The little fire sputtered as the flame eat into the heart of the green
stick.
The light chased and toyed with the dark shadows that lurked,
assassin-like, in the corners of the Indian lodge.
Ke-ne-ha-ha, with a resolute but gloomy brow, looked upon the old
Indian, who sat like a vampire by the embers.
“My father will keep his word?” the chief said, after a silence of long
duration.
“Watch the green stick--when it is ashes the Wolf Demon will stand
before the chief.”
The Shawnee brave gazed upon the Great Medicine in wonder.
“My father is a Great Medicine, to be able to call the white man’s
devil.”
“The Great Spirit wills that the Wolf Demon should come; the Medicine
Man does not bring him. He only knows that he is coming.”
“Can my father tell me one thing more?” asked the chief, after thinking
for a moment.
“Let the Shawnee brave speak; then the Great Medicine can answer,”
returned the old Indian, ambiguously.
“The chief will speak,” said Ke-ne-ha-ha, decidedly. “The Wolf Demon
has slain many a great brave of the Shawnee nation. He is only seen by
the banks of the Scioto. He strikes only at the Shawnees. Why does not
the white man’s devil kill also the Wyandot and Mingo warriors? Why
does Shawnee blood alone stain the edge of his tomahawk?”
“The chief is anxious to know why?”
“Yes; can my father tell?”
“The Great Medicine of the Shawnees can tell all things, either in life
or death. Let the chief open his ears, and he shall hear.”
“Ke-ne-ha-ha listens,” said the chief, curtly.
“The Wolf Demon is a white devil, and he hates the Shawnees. He does
not hate the Mingo warrior or the Wyandot brave, only the Shawnee.”
“But why should he hate the warriors of Ke-ne-ha-ha?”
“Because when the Wolf Demon was on earth they did him wrong.”
The chief started.
“The Wolf Demon has lived, then, a human?”
“Yes.”
“Will my father tell how that can be?”
“Yes; listen.” The Great Medicine paused for a moment, as if to collect
his thoughts, then again he spoke:
“Twelve moons ago a song-bird dwelt in the wigwams of the Shawnees, in
the village of Chillicothe, by the side of the Scioto. She was as fair
as the rosy morn, as gentle as the summer wind, as lithe and graceful
as the brown deer. She was called the Red Arrow.”
“The Great Medicine speaks with a straight tongue--the Red Arrow was
the daughter of the great fighting-man of the Shawnee nation. The chief
now mourns for the loss of his flower.” Ke-ne-ha-ha spoke sadly, and a
gloomy cloud was on his brow as the words came from his lips.
“The Singing Bird was called the Red Arrow--a name fit more for a chief
and a warrior than a bounding fawn--because when she was born the Great
Spirit marked a red arrow--His totem--on her breast. Over her heart
blazoned the mystic sign, yet her nature was as gentle as the pigeon’s,
though she bore the totem of slaughter.”
“What my father says is true,” said the chief. “All the Shawnee tribe
know of the daughter of Ke-ne-ha-ha and of the mystic totem that she
bore on her breast.”
“But do all the Shawnee chiefs know of the manner of her death?”
The great chief started at the question and cast a searching glance
into the face of the Great Medicine; that is, he would have looked into
the face of the old Indian had not the blankets, wrapped around his
head, hid it from the gaze of the chief.
“Does not my father know how the daughter of Ke-ne-ha-ha died?” asked
the chief, slowly.
“Perhaps the Great Medicine has heard, but his memory is bad--he is an
old man. Will the great chief tell him?”
“The Red Arrow left the wigwams of her people to wander in the forest.
There she was eaten up by a bear. Ke-ne-ha-ha and a few of his chosen
warriors searched for her and discovered her fate.”
“The great chief lies to the Medicine Man,” said the old Indian, calmly.
Fire flashed from the eyes of the chief, and he advanced a step with a
threatening gesture toward the old Indian.
“Does the chief come with lies in his mouth into the sacred wigwam
and then dare to raise his hand in violence to the Great Medicine Man
because the Great Spirit bids his oracle speak the truth?” said the old
Indian, sternly.
With an exclamation of anger, Ke-ne-ha-ha stepped back to his former
position.
“The chief forgot himself--he did not mean to offer harm to the Great
Medicine Man.”
“It is well. Mortal man cannot harm the tongue of the Great Spirit. The
Spirit-fires that flash from the storm-cloud would strike unto death
the warrior that dares to lift his hand in menace to the Great Medicine
of the Shawnee tribe,” said the aged oracle, impressively.
With an expression of awe upon his features, the chief listened to the
words of the old Indian.
“Let my father forgive and forget,” Ke-ne-ha-ha said, slowly.
“The Great Medicine will tell the Shawnee chief the fate of the Red
Arrow. She wandered from the wigwams of her people because she had
fallen in love with a pale-face--a hunter, whose cabin was by the
Ohio and Muskingum. She left home, kindred, all, for the sake of the
long-rifle. She became his squaw. Does the Great Medicine speak truth?”
“Yes,” Ke-ne-ha-ha answered, slowly and reluctantly.
“It is good. Does the chief see that it is useless to deceive the Great
Medicine, who can look into men’s hearts and read what is written
there?”
“My father is wise.”
“The Great Spirit has made him so,” answered the old Indian, solemnly.
“The Great Medicine knows the fate of the Red Arrow?” Ke-ne-ha-ha asked.
“Yes; the Shawnees found her in the lodge of the pale-face. They asked
her to return to her people. She refused, for she loved the white
hunter. Then the red chiefs went away, but when the sky grew dark,
covered by Manitou’s mantle, again the Shawnee warriors stood by the
lodge of the pale-face who had stolen from her home the singing-bird
of the Shawnees. The brands were in their hands, the keen-edged
scalping-knives in their belts. They gave to the fire the lodge of the
pale face, and while the flames roared and crackled, they shot the Red
Arrow dead in their midst.”
“The Shawnee woman who forsakes her tribe for a pale-face stranger
deserves to die,” said the chief, sternly.
“The chief speaks straight, for with his own hand he killed his
daughter, the Red Arrow.”
“And would also kill Le-a-pah, his other singing-bird, if she left
the village of her fathers to sing in the wigwam of a white-skin,”
exclaimed Ke-ne-ha-ha, with stern accents.
“It is good.”
“Why has my father told of the death of the bird who flew from her nest
to dwell with the stranger?”
“Does not the chief wish to know why the Wolf Demon kills only the
Shawnee warriors?”
“Yes; but what has that to do with the dead singing-bird?” Ke-ne-ha-ha
said, puzzled.
“Does not the Wolf Demon leave as his totem on the breast of his
victims a Red Arrow?”
The chief started. For the first time the thought that the mark of the
Wolf Demon and the name of his murdered daughter were alike, flashed
across his mind.
“Why does the Wolf Demon take for his totem a Red Arrow?” demanded the
chief.
“Let the chief open his ears and he shall hear,” said the old Indian,
gravely. “When the lodge of the white hunter was burnt to the ground,
and the body of the singing-bird lay before the warriors disfigured by
the flames, they looked for the white hunter, but could not find him.”
“He was not in the lodge when my braves attacked it,” interrupted the
chief.
“Ke-ne-ha-ha is wrong. The white hunter was in the lodge. He saw the
singing-bird fly from life to death, and was wounded by the bullets
of the Shawnee warriors; then, when the lodge fell, he was buried
beneath the ruins. The eyes of the red braves were sharp, but they did
not discover the wounded and helpless white-skin under the blackened
logs. The red chiefs went away, satisfied with their vengeance. The
white brave lay between life and death. A huge gray wolf came from the
forest. He found the senseless man under the logs. The forest beast was
hungry; he thirsted for human blood. The great gray wolf eat up the
wounded white-skin. The body of the white went into the stomach of the
wolf; it died, but the soul of the white hunter lived. It did not fly
from the body but went with it. The soul of the wolf was small, the
soul of the white hunter large, and the large soul eat up the little
one. The wolf became a wolf with a human soul. The soul remembered
the wrong that the Shawnee warriors had done its body; it burned for
revenge. It made the wolf walk erect like a human; it taught him to
carry in his paw the tomahawk of the red-man--to steal upon the Shawnee
chiefs in the forest--to give their souls to the dark spirit and to
graven on their breasts the totem of the Red Arrow. Thus the soul keeps
alive the memory of the squaw that the Shawnee warriors killed.”
The chief listened with amazement.
“How long will the wolf, who has a human soul, be an avenging angel to
give to the death the warriors of my tribe?” the chief asked.
“How many warriors were with Ke-ne-ha-ha when he killed the Red Arrow?”
“Ten.”
“Where are they now?”
The chief started. Of the ten warriors not one was living. All were
dead, killed by the Wolf Demon. Each one bore the mark of the Red Arrow.
“Only one remains, Ke-ne-ha-ha, the great chief of the Shawnee nation.
He will die by the tomahawk of the human wolf, and then the Demon will
go to the land of shadows.”
With a sharp crack, the green stick snapped in twain. The fire had
eaten to the core. The Medicine Man arose.
“Let the chief prepare. The Wolf Demon is near.”