The sound of pursuit soon died away, but Erskine kept Firefly at his
best, for he knew that Crooked Lightning would be quick and fast on his
trail. He guessed, too, that Crooked Lightning had already told the
tribe what he had just told the council, and that he and the prophet had
already made all use of the boy's threat to Kahtoo in the Shawnee town.
He knew even that it might cost him his life if he went back there, and
once or twice he started to turn through the wilderness and go back to
the fort. Winter was on, and he had neither saddle nor bridle, but
neither fact bothered him. It was the thought of the white woman who was
to be burned that kept him going and sent him openly and fearlessly into
the town. He knew from the sullen looks that met him, from the fear in
the faces of his foster-mother and the white woman who peered blindly
from her lodge, and from the triumphant leer of the prophet that his
every suspicion was true, but all the more leisurely did he swing from
his horse, all the more haughtily stalk to Kahtoo's tent. And the old
chief looked very grave when the lad told the story of the council and
all that he had said and done.
"The people are angry. They say you are a traitor and a spy. They say
you must die. And I cannot help you. I am too old and the prophet is too
strong."
"And the white woman?"
"She will not burn. Some fur traders have been here. The white chief
McGee sent me a wampum belt and a talk. His messenger brought much
fire-water and he gave me that"--he pointed to a silver-mounted
rifle--"and I promised that she should live. But I cannot help you."
Erskine thought quickly. He laid his rifle down, stepped slowly outside,
and stretched his arms with a yawn. Then still leisurely he moved toward
his horse as though to take care of it. But the braves were too keen and
watchful and they were not fooled by the fact that he had left his rifle
behind. Before he was close enough to leap for Firefly's back, three
bucks darted from behind a lodge and threw themselves upon him. In a
moment he was face down on the ground, his hands were tied behind his
back, and when turned over he looked up into the grinning face of Black
Wolf, who with the help of another brave dragged him to a lodge and
roughly threw him within, and left him alone. On the way he saw his
foster-mother's eyes flashing helplessly, saw the girl Early Morn
indignantly telling her mother what was going on, and the white woman's
face was wet with tears. He turned over so that he could look through
the tent-flaps. Two bucks were driving a stake in the centre of the
space around which the lodges were ringed. Two more were bringing fagots
of wood and it was plain what was going to become of him. His
foster-mother, who was fiercely haranguing one of the chiefs, turned
angrily into Kahtoo's lodge and he could see the white woman rocking her
body and wringing her hands. Then the old chief appeared and lifted his
hands.
"Crooked Lightning will be very angry. The prisoner is his--not yours. It
is for him to say what the punishment shall be--not for you. Wait for
him! Hold a council and if you decide against him, though he is my
son--he shall die." For a moment the preparations ceased and all turned
to the prophet, who had appeared before his lodge.
"Kahtoo is right," he said. "The Great Spirit will not approve if White
Arrow die except by the will of the council--and Crooked Lightning will
be angry." There was a chorus of protesting grunts, but the preparations
ceased. The boy could feel the malevolence in the prophet's tone and he
knew that the impostor wanted to curry further favor with Crooked
Lightning and not rob him of the joy of watching his victim's torture.
So the braves went back to their fire-water, and soon the boy's
foster-mother brought him something to eat, but she could say nothing,
for Black Wolf had appointed himself sentinel and sat rifle in hand at
the door of the lodge.
Night came on. A wildcat screeched, a panther screamed, and an elk
bugled far away. The drinking became more furious and once Erskine saw a
pale-brown arm thrust from behind the lodge and place a jug at the feet
of Black Wolf, who grunted and drank deep. The stars mounted into a
clear sky and the wind rose and made much noise in the trees overhead.
One by one the braves went to drunken sleep about the fire. The fire
died down and by the last flickering flame the lad saw Black Wolf's chin
sinking sleepily to his chest. There was the slightest rustle behind the
tent. He felt something groping for his hands and feet, felt the point
of a knife graze the skin of his wrist and ankles--felt the thongs loosen
and drop apart. Noiselessly, inch by inch, he crept to the wall of the
tent, which was carefully lifted for him. Outside he rose and waited.
Like a shadow the girl Early Morn stole before him and like a shadow he
followed. The loose snow muffled their feet as the noise of the wind had
muffled his escape from the lodge, and in a few minutes they were by the
riverbank, away from the town. The moon rose and from the shadow of a
beech the white woman stepped forth with his rifle and powder-horn and
bullet-pouch and some food. She pointed to his horse a little farther
down. He looked long and silently into the Indian girl's eyes and took
the white woman's shaking hand. Once he looked back. The Indian girl was
stoic as stone. A bar of moonlight showed the white woman's face wet
with tears.
* * * * *
Again Dave Yandell from a watch-tower saw a topknot rise above a patch
of cane now leafless and winter-bitten--saw a hand lifted high above it
with a palm of peace toward him. And again an Indian youth emerged, this
time leading a black horse with a drooping head. Both came painfully on,
staggering, it seemed, from wounds or weakness, and Dave sprang from the
tower and rushed with others to the gate. He knew the horse and there
was dread in his heart; perhaps the approaching Indian had slain the
boy, had stolen the horse, and was innocently coming there for food.
Well, he thought grimly, revenge would be swift. Still, fearing some
trick, he would let no one outside, but himself stood waiting with the
gate a little ajar. So gaunt were boy and beast that it was plain that
both were starving. The boy's face was torn with briers and pinched with
hunger and cold, but a faint smile came from it.
"Don't you know me, Dave?" he asked weakly.
"My God! It's White Arrow!"