AMOCHOL
By daybreak we had salted our parched corn, soaked, and eaten it, and
my Indians were already freshening their paint. The Sagamore, stripped
for battle, barring clout and sporran, stood tall and powerfully
magnificent in his white and vermilion hue of war. On his broad chest
the scarlet Ghost Bear reared; on his crest the scarlet feathers
slanted low. The Yellow Moth was unbelievably hideous in the poisonous
hue of a toad-stool; his crest and all his skin glistened yellow,
shining like the sulphurous belly of a snake. But the Grey-Feather was
ghastly; his bony features were painted like a skull, spine, ribs, and
limb-bones traced out heavily in yellowish white so that he seemed a
stalking and articulated skeleton as he moved in the dim twilight of
the trees. And I could see that he was very proud of the effect.
As for the young and ambitious Night Hawk, he had simply made one
murderous symbol of himself--a single and terrific emblem of his entire
body, for he was painted black from head to foot like an Iroquois
executioner, and his skin glistened as the plumage of a sleek crow
shines in the sunlight of a field. Every scalp-lock was neatly braided
and oiled; every crown shaven; every knife and war-axe and rifle-barrel
glimmered silver bright under the industrious rubbing; flints had been
renewed; with finest priming powder pans reprimed; and now all my
Indians squatted amiably together in perfect accord, very loquacious in
their guarded voices, Iroquois, Mohican, and Stockbridge, foregathering
as though there had never been a feud in all the world.
Through the early dusk of morning, Lois had stolen away, having
discovered a spring pool to bathe in, the creek water being dark and
bitter; and I had freshened myself, too, when she returned, her soft
cheeks abloom, and the crisp curls still wet with spray.
When we had eaten, the Sagamore rose and moved noiselessly down the
height of land to the trail level, where our path entered the ghostly
gloom of the evergreens. I followed; Lois followed me, springing
lightly from tussock to rotting log, from root to bunchy swale, swift,
silent footed, dainty as a lithe and graceful panther crossing a morass
dry-footed.
Behind her trotted in order the Yellow Moth, Tohoontowhee, and lastly
the Grey-Feather--"Like Father Death herding us all to destruction,"
whispered Lois in my ear, as I halted while the Sagamore surveyed the
trail ahead with cautious eyes.
As we moved forward once more, I glanced around at Lois and thought I
never had seen such fresh and splendid vigor in any woman. Nor had I
ever seen her in such a bright and happy spirit, as though the nearness
to the long sought goal was changing her every moment, under my very
eyes, into a lovelier and more radiant being than ever had trod this
war-scarred world.
While we had eaten our hasty morning meal, I had told her what I had
learned of the Vale Yndaia; and this had excited her more than anything
I ever saw to happen to her, so that her grey eyes sparkled with
brilliant azure lights, and the soft colour flew from throat to brow,
waxing and waning with every quick-drawn breath.
She wore also, and for the first time, the "moccasins for flying
feet"--and ere she put them on she showed them to me with eager and
tender pride, kissing each soft and beaded shoe before she drew it over
her slender foot. Around her throat, lying against her heart, nestled
her father's faded picture. And as we sped I could hear her murmuring
to herself:
"Jean Coeur! Jean Coeur! Enfin! Me voici en chemin!"
North, always north we journeyed, moving swiftly on a level runway, or,
at fault, checked until the Sagamore found the path, sometimes picking
our dangerous ways over the glistening bog, from swale to log, now
leaping for some solid root or bunch of weed, now swinging across
quicksands, hanging to tested branches by our hands.
Duller grew the light as the foliage overhead became denser, until we
could scarce see the warning glimmer of the bog. Closer, taller, more
unkempt grew the hemlocks on every hand. In the ghostly twilight we
could not distinguish their separate spectral trunks, so close they
grew together. And it seemed like two solid walls through which wound a
dusky corridor of mud and bitter tasting water.
Then, far ahead a level gleam caught my eye. Nearer it grew and
brighter; and presently out of the grewsome darkness of the swamp we
stepped into a lovely oval intervale of green ferns and grasses, set
with oak trees, and a clear, sweet thread of water dashing through it,
and spraying the tall ferns along its banks so that they quivered and
glistened with the sparkling drops. And here we saw a little bird
flitting--the first we had seen that day.
At the western end of the oval glade a path ran straight away as far as
we could see, seeming to pierce the western wall of the hills. The
little brook followed at.
As Lois knelt to drink, the Sagamore whispered to me:
"This is the pass to the Vale Yndaia! You shall not tell her yet--not
till we have dealt with Amochol."
"Not till we have dealt with Amochol," I repeated, staring at the
narrow opening which crossed this black and desolate region like a
streak of sunshine across burnt land.
Tahoontowhee examined the trail; nothing had passed since the last
rain, save deer and fox.
So I went over to where Lois was bathing her flushed face in the tiny
stream, and lay down to drink beside her.
"The water is cold and sweet," she said, "not like that bitter water in
the swamp." She held her cupped hands for me to drink from. And I
kissed the fragrant cup.
As we rose and I shouldered my rifle, the Grey-Feather began to sing in
a low, musical, chanting voice; and all the Indians turned merry faces
toward Lois and me as they nodded time to the refrain:
"Continue to listen and hear the truth,
Maiden Hidden and Hidden Youth.
The song of those who are 'more than men'!
*Thi-ya-en-sa-y-e-ken!"
[* "They will (live to) see it again!"]
"It is the chant of the Stone Throwers--the Little People!" said
Mayaro, laughing. "Ye two are fit to hear it."
"They are singing the Song of the Hidden Children," I whispered to
Lois. "Is it not strangely pretty?"
"It is wild music, but sweet," she murmured, "--the music of the Little
People--che-kah-a-hen-wah."
"Can you catch the words?"
"Aye, but do not understand them every one."
"Some day I will make them into an English song for you. Listen! 'The
Voices' are beginning! Listen attentively to the Chant of
*Ta-neh-u-weh-too!"
[* "Hidden in the Husks."]
The Night Hawk was singing now, as he walked through the sunlit glade,
hip-deep in scented ferns and jewel-weed. Two brilliant humming-birds
whirled around him as he strode.
A VOICE
"Who shall find my Hidden Maid
Where the tasselled corn is growing?
Let them seek her in Kandaia,
Let them seek her in Oswaya,
Where the giant pines are growing,
Let them seek and be afraid!
Where the Adriutha flowing
Splashes through the forest glade,
Where the Kennyetto flowing
Thunders through the hemlock shade,
Let them seek and be afraid,
From Oswaya To Yndaia,
All the way to Carenay!"
ANOTHER VOICE
"Who shall find my Hidden Son
Where the tasselled corn is growing?
Let them seek my Hidden One
From the Silver Horicon
North along the Saguenay,
Where the Huron cocks are crowing,
Where the Huron maids are mowing
Hay along the Saguenay;
Where the Mohawk maids are hoeing
Corn along the Carenay,
Let them seek my Hidden Son,
West across the inland seas,
South to where the cypress trees
Quench the flaming scarlet flora
Of the painted Esaurora,
Drenched in rivers to their knees!
*Honowehto! Like Thendara!
[* "They have vanished."]
Let them hunt to Danascara
Back along the Saguenay,
On the trail to Carenay,
Through the Silver Horicon
Till the night and day are one!
Where the Adriutha flowing
Sings below Oswaya glowing.
Where the sunset of Kandaia
Paints the meadows of Yndaia,
Let them seek my Hidden Son
'Till the sun and moon are one!"
*TE-KI-E-HO-KEN
[* "Two Voices (together)."]
* "Nai Shehawa! She lies sleeping,
[* "Behold thy children!"]
Where the green leaves closely fold her!
He shall wake first and behold her
Who is given to his keeping;
He shall strip her of her leaves
Where she sleeps amid the sheaves,
Snowy white, without a stain,
Nothing marred of wind or rain.
So from slumber she shall waken,
And behold the green robe shaken
From his shoulders to her own!
*Ye-ji-se-way-ad-kerone!"
[* "So ye two are laid together."]
The pretty song of the Hidden Children softened to a murmur and died
out as our trail entered the swamp once more, north of the oval glade.
And into its sombre twilight we passed out of the brief gleam of
sunshine. Once more the dark and bitter water coiled its tortuous
channel through the slime; huge, gray evergreens, shaggy and
forbidding, towered above, closing in closer and closer on every side,
crowding us into an ever-narrowing trail.
But this trail, since we had left the sunny glade, had become harder
under foot, and far more easy to travel; and we made fast time along
it, so that early in the afternoon we suddenly came out into that vast
belt of firm ground and rocky, set with tremendous oaks and pines and
hemlocks, on the northern edge of which lies Catharines-town, on both
banks of the stream.
And here the stream rushed out through this country as though
frightened, running with a mournful sound into the northern forest; and
the pines were never still, sighing and moaning high above us, so that
the never ceasing plaint of wind and water filled the place.
And here, on a low, bushy ridge, we lay all day, seeing in the forest
not one living thing, nor any movement in that dim solitude, save where
the grey and wraith-like water tossed a flat crest against some fallen
tree, or its dull and sullen surface gleamed like lead athwart the
valley far ahead.
My Indians squatted, or sprawled prone along the ridge; Lois lay flat
on her stomach beside me, her chin resting on her clasped hands. We
talked of many things that afternoon--of life as we had found it, and
what it promised us--of death, if we must find it here in these woods
before I made her mine. And of how long was the spirit's trail to
God--if truly it were but a swift, upward flight like to the rushing of
an arrow already flashing out of sight ere the twanging buzz of the
bow-string died on the air. Or if it were perhaps a long, slow, painful
journey through thick night, toilsome, blindly groping, wings adroop
trailing against bruised heels. Or if we two must pass by hell, within
sight and hearing of the thunderous darkness, and feel the rushing wind
of the pit hot on one's face.
Sometimes, like a very child, she prattled of happiness, which she had
never experienced, but meant to savour, wedded or not--talked to me
there of all she had never known and would now know and realize within
her mother's tender arms.
"And sometimes, Euan, dreaming of her I scarce see how, within my
heart, I can find room for you also. Yet, I know well there is room for
both of you, and that one without the other would leave my happiness
but half complete.... I wonder if I resemble her? Will she know me--and
I her? How shall we meet, Euan--after more than a score of years? She
will see my moccasins, and cry out! She will see my face and know me,
calling me by name! Oh, happiness! Oh, miracle! Will the night never
come!"
"Dear maid and tender! You should not build your hopes too high, so
that they crush you utterly if they must fall to earth again."
"I know. Amochol may have slain her. We will learn all when you take
Amochol--when God delivers him into your hands this night.... How will
you do it, Euan?"
"Take him, you mean?"
"Aye."
"We lie south, just outside the fire-ring's edge. Boyd watches them
from the north. His signal to us begins the business. We leap straight
for the altar and take Amochol at its very foot, the while Boyd's heavy
rifles deal death on every side, keeping the others busy while we are
securing Amochol. Then we all start south for the army, God willing,
and meet our own people on the high-ridge east of us."
"But Yndaia!"
"That we will scour the instant we have Amochol."
"You promise?"
"Dearest, I promise solemnly. Yet--I think--if your mother lives--she
may be here in Catharines-town tonight. This is the Dream Feast, Lois.
I and my Indians believe that she has bought her life of Amochol by
dreaming for them. And if this be true, and she has indeed become their
Prophetess and Interpreter of Dreams, then this night she will be
surely here to read their dreams for them."
"Will we see her before you begin the attack?"
"Little Lois, how can I tell you such things? We are to creep up close
to the central fire--as close as we dare."
"Will there be crowds of people there?"
"Many people."
"Warriors?"
"Not many. They are with Hiokatoo and Brant. There will be hunters and
Sachems, and the Cat-People, and the Andastes pack, and many women. The
False Faces will not be there, nor the Wyoming Witch, nor the Toad
Woman, because all these are now with Hiokatoo and Walter Butler. For
which I thank God and am very grateful."
"How shall I know her in this fire-lit throng?" murmured Lois, staring
ahead of her where the evening dusk had now veiled the nearer trees
with purple.
Before I could reply, the Sagamore rose from his place on my left, and
we all sprang lightly to our feet, looked to our priming, covered our
pans, and trailed arms.
"Now!" he muttered, passing in front of me and taking the lead; and we
all filed after him through the open forest, moving rapidly, almost on
a run, for half a mile, then swung sharply out to the right, where the
trees grew slimmer and thinner, and plunged into a thicket of hazel and
osier.
"I smell smoke," whispered Lois, keeping close to me.
I nodded. Presently we halted and stood in silence, minute after
minute, while the purple dusk deepened swiftly around us, and overhead
a few stars came out palely, as though frightened.
Then Mayaro dropped noiselessly to the ground and began to crawl
forward over the velvet moss; and we followed his example, feeling our
way with our right hands to avoid dry branches and rocks. From time to
time we paused to regain our strength and breathe; and the last time we
did so the aromatic smell of birch-smoke blew strong in our nostrils,
and there came to our ears a subdued murmur like the stirring of
pine-tops in a steady breeze. But there were no pines around us now,
only osier, hazel, and grey-birch, and the deep moss under foot.
"A house!" whispered the Yellow Moth, pointing.
There it stood, dark and shadowy against the north. Another loomed
dimly beyond it; a haystack rose to the left.
We were in Catharines-town.
And now, as we crawled forward, we could see open country on our left,
and many unlighted houses and fields of corn, dim and level against the
encircling forest. The murmur on our right had become a sustained and
distinct sound, now swelling in the volume of many voices, now
subsiding, then waxing to a dull tumult. And against the borders of the
woods, like a shining crimson curtain shifting, we could see the red
reflection of a fire sweeping across the solid foliage.
With infinite precautions, we moved through the thicket toward it, the
glare growing yellower and more brilliant as we advanced. And now we
remained motionless and very still.
Massed against the flare of light were crowded many people in a vast,
uneven circle ringing a great central fire, except at the southern end.
And here, where the ring was open so that we could see the huge fire
itself, stood a great, stone slab on end, between two round mounds of
earth. It was the altar of Amochol, and we knew it instantly, where it
stood between the ancient mounds raised by the Alligewi.
The drums had not yet begun while we were still creeping up, but they
began now, muttering like summer thunder, the painted drummers marching
into the circle and around it twice before they took their places to
the left of the altar, squatting there and ceaselessly beating their
hollow sounding drums. Then, in file, the eight Sachems of the
dishonoured Senecas filed into the fiery circle, chanting and timing
their slow steps to the mournful measure of their chant. All wore the
Sachem's crest painted white; their bodies were most barbarously
striped with black and white, and their blankets were pure white,
crossed by a single blood-red band.
What they chanted I could not make out, but that it was some blasphemy
which silently enraged my Indians was plain enough; and I laid a
quieting hand on the Sagamore's shaking arm, cautioning him; and he
touched the Oneidas and the Stockbridge, one by one, in warning.
Opposite us, the ruddy firelight played over the massed savages, women,
children, and old men mostly, gleaming on glistening eyes, sparkling on
wampum and metal ornaments. To the right and left of us a few knives
and hatchets caught the firelight, and many multi-coloured plumes and
blankets glowed in its shifting brilliancy.
The eight Sachems stood, tall and motionless, behind the altar; the
drumming never ceased, and from around the massed circle rose a low
sing-song chant, keeping time to the hollow rhythm of the drums:
* "Onenh are oya
Egh-des-ho-ti-ya-do-re-don
Nene ronenh
'Ken-ki-ne ne-nya-wenne!"
[* "Now again they decided and said: 'This shall be done!'"]
Above this rumbling undertone sounded the distant howling of dogs in
Catharines-town; and presently the great forest owls woke up, yelping
like goblins across the misty intervale. Strangely enough, the dulled
pandemonium, joined in by dog and owl and drum and chanting savages,
made but a single wild and melancholy monotone seeming to suit the time
and place as though it were the voice of this fierce wilderness itself.
Now into the circle, one by one, came those who had dreamed and must be
answered--not as in the old-time and merry Feast of Dreams, where the
rites were harmless and the mirth and jollity innocent, if rough--for
Amochol had perverted the ancient and innocent ceremony, making of a
fourteen-day feast a sinister rite which ended in a single night.
I understood this more clearly now, as I lay watching the proceedings,
for I had seen this feast in company with Guy Johnson on the Kennyetto,
and found in it nothing offensive and no revolting license or
blasphemy, though others may say this is not true.
Yet, how can a rite which begins with three days religious services,
including confession of sins on wampum, be otherwise than decent? As
for the rest of the feast, the horse-play, skylarking, dancing,
guessing contests--the little children's dance on the tenth day, the
Dance for Four on the eleventh, the Dance for the Eight Thunders on the
thirteenth--the noisy, violent, but innocent romping of the False
Faces--all this I had seen in the East, and found no evil in it and no
debauchery.
But what was now already going on I had never seen at any Iroquois
feast or rite, and what Amochol had made of this festival I dared not
conjecture as I gazed at the Dreamers now advancing into the circle
with an abandon and an effrontery scarcely decent.
Six young girls came first, naked except for a breadth of fawn-skin
falling from waist to instep. Their bodies were painted vermilion from
brow to ankle; they carried in their hands red harvest apples, which
they tossed one to another as they move lightly across the open space
in a slow, springy, yet not ungraceful dance.
Behind them came a slim maid, wearing only a black fox-head, and the
soft pelt dangling from her belt, and the tail behind. She was painted
a ruddy yellow everywhere except a broad line of white in front, like a
fox's belly; and, like a fox, too, her feet and hands were painted
black.
Following her came eight girls plumed in spotless white and clothed
only in white feathers--aping the Thunders, doubtless; but even to me,
a white man and a Christian, it was a sinister and evil sight to see
this mockery as they danced forward, arms entwined, and the snowy
plumes floating out in the firelight, disclosing the white painted
bodies which the firelight tinted with rose and amber lights.
Then came dancing other girls, dressed in most offensive mockery of the
harmless and ancient rite--first the Fire Keeper, crowned with oak
leaves instead of wild cherry, and wearing a sewed garment made of oak
twigs and tufted leaves, from which the acorns hung. Followed two girls
in cloaks of shimmering pine-needles, and wearing wooden masks,
dragging after them the carcasses of two white dogs, to "Clothe the
Moon Witch!" they cried to the burly Erie acolyte who followed them,
his heavy knife shining in his hand.
Then the Erie disemboweled the strangled dogs, cast their entrails into
the fire, and kicked aside the carcasses, shouting:
"Atensi stands naked upon the Moon! What shall she wear to cover her?"
"The soft hide of a Hidden Child!" answered a Sachem from behind the
altar. "We have so dreamed it."
"It shall be done!" cried the Erie; and, lifting himself on tip toe, he
threw back his brutal head and gave the Panther Cry so that his voice
rang hideously through the night.
Instantly into the circle came scurrying the Andastes, some wearing the
heads of bulls, some of wolves, foxes, bears, their bodies painted
horribly in raw reds and yellows, and running about like a pack of
loosened hounds. All their movements were wild and aimless, and like
animals, and they seemed to smell their way as they ran about hither
and thither, sniffing, listening, but seldom looking long or directly
at any one thing.
I was sorely afraid that some among them might come roving and muzzling
into the bushes where we lay; but they did not, gradually gathering
into an uneasy pack and settling on their haunches near the dancing
girls, who played with them, and tormented them with branches of hazel,
samphire and green osier.
Suddenly a young girl, jewelled with multi-coloured diamonds of paint,
and jingling all over with little bells, came dancing into the ring,
beating a tiny, painted drum as she advanced. She wore only a narrow
sporran of blue-birds' feathers to her knees, glistening blue moccasins
of the same plumage, and a feathered head dress of the scarlet
fire-bird. Behind her filed the Cat-People, Amochol's hideous acolytes,
each wearing the Nez Perce ridge of porcupine-like hair, the lynx-skin
cloak and necklace of claws; and all howling to the measure of the
little painted drum. I could feel Mayaro beside me, quivering with
eagerness and fury; but the time was not yet, and he knew it, as did
his enraged comrades.
For behind the Eries, moving slowly, came a slender shape, shrouded in
white. Her head was bent in the shadow of her cowl; her white wool
vestments trailed behind her. Both hands were clasped together under
her loose robe. On her cowl was a wreath of nightshade, with its dull
purple fruit and blossoms clustering around her shadowed brow.
"Who is that?" whispered Lois, beginning to tremble, "God knows," I
said. "Wait!"
The shrouded shape moved straight to the great stone altar and stood
there a moment facing it; then, veiling her face with her robe, she
turned, mounted the left hand mound, and seated herself, head bowed.
Toward her, advancing all alone, was now approaching a figure, painted,
clothed, and plumed in scarlet. Everything was scarlet about him, his
moccasins, his naked skin, the fantastic cloak and blanket, girdle,
knife-hilt, axe shaft, and the rattling quiver on his back--nay, the
very arrows in it were set with scarlet feathers, and the looped
bowstring was whipped with crimson sinew.
The Andastes came moaning, cringing, fawning, and leaping about his
knees; he noticed them not at all; the Cat-People, seated in a
semicircle, looked up humbly as he passed; he ignored them.
Slowly he moved to the altar and laid first his hand upon it, then
unslung his bow and quiver and laid them there. A great silence fell
upon the throng. And we knew we were looking at last upon the Scarlet
Priest.
Yes, this was Amochol, the Red Sachem, the vile, blaspheming,
murderous, and degraded chief who had made of a pure religion a horror,
and of a whole people a nation of unspeakable assassins.
As the firelight flashed full in his face, I saw that his features were
not painted; that they were delicate and regular, and that the skin was
pale, betraying his French ancestry.
And good God! What a brood of demons had that madman, Frontenac, begot
to turn loose upon this Western World! For there appeared to be a
Montour in every bit of devil's work we ever heard of--and it seemed as
though there was no end to their number. One, praise God, had been
slain before Wyoming--which some said enraged the Witch, his mother, to
the fearsome deeds she did there--and one was this man's sister, Lyn
Montour--a sleek, lithe girl of the forest, beautiful and depraved. But
the Toad Woman, mother of Amochol, was absent, and of all the Montours
only this strange priest had remained at Catharines-town. And him we
were now about to take or slay.
"Amochol!" whispered the Sagamore in my ear.
"I know," I said. "It is strange. He is not like a monster, after all."
"He is beautiful," whispered Lois.
I stared at the pale, calm face over which the firelight played. The
features seemed almost perfect, scarcely cruel, yet there was in the
eyes a haunting beauty that was almost terrible when they became fixed.
To his scarlet moccasins crept the Andastes, one by one, and squatted
there in silence.
Then a single warrior entered the ring. He was clad in the ancient
arrow-proof armour of the Iroquois, woven of sinew and wood. His face
was painted jet black, and he wore black plumes. He mounted the eastern
mound, strung his bow, set an arrow to the string, and seated himself.
The red acolytes came forward, and the slim Prophetess bent her head
till the long, dark hair uncoiled and fell down, clouding her to the
waist in shadow.
"Hereckenes!" cried Amochol in a clear voice; and at the sound of their
ancient name the Cat-People began a miauling chant.
"Antauhonorans!" cried Amochol.
Every Seneca took up the chant, and the drums timed it softly and
steadily.
"Prophetess!" said Amochol in a ringing voice. "I have dreamed that the
Moon Witch and her grandson Iuskeha shall be clothed. With what, then,
shall they be clothed, O Woman of the Night Sky? Explain to my people
this dream that I have dreamed."
The slim, white-cowled figure answered slowly, with bowed head,
brooding motionless in the shadow of her hair:
"Two dogs lie yonder for Atensi and her grandson. Let them be painted
with the sun and moon. So shall the dream of Amochol come true!"
"Sorceress!" he retorted fiercely. "Shall I not offer to Atensi and
Iuskeha two Hidden Children, that white robes may be made of their
unblemished skins to clothe the Sun and Moon?"
"Into the eternal wampum it is woven that the soft, white skins shall
clothe their bodies till the husks fall from the silken corn."
"And then, Witch of the East? Shall I not offer them when the husks are
stripped?"
"I see no further than you dream, O Amochol!"
He stretched out his arm toward her, menacingly:
"Yet they shall both be strangled here upon this stone!" he said.
"Look, Witch! Can you not see them lying there together? I have dreamed
it."
She silently pointed at the two dead dogs.
"Look again!" he cried in a loud voice. "What do you see?"
She made no reply.
"Answer!" he said sharply.
"I have looked. And I see only the eternal wampum lying at my
feet--lacking a single belt."
With a furious gesture the Red Priest turned and stared at the dancing
girls who raised their bare arms, crying:
"We have dreamed, O Amochol! Let your Sorceress explain our dreams to
us!"
And one after another, as their turns came, they leaped up from the
ground and sprang forward. The first, a tawny, slender, mocking thing,
flung wide her arms.
"Look, Sorceress! I dreamed of a felled sapling and a wolverine! What
means my dream?"
And the slim, white figure, head bowed in her dark hair, answered
quietly:
"O dancer of the Na-usin, who wears okwencha at the Onon-hou-aroria,
yet is no Seneca, the felled sapling is thou thyself. Heed lest the
wolverine shall scent a human touch upon thy breast!" And she pointed
at the Andastes.
A dead silence followed, then the girl, horror struck, shrank back, her
hands covering her face.
Another sprang forward and cried:
"Sorceress! I dreamed of falling water and a red cloud at sunset
hanging like a plume!"
"Water falls, daughter of Mountain Snakes. Every drop you saw was a
dead man falling. And the red cloud was red by reason of blood; and the
plume was the crest of a war chief."
"What chief!" said Amochol, turning his deadly eyes on her.
"A Gate-Keeper of the West."
The shuddering silence was broken by the eager voice of another girl,
bounding from her place--a flash of azure and jewelled paint.
"And I, O Sorceress! I dreamed of night, and a love song under the
million stars. And of a great stag standing in the water."
"Had the stag no antlers, little daughter?"
"None, for it was spring time."
"You dreamed of night. It shall be night for a long while--for ages and
ages, ere the stag's wide antlers crown his head again. For the antlers
were lying upon a new made grave. And the million stars were the lights
of camp-fires. And the love-song was the Karenna. And the water you
beheld was the river culled Chemung."
The girl seemed stunned, standing there plucking at her fingers,
scarlet lips parted, and her startled eyes fixed upon the white-draped
sibyl.
"Executioner! Bend your bow!" cried Amochol, with a terrible stare at
the Sorceress.
The man in woven armour raised his bow, bent it, drawing the arrow to
the tip. At the same instant the Prophetess rose to her feet, flung
back her cowl, and looked Amochol steadily in the eyes from the shadow
of her hair.
So, for a full minute in utter silence, they stared at each other; then
Amochol said between his teeth:
"Have a care that you read truly what my people dream!"
"Shall I lie?" she asked in even tones. And, quivering with impotent
rage and superstition, the Red Priest found no word to answer.
"O Amochol," she said, "let the armoured executioner loose his shaft.
It is poisoned. Never since the Cat-People were overthrown has a
poisoned arrow been used within the Long House. Never since the
Atotarho covered his face from Hiawatha--never since the snakes were
combed from his hair--has a Priest of the Long House dared to doubt the
Prophetess of the Seneca nation. Doubt--and die!"
Amochol's face was like pale brown marble; twice he half turned toward
the executioner, but gave no signal. Finally, he laid his hand flat on
the altar; the executioner unbent his bow and the arrow drooped from
the painted haft and dangled there, its hammered iron war-head glinting
in the firelight.
Then the Prophetess turned and stood looking out over the throng
through the thick, aromatic smoke from the birch-fire, and presently
her clear voice rang through the deathly silence:
"O People of the Evening Sky! Far on the Chemung lie many dead men. I
see them lying there in green coats and in red, in feathers and in
paint! Through forests, through mountains, through darkness, have my
eyes beheld this thing. There is a new thunder in the hills, and red
fire flowers high in the pines, and a hail falls, driving earthward in
iron drops that slay all living things.
"New clouds hang low along the river; and they are not of the water
mist that comes at twilight and ascends with the sun. Nor is this new
thunder in the hills the voice of the Eight White Plumed Ones; nor is
the boiling of the waters the stirring of the Serpent Bride.
"Red run the riffles, yet the sun is high; and those who would cross at
the ford have laid them down to dam the waters with their bodies.
"And I see fires along the flats; I see flames everywhere, towns on
fire, corn burning, hay kindling to ashes under a white ocean of
smoke--the Three Sisters scorched, trampled, and defiled!" She lifted
one arm; her spellbound audience never stirred.
"Listen!" she cried, "I hear the crashing of many feet in northward
flight! I hear horses galloping, and the rattle of swords. Many who run
are stumbling, falling, lying still and crushed and wet with blood. I,
Sorceress of the Senecas, see and hear these things; and as I see and
hear, so must I speak my warning to you all!"
She whirled on Amochol, flinging back her hair. Her skin was as white
us my own!
With a stifled cry Lois sprang to her feet; but I caught her and held
her fast.
"Good God!" I whispered to the Sagamore. "Where is Boyd?"
The executioner had risen, and was bending his bow; the Sorceress
turned deathly pale but her blue eyes flashed, never swerving from the
cruel stare of Amochol.
"Where is Boyd?" I whispered helplessly. "They mean to murder her!"
"Kill that executioner!" panted Lois, struggling in my arms. "In God's
name, slay him where he stands!"
"It means our death," said the Sagamore.
The Night Hawk came crouching close to my shoulder. He had unslung and
strung his little painted bow of an adolescent, and was fitting the
nock of a slim arrow to the string.
He looked up at me; I nodded; and as the executioner clapped his heels
together, straightened himself, and drew the arrow to his ear, we heard
a low twang! And saw the black hand of the Seneca pinned to his own bow
by the Night Hawk's shaft.
So noiselessly was it done that the fascinated throng could not at
first understand what had happened to the executioner, who sprang into
the air, screamed, and stood clawing and plucking at the arrow while
his bow hung dripping with blood, yet nailed to his shrinking palm.
Amochol, frozen to a scarlet statue, stared at the contortions of the
executioner for a moment, then, livid, wheeled on the Prophetess,
shaking from head to foot.
"Is this your accursed magic?" he shouted. "Is this your witchcraft,
Sorceress of Biskoonah? Is it thus you strike when threatened? Then you
shall burn! Take her, Andastes!"
But the Andastes, astounded and terrified, only cowered together in a
swaying pack.
Restraining Lois with all my strength, I said to the Mohican:
"If Boyd comes not before they take her, concentrate your fire on
Amochol, for we can not hope to make him prisoner----"
"Hark!" motioned the Sagamore, grasping my arm. I heard also, and so
did the others. The woods on our left were full of noises, the trample
of people running, the noise of crackling underbrush.
We all thought the same thing, and stood waiting to see Boyd's onset
break from the forest. The Red Priest also heard it, for he had turned
where he stood, his rigid arm still menacing the White Sorceress.
Suddenly, into the firelit circle staggered a British soldier, hatless,
dishevelled, his scarlet uniform in rags.
For a moment he stood staring about him, swaying where he stood, then
with a hopeless gesture he flung his musket from him and passed a
shaking hand across his eyes.
"O Amochol!" cried the Sorceress, pointing a slim and steady finger at
the bloody soldier. "Have I dreamed lies or have I dreamed the truth?
Hearken! The woods are full of people running! Do you hear? And have I
lied to you, O Amochol?"
"From whence do you come?" cried Amochol, striding toward the soldier.
"From the Chemung. Except for the dead we all are coming--Butler and
Brant and all. Bring out your corn, Seneca! The army starves."
Amochol stared at the soldier, at the executioner still writhing and
struggling to loose his hand from the bloody arrow, at the Sorceress
who had veiled her face.
"Witch!" he cried, "get you to Yndaia. If you stir elsewhere you shall
burn!"
He had meant to say more, I think, but at that moment, from the
southern woods men came reeling out into the fire-circle--ghastly,
bloody, ragged creatures in shreds of uniforms, green, red, and
brown--men and officers of Sir John's regiment, men of Butler's
Rangers, British regulars. On their heels glided the Seneca warriors,
warriors of the Cayugas, Onondagas, Caniengas, Esauroras, and here and
there a traitorous Oneida, and even a few Hurons.
Pell-mell this mob of fighting men came surging through the
fire-circle, and straight into Catharines-town, while I and my Indians
crouched there, appalled and astounded.
I saw Sir John Johnson come up with the officers of his two battalions
and a captain, a sergeant, a corporal, and fifteen British regulars.
"Clear me out this ring of mummers!" he said in his cold, penetrating
voice. "And thou, Amochol, if this damned town of thine be stocked,
bring out the provisions and set these Eries a-roasting corn!"
I saw McDonald storming and cursing at his irregulars, where the poor
brutes had gathered into a wavering rank; I saw young Walter Butler
haranguing his Rangers and Senecas; I saw Brant, calm, noble, stately,
standing supported by two Caniengas while a third examined his wounded
leg.
The whole place was a tumult of swarming savages and white men; already
the Seneca women, crowding among the men, were raising the death wail.
The dancing girls huddled together in a frightened and half-naked
group; the Andastes cowered apart; the servile Eries were staggering
out of the corn fields laden with ripe ears; and the famished soldiers
were shouting and cursing at them and tearing the corn from their arms
to gnaw the raw and milky grains.
How we were to withdraw and escape destruction I did not clearly see,
for our path must cross the eastern belt of forest, and it was still
swarming with fugitives arriving, limping, dragging themselves in from
the disaster of the Chemung.
Hopeless to dream of taking or slaying Amochol now; hopeless to think
of warning Boyd or even of finding him. Somewhere in the North he had
met with obstacles which delayed him. He must scout for himself, now,
for the entire Tory army was between him and us.
"There is but one way now," whispered the Mohican.
"By Yndaia," I said.
My Indians were of the same opinion.
"I should have gone there anyway," said Lois, still all a-quiver, and
shivering close to my shoulder. I put my arm around her; every muscle
of her body was rigid, taut, yet trembling, as a smooth and finely
turned pointer trembles with eagerness and powerful self-control.
"Amochol has driven her thither," she whispered. "Shall we not be on
our way?"
"Can you lead, Mayaro?" I whispered.
The Mohican turned and crawled southward on his hands and knees, moving
slowly.
"For God's sake let them hear no sound in this belt of bush," I
whispered to Lois.
"I am calm, Euan. I am not afraid."
"Then fallow the Sagamore."
One by one we turned and crept away southward; and I was ever fearful
that some gleam from the fire, catching our rifle-barrels or axe-heads,
might betray us. But we gained the denser growth undiscovered, then
rose to our feet in the open forest and hurried forward in file,
crowding close to keep in touch.
Once Lois turned and called back in a low, breathless voice;
"I thank Tahoontowhee from my heart for his true eye and his avenging
arrow."
The young warrior laughed; but I knew he was the proudest youth in all
the West that night.
The great cat-owls were shrieking and yelping through the forest as we
sped southward. My Indians, silent and morose, their vengeance unslaked
and now indefinitely deferred, moved at a dog trot through the forest,
led by the Sagamore, whose eyes saw as clearly in the dark as my own by
day.
And after a little while we noticed the stars above us, and felt ferns
and grass under our feet, and came out into that same glade from whence
runs the trail to Yndaia through the western hill cleft.
"People ahead!" whispered the Sagamore. "Their Sorceress and six Eries!"
"Are you certain?" I breathed, loosening my hatchet.
"Certain, Loskiel. Yonder they are halted within the ferns. They are at
the stream, drinking."
I caught Lois by the wrist.
"Come with me--hurry!" I said, as the Indians darted away and began to
creep out and around the vague and moving group of shadows. And as we
sped forward I whispered brokenly my instructions, conjuring her to
obey.
We were right among them before they dreamed of our coming; not a
war-cry was uttered; there was no sound save the crashing blows of
hatchets, the heavy, panting breathing of those locked in a death
struggle, the deep groan and coughing as a knife slipped home.
I flung a clawing Erie from me ere his blood drenched me, and he fell
floundering, knifed through and through, and tearing a hole in my
rifle-cape with his teeth as he fell. Two others lay under foot; my
Oneidas were slaying another in the ferns, and the Sagamore's hatchet,
swinging like lightning, dashed another into eternity.
The last one ran, but stumbled, with three arrows in his burly neck and
spine; and the Night Hawk's hatchet flew, severing the thread of life
far him and hurling him on his face. Instantly the young Oneida leaped
upon the dead man's shoulders, pulled back his heavy head, and tore the
scalp off with a stifled cry of triumph.
"The Black-Snake!" said the Sagamore at my side, breathing heavily from
his bloody combat, and dashing the red drops from the scalp he swung.
"Look yonder, Loskiel! Our little Rosy Pigeon has returned at last!"
I had seen it already, but I turned to look. And I saw the White
Sorceress and my sweetheart close locked in each other's arms--so close
and motionless that they seemed but a single snowy shape there under
the lustre of the stars.