BANDS OF BLACK.
A bitterly cold night was closing in when Ree reached the cabin.
“I rather guess there will be no prowlers around this evening,” he
remarked, as he shook the snow from his coonskin cap in front of the
roaring fireplace, and held his hands to the blaze to warm them.
“Ree,” said John, ignoring the remark, “Mr. Hatch wants a feather bed.
We were talking about it as you came in. I told him we could make him
one from turkey feathers.”
“So we can,” was the answer. “We’ll begin saving feathers right away.”
“It is because I have decided to remain here until I can go in quest of
the rascals who have the missing part of my aunt’s letter,” the Quaker
put in, very seriously. “For poor Ichabod is dead—dead and gone—and the
money, lads, is mine—all mine. Oh, I must obtain the paper which was
stolen from me! All mine—the money and all—it is all mine,” he murmured,
and from time to time repeated—“All mine—all mine!”
Much thinking of the hidden treasure and his assertion that he was the
only creature known to be alive who had any valid claim to the fortune,
seemed fast to be making Theodore Hatch a covetous, disagreeable old
man. He had changed wonderfully in the short time since the boys had
known him.
“Thou shalt stay as long as we do, if thou likest, friend,” said Ree,
adopting the Quaker manner of speaking. “But the Indians have fought a
great battle near the Wabash river and sadly defeated General St. Clair
and his troops. What the result will be as concerns ourselves, we must
wait and see.”
“What’s that?” John exclaimed.
All that he had learned from Gentle Maiden, Ree then told his friends,
and he told them also of the destitute circumstances in which he found
the people still remaining in Captain Pipe’s village.
There arose in John’s mind at once the same question that had perplexed
Ree—should they help these needy Indians, while those who ought to be at
home providing for them were fighting the white troops and, no doubt,
killing settlers and plundering and burning their cabins?
“After all, we can’t let the poor Redskins starve,” he said at last.
“Just what I said to myself on the way home,” Ree replied.
Theodore Hatch had risen and was walking up and down the one tiny room
of the cabin, despondent and deeply sorrowing, as was usual with him
when he heard news of bloodshed. He spoke no word, but at last, still
deep in thought, laid himself down upon his bed and buried his face in
the coarse pillow formed in part by his closely-watched saddle bags. His
position had not changed when the two boys were ready to go to bed, and,
thinking he slept, they covered him over with a blanket and bearskin.
All night the wind howled through the valley of the Cuyahoga, bending
the strongest limbs of the forest trees and snapping dead branches off
short with a sudden crackling which added to the threatening noises all
about. All night the snow went flying before the gale, piling itself in
drifts upon the log doorstep of the lonely cabin, against every fallen
tree and against every rock and bluff for miles around,—in the haunted
spot where the sunken eyes of the dead Black Eagle stared upward through
their mantle of white, and beside the smoky hut where Gentle Maiden
knelt before the fire and besought the Great Spirit to send aid to her
father’s people.
All night the storm raged and even the dismal voices of the wolves were
stilled and they slunk into their cavern homes; so much the safer were
the timid deer seeking shelter among the low-boughed trees of the
ravines. All night the troubled Quaker lay face downward upon his bed,
his mind struggling between his love for gold and his wish to do right.
On their own bed in the corner, Return Kingdom and John Jerome soundly
slept or, partially awakened from time to time by the fierceness of the
tempest, dreamed the hours away.
The coming of morning showed the hours of darkness to have been very
busy ones for the storm king.
“I think we will not be venturing far from the cabin to-day,” said John,
looking out.
“Lucky there is no need of doing so,” Ree answered.
“Dear friends”—it was the Quaker who spoke, and his voice was strangely
soft and low, reminding the boys at once of the caressing way in which
he always addressed his mare, Phœbe—“whatever the depth of snow or the
cold, I am going to the town of the Delawares to carry them whatever
food thee will spare me for them.”
“Why, you mustn’t think of doing so, Mr. Hatch,” said Ree. “I do not
believe the Indians are really suffering, as yet.”
“They need food, and more than food for their bodies merely,” was the
answer. “They are but ignorant savages, but bravely they are bearing all
the suffering which comes to them because their strong men have gone
forth to fight for what they righteously believe to be their own; and I
shall go among them, and even as our illustrious William Penn would do
were he alive and here, I shall both feed and teach them.”
Some great change had come over Theodore Hatch. But the day before he
would have shown but little interest in any subject save that of the
hidden fortune. Now he did not mention it, but bundled up and visited
the log stable adjoining the cabin to tell Phœbe his plans, as he had so
often told the gentle animal of the treasure, saying over and over
again, “All mine—all mine.”
The depth of the snow was so great and the way so difficult that,
finding the Quaker determined to follow out the plan he had formed, the
two boys agreed that Ree should accompany him, mounted on Neb, while Mr.
Hatch rode his own horse. With a generous supply of provisions,
therefore, the two set out, leaving John alone to guard the cabin and
the Quaker’s prized saddle bags, and to cut and store near the house a
stock of wood for the fireplace.
Well-nigh buried beneath the snow, Ree and his companion found the
village of the Delawares a desolate place indeed, upon their arrival
there after nearly three hours of floundering through great drifts and
over fallen trees and brush, the trail being so hidden by its spotless
cloak that to follow it closely was quite impossible.
The meat the white men carried to the Indians, however, was really badly
needed. It became evident at once that the whole truth had not been
revealed to Ree by Gentle Maiden—because of her pride, perhaps—and
several of the oldest and most feeble of the Indian men and women were
genuinely sick solely for want of food. The children, too, though
bearing their suffering with true Indian grit,—not a cry or whimper
escaping them,—were most desperately hungry.
“Our dogs knew our distress and their danger, and our women could not
come near to them to kill one for eating. Always did they run away,
howling or sometimes almost speaking words of fear—or—or woe,” said
Gentle Maiden, telling of the suffering of her father’s people, while
Ree and Mr. Hatch warmed themselves at the fire in the chief’s cabin. At
the same time the girl’s mother was carrying more wood to make a
brighter blaze, and the hungry Delawares were feeding themselves
ravenously in their own cabins or beside a fire built near the center of
the space the irregular collection of huts enclosed.
“Thy father will not travel far through snow so deep,” the Quaker said
in answer. “He and his fighting men will be slow in reaching home,
therefore. Yet, young friend, I shall come among thee with food for thee
and thine until he shall return. Is it true that thou wert taught by the
Moravian preachers, my dear?”
“The missionaries trained my tongue to speak the language of the
Palefaces. They were very kind. Still their God is not the god of the
Indians, my father says. My father has lived long. He knows much.”
The quick intuition of the girl in recognizing the Quaker as one who
would wish to teach the Delawares the religion of the white people, and
her way of telling him that his efforts would meet with poor
appreciation, amused Ree, though he sincerely wished his friend all
success.
“Dear child, thy Father in heaven is all wise and approves the love thou
bearest thy earthly father. Goodness is in thy heart, and—see, though
one of thy own people, it may be, has done this, yet do I come to thee
as a friend who seeks only to do thee good.”
As he spoke, the Quaker bent down and pointed to the scalpless top of
his head. With scarcely a tremor Gentle Maiden followed his words and
action and realized at once what he had undergone.
“Yea, verily, my head was cut thus, and I was left for dead, but
forgiveness is in my heart,” the Quaker said.
“My father’s people did not that,” said the girl, with somewhat of
haughtiness in her voice. “The Paleface brother was shot by one who
roams far and alone. He is not of my father’s tribe. His war is his own
war. He comes and goes—now here—now far—much far off. On his arm he
marks with paint one band of black for every Paleface killed. Many bands
are on his arm. Many Palefaces he has killed. Never will his war be
ended. He must not know my Paleface preacher brother, that he thinks he
killed, still lives. Yet it is his war. Gentle Maiden may not speak
more.”
Theodore Hatch was considerably puzzled by the girl’s speech; but Ree,
quickly understanding her, explained to him that for each person he
killed the prowling Indian, whoever he might be, pricked in black a
circlet about his arm, in addition to taking the scalp; that for some
reason he would never cease his attacks upon the whites, and that if he
discovered that one man, whom he supposed he had killed, was still
alive, he would seek to make that man’s death certain, or kill some
other man instead.
“The young Paleface speaks well. Gentle Maiden cannot tell so many words
of English now as when her tongue was trained to speak them,” the Indian
girl said, confirming Ree’s explanation of her warning to the Quaker.
“I shall see him and reason with him. It is wrong that his heart should
be set against all white people, though many may have misused him. Where
shall I find him?”
“He comes and goes. He is not of the Delawares. His war is his own war.
I have spoken,” the girl made answer.
“I tried to have Gentle Maiden tell me of this lone Indian myself, but
the Delawares will not say who he is,” said Ree, fearing the Quaker
might give offense by pressing the maiden to tell more than she was
willing to do. “He is not a Delaware, yet Captain Pipe believes he has
some just cause for making war on the whites, secretly and alone, and
does not attempt to stop him. Am I right, Gentle Maiden?”
The Indian girl nodded her head and said simply, “Yes.”
The conversation turned to other subjects, both Mr. Hatch and Ree being
anxious to learn to what extent the people of the village would need
assistance during the winter, in case Captain Pipe should not return. It
quickly became apparent that the Indians would require a great deal of
aid. They had almost nothing left to eat, and every cache (holes in the
earth in which corn or other provisions were hidden) had been emptied.
The prospect that on the white neighbors of the savages would fall the
task of providing them with meat was not, to Ree, a pleasing one. True,
it was a duty and must be performed, but it would take the time of
himself or John the greater part of every day, he quickly saw. The
Quaker was undoubtedly willing to do his part, but his mind was bent
more upon the spiritual than the bodily welfare of the Indians, and,
moreover, he would scarcely shoot a deer even if he had an opportunity.
Promising to return in a day or two, Ree and Mr. Hatch took their leave,
mounted their horses and started homeward. The wind was still blowing in
sudden gusts and was bitterly cold. The trail through the snow, made in
reaching the Indian town, however, rendered the return journey easier,
and good progress was being made when, as the two rode along the edge of
a high bluff between the village and their cabin, a strong wind caught
the broad brim of the Quaker’s hat and sent it sailing over the edge of
the steep hillside, into the gully.
“I’ll get it for you,” said Ree, who was considerably in advance of his
companion, and, reaching a place where the descent was less precipitous,
he rode into the ravine, then back to a point even with that where Mr.
Hatch had paused.
An odd picture the Quaker presented as he sat astride his mare, leaning
slightly forward, his uncovered, scalpless head exposed to the wind,
while he held out his arm pointing to the spot where his beaver lay.
Ree glanced up to note the direction which the outstretched finger
indicated. Almost at the same moment a terrific shriek sounded high and
loud above the roaring wind, followed by another and another.
In an instant Ree’s rifle was at his shoulder. No sign of any living
creature could be seen, however, save Theodore Hatch sitting bolt
upright in his saddle staring in vacant astonishment across the ravine.
“For goodness sake, what is it?” eagerly cried the boy.
“Verily, I think it was the young Indian who tried to kill me—who has my
scalp,” muttered Mr. Hatch, in tones of awe.
With all haste Ree recovered the Quaker’s hat and made speed to reach
his side. But the Indian had vanished.
“He went so very suddenly I scarcely saw him,” the Quaker explained. “I
only heard him scream.”
The meaning of it all came to Ree’s mind like a flash. The lone Indian,
prowling along the opposite side of the ravine, had been attracted by
the noise of their horses, and slipped up to find what was to be seen.
He had come just in time to discover the Quaker in a ghost-like
attitude, pointing into the valley meaningly, while his scalped crown
and rigid quiet added to the supernatural appearance he made.
Recognizing the horse and the rider, the latter a man whose scalp was
even then fastened to his own belt, the Indian had been terrified beyond
measure—thinking he saw a ghost—the ghost of one of his victims.
“I shall be greatly mistaken if he does not follow us to find out just
exactly what he did see,” said Ree, explaining his supposition
concerning the Indian’s fright. “There is no doubt but what he is
watching from a distance at this very minute.”
And Ree was right. The lone Indian did follow at a respectful distance,
and the fact that he did so was a fortunate thing for the young
pioneers, as they afterward discovered.