WE ACCEPT A REFUGEE
I looked again at the thing with a fresh curiosity, yet with no direct
thought of any connection. The undisguised terror manifest in her
face, however, caused me to realize the sudden suspicion which this
discovery had aroused.
"That means nothing," I insisted, taking the pin back into my own
possession. "It is probably the emblem of some secret order, and there
may be thousands of them scattered about. Anyhow this one never
belonged to Joe Kirby. He could never have been here. My guess is the
fellow is back at Yellow Banks before now. Forget it, Eloise, while we
eat. Then a few hours' sleep will restore your nerves; you are all
worn out."
We had nearly completed the meal, seated around what remained of the
shattered table. I do not recall what we conversed about, if indeed we
conversed at all. My own thoughts, rambling as they were, centered on
Eloise, and my desire to bring her safely to the Ottawa fort. How
white and drawn the poor girl's face looked in the bright daylight; and
how little of the food on her plate she was able to force down. What
intense weariness found expression in those eyes which met mine. And
she continued to try so hard to appear cheerful, to speak lightly. It
was pitiful. Yet in spite of all this never to my sight had she seemed
more attractive, more sweet of face. I could not remove my eyes from
her, nor do I think she was unobservant, for a tinge of red crept
slowly into the white cheeks, and a new light flashed across at me from
beneath the shadowing lashes.
The boy Asa sat at the very end of the table, facing the open door,
eating as though he had not tasted food for a week. He was a homely,
uninteresting lout, but Tim had compelled him to wash, and in
consequence his freckled face shone, and the wet shock of hair appeared
more tousled than ever. From the time of sitting down he had scarcely
raised his eyes from off the pewter plate before him; but at last this
was emptied, and he lifted his head, to stare out through the open
door. Into his face came a look of dumb, inarticulate fright, as his
lips gave utterance to one cry of warning.
"Look! Look!"
With swift turn of the head I saw what he meant--a man on horseback,
riding at a savage gait up the trail, directly for the cabin, bent so
low in the saddle his features could not be discerned, but, from his
clothing, unquestionably white. I was without the door, Tim beside me
rifle in hand, when the fellow swept around the base of the oak, still
staring behind him, as though in fright of pursuers, and flogging his
straining horse with the end of a rein. He appeared fairly crazed with
fear, unaware in his blind terror of the close proximity of the cabin.
"Hold on!" I yelled, springing forward, my arms thrown up, directly in
the animal's course. "Stop, you fool!"
I know not whether the frantic horse checked itself, or if the rider
drew rein, but the beast stopped, half rearing, and I gazed with
amazement into the revealed face of the man--he was Joe Kirby. Before
I could speak, or move, he burst into words.
"You! Knox! My God, man, whoever you are, don't refuse me shelter!"
"Shelter? from what?" my hand closing on a pistol butt.
"Indians! Be merciful, for God's sake. They are there in the valley,
they are after me. I just escaped them--they were going to burn me at
the stake!"
I glanced aside at Tim; his rifle was flung forward. Then I looked
quickly back at the man, who had already dropped from his horse, and
seemed scarcely able to stand. Was this true, had he ridden here
unknowing whom he would meet, with no other thought but to save his
life? Heaven knows he looked the part--his swarthy face dirtied, with
a stain of blood on one cheek, his shirt ripped into rags, bare-headed,
and with a look of terror in his eyes not to be mistaken. Villain and
savage as I knew him to be, I still felt a strange wave of pity sweep
me--pity and tenderness, mingled with hatred and distrust.
"Kirby," I said, and strode in between him and Tim's levelled weapon.
"There is no friendship between us--now, or at any time. I believe you
to be a miserable, snarling dog; but I would save even a cur from
Indian torture. Did you know we were here?"
"No, so help me God. I saw the cabin, and hoped to find help."
"The savages are following you?"
"Yes--yes; see! Look down there--there are half a hundred of the
devils, and--and Black Hawk."
"By the Holy Smoke, Cap, he's right--there they are!" sung out Kennedy,
pointing excitedly. "The cuss ain't a lyin'. What'll we do?"
I saw them also by this time, my mind in a whirl of indecision. What
should we do? What ought we to do? We should have to fight to the
death--there was no doubt of that. An attempt to get away was
manifestly impossible. But what about this renegade? this infernal
scoundrel? this hell-hound who had been trailing us to kill and
destroy? Should we turn him back now to his deserved fate? or should
we offer him the same chance for life we had? He might fight; he might
add one rifle to our defense; he might help us to hold out until
rescuers came. And then--then--after that--we could settle our score.
Tim's voice broke the silence.
"I reckon we ain't got much time," he said grimly. "It's one thing,
'er the other. I'm fer givin' the damn begger a chanst. I can't turn
no white man over ter Injuns--not me. Kirby's got a gun, an' I reckon
we're goin' fer ter need 'em all afore this blame fracas is over with."
"And I agree with you, Mr. Kennedy," said Eloise, clearly, speaking
from the open door. "Lieutenant Knox, no one here has more to forgive
than I. We must give the man refuge--it would be inhuman not to."
My questioning eyes sought her face, and I read there a plea for mercy
not to be resisted. She meant her words, and the hate and distrust in
my own heart seemed mean and vile. I stepped forward and struck the
horse sharply, sending him scurrying around the end of the cabin.
"Go in!" I said, grimly, to Kirby, looking him squarely in the eyes.
"And then play the man, if you care to live."
I lingered there upon the outside for a moment, but for a moment only.
The advancing cloud of savages were already coming up the slope,
gradually spreading out into the form of a fan. The majority were
mounted, although several struggled forward on foot. Near their center
appeared the ominous gleam of a red blanket, waved back and forth as
though in signal, but the distance was too great for my eyes to
distinguish the one manipulating it. We were trapped, with our backs
to the wall.
There were but few preparations to be made, and I gave small attention
to Kirby until these had been hastily completed. The door and window
were barred, the powder and slugs brought up from below, the rifles
loaded and primed, the few loopholes between the logs opened, and a
pail of water placed within easy reach. This was all that could be
done. Kennedy made use of the fellow, ordering him about almost
brutally, and Kirby obeyed the commands without an answering protest.
To all appearances he was as eager as we in the preparations for
defense. But I could not command him; to even address the fellow would
have been torture, for even then I was without faith, without
confidence. The very sneaking, cowardly way in which he acted, did not
appeal to me as natural. I could not deny his story--those approaching
Indians alone were proof that he fled from a real danger; and yet--and
yet, to my mind he could not represent anything but treachery. I
possessed but one desire--to kick the cringing cur.
I stood at a loophole watching the approaching savages. They had
halted just below the big tree, and four or five, half hidden by the
huge trunk, were in consultation, well beyond rifle shot. Assured by
their attitude that the attack would not be made immediately, I
ventured to turn my face slightly, and take final survey of the room
behind. Tim had stationed himself at the other side of the door, his
eyes glued to a narrow opening, both hands gripped on his gun. Eloise
and the colored girl, the one dry-eyed and alert, the other prone on
the floor crying, were where I had told them to go, into the darkest
corner. The boy I did not see, nor even remember; but Kirby stood on
the bench, which enabled him to peer out through the loop-hole in the
window shutter. What I noticed, however, was, that instead of keeping
watch without, his eyes were furtively wandering about the room, and,
when they suddenly encountered mine, were as instantly averted.
"Where was it you met those Indians, Kirby?" I questioned sternly.
"Down the valley."
"Last night?"
"This morning; they surprised us in camp."
"In camp! there were others with you, then. Who were they? the party
you had trailing us?"
"Yes," a decidedly sullen tone creeping into his voice. "Five of them;
one was a Winnebago."
"And Rale was along, I presume. What became of the others?"
He shook his head, but with no show of feeling.
"That's more than I know. Things were hot enough for me without
bothering about the rest. I never saw any of them again, except Rale.
He was killed in the fight. About an hour after that I shot the buck
who was guarding me, and got away on his horse."
"What Indians were they?"
"Sacs mostly; some Foxes, and maybe a Winnebago or two."
"Was Black Hawk with them?"
"I don't know--I never saw Black Hawk."
I felt firmly convinced that he was deliberately lying, and yet there
was nothing in his story which might not be true. No doubt it was
prejudice, personal hatred, and distrust which led me to come to this
conclusion. Well, true or not, I meant to see that he fought now.
"All right, but I advise you to keep your eyes outside," I said
sternly. "Don't be staring about the cabin any more."
"I was looking for something to eat."
"Is that so? Well, you better stand it for awhile without eating.
What is it, Eloise?"
"Please let me hand him some food."
I hesitated, conscious that I disliked even the thought of her serving
the fellow in any way, yet unable to resist the eager plea in her eyes.
"Very well, if you wish to; only keep down out of range; those Indians
may try for the loopholes. It is more than you deserve, Kirby."
He made no response, and I watched him closely as he endeavored to eat
what she proffered him, and felt convinced that it was hard work. The
man had lied about being hungry; he was not in need of food, and my
deep-rooted suspicion of him only flamed up anew. A hand gripped at my
sleeve timidly, and I turned quickly to encounter the eyes of Asa Hall.
Never did I read such depth of fear in the expression of any face--it
was the wild, unreasoning terror of an animal.
"What is it, my boy?"
"It's him, seh," he whispered, his lips trembling so I could scarce
catch the words. "Thet feller thar. He's--he's the one I saw las'
night with Black Hawk."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, seh; I know him. I saw him plain as I do now."
I do not know why, but every bit of evidence against the man came
instantly thronging back to my mind--the chance remark of Thockmorton
on the _Warrior_ about his suspicion of Indian blood; the high cheek
bones and thin lips; the boy's earlier description; the manner in which
our trail had been so relentlessly followed; the strange emblem found
pinned to the blanket. I seemed to grasp the entire truth--the wily,
cowardly scheme of treachery he was endeavoring to perpetrate. My
blood boiled in my veins, and yet I felt cold as ice, as I swung about,
and faced the fellow, my rifle flung forward.
"Kirby, stand up! Drop that rifle--take it, Eloise. Now raise your
hands. Tim."
"Whut's up?"
"Is there anything serious going on outside?"
"No; nuthin' much--just pow-wowin'. Yer want me?"
"Search that scoundrel for weapons. Don't ask questions; do what I
say."
He made short work of it, using no gentle methods.
"Wal' the gent wasn't exactly harmless," he reported, grinning
cheerfully, "considerin' this yere knife an cannon. Now, maybe ye'll
tell me whut the hell's up?"
Kirby stood erect, his dark eyes searching our faces, his lips scornful.
"And perhaps, Mr. Lieutenant Knox," he added sarcastically. "You might
condescend to explain to me also the purpose of this outrage."
"With pleasure," but without lowering my rifle. "This boy here
belonged to the company of soldiers massacred yesterday morning. You
know where I mean. He was the only one to escape alive, and he saw you
there among the savages--free, and one of them."
"He tells you that? And you accept the word of that half-wit?"
"He described your appearance to us exactly twenty-four hours ago. I
never thought of you at the time, although the description was accurate
enough, because it seemed so impossible for you to have been there.
But that isn't all, Kirby. What has become of the emblem pin you wore
in your tie? It is gone, I see."
His hand went up involuntarily. It is possible he had never missed it
before, for a look of indecision came into the man's face--the first
symptom of weakness I had ever detected there.
"It must have been lost--mislaid--"
"It was; and I chance to be able to tell you where--in this very room.
Here is your pin, you incarnate devil. I found it caught in those
blankets yonder. This is not your first visit to this cabin; you were
here with Indian murderers."
"It's a damned lie--"
But Kennedy had him, locked in a vise-like grip. It was well he had,
for the fellow had burst into a frantic rage, yet was bound so utterly
helpless as to appear almost pitiful. The knowledge of what he had
planned, of his despicable treachery, left us merciless. In spite of
his struggles we bore him to the floor, and pinned him there, cursing
and snapping like a wild beast.
"Tear up one of those blankets," I called back over my shoulder to
Hall. "Yes, into strips, of course; now bring them here. Tim, you tie
the fellow--yes, do a good job; I'll hold him. Lie still, Kirby, or I
shall have to give you the butt of this gun in the face."
He made one last effort to break free, and, as my hand attempted to
close on his throat, the clutching fingers caught the band of his
shirt, and ripped it wide open. There, directly before me, a scar
across his hairy, exposed chest, was a broad, black mark, a tribal
totem. I stared down at it, recognizing its significance.
"By Heaven, Tim, look at this!" I cried. "He is an Indian himself--a
black Sac!"