HELPING THE DELAWARES—DANGER.
“Thus thou knowest that much time passed ere I made any effort to find
Ichabod,” the Quaker concluded. “I did at last hear that he was living
in Connecticut, and had settled down to peaceable pursuits. So, in the
course of time, I set out to find him, and having no family and no kin,
save Ichabod, I proposed to give all my time to it. With all my earthly
possessions in my saddle-bags, therefore, I mounted my dearly beloved
mare and set out. I have been traveling ever since. In time I learned of
Ichabod’s death. It was at the Eagle tavern that I heard of it. Friend
Quilling there knew of the half-letter which Ichabod had, and knew of
what I was in search, as soon as I inquired for Brother Nesbit. For Mr.
Quilling and Ichabod were very friendly.
“I lodged at the Eagle tavern that night and from there set out to find
the Indian, Black Eagle, and in a few weeks I located him. But he had
taken nothing from the body of Ichabod Nesbit, for killing whom I took
him sharply to task; for, though Ichabod was no credit to me, he was yet
my half-brother, as I have said. Having learned from Black Eagle where
Ichabod’s body lay, beneath the stones along the trail at the foot of
the hill, near where a giant tree was shattered by lightning, I went
again to the Eagle tavern to get further information.
“I wished to know if Ichabod had any family or other relations of whom I
might be ignorant. I found that he had none. And it was that night, as I
lay at Mr. Quilling’s establishment, that my letter was taken from my
saddle-bags, though they were in my room, and the greater wonder is that
nothing else was stolen. Not—not that I have anything of great value
about me! Indeed, no!”
So did the Quaker finish his story, and neither of the lads who heard it
for a moment thought he had not spoken the truth.
“It must have been soon afterward that we chanced to stop at the Eagle,”
said Ree, thoughtfully. “Quilling, being somewhat of a coward, and
wanting help, took Duff and Dexter into his confidence, hoping to secure
the other half of the fortune letter. They found Black Eagle and
persuaded him to accompany them into this wilderness to find Nesbit’s
body, believing either that they would reach the spot ahead of you, Mr.
Hatch, or that you would be unable to find where Nesbit was killed—at
any rate, that they would get his half of the letter, and, already
having yours, secure the fortune.”
“Nay, they did not know I was coming to these desolate wilds,” the
Quaker answered. “Not that I would intentionally deceive—oh, no! but
fearing that rough persons along the road might molest me, should my
mission be known, I caused Friend Quilling to believe (without staining
my lips with lies, however) that I would be going back to Philadelphia,
which I fervently hope I may yet do. But, oh, how sadly disfigured! Yet
I shall not appear to disadvantage when my hat is on. That will cover
the disfigurement then. No one will know my scalp is gone.”
“And when those fellows discovered,” said John, “that some one had
reached Nesbit’s grave ahead of them, and Duff found out that Black
Eagle had directed you to the place, saying nothing to them of having
done so, he deliberately killed the Indian. Now, what I was going to say
is just this:—Duff will kill any one of us if he gets a chance, if he
thinks he can get hold of that piece of paper by doing so! What we ought
to do is to go straight to those robbers and compel them to give up the
letter they stole from Mr. Hatch.”
This suggestion gave the Quaker great uneasiness.
“No, no—we must not go near them! We must keep away from them—oh dear,
oh dear!”
All in all Mr. Hatch was so distressed and it was now so late, that
without more ado, Ree drew in the latch-string, a signal that it was bed
time.
The hickory bark torch had long since burned out. The fire was low and
the interior of the cabin almost dark. Confident, therefore, that no one
without would notice his action, even though watching the cabin, Ree
next opened loop holes on all sides and he and John carefully looked
out.
All was still and calm save for the usual sounds of animals in the
surrounding forest and the blowing of the wind, swirling fine dry snow,
with which the air was filled in all directions, even under the door of
the cabin.
“Ring will wake us up if any one comes prowling around the cabin,” said
Ree, “and those chaps won’t do more than try to steal that letter.
Moreover, they cannot be sure that we have it. They naturally suppose
that Mr. Hatch got it, and it is not likely they are sure he is with us,
or that we ever saw him, even. Their scheme will be to spy around and
learn all they can before they begin to fight. As for their trying to
swear upon us the killing of Black Eagle, I don’t fear that a particle.”
John acknowledged that Ree’s thoughts were probably correct, and neither
lad felt any alarm as they went to bed; and as for Theodore Hatch, he
was already snoring.
The snow was several inches deep and the air biting cold when the
pioneer boys arose in the morning, but they welcomed the change for two
reasons: first, it gave them better success in hunting and trapping, by
reason of their being able to track the game; and in the second place
they would be able, by reason of the snow, speedily to discover the fact
if human prowlers were about; for there are times when footprints tell
as much as words could do.
It was a matter of regret to both the boys, however, now that the
hunting was so good, that they could not go together on account of the
necessity of one remaining with Mr. Hatch. The Quaker was well and
strong enough that he could have been left alone, but he was so afraid,
and there really was such danger that Duff and his party would visit the
cabin, that the lads deemed it unwise to take any chances.
The absence of the Indians—the warriors and hunters—was noticeable in
the success the young Palefaces had with their traps and shooting; but
it was also no less noticeable in the lack of business they had as
traders, and to keep their store of furs piling up they hunted a great
deal.
It was not an uncommon thing during the fine winter days which followed
this first hard snow storm for John to go many miles from home in quest
of game, while Ree devoted the day to chopping wood and clearing the
land near the cabin, taking his turn at hunting the next day; but
neither boy saw anything of Duff, Dexter or Quilling.
Occasionally wandering Indians came to the cabin, but they reported,
when questioned, that they had observed no Paleface strangers anywhere
about. So a feeling of greater security from molestation by either white
or red men came to the occupants of the little log house beside the
river; and about this time, too, a discovery was made which afforded a
new subject for thought and conversation.
Ree was hunting one day some distance from home in the direction of the
town of the Delawares upon the lake, and came upon the tracks of a young
bear, which for some reason had left its winter quarters or had failed
to find any. He followed the trail of the cub to a large oak, and
discovered the animal quietly resting in a fork of the tree, twenty feet
from the ground. At one shot he brought the bear down, and, securing the
pelt, it occurred to him to take the best portions of the meat to the
Delaware town as a good-will offering to the old men and squaws there.
He would inquire what had been heard of Captain Pipe, and might also get
news of Duff’s party, or of the lone Indian, who had not been seen for a
long time.
Within an hour of the time the thought came to him, Ree was at the
Delaware village. He could not but notice how lonely an air it had. Even
the dogs seemed not to bark so vigorously as usual, but sniffed
hungrily, leaping up at the bear meat upon his shoulder.
“How, neighbors and friends,” called Ree, as the noise of the dogs
brought the Indians, Gentle Maiden among the rest, from the cabins, and
stepping up to the daughter of Captain Pipe, he said:
“Gentle Maiden, I shot a young bear near by, and I have brought some
fresh meat for you and your people, if you care for it; and if you do
not, the dogs may be glad of it.”
With a graceful courtesy, which may have been all her own, or taught
her, more likely, by the Moravian missionaries, of whom, as a child, she
had learned to speak English, the Indian girl accepted the gift, saying
most earnestly, as the other Indians, half clad, wrapped in skins and
worn blankets, crowded near:
“Truly the Great Spirit has sent you—the Great Spirit of the Red
Children of the forests, or the God of the Palefaces—has sent you and
this food. For days and nights—more than on the fingers of both my hands
could be told—my father’s people have had no meat—only the flesh of the
dogs we killed.”
Ree would have interrupted the girl to tell his regret that he and John
had not known their needs to have helped them before, but she would not
permit it; for Gentle Maiden, now really a young woman, though girlish
in appearance in her short skirt and embroidered leggins, continued:
“Very little corn have we left, and of beans none; and no powder here
for the one gun left with us by my father’s warriors. Yet come, rest,
and eat of what we have and our people shall prepare more.”
Giving the bear meat to some squaws to be quickly cooked, Gentle Maiden
and her mother led the way to the cabin of Captain Pipe, somewhat better
than the others, though poor enough and now half filled with smoke from
the fire built in the center of the earthen floor, beneath a hole in the
roof.
“I had hoped to find Chief Hopocon (Captain Pipe) back from his fighting
expedition,” said Ree, pretending to eat of the scanty quantity of
parched corn placed before him, for hospitality’s sake, a courtesy the
Indians never forgot.
“No, the fighting may not be over. There may be another great battle,”
said the girl.
“Another battle?” the boy ejaculated. “Has there been one, then?”
“Has the white brother not heard?—a great battle, in which my father’s
warriors and many more drove the soldiers of the Long-knives even as
scared birds before a mighty storm, and—”
It was in the mind of Gentle Maiden to complete the sentence by saying,
“and took many, many scalps,” but she wished to spare the white boy’s
feelings, and hesitated.
“How do you know this?” Ree questioned, quickly guessing the words left
unsaid.
“A runner came to tell of the mighty battle and to call all the people
to be ready to drive every Paleface from our lands.”
“Tell me more of the battle,” Ree said, quietly. “Was it long ago? And
where was the fighting?”
“There,” answered Gentle Maiden in a hushed but still slightly
triumphant tone, pointing to the westward, “a journey of seven suns, it
may be, near the river called Wabash. The Paleface chief Sain Clair
(General St. Clair) and many soldiers had come into the land of my
father’s people and his friends to build their forts and to drive the
Indians from their homes. It was at the coming of day that the battle
began and the white soldiers and the warriors were many as the trees of
the forest. Hard and long was the fighting, but before the sun was in
the middle of the sky our warriors had conquered—our warriors had driven
the white chief Sain Clair and all the soldiers from their camps, and
they fled before my father’s people even as leaves when the winds blow
hard.”
“Were many killed?”
Ree asked the question calmly, though he could hardly restrain his
feelings or keep from showing the resentment in his heart that the
Indian girl should seem to boast of the victory over the white men. And
yet he knew that the savages had been abused and imposed upon. He knew
that their children were taught to look upon the whites as their enemies
and as people of “two tongues,” who would deceive and cheat and steal.
Especially was this true in this land of the Ohio, where the awful
massacre of nearly a hundred peaceable Indians by white soldiers was
still fresh in the minds of the savages.
Gentle Maiden did not at once answer the question, for in her heart she
felt that Ree, who had been her father’s friend, was angered by the news
she told him and by her tone.
“Many will rise only in the spirit world,” she said at last, “many
Palefaces and many warriors. Never has my father told me of any battle
where the ground was so covered by the killed.”
“It is too bad, Gentle Maiden,” the white boy returned thoughtfully, and
then, thinking suddenly of that unknown, lone Indian of whom he had seen
or heard nothing for some time, he remarked:
“Perhaps the Indian who has been fighting the white men alone in these
forests here was also in the battle. I have not seen him for a long
time.”
“He was not in the battle, but a new scalp hangs at his belt.”
“Have you seen him? Has he been here?”
“He has not been here. The runner I told you of saw him; and a white
hunter lies dead by the stream named the White Woman. It is his own
battle the red brother fights, and he will go to war in no other way.”
“Who is he, Gentle Maiden?”
“My father, Chief Hopocon, may tell you. He is not of my father’s
people.”
Knowing that further questioning would be useless, Ree said no more
about that matter, but sought to ascertain to what extent his aid and
John’s would be acceptable in furnishing meat for the people still
remaining in the Delaware village. He quickly found that, whatever her
feelings toward the Palefaces in general might be, the daughter of
Captain Pipe looked upon himself and his friend in quite a different
way, and she gladly heard his suggestion that, as they killed more game
than they needed for themselves, he would see to it that the Delawares
should not want.
This suggestion cost Ree considerable discomfort of mind,
notwithstanding, and he was by no means certain that John would welcome
the proposition after he had heard of the battle of which the girl told
(the defeat of St. Clair, Nov. 4, 1791). And indeed it did seem to Ree
himself almost unbearable to consider that he and John should be
furnishing food to the helpless members of Captain Pipe’s village, while
that honest but cruel and defiant chieftain and his braves were making
war on the whites—his own people; also that they should be giving
assistance to those who upheld the mysterious lone Indian in his secret,
sneaking attacks upon solitary hunters and travelers. But he bade Gentle
Maiden and the other Indians who came to see him off, a friendly
farewell, and set out for home, thinking deeply of all he had heard.
The thought would come to him that he and John were bound to have
trouble; for, though they might retain the friendship and good will of
Captain Pipe, it was more than probable that he would be unable to
restrain his warriors, and especially the warriors of other tribes, the
Wyandots, Senecas and, most of all, the Mingoes, from making a bold
attack upon them, now that their blood was heated by a deeper hate and
their minds inflamed by the victory they had won. So, wearily, Ree
plodded through the snow.