THE SEARCH.
The feelings of Return Kingdom when he saw the Quaker come galloping up
to the cabin door, his beloved mare wet with perspiration, and closely
followed by their own horse, riderless, were different than he had ever
experienced. He had never known the true meaning of fear and never had
he known a moment when his courage and hope seemed to desert him so
entirely as now.
There flashed upon his mind a picture of John Jerome’s body stretched in
the snow as he had seen Quilling’s; of the lone Indian stooping over it
to secure the awful trophy of his silent warfare against the whites.
With his old-time determination, however, the lad shook off these
fearful thoughts, and as Theodore Hatch’s feet touched the ground, was
at his side.
“John—?”
Ree could not ask the question in his mind. His voice sunk to a husky
whisper.
“Verily, I do not know,” said the Quaker in hushed, frightened tones. “I
thought he was on his horse until but a little while ago. An Indian
attacked me and I escaped. I thought thy friend was coming on behind
till I chanced to look back, a mile from here.”
“Tell me all about it just as quick as you can, Mr. Hatch.” There was
pleading and yet an imperative command in Kingdom’s voice.
“We were midway betwixt here and the Indian town, but I scarce know what
happened. A savage in hiding behind a tree leaped out upon me and would
have seized me but Phœbe bounded beyond his reach, nor stopped till now.
Thy beloved friend was behind me. His horse kept close up and I thought
the lad was with me till but a few minutes since.”
“Were no guns fired? Did you hear John cry out?”
“Verily, I know not.”
“It may be that John was swept off his horse by the low limbs of a
tree,” said Ree, hope coming to him with the thought. “Was it the lone
Indian—the one you saw before, who attacked you?”
“I cannot say—I cannot say.”
The Quaker was trembling violently from his exertion and fright, and Ree
pitied him, though he almost despised the man who could give only so
wretched an account of what had happened, when information was so badly
needed.
“Mount your mare and come after me. Show me the place where you were
attacked.”
Kingdom seized his rifle, which was always within reach, and at one
bound was upon Neb’s back. The Quaker began a protest, but the lad did
not—would not—hear. It was now quite dark and the howling wind and
penetrating cold added to the hardship of the work to be done and
lessened the likelihood of success; but the man dared not disobey the
boy’s command.
The sweeping gale was fast filling in the path the horses had made along
the trail to the Indian town, but the animals themselves were able to
find it, though in the darkness the men would not have been. The Quaker
recollected the point at which he had first missed John and there Ree
dismounted and walked. But it was no use; for, though often he mistook a
half-buried log or stump for the body of him he sought, he discovered
nothing in the darkness which would indicate whether John had been
killed or carried off, or had only fallen, wounded, from his horse.
Not until they had reached the village of the Delawares did the
searchers pause in their hunt. Theodore Hatch had been unable to locate
definitely the spot at which he was attacked, and Ree pushed on to the
Indian town hoping to find some tidings. But neither Gentle Maiden nor
any of the others could give any information.
“Has the lone Indian been seen near here to-day?”
The question revealed Ree’s secret fear.
“He has not been here,” the girl answered. “Gentle Maiden would tell the
white brother if he had come or gone. His hate is deep, his gun shoots
straight. His war is his own war.”
There was sadness in the Indian maiden’s voice which betrayed her own
fears. Thus did she confirm her white friend’s belief that John had
fallen a victim of the solitary savage whose thirst for revenge upon the
whites knew no limit.
What was the reason of the bitter, personal, persistent warfare he
carried on? In his heart, as the thoughts stirred his kindly nature to
vengefulness, Ree vowed that he would not quit the country of the Ohio
until he had killed this lone Indian, and without John he would remain
no longer than he should need to complete that task.
The Quaker would have remained in the Indian village for the remainder
of the night, and the Indians, roused from their slumbers by the arrival
of the white men, invited Ree, also, to stay, but he would not think of
it. Back along the trail, therefore, the boy walking, the Quaker astride
his mare, the two plodded the weary miles to the cabin again, searching
all the way for the body they dreaded to find.
Ree fed the jaded horses when home was reached, and the exhausted
Quaker, lying down, was soon asleep, hugging his prized saddle bags with
one arm beneath his pillow, as usual.
For the younger man there was no rest. He put the rude snowshoes he had
made, in order, and broiled and ate portions of a wild turkey he had
caught in the deep snow while making the rounds of their traps in the
absence of his chum and Mr. Hatch during the day. He reloaded his two
pistols and refilled his powder horn and bullet pouch, then waited.
Impatiently he spent the remaining hour or two until the first sign of
daylight, and then, awakening the Quaker, cautioned him to remain near
the cabin and watch closely for any indication of danger. He feared that
Duff and Dexter might chance to visit the vicinity, and knew they would
not hesitate to kill the old gentleman, to procure his portion of the
divided fortune letter, if they found him alone.
The morning was breaking over the bleak, wintry forest as Ree set forth.
With two pistols in his belt, his rifle over his shoulder and food and
medicine in the pouch hung at his side, he had no concern for his own
safety; but he did fear deeply for one he loved more.
He went at once along the trail toward the Indian town, closely
scrutinizing the drifted snow and the trees and bushes on both sides
thereof. Nowhere did he find the least encouragement until he came to a
great poplar tree about which there was evidence that the snow had been
disturbed and tramped down the day before, though the traces were now
well-nigh obliterated.
The place answered to the meager description Theodore Hatch had given of
the spot at which the assault was made, but in his uncertainty the
anxious boy knew but one thing to do. He hurried on, resolving, if he
found no better clue, to return and look far and wide about this spot in
hope of discovering some sign of tracks leading away from it.
With desperate haste the unhappy boy traversed the trail clear back to
the Delaware town. The Indians were astir and two boys, Flying Fish and
Little Wolf, were preparing to go hunting with bows and arrows. They
were equipped with snowshoes and ready for a long journey. Both offered
to join the “white brother” in his search, but Ree thanked them and told
them only that if they discovered any trace of the missing one to carry
word to the town and the cabin as quickly as they could. He would reward
them well, he said.
Without loss of time the anxious lad then returned to the big poplar
tree beside the trail. Half the forenoon had passed, but the day had
come bright and clear with scarcely any wind. It would have been a
glorious day for hunting, but any day must be gloomy when one’s best
friend is strangely missing, and may be dead or dying, and there was no
sunshine in the heart of the lonely boy who traversed the snow-bound
forest.
At last, a quarter of a mile to the right of the point where the trail
passed the big poplar, Ree did discover, in a protected valley, the
tracks of three persons. Minutely he examined them, but the fine snow
had so sifted in that he could not tell whether they were those of
Indians or otherwise, or whether or not John might have made any of the
footprints. He hastened in the direction in which they led, however,
though surprised to see that they would pass only a mile or so to the
eastward from the cabin, unless the course changed.
As a more open portion of the forest was reached, the last evidence of
the tracks disappeared. Still Ree kept on. He saw that he would come out
somewhere in the sheltered valley of the Cuyahoga, if he continued in
the direction he had first taken, and if he found no one in hiding
there, as he believed he might, since the valley gave protection from
the winds and snow, he might at least discover the lost trail there, in
some of the sheltered places.
As time proved, Ree’s decision was wise. He had gone scarcely a half
mile farther when he came upon fresh tracks in the snow. They were those
of but two persons apparently, and of Indians, the young pioneer
believed; but he remembered that frequently in traveling Indians take
great care to step in the footprints of one another and thus conceal
their real number from any one discovering their trail, and he took up
this fresh clue at increased speed. Five minutes later he caught sight
of two figures ahead of him. One was a white man, he judged from the
dress, the other an Indian.
“Ho, brothers! What’s your hurry?” the boy called.
The men stopped and looked back. Both were Indians, Ree then saw, though
one was dressed in the clothing of a white man.
“How?” called one of them.
“White Fox—white brother—how?” the other of the Redmen exclaimed, and
Ree then recognized them as Long Arrow and Beaver Hair, the Mingoes whom
he had caught in the act of stealing the canoe he and John had purchased
the year before of Captain Pipe. Moreover, he discovered, as he
approached, that the fellow in white men’s clothing was wearing the
identical suit which he had seen the robber, Duff, wear. It was easy to
guess then how Duff had come by the Indian costume he wore on his recent
visit to the cabin.
“Tell me where I will find the white brother with whom you traded
clothes,” said Ree, as he shook hands with the Indians. “His name is
Duff and he now wears the dress of the Mingo for no good purpose.”
“Ugh,” was the only answer the Indians made. They could not understand
how the white lad could tell at once with whom the exchange had been
made.
“No see Spotted Face—Spotted Face no friend of young brother White Fox,”
said Long Arrow, who wore Duff’s clothes.
It was Duff whom he called “Spotted Face,” referring to the marks the
smallpox had left.
“Spotted Face ask Long Arrow and ask Beaver Hair to burn house of white
brothers,” put in the other Indian. “Say white brother killed Black
Eagle.”
Here was news of a very interesting kind. Duff, then, had been trying to
turn these two Indians against himself and John, had he? These were
Ree’s thoughts.
“Spotted Face say give heap firewater—heap money—for Long Arrow and
Beaver Hair to carry off white brother and hide him in cave where
Spotted Face has his bed,” Long Arrow said.
This was more interesting news. Duff, it may have been, had kidnaped
John, after having failed to prevail upon the Indians to do it.
“And my Mingo friends would not do so,” Ree answered, shaking hands with
the savages again. “I thank you both; and Spotted Face—”
“Tongue of Spotted Face speaks crooked—crooked as snakes when asleep,”
said Beaver Hair, referring to serpents which lie coiled when sunning
themselves. “Because Killdeer—him you call the lone Indian—saw Spotted
Face kill Black Eagle. Young white brother not kill Black Eagle.
Killdeer saw him die.”
What in the world would he next hear of this marvelous lone Indian who
seemed in all places at all times? So thought Ree, deeply impressed by
the pointed climax his Indian friends had reached. Inwardly, as the
thought flew upon his mind, he thanked fortune that the vanishing savage
had at least been the means of thwarting the design of the unscrupulous
Duff to turn these Mingoes against himself and John, by telling them of
the cruel murder of kind old Black Eagle.
“Does Duff—Spotted Face—know that Killdeer saw him strike the Black
Eagle down?” Ree asked, glad to know the name of the solitary savage, at
last.
The Indians shook their heads.
“Killdeer get him bime-by,” said Long Arrow significantly. “Killdeer’s
war is his own war.”
And here was still more to set Ree to thinking—two Mingoes, not
especially friendly with the Delawares, saying of the lone Indian just
as Gentle Maiden had said, “His war is his own war.” What was the secret
of it all? He asked Long Arrow and he asked Beaver Hair then and there.
Neither would answer.
“Killdeer has not shot at me nor at your other white brother for a long
time,” said Ree. “Has he no war against us?”
“Yes, Killdeer has,” was the answer. “He be heap bad—kill anybody—get
many scalps.”
This was not very pleasant information, but time was passing and Ree
could not press his inquiries further. He asked the Indians whether they
had seen the trail of any persons in the woods, and they answered that
they had not. He told them briefly then of John’s disappearance, but
they did not volunteer to help him in his search, and bidding them
good-bye, he hastened on, eating some dried venison as he went.
The unhappy lad’s mind was filled with conflicting thoughts. Was it the
mysterious savage, Killdeer, or was it Duff who had attacked John and
the Quaker? Why should Duff have wished to have John kidnaped? The
questions were still puzzling him when suddenly he discovered another
freshly-made trail in the snow. The tracks were those of a man, but
whether Indian or Paleface he could not tell.
“A white man, I should guess from their size,” the boy was saying to
himself, “Indians nearly always have small—”
“Stand!”
It was the voice of Duff, and as Ree looked up, startled by the
unexpected command, he gazed at the muzzle of a rifle in the hands of
that scoundrel, not a score of yards distant.
“I’ve been hunting you this good while, and now, by the eternal, I’ve
got ye,” the villain said.