not to see. The whites looked surprised when
his boyish figure stood straight, and they were amazed when he addressed
the traders in French, the agents in English, and spoke to the feathered
chiefs in their own tongue. He cast the belt forward.
"That is Kahtoo's talk, but this is mine."
Who had driven the Indian from the great waters to the great wall? The
British. Who were the Americans until now? British. Why were the
Americans fighting now? Because the British, their kinsmen, would not
give them their rights. If the British would drive the Indian to the
great wall, would they not go on doing what they charged the Americans
with doing now? If the Indians must fight, why fight with the British to
beat the Americans, and then have to fight both a later day? If the
British would not treat their own kinsmen fairly, was it likely that
they would treat the Indian fairly? They had never done so yet. Would it
not be better for the Indian to make the white man on his own land a
friend rather than the white man who lived more than a moon away across
the big seas? Only one gesture the lad made. He lifted his hand high and
paused. Crooked Lightning had sprung to his feet with a hoarse cry.
Already the white men had grown uneasy, for the chiefs had turned to the
boy with startled interest at his first sentence and they could not know
what he was saying. But they looked relieved when Crooked Lightning
rose, for his was the only face in the assembly that was hostile to the
boy. With a gesture Pontiac bade Crooked Lightning speak.
[Illustration: "That is Kahtoo's talk, but this is mine"]
"The tongue of White Arrow is forked. I have heard him say he would
fight with the Long Knives against the British and he would fight with
them even against his own tribe." One grunt of rage ran the round of
three circles and yet Pontiac stopped Crooked Lightning and turned to
the lad. Slowly the boy's uplifted hand came down. With a bound he
leaped through the head-dress of a chief in the outer ring and sped away
through the village. Some started on foot after him, some rushed to
their ponies, and some sent arrows and bullets after him. At the edge of
the village the boy gave a loud, clear call and then another as he ran.
Something black sprang snorting from the edge of the woods with pointed
ears and searching eyes. Another call came and like the swirling edge of
a hurricane-driven thunder-cloud Firefly swept after his master. The boy
ran to meet him, caught one hand in his mane before he stopped, swung
himself up, and in a hail of arrows and bullets swept out of sight.