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SKETCHES IN DUNELAND
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
THE VOICES OF THE DUNES
QUARTO BOARDS $6.00 NET
ETCHING
A PRACTICAL TREATISE
CROWN QUARTO CLOTH $2.50 NET
THE DUNE COUNTRY
SQUARE OCTAVO CLOTH $3.00 NET
[Illustration: The Ancient]
_Sketches in_
DUNELAND
_by_
EARL H. REED
_Author of_
“The Voices of the Dunes”
“Etching: A Practical Treatise”
“The Dune Country”
_Illustrated by the Author_
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
MCMXVIII
COPYRIGHT, 1918
BY JOHN LANE COMPANY
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A
_To_
THE MEMORY OF
C. C. R.
INTRODUCTION
In the dune region that extends along the wild coasts of Lake Michigan,
and in the back country contiguous to it, is a land of allurement.
The strange human characters, whose little drift-wood shanties are
scattered along the shore, and among the sandhills, and whose isolated
retreats are further inland, are difficult to become acquainted with,
except in a most casual way. They look upon the chance wayfarer with
suspicion and disfavor.
Readers of “The Dune Country” will remember “Old Sipes,” “Happy Cal,”
and “Catfish John,” the old derelicts living along the beach, further
accounts of whose “doin’s” are in the following pages. As portraits of
these worthies have already appeared, they are omitted in this volume.
New characters are introduced, who, it is hoped, will be, as cordially
welcomed.
The region is of important historical interest. Narratives of early
exploration, and primitive Indian lore associated with it, have filled
many pages of American history. The Pottowattomies have gone, but the
romance of the vanished race still lingers among the silent hills.
While many poetic legends, of unknown antiquity, have survived the red
men, the Indian stories in these pages are entirely fanciful, except as
to environment.
The nature loving public will be fortunate if the organized efforts
succeed, which are being made to preserve the country of the
dunes as a national park. In compliance with a resolution of the
Senate, the Department of the Interior, through the able assistant
to the Secretary, Mr. Stephen T. Mather, has recently made an
exhaustive report on the subject, which is most favorable to the
project. Momentous events have, for the time being, eclipsed minor
considerations, and this, as well as many other measures for the public
good, must wait until the shadow of the Hun has passed.
It is only within the past few years that the picturesque quality of
the region has become known to lovers of American landscape, who are
now lured by its varied attractions.
The country is of immeasurable value to botanists, ornithologists, and
investigators in other fields of natural science.
The Audubon societies are taking a deep interest in its preservation.
Those of us for whom it is not necessary to slaughter songsters for
the decoration of our hats, and who believe that nature’s beautiful
feathered messengers should not be made to bleed and suffer for
thoughtless vanity, can sympathize with any movement that will
contribute to their welfare. As a refuge for migratory birds, the
proposed preserve would be invaluable. It is within the Mississippi
valley flight zone, and during the periods of migration the bird
life in the dune country is abundant, but unfortunately finds little
protection among the wooded hills.
The wild flowers also suffer from vandal hands. Many armfuls of them
are ruthlessly picked and carried away, preventing further propagation.
A human being is only partially emancipated from barbarism, who cannot
look upon a beautiful thing without wanting to pick it or kill it.
Primitive savagery would not be attracted by beauty at all. Partial
development of the love of beauty suggests its selfish acquirement,
while further enlightenment teaches us to cherish and preserve it.
The destruction of the wild flowers, and the use of bird plumage for
personal adornment, is modified barbarism. We cannot be fully civilized
until we are able to love these beautiful things in their natural
habitats, without temptation to injure them.
To the botanist, the country is a treasure house. Almost, if not all,
of the flora indigenous to the temperate zone, is found within its
borders.
The flowers have a kingdom in the dunes. From the secluded nooks and
fertile crevices, from among the shadows of the trees, and along the
margins of the marshes and little pools, their silent songs of color go
out over the landscapes. In no form is beauty so completely expressed,
and in no form is it so accessible to us.
The sketches in this volume are culled from the experiences and
reflections of many happy days that were spent in this mystic land. In
such a retreat we may find refuge from the town, from the nerve-racking
noise and stifling smoke, and from the artificialities and the social
illusions that becloud our daily lives.
E. H. R.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE DREAM JEWEL 17
II. A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 25
III. THE HERON’S POOL 41
IV. THE STORY OF THE STREAM 51
V. THE MOON IN THE MARSH 67
VI. HOLY ZEKE 75
VII. THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL AND ELVIREY SMETTERS 107
VIII. THE RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 135
IX. THE WINDING RIVER’S TREASURE 165
X. THE PLUTOCRATS 223
ILLUSTRATIONS
The “Ancient” _Frontispiece_
Mt. Tom _Facing page_ 24
The Heron’s Pool 40
“Omemee” 50
The Moon in the Marsh 66
“Holy Zeke” 74
Mrs. Elvirey Smetters 106
Bill Saunders 134
The “Bogie House” 150
“Na’cissus Jackson” 164
The Requiem of the Leaves 204
The Game Warden and his Deputy 222
On the White Hills 236
The Troopers of the Sky 270
I
THE DREAM JEWEL
I
THE DREAM JEWEL
The tribe of the sturgeon was speeding southward over the rock-strewn
floors of the inland sea. In the van of the swimming host its leader
bore a wondrous stone. From it multicolored beams flashed out through
the dim waters and into unsounded depths. Shapes, still and ghostly,
with waving fins and solemn orbs, stared at the passing glow and
vanished. Phantom-like forms faded quickly into dark recesses, and
frightened schools of small fish fled away over pale sandy expanses.
Clouds of fluttering gulls and terns followed the strange light that
gleamed below the waves. Migrating birds, high in the night skies,
wheeled with plaintive calls, for this new radiance was not of the
world of wings and fins.
The wonder stone was being carried out of the Northland. For ages
untold it had reposed in the heart of a stupendous glacier, that crept
over the region of the great lakes from the roof of the world--from
that vast frozen sea of desolation that is ghastly white and
endless--under the corona of the Northern Lights.
From a cavern deep in ice, its prismatic rays had illumined the crystal
labyrinths during the slow progress of the monster of the north,
grinding and scarring the earth in its path of devastation.
The radiance from the stone was ineffable. Such color may have swept
into the heavens on the world’s first morning, when the Spirit moved
over the face of the waters, or have trembled in the halo at the
Creation, when cosmos was evolved out of elemental fires.
It glowed in the awful stillness of its prison, untouched by the
primeval storms that raged before the mammoths trod the earth, and
before men of the stone age had learned the use of fire.
Many centuries after the greater part of the gigantic ice sheet had
yielded to balmy airs, its frowning ramparts lingered along the wild
shores of the north. The white silence was broken by reverberations
from crumbling masses that crashed down the steeps into the billows
that broke against the barrier. In one of the pieces the stone was
borne away. The luminous lump drifted with the winds. It was nuzzled
by curious rovers of the blue waters that rubbed gently along its
sides and basked in the refulgence. With the final dissolution of the
fragment, the stone was released.
In quest of new feeding grounds, the sturgeon had explored these frigid
depths, and, after privation and fruitless wanderings, had gathered for
the long retreat to a warmer clime. Their leader beheld the blazing gem
falling, like a meteor, before him. With fateful instinct he seized
it and moved grimly on. The gray horde saw the light from afar and
streamed after it, as warriors might have followed the banner of a hero.
Through many miles of dark solitudes the bearer of the stone led his
adventurous array. Swiftly moving fins took the sturgeon to waters
where nature had been more merciful.
The roaring surf lines of the southern shore washed vast flat stretches
of sand that were bleak and sterile, for no living green relieved the
monotonous wilds.
A few Indians had been driven by warfare into this dreary land.
Their wigwams were scattered along the coast, where they eked out a
precarious existence from the spoil of the waters.
When the sturgeon came their lives were quickened with new energy.
With their bark canoes and stone spears they found many victims among
the tired fish. A wrinkled prophet, who had communed with the gods of
his people, in a dream, had foretold the sending of a luminous stone,
by a sturgeon, that would mark the beginning of an era of prosperity
and happiness for his tribe. There was rejoicing when the lustre was
seen among the waves. In the belief that the promised gift of the
manitous had come, and the prophecy was fulfilled, the big fish was
pursued with eagerness and finally captured. The long-awaited prize was
carried in triumph to the lodge of the chief. The red men gathered in
solemn council, and honors were heaped upon the aged seer whose vision
had become true. After long deliberation, Flying Fawn, the loveliest
maiden of the tribe, was appointed keeper of the stone. The lithe and
beautiful barbarian child of nature clasped it to her budding breast,
and departed into the wastes. With an invocation to her gods for its
protection, she hid their precious gift far beyond the reach of prying
eyes.
The winds carried myriads of flying grains to the chosen spot. They
came in thin veils and little spirals over the barrens, and gathered,
with many sweeps and swirls, into the mound that rose over the resting
place of the stone. The army of the silent sands had become its
guardian, for nevermore was its hiding place known.
The winds and the years sculptured the shifting masses into strange and
bewildering forms. Trees, grasses, and flowers grew, and the hilltops
were crowned with perennial garlands. The green sanctuaries were filled
with melody. The forests teemed with game and the red men were in a
land of plenty.
The Country of the Dunes had come into being. Somewhere deep in its
bosom shines the Dream Jewel. Like “The Great Carbuncle,” its fervid
splendor beams from a fount unknown. Its iridescence flashes from the
distant dunes at sunset. It is in the twilight afterglows, on the
sapphire waters of the lake on summer days, and in the fairylands that
are pictured in the pools. It glorifies dull winter landscapes with
skies of infinite hues, and glances from twisted trunks of ancient
pines on hills that defy the storms. It pulsates in star reflections
that haunt the margins of wet sands, and where crescent moons touch
the waves that toss on night horizons. Its tinge is in the tender
leaves and petals of the springtime, and in the flush of autumn’s
robes. We see its elusive tints through vistas in the dusk, and in the
purple mystery that fills the shadowy places, for the Dream Jewel is
Beauty, and they who know not its holy light must walk in darkness.
II
A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM
[Illustration: “MT. TOM”
(_From the Author’s Etching_)]
II
A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM
Before strangers came into the land, bringing with them a prosaic
nomenclature, there was no Mt. Tom. When the early white explorers
crossed the southern end of Lake Michigan in their frail canoes, they
saw, from far out on the water, dim irregular filaments of yellow that
stretched along the horizon. There was a bold accent in the far-flung
line of distant coast, an ancient landmark of a primitive race. The
noble promontory that lifted its royal brow from among the contours of
the sand hills--the monarch of the range--was called Wud-ju-na-gow, or
Sand Mountain, by the red men.
Its top was the highest point along the great sweep of shore that
bordered the country of the dunes. In past centuries its sand had been
slowly piled by the shifting winds. Eventually the sand grasses rooted
themselves, and, in succeeding years, the trees grew. Wud-ju-na-gow
became a “fixed dune,” no longer subject to the caprices of the winds.
The slopes were robed with vegetation. Stately pines, spruces, and
cedars flourished among the dense forest growth that reached almost to
the summit. Here the trees were smaller, and bare patches of yellow
were visible against the sky-line, from which wispy wreaths of sand
would spiral up in the air currents on windy days.
In the autumn the groups of green conifers made dark accents in the
expanse of red and gold that draped Wud-ju-na-gow’s massive form.
Flowers grew lavishly along the steep slopes. The wild life sought
refuge in the impassable thickets and tall timber. Hawks and eagles
soared above the woods with watchful eyes and dropped down into them
for furtive prey. Hordes of noisy crows circled over the tree-tops
and around the wind-swept summit. Wolves and other marauders crept
stealthily through the undergrowth at night. Startled deer leaped
from quiet hiding places and fled from suspicious sounds and odors.
Partridges thrived in the patches of brush and tangled grape-vines, in
spite of many enemies. Beady eyes peered out from under fallen trunks.
The hunters and the hunted followed their destinies among the shadows.
A Pottawattomie village had flourished for many years on a low ridge
back of the hills, near Wud-ju-na-gow. Just below the village a small
creek, fed by springs, wound through the open woods and reached the
lake through a deep ravine. The high hills protected the lodges from
the north winds and violent storms from the lake. About sixty bark
wigwams were strung along the ridge.
The young men hunted through the hills and usually had no difficulty in
keeping the village supplied with meat. They carried their birch-bark
canoes through the ravine to the lake and varied the food supplies
with sturgeon and other fish. In times of plenty the game and fish not
needed for immediate use were smoked and stored for winter consumption.
Small patches of corn were scattered through the fertile open spaces
away from the creek. The women gossiped over their domestic concerns,
the men loitered along the hillside, and the little community lived in
peace, with no troubles but those that nature has laid upon all her
children. In their uncivilized state they were spared the miseries of
temperament, and the refined tortures, as well as the joys, of more
highly developed mentality. Their primitive needs were provided for.
Food was abundant and the red men were contented--if there be real
contentment in the world.
After a long period of prosperity there came a summer of drought.
Pitiless heat and breathless skies shrivelled the leaves, dried up the
streams and ponds, and brought suffering to the live things. In the
autumn the parched land had yielded up its vibrant life. Instead of the
mellow golds and crimsons, there were grays and neutral browns. The
voices of the forest were hushed. The fall flowers did not come. The
willows and tall grasses drooped in sorrow, for a blight had come upon
the land. Day after day the blood-red sun went below the sharp rim of
the horizon without promise to the faded hills.
Smoke appeared far in the southwest and a black pall crept into the
sky overhead. Before many hours there was a vague unrest in the woods.
There were strange noises among the withered trees and dried marshes.
The wild life was fleeing eastward. At night a baleful glare tinged the
crests of the dunes and reflected from swiftly moving wings above them.
With the coming of the wind stifling smoke crept through the woods.
Soon the crackling lines of flame came, writhing and roaring through
the dry timber. There were muffled cries from tiny furred fugitives
in the matted grasses in the low places. Noble landscapes were being
scourged by demons. Nature’s cool cloisters and her dream cathedrals
were on fire.
There is a heart-felt grief that comes with the burning of the trees.
The sacrilege of their destruction touches us more deeply if we have
lived among them, and learned that with them have been builded the real
kingdoms of the earth. In them we may find reflection of all human
emotion, and for the subtly attuned soul, they have emotion of their
own.
The terrified dwellers along the creek fled to the beach, and, with
awe-stricken faces watched the march of the flames through the country.
They saw the flashes from the cedars, pines, and spruces shoot high
into clouds of smoke and flying sparks, and heard the crackling of
countless trunks and branches that quivered in torment on the blazing
hills.
By some fortuitous chance--perhaps a temporary veering of the air
currents--the ravine, through which the little creek found its way,
was spared. A portion of the timber on the slopes of Wud-ju-na-gow
was also untouched, but everywhere else was desolation. The blackened
and smouldering expanse carried dismay into the hearts of the
horror-stricken groups huddled near the mouth of the stream. Most of
their primitive belongings had been rescued, but their future looked as
dark as the grim landscapes around them.
It was late in the season. The fishing in the lake had been unusually
poor, and there was no living thing among the forest ruins that could
be used for food. The stores that had been saved would last but a short
time and there was an appalling fear of famine.
Many anxious hours were spent in deliberation. Believing that
Omnipotent wrath had destroyed everything except the sands and the
waters of the lake, the bewildered Indians saw no ray of hope. The
calamity had fallen with crushing force. The vengeance of evil gods
was upon them. Their few frail canoes could not carry all of them on
the lake. The range of smoking hills that swept away along the curving
beach-lines seemed to offer no path of refuge.
Young Wa-be-no-je had listened intently to all of the discussions, and
had pondered deeply over the desperate straits of his people. He bore
the Indian name of the white marsh hawk. He was nearly nineteen. His
proud father, a shrewd old hunter and trapper, had taught him the craft
and lore of the woods. He sat near little Taheta, the playmate of his
childhood. With ripening years love had come into their lives. Before
the great fire they had begun to talk of a wigwam of their own, but now
that dark hours had come they knew that they would have to wait.
Wa-be-no-je rose from a log on which they had been sitting, near a
group of the older men, stepped forward and volunteered to follow
the fire and find the game. With care the scant supply of food would
be sufficient to support his companions for two moons. If he did not
return by the end of that time they would understand that his quest had
failed.
A few simple preparations were made for his journey. With forebodings
in her heart, with love light shining through her tears, little Taheta
saw him depart into the charred wastes on his errand of salvation.
No mailed knight ever rode out upon the path to glory with brighter
eyes upon him than those that glowed under the long lashes of the
Pottawattomie maiden, as she gazed longingly after him from the edge of
the ravine. She watched his lithe, sinewy figure as he bravely strode
away and faded into the distance. She went back in sorrow and began
with the others to endure patiently the long wait and suspense which
they knew was inevitable before the hunter’s return.
It was agreed that every night at sundown a fire should be built on
the lofty top of Wud-ju-na-gow, and kept burning until dawn, during
Wa-be-no-je’s absence. If he was where he could see this light, he
would know that his people were still in the ravine, and in the
darkness it would take the place of burned landmarks to guide him on
his return journey. Ten members of the little band, including Taheta,
were to perform this duty, and each night one of them climbed the
zigzag trail to the sandy top, kindled the beacon fire, watched and
replenished it until sunrise, and returned.
From miles away the young hunter could see the tiny light against the
sky. When its glow was very bright he knew that one he loved was
near it. He tramped on through the ashes and débris for many days.
At night he climbed to some high spot and slept. One afternoon he
reached a sandy stretch where the trees were scattered and there were
few grasses. The wind had evidently lulled when the fire reached this
area for the burnt places ended. He began to find the game trails
leading from them, which he followed for several days. The signs became
fresher, and one morning his eyes were gladdened by the sight of deer
and buffalo peacefully grazing beyond a small river that he had never
seen before.
Fearing that the animals might move on and be beyond reach before he
could return and obtain help, he decided to kill as many as possible
and preserve and hide the meat. Its transportation would then be a
comparatively simple matter, and he was sure that he could secure
enough for the winter’s supply.
He set cautiously to work. The noiseless arrows brought down one of
the buffalo and a deer the first day. He killed no more until this
meat was cut into little strips, strung on many switches, smoked over
fires of dried leaves and dead wood, and thoroughly dried in the sun.
He enlarged a small cave under some rocks by digging away the sand. He
made a floor of dead leaves inside on which to pile his stores, and
carefully walled up the opening with stones to protect the precious
contents from the wolves and other prowlers. The game was gradually
moving away, but before it disappeared the cave was well filled and
there was more than enough to last his people for a year.
The long dry period was now broken by a heavy rain storm which
lasted for several days. The arid earth drank of the falling waters;
the blackness and ruin upon the land were washed as with tears of
atonement. The streams again flowed and the pools and marshes that give
life and joy to the wild things were filled.
When the skies cleared Wa-be-no-je piled more rocks over the entrance
to the cave and started homeward with a light heart. Weary miles were
traversed before he could see the faint light on the horizon against
the sky at night. During two nights he heard wolves howling in the
distance, and the next night they were much closer. They gradually
closed in toward him and he knew that danger had come. He had but two
good arrows. The others were lost or broken. He came to a small stream
and waded it for a mile or so to throw his hungry followers off his
trail, but they soon found it again. Yellow eyeballs reflected his
firelight while he slept. Once he loosed one of the precious arrows to
save his life. The pack immediately fell upon their wounded comrade and
devoured him. Their hunger was only partially appeased and they kept
close to Wa-be-no-je until the following evening. He knew that unless
he could find some means of shaking them off he would never see Taheta
or his people again. He decided to attempt to pick his way through the
end of a wide marsh, believing that his pursuers would not follow him
into the water. If he could get safely across, he would be able to
elude them.
The swamp was full of quaking bogs, and near the middle the water
was quite deep. His progress was impeded by the soft mud and decayed
vegetation on the bottom, and the further he went the chances became
more desperate. One foot sank suddenly in the soft ooze and then the
other. He could neither retreat nor go ahead. He had reached a mass of
quicksand, and with every attempt to extricate himself he sank a little
lower. He clutched the ends of a few sodden grasses and held them for
some time, but the stagnant murky waters slowly closed over him and he
was gone.
The baffled wolves howled along the margins of the marsh for a while
but soon disappeared, like all enemies whose quarry has met finality.
The little fire on the horizon flared up brightly, as though fresh
sticks had been piled upon it, and gleamed through the darkness
brighter than ever before. It faded away in the gray of the morning and
its watcher followed the steep trail down the side of Wud-ju-na-gow to
rest.
Wa-be-no-je’s silent departure from the world left hardly a ripple
in the marsh. It is human to cherish the hope, or fondly believe,
that some store of gold, or grandeur of achievement--some sculptured
monument, or service to mankind--will stand at our place of exit and
be eloquent while the ages last, but the Waters of Oblivion hide
well their secrets. Beneath them are neither pride nor vanity. The
primordial slime from which we came reclaims without pomp or jewelled
vesture, and if there be a Great Beyond, poor Wa-be-no-je may reach
it from the quicksand as safely as he who becomes dust within marble
walls.
The early snows came and the nightly fires on Wud-ju-na-gow still
glowed. Only one guardian sat beside them, for Wa-be-no-je’s people
now believed that he would never return. Hope still abided in Taheta’s
loyal heart, and night after night she climbed the shelving steeps and
built her fire. One cold, stormy night she sat huddled in her blanket
and listened to the north wind. The snow swirled around her and toward
morning the light was gone. The next day they found the rigid little
form in the blanket and buried it below the ashes of her fire.
Today the Fireweed, that ever haunts the burnt places, lifts its
slender stalk above the spot, and it may be that the soul of faithful
Taheta lurks among the tender pink blossoms--a halo that may be seen
from the dark waters of the distant marsh.
III
THE HERON’S POOL
[Illustration: THE HERON’S POOL
(_From the Author’s Etching_)]
III
THE HERON’S POOL
The pool was far back from the big marshes through which the lazy
current of the river wound. It was in one of those secluded nooks
that the seeping water finds for itself when it would hide in secret
retreats and form a little world of its own. It was bordered by slushy
grasses and small willows; its waters spread silently among the
bulrushes, lily pads and thick brush tangles. A few ghostly sycamores
and poplars protruded above the undergrowth, and the intricate network
of wild grape-vines concealed broken stumps that were mantled with
moss. The placid pool was seldom ruffled, for the dense vegetation
protected it from the winds. Wandering clouds were mirrored in its
limpid depths. Water-snakes made silvery trails across it. Sinister
shadows of hawks’ wings sometimes swept by, and often the splash of a
frog sent little rings out over the surface. Opalescent dragon-flies
hovered among the weeds and small turtles basked in the sun-light along
the margins.
The Voices of the Little Things were in this abode of tranquillity--the
gentle sounds that fill nature’s sanctuaries with soft music. There
were contented songs of feathered visitors, distant cries of crows
beyond the tree-tops, faint echoes of a cardinal, rejoicing in the deep
woods, and the drowsy hum of insects--the myriad little tribes that
sing in the unseen aisles of the grasses.
One spring a gray old heron winged his way slowly over the pool, and,
after a few uncertain turns over the trees, wearily settled among
the rushes. After stalking about in the labyrinth of weeds along the
shallow edges for some time, he took his station on a dead branch that
protruded from the water near the shore, and solemnly contemplated his
surroundings.
His plumage was tattered, and he bore the record of the years he
had spent on the marshy wastes along the river. His eye had lost
its lustre, and the delicate blue that had adorned the wings of his
youth had faded to a pale ashen gray. The tired pinions were slightly
frayed--the wings hung rather loosely in repose, and the lanky legs
carried scars and crusty gray scales that told of vicissitudes in
the battle for existence. He looked long and curiously at a round
white object on the bottom near his low perch. The round object had a
history, but its story did not come within the sphere of the heron’s
interests, and he returned to his meditations on the gnarled limb.
He may have dreamed of far-off shores and happy homes in distant
tree-tops. A memory of a mate that flew devotedly by his side, but
could not go all the way, may have abided with him. The peace of
windless waters brooded in this quiet haven. It was a refuge from
the storms and antagonisms of the outer world, its store of food was
abundant, and in it he was content to pass his remaining days.
When night came his still figure melted into the darkness. A fallen
luna moth, whose wet wings might faintly reflect the starlight, would
sometimes tempt him, and he would listen languidly to the lonely cries
of an owl that lived in one of the sycamores. The periodic visits of
coons and foxes, that prowled stealthily in the deep shadows, and
craftily searched the wet grasses for small prey, did not disturb him.
They well knew the power of the gray old warrior’s cruel bill. All his
dangerous enemies were far away. The will-o’-the-wisps that spookily
and fitfully hovered along the tops of the rushes, and the erratic
flights of the fire-flies, did not mar his serenity. He was spending
his old age in comfort and repose.
There is a certain air, or quality, about certain spots which is
indefinable. An elusive and intangible impression, an idea, or a
story, may become inseparably associated with a particular place.
With a recurrence of the thought, or the memory of the story
there always comes the involuntary mental picture of the physical
environment with which it is interwoven. This association of thought
and place is in most cases entirely individual, and is often a subtle
sub-consciousness--more of a relationship of the soul, than the mind,
to such an environment. Something in or near some particular spot that
imparts a peculiar and distinctive character to it, or inspires some
dominant thought or emotion, constitutes the “genius” of that place.
The Genius of the Place may be a legend, an unwritten romance, a
memory of some event, an imaginary apparition, an unaccountable sound,
the presence of certain flowers or odors, a deformed tree, a strange
inhabitant, or any thought or thing that would always bring it to the
mind.
When the heron came to the pool the Genius of the Place was old Topago,
a chief of the Pottawattomies. A great many years ago he lived in a
little hut, rudely built of logs and elm bark, on an open space a few
hundred feet from the pool. The fortunes of his tribe had steadily
declined, and their sun was setting. After the coming of the white
man, war and sickness had decimated his people. The wild game began to
disappear and hunger stalked among the little villages. The old chief
brooded constantly over the sorrows of his race. As the years rolled
on his melancholy deepened. He sought isolation in the deep woods and
built his lonely dwelling near the pool to pass his last years in
solitude. His was the anguish of heart that comes when hope has fled.
Occasionally one of the few faithful followers who were left would come
to the little cabin and leave supplies of corn and dried meat, but
beyond this he had no visitors. His contact with his tribe had ceased.
One stormy night, when the north wind howled around the frail abode,
and the spirits of the cold were sighing in the trunks of the big
trees, the aged Indian sat over his small fire and held his medicine
bag in his shrivelled hands. Its potent charm had carried him safely
through many perils, and he now asked of it the redemption of his
people. That night the wind ceased and he felt the presence of his good
manitous in the darkness. They told him that the magic of his medicine
was still strong. If he would watch the reflections in the pool, there
would sometime appear among them the form of a crescent moon that would
foretell a great change in the fortunes of his race, but he must see
the reflection with his own eyes.
In the spring, as soon as the ice had melted, he began his nightly
vigils at the foot of an ancient pine that overhung the water. Through
weary years he gazed with dimmed eyes upon the infinite and inscrutable
lights that gleamed and trembled in the pool. Many times he saw the
new moon shine in the twilights of the west, and saw the old crescent
near the horizon before the dawn, but no crescent was ever reflected
from the zenith into the still depths below. Only the larger moons
rode into the night skies above him. His aching heart fought with
despair and distrust of his tribal gods. The wrinkles deepened on his
wan face. The cold nights of spring and fall bent the decrepit figure
and whitened the withered locks. Time dealt harshly with the faithful
watcher, nobly guarding his sacred trust.
One spring a few tattered shreds of a blanket clung to the rough roots.
Heavy snow masses around the pine had slipped into the pool sometime
during the winter, and carried with them a helpless burden. The melting
ice had let it into the sombre depths below. The birds sang as before,
the leaves came and went, and Mother Nature continued her eternal
rhythm.
During a March gale the ancient pine tottered and fell across the
open water. In the grim procession of the years it became sodden and
gradually settled into the oozy bottom. Only the gnarled and decayed
branch--the perch of the old heron--remained above the surface.
One night in early fall, when there was a tinge of frost in the air,
and the messages of the dying year were fluttering down to the water
from the overhanging trees, the full moon shone resplendent directly
above the pool. The old heron turned his tapering head up toward it for
a moment, plumed his straggling feathers for a while, nonchalantly
gazed at the white skull that caught the moon’s light below the water
near his perch, and relapsed into immobility. A rim of darkness crept
over the edge of the moon, and the earth’s shadow began to steal slowly
across the silver disk. The soft beams that glowed on the trees and
grasses became dimmed and they retreated into the shadows. The darkened
orb was almost eclipsed. Only a portion of it was left, but far down in
the chill mystery of the depths of the pool, among countless stars, was
reflected a crescent moon.
The magic of Topago’s medicine was still potent. The hour for the
redemption of the red man had come, but he was no more. The mantle
of the Genius of the Place had fallen upon the old heron. He was the
keeper of the secret of his pool.
IV
THE STORY OF THE STREAM
[Illustration: “Omemee”]
IV
THE STORY OF THE STREAM
The bistre-colored waters of French Creek seep sluggishly out of the
ancient peat beds far away in the country back of the dunes. Countless
tiny rivulets of transparent golden brown creep through the low land
among the underbrush and mingle with the gentle current that whispers
in the deep grasses, ripples against decayed branches and fallen
trunks, hides under masses of gnarled roots and projecting banks,
and enters the long sinuous ravine that winds through the woods and
sand-hills. The ravine ends abruptly at the broad shore of the lake.
The stream spreads out over the beach and tints the incoming surf with
wondrous hues.
In the daytime occasional gleams of light from the gliding water can be
seen through the small openings in the labyrinths of undergrowth and
between the tall tree trunks that crowd the shadowy defile. At night
there are tremulous reflections of the moon among the thick foliage.
Strange ghostly beams touch the boles of the solemn pines and sycamores
and filter into the sombre recesses.
The dramas of human life leave romance behind them. Its halo hovers
over these darkened woods, for it was here that the beautiful Indian
girl, Omemee, was brought by her dusky Pottawattomie lover, in the moon
of falling leaves, and it was here that the threads of their fate were
woven nearly a hundred years ago.
Red Owl first saw her among the wild blackberry bushes near the village
of her people. She had responded to his entreaties with shy glances,
and after many visits and much negotiation, her father, a wrinkled old
chief, had consented to their union. Omemee’s savage charms had brought
many suitors to her father’s wigwam. Her graceful willowy figure, long
raven hair, musical voice, dark luminous eyes and gentle ways had made
her a favorite of her village. She was called the dove in the language
of her tribe. There was sorrow when she went away.
Red Owl’s prowess as a hunter, his skill in the rude athletic sports
of the village, displayed on his frequent visits during the wooing,
had won the admiration of the old warrior. Among the many bundles
of valuable pelts that were borne along the Great Sauk Trail to
the traders’ posts, the largest were usually those of Red Owl. The
fire-water of the white man did not lure him to disaster as it did many
of his red brothers. He always transacted his business quickly and
returned from the posts with the ammunition, traps and other supplies
for which he had exchanged his furs.
For a year he quietly accumulated a secret hoard of selected skins,
which he laid before the door of the fond father as the marriage
offering. The lovers disappeared on the trail that was to lead them to
their home. For five days they travelled through the dunes and primeval
forests. They came down the trail that crossed French Creek, climbed
out of the ravine, and entered the village of Red Owl’s people. The
wigwams were scattered along the stretch of higher ground among the
trees. Omemee was cordially welcomed and soon grew accustomed to her
new environment.
For many years the young men of the tribe had trapped muskrats, beaver
and mink along the creek and in the swamps beyond its headwaters.
Small furred animals were abundant for many miles around, and, during
the fur season, the trappers were dispersed over a wide extent of
territory.
When “Peg Leg” Carr came into the dune country the only human trails he
found were those of the red men. He came alone and built a cabin on the
creek not far from the Indian Village. Peg Leg may have still cherished
a secret longing for human society which he was not willing to admit,
even to himself. He had abandoned his last habitat for the ostensible
reason that “thar was too many people ’round.” He came from about a
hundred miles back on the Sauk Trail. After a family disagreement he
had left his wife and two sons to their own devices in the wilderness,
and was not heard of for nearly ten years. He suddenly appeared one
morning, stumping along the trail, with his left knee fitted to the
top of a hickory support. The lower part of the leg was gone, and he
explained its absence by declaring that it had been “bit off.” The
time-worn pleasantry seemed to amuse him, and no amount of coaxing
would elicit further details. There was a deep ugly scar in the left
side of his neck. His vocal chords had been injured and he could talk
only in hoarse whispers. He said that his throat had been “gouged out.”
Somebody or something had nearly wrecked Peg Leg physically, but the
story, whatever it was, remained locked in his bosom. He admitted that
he had “been to sea,” but beyond that no facts were obtainable.
After a brief sojourn at his old home he shouldered his pack and
started west. When he arrived at French Creek he spent several days in
looking the country over before deciding on the location of his cabin.
He was a good-natured old fellow and the Indians did not particularly
resent his intrusion, even when he began to set a line of traps along
the creek. The small animals were so numerous that one trapper more
or less made little difference, and he got on very well with his red
neighbors. They rather pitied his infirmities and were disposed to make
allowances. He was over seventy and apparently harmless.
When the old man had accumulated a small stock of pelts it was his
custom to carry them to a trading post located about forty miles
back on the trail and exchange them for supplies for his simple
housekeeping and other necessities. These trips often consumed ten
days, as his loads were heavy and he was compelled to travel slowly. On
his return, when he came to the rude log bridge over which the trail
crossed the creek in the ravine, he would sometimes wearily lay his
pack down and pound on the timbers with his hickory stump as a signal
to those above. He was unable to reach them with his impaired voice.
Somebody in the wigwams usually heard him and came down to help the
exhausted old trapper carry his burden up the steep incline. After
resting awhile he would trudge on to his cabin.
A few years after the advent of Peg Leg a troop of soldiers arrived and
built a fort. For strategic reasons the commander of the government
post at Detroit decided to keep a small garrison at the end of the
lake. A spot was cleared on the bluff and two small brass cannon were
mounted in the block-house inside the log stockade. The tops of the
surrounding trees were cut away so that the guns would command the
trail from where it entered the north side of the ravine to the point
at which it disappeared around a low hill south of the fort.
The French Creek Trail was a branch of the Great Sauk Trail, which
was the main thoroughfare from the Detroit post to the mouth of
Chicago river. It was joined near the headwaters of the St. Joseph
and Kankakee rivers, in what is now northeastern Indiana, by another
trail that followed the north banks of the Kankakee from the Illinois
country. The sinuous routes had been used from time immemorable. They
were the established highways of the red men and the arteries of
their simple commerce. Thousands of moccasined feet traversed them on
peaceful errands, and grim war parties sometimes moved swiftly along
the numberless forest paths that connected with the main trails. There
was a net-work of these all through the Indian country. Trees twisted
and bent in a peculiar way, which we now often see in the woods,
were landmarks left by the makers of various small trails that were
travelled infrequently.
Soon after the fort was built at French Creek, Pierre Chenault came
and established a trading post near the village. He was followed by a
number of settlers who built log houses along the edge of the bluff.
The red man’s fatherland was invaded. The civilization of the white
man--or the lack of it--had come, with its attending evils of strong
waters and organized rapacity. The waves of an alien race, with strange
tongues and new weapons of steel, had broken over him. His means of
subsistence dwindled. His heritage was passing to the sway of the
despoiler.
The Indians loitered around Pierre Chenault’s trading post, bartered
their few valuables for fire-water, and neglected the pursuits that had
made them happy and prosperous. Chenault was a half-breed. His father
belonged to that hardy race of French-Canadian voyageurs who had broken
the paths of the wilderness in the north country, and penetrated the
fastnesses of the territory of the Great Lakes and the Mississippi. His
mother was an Ojibwa on the south shore of Lake Superior. He was about
forty, with a lean and hardened frame. His straight black hair was
beginning to be streaked with gray, and fell to his shoulders. Piercing
eyes looked out from under the heavy brows with an expression of low
cunning, and his face carried the stamp of villainy. He was a mongrel,
and in his case the mixture was a failure. He inherited the evil traits
of both races and none of the virtues of either.
The creek was now practically abandoned as a trapping ground by the
Indians. With the exception of Red Owl and Peg Leg, who divided the
few miles of the stream, the trappers had sought other regions that
were less disturbed. The dwellers in the wigwams contemplated a general
removal to a more congenial habitat. Their neighbors were getting too
numerous for comfort, and their ways of life were meeting with too much
interference. They did not object to Peg Leg, but he was all of their
white brothers that they felt they needed.
As the fur grew scarcer Red Owl rather resented the rivalry of the
old man’s interests, and occasionally appropriated an otter or mink,
when he passed Peg Leg’s traps, and had found nothing in his own. He
probably lulled his conscience with the idea that the animals naturally
belonged to the Indians, and that Peg Leg’s privileges were a form of
charity that need not be extended to the point of his own self-denial.
Many times the half-breed had looked longingly on the quiet-eyed
Omemee when she came to his post. He coveted Red Owl’s savage jewel.
Wickedness fermented in his depraved mind, but he was too wise to make
advances. He knew of Red Owl’s surreptitious visits to Peg Leg’s traps
and laid his plans with far-seeing craft. One still February morning he
saw him go into the ravine and start up the creek on the ice. He seized
his rifle and crept through the thick timber and undergrowth, away from
the creek, paralleling the course taken by the unsuspecting Indian.
After going a mile or so Red Owl stopped near the projecting roots of
a large elm. One of Peg Leg’s traps was there and his rival was soon
engaged in killing and extracting a mink from the steel jaws of the
trap. The half-breed stole up to within a hundred yards. A report rang
in the crisp air and a bullet crashed into the back of the Indian’s
head. The murderer left no trail near the frozen creek. He made a wide
detour, returned to his post, after hiding his rifle in the snow, and
awaited results.
A couple of hours later Peg Leg hobbled along the white water course to
inspect his traps. He followed Red Owl’s trail and came upon the still
form lying in the blood-stained snow on the ice. He speculated for some
time over the mystery and went to the settlement to report what he had
found.
The broken-hearted Omemee went with those who departed for the scene
of the tragedy. No trail was visible except those of Red Owl and Peg
Leg. The old man’s tracks were easily recognized. His denial of any
guilty knowledge of the killing was met by silence and dark looks.
Circumstantial evidence was against him. The motive was obvious and
the story was on the snow. The partial justice of the retribution that
had mysteriously fallen upon the thief did not lessen the innocent old
trapper’s sorrow and fear, for he knew that justice, age, or infirmity
would be no bar to Indian revenge. He would never have killed Red Owl
for interfering with his traps. A high wind and a snow storm came up in
the afternoon that effectually baffled any further investigation. The
despondent old man kept the seclusion of his cabin and brooded over his
trouble for several weeks.
Red Owl was laid away after the customs of his people. Omemee departed
into the wilderness to mourn for her dead. After many days she returned
with the light in her eyes that gleams from those of the she-panther
when her young have been killed before her--a light that an enemy sees
but once.
In the spring Peg Leg left with his pack of winter pelts. He had once
been cheated by Chenault and preferred to do his trading where he had
gone before the half-breed came. His journey consumed nearly two weeks.
One evening at dusk he laboriously picked his way down the steep path
into the ravine, laid his load of supplies on the rude bridge, and then
signalled for help by pounding the bridge timbers with his hickory
stump. He was worn out and could not carry his burden up the steep
incline alone.
Like a snake from its covert, a beautiful wild thing darted from the
deep shadows of the pines. The moccasined feet made no sound on the
logs. There was a gleam of steel, a lightning-like movement, and Omemee
glided on out of the ravine into the gathering gloom. The silence was
broken by a heavy splash below the side of the bridge, and when they
found poor old Peg Leg the hilt of a knife protruded from between his
shoulders.