CAPTURED.
“I’ll bet I can tell whose work this is!”
In an awed, half-frightened tone, as he looked upon the terrible scene,
John spoke.
Ree was already on his knees in the snow trying to learn if there was
not some spark of life remaining. There was none. The body was cold and
in places the flesh was frozen hard.
“The lone Indian’s,” he slowly answered John’s remark. “Poor Quilling.
The only wonder is that the wolves have not been here before us. It was
Quilling who cried out for help, last night, John.”
“I suppose we will never know just what did happen, but it looks more
and more as if a trap of some kind had been laid for us, now doesn’t it?
And while Quilling and Dexter waited, perhaps, that prowling Redskin
shot him. I only wish it had been Duff who was killed.”
As though they had talked the matter all over and agreed what they
should do, though scarcely a word was spoken, the boys tramped up the
hill to their cabin. With an axe and shovel they returned to where the
body of Quilling lay. At the foot of a beech tree which they proposed to
save, as the clearing of their land progressed, they laboriously dug a
shallow grave.
“I would rather Mr. Hatch should know nothing about this, he is always
so broken up by such things,” Ree said thoughtfully, as he leaned on his
shovel, “but it does seem a pity to bury the poor fellow without a
prayer or anything. Shall we tell the Quaker?”
A suggestion from Ree was sufficient always, for John. Theodore Hatch
was informed of what had taken place. With tears in his eyes he repeated
a few solemn words of the scriptures and bowed his head in silent
prayer.
Deeply impressed, and on the verge of breaking out in sobs, though this
man whose clay they buried, that wild animals might not tear the body to
pieces, had been their enemy, the brave boys who performed for him the
last deed of kindliness they could upon this earth, filled in the frozen
mold around and above the corpse. So passed from the sight of men, far
in the forest’s fastnesses, all that was mortal of Henry Quilling, and
the ploughshares of later days have long since mingled his dust with the
soil.
“It is another warning to us to watch out for that sneaking savage,”
John remarked for the fourth or fifth time as the three returned slowly
to the cabin.
“We must not forget our Delaware friends,” spoke Ree more briskly,
hoping to turn the thoughts of the Quaker in a new channel; for the old
gentleman was deeply depressed by what had occurred. “Do you think we
better pay them another visit to-day, Mr. Hatch?”
“Verily, it is a sad business,” said the Quaker, “but our first duty
always must be to the living. Yea, we must go to the Delawares.”
So it was agreed, John, however, taking Ree’s place in the journey.
The Quaker and Ree had had trouble, indeed, the day before, in getting
through the drifted snow to the Delaware town, but he and John had still
more difficulty this day, for the snow was deeper and the great banks
were in many places breast high against their horses. And such was the
old gentleman’s solicitude for his mare that, as they toiled slowly
along, he more than once would have turned back, had not the dapple-gray
shown a perfect willingness to bear him through the very deepest drifts
to the best of its ability. John, mounted on Neb, fell behind, and let
the Quaker’s horse break the path.
“It is not the difference in the strength, but in the intelligence of
the beasts,” was the comment Mr. Hatch made. “Thy horse is stronger than
my own, but Phœbe understands precisely what is desired of her—sweet
Phœbe,” and he patted the mare’s shoulder lovingly.
The Indian town was reached at last and John shook hands with Gentle
Maiden cordially as though she were an old and very dear friend. She had
not seen him for long and though, according to the Indian custom, she
showed no surprise or especial pleasure at the meeting, it was easily
seen that she was pleased.
Still, when the girl engaged in conversation with the Quaker, John left
them and picked his way through the snow to different huts of the
village, rallying the boys and girls with a smile and a pleasant word
and giving even the old squaws to understand that he felt perfectly at
home among them. Seeing a bow and arrows hanging on a forked pole in one
of the bark cabins, John took them down and called to an Indian lad, ten
or twelve years of age, to show him how well he could shoot. The bow was
about four and a half feet in length, and made of seasoned hickory,
about an inch in thickness at the middle and a quarter of an inch or
less, the narrow way, near the ends. About the parts where the greatest
strain came on the bow at either side of the center, the wood was
tightly wound with strong strips of deer or some other skin.
John had often seen the bows and arrows of the Indians, though most of
the savages were now supplied with firearms, but he examined this bow
very carefully. The arrows, too, he looked at with critical eyes, really
surprised to note how cleverly they were made. The shaft of each was
light but strong and straight, nearly, if not quite, three feet in
length. In the larger and heavier end, arrow heads, or points, of
varying size, laboriously chipped out in flint, were fastened by
splitting the shaft and binding the flint tightly in the opening so made
with fine, strong cords of rawhide. Similarly a feather, or in some
cases two or three feathers, were fastened at the small end of the shaft
to make the arrow fly true to the archer’s aim. The bow and especially
the arrows, with their sharp, heavy points, were such dangerous looking
weapons that John inquired of the Indian boy, partly in Delaware, partly
in English:
“Can you not kill turkeys or deer with the bow, since your warriors are
away and your people have no meat?”
“No shoot bows more—shoot guns,” the lad said.
“Yes, I know,” John answered, “but when you have no guns, why not use
the bow?”
“Little Wolf, he shoot bow—heap good,” said the Indian lad, whose own
name, John afterward discovered, was Flying Fish.
“Let’s see him shoot,” the white boy replied, and Little Wolf, who was
even then peeking in at the door of the hut, while he held a bearskin
about him for warmth, quickly disappeared. In a half minute, however, he
returned bringing, as John correctly guessed, his own bow and arrows.
They were like those Flying Fish had, only quite elaborately ornamented
with colors dyed in the wood, showing that Little Wolf had much pride in
the weapons.
Without a word the lad, who was of about the same age as the other
Indian boy, laid off the bearskin he wore, leaving his shoulders bare to
the biting cold. (His lower limbs and waist were clothed in leggins and
trousers.) He threw back his head, shaking his long hair away from his
face and eyes, and while John intently watched him, pointed to a leaf on
the outermost branch of an oak tree, fifty feet or more from the ground
and as many yards from where he stood. With careful aim he drew the
string and bent the bow, which, being very stiff and strong, required
much strength.
For a second he paused as the tip of the arrow rested on the bow-center,
then suddenly sent the shaft flying so quickly and swiftly that the
white boy nearly missed seeing it. Straight and true the arrow sped,
piercing the leaf on the bough of the oak and carrying it off as neatly
as if it had been plucked by hand.
In genuine astonishment and admiration, John gave his leg a vigorous
slap, and diving his hand into his pocket found a small bone comb which
he presented to Little Wolf then and there; and to prevent hard feelings
he gave Flying Fish a similar present.
So pleased were the Indian lads and so friendly after receiving these
gifts, that it occurred to John to improve the opportunity to see what
he could learn from them about the prowling Redskin who seemed ever to
seek and lose no chance to kill and scalp white hunters, always
traveling alone, and, as Gentle Maiden had said, carrying on “his own
war.”
“Killdeer, young Long-knife says,” Flying Fish explained to Little Wolf,
who seemed not to understand at once to whom the white boy referred.
“Is that his name? He is not a Delaware, is he? He is not one of Captain
Pipe’s people?” John asked.
“Killdeer, he comes quick—like wind; gone—like wind. No one see him.”
And hard as John tried to draw further information about the mysterious
Indian from the savage youths, he could learn nothing additional. They
gave evasive answers or failed, or pretended to fail, to understand him.
Half inclined to be cross at the youngsters, though they amused him not
a little, John changed the subject and made the boys promise to hunt
with bows and arrows and to bring peltries to the cabin to exchange for
knives and trinkets.
His chief object in this was to persuade the lads to do some hunting and
thus provide food for themselves and others of the Delaware town; and
even had he thought of the future, he could not have known, as none can
tell what even the next day or hour will bring forth, what an important
part Flying Fish and Little Wolf would play in connection with his own
well-being, as a result of his kindly interest in them. For as it
afterward happened it was solely because of their having been instigated
to go in quest of game with only such weapons as they possessed, that
they made their appearance at a distant point one day when their young
white friend greatly needed them.
Gentle Maiden and the Quaker had finished the distribution of dried
venison brought from the cabin by the time John had concluded his talk
with the two Indian lads and others who clustered around to see and to
hear, and as an early homeward start was desirable, John suggested to
Mr. Hatch that they would better be going.
No word had yet been received at the Delaware town from Captain Pipe and
there was no knowing when he would be home. However, provisions
sufficient to last the Indians three or four days had now been furnished
them, and there would be no necessity of visiting the town so soon
again. Yet the Quaker, whose whole heart was in this work of teaching
and caring for the Indians, which he had taken upon himself, told Gentle
Maiden he would come again the next day, as they bade the girl and the
people of the snow-bound village good-bye.
As when on their journey to the town Mr. Hatch and his dapple-gray led
the way, so did they take the lead in traveling homeward. The wind had
risen again, but the path broken in the morning was not yet filled in
with the snow and very good progress was made. The short day, however,
was near its close and the gloom of the coming night settled down in the
silent forest while the strangely mated travelers were still three miles
or more from home.
“I’ll have some news to tell Ree—the fact that the mysterious Indian’s
name is Killdeer and that he is a friend of Captain Pipe, who for some
reason doesn’t mind who he kills,” John was thinking as he rode
carelessly along, when the Quaker called out to him:
“Beware of the strange savage who desireth only to kill, and hath no
courage in him—always shooting from behind.”
“He’s got you marked up on his arm as already dead, you know, Mr. Hatch,
and you should be in no danger,” John laughingly called in reply.
But barely had he finished the sentence when he was seized from behind
and a dirty hand was clasped so quickly and tightly over his mouth that
he could not utter a sound. Vainly he struggled, but he was dragged down
into the snow and could not release himself.
So occupied was John in doing his best to escape, or at least to cry out
in warning to the Quaker, that he did not see what had happened to his
companion.
The facts were that Mr. Hatch’s mare, being very much more sensitive and
alert than slow-going Neb, had suddenly shied upon passing a large
poplar tree, and as a man sprang from behind it to seize him, as another
seized John, the horse gave so violent a leap forward that the fellow
grasped only at the air, though his intended victim was almost thrown
from the saddle.
The old gentleman looked around, and seeing John’s horse, startled from
its slow walk to a gallop, coming up behind, and having no doubt that
the boy was lying low on the animal’s back to escape whatever danger
threatened, he gave his mare free rein. On and on he hastened through
the snow, followed by the frightened unridden horse, nor did he stop
until, dazed by excitement, the dapple-gray panting and perspiring as
though it were a hot day in July, he drew up at the cabin door.
Meanwhile John’s captor had been reinforced by the fellow who had failed
to catch the Quaker.
“Nice mess you made of the job, I must say!” angrily growled the man who
held John down, the lad’s face buried in the snow, as the other man came
up.
By a vigorous squirm, rising partly on his hands and knees, John
succeeded in turning over and getting his first look at the fellow who
had seized him. Instantly he recognized the “Indian” who had visited the
cabin, still in Indian costume, though there was no doubt that his skin
was white.
“So it is you, is it, Duff?” said the boy calmly as he could. “I would
recognize your angelic temper anywhere.”
Duff paid no attention to the remark, save to hold his captive the
tighter, but continued to upbraid his companion for failing to secure
the “blasted, pious old fool of a Quaker.”
“Ain’t no use jawin’; nobody never did nothin’ what they couldn’t do,”
the other man made answer.
“And you, too, Dexter,” John spoke up. “We had a nice visit with Mr.
Duff, the other evening, and wished you could have come along. And how
is it that Landlord Quilling is not with you?”