INDIANS
"You are the dearest children," exclaimed Aunt Florence. "I wish I
could take you back to New York with me. You can't remember your
grandfather and grandmother at all, can you, Billy?"
"No, wouldn't know 'em if I'd meet 'em."
"It's a shame. Never mind, I'll tell them all about you two and Gerald,
and some day I'm coming north on purpose to take you all home with me,
and we'll have the best kind of a time."
"Guess you wouldn't think of coming after us if we lived where we do
now, and it was a hundred years ago," suggested Betty.
"Why not?"
"Oh, because you would have had to come from Detroit in a canoe, and
this was all woods then, deep, deep woods full of Indians."
"Dear me, Betty, don't speak of it! It seems to me there are woods
enough here now. My! What a dreary place! the undergrowth is so thick
you can't see the water, and yet you can hear every wave. Betty
Grannis, do you mean to tell me that you ever come out here to the old
fort alone?"
"Oh, not very often; it is rather dreary, isn't it, auntie? You see,
this is an old, old Indian trail, and that is why the pines meet
overhead. Let's walk faster. I don't believe you'll want to stay long,
auntie, after you get to the fort."
"I agree with you, Betty, this is a lonesome walk. I almost wish we'd
stayed at home."
"Let's turn around and go back," suggested Billy.
"Oh, I must find some beads," Aunt Florence insisted. "Do you ever see
Indians around here nowadays?"
"Oh, just tame ones," Billy was honest enough to say.
"You must be brave children," the young lady remarked, as she followed
Betty through the gloomy forest.
[Illustration]
"We're used to it," Betty sung over her shoulder, and Billy knew she
was laughing. "Besides that, we can run like the wind if we have to.
Then you know, auntie, the awful things that happened here happened
over a hundred years ago, and there isn't any real danger now, of
course. It just makes you feel shivery, that's all. Isn't it queer
about Indian trails, how they wind in and out so often? This trail
is exactly as it used to be. Did you ever read 'The Conspiracy of
Pontiac,' auntie?"
"No, Betty, I never read it all; I simply know about the massacre here.
Have you read it?"
"She knows it by heart," said Billy. "She can say bushels of Indian
speeches. Tell her one, Betty. Tell her that one where the Indian said
to Alexander Henry, 'The rattlesnake is our grandfather.'"
"Yes, do, Betty, only tell me first who Alexander Henry was."
"Why, auntie, don't you know? He was the English fur-trader whose
life was saved by the Indian chief Wawatam. I like him best of any
fur-trader I ever knew."
"Do tell me his story, Betty."
"Oh, I can't tell it, it is too long. Do you want to know what happened
to him in the spring of 1761, two years before the massacre?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Well, of course, you know all about the French and Indian War, auntie?"
"Yes, I know something about it."
"Then, auntie, you know that the French liked the Indians, and the
Indians liked them, but the English despised the Indians, and treated
them so badly the Indians hated all Englishmen. That was why the
Indians helped the French in their war. They wanted to drive the
English out of the country. Well, when the war was over, the Indians
didn't know that the English came out ahead, and that the French
soldiers would have to march out of every fort and that the English
soldiers would march in. Even my Pontiac didn't know it."
"He'd have known all about his own war and where he died if he'd had
you for a sister," mocked Billy.
"Don't talk quite so loud, Billy dear," cautioned Aunt Florence.
"'Fraid?" questioned Billy.
"Oh, not exactly; go on, Betty, we're listening. How much longer is
this Indian trail, anyway?"
"Only half a mile, auntie. Billy, you'll punch a hole through your
pocket if you aren't careful."
"Go on with your story, Bet, and don't turn around so much."
"Well," continued Betty, giving Billy a look that meant "Don't you dare
lose those beads," "well, auntie, in the spring of that year, 1761, the
French soldiers had left this fort, and only Canadian families were
living in it. The English soldiers hadn't come yet, but they were on
the way. The fort was over a hundred years old then. Only think of it!
"Alexander Henry, my Englishman, wasn't afraid of anything, that's why
I like him. He came up here with canoes full of beads and things to
trade with the Indians for furs. On the way he was warned again and
again to go back if he didn't want to be killed. He probably would have
been killed long before he got here if he hadn't put on the clothes of
a Canadian voyageur."
"They're the ones," interrupted Billy, "that used to paddle the canoes
and sing 'Row, brothers, row,' and--"
"She knows that," sniffed Betty; "even our baby knows that much. Well,
auntie, when Alexander Henry got here, the Canadians were bad to him
and tried to scare him. They wanted him to go away before anything
happened. He hadn't been here but a short time when Minnavavana, a
Chippewa Indian chief, came with sixty warriors to call on him. They
marched to his house single file, auntie. Their faces were painted with
grease and charcoal, and they had feathers through their noses and
feathers in their hair. Their bodies were painted with white clay. That
isn't the worst of it. Every warrior carried a tomahawk in one hand
and a scalping-knife in the other. I suppose they came along this very
trail.
"Alexander Henry says they walked into the house without a sound. The
chief made a sign and they all sat on the floor. Minnavavana asked one
of the interpreters how long it was since Mr. Henry left Montreal, and
then he said it seemed that the English were brave men and not afraid
to die, or they wouldn't come as he had, alone, among their enemies.
Then all the Indians smoked their pipes, and let Alexander Henry think
about things while it was nice and quiet. Just think of it, auntie!
"When the Indians were through smoking, Minnavavana made a speech. I
don't know it by heart, but it was something like this:
"'Englishman, it is to you that I speak. Englishman, you know that the
French king promised to be our father. We promised to be his children.
We have kept this promise. Englishman, it is you that have made war
with our father. You are his enemy. How could you have the boldness to
venture among us, his children? You know his enemies are ours.
"'Englishman, our father, the King of France, is old and infirm. Being
tired of war, he has fallen asleep. But his nap is almost at an end.
I think I hear him stirring and asking for his children, the Indians,
and, when he does awake, what must become of you? He will destroy you
utterly.'"
Betty, becoming much in earnest, was walking backward.
"'Englishman, we have no father, no friend among the white men but
the King of France,'" the child went on. "'But for you, we have
taken into consideration that you have ventured your life among us
in the expectation that we should not molest you. You do not come to
make war; you come in peace to trade with us. We shall regard you,
therefore, as a brother, and you may sleep tranquilly, without fear of
the Chippewas. As a token of friendship, we present you this pipe to
smoke.'"
Whereupon, Betty, making a serious bow, offered her little shovel
to Aunt Florence. For the moment, she actually believed herself
Minnavavana, the Indian chief, though Billy's face quickly brought her
back to the present.
"I am thankful to say," resumed Betty, joining in the laugh following
the presentation of the shovel, "that after three hundred warriors of
another tribe came and were going to make trouble, the English soldiers
arrived, and the red flag of England soon floated above the fort. Then,
for two years, nothing much happened, but I'm glad I wasn't here then.
I wouldn't have slept a wink, I know."
"Neither should I, Betty," Aunt Florence agreed.
"Frenchy'd have been all right, though," remarked Billy. "There's the
fort, Aunt Florence, straight ahead; the trail ends here. Now we will
find an old cellar-hole and hunt for beads. Let me go first, Betty."
"The fort," repeated Aunt Florence, "where is it?" She saw nothing but
a wilderness of wild-rose blooms.
"Oh," laughed Betty, "there's nothing left of the fort but part of
the old palisades. Most of the buildings were burned the day of the
massacre."
"It's unspeakably dreary, in spite of the sunshine and the roses,"
commented Aunt Florence, "but I do want some beads."
"Come on, come on," cried Billy. "Oh, hurry up, Aunt Florence, I'm
finding beads by the bushel."
"Where is the child? can you see him, Betty?"
"'Way over there, auntie, in that cellar-hole near the old apple-tree.
We think that is where one of the storehouses used to be, because all
around it is where most of the beads have been found."
For awhile Aunt Florence forgot the surrounding woods, in her eager
search for beads. Had she known Betty and Billy as their mother knew
them, she might have understood that there was more of mischief than
pure joy in their smiles.
"Never found so many beads in one place in my life," declared Billy.
"Nor anybody else in the last hundred years," added Betty. "Fun, isn't
it?"
"Fun!" echoed Aunt Florence, "why, children, I won't want to go home
until dark."
Betty stared, and Billy made faces. This was an unexpected blow. At
last the beads that Betty had collected, after working hours and hours
through many a day, were all found.
"Now we'll look for another place," announced Aunt Florence.
"I guess we are alone out here," suggested Betty, glancing about, as
though she felt uneasy.
"Oh, no," was the cheerful reply, "down there nearer the lake I saw two
sunbonnets not three minutes ago. We're all right, children; I'm not
the least bit timid."
Patiently Aunt Florence continued her search for beads, encouraged by
the hope of finding another place equal to the first.
"It seems strange that there should have been so many beads in one spot
of earth, and so few everywhere else," she said, "but I'm not going to
give up now, after such luck in the beginning."
"You'll just have to scare her to death, I guess," grumbled Billy.
"Lost your beads for nothing, too."
"Trouble is," confessed Betty, moving nearer Billy and farther from her
aunt, "this isn't a good place to tell Indian stories."
"Why not?"
"Because, Billy, I get scared myself. Honest and truth, I don't even
like to think of such horrible things right here where they happened."
"Don't make any difference, you've got to," protested Billy. "Don't you
know she said she'd stay here till dark?"
"I know it, Billy; let me see, how'll I begin. Oh, I know, Alexander
Henry was in his room in the fort writing letters home. Perhaps, Billy,
we are standing on the very place where his house was. He was so busy
with his letters he didn't want to take the time to go down to the
beach to see the canoes that had just arrived from Detroit. First thing
he knew, he heard the war-whoops. Mercy, Billy! Don't scream like that
again!"
"Billy Grannis," called Aunt Florence, "what's the matter?"
"Why, that was just an Indian war-whoop, auntie. Frenchy and I have
been practising whoops lately."
"Well, please don't practise any more now; you made me jump so I lost
three beads. I don't believe an Indian could give a worse yell."
"Oh, yes, he could," exclaimed Betty, "my, that's nothing!" and, seeing
her opportunity, she began telling stories. Even Billy grew solemn in
his very mind as he listened, and it wasn't long before Betty succeeded
in scaring herself, however Aunt Florence may have felt.
Suddenly the air was filled with shrieks. Aunt Florence became white as
the daisies, as she stared at Betty, while terror seized Billy.
"It's the sunbonnet girls," gasped Betty; "what do you s'pose is the
matter? What is the matter?" she demanded of the flying maidens.
"Indians, Indians, run quick, run, run! I tell you they're after us!"
One glance toward the lake was enough for Betty. She saw canoes being
drawn up on the beach, and Indians coming straight toward them. The
child was never more frightened in her life. Forgetting Billy, she and
Aunt Florence fairly flew over the rough ground. Billy, poor fellow!
never could run because he was too plump. He hadn't gone ten breathless
steps before he fell into a cellar-hole, and, before he could scramble
out, a big Indian overtook him.
"Match," grunted the Indian, "want match."
"N-n-no, I don't want any matches," answered Billy, trying to steady
his trembling knees.
"Humph! Indian want match. Give Indian match. Indian build fire," was
the explanation.
Billy shook his head, and the Indian turned away disappointed.
"That Betty'd leave you to be eaten up by Indians," grumbled Billy,
and, because he was so angry and because he had been so badly
frightened over nothing, he began to cry.
"Billy, Billy, don't cry, I came back after you, you poor child." It
was the voice of Aunt Florence, though Billy couldn't see her.
"Here I am, behind this clump of goose-berry bushes, Billy. I didn't
dare come straight back, so I kept behind trees and bushes. Come
quick; now let's run."
"There isn't anything to run for, Aunt Florence," sobbed Billy. "Don't
you see, they're just tame Indians, and wouldn't hurt anybody? Don't
you see the little Indian children and the squaws, too? I s'pose
they've come with baskets to sell. Yes, there comes a squaw, going to
town now with a load of baskets."
"Then I guess I'll sit down and rest a minute," said Aunt Florence,
"for I'm tired out. It's dreadful to be so frightened. I'm trembling
yet."
"Me, too," confessed Billy. "Where's that Betty?"
"Home by this time, I presume," was the laughing reply, "unless she
couldn't stop running when she got there, in which case she's probably
in the lake. Well, Billy, let's walk on now, or the whole missionary
society will be coming to our rescue."
"Oh, Billy, I've been crying my eyes out, fear something had happened
to you," was Betty's greeting when she saw her little brother.
Billy made a face, as he replied in scornful tones: "'Fore I'd run
away from tame Indians!" For many a day thereafter, if Billy wanted
anything that belonged to Betty, it was his if he but threatened to say
"Tame Indians."