THE SCOUTS OF THE VALLEY

by Joseph A. Altsheler

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.   THE LONE CANOE


CHAPTER II.   THE
MYSTERIOUS HAND

CHAPTER III.   THE
HUT ON THE ISLET

CHAPTER IV.   THE
RED CHIEFS

CHAPTER V.   THE
IROQUOIS TOWN

CHAPTER VI.   THE
EVIL SPIRIT'S WORK

CHAPTER VII.   CATHARINE
MONTOUR

CHAPTER VIII.   A
CHANGE OF TENANTS

CHAPTER IX.   WYOMING


CHAPTER X.   THE
BLOODY ROCK

CHAPTER XI.   THE
MELANCHOLY FLIGHT

CHAPTER XII.   THE
SHADES OF DEATH

CHAPTER XIII.   A
FOREST PAGE

CHAPTER XIV.   THE
PURSUIT ON THE RIVER

CHAPTER XV.
  "THE ALCOVE”

CHAPTER
XVI.   THE FIRST BLOW


CHAPTER XVII.   THE DESERTED CABIN

CHAPTER XVIII.   HENRY'S SLIDE


CHAPTER XIX.   THE SAFE RETURN


CHAPTER XX.   A GLOOMY
COUNCIL

CHAPTER XXI.   BATTLE
OF THE CHEMUNG

CHAPTER XXII.   LITTLE
BEARD'S TOWN

CHAPTER XXIII.     THE
FINAL FIGHT

CHAPTER XXIV.   DOWN
THE OHIO

CHAPTER I. THE LONE CANOE

A light canoe of bark, containing a single human figure, moved swiftly up
one of the twin streams that form the Ohio. The water, clear and deep,
coming through rocky soil, babbled gently at the edges, where it lapped
the land, but in the center the full current flowed steadily and without
noise.

The thin shadows of early dusk were falling, casting a pallid tint over
the world, a tint touched here and there with living fire from the sun,
which was gone, though leaving burning embers behind. One glowing shaft,
piercing straight through the heavy forest that clothed either bank, fell
directly upon the figure in the boat, as a hidden light illuminates a
great picture, while the rest is left in shadow. It was no common forest
runner who sat in the middle of the red beam. Yet a boy, in nothing but
years, he swung the great paddle with an ease and vigor that the strongest
man in the West might have envied. His rifle, with the stock carved
beautifully, and the long, slender blue barrel of the border, lay by his
side. He could bring the paddle into the boat, grasp the rifle, and carry
it to his shoulder with a single, continuous movement.

His most remarkable aspect, one that the casual observer even would have
noticed, was an extraordinary vitality. He created in the minds of those
who saw him a feeling that he lived intensely every moment of his life.
Born and-bred in the forest, he was essentially its child, a perfect
physical being, trained by the utmost hardship and danger, and with every
faculty, mental and physical, in complete coordination. It is only by a
singular combination of time and place, and only once in millions of
chances, that Nature produces such a being.

The canoe remained a few moments in the center of the red light, and its
occupant, with a slight swaying motion of the paddle, held it steady in
the current, while he listened. Every feature stood out in the glow, the
firm chin, the straight strong nose, the blue eyes, and the thick yellow
hair. The red blue, and yellow beads on his dress of beautifully tanned
deerskin flashed in the brilliant rays. He was the great picture of fact,
not of fancy, a human being animated by a living, dauntless soul.

He gave the paddle a single sweep and shot from the light into the shadow.
His canoe did not stop until it grazed the northern shore, where bushes
and overhanging boughs made a deep shadow. It would have taken a keen eye
now to have seen either the canoe or its occupant, and Henry Ware paddled
slowly and without noise in the darkest heart of the shadow.

The sunlight lingered a little longer in the center of the stream. Then
the red changed to pink. The pink, in its turn, faded, and the whole
surface of the river was somber gray, flowing between two lines of black
forest.

The coming of the darkness did not stop the boy. He swung a little farther
out into the stream, where the bushes and hanging boughs would not get in
his way, and continued his course with some increase of speed.

The great paddle swung swiftly through the water, and the length of stroke
was amazing, but the boy's breath did not come faster, and the muscles on
his arms and shoulders rippled as if it were the play of a child. Henry
was in waters unknown to him. He had nothing more than hearsay upon which
to rely, and he used all the wilderness caution that he had acquired
through nature and training. He called into use every faculty of his
perfect physical being. His trained eyes continually pierced the darkness.
At times, he stopped and listened with ears that could hear the footfall
of the rabbit, but neither eye nor ear brought report of anything unusual.
The river flowed with a soft, sighing sound. Now and then a wild creature
stirred in the forest, and once a deer came down to the margin to drink,
but this was the ordinary life of the woods, and he passed it by.

He went on, hour after hour. The river narrowed. The banks grew higher and
rockier, and the water, deep and silvery under the moon, flowed in a
somewhat swifter current. Henry gave a little stronger sweep to the
paddle, and the speed of the canoe was maintained. He still kept within
the shadow of the northern bank.

He noticed after a while that fleecy vapor was floating before the moon.
The night seemed to be darkening, and a rising wind came out of the
southwest. The touch of the air on, his face was damp. It was the token of
rain, and he felt that it would not be delayed long.

It was no part of his plan to be caught in a storm on the Monongahela.
Besides the discomfort, heavy rain and wind might sink his frail canoe,
and he looked for a refuge. The river was widening again, and the banks
sank down until they were but little above the water. Presently he saw a
place that he knew would be suitable, a stretch of thick bushes and weeds
growing into the very edge of the water, and extending a hundred yards or
more along the shore.

He pushed his canoe far into the undergrowth, and then stopped it in
shelter so close that, keen as his own eyes were, he could scarcely see
the main stream of the river. The water where he came to rest was not more
than a foot deep, but he remained in the canoe, half reclining and
wrapping closely around himself and his rifle a beautiful blanket woven of
the tightest fiber.

His position, with his head resting on the edge of the canoe and his
shoulder pressed against the side, was full of comfort to him, and he
awaited calmly whatever might come. Here and there were little spaces
among the leaves overhead, and through them he saw a moon, now almost
hidden by thick and rolling vapors, and a sky that had grown dark and
somber. The last timid star had ceased to twinkle, and the rising wind was
wet and cold. He was glad of the blanket, and, skilled forest runner that
he was, he never traveled without it. Henry remained perfectly still. The
light canoe did not move beneath his weight the fraction of an inch. His
upturned eyes saw the little cubes of sky that showed through the leaves
grow darker and darker. The bushes about him were now bending before the
wind, which blew steadily from the south, and presently drops of rain
began to fall lightly on the water.

The boy, alone in the midst of all that vast wilderness, surrounded by
danger in its most cruel forms, and with a black midnight sky above him,
felt neither fear nor awe. Being what nature and circumstance had made
him, he was conscious, instead, of a deep sense of peace and comfort. He
was at ease, in a nest for the night, and there was only the remotest
possibility that the prying eye of an enemy would see him. The leaves
directly over his head were so thick that they formed a canopy, and, as he
heard the drops fall upon them, it was like the rain on a roof, that
soothes the one beneath its shelter.

Distant lightning flared once or twice, and low thunder rolled along the
southern horizon, but both soon ceased, and then a rain, not hard, but
cold and persistent, began to fall, coming straight down. Henry saw that
it might last all night, but he merely eased himself a little in the
canoe, drew the edges of the blanket around his chin, and let his eyelids
droop.

The rain was now seeping through the leafy canopy of green, but he did not
care. It could not penetrate the close fiber of the blanket, and the fur
cap drawn far down on his head met the blanket. Only his face was
uncovered, and when a cold drop fell upon it, it was to him, hardened by
forest life, cool and pleasant to the touch.

Although the eyelids still drooped, he did not yet feel the tendency to
sleep. It was merely a deep, luxurious rest, with the body completely
relaxed, but with the senses alert. The wind ceased to blow, and the rain
came down straight with an even beat that was not unmusical. No other
sound was heard in the forest, as the ripple of the river at the edges was
merged into it. Henry began to feel the desire for sleep by and by, and,
laying the paddle across the boat in such a way that it sheltered his
face, he closed his eyes. In five minutes he would have been sleeping as
soundly as a man in a warm bed under a roof, but with a quick motion he
suddenly put the paddle aside and raised himself a little in the canoe,
while one hand slipped down under the folds of the blanket to the hammer
of his rifle.

His ear had told him in time that there was a new sound on the river. He
heard it faintly above the even beat of the rain, a soft sound, long and
sighing, but regular. He listened, and then he knew it. It was made by
oars, many of them swung in unison, keeping admirable time.

Henry did not yet feel fear, although it must be a long boat full of
Indian warriors, as it was not likely, that anybody else would be abroad
upon these waters at such a time. He made no attempt to move. Where he lay
it was black as the darkest cave, and his cool judgment told him that
there was no need of flight.

The regular rhythmic beat of the oars came nearer, and presently as he
looked through the covert of leaves the dusky outline of a great war canoe
came into view. It contained at least twenty warriors, of what tribe he
could not tell, but they were wet, and they looked cold and miserable.
Soon they were opposite him, and he saw the outline of every figure. Scalp
locks drooped in the rain, and he knew that the warriors, hardy as they
might be, were suffering.

Henry expected to see the long boat pass on, but it was turned toward a
shelving bank fifty or sixty yards below, and they beached it there. Then
all sprang out, drew it up on the land, and, after turning it over,
propped it up at an angle. When this was done they sat under it in a close
group, sheltered from the rain. They were using their great canoe as a
roof, after the habit of Shawnees and Wyandots.

The boy watched them for a long time through one of the little openings in
the bushes, and he believed that they would remain as they were all night,
but presently he saw a movement among them, and a little flash of light.
He understood it. They were trying to kindle a fire-with flint and steel,
under the shelter of the boat. He continued to watch them 'lazily and
without alarm.

Their fire, if they succeeded in making it, would cast no light upon him
in the dense covert, but they would be outlined against the flame, and he
could see them better, well enough, perhaps, to tell to what tribe they
belonged.

He watched under his lowered eyelids while the warriors, gathered in a
close group to make a shelter from stray puffs of wind, strove with flint
and steel. Sparks sprang up and went out, but Henry at last saw a little
blaze rise and cling to life. Then, fed with tinder and bark, it grew
under the roof made by the boat until it was ruddy and strong. The boat
was tilted farther back, and the fire, continuing to grow, crackled
cheerfully, while the flames leaped higher.

By a curious transfer of the senses, Henry, as he lay in the thick
blackness felt the influence of the fire, also. Its warmth was upon his
face, and it was pleasing to see the red and yellow light victorious
against the sodden background of the rain and dripping forest. The figures
of the warriors passed and repassed before the fire, and the boy in the
boat moved suddenly. His body was not shifted more than an inch, but his
surprise was great.

A warrior stood between him and the fire, outlined perfectly against the
red light. It was a splendid figure, young, much beyond the average
height, the erect and noble head crowned with the defiant scalplock, the
strong, slightly curved nose and the massive chin cut as clearly as if
they had been carved in copper. The man who had laid aside a wet blanket
was bare now to the waist, and Henry could see the powerful muscles play
on chest and shoulders as he moved.

The boy knew him. It was Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the
Wyandots, the youngest, but the boldest and ablest of all the Western
chiefs. Henry's pulses leaped a little at the sight of his old foe and
almost friend. As always, he felt admiration at the sight of the young
chief. It was not likely that he would ever behold such another
magnificent specimen of savage manhood.

The presence of Timmendiquas so far east was also full of significance.
The great fleet under Adam Colfax, and with Henry and his comrades in the
van, had reached Pittsburgh at last. Thence the arms, ammunition, and
other supplies were started on the overland journey for the American army,
but the five lingered before beginning the return to Kentucky. A rumor
came that the Indian alliance was spreading along the entire frontier,
both west and north. It was said that Timmendiquas, stung to fiery energy
by his defeats, was coming east to form a league with the Iroquois, the
famous Six Nations. These warlike tribes were friendly with the Wyandots,
and the league would be a formidable danger to the Colonies, the full
strength of which was absorbed already in the great war.

But the report was a new call of battle to Henry, Shif'less Sol, and the
others. The return to Kentucky was postponed. They could be of greater
service here, and they plunged into the great woods to the north and, east
to see what might be stirring among the warriors.

Now Henry, as he looked at Timmendiquas, knew that report had told the
truth. The great chief would not be on the fringe of the Iroquois country,
if he did not have such a plan, and he had the energy and ability to carry
it through. Henry shuddered at the thought of the tomahawk flashing along
every mile of a frontier so vast, and defended so thinly. He was glad in
every fiber that he and his comrades had remained to hang upon the Indian
hordes, and be heralds of their marches. In the forest a warning usually
meant the saving of life.

The rain ceased after a while, although water dripped from the trees
everywhere. But the big fire made an area of dry earth about it, and the
warriors replaced the long boat in the water. Then all but four or five of
them lay beside the coals and went to sleep. Timmendiquas was one of those
who remained awake, and Henry saw that he was in deep thought. He walked
back and forth much like a white man, and now and then he folded his hands
behind his back, looking toward the earth, but not seeing it. Henry could
guess what was in his mind. He would draw forth the full power of the Six
Nations, league them with the Indians of the great valley, and hurl them
all in one mass upon the frontier. He was planning now the means to the
end.

The chief, in his little walks back and forth, came close to the edge of
the bushes in which Henry lay, It was not at all probable that he would
conclude to search among them, but some accident, a chance, might happen,
and Henry began to feel a little alarm. Certainly, the coming of the day
would make his refuge insecure, and he resolved to slip away while it was
yet light.

The boy rose a little in the boat, slowly and with the utmost caution,
because the slightest sound out of the common might arouse Timmendiquas to
the knowledge of a hostile presence. The canoe must make no plash in the
water. Gradually he unwrapped the blanket and tied it in a folded square
at his back. Then he took thought a few moments. The forest was so silent
now that he did not believe he could push the canoe through the bushes
without being heard. He would leave it there for use another day and go on
foot through the woods to his comrades.

Slowly he put one foot down the side until it rested on the bottom, and
then he remained still. The chief had paused in his restless walk back and
forth. Could it be possible that he had heard so slight a sound as that of
a human foot sinking softly into the water? Henry waited with his rifle
ready. If necessary he would fire, and then dart away among the bushes.

Five or six intense moments passed, and the chief resumed his restless
pacing. If he had heard, he had passed it by as nothing, and Henry raised
the other foot out of the canoe. He was as delicate in his movement as a
surgeon mending the human eye, and he had full cause, as not eye alone,
but life as well, depended upon his success. Both feet now rested upon the
muddy bottom, and he stood there clear of the boat.

The chief did not stop again, and as the fire had burned higher, his
features were disclosed more plainly in his restless walk back and forth
before the flames. Henry took a final look at the lofty features,
contracted now into a frown, then began to wade among the bushes, pushing
his way softly. This was the most delicate and difficult task of all. The
water must not be allowed to plash around him nor the bushes to rustle as
he passed. Forward he went a yard, then two, five, ten, and his feet were
about to rest upon solid earth, when a stick submerged in the mud broke
under his moccasin with a snap singularly loud in the silence of the
night.

Henry sprang at once upon dry land, whence he cast back a single swift
glance. He saw the chief standing rigid and gazing in the direction from
which the sound had come. Other warriors were just behind him, following
his look, aware that there was an unexpected presence in the forest, and
resolved to know its nature.

Henry ran northward. So confident was he in his powers and the protecting
darkness of the night that he sent back a sharp cry, piercing and defiant,
a cry of a quality that could come only from a white throat. The warriors
would know it, and he intended for them to know it. Then, holding his
rifle almost parallel with his body, he darted swiftly away through the
black spaces of the forest. But an answering cry came to his, the Indian
yell taking up his challenge, and saying that the night would not check
pursuit.

Henry maintained his swift pace for a long time, choosing the more open
places that he might make no noise among the bushes and leaves. Now and
then water dripped in his face, and his moccasins were wet from the long
grass, but his body was warm and dry, and he felt little weariness. The
clouds were now all gone, and the stars sprang out, dancing in a sky of
dusky blue. Trained eyes could see far in the forest despite the night,
and Henry felt that he must be wary. He recalled the skill and tenacity of
Timmendiquas. A fugitive could scarcely be trailed in the darkness, but
the great chief would spread out his forces like a fan and follow.

He had been running perhaps three hours when he concluded to stop in a
thicket, where he lay down on the damp grass, and rested with his head
under his arm.

His breath had been coming a little faster, but his heart now resumed its
regular beat. Then he heard a soft sound, that of footsteps. He thought at
first that some wild animal was prowling near, but second thought
convinced him that human beings had come. Gazing through the thicket, he
saw an Indian warrior walking among the trees, looking searchingly about
him as if he were a scout. Another, coming from a different direction,
approached him, and Henry felt sure that they were of the party of
Timmendiquas. They had followed him in some manner, perhaps by chance, and
it behooved Mm now to lie close.

A third warrior joined them and they began to examine the ground. Henry
realized that it was much lighter. Keen eyes under such a starry sky could
see much, and they might strike his trail. The fear quickly became fact.
One of the warriors, uttering a short cry, raised his head and beckoned to
the others. He had seen broken twigs or trampled grass, and Henry, knowing
that it was no time to hesitate, sprang from his covert. Two of the
warriors caught a glimpse of his dusky figure and fired, the bullets
cutting the leaves close to his head, but Henry ran so fast that he was
lost to view in an instant.

The boy was conscious that his position contained many elements of danger.
He was about to have another example of the tenacity and resource of the
great young chief of the Wyandots, and he felt a certain anger. He, did
not wish to be disturbed in his plans, he wished to rejoin his comrades
and move farther east toward the chosen lands of the Six Nations; instead,
he must spend precious moments running for his life.

Henry did not now flee toward the camp of his friends. He was too wise,
too unselfish, to bring a horde down upon them, and he curved away in a
course that would take him to the south of them. He glanced up and saw
that the heavens were lightening yet more. A thin gray color like a mist
was appearing in the east. It was the herald of day, and now the Indians
would be able to find his trail. But Henry was not afraid. His anger over
the loss of time quickly passed, and he ran swiftly on, the fall of his
moccasins making scarcely any noise as he passed.

It was no unusual incident. Thousands of such pursuits occurred in the
border life of our country, and were lost to the chronicler. For
generations they were almost a part of the daily life of the frontier, but
the present, while not out of the common in itself, had, uncommon phases.
It was the most splendid type of white life in all the wilderness that
fled, and the finest type of red life that followed.

It was impossible for Henry to feel anger or hate toward Timmendiquas. In
his place he would have done what he was doing. It was hard to give up
these great woods and beautiful lakes and rivers, and the wild life that
wild men lived and loved. There was so much chivalry in the boy's nature
that he could think of all these things while he fled to escape the
tomahawk or the stake.

Up came the sun. The gray light turned to silver, and then to red and
blazing gold. A long, swelling note, the triumphant cry of the pursuing
warriors, rose behind him. Henry turned his head for one look. He saw a
group of them poised for a moment on the crest of a low hill and outlined
against the broad flame in the east. He saw their scalp locks, the rifles
in their hands, and their bare chests shining bronze in the glow. Once
more he sent back his defiant cry, now in answer to theirs, and then,
calling upon his reserves of strength and endurance, fled with a speed
that none of the warriors had ever seen surpassed.

Henry's flight lasted all that day, and he used every device to evade the
pursuit, swinging by vines, walking along fallen logs, and wading in
brooks. He did not see the warriors again, but instinct warned him that
they were yet following. At long intervals he would rest for a quarter of
an hour or so among the bushes, and at noon he ate a little of the venison
that he always carried. Three hours later he came to the river again, and
swimming it he turned on his course, but kept to the southern side. When
the twilight was falling once more he sat still in dense covert for a long
time. He neither saw nor heard a sign of human presence, and he was sure
now that the pursuit had failed. Without an effort he dismissed it from
his mind, ate a little more of the venison, and made his bed for the
night.

The whole day had been bright, with a light wind blowing, and the forest
was dry once more. As far as Henry could see it circled away on every
side, a solid dark green, the leaves of oak and beech, maple and elm
making a soft, sighing sound as they waved gently in the wind. It told
Henry of nothing but peace. He had eluded the pursuit, hence it was no
more. This was a great, friendly forest, ready to shelter him, to soothe
him, and to receive him into its arms for peaceful sleep.

He found a place among thick trees where the leaves of last year lay deep
upon the ground. He drew up enough of them for a soft bed, because now and
for the moment he was a forest sybarite. He was wise enough to take his
ease when he found it, knowing that it would pay his body to relax.

He lay down upon the leaves, placed the rifle by his side, and spread the
blanket over himself and the weapon. The twilight was gone, and the night,
dark and without stars, as he wished to see it, rolled up, fold after
fold, covering and hiding everything. He looked a little while at a
breadth of inky sky showing through the leaves, and then, free from
trouble or fear, he fell asleep.

CHAPTER II. THE MYSTERIOUS HAND

Henry slept until a rosy light, filtering through the leaves, fell upon
his face. Then he sprang up, folded the blanket once more upon his back,
and looked about him. Nothing had come in the night to disturb him, no
enemy was near, and the morning sun was bright and beautiful. The venison
was exhausted, but he bathed his face in the brook and resumed his
journey, traveling with a long, swift stride that carried him at great
speed.

The boy was making for a definite point, one that he knew well, although
nearly all the rest of this wilderness was strange to him. The country
here was rougher than it usually is in the great valley to the west, and
as he advanced it became yet more broken, range after range of steep,
stony hills, with fertile but narrow little valleys between. He went on
without hesitation for at least two hours, and then stopping under a great
oak he uttered a long, whining cry, much like the howl of a wolf.

It was not a loud note, but it was singularly penetrating, carrying far
through the forest. A sound like an echo came back, but Henry knew that
instead of an echo it was a reply to his own signal. Then he advanced
boldly and swiftly and came to the edge of a snug little valley set deep
among rocks and trees like a bowl. He stopped behind the great trunk of a
beech, and looked into the valley with a smile of approval.

Four human figures were seated around a fire of smoldering coals that gave
forth no smoke. They appeared to be absorbed in some very pleasant task,
and a faint odor that came to Henry's nostrils filled him with agreeable
anticipations. He stepped forward boldly and called:

“Jim, save that piece for me!”

Long Jim Hart halted in mid-air the large slice of venison that he had
toasted on a stick. Paul Cotter sprang joyfully to his feet, Silent Tom
Ross merely looked up, but Shif'less Sol said:

“Thought Henry would be here in time for breakfast.”

Henry walked down in the valley, and the shiftless one regarded him
keenly.

“I should judge, Henry Ware, that you've been hevin' a foot race,” he
drawled.

“And why do you think that?” asked Henry.

“I kin see where the briars hev been rakin' across your leggins. Reckon
that wouldn't happen, 'less you was in a pow'ful hurry.”

“You're right,” said Henry. “Now, Jim, you've been holding that venison in
the air long enough. Give it to me, and after I've eaten it I'll tell you
all that I've been doing, and all that's been done to me.”

Long Jim handed him the slice. Henry took a comfortable seat in the circle
before the coals, and ate with all the appetite of a powerful human
creature whose food had been more than scanty for at least two days.

“Take another piece,” said Long Jim, observing him with approval. “Take
two pieces, take three, take the whole deer. I always like to see a hungry
man eat. It gives him sech satisfaction that I git a kind uv taste uv it
myself.”

Henry did not offer a word 'of explanation until his breakfast was over.
Then lie leaned back, sighing twice with deep content, and said:

“Boys, I've got a lot to tell.”

Shif'less Sol moved into an easier position on the leaves.

“I guess it has somethin' to do with them scratches on your leggins.”

“It has,” continued Henry with emphasis, “and I want to say to you boys
that I've seen Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots.”

“Timmendiquas!” exclaimed the others together.

“No less a man than he,” resumed Henry. “I've looked upon his very face,
I've seen him in camp with warriors, and I've had the honor of being
pursued by him and his men more hours than I can tell. That's why you see
those briar scratches on my leggins, Sol.”

“Then we cannot doubt that he is here to stir the Six Nations to continued
war,” said Paul Cotter, “and he will succeed. He is a mighty chief, and
his fire and eloquence will make them take up the hatchet. I'm glad that
we've come. We delayed a league once between the Shawnees and the Miamis;
I don't think we can stop this one, but we may get some people out of the
way before the blow falls.”

“Who are these Six Nations, whose name sounds so pow'ful big up here?”
asked Long Jim.

“Their name is as big as it sounds,” replied Henry. “They are the
Onondagas, the Mohawks, Oneidas, Senecas, Cayugas, and Tuscaroras. They
used to be the Five Nations, but the Tuscaroras came up from the south and
fought against them so bravely that they were adopted into the league, as
a new and friendly tribe. The Onondagas, so I've heard, formed the league
a long, long time ago, and their head chief is the grand sachem or high
priest of them all, but the head chief of the Mohawks is the leading war
chief.”

“I've heard,” said Paul, “that the Wyandots are kinsmen of all these
tribes, and on that account they will listen with all the more
friendliness to Timmendiquas.”

“Seems to me,” said Tom Ross, “that we've got a most tre-men-je-ous big
job ahead.”

“Then,” said Henry, “we must make a most tremendous big effort.”

“That's so,” agreed all.

After that they spoke little. The last coals were covered up, and the
remainder of the food was put in their pouches. Then they sat on the
leaves, and every one meditated until such time as he might have something
worth saying. Henry's thoughts traveled on a wide course, but they always
came back to one point. They had heard much at Pittsburgh of a famous
Mohawk chief called Thayendanegea, but most often known to the Americans
as Brant. He was young, able, and filled with intense animosity against
the white people, who encroached, every year, more and more upon the
Indian hunting grounds. His was a soul full kin to that of Timmendiquas,
and if the two met it meant a great council and a greater endeavor for the
undoing of the white man. What more likely than that they intended to
meet?

“All of you have heard of Thayendanegea, the Mohawk?” said Henry.

They nodded.

“It's my opinion that Timmendiquas is on the way to meet him. I remember
hearing a hunter say at Pittsburgh that about a hundred miles to the east
of this point was a Long House or Council House of the Six Nations.
Timmendiquas is sure to go there, and we must go, too. We must find out
where they intend to strike. What do you say?”

“We go there!” exclaimed four voices together.

Seldom has a council of war been followed by action so promptly.

As Henry spoke the last word he rose, and the others rose with him. Saying
no more, he led toward the east, and the others followed him, also saying
no more. Separately every one of them was strong, brave, and resourceful,
but when the five were together they felt that they had the skill and
strength of twenty. The long rest at Pittsburgh had restored them after
the dangers and hardship of their great voyage from New Orleans.

They carried in horn and pouch ample supplies of powder and bullet, and
they did not fear any task.

Their journey continued through hilly country, clothed in heavy forest,
but often without undergrowth. They avoided the open spaces, preferring to
be seen of men, who were sure to be red men, as little as possible. Their
caution was well taken. They saw Indian signs, once a feather that had
fallen from a scalp lock, once footprints, and once the bone of a deer
recently thrown away by him who had eaten the meat from it. The country
seemed to be as wild as that of Kentucky. Small settlements, so they had
heard, were scattered at great distances through the forest, but they saw
none. There was no cabin smoke, no trail of the plow, just the woods and
the hills and the clear streams. Buffalo had never reached this region,
but deer were abundant, and they risked a shot to replenish their
supplies.

They camped the second night of their march on a little peninsula at the
confluence of two creeks, with the deep woods everywhere. Henry judged
that they were well within the western range of the Six Nations, and they
cooked their deer meat over a smothered fire, nothing more than a few
coals among the leaves. When supper was over they arranged soft places for
themselves and their blankets, all except Long Jim, whose turn it was to
scout among the woods for a possible foe.

“Don't be gone long, Jim,” said Henry as he composed himself in a
comfortable position. “A circle of a half mile about us will do.”

“I'll not be gone more'n an hour,” said Long Jim, picking up his rifle
confidently, and flitting away among the woods.

“Not likely he'll see anything,” said Shif'less Sol, “but I'd shorely like
to know what White Lightning is about. He must be terrible stirred up by
them beatin's he got down on the Ohio, an' they say that Mohawk,
Thayendanegea is a whoppin' big chief, too. They'll shorely make a heap of
trouble.”

“But both of them are far from here just now,” said Henry, “and we won't
bother about either.”

He was lying on some leaves at the foot of a tree with his arm under his
head and his blanket over his body. He had a remarkable capacity for
dismissing trouble or apprehension, and just then he was enjoying great
physical and mental peace. He looked through half closed eyes at his
comrades, who also were enjoying repose, and his fancy could reproduce
Long Jim in the forest, slipping from tree to tree and bush to bush, and
finding no menace.

“Feels good, doesn't it, Henry?” said the shiftless one. “I like a clean,
bold country like this. No more plowin' around in swamps for me.”

“Yes,” said Henry sleepily, “it's a good country.”

The hour slipped smoothly by, and Paul said:

“Time for Long Jim to be back.”

“Jim don't do things by halves,” said the shiftless one. “Guess he's
beatin' up every squar' inch o' the bushes. He'll be here soon.”

A quarter of an hour passed, and Long Jim did not return; a half hour, and
no sign of him. Henry cast off the blanket and stood up. The night was not
very dark and he could see some distance, but he did not see their
comrade.

“I wonder why he's so slow,” he said with a faint trace of anxiety.

“He'll be 'long directly,” said Tom Ross with confidence.

Another quarter of an hour, and no Long Jim. Henry sent forth the low
penetrating cry of the wolf that they used so often as a signal.

“He cannot fail to hear that,” he said, “and he'll answer.”

No answer came. The four looked at one another in alarm. Long Jim had been
gone nearly two hours, and he was long overdue. His failure to reply to
the signal indicated either that something ominous had happened or that—he
had gone much farther than they meant for him to go.

The others had risen to their feet, also, and they stood a little while in
silence.

“What do you think it means?” asked Paul.

“It must be all right,” said Shif'less Sol. “Mebbe Jim has lost the camp.”

Henry shook his head.

“It isn't that,” he said. “Jim is too good a woodsman for such a mistake.
I don't want to look on the black side, boys, but I think something has
happened to Jim.”

“Suppose you an' me go an' look for him,” said Shif'less Sol, “while Paul
and Tom stay here an' keep house.”

“We'd better do it,” said Henry. “Come, Sol.”

The two, rifles in the hollows of their arms, disappeared in the darkness,
while Tom and Paul withdrew into the deepest shadow of the trees and
waited.

Henry and the shiftless one pursued an anxious quest, going about the camp
in a great circle and then in another yet greater. They did not find Jim,
and the dusk was so great that they saw no evidences of his trail. Long
Jim had disappeared as completely as if he had left the earth for another
planet. When they felt that they must abandon the search for the time,
Henry and Shif'less Sol looked at each other in a dismay that the dusk
could not hide.

“Mebbe be saw some kind uv a sign, an' has followed it,” said the
shiftless one hopefully. “If anything looked mysterious an' troublesome,
Jim would want to hunt it down.”

“I hope so,” said Henry, “but we've got to go back to the camp now and
report failure. Perhaps he'll show up to-morrow, but I don't like it, Sol,
I don't like it!”

“No more do I,” said Shif'less Sol. “'Tain't like Jim not to come back, ef
he could. Mebbe he'll drop in afore day, anyhow.”

They returned to the camp, and two inquiring figures rose up out of the
darkness.

“You ain't seen him?” said Tom, noting that but two figures had returned.

“Not a trace,” replied Henry. “It's a singular thing.”

The four talked together a little while, and they were far from cheerful.
Then three sought sleep, while Henry stayed on watch, sitting with his
back against a tree and his rifle on his knees. All the peace and content
that he had felt earlier in the evening were gone. He was oppressed by a
sense of danger, mysterious and powerful. It did not seem possible that
Long Jim could have gone away in such a noiseless manner, leaving no trace
behind. But it was true.

He watched with both ear and eye as much for Long Jim as for an enemy. He
was still hopeful that he would see the long, thin figure coming among the
bushes, and then hear the old pleasant drawl. But he did not see the
figure, nor did he hear the drawl.

Time passed with the usual slow step when one watches. Paul, Sol, and Tom
were asleep, but Henry was never wider awake in his life. He tried to put
away the feeling of mystery and danger. He assured himself that Long Jim
would soon come, delayed by some trail that he had sought to solve.
Nothing could have happened to a man so brave and skillful. His nerves
must be growing weak when he allowed himself to be troubled so much by a
delayed return.

But the new hours came, one by one, and Long Jim came with none of them.
The night remained fairly light, with a good moon, but the light that it
threw over the forest was gray and uncanny. Henry's feeling of mystery and
danger deepened. Once he thought he heard a rustling in the thicket and,
finger on the trigger of his rifle, he stole among the bushes to discover
what caused it. He found nothing and, returning to his lonely watch, saw
that Paul, Sol, and Tom were still sleeping soundly. But Henry was annoyed
greatly by the noise, and yet more by his failure to trace its origin.
After an hour's watching he looked a second time. The result was once more
in vain, and he resumed his seat upon the leaves, with his back reclining
against an oak. Here, despite the fact that the night was growing darker,
nothing within range of a rifle shot could escape his eyes.

Nothing stirred. The noise did not come a second time from the thicket.
The very silence was oppressive. There was no wind, not even a stray puff,
and the bushes never rustled. Henry longed for a noise of some kind to
break that terrible, oppressive silence. What he really wished to hear was
the soft crunch of Long Jim's moccasins on the grass and leaves.

The night passed, the day came, and Henry awakened his comrades. Long Jim
was still missing and their alarm was justified. Whatever trail lie might
have struck, he would have returned in the night unless something had
happened to him. Henry had vague theories, but nothing definite, and he
kept them to himself. Yet they must make a change in their plans. To go on
and leave Long Jim to whatever fate might be his was unthinkable. No task
could interfere with the duty of the five to one another.

“We are in one of the most dangerous of all the Indian countries,” said
Henry. “We are on the fringe of the region over which the Six Nations
roam, and we know that Timmendiquas and a band of the Wyandots are here
also. Perhaps Miamis and Shawnees have come, too.”

“We've got to find Long Jim,” said Silent Tom briefly.

They went about their task in five minutes. Breakfast consisted of cold
venison and a drink from a brook. Then they began to search the forest.
They felt sure that such woodsmen as they, with the daylight to help them,
would find some trace of Long Jim, but they saw none at all, although they
constantly widened their circle, and again tried all their signals. Half
the forenoon passed in the vain search, and then they held a council.

“I think we'd better scatter,” said Shif'less Sol, “an' meet here again
when the sun marks noon.”

It was agreed, and they took careful note of the place, a little hill
crowned with a thick cluster of black oaks, a landmark easy to remember.
Henry turned toward the south, and the forest was so dense that in two
minutes all his comrades were lost to sight. He went several miles, and
his search was most rigid. He was amazed to find that the sense of mystery
and danger that he attributed to the darkness of the night did not
disappear wholly in the bright daylight. His spirit, usually so
optimistic, was oppressed by it, and he had no belief that they would find
Long Jim.

At the set time he returned to the little hill crowned with the black
oaks, and as he approached it from one side he saw Shif'less Sol coming
from another. The shiftless one walked despondently. His gait was loose
and shambling-a rare thing with him, and Henry knew that he, too, had
failed. He realized now that he had not expected anything else. Shif'less
Sol shook his head, sat down on a root and said nothing. Henry sat down,
also, and the two exchanged a look of discouragement.

“The others will be here directly,” said Henry, “and perhaps Long Jim will
be with one of them.”

But in his heart he knew that it would not be so, and the shiftless one
knew that he had no confidence in his own words.

“If not,” said Henry, resolved to see the better side, “we'll stay anyhow
until we find him. We can't spare good old Long Jim.”

Shif'less Sol did not reply, nor did Henry speak again, until lie saw the
bushes moving slightly three or four hundred yards away.

“There comes Tom,” he said, after a single comprehensive glance, “and he's
alone.”

Tom Ross was also a dejected figure. He looked at the two on the hill,
and, seeing that the man for whom they were searching was not with them,
became more dejected than before.

“Paul's our last chance,” he said, as he joined them. “He's gen'rally a
lucky boy, an' mebbe it will be so with him to-day.”

“I hope so,” said Henry fervently. “He ought to be along in a few
minutes.”

They waited patiently, although they really had no belief that Paul would
bring in the missing man, but Paul was late. The noon hour was well past.
Henry took a glance at the sun. Noon was gone at least a half hour, and he
stirred uneasily.

“Paul couldn't get lost in broad daylight,” he said.

“No,” said Shif'less Sol, “he couldn't get lost!”

Henry noticed his emphasis on the word “lost,” and a sudden fear sprang up
in his heart. Some power had taken away Long Jim; could the same power
have seized Paul? It was a premonition, and he paled under his brown,
turning away lest the others see his face. All three now examined the
whole circle of the horizon for a sight of moving bushes that would tell
of the boy's coming.

The forest told nothing. The sun blazed brightly over everything, and
Paul, like Long Jim, did not come. He was an hour past due, and the three,
oppressed already by Long jim's disappearance, were convinced that he
would not return. But they gave him a half hour longer. Then Henry said:

“We must hunt for him, but we must not separate. Whatever happens we three
must stay together.”

“I'm not hankerin' to roam 'roun jest now all by myself,” said the
shiftless one, with an uneasy laugh.

The three hunted all that afternoon for Paul. Once they saw trace of
footsteps, apparently his, in some soft earth, but they were quickly, lost
on hard ground, and after that there was nothing. They stopped shortly
before sunset at the edge of a narrow but deep creek.

“What do you think of it, Henry?” asked Shif'less Sol.

“I don't know what to think,” replied the youth, “but it seems to me that
whatever took away Jim has taken away Paul, also.”

“Looks like it,” said Sol, “an' I guess it follers that we're in the same
kind o' danger.”

“We three of us could put up a good fight,” said Henry, “and I propose
that we don't go back to that camp, but spend the night here.”

“Yes, an' watch good,” said Tom Ross.

Their new camp was made quickly in silence, merely the grass under the low
boughs of a tree. Their supper was a little venison, and then they watched
the coming of the darkness. It was a heavy hour for the three. Long Jim
was gone, and then Paul-Paul, the youngest, and, in a way, the pet of the
little band.

“Ef we could only know how it happened,” whispered Shif'less Sol, “then we
might rise up an' fight the danger an' git Paul an' Jim back. But you
can't shoot at somethin' you don't see or hear. In all them fights o'
ours, on the Ohio an' Mississippi we knowed what wuz ag'inst us, but here
we don't know nothin'.”

“It is true, Sol,” sighed Henry. “We were making such big plans, too, and
before we can even start our force is cut nearly in half. To-morrow we'll
begin the hunt again. We'll never desert Paul and Jim, so long as we don't
know they're dead.”

“It's my watch,” said Tom. “You two sleep. We've got to keep our
strength.”

Henry and the shiftless one acquiesced, and seeking the softest spots
under the tree sat down. Tom Ross took his place about ten feet in front
of them, sitting on the ground, with his hands clasped around his knees,
and his rifle resting on his arm. Henry watched him idly for a little
while, thinking all the time of his lost comrades. The night promised to
be dark, a good thing for them, as the need of hiding was too evident.

Shif'less Sol soon fell asleep, as Henry, only three feet away, knew by
his soft and regular breathing, but the boy himself was still wide-eyed.

The darkness seemed to sink down like a great blanket dropping slowly, and
the area of Henry's vision narrowed to a small circle. Within this area
the distinctive object was the figure of Tom Ross, sitting with his rifle
across his knees. Tom had an infinite capacity for immobility. Henry had
never seen another man, not even an Indian, who could remain so long in
one position contented and happy. He believed that the silent one could
sit as he was all night.

His surmise about Tom began to have a kind of fascination for him. Would
he remain absolutely still? He would certainly shift an arm or a leg.
Henry's interest in the question kept him awake. He turned silently on the
other side, but, no matter how intently he studied the sitting figure of
his comrade, he could not see it stir. He did not know how long he had
been awake, trying thus to decide a question that should be of no
importance at such a time. Although unable to sleep, he fell into a dreamy
condition, and continued vaguely to watch the rigid and silent sentinel.

He suddenly saw Tom stir, and he came from his state of languor. The
exciting question was solved at last. The man would not sit all night
absolutely immovable. There could be no doubt of the fact that he had
raised an arm, and that his figure had straightened. Then he stood up,
full height, remained motionless for perhaps ten seconds, and then
suddenly glided away among the bushes.

Henry knew what this meant. Tom had heard something moving in the
thickets, and, like a good sentinel, he had gone to investigate. A rabbit,
doubtless, or perhaps a sneaking raccoon. Henry rose to a sitting
position, and drew his own rifle across his knees. He would watch while
Tom was gone, and then lie would sink quietly back, not letting his
comrade know that lie had taken his place.

The faintest of winds began to stir among the thickets. Light clouds
drifted before the moon. Henry, sitting with his rifle across his knees,
and Shif'less Sol, asleep in the shadows, were invisible, but Henry saw
beyond the circle of darkness that enveloped them into the grayish light
that fell over the bushes. He marked the particular point at which he
expected Tom Ross to appear, a slight opening that held out invitation for
the passage of a man.

He waited a long time, ten minutes, twenty, a half hour, and the sentinel
did not return. Henry came abruptly out of his dreamy state. He felt with
all the terrible thrill of certainty that what happened to Long Jim and
Paul had happened also to Silent Tom Ross. He stood erect, a tense, tall
figure, alarmed, but not afraid. His eyes searched the thickets, but saw
nothing. The slight movement of the bushes was made by the wind, and no
other sound reached his ears.

But he might be mistaken after all! The most convincing premonitions were
sometimes wrong! He would give Tom ten minutes more, and he sank down in a
crouching position, where he would offer the least target for the eye.

The appointed time passed, and neither sight nor sound revealed any sign
of Tom Ross. Then Henry awakened Shif'less Sol, and whispered to him all
that he had seen.

“Whatever took Jim and Paul has took him,” whispered the shiftless one at
once.

Henry nodded.

“An' we're bound to look for him right now,” continued Shif'less Sol.

“Yes,” said Henry, “but we must stay together. If we follow the others,
Sol, we must follow 'em together.”

“It would be safer,” said Sol. “I've an idee that we won't find Tom, an' I
want to tell you, Henry, this thing is gittin' on my nerves.”

It was certainly on Henry's, also, but without reply he led the way into
the bushes, and they sought long and well for Silent Tom, keeping at the
same time a thorough watch for any danger that might molest themselves.
But no danger showed, nor did they find Tom or his trail. He, too, had
vanished into nothingness, and Henry and Sol, despite their mental
strength, felt cold shivers. They came back at last, far toward morning,
to the bank of the creek. It was here as elsewhere a narrow but deep
stream flowing between banks so densely wooded that they were almost like
walls.

“It will be daylight soon,” said Shif'less Sol, “an' I think we'd better
lay low in thicket an' watch. It looks ez ef we couldn't find anything, so
we'd better wait an' see what will find us.”

“It looks like the best plan to me,” said Henry, “but I think we might
first hunt a while on the other side of the creek. We haven't looked any
over there.”

“That's so,” replied Shif'less Sol, “but the water is at least seven feet
deep here, an' we don't want to make any splash swimmin'. Suppose you go
up stream, an' I go down, an' the one that finds a ford first kin give a
signal. One uv us ought to strike shallow water in three or four hundred
yards.”

Henry followed the current toward the south, while Sol moved up the
stream. The boy went cautiously through the dense foliage, and the creek
soon grew wider and shallower. At a distance of about three hundred yards
lie came to a point where it could be waded easily. Then he uttered the
low cry that was their signal, and went back to meet Shif'less Sol. He
reached the exact point at which they had parted, and waited. The
shiftless one did not come. The last of his comrades was gone, and he was
alone in the forest.

CHAPTER III. THE HUT ON THE ISLET

Henry Ware waited at least a quarter of an hour by the creek on the exact
spot at which he and Solomon Hyde, called the shiftless one, had parted,
but he knew all the while that his last comrade was not coming. The same
powerful and mysterious hand that swept the others away had taken him, the
wary and cunning Shif'less Sol, master of forest lore and with all the
five senses developed to the highest pitch. Yet his powers had availed him
nothing, and the boy again felt that cold chill running down his spine.

Henry expected the omnipotent force to come against him, also, but his
instinctive caution made him turn and creep into the thickest of the
forest, continuing until he found a place in the bushes so thoroughly
hidden that no one could see him ten feet away. There he lay down and
rapidly ran over in his mind the events connected with the four
disappearances. They were few, and he had little on which to go, but his
duty to seek his four comrades, since he alone must do it, was all the
greater. Such a thought as deserting them and fleeing for his own life
never entered his mind. He would not only seek them, but he would
penetrate the mystery of the power that had taken them.

It was like him now to go about his work with calmness and method. To
approach an arduous task right one must possess freshness and vigor, and
one could have neither without sleep. His present place of hiding seemed
to be as secure as any that could be found. So composing himself he took
all chances and sought slumber. Yet it needed a great effort of the will
to calm his nerves, and it was a half hour before he began to feel any of
the soothing effect that precedes sleep. But fall asleep he did at last,
and, despite everything, he slept soundly until the morning.

Henry did not awake to a bright day. The sun had risen, but it was
obscured by gray clouds, and the whole heavens were somber. A cold wind
began to blow, and with it came drops of rain. He shivered despite the
enfolding blanket. The coming of the morning had invariably brought
cheerfulness and increase of spirits, but now he felt depression. He
foresaw heavy rain again, and it would destroy any but the deepest trail.
Moreover, his supplies of food were exhausted and he must replenish them
in some manner before proceeding further.

A spirit even as bold and strong as Henry's might well have despaired. He
had found his comrades, only to lose them again, and the danger that had
threatened them, and the elements as well, now threatened him, too. An
acute judge of sky and air, he knew that the rain, cold, insistent,
penetrating, would fall all day, and that he must seek shelter if he would
keep his strength. The Indians themselves always took to cover at such
times.

He wrapped the blanket around himself, covering his body well from neck to
ankle, putting his rifle just inside the fold, but with his hand upon it,
ready for instant use if it should be needed. Then he started, walking
straight ahead until he came to the crown of a little hill. The clouds
meanwhile thickened, and the rain, of the kind that he had foreseen and as
cold as ice, was blown against him. The grass and bushes were reeking, and
his moccasins became sodden. Despite the vigorous walking, lie felt the
wet cold entering his system. There come times when the hardiest must
yield, and he saw the increasing need of refuge.

He surveyed the country attentively from the low hill. All around was a
dull gray horizon from which the icy rain dripped everywhere. There was no
open country. All was forest, and the heavy rolling masses of foliage
dripped with icy water, too.

Toward the south the land seemed to dip down, and Henry surmised that in a
valley he would be more likely to find the shelter that he craved. He
needed it badly. As he stood there he shivered again and again from head
to foot, despite the folds of the blanket. So he started at once, walking
fast, and feeling little fear of a foe. It was not likely that any would
be seeking him at such a time. The rain struck him squarely in the face
now. Water came from his moccasins every time his foot was pressed against
the earth, and, no matter how closely he drew the folds of the blanket,
little streams of it, like ice to the touch, flowed down his neck and made
their way under his clothing. He could not remember a time when he had
felt more miserable.

He came in about an hour to the dip which, as he had surmised, was the
edge of a considerable valley. He ran down the slope, and looked all about
for some place of shelter, a thick windbreak in the lee of a hill, or an
outcropping of stone, but he saw neither, and, as he continued the search,
he came to marshy ground. He saw ahead among the weeds and bushes the
gleam of standing pools, and he was about to turn back, when he noticed
three or four stones, in a row and about a yard from one another,
projecting slightly above the black muck. It struck him that the stones
would not naturally be in the soft mud, and, his curiosity aroused, he
stepped lightly from one stone to another. When he came to the last stone
that he had seen from the hard ground he beheld several more that had been
hidden from him by the bushes. Sure now that he had happened upon
something not created by nature alone, he followed these stones, leading
like steps into the very depths of the swamp, which was now deep and dark
with ooze all about him. He no longer doubted that the stones, the
artificial presence of which might have escaped the keenest eye and most
logical mind, were placed there for a purpose, and he was resolved to know
its nature.

The stepping stones led him about sixty yards into the swamp, and the last
thirty yards were at an angle from the first thirty. Then he came to a bit
of hard ground, a tiny islet in the mire, upon which he could stand
without sinking at all. He looked back from there, and he could not see
his point of departure. Bushes, weeds, and saplings grew out of the swamp
to a height of a dozen or fifteen feet, and he was inclosed completely.
All the vegetation dripped with cold water, and the place was one of the
most dismal that he had ever seen. But he had no thought of turning back.

Henry made a shrewd guess as to whither the path led, but he inferred from
the appearance of the stepping stones-chiefly from the fact that an odd
one here and there had sunk completely out of sight-that they had not been
used in a long time, perhaps for years. He found on the other side of the
islet a second line of stones, and they led across a marsh, that was
almost like a black liquid, to another and larger island.

Here the ground was quite firm, supporting a thick growth of large trees.
It seemed to Henry that this island might be seventy or eighty yards
across, and he began at once to explore it. In the center, surrounded so
closely by swamp oaks that they almost formed a living wall, he found what
he had hoped to find, and his relief was so great that, despite his
natural and trained stoicism, he gave a little cry of pleasure when he saw
it.

A small lodge, made chiefly of poles and bark after the Iroquois fashion,
stood within the circle of the trees, occupying almost the whole of the
space. It was apparently abandoned long ago, and time and weather had done
it much damage. But the bark walls, although they leaned in places at
dangerous angles, still stood. The bark roof was pierced by holes on one
side, but on the other it was still solid, and shed all the rain from its
slope.

The door was open, but a shutter made of heavy pieces of bark cunningly
joined together leaned against the wall, and Henry saw that he could make
use of it. He stepped inside. The hut had a bark floor which was dry on
one side, where the roof was solid, but dripping on the other. Several old
articles of Indian use lay about. In one corner was a basket woven of
split willow and still fit for service. There were pieces of thread made
of Indian hemp and the inner bark of the elm. There were also a piece of
pottery and a large, beautifully carved wooden spoon such as every
Iroquois carried. In the corner farthest from the door was a rude
fireplace made of large flat stones, although there was no opening for the
smoke.

Henry surveyed it all thoughtfully, and he came to the conclusion that it
was a hut for hunting, built by some warrior of an inquiring mind who had
found this secret place, and who had recognized its possibilities. Here
after an expedition for game he could lie hidden from enemies and take his
comfort without fear. Doubtless he had sat in this hut on rainy days like
the present one and smoked his pipe in the long, patient calm of which the
Indian is capable.

Yes, there was the pipe, unnoticed before, trumpet shaped and carved
beautifully, lying on a small bark shelf. Henry picked it tip and examined
the bowl. It was as dry as a bone, and not a particle of tobacco was left
there. He believed that it had not been used for at least a year.
Doubtless the Indian who had built this hunting lodge had fallen in some
foray, and the secret of it had been lost until Henry Ware, seeking
through the cold and rain, had stumbled upon it.

It was nothing but a dilapidated little lodge of poles and bark, all
a-leak, but the materials of a house were there, and Henry was strong and
skillful. He covered the holes in the roof with fallen pieces of bark,
laying heavy pieces of wood across them to hold them in place. Then he
lifted the bark shutter into position and closed the door. Some drops of
rain still came in through the roof, but they were not many, and he would
not mind them for the present. Then he opened the door and began his
hardest task.

He intended to build a fire on the flat stones, and, securing fallen wood,
he stripped off the bark and cut splinters from the inside. It was slow
work and he was very cold, his wet feet sending chills through him, but he
persevered, and the little heap of dry splinters grew to a respectable
size. Then he cut larger pieces, laying them on one side while he worked
with his flint and steel on the splinters.

Flint and steel are not easily handled even by the most skillful, and
Henry saw the spark leap up and die out many times before it finally took
hold of the end of the tiniest splinter and grew. He watched it as it ran
along the little piece of wood and ignited another and then another, the
beautiful little red and yellow flames leaping up half a foot in height.
Already he felt the grateful warmth and glow, but he would not let himself
indulge in premature joy. He fed it with larger and larger pieces until
the flames, a deeper and more beautiful red and yellow, rose at least two
feet, and big coals began to form. He left the door open a while in order
that the smoke might go out, but when the fire had become mostly coals he
closed it again, all except a crack of about six inches, which would serve
at once to let any stray smoke out, and to let plenty of fresh air in.

Now Henry, all his preparations made, no detail neglected, proceeded to
luxuriate. He spread the soaked blanket out on the bark floor, took off
the sodden moccasins and placed them at one angle of the fire, while he
sat with his bare feet in front. What a glorious warmth it was! It seemed
to enter at his toes and proceed upward through his body, seeking out
every little nook and cranny, to dry and warm it, and fill it full of new
glow and life.

He sat there a long time, his being radiating with physical comfort. The
moccasins dried on one side, and he turned the other. Finally they dried
all over and all through, and he put them on again. Then he hung the
blanket on the bark wall near the fire, and it, too, would be dry in
another hour or so. He foresaw a warm and dry place for the night, and
sleep. Now if one only had food! But he must do without that for the
present.

He rose and tested all his bones and muscles. No stiffness or soreness had
come from the rain and cold, and he was satisfied. He was fit for any
physical emergency. He looked out through the crevice. Night was coming,
and on the little island in the swamp it looked inexpressibly black and
gloomy. His stomach complained, but he shrugged his shoulders,
acknowledging primitive necessity, and resumed his seat by the fire. There
he sat until the blanket had dried, and deep night had fully come.

In the last hour or two Henry did not move. He remained before the fire,
crouched slightly forward, while the generous heat fed the flame of life
in him. A glowing bar, penetrating the crevice at the door, fell on the
earth outside, but it did not pass beyond the close group of circling
trees. The rain still fell with uncommon steadiness and persistence, but
at times hail was mingled with it. Henry could not remember in his
experience a more desolate night. It seemed that the whole world dwelt in
perpetual darkness, and that he was the only living being on it. Yet
within the four or five feet square of the hut it was warm and bright, and
he was not unhappy.

He would forget the pangs of hunger, and, wrapping himself in the dry
blanket, he lay down before the bed of coals, having first raked ashes
over them, and he slept one of the soundest sleeps of his life. All night
long, the dull cold rain fell, and with it, at intervals, came gusts of
hail that rattled like bird shot on the bark walls of the hut. Some of the
white pellets blew in at the door, and lay for a moment or two on the
floor, then melted in the glow of the fire, and were gone.

But neither wind, rain nor hail awoke Henry. He was as safe, for the time,
in the hut on the islet, as if he were in the fort at Pittsburgh or behind
the palisades at Wareville. Dawn came, the sky still heavy and dark with
clouds, and the rain still falling.

Henry, after his first sense of refreshment and pleasure, became conscious
of a fierce hunger that no amount of the will could now keep quiet. His
was a powerful system, needing much nourishment, and he must eat. That
hunger became so great that it was acute physical pain. He was assailed by
it at all points, and it could be repelled by only one thing, food. He
must go forth, taking all risks, and seek it.

He put on fresh wood, covering it with ashes in order that it might not
blaze too high, and left the islet. The stepping stones were slippery with
water, and his moccasins soon became soaked again, but he forgot the cold
and wet in that ferocious hunger, the attacks of which became more violent
every minute. He was hopeful that he might see a deer, or even a squirrel,
but the animals themselves were likely to keep under cover in such a rain.
He expected a hard hunt, and it would be attended also by much danger—these
woods must be full of Indians—but he thought little of the risk. His
hunger was taking complete possession of his mind. He was realizing now
that one might want a thing so much that it would drive away all other
thoughts.

Rifle in hand, ready for any quick shot, he searched hour after hour
through the woods and thickets. He was wet, bedraggled, and as fierce as a
famishing panther, but neither skill nor instinct guided him to anything.
The rabbit hid in his burrow, the squirrel remained in his hollow tree,
and the deer did not leave his covert.

Henry could not well calculate the passage of time, it seemed so fearfully
long, and there was no one to tell him, but he judged that it must be
about noon, and his temper was becoming that of the famished panther to
which he likened himself. He paused and looked around the circle of the
dripping woods. He had retained his idea of direction and he knew that he
could go straight back to the hut in the swamp. But he had no idea of
returning now. A power that neither he nor anyone else could resist was
pushing him on his search.

Searching the gloomy horizon again, he saw against the dark sky a thin and
darker line that he knew to be smoke. He inferred, also, with certainty,
that it came from an Indian camp, and, without hesitation, turned his
course toward it. Indian camp though it might be, and containing the
deadliest of foes, he was glad to know something lived beside himself in
this wilderness.

He approached with great caution, and found his surmise to be correct.
Lying full length in a wet thicket he saw a party of about twenty
warriors-Mohawks he took them to be-in an oak opening. They had erected
bark shelters, they had good fires, and they were cooking. He saw them
roasting the strips over the coals-bear meat, venison, squirrel, rabbit,
bird-and the odor, so pleasant at other times, assailed his nostrils. But
it was now only a taunt and a torment. It aroused every possible pang of
hunger, and every one of them stabbed like a knife.

The warriors, so secure in their forest isolation, kept no sentinels, and
they were enjoying themselves like men who had everything they wanted.
Henry could hear them laughing and talking, and he watched them as they
ate strip after strip of the delicate, tender meat with the wonderful
appetite that the Indian has after long fasting. A fierce, unreasoning
anger and jealousy laid hold of him. He was starving, and they rejoiced in
plenty only fifty yards away. He began to form plans for a piratical
incursion upon them. Half the body of a deer lay near the edge of the
opening, he would rush upon it, seize it, and dart away. It might be
possible to escape with such spoil.

Then he recalled his prudence. Such a thing was impossible. The whole band
of warriors would be upon him in an instant. The best thing that he could
do was to shut out the sight of so much luxury in which he could not
share, and he crept away among the bushes wondering what he could do to
drive away those terrible pains. His vigorous system was crying louder
than ever for the food that would sustain it. His eyes were burning a
little too brightly, and his face was touched with fever.

Henry stopped once to catch a last glimpse of the fires and the feasting
Indians under the bark shelters. He saw a warrior raise a bone, grasping
it in both hands, and bite deep into the tender flesh that clothed it. The
sight inflamed him into an anger almost uncontrollable. He clenched his
fist and shook it at the warrior, who little suspected the proximity of a
hatred so intense. Then he bent his head down and rushed away among the
wet bushes which in rebuke at his lack of caution raked him across the
face.

Henry walked despondently back toward the islet in the swamp. The aspect
of air and sky had not changed. The heavens still dripped icy water, and
there was no ray of cheerfulness anywhere. The game remained well hidden.

It was a long journey back, and as he felt that he was growing weak he
made no haste. He came to dense clumps of bushes, and plowing his way
through them, he saw a dark opening under some trees thrown down by an old
hurricane. Having some vague idea that it might be the lair of a wild
animal, he thrust the muzzle of his rifle into the darkness. It touched a
soft substance. There was a growl, and a black form shot out almost into
his face. Henry sprang aside, and in an instant all his powers and
faculties returned. He had stirred up a black bear, and before the animal,
frightened as much as he was enraged, could run far the boy, careless how
many Indians might hear, threw up his rifle and fired.

His aim was good. The bear, shot through the head, fell, and was dead.
Henry, transformed, ran up to him. Bear life had been given up to sustain
man's. Here was food for many days, and he rejoiced with a great joy. He
did not now envy those warriors back there.

The bear, although small, was very fat. Evidently he had fed well on
acorns and wild honey, and he would yield up steaks which, to one with
Henry's appetite, would be beyond compare. He calculated that it was more
than a mile to the swamp, and, after a few preliminaries, he flung the
body of the bear over his shoulder. Through some power of the mind over
the body his full strength had returned to him miraculously, and when he
reached the stepping stones he crossed from one to another lightly and
firmly, despite the weight that he carried.

He came to the little bark hut which he now considered his own. The night
had fallen again, but some coals still glowed under the ashes, and there
was plenty of dry wood. He did everything decently and in order. He took
the pelt from the bear, carved the body properly, and then, just as the
Indians had done, he broiled strips over the coals. He ate them one after
another, slowly, and tasting all the savor, and, intense as was the mere
physical pleasure, it was mingled with a deep thankfulness. Not only was
the life nourished anew in him, but he would now regain the strength to
seek his comrades.

When he had eaten enough he fastened the body of the bear, now in several
portions, on hooks high upon the walls, hooks which evidently had been
placed there by the former owner of the hut for this very purpose. Then,
sure that the savor of the food would draw other wild animals, he brought
one of the stepping stones and placed it on the inside of the door. The
door could not be pushed aside without arousing him, and, secure in the
knowledge, he went to sleep before the coals.

CHAPTER IV. THE RED CHIEFS

Henry awoke only once, and that was about half way between midnight and
morning, when his senses, never still entirely, even in sleep, warned him
that something was at the door. He rose cautiously upon his arm, saw a
dark muzzle at the crevice, and behind it a pair of yellow, gleaming eyes.
He knew at once that it was a panther, probably living in the swamp and
drawn by the food. It must be very hungry to dare thus the smell of man.
Henry's hand moved slowly to the end of a stick, the other end of which
was a glowing coal. Then he seized it and hurled it directly at the
inquisitive head.

The hot end of the stick struck squarely between the yellow eyes. There
was a yelp of pain, and the boy heard the rapid pad of the big cat's feet
as it fled into the swamp. Then he turned over on his side, and laughed in
genuine pleasure at what was to him a true forest joke. He knew the
panther would not come, at least not while he was in the hut, and he
calmly closed his eyes once more. The old Henry was himself again.

He awoke in the morning to find that the cold rain was still falling. It
seemed to him that it had prepared to rain forever, but he was resolved,
nevertheless, now that he had food and the strength that food brings, to
begin the search for his comrades. The islet in the swamp would serve as
his base-nothing could be better-and he would never cease until he found
them or discovered what had become of them.

A little spring of cold water flowed from the edge of the islet to lose
itself quickly in the swamp. Henry drank there after his breakfast, and
then felt as strong and active as ever. As he knew, the mind may triumph
over the body, but the mind cannot save the body without food. Then he
made his precious bear meat secure against the prowling panther or others
of his kind, tying it on hanging boughs too high for a jump and too
slender to support the weight of a large animal. This task finished
quickly, he left the swamp and returned toward the spot where lie had seen
the Mohawks.

The falling rain and the somber clouds helped Henry, in a way, as the
whole forest was enveloped in a sort of gloom, and he was less likely to
be seen. But when he had gone about half the distance he heard Indians
signaling to one another, and, burying himself as usual in the wet bushes,
he saw two small groups of warriors meet and talk. Presently they
separated, one party going toward the east and the other toward the west.
Henry thought they were out hunting, as the Indians usually took little
care of the morrow, eating all their food in a few days, no matter how
great the supply might be.

When he drew near the place he saw three more Indians, and these were
traveling directly south. He was quite sure now that his theory was
correct. They were sending out hunters in every direction, in order that
they might beat up the woods thoroughly for game, and his own position
anywhere except on the islet was becoming exceedingly precarious.
Nevertheless, using all his wonderful skill, he continued the hunt. He had
an abiding faith that his four comrades were yet alive, and he meant to
prove it.

In the afternoon the clouds moved away a little, and the rain decreased,
though it did not cease. The Indian signs multiplied, and Henry felt sure
that the forest within a radius of twenty miles of his islet contained
more than one camp. Some great gathering must be in progress and the
hunters were out to supply it with food. Four times he heard the sound of
shots, and thrice more he saw warriors passing through the forest. Once a
wounded deer darted past him, and, lying down in the bushes, he saw the
Indians following the fleeing animal. As the day grew older the trails
multiplied. Certainly a formidable gathering of bands was in progress,
and, feeling that he might at any time be caught in a net, he returned to
the islet, which had now become a veritable fort for him.

It was not quite dark when he arrived, and he found all as it had been
except the tracks of two panthers under the boughs to which he had
fastened the big pieces of bear meat. Henry felt a malicious satisfaction
at the disappointment of the panthers.

“Come again, and have the same bad luck,” he murmured.

At dusk the rain ceased entirely, and he prepared for a journey in the
night. He examined his powder carefully to see that no particle of it was
wet, counted the bullets in his pouch, and then examined the skies. There
was a little moon, not too much, enough to show him the way, but not
enough to disclose him to an enemy unless very near. Then he left the
islet and went swiftly through the forest, laying his course a third time
toward the Indian camp. He was sure now that all the hunters had returned,
and he did not expect the necessity of making any stops for the purpose of
hiding. His hopes were justified, and as he drew near the camp he became
aware that its population had increased greatly. It was proved by many
signs. New trails converged upon it, and some of them were very broad,
indicating that many warriors had passed. They had passed, too, in perfect
confidence, as there was no effort at concealment, and Henry surmised that
no white force of any size could be within many days' march of this place.
But the very security of the Indians helped his own design. They would not
dream that any one of the hated race was daring to come almost within the
light of their fires.

Henry had but one fear just now, and that was dogs. If the Indians had any
of their mongrel curs with them, they would quickly scent him out and give
the alarm with their barking. But he believed that the probabilities were
against it. This, so he thought then, was a war or hunting camp, and it
was likely that the Indians would leave the dogs at their permanent
villages. At any rate he would take the risk, and he drew slowly toward
the oak opening, where some Indians stood about. Beyond them, in another
dip of the valley, was a wider opening which he had not seen on his first
trip, and this contained not only bark shelters, but buildings that
indicated a permanent village. The second and larger opening was filled
with a great concourse of warriors.

Fortunately the foliage around the opening was very dense, many trees and
thickets everywhere. Henry crept to the very rim, where, lying in the
blackest of the shadows, and well hidden himself, he could yet see nearly
everything in the camp. The men were not eating now, although it was
obvious that the hunters had done well. The dressed bodies of deer and
bear hung in the bark shelters. Most of the Indians sat about the fires,
and it seemed to Henry that they had an air of expectancy. At least two
hundred were present, and all of them were in war paint, although there
were several styles of paint. There was a difference in appearance, too,
in the warriors, and Henry surmised that representatives of all the tribes
of the Iroquois were there, coming to the extreme western boundary or
fringe of their country.

While Henry watched them a half dozen who seemed by their bearing and
manner to be chiefs drew together at a point not far from him and talked
together earnestly. Now and then they looked toward the forest, and he was
quite sure that they were expecting somebody, a person of importance. He
became deeply interested. He was lying in a dense clump of hazel bushes,
flat upon his stomach, his face raised but little above the ground. He
would have been hidden from the keenest eye only ten feet away, but the
faces of the chiefs outlined against the blazing firelight were so clearly
visible to him that he could see every change of expression. They were
fine-looking men, all of middle age, tall, lean, their noses hooked,
features cut clean and strong, and their heads shaved, all except the
defiant scalp lock, into which the feather of an eagle was twisted. Their
bodies were draped in fine red or blue blankets, and they wore leggins and
moccasins of beautifully tanned deerskin.

They ceased talking presently, and Henry heard a distant wailing note from
the west. Some one in the camp replied with a cry in kind, and then a
silence fell upon them all. The chiefs stood erect, looking toward the
west. Henry knew that he whom they expected was at hand.

The cry was repeated, but much nearer, and a warrior leaped into the
opening, in the full blaze of the firelight. He was entirely naked save
for a breech cloth and moccasins, and he was a wild and savage figure. He
stood for a moment or two, then faced the chiefs, and, bowing before them,
spoke a few words in the Wyandot tongue-Henry knew already by his paint
that he was a Wyandot.

The chiefs inclined their heads gravely, and the herald, turning, leaped
back into the forest. In two or three minutes six men, including the
herald, emerged from the woods, and Henry moved a little when he saw the
first of the six, all of whom were Wyandots. It was Timmendiquas, head
chief of the Wyandots, and Henry had never seen him more splendid in
manner and bearing than he was as he thus met the representatives of the
famous Six Nations. Small though the Wyandot tribe might be, mighty was
its valor and fame, and White Lightning met the great Iroquois only as an
equal, in his heart a superior.

It was an extraordinary thing, but Henry, at this very moment, burrowing
in the earth that he might not lose his life at the hands of either, was
an ardent partisan of Timmendiquas. It was the young Wyandot chief whom he
wished to be first, to make the greatest impression, and he was pleased
when he heard the low hum of admiration go round the circle of two hundred
savage warriors. It was seldom, indeed, perhaps never, that the Iroquois
had looked upon such a man as Timmendiquas.

Timmendiquas and his companions advanced slowly toward the chiefs, and the
Wyandot overtopped all the Iroquois. Henry could tell by the manner of the
chiefs that the reputation of the famous White Lightning had preceded him,
and that they had already found fact equal to report.

The chiefs, Timmendiquas among them, sat down on logs before the fire, and
all the warriors withdrew to a respectful distance, where they stood and
watched in silence. The oldest chief took his long pipe, beautifully
carved and shaped like a trumpet, and filled it with tobacco which he
lighted with a coal from the fire. Then he took two or three whiffs and
passed the pipe to Timmendiquas, who did the same. Every chief smoked the
pipe, and then they sat still, waiting in silence.

Henry was so much absorbed in this scene, which was at once a spectacle
and a drama, that he almost forgot where he was, and that he was an enemy.
He wondered now at their silence. If this was a council surely they would
discuss whatever question had brought them there! But he was soon
enlightened. That low far cry came again, but from the east. It was
answered, as before, from the camp, and in three or four minutes a warrior
sprang from the forest into the opening. Like the first, he was naked
except for the breech cloth and moccasins. The chiefs rose at his coming,
received his salute gravely, and returned it as gravely. Then he returned
to the forest, and all waited in the splendid calm of the Indian.

Curiosity pricked Henry like a nettle. Who was coming now? It must be some
man of great importance, or they would not wait so silently. There was the
same air of expectancy that had preceded the arrival of Timmendiquas. All
the warriors looked toward the eastern wall of the forest, and Henry
looked the same way. Presently the black foliage parted, and a man stepped
forth, followed at a little distance by seven or eight others. The
stranger, although tall, was not equal in height to Timmendiquas, but he,
too, had a lofty and splendid presence, and it was evident to anyone
versed at all in forest lore that here was a great chief. He was lean but
sinewy, and he moved with great ease and grace. He reminded Henry of a
powerful panther. He was dressed, after the manner of famous chiefs, with
the utmost care. His short military coat of fine blue cloth bore a silver
epaulet on either shoulder. His head was not bare, disclosing the scalp
lock, like those of the other Indians; it was covered instead with a small
hat of felt, round and laced. Hanging carelessly over one shoulder was a
blanket of blue cloth with a red border. At his side, from a belt of blue
leather swung a silver-mounted small sword. His leggins were of superfine
blue cloth and his moccasins of deerskin. Both were trimmed with small
beads of many colors.

The new chief advanced into the opening amid the dead silence that still
held all, and Timmendiquas stepped forward to meet him. These two held the
gaze of everyone, and what they and they alone did had become of
surpassing interest. Each was haughty, fully aware of his own dignity and
importance, but they met half way, looked intently for a moment or two
into the eyes of each other, and then saluted gravely.

All at once Henry knew the stranger. He had never seen him before, but his
impressive reception, and the mixture of military and savage attire
revealed him. This could be none other than the great Mohawk war chief,
Thayendanegea, the Brant of the white men, terrible name on the border.
Henry gazed at him eagerly from his covert, etching his features forever
on his memory. His face, lean and strong, was molded much like that of
Timmendiquas, and like the Wyandot he was young, under thirty.

Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea-it was truly he-returned to the fire, and
once again the trumpet-shaped pipe was smoked by all. The two young chiefs
received the seats of favor, and others sat about them. But they were not
the only great chiefs present, though all yielded first place to them
because of their character and exploits.

Henry was not mistaken in his guess that this was an important council,
although its extent exceeded even his surmise. Delegates and head chiefs
of all the Six Nations were present to confer with the warlike Wyandots of
the west who had come so far east to meet them. Thayendanegea was the
great war chief of the Mohawks, but not their titular chief. The latter
was an older man, Te-kie-ho-ke (Two Voices), who sat beside the younger.
The other chiefs were the Onondaga, Tahtoo-ta-hoo (The Entangled); the
Oneida, O-tat-sheh-te (Bearing a Quiver); the Cayuga, Te-ka-ha-hoonk (He
Who Looks Both Ways); the Seneca, Kan-ya-tai-jo (Beautiful Lake); and the
Tuscarora, Ta-ha-en-te-yahwak-hon (Encircling and Holding Up a Tree). The
names were hereditary, and because in a dim past they had formed the great
confederacy, the Onondagas were first in the council, and were also the
high priests and titular head of the Six Nations. But the Mohawks were
first on-the war path.

All the Six Nations were divided into clans, and every clan, camping in
its proper place, was represented at this meeting.

Henry had heard much at Pittsburgh of the Six Nations, their wonderful
league, and their wonderful history. He knew that according to the legend
the league had been formed by Hiawatha, an Onondaga. He was opposed in
this plan by Tododaho, then head chief of the Onondagas, but he went to
the Mohawks and gained the support of their great chief, Dekanawidah. With
his aid the league was formed, and the solemn agreement, never broken, was
made at the Onondaga Lake. Now they were a perfect little state, with
fifty chiefs, or, including the head chiefs, fifty-six.

Some of these details Henry was to learn later. He was also to learn many
of the words that the chiefs said through a source of which he little
dreamed at the present. Yet he divined much of it from the meeting of the
fiery Wyandots with the highly developed and warlike power of the Six
Nations.

Thayendanegea was talking now, and Timmendiquas, silent and grave, was
listening. The Mohawk approached his subject indirectly through the trope,
allegory, and simile that the Indian loved. He talked of the unseen
deities that ruled the life of the Iroquois through mystic dreams. He
spoke of the trees, the rocks, and the animals, all of which to the
Iroquois had souls. He called on the name of the Great Spirit, which was
Aieroski before it became Manitou, the Great Spirit who, in the Iroquois
belief, had only the size of a dwarf because his soul was so mighty that
he did not need body.

“This land is ours, the land of your people and mine, oh, chief of the
brave Wyandots,” he said to Timmendiquas. “Once there was no land, only
the waters, but Aieroski raised the land of Konspioni above the foam. Then
he sowed five handfuls of red seed in it, and from those handfuls grew the
Five Nations. Later grew up the Tuscaroras, who have joined us and other
tribes of our race, like yours, great chief of the brave Wyandots.”

Timmendiquas still said nothing. He did not allow an eyelid to flicker at
this assumption of superiority for the Six Nations over all other tribes.
A great warrior he was, a great politician also, and he wished to unite
the Iroquois in a firm league with the tribes of the Ohio valley. The
coals from the great fire glowed and threw out an intense heat.
Thayendanegea unbuttoned his military coat and threw it back, revealing a
bare bronze chest, upon which was painted the device of the Mohawks, a
flint and steel. The chests of the Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca head
chiefs were also bared to the glow. The device on the chest of the
Onondaga was a cabin on top of a hill, the Caytiga's was a great pipe, and
the figure of a mountain adorned the Seneca bronze.

“We have had the messages that you have sent to us, Timmendiquas,” said
Thayendanegea, “and they are good in the eyes of our people, the
Rotinonsionni (the Mohawks). They please, too, the ancient tribe, the
Kannoseone (the Onondagas), the valiant Hotinonsionni (the Senecas), and
all our brethren of the Six Nations. All the land from the salt water to
the setting sun was given to the red men by Aieroski, but if we do not
defend it we cannot keep it.”

“It is so,” said Timmendiquas, speaking for the first time. “We have
fought them on the Ohio and in Kaintuck-ee, where they come with their
rifles and axes. The whole might of the Wyandots, the Shawnees, the
Miamis, the Illinois, the Delawares, and the Ottawas has gone forth
against them. We have slain many of them, but we have failed to drive them
back. Now we have come to ask the Six Nations to press down upon them in
the east with all your power, while we do the same in the west. Surely
then your Aieroski and our Manitou, who are the same, will not refuse us
success.”

The eyes of Thayendanegea glistened.

“You speak well, Timmendiquas,” he said. “All the red men must unite to
fight for the land of Konspioni which Aieroski raised above the sea, and
we be two, you and I, Timmendiquas, fit to lead them to battle.”

“It is so,” said Timmendiquas gravely.

CHAPTER V. THE IROQUOIS TOWN

Henry lay fully an hour in the bushes. He had forgotten about the dogs
that he dreaded, but evidently he was right in his surmise that the camp
contained none. Nothing disturbed him while he stared at what was passing
by the firelight. There could be no doubt that the meeting of Timmendiquas
and Thayendanegea portended great things, but he would not be stirred from
his task of rescuing his comrades or discovering their fate.

They two, great chiefs, sat long in close converse. Others-older men,
chiefs, also-came at times and talked with them. But these two, proud,
dominating, both singularly handsome men of the Indian type, were always
there. Henry was almost ready to steal away when he saw a new figure
approaching the two chiefs. The walk and bearing of the stranger were
familiar, and HENRY knew him even before his face was lighted tip by the
fire. It was Braxton Wyatt, the renegade, who had escaped the great
battles on both the Ohio and the Mississippi, and who was here with the
Iroquois, ready to do to his own race all the evil that he could. Henry
felt a shudder of repulsion, deeper than any Indian could inspire in him.
They fought for their own land and their own people, but Braxton Wyatt had
violated everything that an honest man should hold sacred.

Henry, on the whole, was not surprised to see him. Such a chance was sure
to draw Braxton Wyatt. Moreover, the war, so far as it pertained to the
border, seemed to be sweeping toward the northeast, and it bore many
stormy petrels upon its crest.

He watched Wyatt as he walked toward one of the fires. There the renegade
sat down and talked with the warriors, apparently on the best of terms. He
was presently joined by two more renegades, whom Henry recognized as
Blackstaffe and Quarles. Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea rose after a
while, and walked toward the center of the camp, where several of the bark
shelters had been enclosed entirely. Henry judged that one had been set
apart for each, but they were lost from his view when they passed within
the circling ring of warriors.

Henry believed that the Iroquois and Wyandots would form a fortified camp
here, a place from which they would make sudden and terrible forays upon
the settlements. He based his opinion upon the good location and the great
number of saplings that had been cut down already. They would build strong
lodges and then a palisade around them with the saplings. He was speedily
confirmed in this opinion when he saw warriors come to the forest with
hatchets and begin to cut down more saplings. He knew then that it was
time to go, as a wood chopper might blunder upon him at any time.

He slipped from his covert and was quickly gone in the forest. His limbs
were somewhat stiff from lying so long in one position, but that soon wore
away, and he was comparatively fresh when he came once more to the islet
in the swamp. A good moon was now shining, tipping the forest with a fine
silvery gray, and Henry purveyed with the greatest satisfaction the simple
little shelter that he had found so opportunely. It was a good house, too,
good to such a son of the deepest forest as was Henry. It was made of
nothing but bark and poles, but it had kept out all that long, penetrating
rain of the last three or four days, and when he lifted the big stone
aside and opened the door it seemed as snug a place as he could have
wished.

He left the door open a little, lighted a small fire on the flat stones,
having no fear that it would be seen through the dense curtain that shut
him in, and broiled big bear steaks on the coals. When he had eaten and
the fire had died he went out and sat beside the hut. He was well
satisfied with the day's work, and he wished now to think with all the
concentration that one must put upon a great task if he expects to achieve
it. He intended to invade the Indian camp, and he knew full well that it
was the most perilous enterprise that he had ever attempted. Yet scouts
and hunters had done such things and had escaped with their lives. He must
not shrink from the path that others had trodden.

He made up his mind firmly, and partly thought out his plan of operations.
Then he rested, and so sanguine was his temperament that he began to
regard the deed itself as almost achieved. Decision is always soothing
after doubt, and he fell into a pleasant dreamy state. A gentle wind was
blowing, the forest was dry and the leaves rustled with the low note that
is like the softest chord of a violin. It became penetrating, thrillingly
sweet, and hark! it spoke to him in a voice that he knew. It was the same
voice that he had heard on the Ohio, mystic, but telling him to be of
heart and courage. He would triumph over hardships and dangers, and he
would see his friends again.

Henry started up from his vision. The song was gone, and he heard only the
wind softly moving the leaves. It had been vague and shadowy as gossamer,
light as the substance of a dream, but it was real to him, nevertheless,
and the deep glow of certain triumph permeated his being, body and mind.
It was not strange that he had in his nature something of the Indian
mysticism that personified the winds and the trees and everything about
him. The Manitou of the red man and the ancient Aieroski of the Iroquois
were the same as his own God. He could not doubt that he had a message.
Down on the Ohio he had had the same message more than once, and it had
always come true.

He heard a slight rustling among the bushes, and, sitting perfectly still,
he saw a black bear emerge into the open. It had gained the islet in some
manner, probably floundering through the black mire, and the thought
occurred to him that it was the mate of the one he had slain, drawn
perhaps by instinct on the trail of a lost comrade. He could have shot the
bear as he sat-and he would need fresh supplies of food soon-but he did
not have the heart to do it.

The bear sniffed a little at the wind, which was blowing the human odor
away from him, and sat back on his haunches. Henry did not believe that
the animal had seen him or was yet aware of his presence, although he
might suspect. There was something humorous and also pathetic in the
visitor, who cocked his head on one side and looked about him. He made a
distinct appeal to Henry, who sat absolutely still, so still that the
little bear could not be sure at first that he was a human being. A minute
passed, and the red eye of the bear rested upon the boy. Henry felt
pleasant and sociable, but he knew that he could retain friendly relations
only by remaining quiet.

“If I have eaten your comrade, my friend,” he said to himself, “it is only
because of hard necessity.” The bear, little, comic, and yet with that
touch of pathos about him, cocked his head a little further over on one
side, and as a silver shaft of moonlight fell upon him Henry could see one
red eye gleaming. It was a singular fact, but the boy, alone in the
wilderness, and the loser of his comrades, felt for the moment a sense of
comradeship with the bear, which was also alone, and doubtless the loser
of a comrade, also. He uttered a soft growling sound like the satisfied
purr of a bear eating its food.

The comical bear rose a little higher on his hind paws, and looked in
astonishment at the motionless figure that uttered sounds so familiar. Yet
the figure was not familiar. He had never seen a human being before, and
the shape and outline were very strange to him. It might be some new kind
of animal, and he was disposed to be inquiring, because there was nothing
in these forests which the black bear was afraid of until man came.

He advanced a step or two and growled gently. Then he reared up again on
his hind paws, and cocked his held to one side in his amusing manner.
Henry, still motionless, smiled at him. Here, for an instant at least, was
a cheery visitor and companionship. He at least would not break the spell.

“You look almost as if you could talk, old fellow,” he said to himself,
“and if I knew your language I'd ask you a lot of questions.”

The bear, too, was motionless now, torn by doubt and curiosity. It
certainly was a singular figure that sat there, fifteen or twenty yards
before him, and he had the most intense curiosity to solve the mystery of
this creature. But caution held him back.

There was a sudden flaw in the light breeze. It shifted about and brought
the dreadful man odor to the nostrils of the honest black bear. It was
something entirely new to him, but it contained the quality of fear. That
still strange figure was his deadliest foe. Dropping down upon his four
paws, he fled among the trees, and then scrambled somehow through the
swamp to the mainland.

Henry sighed. Despite his own friendly feeling, the bear, warned by
instinct, was afraid of him, and, as he was bound to acknowledge to
himself, the bear's instinct was doubtless right. He rose, went into the
hut, and slept heavily through the night. In the morning he left the islet
once more to scout in the direction of the Indian camp, but he found it a
most dangerous task. The woods were full of warriors hunting. As he had
judged, the game was abundant, and he heard rifles cracking in several
directions. He loitered, therefore, in the thickest of the thickets,
willing to wait until night came for his enterprise. It was advisable,
moreover, to wait, because he did not see yet just how he was going to
succeed. He spent nearly the whole day shifting here and there through the
forest, but late in the afternoon, as the Indians yet seemed so numerous
in the woods, he concluded to go back toward the islet.

He was about two miles from the swamp when he heard a cry, sharp but
distant. It was that of the savages, and Henry instinctively divined the
cause. A party of the warriors had come somehow upon his trail, and they
would surely follow it. It was a mischance that he had not expected. He
waited a minute or two, and then heard the cry again, but nearer. He knew
that it would come no more, but it confirmed him in his first opinion.

Henry had little fear of being caught, as the islet was so securely
hidden, but he did not wish to take even a remote chance of its discovery.
Hence he ran to the eastward of it, intending as the darkness came, hiding
his trail, to double back and regain the hut.

He proceeded at a long, easy gait, his mind not troubled by the pursuit.
It was to him merely an incident that should be ended as soon as possible,
annoying perhaps, but easily cured. So he swung lightly along, stopping at
intervals among the bushes to see if any of the warriors had drawn near,
but he detected nothing. Now and then he looked up to the sky, willing
that night should end this matter quickly and peacefully.

His wish seemed near fulfillment. An uncommonly brilliant sun was setting.
The whole west was a sea of red and yellow fire, but in the east the
forest was already sinking into the dark. He turned now, and went back
toward the west on a line parallel with the pursuit, but much closer to
the swamp. The dusk thickened rapidly. The sun dropped over the curve of
the world, and the vast complex maze of trunks and boughs melted into a
solid black wall. The incident of the pursuit was over and with it its
petty annoyances. He directed his course boldly now for the stepping
stones, and traveled fast. Soon the first of them would be less than a
hundred yards away.

But the incident was not over. Wary and skillful though the young forest
runner might be, he had made one miscalculation, and it led to great
consequences. As he skirted the edge of the swamp in the darkness, now
fully come, a dusky figure suddenly appeared. It was a stray warrior from
some small band, wandering about at will. The meeting was probably as
little expected by him as it was by Henry, and they were so close together
when they saw each other that neither had time to raise his rifle. The
warrior, a tall, powerful man, dropping his gun and snatching out a knife,
sprang at once upon his enemy.

Henry was borne back by the weight and impact, but, making an immense
effort, he recovered himself and, seizing the wrist of the Indian's knife
hand, exerted all his great strength. The warrior wished to change the
weapon from his right band, but he dared not let go with the other lest he
be thrown down at once, and with great violence. His first rush having
failed, he was now at a disadvantage, as the Indian is not generally a
wrestler. Henry pushed him back, and his hand closed tighter and tighter
around the red wrist. He wished to tear the knife from it, but he, too,
was afraid to let go with the other hand, and so the two remained locked
fast. Neither uttered a cry after the first contact, and the only sounds
in the dark were their hard breathing, which turned to a gasp now and
then, and the shuffle of their feet over the earth.

Henry felt that it must end soon. One or the other must give way. Their
sinews were already strained to the cracking point, and making a supreme
effort he bore all his weight upon the warrior, who, unable to sustain
himself, went down with the youth upon him. The Indian uttered a groan,
and Henry, leaping instantly to his feet, looked down upon his fallen
antagonist, who did not stir. He knew the cause. As they fell the point of
the knife bad been turned upward, and it had entered the Indian's heart.

Although he had been in peril at his hands, Henry looked at the slain man
in a sort of pity. He had not wished to take anyone's life, and, in
reality, he had not been the direct cause of it. But it was a stern time
and the feeling soon passed. The Wyandot, for such he was by his paint,
would never have felt a particle of remorse had the victory been his.

The moon was now coming out, and Henry looked down thoughtfully at the
still face. Then the idea came to him, in fact leaped up in his brain,
with such an impulse that it carried conviction. He would take this
warrior's place and go to the Indian camp. So eager was he, and so full of
his plan, that he did not feel any repulsion as he opened the warrior's
deerskin shirt and took his totem from a place near his heart. It was a
little deerskin bag containing a bunch of red feathers. This was his
charm, his magic spell, his bringer of good luck, which had failed him so
woefully this time. Henry, not without a touch of the forest belief, put
it inside his own hunting shirt, wishing, although he laughed at himself,
that if the red man's medicine had any potency it should be on his own
side.

Then he found also the little bag in which the Indian carried his war
paint and the feather brush with which he put it on. The next hour
witnessed a singular transformation. A white youth was turned into a red
warrior. He cut his own hair closely, all except a tuft in the center,
with his sharp hunting knife. The tuft and the close crop he stained black
with the Indian's paint. It was a poor black, but he hoped that it would
pass in the night. He drew the tuft into a scalplock, and intertwined it
with a feather from the Indian's own tuft. Then he stained his face, neck,
hands, and arms with the red paint, and stood forth a powerful young
warrior of a western nation.

He hid the Indian's weapons and his own raccoon-skin cap in the brush.
Then he took the body of the fallen warrior to the edge of the swamp and
dropped it in. His object was not alone concealment, but burial as well.
He still felt sorry for the unfortunate Wyandot, and he watched him until
he sank completely from sight in the mire. Then he turned away and
traveled a straight course toward the great Indian camp.

He stopped once on the way at a clear pool irradiated by the bright
moonlight, and looked attentively at his reflection. By night, at least,
it was certainly that of an Indian, and, summoning all his confidence, he
continued upon his chosen and desperate task.

Henry knew that the chances were against him, even with his disguise, but
he was bound to enter the Indian camp, and he was prepared to incur all
risks and to endure all penalties. He even felt a certain lightness of
heart as he hurried on his way, and at length saw through the forest the
flare of light from the Indian camp.

He approached cautiously at first in order that he might take a good look
into the camp, and he was surprised at what he saw. In a single day the
village had been enlarged much more. It seemed to him that it contained at
least twice as many warriors. Women and children, too, had come, and he
heard a stray dog barking here and there. Many more fires than usual were
burning, and there was a great murmur of voices.

Henry was much taken aback at first. It seemed that he was about to plunge
into the midst of the whole Iroquois nation, and at a time, too, when
something of extreme importance was going on, but a little reflection
showed that he was fortunate. Amid so many people, and so much ferment it
was not at all likely that he would be noticed closely. It was his
intention, if the necessity came, to pass himself off as a warrior of the
Shawnee tribe who had wandered far eastward, but he meant to avoid
sedulously the eye of Timmendiquas, who might, through his size and
stature, divine his identity.

As Henry lingered at the edge of the camp, in indecision whether to wait a
little or plunge boldly into the light of the fires, he became aware that
all sounds in the village-for such it was instead of a camp-had ceased
suddenly, except the light tread of feet and the sound of many people
talking low. He saw through the bushes that all the Iroquois, and with
them the detachment of Wyandots under White Lightning, were going toward a
large structure in the center, which he surmised to be the Council House.
He knew from his experience with the Indians farther west that the
Iroquois built such structures.

He could no longer doubt that some ceremony of the greatest importance was
about to begin, and, dismissing indecision, he left the bushes and entered
the village, going with the crowd toward the great pole building, which
was, indeed, the Council House.

But little attention was paid to Henry. He would have drawn none at all,
had it not been for his height, and when a warrior or two glanced at him
he uttered some words in Shawnee, saying that he had wandered far, and was
glad to come to the hospitable Iroquois. One who could speak a little
Shawnee bade him welcome, and they went on, satisfied, their minds more
intent upon the ceremony than upon a visitor.

The Council House, built of light poles and covered with poles and thatch,
was at least sixty feet long and about thirty feet wide, with a large door
on the eastern side, and one or two smaller ones on the other sides. As
Henry arrived, the great chiefs and sub-chiefs of the Iroquois were
entering the building, and about it were grouped many warriors and women,
and even children. But all preserved a decorous solemnity, and, knowing
the customs of the forest people so well, he was sure that the ceremony,
whatever it might be, must be of a highly sacred nature. He himself drew
to one side, keeping as much as possible in the shadow, but he was using
to its utmost power every faculty of observation that Nature had given
him.

Many of the fires were still burning, but the moon had come out with great
brightness, throwing a silver light over the whole village, and investing
with attributes that savored of the mystic and impressive this ceremony,
held by a savage but great race here in the depths of the primeval forest.
Henry was about to witness a Condoling Council, which was at once a
mourning for chiefs who had fallen in battle farther east with his own
people and the election and welcome of their successors.

The chiefs presently came forth from the Council House or, as it was more
generally called, the Long House, and, despite the greatness of
Thayendanegea, those of the Onondaga tribe, in virtue of their ancient and
undisputed place as the political leaders and high priests of the Six
Nations, led the way. Among the stately Onondaga chiefs were: Atotarho
(The Entangled), Skanawati (Beyond the River), Tehatkahtons (Looking Both
Ways), Tehayatkwarayen (Red Wings), and Hahiron (The Scattered). They were
men of stature and fine countenance, proud of the titular primacy that
belonged to them because it was the Onondaga, Hiawatha, who had formed the
great confederacy more than four hundred years before our day, or just
about the time Columbus was landing on the shores of the New World.

Next to the Onondagas came the fierce and warlike Mohawks, who lived
nearest to Albany, who were called Keepers of the Eastern Gate, and who
were fully worthy of their trust. They were content that the Onondagas
should lead in council, so long as they were first in battle, and there
was no jealousy between them. Among their chiefs were Koswensiroutha
(Broad Shoulders) and Satekariwate (Two Things Equal).

Third in rank were the Senecas, and among their chiefs were Kanokarih (The
Threatened) and Kanyadariyo (Beautiful Lake).

These three, the Onondagas, Mohawks, and Senecas, were esteemed the three
senior nations. After them, in order of precedence, came the chiefs of the
three junior nations, the Oneidas, Cayugas, and Tuscaroras. All of the
great chiefs had assistant chiefs, usually relatives, who, in case of
death, often succeeded to their places. But these assistants now remained
in the crowd with other minor chiefs and the mass of the warriors. A
little apart stood Timmendiquas and his Wyandots. He, too, was absorbed in
the ceremony so sacred to him, an Indian, and he did not notice the tall
figure of the strange Shawnee lingering in the deepest of the shadows.

The head chiefs, walking solemnly and never speaking, marched across the
clearing, and then through the woods to a glen, where two young warriors
had kindled a little fire of sticks as a signal of welcome. The chiefs
gathered around the fire and spoke together in low tones. This was
Deyuhnyon Kwarakda, which means “The Reception at the Edge of the Wood.”

Henry and some others followed, as it was not forbidden to see, and his
interest increased. He shared the spiritual feeling which was impressed
upon the red faces about him. The bright moonlight, too, added to the
effect, giving it the tinge of an old Druidical ceremony.

The chiefs relapsed into silence and sat thus about ten minutes. Then rose
the sound of a chant, distant and measured, and a procession of young and
inferior chiefs, led by Oneidas, appeared, slowly approaching the fire.
Behind them were warriors, and behind the warriors were many women and
children. All the women were in their brightest attire, gay with feather
headdresses and red, blue, or green blankets from the British posts.

The procession stopped at a distance of about a dozen yards from the
chiefs about the council fire, and the Oneida, Kathlahon, formed the men
in a line facing the head chiefs, with the women and children grouped in
an irregular mass behind them. The singing meanwhile had stopped. The two
groups stood facing each other, attentive and listening.

Then Hahiron, the oldest of the Onondagas, walked back and forth in the
space between the two groups, chanting a welcome. Like all Indian songs it
was monotonous. Every line he uttered with emphasis and a rising
inflection, the phrase “Haih-haih” which may be translated “Hail to thee!”
or better, “All hail!” Nevertheless, under the moonlight in the wilderness
and with rapt faces about him, it was deeply impressive. Henry found it
so.

Hahiron finished his round and went back to his place by the fire.
Atotarho, head chief of the Onondagas, holding in his hands beautifully
beaded strings of Iroquois wampum, came forward and made a speech of
condolence, to which Kathlahon responded. Then the head chiefs and the
minor chiefs smoked pipes together, after which the head chiefs, followed
by the minor chiefs, and these in turn by the crowd, led the way back to
the village.

Many hundreds of persons were in this procession, which was still very
grave and solemn, every one in it impressed by the sacred nature of this
ancient rite. The chief entered the great door of the Long House, and all
who could find places not reserved followed. Henry went in with the
others, and sat in a corner, making himself as small as possible. Many
women, the place of whom was high among the Iroquois, were also in the
Long House.

The head chiefs sat on raised seats at the north end of the great room. In
front of them, on lower seats, were the minor chiefs of the three older
nations on the left, and of the three younger nations on the right. In
front of these, but sitting on the bark floor, was a group of warriors. At
the east end, on both high and low seats, were warriors, and facing them
on the western side were women, also on both high and low seats. The
southern side facing the chiefs was divided into sections, each with high
and low seats. The one on the left was occupied by men, and the one on the
right by women. Two small fires burned in the center of the Long House
about fifteen feet apart.

It was the most singular and one of the most impressive scenes that Henry
had ever beheld. When all had found their seats there was a deep silence.
Henry could hear the slight crackling made by the two fires as they
burned, and the light fell faintly across the multitude of dark, eager
faces. Not less than five hundred people were in the Long House, and here
was the red man at his best, the first of the wild, not the second or
third of the civilized, a drop of whose blood in his veins brings to the
white man now a sense of pride, and not of shame, as it does when that
blood belongs to some other races.

The effect upon Henry was singular. He almost forgot that he was a foe
among them on a mission. For the moment he shared in their feelings, and
he waited with eagerness for whatever might come.

Thayendanegea, the Mohawk, stood up in his place among the great chiefs.
The role he was about to assume belonged to Atotarho, the Onondaga, but
the old Onondaga assigned it for the occasion to Thayendanegea, and there
was no objection. Thayendanegea was an educated man, he had been in
England, he was a member of a Christian church, and he had translated a
part of the Bible from English into his own tongue, but now he was all a
Mohawk, a son of the forest.

He spoke to the listening crowd of the glories of the Six Nations, how
Hah-gweh-di-yu (The Spirit of Good) had inspired Hiawatha to form the
Great Confederacy of the Five Nations, afterwards the Six; how they had
held their hunting grounds for nearly two centuries against both English
and French; and how they would hold them against the Americans. He stopped
at moments, and deep murmurs of approval went through the Long House. The
eyes of both men and women flashed as the orator spoke of their glory and
greatness. Timmendiquas, in a place of honor, nodded approval. If he could
he would form such another league in the west.

The air in the Long House, breathed by so many, became heated. It seemed
to have in it a touch of fire. The orator's words burned. Swift and deep
impressions were left upon the excited brain. The tall figure of the
Mohawk towered, gigantic, in the half light, and the spell that he threw
over all was complete.

He spoke about half an hour, but when he stopped he did not sit down.
Henry knew by the deep breath that ran through the Long House that
something more was coming from Thayendanegea. Suddenly the red chief began
to sing in a deep, vibrant voice, and this was the song that he sung:

  This was the roll of you,
  All hail! All hail!  All hail!

  You that joined in the work,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  You that finished the task,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  The Great League,
  All hail! All hail!  All hail!

There was the same incessant repetition of “Haih haih!” that Henry had
noticed in the chant at the edge of the woods, but it seemed to give a
cumulative effect, like the roll of thunder, and at every slight pause
that deep breath of approval ran through the crowd in the Long House. The
effect of the song was indescribable. Fire ran in the veins of all, men,
women, and children. The great pulses in their throats leaped up. They
were the mighty nation, the ever-victorious, the League of the
Ho-de-no-sau-nee, that had held at bay both the French and the English
since first a white man was seen in the land, and that would keep back the
Americans now.

Henry glanced at Timmendiquas. The nostrils of the great White Lightning
were twitching. The song reached to the very roots of his being, and
aroused all his powers. Like Thayendanegea, he was a statesman, and he saw
that the Americans were far more formidable to his race than English or
French had ever been. The Americans were upon the ground, and incessantly
pressed upon the red man, eye to eye. Only powerful leagues like those of
the Iroquois could withstand them.

Thayendanegea sat down, and then there was another silence, a period
lasting about two minutes. These silences seemed to be a necessary part of
all Iroquois rites. When it closed two young warriors stretched an elm
bark rope across the room from east to west and near the ceiling, but
between the high chiefs and the minor chiefs. Then they hung dressed skins
all along it, until the two grades of chiefs were hidden from the view of
each other. This was the sign of mourning, and was followed by a silence.
The fires in the Long House had died down somewhat, and little was to be
seen but the eyes and general outline of the people. Then a slender man of
middle years, the best singer in all the Iroquois nation, arose and sang:

  To the great chiefs bring we greeting,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  To the dead chiefs, kindred greeting,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  To the strong men 'round him greeting,
  All hail! All hail!  All hail!

  To the mourning women greeting,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  There our grandsires' words repeating,
  All hail! All hail!  All hail!

  Graciously, Oh, grandsires, hear,
  All hail! All hail!  All hail!

The singing voice was sweet, penetrating, and thrilling, and the song was
sad. At the pauses deep murmurs of sorrow ran through the crowd in the
Long House. Grief for the dead held them all. When he finished,
Satekariwate, the Mohawk, holding in his hands three belts of wampum,
uttered a long historical chant telling of their glorious deeds, to which
they listened patiently. The chant over, he handed the belts to an
attendant, who took them to Thayendanegea, who held them for a few moments
and looked at them gravely.

One of the wampum belts was black, the sign of mourning; another was
purple, the sign of war; and the third was white, the sign of peace. They
were beautiful pieces of workmanship, very old.

When Hiawatha left the Onondagas and fled to the Mohawks he crossed a lake
supposed to be the Oneida. While paddling along he noticed that man tiny
black, purple, and white shells clung to his paddle. Reaching the shore he
found such shells in long rows upon the beach, and it occurred to him to
use them for the depiction of thought according to color. He strung them
on threads of elm bark, and afterward, when the great league was formed,
the shells were made to represent five clasped hands. For four hundred
years the wampum belts have been sacred among the Iroquois.

Now Thayendanegea gave the wampum belts back to the attendant, who
returned them to Satekariwate, the Mohawk. There was a silence once more,
and then the chosen singer began the Consoling Song again, but now he did
not sing it alone. Two hundred male voices joined him, and the time became
faster. Its tone changed from mourning and sorrow to exultation and
menace. Everyone thought of war, the tomahawk, and victory. The song sung
as it was now became a genuine battle song, rousing and thrilling. The
Long House trembled with the mighty chorus, and its volume poured forth
into the encircling dark woods.

All the time the song was going on, Satekariwate, the Mohawk, stood
holding the belts in his hand, but when it was over he gave them to an
attendant, who carried them to another head chief. Thayendanegea now went
to the center of the room and, standing between the two fires, asked who
were the candidates for the places of the dead chiefs.

The dead chiefs were three, and three tall men, already chosen among their
own tribes, came forward to succeed them. Then a fourth came, and Henry
was startled. It was Timmendiquas, who, as the bravest chief of the brave
Wyandots, was about to become, as a signal tribute, and as a great sign of
friendship, an adopted son and honorary chief of the Mohawks, Keepers of
the Western Gate, and most warlike of all the Iroquois tribes.

As Timmendiquas stood before Thayendanegea, a murmur of approval deeper
than any that had gone before ran through all the crowd in the Long House,
and it was deepest on the women's benches, where sat many matrons of the
Iroquois, some of whom were chiefs-a woman could be a chief among the
Iroquois.

The candidates were adjudged acceptable by the other chiefs, and
Thayendanegea addressed them on their duties, while they listened in grave
silence. With his address the sacred part of the rite was concluded.
Nothing remained now but the great banquet outside—although that was
much—and they poured forth to it joyously, Thayendanegea, the
Mohawk, and Timmendiquas, the Wyandot, walking side by side, the finest
two red chiefs on all the American continent.

CHAPTER VI. THE EVIL SPIRIT'S WORK

Henry slipped forth with the crowd from the Long House, stooping somewhat
and shrinking into the smallest possible dimensions. But there was little
danger now that any one would notice him, as long as he behaved with
prudence, because all grief and solemnity were thrown aside, and a
thousand red souls intended to rejoice. A vast banquet was arranged. Great
fires leaped up all through the village. At every fire the Indian women,
both young and old, were already far forward with the cooking. Deer, bear,
squirrel, rabbit, fish, and every other variety of game with which the
woods and rivers of western New York and Pennsylvania swarmed were frying
or roasting over the coals, and the air was permeated with savory odors.
There was a great hum of voices and an incessant chattering. Here in the
forest, among themselves, and in complete security, the Indian stoicism
was relaxed. According to their customs everybody fell to eating at a
prodigious rate, as if they had not tasted anything for a month, and as if
they intended to eat enough now to last another month.

It was far into the night, because the ceremonies had lasted a long time,
but a brilliant moon shone down upon the feasting crowd, and the flames of
the great fires, yellow and blue, leaped and danced. This was an oasis of
light and life. Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea sat together before the
largest fire, and they ate with more restraint than the others. Even at
the banquet they would not relax their dignity as great chiefs. Old
Skanawati, the Onondaga, old Atotarho, Onondaga, too, Satekariwate, the
Mohawk, Kanokarih, the Seneca, and others, head chiefs though they were of
the three senior tribes, did not hesitate to eat as the rich Romans of the
Empire ate, swallowing immense quantities of all kinds of meat, and
drinking a sort of cider that the women made. Several warriors ate and
drank until they fell down in a stupor by the fires. The same warriors on
the hunt or the war path would go for days without food, enduring every
manner of hardship. Now and then a warrior would leap up and begin a chant
telling of some glorious deed of his. Those at his own fire would listen,
but elsewhere they took no notice.

In the largest open space a middle-aged Onondaga with a fine face suddenly
uttered a sharp cry: “Hehmio!” which he rapidly repeated twice. Two score
voices instantly replied, “Heh!” and a rush was made for him. At least a
hundred gathered around him, but they stood in a respectful circle, no one
nearer than ten feet. He waved his hand, and all sat down on the ground.
Then, he, too, sat down, all gazing at him intently and with expectancy.

He was a professional story-teller, an institution great and honored among
the tribes of the Iroquois farther back even than Hiawatha. He began at
once the story of the warrior who learned to talk with the deer and the
bear, carrying it on through many chapters. Now and then a delighted
listener would cry “Hah!” but if anyone became bored and fell asleep it
was considered an omen of misfortune to the sleeper, and he was chased
ignominiously to his tepee. The Iroquois romancer was better protected
than the white one is. He could finish some of his stories in one evening,
but others were serials. When he arrived at the end of the night's
installment he would cry, “Si-ga!” which was equivalent to our “To be
continued in our next.” Then all would rise, and if tired would seek
sleep, but if not they would catch the closing part of some other
story-teller's romance.

At three fires Senecas were playing a peculiar little wooden flute of
their own invention, that emitted wailing sounds not without a certain
sweetness. In a corner a half dozen warriors hurt in battle were bathing
their wounds with a soothing lotion made from the sap of the bass wood.

Henry lingered a while in the darkest corners, witnessing the feasting,
hearing the flutes and the chants, listening for a space to the
story-tellers and the enthusiastic “Hahs!” They were so full of feasting
and merrymaking now that one could almost do as he pleased, and he stole
toward the southern end of the village, where he had noticed several huts,
much more strongly built than the others. Despite all his natural skill
and experience his heart beat very fast when he came to the first. He was
about to achieve the great exploration upon which he had ventured so much.
Whether he would find anything at the end of the risk he ran, he was soon
to see.

The hut, about seven feet square and as many feet in height, was built
strongly of poles, with a small entrance closed by a clapboard door
fastened stoutly on the outside with withes. The hut was well in the
shadow of tepees, and all were still at the feasting and merrymaking. He
cut the withes with two sweeps of his sharp hunting knife, opened the
door, bent his head, stepped in and then closed the door behind him, in
order that no Iroquois might see what had happened.

It was not wholly dark in the hut, as there were cracks between the poles,
and bars of moonlight entered, falling upon a floor of bark. They revealed
also a figure lying full length on one side of the hut. A great pulse of
joy leaped up in Henry's throat, and with it was a deep pity, also. The
figure was that of Shif'less Sol, but he was pale and thin, and his arms
and legs were securely bound with thongs of deerskin.

Leaning over, Henry cut the thongs of the shiftless one, but he did not
stir. Great forester that Shif'less Sol was, and usually so sensitive to
the lightest movement, he perceived nothing now, and, had he not found him
bound, Henry would have been afraid that he was looking upon his dead
comrade. The hands of the shiftless one, when the hands were cut, had
fallen limply by his side, and his face looked all the more pallid by
contrast with the yellow hair which fell in length about it. But it was
his old-time friend, the dauntless Shif'less Sol, the last of the five to
vanish so mysteriously.

Henry bent down and pulled him by the shoulder. The captive yawned,
stretched himself a little, and lay still again with closed eyes. Henry
shook him a second time and more violently. Shif'less Sol sat up quickly,
and Henry knew that indignation prompted the movement. Sol held his arms
and legs stiffly and seemed to be totally unconscious that they were
unbound. He cast one glance upward, and in the dim light saw the tall
warrior bending over him.

“I'll never do it, Timmendiquas or White Lightning, whichever name you
like better!” he exclaimed. “I won't show you how to surprise the white
settlements. You can burn me at the stake or tear me in pieces first. Now
go away and let me sleep.”

He sank back on the bark, and started to close his eyes again. It was then
that he noticed for the first time that his hands were unbound. He held
them up before his face, as if they were strange objects wholly unattached
to himself, and gazed at them in amazement. He moved his legs and saw that
they, too, were unbound. Then he turned his startled gaze upward at the
face of the tall warrior who was looking down at him. Shif'less Sol was
wholly awake now. Every faculty in him was alive, and he pierced through
the Shawnee disguise. He knew who it was. He knew who had come to save
him, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming the one word:

“Henry!”

The hands of the comrades met in the clasp of friendship which only many
dangers endured together can give.

“How did you get here?” asked the shiftless one in a whisper.

“I met an Indian in the forest,” replied Henry, “and well I am now he.”

Shif'less Sol laughed under his breath.

“I see,” said he, “but how did you get through the camp? It's a big one,
and the Iroquois are watchful. Timmendiquas is here, too, with his
Wyandots.”

“They are having a great feast,” replied Henry, “and I could go about
almost unnoticed. Where are the others, Sol?”

“In the cabins close by.”

“Then we'll get out of this place. Quick! Tie up your hair! In the
darkness you can easily pass for an Indian.”

The shiftless one drew his hair into a scalp lock, and the two slipped
from the cabin, closing the door behind them and deftly retying the
thongs, in order that the discovery of the escape might occur as late as
possible. Then they stood a few moments in the shadow of the hut and
listened to the sounds of revelry, the monotone of the story-tellers, and
the chant of the singers.

“You don't know which huts they are in, do you?” asked Henry, anxiously.

“No, I don't,” replied the shiftless one.

“Get back!” exclaimed Henry softly. “Don't you see who's passing out
there?”

“Braxton Wyatt,” said Sol. “I'd like to get my hands on that scoundrel.
I've had to stand a lot from him.”

“The score must wait. But first we'll provide you with weapons. See, the
Iroquois have stacked some of their rifles here while they're at the
feast.”

A dozen good rifles had been left leaning against a hut near by, and
Henry, still watching lest he be observed, chose the best, with its
ammunition, for his comrade, who, owing to his semi-civilized attire,
still remained in the shadow of the other hut.

“Why not take four?” whispered the shiftless one. “We'll need them for the
other boys.”

Henry took four, giving two to his comrade, and then they hastily slipped
back to the other side of the hut. A Wyandot and a Mohawk were passing,
and they had eyes of hawks. Henry and Sol waited until the formidable pair
were gone, and then began to examine the huts, trying to surmise in which
their comrades lay.

“I haven't seen 'em a-tall, a-tall,” said Sol, “but I reckon from the talk
that they are here. I was s'prised in the woods, Henry. A half dozen reds
jumped on me so quick I didn't have time to draw a weepin. Timmendiquas
was at the head uv 'em an' he just grinned. Well, he is a great chief, if
he did truss me up like a fowl. I reckon the same thing happened to the
others.”

“Come closer, Sol! Come closer!” whispered Henry. “More warriors are
walking this way. The feast is breaking up, and they'll spread all through
the camp.”

A terrible problem was presented to the two. They could no longer search
among the strong huts, for their comrades. The opportunity to save had
lasted long enough for one only. But border training is stern, and these
two had uncommon courage and decision.

“We must go now, Sol,” said Henry, “but we'll come back.”

“Yes,” said the shiftless one, “we'll come back.”

Darting between the huts, they gained the southern edge of the forest
before the satiated banqueters could suspect the presence of an enemy.
Here they felt themselves safe, but they did not pause. Henry led the way,
and Shif'less Sol followed at a fair degree of speed.

“You'll have to be patient with me for a little while, Henry,” said Sol in
a tone of humility. “When I wuz layin' thar in the lodge with my hands an'
feet tied I wuz about eighty years old, jest ez stiff ez could be from the
long tyin'. When I reached the edge o' the woods the blood wuz flowin'
lively enough to make me 'bout sixty. Now I reckon I'm fifty, an' ef
things go well I'll be back to my own nateral age in two or three hours.”

“You shall have rest before morning,” said Henry, “and it will be in a
good place, too. I can promise that.”

Shif'less Sol looked at him inquiringly, but he did not say anything. Like
the rest of the five, Sol had acquired the most implicit confidence in
their bold young leader. He had every reason to feel good. That painful
soreness was disappearing from his ankles. As they advanced through the
woods, weeks dropped from him one by one. Then the months began to roll
away, and at last time fell year by year. As they approached the deeps of
the forest where the swamp lay, Solomon Hyde, the so called shiftless one,
and wholly undeserving of the name, was young again.

“I've got a fine little home for us, Sol,” said Henry. “Best we've had
since that time we spent a winter on the island in the lake. This is
littler, but it's harder to find. It'll be a fine thing to know you're
sleeping safe and sound with five hundred Iroquois warriors only a few
miles away.”

“Then it'll suit me mighty well,” said Shif'less Sol, grinning broadly.
“That's jest the place fur a lazy man like your humble servant, which is
me.”

They reached the stepping stones, and Henry paused a moment.

“Do you feel steady enough, Sol, to jump from stone to stone?” he asked.

“I'm feelin' so good I could fly ef I had to,” he replied. “Jest you jump
on, Henry, an' fur every jump you take you'll find me only one jump behind
you!”

Henry, without further ado, sprang from one stone to another, and behind
him, stone for stone, came the shiftless one. It was now past midnight,
and the moon was obscured. The keenest eyes twenty yards away could not
have seen the two dusky figures as they went by leaps into the very heart
of the great, black swamp. They reached the solid ground, and then the
hut.

“Here, Sol,” said Henry, “is my house, and yours, also, and soon, I hope,
to be that of Paul, Tom, and Jim, too.”

“Henry,” said Shif'less Sol, “I'm shorely glad to come.”

They went inside, stacked their captured rifles against the wall, and soon
were sound asleep.

Meanwhile sleep was laying hold of the Iroquois village, also. They had
eaten mightily and they had drunk mightily. Many times had they told the
glories of Hode-no-sau-nee, the Great League, and many times had they
gladly acknowledged the valor and worth of Timmendiquas and the brave
little Wyandot nation. Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea had sat side by side
throughout the feast, but often other great chiefs were with
them-Skanawati, Atotarho, and Hahiron, the Onondagas; Satekariwate, the
Mohawk; Kanokarih and Kanyadoriyo, the Senecas; and many others.

Toward midnight the women and the children left for the lodges, and soon
the warriors began to go also, or fell asleep on the ground, wrapped in
their blankets. The fires were allowed to sink low, and at last the older
chiefs withdrew, leaving only Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea.

“You have seen the power and spirit of the Iroquois,” said Thayendanegea.
“We can bring many more warriors than are here into the field, and we will
strike the white settlements with you.”

“The Wyandots are not so many as the warriors of the Great League,” said
Timmendiquas proudly, “but no one has ever been before them in battle.”

“You speak truth, as I have often heard it,” said Thayendanegea
thoughtfully. Then he showed Timmendiquas to a lodge of honor, the finest
in the village, and retired to his own.

The great feast was over, but the chiefs had come to a momentous decision.
Still chafing over their defeat at Oriskany, they would make a new and
formidable attack upon the white settlements, and Timmendiquas and his
fierce Wyandots would help them. All of them, from the oldest to the
youngest, rejoiced in the decision, and, not least, the famous
Thayendanegea. He hated the Americans most because they were upon the
soil, and were always pressing forward against the Indian. The Englishmen
were far away, and if they prevailed in the great war, the march of the
American would be less rapid. He would strike once more with the
Englishmen, and the Iroquois could deliver mighty blows on the American
rearguard. He and his Mohawks, proud Keepers of the Western Gate, would
lead in the onset. Thayendanegea considered it a good night's work, and he
slept peacefully.

The great camp relapsed into silence. The warriors on the ground breathed
perhaps a little heavily after so much feasting, and the fires were
permitted to smolder down to coals. Wolves and panthers drawn by the scent
of food crept through the thickets toward the faint firelight, but they
were afraid to draw near. Morning came, and food and drink were taken to
the lodges in which four prisoners were held, prisoners of great value,
taken by Timmendiquas and the Wyandots, and held at his urgent insistence
as hostages.

Three were found as they had been left, and when their bonds were loosened
they ate and drank, but the fourth hut was empty. The one who spoke in a
slow, drawling way, and the one who seemed to be the most dangerous of
them all, was gone. Henry and Sol had taken the severed thongs with them,
and there was nothing to show how the prisoner had disappeared, except
that the withes fastening the door had been cut.

The news spread through the village, and there was much excitement.
Thayendanegea and Timmendiquas came and looked at the empty hut.
Timmendiquas may have suspected how Shif'less Sol had gone, but he said
nothing. Others believed that it was the work of Hahgweh-da-et-gah (The
Spirit of Evil), or perhaps Ga-oh (The Spirit of the Winds) had taken him
away.

“It is well to keep a good watch on the others,” said Timmendiquas, and
Thayendanegea nodded.

That day the chiefs entered the Long House again, and held a great war
council. A string of white wampum about a foot in length was passed to
every chief, who held it a moment or two before handing it to his
neighbors. It was then laid on a table in the center of the room, the ends
touching. This signified harmony among the Six Nations. All the chiefs had
been summoned to this place by belts of wampum sent to the different
tribes by runners appointed by the Onondagas, to whom this honor belonged.
All treaties had to be ratified by the exchange of belts, and now this was
done by the assembled chiefs.

Timmendiquas, as an honorary chief of the Mohawks, and as the real head of
a brave and allied nation, was present throughout the council. His advice
was asked often, and when he gave it the others listened with gravity and
deference. The next day the village played a great game of lacrosse, which
was invented by the Indians, and which had been played by them for
centuries before the arrival of the white man. In this case the match was
on a grand scale, Mohawks and Cayugas against Onondagas and Senecas.

The game began about nine o'clock in the morning in a great natural meadow
surrounded by forest. The rival sides assembled opposite each other and
bet heavily. All the stakes, under the law of the game, were laid upon the
ground in heaps here, and they consisted of the articles most precious to
the Iroquois. In these heaps were rifles, tomahawks, scalping knives,
wampum, strips of colored beads, blankets, swords, belts, moccasins,
leggins, and a great many things taken as spoil in forays on the white
settlements, such is small mirrors, brushes of various kinds, boots,
shoes, and other things, the whole making a vast assortment.

These heaps represented great wealth to the Iroquois, and the older chiefs
sat beside them in the capacity of stakeholders and judges.

The combatants, ranged in two long rows, numbered at least five hundred on
each side, and already they began to show an excitement approaching that
which animated them when they would go into battle. Their eyes glowed, and
the muscles on their naked backs and chests were tense for the spring. In
order to leave their limbs perfectly free for effort they wore no clothing
at all, except a little apron reaching from the waist to the knee.

The extent of the playground was marked off by two pair of “byes” like
those used in cricket, planted about thirty rods apart. But the goals of
each side were only about thirty feet apart.

At a signal from the oldest of the chiefs the contestants arranged
themselves in two parallel lines facing each other, inside the area and
about ten rods apart. Every man was armed with a strong stick three and a
half to four feet in length, and curving toward the end. Upon this curved
end was tightly fastened a network of thongs of untanned deerskin, drawn
until they were rigid and taut. The ball with which they were to play was
made of closely wrapped elastic skins, and was about the size of an
ordinary apple.

At the end of the lines, but about midway between them, sat the chiefs,
who, besides being judges and stakeholders, were also score keepers. They
kept tally of the game by cutting notches upon sticks. Every time one side
put the ball through the other's goal it counted one, but there was an
unusual power exercised by the chiefs, practically unknown to the games of
white men. If one side got too far ahead, its score was cut down at the
discretion of the chiefs in order to keep the game more even, and also to
protract it sometimes over three or four days. The warriors of the leading
side might grumble among one another at the amount of cutting the chiefs
did, but they would not dare to make any protest. However, the chiefs
would never cut the leading side down to an absolute parity with the
other. It was always allowed to retain a margin of the superiority it had
won.

The game was now about to begin, and the excitement became intense. Even
the old judges leaned forward in their eagerness, while the brown bodies
of the warriors shone in the sun, and the taut muscles leaped up under the
skin. Fifty players on each side, sticks in hand, advanced to the center
of the ground, and arranged themselves somewhat after the fashion of
football players, to intercept the passage of the ball toward their goals.
Now they awaited the coming of the ball.

There were several young girls, the daughters of chiefs. The most
beautiful of these appeared. She was not more than sixteen or seventeen
years of age, as slender and graceful as a young deer, and she was dressed
in the finest and most richly embroidered deerskin. Her head was crowned
with a red coronet, crested with plumes, made of the feathers of the eagle
and heron. She wore silver bracelets and a silver necklace.

The girl, bearing in her hand the ball, sprang into the very center of the
arena, where, amid shouts from all the warriors, she placed it upon the
ground. Then she sprang back and joined the throng of spectators. Two of
the players, one from each side, chosen for strength and dexterity,
advanced. They hooked the ball together in their united bats and thus
raised it aloft, until the bats were absolutely perpendicular. Then with a
quick, jerking motion they shot it upward. Much might be gained by this
first shot or stroke, but on this occasion the two players were equal, and
it shot almost absolutely straight into the air. The nearest groups made a
rush for it, and the fray began.

Not all played at once, as the crowd was so great, but usually twenty or
thirty on each side struck for the ball, and when they became exhausted or
disabled were relieved by similar groups. All eventually came into action.

The game was played with the greatest fire and intensity, assuming
sometimes the aspect of a battle. Blows with the formidable sticks were
given and received. Brown skins were streaked with blood, heads were
cracked, and a Cayuga was killed. Such killings were not unusual in these
games, and it was always considered the fault of the man who fell, due to
his own awkwardness or unwariness. The body of the dead Cayuga was taken
away in disgrace.

All day long the contest was waged with undiminished courage and zeal,
party relieving party. The meadow and the surrounding forest resounded
with the shouts and yells of combatants and spectators. The old squaws
were in a perfect frenzy of excitement, and their shrill screams of
applause or condemnation rose above every other sound.

On this occasion, as the contest did not last longer than one day, the
chiefs never cut down the score of the leading side. The game closed at
sunset, with the Senecas and Onondagas triumphant, and richer by far than
they were in the morning. The Mohawks and Cayugas retired, stripped of
their goods and crestfallen.

Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea, acting as umpires watched the game closely
to its finish, but not so the renegades Braxton Wyatt and Blackstaffe.
They and Quarles had wandered eastward with some Delawares, and had
afterward joined the band of Wyandots, though Timmendiquas gave them no
very warm welcome. Quarles had left on some errand a few days before. They
had rejoiced greatly at the trapping of the four, one by one, in the deep
bush. But they had felt anger and disappointment when the fifth was not
taken, also. Now both were concerned and alarmed over the escape of
Shif'less Sol in the night, and they drew apart from the Indians to
discuss it.

“I think,” said Wyatt, “that Hyde did not manage it himself, all alone.
How could he? He was bound both hand and foot; and I've learned, too,
Blackstaffe, that four of the best Iroquois rifles have been taken. That
means one apiece for Hyde and the three prisoners that are left.”

The two exchanged looks of meaning and understanding.

“It must have been the boy Ware who helped Hyde to get away,” said
Blackstaffe, “and their taking of the rifles means that he and Hyde expect
to rescue the other three in the same way. You think so, too?”

“Of course,” replied Wyatt. “What makes the Indians, who are so
wonderfully alert and watchful most of the time, become so careless when
they have a great feast?”

Blackstaffe shrugged his shoulders.

“It is their way,” he replied. “You cannot change it. Ware must have
noticed what they were about, and he took advantage of it. But I don't
think any of the others will go that way.”

“The boy Cotter is in here,” said Braxton Wyatt, tapping the side of a
small hut. “Let's go in and see him.”

“Good enough,” said Blackstaffe. “But we mustn't let him know that Hyde
has escaped.”

Paul, also bound hand and foot, was lying on an old wolfskin. He, too, was
pale and thin-the strict confinement had told upon him heavily-but Paul's
spirit could never be daunted. He looked at the two renegades with hatred
and contempt.

“Well, you're in a fine fix,” said Wyatt sneeringly. “We just came in to
tell you that we took Henry Ware last night.”

Paul looked him straight and long in the eye, and he knew that the
renegade was lying.

“I know better,” he said.

“Then we will get him,” said Wyatt, abandoning the lie, “and all of you
will die at the stake.”

“You, will not get him,” said Paul defiantly, “and as for the rest of us
dying at the stake, that's to be seen. I know this: Timmendiquas considers
us of value, to be traded or exchanged, and he's too smart a man to
destroy what he regards as his own property. Besides, we may escape. I
don't want to boast, Braxton Wyatt, but you know that we're hard to hold.”

Then Paul managed to turn over with his face to the wall, as if he were
through with them. They went out, and Braxton Wyatt said sulkily:

“Nothing to be got out of him.”

“No,” said Blackstaffe, “but we must urge that the strictest kind of guard
be kept over the others.”

The Iroquois were to remain some time at the village, because all their
forces were not yet gathered for the great foray they had in mind. The
Onondaga runners were still carrying the wampum belts of purple shells,
sign of war, to distant villages of the tribes, and parties of warriors
were still coming in. A band of Cayugas arrived that night, and with them
they brought a half starved and sick, Lenni-Lenape, whom they had picked
up near the camp. The Lenni-Lenape, who looked as if he might have been
when in health a strong and agile warrior, said that news had reached him
through the Wyandots of the great war to be waged by the Iroquois on the
white settlements, and the spirits would not let him rest unless he bore
his part in it. He prayed therefore to be accepted among them.

Much food was given to the brave Lenni-Lenape, and he was sent to a lodge
to rest. To-morrow he would be well, and he would be welcomed to the ranks
of the Cayugas, a Younger nation. But when the morning came, the lodge was
empty. The sick Lenni-Lenape was gone, and with him the boy, Paul, the
youngest of the prisoners. Guards bad been posted all around the camp, but
evidently the two had slipped between. Brave and advanced as were the
Iroquois, superstition seized upon them. Hah-gweli-da-et-gah was at work
among them, coming in the form of the famished Lenni-Lenape. He had
steeped them in a deep sleep, and then he had vanished with the prisoner
in Se-oh (The Night). Perhaps lie had taken away the boy, who was one of a
hated race, for some sacrifice or mystery of his own. The fears of the
Iroquois rose. If the Spirit of Evil was among them, greater harm could be
expected.

But the two renegades, Blackstaffe and Wyatt, raged. They did not believe
in the interference of either good spirits or bad spirits, and just now
their special hatred was a famished Lenni-Lenape warrior.

“Why on earth didn't I think of it?” exclaimed Wyatt. “I'm sure now by his
size that it was the fellow Hyde. Of Course he slipped to the lodge, let
Cotter out, and they dodged about in the darkness until they escaped in
the forest. I'll complain to Timmendiquas.”

He was as good as his word, speaking of the laxness of both Iroquois and
Wyandots. The great White Lightning regarded him with an icy stare.

“You say that the boy, Cotter, escaped through carelessness?” he asked.

“I do,” exclaimed Wyatt.

“Then why did you not prevent it?”

Wyatt trembled a little before the stern gaze of the chief.

“Since when,” continued Timmendiquas, “have you, a deserter front your own
people, had the right to hold to account the head chief of the Wyandots?”
Braxton Wyatt, brave though he undoubtedly was, trembled yet more. He knew
that Timmendiquas did not like him, and that the Wyandot chieftain could
make his position among the Indians precarious.

“I did not mean to say that it was the fault of anybody in particular,” he
exclaimed hastily, “but I've been hearing so much talk about the Spirit of
Evil having a hand in this that I couldn't keep front saying something. Of
course, it was Henry Ware and Hyde who did it!”

“It may be,” said Timmendiquas icily, “but neither the Manitou of the
Wyandots, nor the Aieroski of the Iroquois has given to me the eyes to see
everything that happens in the dark.”

Wyatt withdrew still in a rage, but afraid to say more. He and Blackstaffe
held many conferences through the day, and they longed for the presence of
Simon Girty, who was farther west.

That night an Onondaga runner arrived from one of the farthest villages of
the Mohawks, far east toward Albany. He had been sent from a farther
village, and was not known personally to the warriors in the great camp,
but he bore a wampum belt of purple shells, the sign of war, and he
reported directly to Thayendanegea, to whom he brought stirring and
satisfactory words. After ample feasting, as became one who had come so
far, he lay upon soft deerskins in one of the bark huts and sought sleep.

But Braxton Wyatt, the renegade, could not sleep. His evil spirit warned
him to rise and go to the huts, where the two remaining prisoners were
kept. It was then about one o'clock in the morning, and as he passed he
saw the Onondaga runner at the door of one of the prison lodges. He was
about to cry out, but the Onondaga turned and struck him such a violent
blow with the butt of a pistol, snatched from under his deerskin tunic,
that he fell senseless. When a Mohawk sentinel found and revived him an
hour later, the door of the hut was open, and the oldest of the prisoners,
the one called Ross, was gone.

Now, indeed, were the Iroquois certain that the Spirit of Evil was among
them. When great chiefs like Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea were deceived,
how could a common warrior hope to escape its wicked influence!

But Braxton Wyatt, with a sore and aching head, lay all day on a bed of
skins, and his friend, Moses Blackstaffe, could give him no comfort.

The following night the camp was swept by a sudden and tremendous storm of
thunder and lightning, wind and rain. Many of the lodges were thrown down,
and when the storm finally whirled itself away, it was found that the last
of the prisoners, he of the long arms and long legs, had gone on the edge
of the blast.

Truly the Evil Spirit had been hovering over the Iroquois village.

CHAPTER VII. CATHARINE MONTOUR

The five lay deep in the swamp, reunited once more, and full of content.
The great storm in which Long Jim, with the aid of his comrades, had
disappeared, was whirling off to the eastward. The lightning was flaring
its last on the distant horizon, but the rain still pattered in the great
woods.

It was a small hut, but the five could squeeze in it. They were dry, warm,
and well armed, and they had no fear of the storm and the wilderness. The
four after their imprisonment and privations were recovering their weight
and color. Paul, who had suffered the most, had, on the other hand, made
the quickest recovery, and their present situation, so fortunate in
contrast with their threatened fate a few days before, made a great appeal
to his imagination. The door was allowed to stand open six inches, and
through the crevice he watched the rain pattering on the dark earth. He
felt an immense sense of security and comfort. Paul was hopeful by nature
and full of courage, but when he lay bound and alone in a hut in the
Iroquois camp it seemed to him that no chance was left. The comrades had
been kept separate, and he had supposed the others to be dead. But here he
was snatched from the very pit of death, and all the others had been saved
from a like fate.

“If I'd known that you were alive and uncaptured, Henry,” he said, “I'd
never have given up hope. It was a wonderful thing you did to start the
chain that drew us all away.”

“It's no more than Sol or Tom or any of you would have done,” said Henry.

“We might have tried it,” said Long Jim Hart, “but I ain't sure that we'd
have done it. Likely ez not, ef it had been left to me my scalp would be
dryin' somewhat in the breeze that fans a Mohawk village. Say, Sol, how
wuz it that you talked Onondaga when you played the part uv that Onondaga
runner. Didn't know you knowed that kind uv Injun lingo.”

Shif'less Sol drew himself up proudly, and then passed a thoughtful hand
once or twice across his forehead.

“Jim,” he said, “I've told you often that Paul an' me hez the instincts uv
the eddicated. Learnin' always takes a mighty strong hold on me. Ef I'd
had the chance, I might be a purfessor, or mebbe I'd be writin' poetry. I
ain't told you about it, but when I wuz a young boy, afore I moved with
the settlers, I wuz up in these parts an' I learned to talk Iroquois a
heap. I never thought it would be the use to me it hez been now. Ain't it
funny that sometimes when you put a thing away an' it gits all covered
with rust and mold, the time comes when that same forgot little thing is
the most vallyble article in the world to you.”

“Weren't you scared, Sol,” persisted Paul, “to face a man like Brant, an'
pass yourself off as an Onondaga?”

“No, I wuzn't,” replied the shiftless one thoughtfully, “I've been wuss
scared over little things. I guess that when your life depends on jest a
motion o' your hand or the turnin' o' a word, Natur' somehow comes to your
help an' holds you up. I didn't get good an' skeered till it wuz all over,
an' then I had one fit right after another.”

“I've been skeered fur a week without stoppin',” said Tom Ross; “jest
beginnin' to git over it. I tell you, Henry, it wuz pow'ful lucky fur us
you found them steppin' stones, an' this solid little place in the middle
uv all that black mud.”

“Makes me think uv the time we spent the winter on that island in the
lake,” said Long Jim. “That waz shorely a nice place an' pow'ful
comf'table we wuz thar. But we're a long way from it now. That island uv
ours must be seven or eight hundred miles from here, an' I reckon it's
nigh to fifteen hundred to New Orleans, whar we wuz once.”

“Shet up,” said Tom Ross suddenly. “Time fur all uv you to go to sleep,
an' I'm goin' to watch.”

“I'll watch,” said Henry.

“I'm the oldest, an' I'm goin' to have my way this time,” said Tom.

“Needn't quarrel with me about it,” said Shif'less Sol. “A lazy man like
me is always willin' to go to sleep. You kin hev my watch, Tom, every
night fur the next five years.”

He ranged himself against the wall, and in three minutes was sound asleep.
Henry and Paul found room in the line, and they, too, soon slept. Tom sat
at the door, one of the captured rifles across his knees, and watched the
forest and the swamp. He saw the last flare of the distant lightning, and
he listened to the falling of the rain drops until they vanished with the
vanishing wind, leaving the forest still and without noise.

Tom was several years older than any of the others, and, although powerful
in action, he was singularly chary of speech. Henry was the leader, but
somehow Tom looked upon himself as a watcher over the other four, a sort
of elder brother. As the moon came out a little in the wake of the
retreating clouds, he regarded them affectionately.

“One, two, three, four, five,” he murmured to himself. “We're all here,
an' Henry come fur us. That is shorely the greatest boy the world hez ever
seed. Them fellers Alexander an' Hannibal that Paul talks about couldn't
hev been knee high to Henry. Besides, ef them old Greeks an' Romans hed
hed to fight Wyandots an' Shawnees an' Iroquois ez we've done, whar'd they
hev been?”

Tom Ross uttered a contemptuous little sniff, and on the edge of that
sniff Alexander and Hannibal were wafted into oblivion. Then he went
outside and walked about the islet, appreciating for the tenth time what a
wonderful little refuge it was. He was about to return to the hut when he
saw a dozen dark blots along the high bough of a tree. He knew them. They
were welcome blots. They were wild turkeys that had found what had seemed
to be a secure roosting place in the swamp.

Tom knew that the meat of the little bear was nearly exhausted, and here
was more food come to their hand. “We're five pow'ful feeders, an' we'll
need you,” he murmured, looking up at the turkeys, “but you kin rest thar
till nearly mornin'.”

He knew that the turkeys would not stir, and he went back to the hut to
resume his watch. Just before the first dawn he awoke Henry.

“Henry,” he said, “a lot uv foolish wild turkeys hev gone to rest on the
limb of a tree not twenty yards from this grand manshun uv ourn. 'Pears to
me that wild turkeys wuz made fur hungry fellers like us to eat. Kin we
risk a shot or two at 'em, or is it too dangerous?”

“I think we can risk the shots,” said Henry, rising and taking his rifle.
“We're bound to risk something, and it's not likely that Indians are
anywhere near.”

They slipped from the cabin, leaving the other three still sound asleep,
and stepped noiselessly among the trees. The first pale gray bar that
heralded the dawn was just showing in the cast.

“Thar they are,” said Tom Ross, pointing at the dozen dark blots on the
high bough.

“We'll take good aim, and when I say 'fire!' we'll both pull trigger,”
said Henry.

He picked out a huge bird near the end of the line, but he noticed when he
drew the bead that a second turkey just behind the first was directly in
his line of fire. The fact aroused his ambition to kill both with one
bullet. It was not a mere desire to slaughter or to display marksmanship,
but they needed the extra turkey for food.

“Are you ready, Tom?” he asked. “Then fire.”

They pulled triggers, there were two sharp reports terribly loud to both
under the circumstances, and three of the biggest and fattest of the
turkeys fell heavily to the ground, while the rest flapped their wings,
and with frightened gobbles flew away.

Henry was about to rush forward, but Silent Tom held him back.

“Don't show yourself, Henry! Don't show yourself!” he cried in tense
tones.

“Why, what's the matter?” asked the boy in surprise.

“Don't you see that three turkeys fell, and we are only two to shoot? An
Injun is layin' 'roun' here some whar, an' he drawed a bead on one uv them
turkeys at the same time we did.”

Henry laughed and put away Tom's detaining hand.

“There's no Indian about,” he said. “I killed two turkeys with one shot,
and I'm mighty proud of it, too. I saw that they were directly in the line
of the bullet, and it went through both.”

Silent Tom heaved a mighty sigh of relief, drawn up from great depths.

“I'm tre-men-jeous-ly glad uv that, Henry,” he said. “Now when I saw that
third turkey come tumblin' down I wuz shore that one Injun or mebbe more
had got on this snug little place uv ourn in the swamp, an' that we'd hev
to go to fightin' ag'in. Thar come times, Henry, when my mind just
natchally rises up an' rebels ag'in fightin', 'specially when I want to
eat or sleep. Ain't thar anythin' else but fight, fight, fight, 'though I
'low a feller hez got to expect a lot uv it out here in the woods?”

They picked up the three turkeys, two gobblers and a hen, and found them
large and fat as butter. More than once the wild turkey had come to their
relief, and, in fact, this bird played a great part in the life of the
frontier, wherever that frontier might be, as it shifted steadily
westward. As they walked back toward the hut they faced three figures, all
three with leveled rifles.

“All right, boys,” sang out Henry. “It's nobody but Tom and myself,
bringing in our breakfast.”

The three dropped their rifles.

“That's good,” said Shif'less Sol. “When them shots roused us out o' our
beauty sleep we thought the whole Iroquois nation, horse, foot, artillery
an' baggage wagons, wuz comin' down upon us. So we reckoned we'd better go
out an' lick 'em afore it wuz too late.

“But it's you, an' you've got turkeys, nothin' but turkeys. Sho' I
reckoned from the peart way Long Jim spoke up that you wuz loaded down
with hummin' birds' tongues, ortylans, an' all them other Roman and
Rooshian delicacies Paul talks about in a way to make your mouth water.
But turkeys! jest turkeys! Nothin' but turkeys!”

“You jest wait till you see me cookin' 'em, Sol Hyde,” said Long Jim.
“Then your mouth'll water, an' it'll take Henry and Tom both to hold you
back.”

But Shif'less Sol's mouth was watering already, and his eyes were glued on
the turkeys.

“I'm a pow'ful lazy man, ez you know, Saplin',” he said, “but I'm goin' to
help you pick them turkeys an' get 'em ready for the coals. The quicker
they are cooked the better it'll suit me.”

While they were cooking the turkeys, Henry, a little anxious lest the
sound of the shots had been heard, crossed on the stepping stones and
scouted a bit in the woods. But there was no sign of Indian presence, and,
relieved, he returned to the islet just as breakfast was ready.

Long Jim had exerted all his surpassing skill, and it was a contented five
that worked on one of the turkeys—the other two being saved for
further needs.

“What's goin' to be the next thing in the line of our duty, Henry?” asked
Long Jim as they ate.

“We'll have plenty to do, from all that Sol tells us,” replied the boy.
“It seems that they felt so sure of you, while you were prisoners, that
they often talked about their plans where you could hear them. Sol has
told me of two or three talks between Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea, and
from the last one he gathered that they're intending a raid with a big
army against a place called Wyoming, in the valley of a river named the
Susquehanna. It's a big settlement, scattered all along the river, and
they expect to take a lot of scalps. They're going to be helped by British
from Canada and Tories. Boys, we're a long way from home, but shall we go
and tell them in Wyoming what's coming?”

“Of course,” said the four together.

“Our bein' a long way from home don't make any difference,” said Shif'less
Sol. “We're generally a long way from home, an' you know we sent word back
from Pittsburgh to Wareville that we wuz stayin' a while here in the east
on mighty important business.”

“Then we go to the Wyoming Valley as straight and as fast as we can,” said
Henry. “That's settled. What else did you bear about their plans, Sol?”

“They're to break up the village here soon and then they'll march to a
place called Tioga. The white men an' I hear that's to be a lot uv
'em-will join 'em thar or sooner. They've sent chiefs all the way to our
Congress at Philydelphy, pretendin' peace, an' then, when they git our
people to thinkin' peace, they'll jump on our settlements, the whole
ragin' army uv 'em, with tomahawk an' knife. A white man named John Butler
is to command 'em.”

Paul shuddered.

“I've heard of him,” he said. “They called him 'Indian' Butler at
Pittsburgh. He helped lead the Indians in that terrible battle of the
Oriskany last year. And they say he's got a son, Walter Butler, who is as
bad as he is, and there are other white leaders of the Indians, the
Johnsons and Claus.”

“'Pears ez ef we would be needed,” said Tom Ross.

“I don't think we ought to hurry,” said Henry. “The more we know about the
Indian plans the better it will be for the Wyoming people. We've a safe
and comfortable hiding place here, and we can stay and watch the Indian
movements.”

“Suits me,” drawled Shif'less Sol. “My legs an' arms are still stiff from
them deerskin thongs an' ez Long Jim is here now to wait on me I guess
I'll take a rest from travelin.”

“You'll do all your own waitin' on yourself,” rejoined Long Jim; “an' I'm
afraid you won't be waited on so Pow'ful well, either, but a good deal
better than you deserve.”

They lay on the islet several days, meanwhile keeping a close watch on the
Indian camp. They really had little to fear except from hunting parties,
as the region was far from any settled portion of the country, and the
Indians were not likely to suspect their continued presence. But the
hunters were numerous, and all the squaws in the camp were busy jerking
meat. It was obvious that the Indians were preparing for a great campaign,
but that they would take their own time. Most of the scouting was done by
Henry and Sol, and several times they lay in the thick brushwood and
watched, by the light of the fires, what was passing in the Indian camp.

On the fifth night after the rescue of Long Jim, Henry and Shif'less Sol
lay in the covert. It was nearly midnight, but the fires still burned in
the Indian camp, warriors were polishing their weapons, and the women were
cutting up or jerking meat. While they were watching they heard from a
point to the north the sound of a voice rising and failing in a kind of
chant.

“Another war party comin',” whispered Shif'less Sol, “an' singin' about
the victories that they're goin' to win.”

“But did you notice that voice?” Henry whispered back. “It's not a man's,
it's a woman's.”

“Now that you speak of it, you're right,” said Shif'less Sol. “It's funny
to hear an Injun woman chantin' about battles as she comes into camp.
That's the business o' warriors.”

“Then this is no ordinary woman,” said Henry.

“They'll pass along that trail there within twenty yards of us, Sol, and
we want to see her.”

“So we do,” said Sol, “but I ain't breathin' while they pass.”

They flattened themselves against the earth until the keenest eye could
not see them in the darkness. All the time the singing was growing louder,
and both remained, quite sure that it was the voice of a woman. The trail
was but a short distance away, and the moon was bright. The fierce Indian
chant swelled, and presently the most singular figure that either had ever
seen came into view.

The figure was that of an Indian woman, but lighter in color than most of
her kind. She was middle-aged, tall, heavily built, and arrayed in a
strange mixture of civilized and barbaric finery, deerskin leggins and
moccasins gorgeously ornamented with heads, a red dress of European cloth
with a red shawl over it, and her head bare except for bright feathers,
thrust in her long black hair, which hung loosely down her back. She held
in one hand a large sharp tomahawk, which she swung fiercely in time to
her song. Her face had the rapt, terrible expression of one who had taken
some fiery and powerful drug, and she looked neither to right nor to left
as she strode on, chanting a song of blood, and swinging the keen blade.

Henry and Shif'less Sol shuddered. They had looked upon terrible human
figures, but nothing so frightful as this, a woman with the strength of a
man and twice his rage and cruelty. There was something weird and awful in
the look of that set, savage face, and the tone of that Indian chant.
Brave as they were, Henry and the shiftless one felt fear, as perhaps they
had never felt it before in their lives. Well they might! They were
destined to behold this woman again, under conditions the most awful of
which the human mind can conceive, and to witness savagery almost
unbelievable in either man or woman. The two did not yet know it, but they
were looking upon Catharine Montour, daughter of a French Governor General
of Canada and an Indian woman, a chieftainess of the Iroquois, and of a
memory infamous forever on the border, where she was known as “Queen
Esther.”

Shif'less Sol shuddered again, and whispered to Henry:

“I didn't think such women ever lived, even among the Indians.”

A dozen warriors followed Queen Esther, stepping in single file, and their
manner showed that they acknowledged her their leader in every sense. She
was truly an extraordinary woman. Not even the great Thayendanegea himself
wielded a stronger influence among the Iroquois. In her youth she had been
treated as a white woman, educated and dressed as a white woman, and she
had played a part in colonial society at Albany, New York, and
Philadelphia. But of her own accord she had turned toward the savage half
of herself, had become wholly a savage, had married a savage chief, bad
been the mother of savage children, and here she was, at midnight,
striding into an Iroquois camp in the wilderness, her head aflame with
visions of blood, death, and scalps.

The procession passed with the terrifying female figure still leading,
still singing her chant, and the curiosity of Henry and Shif'less Sol was
so intense that, taking all risks, they slipped along in the rear to see
her entry.

Queen Esther strode into the lighted area of the camp, ceased her chant,
and looked around, as if a queen had truly come and was waiting to be
welcomed by her subjects. Thayendanegea, who evidently expected her,
stepped forward and gave her the Indian salute. It may be that he received
her with mild enthusiasm. Timmendiquas, a Wyandot and a guest, though an
ally, would not dispute with him his place as real head of the Six
Nations, but this terrible woman was his match, and could inflame the
Iroquois to almost anything that she wished.

After the arrival of Queen Esther the lights in the Iroquois village died
down. It was evident to both Henry and the shiftless one that they had
been kept burning solely in the expectation of the coming of this
formidable woman and her escort. It was obvious that nothing more was to
be seen that night, and they withdrew swiftly through the forest toward
their islet. They stopped once in an oak opening, and Shif'less Sol
shivered slightly.

“Henry,” he said, “I feel all through me that somethin' terrible is
comin'. That woman back thar has clean give me the shivers. I'm more
afraid of her than I am of Timmendiquas or Thayendanegea. Do you think she
is a witch?”

“There are no such things as witches, but she was uncanny. I'm afraid,
Sol, that your feeling about something terrible going to happen is right.”

It was about two o'clock in the morning when they reached the islet. Tom
Ross was awake, but the other two slumbered peacefully on. They told Tom
what they had seen, and he told them the identity of the terrible woman.

“I heard about her at Pittsburgh, an' I've heard tell, too, about her
afore I went to Kentucky to live. She's got a tre-men-jeous power over the
Iroquois. They think she ken throw spells, an' all that sort of thing-an'
mebbe she kin.”

Two nights later it was Henry and Tom who lay in the thickets, and then
they saw other formidable arrivals in the Indian camp. Now they were white
men, an entire company in green uniforms, Sir John Johnson's Royal Greens,
as Henry afterward learned; and with them was the infamous John Butler, or
“Indian” Butler, as he was generally known on the New York and
Pennsylvania frontier, middle-aged, short and fat, and insignificant of
appearance, but energetic, savage and cruel in nature. He was a descendant
of the Duke of Ormond, and had commanded the Indians at the terrible
battle of the Oriskany, preceding Burgoyne's capture the year before.

Henry and Tom were distant spectators at an extraordinary council around
one of the fires. In this group were Timmendiquas, Thayendanegea, Queen
Esther, high chiefs of the distant nations, and the white men, John
Butler, Moses Blackstaffe, and the boy, Braxton Wyatt. It seemed to Henry
that Timmendiquas, King of the Wyandots, was superior to all the other
chiefs present, even to Thayendanegea. His expression was nobler than that
of the great Mohawk, and it had less of the Indian cruelty.

Henry and Tom could not hear 'anything that was said, but they felt sure
the Iroquois were about to break up their village and march on the great
campaign they had planned. The two and their comrades could render no
greater service than to watch their march, and then warn those upon whom
the blow was to fall.

The five left their hut on the islet early the next morning, well equipped
with provisions, and that day they saw the Iroquois dismantle their
village, all except the Long House and two or three other of the more
solid structures, and begin the march. Henry and his comrades went
parallel with them, watching their movements as closely as possible.

CHAPTER VIII. A CHANGE OF TENANTS

The five were engaged upon one of their most dangerous tasks, to keep with
the Indian army, and yet to keep out of its hands, to observe what was
going on, and to divine what was intended from what they observed.
Fortunately it, was early summer, and the weather being very beautiful
they could sleep without shelter. Hence they found it convenient to sleep
sometimes by daylight, posting a watch always, and to spy upon the Indian
camp at night. They saw other reinforcements come for the Indian army,
particularly a strong division of Senecas, under two great war chiefs of
theirs, Sangerachte and Hiokatoo, and also a body of Tories.

Then they saw them go into their last great camp at Tioga, preparatory to
their swift descent upon the Wyoming Valley. About four hundred white men,
English Canadians and Tories, were present, and eight hundred picked
warriors of the Six Nations under Thayendanegea, besides the little band
of Wyandots led by the resolute Timmendiquas. “Indian” Butler was in
general command of the whole, and Queen Esther was the high priestess of
the Indians, continually making fiery speeches and chanting songs that
made the warriors see red. Upon the rear of this extraordinary army hung a
band of fierce old squaws, from whom every remnant of mercy and Gentleness
had departed.

From a high rock overlooking a valley the five saw “Indian” Butler's force
start for its final march upon Wyoming. It was composed of many diverse
elements, and perhaps none more bloodthirsty ever trod the soil of
America. In some preliminary skirmish a son of Queen Esther had been
slain, and now her fury knew no limits. She took her place at the very
head of the army, whirling her great tomahawk about her head, and neither
“Indian” Butler nor Thayendanegea dared to interfere with her in anything
great or small.

Henry and his comrades, as they left their rock and hastened toward the
valley of Wyoming, felt that now they were coming into contact with the
great war itself. They had looked upon a uniformed enemy for the first
time, and they might soon see the colonial buff and blue of the eastern
army. Their hearts thrilled high at new scenes and new dangers.

They had gathered at Pittsburgh, and, through the captivity of the four in
the Iroquois camp, they had some general idea of the Wyoming Valley and
the direction in which it lay, and, taking one last look at the savage
army, they sped toward it. The time was the close, of June, and the
foliage was still dark green. It was a land of low mountain, hill, rich
valley, and clear stream, and it was beautiful to every one of the five.
Much of their course lay along the Susquehanna, and soon they saw signs of
a more extended cultivation than any that was yet to be witnessed in
Kentucky. From the brow of a little hill they beheld a field of green, and
in another field a man plowing.

“That's wheat,” said Tom Ross.

“But we can't leave the man to plow,” said Henry, “or he'll never harvest
that wheat. We'll warn him.”

The man uttered a cry of alarm as five wild figures burst into his field.
He stopped abruptly, and snatched up a rifle that lay across the plow
handles. Neither Henry nor his companions realized that their forest garb
and long life in the wilderness made them look more like Indians than
white men. But Henry threw up a hand as a sign of peace.

“We're white like yourselves,” he cried, “and we've come to warn you! The
Iroquois and the Tories are marching into the valley!”

The man's face blanched, and he cast a hasty look toward a little wood,
where stood a cabin from which smoke was rising. He could not doubt on a
near view that these were white like himself, and the words rang true.

“My house is strong,” he said, “and I can beat them off. Maybe you will
help me.”

“We'd help you willingly enough,” said Henry, “if this were any ordinary
raiding band, but 'Indian' Butler, Brant, and Queen Esther are coming at
the head of twelve or fifteen hundred men. How could we hold a house, no
matter how thick its walls, against such an army as that? Don't hesitate a
moment! Get up what you can and gallop.”

The man, a Connecticut settler-Jennings was his name-left his plow in the
furrow, galloped on his horse to his house, mounted his wife and children
on other horses, and, taking only food and clothing, fled to Stroudsburg,
where there was a strong fort. At a later day he gave Henry heartfelt
thanks for his warning, as six hours afterward the vanguard of the horde
burned his home and raged because its owner and his family were gone with
their scalps on their own heads.

The five were now well into the Wyoming Valley, where the Lenni-Lenape,
until they were pushed westward by other tribes, had had their village
Wy-wa-mieh, which means in their language Wyoming. It was a beautiful
valley running twenty miles or more along the Susquehanna, and about three
miles broad. On either side rose mountain walls a thousand feet in height,
and further away were peaks with mists and vapors around their crests. The
valley itself blazed in the summer sunshine, and the river sparkled, now
in gold, now in silver, as the light changed and fell.

More cultivated fields, more houses, generally of stout logs, appeared,
and to all that they saw the five bore the fiery beacon. Simon Jennings
was not the only man who lived to thank them for the warning. Others were
incredulous, and soon paid the terrible price of unbelief.

The five hastened on, and as they went they looked about them with
wondering eyes-there were so many houses, so many cultivated fields, and
so many signs of a numerous population. They had emerged almost for the
first time from the wilderness, excepting their memorable visit to New
Orleans, although this was a very different region. Long Jim spoke of it.

“I think I like it better here than at New Or-leeyuns,” he said. “We found
some nice Frenchmen an' Spaniards down thar, but the ground feels firmer
under my feet here.”

“The ground feels firmer,” said Paul, who had some of the prescience of
the seer, “but the skies are no brighter. They look red to me sometimes,
Jim.”

Tom Ross glanced at Paul and shook his head ominously. A woodsman, he had
his superstitions, and Paul's words weighed upon his mind. He began to
fear a great disaster, and his experienced eye perceived at once the
defenseless state of the valley. He remembered the council of the great
Indian force in the deep woods, and the terrible face of Queen Esther was
again before him.

“These people ought to be in blockhouses, every one uv 'em,” he said. “It
ain't no time to be plowin' land.”

Yet peace seemed to brood still over the valley. It was a fine river,
beautiful with changing colors. The soil on either side was as deep and
fertile as that of Kentucky, and the line of the mountains cut the sky
sharp and clear. Hills and slopes were dark green with foliage.

“It must have been a gran' huntin' ground once,” said Shif'less Sol.

The alarm that the five gave spread fast, and other hunters and scouts
came in, confirming it. Panic seized the settlers, and they began to crowd
toward Forty Fort on the west side of the river. Henry and his comrades
themselves arrived there toward the close of evening, just as the sun had
set, blood red, behind the mountains. Some report of them had preceded
their coming, and as soon as they had eaten they were summoned to the
presence of Colonel Zebulon Butler, who commanded the military force in
the valley. Singularly enough, he was a cousin of “Indian” Butler, who led
the invading army.

The five, dressed in deerskin hunting shirts, leggins, and moccasins, and
everyone carrying a rifle, hatchet, and knife, entered a large low room,
dimly lighted by some wicks burning in tallow. A man of middle years, with
a keen New England face, sat at a little table, and several others of
varying ages stood near.

The five knew instinctively that the man at the table was Colonel Butler,
and they bowed, but they did not show the faintest trace of subservience.
They had caught suspicious glances from some of the officers who stood
about the commander, and they stiffened at once. Colonel Butler looked
involuntarily at Henry-everybody always took him, without the telling, for
leader of the group.

“We have had report of you,” he said in cool noncommittal tones, “and you
have been telling of great Indian councils that you have seen in the
woods. May I ask your name and where you belong?”

“My name,” replied Henry with dignity, “is Henry Ware, and I come from
Kentucky. My friends here are Paul Cotter, Solomon Hyde, Tom Ross, and Jim
Hart. They, too, come from Kentucky.”

Several of the men gave the five suspicious glances. Certainly they were
wild enough in appearance, and Kentucky was far away. It would seem
strange that new settlers in that far land should be here in Pennsylvania.
Henry saw clearly that his story was doubted.

“Kentucky, you tell me?” said Colonel Butler. “Do you mean to say you have
come all that tremendous distance to warn us of an attack by Indians and
Tories?”

Several of the others murmured approval, and Henry flushed a little, but
he saw that the commander was not unreasonable. It was a time when men
might well question the words of strangers. Remembering this, he replied:

“No, we did not come from Kentucky just to warn you. In fact, we came from
a point much farther than that. We came from New Orleans to Pittsburgh
with a fleet loaded with supplies for the Continental armies, and
commanded by Adam Colfax of New Hampshire.”

The face of Colonel Butler brightened.

“What!” he exclaimed, “you were on that expedition? It seems to me that I
recall hearing of great services rendered to it by some independent
scouts.”

“When we reached Pittsburgh,” continued Henry, “it was our first intention
to go back to Kentucky, but we heard that a great war movement was in
progress to the eastward, and we thought that we would see what was going
on. Four of us have been captives among the Iroquois. We know much of
their plans, and we know, too, that Timmendiquas, the great chief of the
Wyandots, whom we fought along the Ohio, has joined them with a hand of
his best warriors. We have also seen Thayendanegea, every one of us.”

“You have seen Brant?” exclaimed Colonel Butler, calling the great Mohawk
by his white name.

“Yes,” replied Henry. “We have seen him, and we have also seen the woman
they call Queen Esther. She is continually urging the Indians on.”

Colonel Butler seemed convinced, and invited them to sit down. He also
introduced the officers who were with him, Colonel John Durkee, Colonel
Nathan Dennison, Lieutenant Colonel George Dorrance, Major John Garrett,
Captain Samuel Ransom, Captain Dethrie Hewitt, and some others.

“Now, gentlemen, tell us all that you saw,” continued Colonel Butler
courteously. “You will pardon so many questions, but we must be careful.
You will see that yourselves. But I am a New England man myself, from
Connecticut, and I have met Adam Colfax. I recall now that we have heard
of you, also, and we are grateful for your coming. Will you and your
comrades tell us all that you have seen and heard?”

The five felt a decided change in the atmosphere. They were no longer
possible Tories or renegades, bringing an alarm at one point when it
should be dreaded at another. The men drew closely around them, and
listened as the tallow wicks sputtered in the dim room. Henry spoke first,
and the others in their turn. Every one of them spoke tersely but vividly
in the language of the forest. They felt deeply what they had seen, and
they drew the same picture for their listeners. Gradually the faces of the
Wyoming men became shadowed. This was a formidable tale that they were
hearing, and they could not doubt its truth.

“It is worse than I thought it could be,” said Colonel Butler at last.
“How many men do you say they have, Mr. Ware?”

“Close to fifteen hundred.”

“All trained warriors and soldiers. And at the best we cannot raise more
than three hundreds including old men and boys, and our men, too, are
farmers.”

“But we can beat them. Only give us a chance, Colonel!” exclaimed Captain
Ransom.

“I'm afraid the chance will come too soon,” said Colonel Butler, and then
turning to the five: “Help us all you can. We need scouts and riflemen.
Come to the fort for any food and ammunition you may need.”

The five gave their most earnest assurances that they would stay, and do
all in their power. In fact, they had come for that very purpose.
Satisfied now that Colonel Butler and his officers had implicit faith in
them they went forth to find that, despite the night and the darkness,
fugitives were already crossing the river to seek refuge in Forty Fort,
bringing with them tales of death and devastation, some of which were
exaggerated, but too many true in all their hideous details. Men had been
shot and scalped in the fields, houses were burning, women and children
were captives for a fate that no one could foretell. Red ruin was already
stalking down the valley.

The farmers were bringing their wives and children in canoes and dugouts
across the river. Here and there a torch light flickered on the surface of
the stream, showing the pale faces of the women and children, too
frightened to cry. They had fled in haste, bringing with them only the
clothes they wore and maybe a blanket or two. The borderers knew too well
what Indian war was, with all its accompaniments of fire and the stake.

Henry and his comrades helped nearly all that night. They secured a large
boat and crossed the river again and again, guarding the fugitives with
their rifles, and bringing comfort to many a timid heart. Indian bands had
penetrated far into the Wyoming Valley, but they felt sure that none were
yet in the neighborhood of Forty Fort.

It was about three o'clock in the morning when the last of the fugitives
who had yet come was inside Forty Fort, and the labors of the five, had
they so chosen, were over for the time. But their nerves were tuned to so
high a pitch, and they felt so powerfully the presence of danger, that
they could not rest, nor did they have any desire for sleep.

The boat in which they sat was a good one, with two pairs of oars. It had
been detailed for their service, and they decided to pull up the river.
They thought it possible that they might see the advance of the enemy and
bring news worth the telling. Long Jim and Tom Ross took the oars, and
their powerful arms sent the boat swiftly along in the shadow of the
western bank. Henry and Paul looked back and saw dim lights at the fort
and a few on either shore. The valley, the high mountain wall, and
everything else were merged in obscurity.

Both the youths were oppressed heavily by the sense of danger, not for
themselves, but for others. In that Kentucky of theirs, yet so new, few
people lived beyond the palisades, but here were rich and scattered
settlements; and men, even in the face of great peril, are always loth to
abandon the homes that they have built with so much toil.

Tom Ross and Long Jim continued to pull steadily with the long strokes
that did not tire them, and the lights of the fort and houses sank out of
sight. Before them lay the somber surface of the rippling river, the
shadowy hills, and silence. The world seemed given over to the night save
for themselves, but they knew too well to trust to such apparent
desertion. At such hours the Indian scouts come, and Henry did not doubt
that they were already near, gathering news of their victims for the
Indian and Tory horde. Therefore, it was the part of his comrades and
himself to use the utmost caution as they passed up the river.

They bugged the western shore, where they were shadowed by banks and
bushes, and now they went slowly, Long Jim and Tom Ross drawing their oars
so carefully through the water that there was never a plash to tell of
their passing. Henry was in the prow of the boat, bent forward a little,
eyes searching the surface of the river, and ears intent upon any sound
that might pass on the bank. Suddenly he gave a little signal to the
rowers and they let their oars rest.

“Bring the boat in closer to the bank,” he whispered. “Push it gently
among those bushes where we cannot be seen from above.”

Tom and Jim obeyed. The boat slid softly among tall bushes that shadowed
the water, and was hidden completely. Then Henry stepped out, crept
cautiously nearly up the bank, which was here very low, and lay pressed
closely against the earth, but supported by the exposed root of a tree. He
had heard voices, those of Indians, he believed, and he wished to see.
Peering through a fringe of bushes that lined the bank he saw seven
warriors and one white face sitting under the boughs of a great oak. The
face was that of Braxton Wyatt, who was now in his element, with a better
prospect of success than any that he had ever known before. Henry
shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had spared Wyatt's life
when he might have taken it.

But Henry was lying against the bank to hear what these men might be
saying, not to slay. Two of the warriors, as he saw by their paint, were
Wyandots, and he understood the Wyandot tongue. Moreover, his slight
knowledge of Iroquois came into service, and gradually he gathered the
drift of their talk. Two miles nearer Forty Fort was a farmhouse one of
the Wyandots had seen it-not yet abandoned by its owner, who believed that
his proximity to Forty Fort assured his safety. He lived there with his
wife and five children, and Wyatt and the Indians planned to raid the
place before daylight and kill them all. Henry had heard enough. He slid
back from the bank to the water and crept into the boat.

“Pull back down the river as gently as you can,” he whispered, “and then
I'll tell you.”

The skilled oarsmen carried the boat without a splash several hundred
yards down the stream, and then Henry told the others of the fiendish plan
that he had heard.

“I know that man,” said Shif'less Sol. “His name is Standish. I was there
nine or ten hours ago, an' I told him it wuz time to take his family an'
run. But he knowed more'n I did. Said he'd stay, he wuzn't afraid, an' now
he's got to pay the price.”

“No, he mustn't do that,” said Henry. “It's too much to pay for just being
foolish, when everybody is foolish sometimes. Boys, we can yet save that
man an' his wife and children. Aren't you willing to do it?”

“Why, course,” said Long Jim. “Like ez not Standish will shoot at us when
we knock on his door, but let's try it.”

The others nodded assent.

“How far back from the river is the Standish house, Sol?” asked Henry.

“'Bout three hundred yards, I reckon, and' it ain't more'n a mile down.”

“Then if we pull with all our might, we won't be too late. Tom, you and
Jim give Sol and me the oars now.”

Henry and the shiftless one were fresh, and they sent the boat shooting
down stream, until they stopped at a point indicated by Sol. They leaped
ashore, drew the boat down the bank, and hastened toward a log house that
they saw standing in a clump of trees. The enemy had not yet come, but as
they swiftly approached the house a dog ran barking at them. The shiftless
one swung his rifle butt, and the dog fell unconscious.

“I hated to do it, but I had to,” he murmured. The next moment Henry was
knocking at the door.

“Up! Up!” he cried, “the Indians are at hand, and you must run for your
lives!”

How many a time has that terrible cry been heard on the American border!

The sound of a man's voice, startled and angry, came to their ears, and
then they heard him at the door.

“Who are you?” he cried. “Why are you beating on my door at such a time?”

“We are friends, Mr. Standish,” cried Henry, “and if you would save your
wife and children you must go at once! Open the door! Open, I say!”

The man inside was in a terrible quandary. It was thus that renegades or
Indians, speaking the white man's tongue, sometimes bade a door to be
opened, in order that they might find an easy path to slaughter. But the
voice outside was powerfully insistent, it had the note of truth; his wife
and children, roused, too, were crying out, in alarm. Henry knocked again
on the door and shouted to him in a voice, always increasing in
earnestness, to open and flee. Standish could resist no longer. He took
down the bar and flung open the door, springing back, startled at the five
figures that stood before him. In the dusk he did not remember Shif'less
Sol.

“Mr. Standish,” Henry said, speaking rapidly, “we are, as you can see,
white. You will be attacked here by Indians and renegades within half an
hour. We know that, because we heard them talking from the bushes. We have
a boat in the river; you can reach it in five minutes. Take your wife and
children, and pull for Forty Fort.”

Standish was bewildered.

“How do I know that you are not enemies, renegades, yourselves?” he asked.

“If we had been that you'd be a dead man already,” said Shif'less Sol.

It was a grim reply, but it was unanswerable, and Standish recognized the
fact. His wife had felt the truth in the tones of the strangers, and was
begging him to go. Their children were crying at visions of the tomahawk
and scalping knife now so near.

“We'll go,” said Standish. “At any rate, it can't do any harm. We'll get a
few things together.”

“Do not wait for anything!” exclaimed Henry. “You haven't a minute to
spare! Here are more blankets! Take them and run for the boat! Sol and
Jim, see them on board, and then come back!”

Carried away by such fire and earnestness, Standish and his family ran for
the boat. Jim and the shiftless one almost threw them on board, thrust a
pair of oars into the bands of Standish, another into the hands of his
wife, and then told them to pull with all their might for the fort.

“And you,” cried Standish, “what becomes of you?”

Then a singular expression passed over his face-he had guessed Henry's
plan.

“Don't you trouble about us,” said the shiftless one. “We will come later.
Now pull! pull!”

Standish and his wife swung on the oars, and in two minutes the boat and
its occupants were lost in the darkness. Tom Ross and Sol did not pause to
watch them, but ran swiftly back to the house. Henry was at the door.

“Come in,” he said briefly, and they entered. Then he closed the door and
dropped the bar into place. Shif'less Sol and Paul were already inside,
one sitting on the chair and the other on the edge of the bed. Some coals,
almost hidden under ashes, smoldered and cast a faint light in the room,
the only one that the house had, although it was divided into two parts by
a rough homespun curtain. Henry opened one of the window shutters a little
and looked out. The dawn had not yet come, but it was not a dark night,
and he looked over across the little clearing to the trees beyond. On that
side was a tiny garden, and near the wall of the house some roses were
blooming. He could see the glow of pink and red. But no enemy bad yet
approached. Searching the clearing carefully with those eyes of his,
almost preternaturally keen, he was confident that the Indians were still
in the woods. He felt an intense thrill of satisfaction at the success of
his plan so far.

He was not cruel, he never rejoiced in bloodshed, but the borderer alone
knew what the border suffered, and only those who never saw or felt the
torture could turn the other cheek to be smitten. The Standish house had
made a sudden and ominous change of tenants.

“It will soon be day,” said Henry, “and farmers are early risers. Kindle
up that fire a little, will you, Sol? I want some smoke to come out of the
chimney.”

The shiftless one raked away the ashes, and put on two or three pieces of
wood that lay on the hearth. Little flames and smoke arose. Henry looked
curiously about the house. It was the usual cabin of the frontier,
although somewhat larger. The bed on which Shif'less Sol sat was evidently
that of the father and mother, while two large ones behind the curtain
were used by the children. On the shelf stood a pail half full of drinking
water, and by the side of it a tin cup. Dried herbs hung over the
fireplace, and two or three chests stood in the corners. The clothing of
the children was scattered about. Unprepared food for breakfast stood on a
table. Everything told of a hasty flight and its terrible need. Henry was
already resolved, but his heart hardened within him as he saw.

He took the hatchet from his belt and cut one of the hooks for the door
bar nearly in two. The others said not a word. They had no need to speak.
They understood everything that he did. He opened the window again and
looked out. Nothing yet appeared. “The dawn will come in three quarters of
an hour,” he said, “and we shall not have to wait long for what we want to
do.”

He sat down facing the door. All the others were sitting, and they, too,
faced the door. Everyone had his rifle across his knees, with one hand
upon the hammer. The wood on the hearth sputtered as the fire spread, and
the flames grew. Beyond a doubt a thin spire of smoke was rising from the
chimney, and a watching eye would see this sign of a peaceful and
unsuspecting mind.

“I hope Braxton Wyatt will be the first to knock at our door,” said
Shif'less Sol.

“I wouldn't be sorry,” said Henry.

Paul was sitting in a chair near the fire, and he said nothing. He hoped
the waiting would be very short. The light was sufficient for him to see
the faces of his comrades, and he noticed that they were all very tense.
This was no common watch that they kept. Shif'less Sol remained on the
bed, Henry sat on another of the chairs, Tom Ross was on one of the chests
with his back to the wall. Long Jim was near the curtain. Close by Paul
was a home-made cradle. He put down his hand and touched it. He was glad
that it was empty now, but the sight of it steeled his heart anew for the
task that lay before them.

Ten silent minutes passed, and Henry went to the window again. He did not
open it, but there was a crack through which he could see. The others said
nothing, but watched his face. When he turned away they knew that the
moment was at hand.

“They've just come from the woods,” he said, “and in a minute they'll be
at the door. Now, boys, take one last look at your rifles.”

A minute later there was a sudden sharp knock at the door, but no answer
came from within. The knock was repeated, sharper and louder, and Henry,
altering his voice as much as possible, exclaimed like one suddenly
awakened from sleep:

“Who is it? What do you want?”

Back came a voice which Henry knew to be that of Braxton Wyatt:

“We've come from farther up the valley. We're scouts, we've been up to the
Indian country. We're half starved. Open and give us food!”

“I don't believe you,” replied Henry. “Honest people don't come to my door
at this time in the morning.”

Then ensued a few moments of silence, although Paul, with his vivid fancy,
thought he heard whispering on the other side of the door.

“Open!” cried Wyatt, “or we'll break your door down!” Henry said nothing,
nor did any of the others. They did not stir. The fire crackled a little,
but there was no other sound in the Standish house. Presently they heard a
slight noise outside, that of light feet.

“They are going for a log with which to break the door in,” whispered
Henry. “They won't have to look far. The wood pile isn't fifty feet away.”

“An' then,” said Shif'less Sol, “they won't have much left to do but to
take the scalps of women an' little children.”

Every figure in the Standish house stiffened at the shiftless one's
significant words, and the light in the eyes grew sterner. Henry went to
the door, put his ear to the line where it joined the wall, and listened.

“They've got their log,” he said, “and in half a minute they'll rush it
against the door.”

He came back to his old position. Paul's heart began to thump, and his
thumb fitted itself over the trigger of his cocked rifle. Then they heard
rapid feet, a smash, a crash, and the door flew open. A half dozen
Iroquois and a log that they held between them were hurled into the middle
of the room. The door had given away so easily and unexpectedly that the
warriors could not check themselves, and two or three fell with the log.
But they sprang like cats to their feet, and with their comrades uttered a
cry that filled the whole cabin with its terrible sound and import.

The Iroquois, keen of eyes and quick of mind, saw the trap at once. The
five grim figures, rifle in hand and finger on trigger, all waiting silent
and motionless were far different from what they expected. Here could be
no scalps, with the long, silky hair of women and children.

There was a moment's pause, and then the Indians rushed at their foes.
Five fingers pulled triggers, flame leaped from five muzzles, and in an
instant the cabin was filled with smoke and war shouts, but the warriors
never had a chance. They could only strike blindly with their tomahawks,
and in a half minute three of them, two wounded, rushed through the door
and fled to the woods. They had been preceded already by Braxton Wyatt,
who had hung back craftily while the Iroquois broke down the door.

CHAPTER IX. WYOMING

The five made no attempt to pursue. In fact, they did not leave the cabin,
but stood there a while, looking down at the fallen, hideous with war
paint, but now at the end of their last trail. Their tomahawks lay upon
the floor, and glittered when the light from the fire fell upon them.
Smoke, heavy with the odor of burned gunpowder, drifted about the room.

Henry threw open the two shuttered windows, and fresh currents of air
poured into the room. Over the mountains in the east came the first shaft
of day. The surface of the river was lightening.

“What shall we do with them?” asked Paul, pointing to the silent forms on
the floor.

“Leave them,” said Henry. “Butler's army is burning everything before it,
and this house and all in it is bound to go. You notice, however, that
Braxton Wyatt is not here.”

“Trust him to escape every time,” said Shif'less Sol. “Of course he stood
back while the Indians rushed the house. But ez shore ez we live somebody
will get him some day. People like that can't escape always.”

They slipped from the house, turning toward the river bank, and not long
after it was full daylight they were at Forty Fort again, where they found
Standish and his family. Henry replied briefly to the man's questions, but
two hours later a scout came in and reported the grim sight that he had
seen in the Standish home. No one could ask for further proof of the
fealty of the five, who sought a little sleep, but before noon were off
again.

They met more fugitives, and it was now too dangerous to go farther up the
valley. But not willing to turn back, they ascended the mountains that hem
it in, and from the loftiest point that they could find sought a sight of
the enemy.

It was an absolutely brilliant day in summer. The blue of the heavens
showed no break but the shifting bits of white cloud, and the hills and
mountains rolled away, solid masses of rich, dark green. The river, a
beautiful river at any time, seemed from this height a great current of
quicksilver. Henry pointed to a place far up the stream where black dots
appeared on its surface. These dots were moving, and they came on in four
lines.

“Boys,” he said, “you know what those lines of black dots are?”

“Yes,” replied Shif'less Sol, “it's Butler's army of Indians, Tories,
Canadians, an' English. They've come from Tioga Point on the river, an'
our Colonel Butler kin expect 'em soon.”

The sunlight became dazzling, and showed the boats, despite the distance,
with startling clearness. The five, watching from their peak, saw them
turn in toward the land, where they poured forth a motley stream of red
men and white, a stream that was quickly swallowed up in the forest.

“They are coming down through the woods on the fort, said Tom Ross.

“And they're coming fast,” said Henry. “It's for us to carry the warning.”

They sped back to the Wyoming fort, spreading the alarm as they passed,
and once more they were in the council room with Colonel Zebulon Butler
and his officers around him.

“So they are at hand, and you have seen them?” said the colonel.

“Yes,” replied Henry, the spokesman, “they came down from Tioga Point in
boats, but have disembarked and are advancing through the woods. They will
be here today.”

There was a little silence in the room. The older men understood the
danger perhaps better than the younger, who were eager for battle.

“Why should we stay here and wait for them?” exclaimed one of the younger
captains at length-some of these captains were mere boys. “Why not go out,
meet them, and beat them?”

“They outnumber us about five to one,” said Henry. “Brant, if he is still
with them, though he may have gone to some other place from Tioga Point,
is a great captain. So is Timmendiquas, the Wyandot, and they say that the
Tory leader is energetic and capable.”

“It is all true!” exclaimed Colonel Butler. “We must stay in the fort! We
must not go out to meet them! We are not strong enough!”

A murmur of protest and indignation came from the younger officers.

“And leave the valley to be ravaged! Women and children to be scalped,
while we stay behind log walls!” said one of them boldly.

The men in the Wyoming fort were not regular troops, merely militia,
farmers gathered hastily for their own defense.

Colonel Butler flushed.

“We have induced as many as we could to seek refuge,” he said. “It hurts
me as much as you to have the valley ravaged while we sit quiet here. But
I know that we have no chance against so large a force, and if we fall
what is to become of the hundreds whom we now protect?”

But the murmur of protest grew. All the younger men were indignant. They
would not seek shelter for themselves while others were suffering. A young
lieutenant saw from a window two fires spring up and burn like torch
lights against the sky. They were houses blazing before the Indian brand.

“Look at that!” he cried, pointing with an accusing finger, “and we are
here, under cover, doing nothing!”

A deep angry mutter went about the room, but Colonel Butler, although the
flush remained on his face, still shook his head. He glanced at Tom Ross,
the oldest of the five.

“You know about the Indian force,” he exclaimed. “What should we do?”

The face of Tom Ross was very grave, and he spoke slowly, as was his wont.

“It's a hard thing to set here,” he exclaimed, “but it will be harder to
go out an' meet 'em on their own ground, an' them four or five to one.”

“We must not go out,” repeated the Colonel, glad of such backing.

The door was thrust open, and an officer entered.

“A rumor has just arrived, saying that the entire Davidson family has been
killed and scalped,” he said.

A deep, angry cry went up. Colonel Butler and the few who stood with him
were overborne. Such things as these could not be endured, and reluctantly
the commander gave his consent. They would go out and fight. The fort and
its enclosures were soon filled with the sounds of preparation, and the
little army was formed rapidly.

“We will fight by your side, of course,” said Henry, “but we wish to serve
on the flank as an independent band. We can be of more service in that
manner.”

The colonel thanked them gratefully.

“Act as you think best,” he said.

The five stood near one of the gates, while the little force formed in
ranks. Almost for the first time they were gloomy upon going into battle.
They had seen the strength of that army of Indians, renegades, Tories,
Canadians, and English advancing under the banner of England, and they
knew the power and fanaticism of the Indian leaders. They believed that
the terrible Queen Esther, tomahawk in hand, had continually chanted to
them her songs of blood as they came down the river. It was now the third
of July, and valley and river were beautiful in the golden sunlight. The
foliage showed vivid and deep green on either line of high hills. The
summer sun had never shown more kindly over the lovely valley.

The time was now three o'clock. The gates of the fort were thrown open,
and the little army marched out, only three hundred, of whom seventy were
old men, or boys so young that in our day they would be called children.
Yet they marched bravely against the picked warriors of the Iroquois,
trained from infancy to the forest and war, and a formidable body of white
rovers who wished to destroy the little colony of “rebels,” as they called
them.

Small though it might be, it was a gallant army. Young and old held their
heads high. A banner was flying, and a boy beat a steady insistent roll
upon a drum. Henry and his comrades were on the left flank, the river was
on the right. The great gates had closed behind them, shutting in the
women and the children. The sun blazed down, throwing everything into
relief with its intense, vivid light playing upon the brown faces of the
borderers, their rifles and their homespun clothes. Colonel Butler and two
or three of his officers were on horseback, leading the van. Now that the
decision was to fight, the older officers, who had opposed it, were in the
very front. Forward they went, and spread out a little, but with the right
flank still resting on the river, and the left extended on the plain.

The five were on the edge of the plain, a little detached from the others,
searching the forest for a sign of the enemy, who was already so near.
Their gloom did not decrease. Neither the rolling of the drum nor the
flaunting of the banner had any effect. Brave though the men might be,
this was not the way in which they should meet an Indian foe who
outnumbered them four or five to one.

“I don't like it,” muttered Tom Ross.

“Nor do I,” said Henry, “but remember that whatever happens we all stand
together.”

“We remember!” said the others.

On-they went, and the five moving faster were now ahead of the main force
some hundred yards. They swung in a little toward the river. The banks
here were highland off to the left was a large swamp. The five now checked
speed and moved with great wariness. They saw nothing, and they heard
nothing, either, until they went forty or fifty yards farther. Then a low
droning sound came to their ears. It was the voice of one yet far away,
but they knew it. It was the terrible chant of Queen Esther, in this
moment the most ruthless of all the savages, and inflaming them
continuously for the combat.

The five threw themselves flat on their faces, and waited a little. The
chant grew louder, and then through the foliage they saw the ominous
figure approaching. She was much as she had been on that night when they
first beheld her. She wore the same dress of barbaric colors, she swung
the same great tomahawk about her head, and sang all the time of fire and
blood and death.

They saw behind her the figures of chiefs, naked to the breech cloth for
battle, their bronze bodies glistening with the war paint, and bright
feathers gleaming in their hair. Henry recognized the tall form of
Timmendiquas, notable by his height, and around him his little band of
Wyandots, ready to prove themselves mighty warriors to their eastern
friends the Iroquois. Back of these was a long line of Indians and their
white allies, Sir John Johnson's Royal Greens and Butler's Rangers in the
center, bearing the flag of England. The warriors, of whom the Senecas
were most numerous, were gathered in greatest numbers on their right
flank, facing the left flank of the Americans. Sangerachte and Hiokatoo,
who had taken two English prisoners at Braddock's defeat, and who had
afterwards burned them both alive with his own hand, were the principal
leaders of the Senecas. Henry caught a glimpse of “Indian” Butler in the
center, with a great blood-red handkerchief tied around his head, and,
despite the forest, he noticed with a great sinking of the heart how far
the hostile line extended. It could wrap itself like a python around the
defense.

“It's a tale that will soon be told,” said Paul.

They went back swiftly, and warned Colonel Butler that the enemy was at
band. Even as they spoke they heard the loud wailing chant of Queen
Esther, and then came the war whoop, pouring from a thousand throats,
swelling defiant and fierce like the cry of a wounded beast. The farmers,
the boys, and the old men, most of whom had never been in battle, might
well tremble at this ominous sound, so great in volume and extending so
far into the forest. But they stood firm, drawing themselves into a
somewhat more compact body, and still advancing with their banners flying,
and the boy beating out that steady roll on the drum.

The enemy now came into full sight, and Colonel Butler deployed his force
in line of battle, his right resting on the high bank of the river and his
left against the swamp. Forward pressed the motley army of the other
Butler, he of sanguinary and cruel fame, and the bulk of his force came
into view, the sun shining down on the green uniforms of the English and
the naked brown bodies of the Iroquois.

The American commander gave the order to fire. Eager fingers were already
on the trigger, and a blaze of light ran along the entire rank. The Royal
Greens and Rangers, although replying with their own fire, gave back
before the storm of bullets, and the Wyoming men, with a shout of triumph,
sprang forward. It was always a characteristic of the border settler,
despite many disasters and a knowledge of Indian craft and cunning, to
rush straight at his foe whenever he saw him. His, unless a trained forest
warrior himself, was a headlong bravery, and now this gallant little force
asked for nothing but to come to close grips with the enemy.

The men in the center with “Indian” Butler gave back still more. With
cries of victory the Wyoming men pressed forward, firing rapidly, and
continuing to drive the mongrel white force. The rifles were cracking
rapidly, and smoke arose over the two lines. The wind caught wisps of it
and carried them off down the river.

“It goes better than I thought,” said Paul as he reloaded his rifle.

“Not yet,” said Henry, “we are fighting the white men only. Where are all
the Indians, who alone outnumber our men more than two to one?”

“Here they come,” said Shif'less Sol, pointing to the depths of the swamp,
which was supposed to protect the left flank of the Wyoming force.

The five saw in the spaces, amid the briars and vines, scores of dark
figures leaping over the mud, naked to the breech cloth, armed with rifle
and tomahawk, and rushing down upon the unprotected side of their foe. The
swamp had been but little obstacle to them.

Henry and his comrades gave the alarm at once. As many as possible were
called off immediately from the main body, but they were not numerous
enough to have any effect. The Indians came through the swamp in hundreds
and hundreds, and, as they uttered their triumphant yell, poured a
terrible fire into the Wyoming left flank. The defenders were forced to
give ground, and the English and Tories came on again.

The fire was now deadly and of great volume. The air was filled with the
flashing of the rifles. The cloud of smoke grew heavier, and faces, either
from heat or excitement, showed red through it. The air was filled with
bullets, and the Wyoming force was being cut down fast, as the fire of
more than a thousand rifles converged upon it.

The five at the fringe of the swamp loaded and fired as fast as they could
at the Indian horde, but they saw that it was creeping closer and closer,
and that the hail of bullets it sent in was cutting away the whole left
flank of the defenders. They saw the tall figure of Timmendiquas, a very
god of war, leading on the Indians, with his fearless Wyandots in a close
cluster around him. Colonel John Durkee, gathering up a force of fifty or
sixty, charged straight at the warriors, but he was killed by a withering
volley, which drove his men back.

Now occurred a fatal thing, one of those misconceptions which often decide
the fate of a battle. The company of Captain Whittlesey, on the extreme
left, which was suffering most severely, was ordered to fall back. The
entire little army, which was being pressed hard now, seeing the movement
of Whittlesey, began to retreat. Even without the mistake it is likely
they would have lost in the face of such numbers.

The entire horde of Indians, Tories, Canadians, English, and renegades,
uttering a tremendous yell, rushed forward. Colonel Zebulon Butler, seeing
the crisis, rode up and down in front of his men, shouting: “Don't leave
me, my children! the victory is ours!” Bravely his officers strove to stop
the retreat. Every captain who led a company into action was killed. Some
of these captains were but boys. The men were falling by dozens.

All the Indians, by far the most formidable part of the invading force,
were through the swamp now, and, dashing down their unloaded rifles, threw
themselves, tomahawk in hand, upon the defense. Not more than two hundred
of the Wyoming men were left standing, and the impact of seven or eight
hundred savage warriors was so great that they were hurled back in
confusion. A wail of grief and terror came from the other side of the
river, where a great body of women and children were watching the
fighting.

“The battle's lost,” said Shif'less Sol.

“Beyond hope of saving it,” said Henry, “but, boys, we five are alive yet,
and we'll do our best to help the others protect the retreat.”

They kept under cover, fighting as calmly as they could amid such a
terrible scene, picking off warrior after warrior, saving more than one
soldier ere the tomahawk fell. Shif'less Sol took a shot at “Indian”
Butler, but he was too far away, and the bullet missed him.

“I'd give five years of my life if he were fifty yards nearer,” exclaimed
the shiftless one.

But the invading force came in between and he did not get another shot.
There was now a terrible medley, a continuous uproar, the crashing fire of
hundreds of rifles, the shouts of the Indians, and the cries of the
wounded. Over them all hovered smoke and dust, and the air was heavy, too,
with the odor of burnt gunpowder. The division of old men and very young
boys stood next, and the Indians were upon them, tomahawk in hand, but in
the face of terrible odds all bore themselves with a valor worthy of the
best of soldiers. Three fourths of them died that day, before they were
driven back on the fort.

The Wyoming force was pushed away from the edge of the swamp, which had
been some protection to the left, and they were now assailed from all
sides except that of the river. “Indian” Butler raged at the head of his
men, who had been driven back at first, and who had been saved by the
Indians. Timmendiquas, in the absence of Brant, who was not seen upon this
field, became by valor and power of intellect the leader of all the
Indians for this moment. The Iroquois, although their own fierce chiefs,
I-Tiokatoo, Sangerachte, and the others fought with them, unconsciously
obeyed him. Nor did the fierce woman, Queen Esther, shirk the battle.
Waving her great tomahawk, she was continually among the warriors, singing
her song of war and death.

They were driven steadily back toward the fort, and the little band
crumbled away beneath the deadly fire. Soon none would be left unless they
ran for their lives. The five drew away toward the forest. They saw that
the fort itself could not hold out against such a numerous and victorious
foe, and they had no mind to be trapped. But their retreat was slow, and
as they went they sent bullet after bullet into the Indian flank. Only a
small percentage of the Wyoming force was left, and it now broke. Colonel
Butler and Colonel Dennison, who were mounted, reached the fort. Some of
the men jumped into the river, swam to the other shore and escaped. Some
swam to a little island called Monocacy, and hid, but the Tories and
Indians hunted them out and slew them. One Tory found his brother there,
and killed him with his own hand, a deed of unspeakable horror that is yet
mentioned by the people of that region. A few fled into the forest and
entered the fort at night.

CHAPTER X. THE BLOODY ROCK

Seeing that all was lost, the five drew farther away into the woods. They
were not wounded, yet their faces were white despite the tan. They had
never before looked upon so terrible a scene. The Indians, wild with the
excitement of a great triumph and thirsting for blood, were running over
the field scalping the dead, killing some of the wounded, and saving
others for the worst of tortures. Nor were their white allies one whit
behind them. They bore a full part in the merciless war upon the
conquered. Timmendiquas, the great Wyandot, was the only one to show
nobility. Several of the wounded he saved from immediate death, and he
tried to hold back the frenzied swarm of old squaws who rushed forward and
began to practice cruelties at which even the most veteran warrior might
shudder. But Queen Esther urged them on, and “Indian” Butler himself and
the chiefs were afraid of her.

Henry, despite himself, despite all his experience and powers of
self-control, shuddered from head to foot at the cries that came from the
lost field, and he was sure that the others were doing the same. The sun
was setting, but its dying light, brilliant and intense, tinged the field
as if with blood, showing all the yelling horde as the warriors rushed
about for scalps, or danced in triumph, whirling their hideous trophies
about their heads. Others were firing at men who were escaping to the far
bank of the Susquehanna, and others were already seeking the fugitives in
their vain hiding places on the little islet.

The five moved farther into the forest, retreating slowly, and sending in
a shot now and then to protect the retreat of some fugitive who was
seeking the shelter of the woods. The retreat had become a rout and then a
massacre. The savages raged up and down in the greatest killing they had
known since Braddock's defeat. The lodges of the Iroquois would be full of
the scalps of white men.

All the five felt the full horror of the scene, but it made its deepest
impress, perhaps, upon Paul. He had taken part in border battles before,
but this was the first great defeat. He was not blind to the valor and
good qualities of the Indian and his claim upon the wilderness, but he saw
the incredible cruelties that he could commit, and he felt a horror of
those who used him as an ally, a horror that he could never dismiss from
his mind as long as he lived.

“Look!” he exclaimed, “look at that!”

A man of seventy and a boy of fourteen were running for the forest. They
might have been grandfather and grandson. Undoubtedly they had fought in
the Battalion of the Very Old and the Very Young, and now, when everything
else was lost, they were seeking to save their lives in the friendly
shelter of the woods. But they were pursued by two groups of Iroquois,
four warriors in one, and three in the other, and the Indians were gaining
fast.

“I reckon we ought to save them,” said Shif'less Sol.

“No doubt of it,” said Henry. “Paul, you and Sol move off to the right a
little, and take the three, while the rest of us will look out for the
four.”

The little band separated according to the directions, Paul and Sol having
the lighter task, as the others were to meet the group of four Indians at
closer range. Paul and Sol were behind some trees, and, turning at an
angle, they ran forward to intercept the three Indians. It would have
seemed to anyone who was not aware of the presence of friends in the
forest that the old man and the boy would surely be overtaken and be
tomahawked, but three rifles suddenly flashed among the foliage. Two of
the warriors in the group of four fell, and a third uttered a yell of
pain. Paul and Shif'less Sol fired at the same time at the group of three.
One fell before the deadly rifle of Shif'less Sol, but Paul only grazed
his man. Nevertheless, the whole pursuit stopped, and the boy and the old
man escaped to the forest, and subsequently to safety at the Moravian
towns.

Paul, watching the happy effect of the shots, was about to say something
to Shif'less Sol, when an immense force was hurled upon him, and he was
thrown to the ground. His comrade was served in the same way, but the
shiftless one was uncommonly strong and agile. He managed to writhe half
way to his knees, and he shouted in a tremendous voice:

“Run, Henry, run! You can't do anything for us now!”

Braxton Wyatt struck him fiercely across the mouth. The blood came, but
the shiftless one merely spat it out, and looked curiously at the
renegade.

“I've often wondered about you, Braxton,” he said calmly. “I used to think
that anybody, no matter how bad, had some good in him, but I reckon you
ain't got none.”

Wyatt did not answer, but rushed forward in search of the others. But
Henry, Silent Tom, and Long Jim had vanished. A powerful party of warriors
had stolen upon Shif'less Sol and Paul, while they were absorbed in the
chase of the old man and the boy, and now they were prisoners, bound
securely. Braxton Wyatt came back from the fruitless search for the three,
but his face was full of savage joy as he looked down at the captured two.

“We could have killed you just as easily,” he said, “but we didn't want to
do that. Our friends here are going to have their fun with you first.”

Paul's cheeks whitened a little at the horrible suggestion, but Shif'less
Sol faced them boldly. Several white men in uniform had come up, and among
them was an elderly one, short and squat, and with a great flame colored
handkerchief tied around his bead.

“You may burn us alive, or you may do other things jest ez bad to us, all
under the English flag,” said Shif'less Sol, “but I'm thinkin' that a lot
o' people in England will be ashamed uv it when they hear the news.”

“Indian” Butler and his uniformed soldiers turned away, leaving Shif'less
Sol and Paul in the hands of the renegade and the Iroquois. The two
prisoners were jerked to their feet and told to march.

“Come on, Paul,” said Shif'less Sol. “'Tain't wuth while fur us to resist.
But don't you quit hopin', Paul. We've escaped from many a tight corner,
an' mebbe we're goin' to do it ag'in.”

“Shut up!” said Braxton Wyatt savagely. “If you say another word I'll gag
you in a way that will make you squirm.”

Shif'less Sol looked him squarely in the eye. Solomon Hyde, who was not
shiftless at all, had a dauntless soul, and he was not afraid now in the
face of death preceded by long torture.

“I had a dog once, Braxton Wyatt,” he said, “an' I reckon he wuz the
meanest, ornierest cur that ever lived. He liked to live on dirt, the
dirtier the place he could find the better; he'd rather steal his food
than get it honestly; he wuz sech a coward that he wuz afeard o' a rabbit,
but ef your back wuz turned to him he'd nip you in the ankle. But bad ez
that dog wuz, Braxton, he wuz a gentleman 'longside o' you.”

Some of the Indians understood English, and Wyatt knew it. He snatched a
pistol from his belt, and was about to strike Sol with the butt of it, but
a tall figure suddenly appeared before him, and made a commanding gesture.
The gesture said plainly: “Do not strike; put that pistol back!” Braxton
Wyatt, whose soul was afraid within him, did not strike, and he put the
pistol back.

It was Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots, who with
his little detachment had proved that day how mighty the Wyandot warriors
were, full equals of Thayendanegea's Mohawks, the Keepers of the Western
Gate. He was bare to the waist. One shoulder was streaked with blood from
a slight wound, but his countenance was not on fire with passion for
torture and slaughter like those of the others.

“There is no need to strike prisoners,” he said in English. “Their fate
will be decided later.”

Paul thought that he caught a look of pity from the eyes of the great
Wyandot, and Shif'less Sol said:

“I'm sorry, Timmendiquas, since I had to be captured, that you didn't
capture me yourself. I'm glad to say that you're a great warrior.”

Wyatt growled under his breath, but he was still afraid to speak out,
although he knew that Timmendiquas was merely a distant and casual ally,
and had little authority in that army. Yet he was overawed, and so were
the Indians with him.

“We were merely taking the prisoners to Colonel Butler,” he said. “That is
all.”

Timmendiquas stared at him, and the renegade's face fell. But he and the
Indians went on with the prisoners, and Timmendiquas looked after them
until they were out of sight.

“I believe White Lightning was sorry that we'd been captured,” whispered
Shif'less Sol.

“I think so, too,” Paul whispered back.

They had no chance for further conversation, as they were driven rapidly
now to that point of the battlefield which lay nearest to the fort, and
here they were thrust into the midst of a gloomy company, fellow captives,
all bound tightly, and many wounded. No help, no treatment of any kind was
offered for hurts. The Indians and renegades stood about and yelled with
delight when the agony of some man's wound wrung from him a groan. The
scene was hideous in every respect. The setting sun shone blood red over
forest, field, and river. Far off burning houses still smoked like
torches. But the mountain wall in the east, was growing dusky with the
coming twilight. From the island, where they were massacring the fugitives
in their vain hiding places, came the sound of shots and cries, but
elsewhere the firing had ceased. All who could escape had done so already,
and of the others, those who were dead were fortunate.

The sun sank like a red ball behind the mountains, and darkness swept down
over the earth. Fires began to blaze up here and there, some for terrible
purpose. The victorious Iroquois; stripped to the waist and painted in
glaring colors, joined in a savage dance that would remain forever
photographed on the eye of Paul Cotter. As they jumped to and fro,
hundreds of them, waving aloft tomahawks and scalping knives, both of
which dripped red, they sang their wild chant of war and triumph. White
men, too, as savage as they, joined them. Paul shuddered again and again
from head to foot at this sight of an orgy such as the mass of mankind
escapes, even in dreams.

The darkness thickened, the dance grew wilder. It was like a carnival of
demons, but it was to be incited to a yet wilder pitch. A singular figure,
one of extraordinary ferocity, was suddenly projected into the midst of
the whirling crowd, and a chant, shriller and fiercer, rose above all the
others. The figure was that of Queen Esther, like some monstrous creature
out of a dim past, her great tomahawk stained with blood, her eyes
bloodshot, and stains upon her shoulders. Paul would have covered his eyes
had his hands not been tied instead, he turned his head away. He could not
bear to see more. But the horrible chant came to his ears, nevertheless,
and it was reinforced presently by other sounds still more terrible. Fires
sprang up in the forest, and cries came from these fires. The victorious
army of “Indian” Butler was beginning to burn the prisoners alive. But at
this point we must stop. The details of what happened around those fires
that night are not for the ordinary reader. It suffices to say that the
darkest deed ever done on the soil of what is now the United States was
being enacted.

Shif'less Sol himself, iron of body and soul, was shaken. He could not
close his ears, if he would, to the cries that came from the fires, but he
shut his eyes to keep out the demon dance. Nevertheless, he opened them
again in a moment. The horrible fascination was too great. He saw Queen
Esther still shaking her tomahawk, but as he looked she suddenly darted
through the circle, warriors willingly giving way before her, and
disappeared in the darkness. The scalp dance went on, but it had lost some
of its fire and vigor.

Shif'less Sol felt relieved.

“She's gone,” he whispered to Paul, and the boy, too, then opened his
eyes. The rest of it, the mad whirlings and jumpings of the warriors, was
becoming a blur before him, confused and without meaning.

Neither he nor Shif'less Sol knew how long they had been sitting there on
the ground, although it had grown yet darker, when Braxton Wyatt thrust a
violent foot against the shiftless one and cried:

“Get up! You're wanted!”

A half dozen Seneca warriors were with him, and there was no chance of
resistance. The two rose slowly to their feet, and walked where Braxton
Wyatt led. The Senecas came on either side, and close behind them,
tomahawks in their hands. Paul, the sensitive, who so often felt the
impression of coming events from the conditions around him, was sure that
they were marching to their fate. Death he did not fear so greatly,
although he did not want to die, but when a shriek came to him from one of
the fires that convulsive shudder shook him again from head to foot.
Unconsciously he strained at his bound arms, not for freedom, but that he
might thrust his fingers in his ears and shut out the awful sounds.
Shif'less Sol, because he could not use his hands, touched his shoulder
gently against Paul's.

“Paul,” he whispered, “I ain't sure that we're goin' to die, leastways, I
still have hope; but ef we do, remember that we don't have to die but
oncet.”

“I'll remember, Sol,” Paul whispered back.

“Silence, there!” exclaimed Braxton Wyatt. But the two had said all they
wanted to say, and fortunately their senses were somewhat dulled. They had
passed through so much that they were like those who are under the
influence of opiates. The path was now dark, although both torches and
fires burned in the distance. Presently they heard that chant with which
they had become familiar, the dreadful notes of the hyena woman, and they
knew that they were being taken into her presence, for what purpose they
could not tell, although they were sure that it was a bitter one. As they
approached, the woman's chant rose to an uncommon pitch of frenzy, and
Paul felt the blood slowly chilling within him.

“Get up there!” exclaimed Braxton Wyatt, and the Senecas gave them both a
push. Other warriors who were standing at the edge of an open space seized
them and threw them forward with much violence. When they struggled into a
sitting position, they saw Queen Esther standing upon a broad flat rock
and whirling in a ghastly dance that had in it something Oriental. She
still swung the great war hatchet that seemed always to be in her hand.
Her long black hair flew wildly about her head, and her red dress gleamed
in the dusk. Surely no more terrible image ever appeared in the American
wilderness! In front of her, lying upon the ground, were twenty bound
Americans, and back of them were Iroquois in dozens, with a sprinkling of
their white allies.

What it all meant, what was about to come to pass, nether Paul nor
Shif'less Sol could guess, but Queen Esther sang:

  We have found them, the Yengees
  Who built their houses in the valley,
  They came forth to meet us in battle,
  Our rifles and tomahawks cut them down,
  As the Yengees lay low the forest.
  Victory and glory Aieroski gives to his children,
  The Mighty Six Nations, greatest of men.

  There will be feasting in the lodges of the Iroquois,
  And scalps will hang on the high ridge pole,
  But wolves will roam where the Yengees dwelt
  And will gnaw the bones of them all,
  Of the man, the woman, and the child.
  Victory and glory Aieroski gives to his children,
  The Mighty Six Nations, greatest of men.

Such it sounded to Shif'less Sol, who knew the tongue of the Iroquois, and
so it went on, verse after verse, and at the end of each verse came the
refrain, in which the warriors joined:

“Victory and glory Aieroski gives to his children. The mighty Six Nations,
greatest of men.”

“What under the sun is she about?” whispered Shif'less Sol.

“It is a fearful face,” was Paul's only reply.

Suddenly the woman, without stopping her chant, made a gesture to the
warriors. Two powerful Senecas seized one of the bound prisoners, dragged
him to his feet, and held him up before her. She uttered a shout, whirled
the great tomahawk about her head, its blade glittering in the moonlight,
and struck with all her might. The skull of the prisoner was cleft to the
chin, and without a cry he fell at the feet of the woman who had killed
him. Paul uttered a shout of horror, but it was lost in the joyful yells
of the Iroquois, who, at the command of the woman, offered a second
victim. Again the tomahawk descended, and again a man fell dead without a
sound.

Shif'less Sol and Paul wrenched at their thongs, but they could not move
them. Braxton Wyatt laughed aloud. It was strange to see how fast one with
a bad nature could fall when the opportunities were spread before him. Now
he was as cruel as the Indians themselves. Wilder and shriller grew the
chant of the savage queen. She was intoxicated with blood. She saw it
everywhere. Her tomahawk clove a third skull, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth,
a seventh, and eighth. As fast as they fell the warriors at her command
brought up new victims for her weapon. Paul shut his eyes, but he knew by
the sounds what was passing. Suddenly a stern voice cried:

“Hold, woman! Enough of this! Will your tomahawk never be satisfied?”

Paul understood it, the meaning, but not the words. He opened his eyes and
saw the great figure of Timmendiquas striding forward, his hand upraised
in protest.

The woman turned her fierce gaze upon the young chief. “Timmendiquas,” she
said, “we are the Iroquois, and we are the masters. You are far from your
own land, a guest in our lodges, and you cannot tell those who have won
the victory how they shall use it. Stand back!”

A loud laugh came from the Iroquois. The fierce old chiefs, Hiokatoo and
Sangerachte, and a dozen warriors thrust themselves before Timmendiquas.
The woman resumed her chant, and a hundred throats pealed out with her the
chorus:

Victory and glory Aieroski gives to his children The mighty Six Nations,
greatest of men.

She gave the signal anew. The ninth victim stood before her, and then
fell, cloven to the chin; then the tenth, and the eleventh, and the
twelfth, and the thirteenth, and the fourteenth, and the fifteenth, and
the sixteenth-sixteen bound men killed by one woman in less than fifteen
minutes. The four in that group who were left had all the while been
straining fearfully at their bonds. Now they had slipped or broken them,
and, springing to their feet, driven on by the mightiest of human
impulses, they dashed through the ring of Iroquois and into the forest.
Two were hunted down by the warriors and killed, but the other two, Joseph
Elliott and Lebbeus Hammond, escaped and lived to be old men, feeling that
life could never again hold for them anything so dreadful as that scene at
“The Bloody Rock.”

A great turmoil and confusion arose as the prisoners fled and the Indians
pursued. Paul and Shif'less Sol; full of sympathy and pity for the
fugitives and having felt all the time that their turn, too, would come
under that dreadful tomahawk, struggled to their feet. They did not see a
form slip noiselessly behind them, but a sharp knife descended once, then
twice, and the bands of both fell free.

“Run! run!” exclaimed the voice of Timmendiquas, low but penetrating. “I
would save you from this!”

Amid the darkness and confusion the act of the great Wyandot was not seen
by the other Indians and the renegades. Paul flashed him one look of
gratitude, and then he and Shif'less Sol darted away, choosing a course
that led them from the crowd in pursuit of the other flying fugitives.

At such a time they might have secured a long lead without being noticed,
had it not been for the fierce swarm of old squaws who were first in
cruelty that night. A shrill wild howl arose, and the pointing fingers of
the old women showed to the warriors the two in flight. At the same time
several of the squaws darted forward to intercept the fugitives.

“I hate to hit a woman,” breathed Shif'less Sol to Paul, “but I'm goin' to
do it now.”

A hideous figure sprang before them. Sol struck her face with his open
hand, and with a shriek she went down. He leaped over her, although she
clawed at his feet as he passed, and ran on, with Paul at his side. Shots
were now fired at him, but they went wild, but Paul, casting a look
backward out of the corner of his eye, saw that a real pursuit, silent and
deadly, had begun. Five Mohawk warriors, running swiftly, were only a few
hundred yards away. They carried rifle, tomahawk, and knife, and Paul and
Shif'less Sol were unarmed. Moreover, they were coming fast, spreading out
slightly, and the shiftless one, able even at such a time to weigh the
case coolly, saw that the odds were against them. Yet he would not
despair. Anything might happen. It was night. There was little
organization in the army of the Indians and of their white allies, which
was giving itself up to the enjoyment of scalps and torture. Moreover, he
and Paul were, animated by the love of life, which is always stronger than
the desire to give death.

Their flight led them in a diagonal line toward the mountains. Only once
did the pursuers give tongue. Paul tripped over a root, and a triumphant
yell came from the Mohawks. But it merely gave him new life. He recovered
himself in an instant and ran faster. But it was terribly hard work. He
could hear Shif'less Sol's sobbing breath by his side, and he was sure
that his own must have the same sound for his comrade.

“At any rate one uv 'em is beat,” gasped Shif'less Sol. “Only four are
ban-in' on now.”

The ground rose a little and became rougher. The lights from the Indian
fires had sunk almost out of sight behind them, and a dense thicket lay
before them. Something stirred in the thicket, and the eyes of Shif'less
Sol caught a glimpse of a human shoulder. His heart sank like a plummet in
a pool. The Indians were ahead of them. They would be caught, and would be
carried back to become the victims of the terrible tomahawk.

The figure in the bushes rose a little higher, the muzzle of a rifle was
projected, and flame leaped from the steel tube.

But it was neither Shif'less Sol nor Paul who fell. They heard a cry
behind them, and when Shif'less Sol took a hasty glance backward he saw
one of the Mohawks fall. The three who were left hesitated and stopped.
When a second shot was fired from the bushes and another Mohawk went down,
the remaining two fled.

Shif'less Sol understood now, and he rushed into the bushes, dragging Paul
after him. Henry, Tom, and Long Jim rose up to receive them.

“So you wuz watchin' over us!” exclaimed the shiftless one joyously. “It
wuz you that clipped off the first Mohawk, an' we didn't even notice the
shot.”

“Thank God, you were here!” exclaimed Paul. “You don't know what Sol and I
have seen!”

Overwrought, he fell forward, but his comrades caught him.

CHAPTER XI. THE MELANCHOLY FLIGHT

Paul revived in a few minutes. They were still lying in the bushes, and
when he was able to stand up again, they moved at an angle several hundred
yards before they stopped. One pistol was thrust into Paul's hand and
another into that of Shif'less Sol.

“Keep those until we can get rifles for you,” said Henry. “You may need
'em to-night.”

They crouched down in the thicket and looked back toward the Indian camp.
The warriors whom they had repulsed were not returning with help, and, for
the moment, they seemed to have no enemy to fear, yet they could still see
through the woods the faint lights of the Indian camps, and to Paul, at
least, came the echoes of distant cries that told of things not to be
written.

“We saw you captured, and we heard Sol's warning cry,” said Henry. “There
was nothing to do but run. Then we hid and waited a chance for rescue.”

“It would never have come if it had not been for Timmendiquas,” said Paul.

“Timmendiquas!” exclaimed Henry.

“Yes, Timmendiquas,” said Paul, and then he told the story of “The Bloody
Rock,” and how, in the turmoil and excitement attending the flight of the
last four, Timmendiquas had cut the bonds of Shif'less Sol and himself.

“I think the mind o' White Lightnin', Injun ez he is,” said Shif'less Sol,
“jest naterally turned aginst so much slaughter an' torture o' prisoners.”

“I'm sure you're right,” said Henry.

“'Pears strange to me,” said Long Jim Hart, “that Timmendiquas was made an
Injun. He's jest the kind uv man who ought to be white, an' he'd be
pow'ful useful, too. I don't jest eggzactly understan' it.”

“He has certainly saved the lives of at least three of us,” said Henry. “I
hope we will get a chance to pay him back in full.”

“But he's the only one,” said Shif'less Sol, thinking of all that he had
seen that night. “The Iroquois an' the white men that's allied with 'em
won't ever get any mercy from me, ef any uv 'em happen to come under my
thumb. I don't think the like o' this day an' night wuz ever done on this
continent afore. I'm for revenge, I am, like that place where the Bible
says, 'an eye for an eye, an' a tooth for a tooth,' an' I'm goin' to stay
in this part o' the country till we git it!”

It was seldom that Shif'less Sol spoke with so much passion and energy.

“We're all going to stay with you, Sol,” said Henry. “We're needed here. I
think we ought to circle about the fort, slip in if we can, and fight with
the defense.”

“Yes, we'll do that,” said Shif'less Sol, “but the Wyoming fort can't ever
hold out. Thar ain't a hundred men left in it fit to fight, an' thar are
more than than a thousand howlin' devils outside ready to attack it. Thar
may be worse to come than anything we've yet seen.”

“Still, we'll go in an' help,” said Henry. “Sol, when you an' Paul have
rested a little longer we'll make a big loop around in the woods, and come
up to the fort on the other side.”

They were in full accord, and after an hour in the bushes, where they lay
completely hidden, recovering their vitality and energy, they undertook to
reach the fort and cabins inclosed by the palisades. Paul was still weak
from shock, but Shif'less Sol had fully recovered. Neither bad weapons,
but they were sure that the want could be supplied soon. They curved
around toward the west, intending to approach the fort from the other
side, but they did not wholly lose sight of the fires, and they heard now
and then the triumphant war whoop. The victors were still engaged in the
pleasant task of burning the prisoners to death. Little did the five,
seeing and feeling only their part of it there in the dark woods, dream
that the deeds of this day and night would soon shock the whole civilized
world, and remain, for generations, a crowning act of infamy. But they
certainly felt it deeply enough, and in each heart burned a fierce desire
for revenge upon the Iroquois.

It was almost midnight when they secured entrance into the fort, which was
filled with grief and wailing. That afternoon more than one hundred and
fifty women within those walls had been made widows, and six hundred
children had been made orphans. But few men fit to bear arms were left for
its defense, and it was certain that the allied British and Indian army
would easily take it on the morrow. A demand for its surrender in the name
of King George III of England had already been made, and, sitting at a
little rough table in the cabin of Thomas Bennett, the room lighted only
by a single tallow wick, Colonel Butler and Colonel Dennison were writing
an agreement that the fort be surrendered the next day, with what it
should contain. But Colonel Butler put his wife on a horse and escaped
with her over the mountains.

Stragglers, evading the tomahawk in the darkness, were coming in, only to
be surrendered the next day; others were pouring forth in a stream,
seeking the shelter of the mountains and the forest, preferring any
dangers that might be found there to the mercies of the victors.

When Shif'less Sol learned that the fort was to be given up, he said:

“It looks ez ef we had escaped from the Iroquois jest in time to beg 'em
to take us back.”

“I reckon I ain't goin' to stay 'roun' here while things are bein'
surrendered,” said Long Jim Hart.

“I'll do my surrenderin' to Iroquois when they've got my hands an' feet
tied, an' six or seven uv 'em are settin' on my back,” said Tom Ross.

“We'll leave as soon as we can get arms for Sol and Paul,” said Henry. “Of
course it would be foolish of us to stay here and be captured again.
Besides, we'll be needed badly enough by the women and children that are
going.”

Good weapons were easily obtained in the fort. It was far better to let
Sol and Paul have them than to leave them for the Indians. They were able
to select two fine rifles of the Kentucky pattern, long and slender
barreled, a tomahawk and knife for each, and also excellent
double-barreled pistols. The other three now had double-barreled pistols,
too. In addition they resupplied themselves with as much ammunition as
scouts and hunters could conveniently carry, and toward morning left the
fort.

Sunrise found them some distance from the palisades, and upon the flank of
a frightened crowd of fugitives. It was composed of one hundred women and
children and a single man, James Carpenter, who was doing his best to
guide and protect them. They were intending to flee through the wilderness
to the Delaware and Lehigh settlements, chiefly Fort Penn, built by Jacob
Stroud, where Stroudsburg now is.

When the five, darkened by weather and looking almost like Indians
themselves, approached, Carpenter stepped forward and raised his rifle. A
cry of dismay rose from the melancholy line, a cry so intensely bitter
that it cut Henry to the very heart. He threw up his hand, and exclaimed
in a loud voice:

“We are friends, not Indians or Tories! We fought with you yesterday, and
we are ready to fight for you now!”

Carpenter dropped the muzzle of the rifle. He had fought in the battle,
too, and he recognized the great youth and his comrades who had been there
with him.

“What do you want of us?” asked he.

“Nothing,” replied Henry, “except to help you.”

Carpenter looked at them with a kind of sad pathos.

“You don't belong here in Wyoming,” he said, “and there's nothing to make
you stick to us. What are you meaning to do?”

“We will go with you wherever you intend to go,” replied Henry; “do
fighting for you if you need it, and hunt game for you, which you are
certain to need.”

The weather-beaten face of the farmer worked.

“I thought God had clean deserted us,” he said, “but I'm ready to take it
back. I reckon that he has sent you five to help me with all these women
and little ones.”

It occurred to Henry that perhaps God, indeed, had sent them for this very
purpose, but he replied simply:

“You lead on, and we'll stay in the rear and on the sides to watch for the
Indians. Draw into the woods, where we'll be hidden.”

Carpenter, obscure hero, shouldered his rifle again, and led on toward the
woods. The long line of women and children followed. Some of the women
carried in their arms children too small to walk. Yet they were more
hopeful now when they saw that the five were friends. These lithe, active
frontiersmen, so quick, so skillful, and so helpful, raised their courage.
Yet it was a most doleful flight. Most of these women had been made widows
the day before, some of them had been made widows and childless at the
same time, and wondered why they should seek to live longer. But the very
mental stupor of many of them was an aid. They ceased to cry out, and some
even ceased to be afraid.

Henry, Shif'less Sol, and Tom dropped to the rear. Paul and Long Jim were
on either flank, while Carpenter led slowly on toward the mountains.

“'Pears to me,” said Tom, “that the thing fur us to do is to hurry 'em up
ez much ez possible.”

“So the Indians won't see 'em crossing the plain,” said Henry. “We
couldn't defend them against a large force, and it would merely be a
massacre. We must persuade them to walk faster.”

Shif'less Sol was invaluable in this crisis. He could talk forever in
his-placid way, and, with his gentle encouragement, mild sarcasm, and
anecdotes of great feminine walkers that he had known, he soon had them
moving faster.

Henry and Tom dropped farther to the rear. They could see ahead of them
the long dark line, coiling farther into the woods, but they could also
see to right and left towers of smoke rising in the clear morning
sunlight. These, they knew, came from burning houses, and they knew, also,
that the valley would be ravaged from end to end and from side to side.
After the surrender of the fort the Indians would divide into small bands,
going everywhere, and nothing could escape them.

The sun rose higher, gilding the earth with glowing light, as if the black
tragedy had never happened, but the frontiersmen recognized their greatest
danger in this brilliant morning. Objects could be seen at a great
distance, and they could be seen vividly.

Keen of sight and trained to know what it was they saw, Henry, Sol, and
Tom searched the country with their eyes, on all sides. They caught a
distant glimpse of the Susquehanna, a silver spot among some trees, and
they saw the sunlight glancing off the opposite mountains, but for the
present they saw nothing that seemed hostile.

They allowed the distance between them and the retreating file to grow
until it was five or six hundred yards, and they might have let it grow
farther, but Henry made a signal, and the three lay down in the grass.

“You see 'em, don't you!” the youth whispered to his comrade.

“Yes, down thar at the foot o' that hillock,” replied Shif'less Sol; “two
o' em, an' Senecas, I take it.”

“They've seen that crowd of women and children,” said Henry.

It was obvious that the flying column was discovered. The two Indians
stepped upon the hillock and gazed under their hands. It was too far away
for the three to see their faces, but they knew the joy that would be
shown there. The two could return with a few warriors and massacre them
all.

“They must never get back to the other Indians with their news,” whispered
Henry. “I hate to shoot men from ambush, but it's got to be done. Wait,
they're coming a little closer.”

The two Senecas advanced about thirty yards, and stopped again.

“S'pose you fire at the one on the right, Henry,” said Tom, “an' me an'
Sol will take the one to the left.”

“All right,” said Henry. “Fire!”

They wasted no time, but pulled trigger. The one at whom Henry had aimed
fell, but the other, uttering a cry, made off, wounded, but evidently with
plenty of strength left.

“We mustn't let him escape! We mustn't let him carry a warning!” cried
Henry.

But Shif'less Sol and Tom Ross were already in pursuit, covering the
ground with long strides, and reloading as they ran. Under ordinary
circumstances no one of the three would have fired at a man running for
his life, but here the necessity was vital. If he lived, carrying the tale
that he had to tell, a hundred innocent ones might perish. Henry followed
his comrades, reloading his own rifle, also, but he stayed behind. The
Indian had a good lead, and he was gaining, as the others were compelled
to check speed somewhat as they put the powder and bullets in their
rifles. But Henry was near enough to Shif'less Sol and Silent Tom to hear
them exchange a few words.

“How far away is that savage?” asked Shif'less Sol.

“Hundred and eighty yards,” said Tom Ross.

“Well, you take him in the head, and I'll take him in the body.”

Henry saw the two rifle barrels go up and two flashes of flame leap from
the muzzles. The Indian fell forward and lay still. They went up to him,
and found that he was shot through the head and also through the body.

“We may miss once, but we don't twice,” said Tom Ross.

The human mind can be influenced so powerfully by events that the three
felt no compunction at all at the shooting of this fleeing Indian. It was
but a trifle compared with what they had seen the day and night before.

“We'd better take the weapons an' ammunition o' both uv 'em,” said Sol.
“They may be needed, an' some o' the women in that crowd kin shoot.”

They gathered up the arms, powder, and ball, and waited a little to see
whether the shots had been heard by any other Indians, but there was no
indication of the presence of more warriors, and the rejoined the
fugitives. Long Jim had dropped back to the end of the line, and when he
saw that his comrades carried two extra rifles, he understood.

“They didn't give no alarm, did they?” he asked in a tone so low that none
of the fugitives could hear.

“They didn't have any chance,” replied Henry. “We've brought away all
their weapons and ammunition, but just say to the women that we found them
in an abandoned house.”

The rifles and the other arms were given to the boldest and most stalwart
of the women, and they promised to use them if the need came. Meanwhile
the flight went on, and the farther it went the sadder it became. Children
became exhausted, and had to be carried by people so tired that they could
scarcely walk themselves. There was nobody in the line who had not lost
some beloved one on that fatal river bank, killed in battle, or tortured
to death. As they slowly ascended the green slope of the mountain that
inclosed a side of the valley, they looked back upon ruin and desolation.
The whole black tragedy was being consummated. They could see the houses
in flames, and they knew that the Indian war parties were killing and
scalping everywhere. They knew, too, that other bodies of fugitives, as
stricken as their own, were fleeing into the mountains, they scarcely knew
whither.

As they paused a few moments and looked back, a great cry burst from the
weakest of the women and children. Then it became a sad and terrible wail,
and it was a long time before it ceased. It was an awful sound, so
compounded of despair and woe and of longing for what they had lost that
Henry choked, and the tears stood in Paul's eyes. But neither the five nor
Carpenter made any attempt to check the wailing. They thought it best for
them to weep it out, but they hurried the column as much as they could,
often carrying some of the smaller children themselves. Paul and Long Jim
were the best as comforters. The two knew how, each in his own way, to
soothe and encourage. Carpenter, who knew the way to Fort Penn, led
doggedly on, scarcely saying a word. Henry, Shif'less Sol, and Tom were
the rear guard, which was, in this case, the one of greatest danger and
responsibility.

Henry was thankful that it was only early summer the Fourth of July, the
second anniversary of the Declaration of Independence-and that the foliage
was heavy and green on the slopes of the mountain. In this mass of
greenery the desolate column was now completely hidden from any observer
in the valley, and he believed that other crowds of fugitives would be
hidden in the same manner. He felt sure that no living human being would
be left in the valley, that it would be ravaged from end to end and then
left to desolation, until new people, protected by American bayonets,
should come in and settle it again.

At last they passed the crest of the ridge, and the fires in the valley,
those emblems of destruction, were hidden. Between them and Fort Penn,
sixty miles away, stretched a wilderness of mountain, forest, and swamp.
But the five welcomed the forest. A foe might lie there in ambush, but
they could not see the fugitives at a distance. What the latter needed now
was obscurity, the green blanket of the forest to hide them. Carpenter led
on over a narrow trail; the others followed almost in single file now,
while the five scouted in the woods on either flank and at the rear. Henry
and Shif'less Sol generally kept together, and they fully realized the
overwhelming danger should an Indian band, even as small as ten or a dozen
warriors, appear. Should the latter scatter, it would be impossible to
protect all the women and children from their tomahawks.

The day was warm, but the forest gave them coolness as well as shelter.
Henry and Sol were seldom so far back that they could not see the end of
the melancholy line, now moving slowly, overborne by weariness. The
shiftless one shook his head sadly.

“No matter what happens, some uv 'em will never get out o' these woods.”

His words came true all too soon. Before the afternoon closed, two women,
ill before the flight, died of terror and exhaustion, and were buried in
shallow graves under the trees. Before dark a halt was made at the
suggestion of Henry, and all except Carpenter and the scouts sat in a
close, drooping group. Many of the children cried, though the women had
all ceased to weep. They had some food with them, taken in the hurried
flight, and now the men asked them to eat. Few could do it, and others
insisted on saving what little they had for the children. Long Jim found a
spring near by, and all drank at it.

The six men decided that, although night had not yet come, it would be
best to remain there until the morning. Evidently the fugitives were in no
condition, either mental or physical, to go farther that day, and the rest
was worth more than the risk.

When this decision was announced to them, most of the women took it
apathetically. Soon they lay down upon a blanket, if one was to be had;
otherwise, on leaves and branches. Again Henry thanked God that it was
summer, and that these were people of the frontier, who could sleep in the
open. No fire was needed, and, outside of human enemies, only rain was to
be dreaded.

And yet this band, desperate though its case, was more fortunate than some
of the others that fled from the Wyoming Valley. It had now to protect it
six men Henry and Paul, though boys in years, were men in strength and
ability—five of whom were the equals of any frontiersmen on the
whole border. Another crowd of women was escorted by a single man
throughout its entire flight.

Henry and his comrades distributed themselves in a circle about the group.
At times they helped gather whortleberries as food for the others, but
they looked for Indians or game, intending to shoot in either case. When
Paul and Henry were together they once heard a light sound in a thicket,
which at first they were afraid was made by an Indian scout, but it was a
deer, and it bounded away too soon for either to get a shot. They could
not find other game of any kind, and they came back toward the camp-if a
mere stop in the woods, without shelter of any kind, could be called a
camp.

The sun was now setting, blood red. It tinged the forest with a fiery
mist, reminding the unhappy group of all that they had seen. But the mist
was gone in a few moments, and then the blackness of night came with a
weird moaning wind that told of desolation. Most of the children, having
passed through every phase of exhaustion and terror, had fallen asleep.
Some of the women slept, also, and others wept. But the terrible wailing
note, which the nerves of no man could stand, was heard no longer.

The five gathered again at a point near by, and Carpenter came to them.

“Men,” he said simply, “don't know much about you, though I know you
fought well in the battle that we lost, but for what you're doin' now
nobody can ever repay you. I knew that I never could get across the
mountains with all these weak ones.”

The five merely said that any man who was a man would help at such a time.
Then they resumed their march in a perpetual circle about the camp.

Some women did not sleep at all that night. It is not easy to conceive
what the frontier women of America endured so many thousands of times.
They had seen their husbands, brothers, and sons killed in the battle, and
they knew that the worst of torture had been practiced in the Indian camp.
Many of them really did not want to live any longer. They merely struggled
automatically for life. The darkness settled down thicker and thicker; the
blackness in the forest was intense, and they could see the faces of one
another only at a little distance. The desolate moan of the wind came
through the leaves, and, although it was July, the night grew cold. The
women crept closer together, trying to cover up and protect the children.
The wind, with its inexpressibly mournful note, was exactly fitted to
their feelings. Many of them wondered why a Supreme Being had permitted
such things. But they ceased to talk. No sound at all came from the group,
and any one fifty yards away, not forewarned, could not have told that
they were there.

Henry and Paul met again about midnight, and sat a long time on a little
hillock. Theirs had been the most dangerous of lives on the most dangerous
of frontiers, but they had never been stirred as they were tonight. Even
Paul, the mildest of the five, felt something burning within him, a fire
that only one thing could quench.

“Henry,” said he, “we're trying to get these people to Fort Penn, and we
may get some of them there, but I don't think our work will be ended them.
I don't think I could ever be happy again if we went straight from Fort
Penn to Kentucky.”

Henry understood him perfectly.

“No, Paul,” he said, “I don't want to go, either, and I know the others
don't. Maybe you are not willing to tell why we want to stay, but it is
vengeance. I know it's Christian to forgive your enemies, but I can't see
what I have seen, and hear what I have heard, and do it.”

“When the news of these things spreads,” said Paul, “they'll send an army
from the east. Sooner or later they'll just have to do it to punish the
Iroquois and their white allies, and we've got to be here to join that
army.”

“I feel that way, too, Paul,” said Henry.

They were joined later by the other three, who stayed a little while, and
they were in accord with Henry and Paul.

Then they began their circles about the camp again, always looking and
always listening. About two o'clock in the morning they heard a scream,
but it was only the cry of a panther. Before day there were clouds, a low
rumble of distant thunder, and faint far flashes of lightning. Henry was
in dread of rain, but the lightning and thunder ceased, and the clouds
went away. Then dawn came, rosy and bright, and all but three rose from
the earth. The three-one woman and two children-had died in silence in the
night, and they were buried, like the others, in shallow graves in the
woods. But there was little weeping or external mourning over them. All
were now heavy and apathetic, capable of but little more emotion.

Carpenter resumed his position at the head of the column, which now moved
slowly over the mountain through a thick forest matted with vines and
bushes and without a path. The march was now so painful and difficult that
they did not make more than two miles an hour. The stronger of them helped
the men to gather more whortleberries, as it was easy to see that the food
they had with them would never last until they reached Fort Penn, should
they ever reach it.

The condition of the country into which they had entered steadily grew
worse. They were well into the mountains, a region exceedingly wild and
rough, but little known to the settlers, who had gone around it to build
homes in the fertile and beautiful valley of Wyoming. The heavy forest was
made all the more difficult by the presence everywhere of almost
impassable undergrowth. Now and then a woman lay down under the bushes,
and in two cases they died there because the power to live was no longer
in them. They grew weaker and weaker. The food that they had brought from
the Wyoming fort was almost exhausted, and the wild whortleberries were
far from sustaining. Fortunately there was plenty of water flowing tinder
the dark woods and along the mountainside. But they were compelled to stop
at intervals of an hour or two to rest, and the more timid continually
expected Indian ambush.

The five met shortly after noon and took another reckoning of the
situation. They still realized to the full the dangers of Indian pursuit,
which in this case might be a mere matter of accident. Anybody could
follow the broad trail left by the fugitives, but the Iroquois, busy with
destruction in the valley, might not follow, even if they saw it. No one
could tell. The danger of starvation or of death from exhaustion was more
imminent, more pressing, and the five resolved to let scouting alone for
the rest of the day and seek game.

“There's bound to be a lot of it in these woods,” said Shif'less Sol,
“though it's frightened out of the path by our big crowd, but we ought to
find it.”

Henry and Shif'less Sol went in one direction, and Paul, Tom, and Long Jim
in another. But with all their hunting they succeeded in finding only one
little deer, which fell to the rifle of Silent Tom. It made small enough
portions for the supper and breakfast of nearly a hundred people, but it
helped wonderfully, and so did the fires which Henry and his comrades
would now have built, even had they not been needed for the cooking. They
saw that light and warmth, the light and warmth of glowing coals, would
alone rouse life in this desolate band.

They slept the second night on the ground among the trees, and the next
morning they entered that gloomy region of terrible memory, the Great
Dismal Swamp of the North, known sometimes, to this day, as “The Shades of
Death.”

CHAPTER XII. THE SHADES OF DEATH

“The Shades of Death” is a marsh on a mountain top, the great, wet, and
soggy plain of the Pocono and Broad mountains. When the fugitives from
Wyoming entered it, it was covered with a dense growth of pines, growing
mostly out of dark, murky water, which in its turn was thick with a growth
of moss and aquatic plants. Snakes and all kinds of creeping things
swarmed in the ooze. Bear and panther were numerous.

Carpenter did not know any way around this terrible region, and they were
compelled to enter it. Henry was again devoutly thankful that it was
summer. In such a situation with winter on top of it only the hardiest of
men could survive.

But they entered the swamp, Carpenter silent and dogged, still leading.
Henry and his comrades kept close to the crowd. One could not scout in
such a morass, and it proved to be worse than they had feared. The day
turned gray, and it was dark among the trees. The whole place was filled
with gloomy shadows. It was often impossible to judge whether fairly solid
soil or oozy murk lay before them. Often they went down to their waists.
Sometimes the children fell and were dragged up again by the stronger. Now
and then rattle snakes coiled and hissed, and the women killed them with
sticks. Other serpents slipped away in the slime. Everybody was plastered
with mud, and they became mere images of human beings.

In the afternoon they reached a sort of oasis in the terrible swamp, and
there they buried two more of their number who had perished from
exhaustion. The rest, save a few, lay upon the ground as if dead. On all
sides of them stretched the pines and the soft black earth. It looked to
the fugitives like a region into which no human beings had ever come, or
ever would come again, and, alas! to most of them like a region from which
no human being would ever emerge.

Henry sat upon a piece of fallen brushwood near the edge of the morass,
and looked at the fugitives, and his heart sank within him. They were
hardly in the likeness of his own kind, and they seemed practically
lifeless now. Everything was dull, heavy, and dead. The note of the wind
among the leaves was somber. A long black snake slipped from the marshy
grass near his feet and disappeared soundlessly in the water. He was sick,
sick to death at the sight of so much suffering, and the desire for
vengeance, slow, cold, and far more lasting than any hot outburst, grew
within him. A slight noise, and Shif'less Sol stood beside him.

“Did you hear?” asked the shiftless one, in a significant tone.

“Hear what?” asked Henry, who had been deep in thought.

“The wolf howl, just a very little cry, very far away an' under the
horizon, but thar all the same. Listen, thar she goes ag'in!”

Henry bent his ear and distinctly heard the faint, whining note, and then
it came a third time.

He looked tip at Shif'less Sol, and his face grew white—but not for
himself.

“Yes,” said Shif'less Sol. He understood the look. “We are pursued. Them
wolves howlin' are the Iroquois. What do you reckon we're goin' to do,
Henry?”

“Fight!” replied the youth, with fierce energy. “Beat 'em off!”

“How?”

Henry circled the little oasis with the eye of a general, and his plan
came.

“You'll stand here, where the earth gives a footing,” he said, “you,
Solomon Hyde, as brave a man as I ever saw, and with you will be Paul
Cotter, Tom Ross, Jim Hart, and Henry Ware, old friends of yours.
Carpenter will at once lead the women and children on ahead, and perhaps
they will not hear the battle that is going to be fought here.”

A smile of approval, slow, but deep and comprehensive, stole over the face
of Solomon Hyde, surnamed, wholly without fitness, the shiftless one. “It
seems to me,” he said, “that I've heard o' them four fellers you're
talkin' about, an' ef I wuz to hunt all over this planet an' them other
planets that Paul tells of, I couldn't find four other fellers that I'd ez
soon have with me.”

“We've got to stand here to the death,” said Henry.

“You're shorely right,” said Shif'less Sol.

The hands of the two comrades met in a grip of steel.

The other three were called and were told of the plan, which met with
their full approval. Then the news was carried to Carpenter, who quickly
agreed that their course was the wisest. He urged all the fugitives to
their feet, telling them that they must reach another dry place before
night, but they were past asking questions now, and, heavy and apathetic,
they passed on into the swamp.

Paul watched the last of them disappear among the black bushes and weeds,
and turned back to his friends on the oasis. The five lay down behind a
big fallen pine, and gave their weapons a last look. They had never been
armed better. Their rifles were good, and the fine double-barreled
pistols, formidable weapons, would be a great aid, especially at close
quarters.

“I take it,” said Tom Ross, “that the Iroquois can't get through at all
unless they come along this way, an' it's the same ez ef we wuz settin' on
solid earth, poppin' em over, while they come sloshin' up to us.”

“That's exactly it,” said Henry. “We've a natural defense which we can
hold against much greater numbers, and the longer we hold 'em off, the
nearer our people will be to Fort Penn.”

“I never felt more like fightin' in my life,” said Tom Ross.

It was a grim utterance, true of them all, although not one among them was
bloodthirsty.

“Can any of you hear anything?” asked Henry. “Nothin',” replied Shif'less
Sol, after a little wait, “nothin' from the women goin', an' nothin' from
the Iroquois comin'.”

“We'll just lie close,” said Henry. “This hard spot of ground isn't more
than thirty or forty feet each way, and nobody can get on it without our
knowing it.”

The others did not reply. All lay motionless upon their sides, with their
shoulders raised a little, in order that they might take instant aim when
the time came. Some rays of the sun penetrated the canopy of pines, and
fell across the brown, determined faces and the lean brown hands that
grasped the long, slender-barreled Kentucky rifles. Another snake slipped
from the ground into the black water and swam away. Some water animal made
a light splash as he, too, swam from the presence of these strange
intruders. Then they beard a sighing sound, as of a foot drawn from mud,
and they knew that the Iroquois were approaching, savages in war, whatever
they might be otherwise, and expecting an easy prey. Five brown thumbs
cocked their rifles, and five brown forefingers rested upon the triggers.
The eyes of woodsmen who seldom missed looked down the sights.

The sound of feet in the mud came many times. The enemy was evidently
drawing near.

“How many do you think are out thar?” whispered Shif'less Sol to Henry.

“Twenty, at least, it seems to me by the sounds.” “I s'pose the best thing
for us to do is to shoot at the first head we see.”

“Yes, but we mustn't all fire at the same man.”

It was suggested that Henry call off the turns of the marksmen, and he
agreed to do so. Shif'less Sol was to fire first. The sounds now ceased.
The Iroquois evidently had some feeling or instinct that they were
approaching an enemy who was to be feared, not weak and unarmed women and
children.

The five were absolutely motionless, finger on trigger. The American
wilderness had heroes without number. It was Horatius Cocles five times
over, ready to defend the bridge with life. Over the marsh rose the weird
cry of an owl, and some water birds called in lonely fashion.

Henry judged that the fugitives were now three quarters of a mile away,
out of the sound of rifle shot. He had urged Carpenter to marshal them on
as far as he could. But the silence endured yet a while longer. In the
dull gray light of the somber day and the waning afternoon the marsh was
increasingly dreary and mournful. It seemed that it must always be the
abode of dead or dying things.

The wet grass, forty yards away, moved a little, and between the boughs
appeared the segment of a hideous dark face, the painted brow, the savage
black eyes, and the hooked nose of the Mohawk. Only Henry saw it, but with
fierce joy-the tortures at Wyoming leaped up before him-he fired at the
painted brow. The Mohawk uttered his death cry and fell back with a splash
into the mud and water of the swamp. A half dozen bullets were instantly
fired at the base of the smoke that came from Henry's rifle, but the youth
and his comrades lay close and were unharmed. Shif'less Sol and Tom were
quick enough to catch glimpses of brown forms, at which they fired, and
the cries coming back told that they had hit.

“That's something,” said Henry. “One or two Iroquois at least will not
wear the scalp of white woman or child at their belts.”

“Wish they'd try to rush us,” said Shif'less Sol. “I never felt so full of
fight in my life before.”

“They may try it,” said Henry. “I understand that at the big battle of the
Oriskany, farther up in the North, the Iroquois would wait until a white
man behind a tree would fire, then they would rush up and tomahawk him
before he could reload.”

“They don't know how fast we kin reload,” said Long Jim, “an' they don't
know that we've got these double-barreled pistols, either.”

“No, they don't,” said Henry, “and it's a great thing for us to have them.
Suppose we spread out a little. So long as we keep them from getting a
lodging on the solid earth we hold them at a great disadvantage.”

Henry and Paul moved off a little toward the right, and the others toward
the left. They still had good cover, as fallen timber was scattered all
over the oasis, and they were quite sure that another attack would be made
soon. It came in about fifteen minutes. The Iroquois suddenly fired a
volley at the logs and brush, and when the five returned the fire, but
with more deadly effect, they leaped forward in the mud and attempted to
rush the oasis, tomahawk in hand.

But the five reloaded so quickly that they were able to send in a second
volley before the foremost of the Iroquois could touch foot on solid
earth. Then the double barreled pistols came into play. The bullets sent
from short range drove back the savages, who were amazed at such a deadly
and continued fire. Henry caught sight of a white face among these
assailants, and he knew it to be that of Braxton Wyatt. Singularly enough
he was not amazed to see it there. Wyatt, sinking deeper and deeper into
savagery and cruelty, was just the one to lead the Iroquois in such a
pursuit. He was a fit match for Walter Butler, the infamous son of the
Indian leader, who was soon to prove himself worse than the worst of the
savages, as Thayendanegea himself has written.

Henry drew a bead once on Braxton Wyatt-he had no scruples now about
shooting him-but just as he was about to pull the trigger Wyatt darted
behind a bush, and a Seneca instead received the bullet. He also saw the
renegade, Blackstaffe, but he was not able to secure a shot at him,
either. Nevertheless, the Iroquois attack was beaten back. It was a
foregone conclusion that the result would be so, unless the force was in
great numbers. It is likely, also, that the Iroquois at first had thought
only a single man was with the fugitives, not knowing that the five had
joined them later.

Two of the Iroquois were slain at the very edge of the solid ground, but
their bodies fell back in the slime, and the others, retreating fast for
their lives, could not carry them off. Paul, with a kind of fascinated
horror, watched the dead painted bodies sink deeper. Then one was entirely
gone. The hand of the other alone was left, and then it, too, was gone.
But the five had held the island, and Carpenter was leading the fugitives
on toward Fort Penn. They had not only held it, but they believed that
they could continue to hold it against anything, and their hearts became
exultant. Something, too, to balance against the long score, lay out there
in the swamp, and all the five, bitter over Wyoming, were sorry that
Braxton Wyatt was not among them.

The stillness came again. The sun did not break through the heavy gray
sky, and the somber shadows brooded over “The Shades of Death.” They heard
again the splash of water animals, and a swimming snake passed on the
murky surface. Then they heard the wolf's long cry, and the long cry of
wolf replying.

“More Iroquois coming,” said Shif'less Sol. “Well, we gave them a pretty
warm how d'ye do, an' with our rifles and double-barreled pistols I'm
thinkin' that we kin do it ag'in.”

“We can, except in one case,” said Henry, “if the new party brings their
numbers up to fifty or sixty, and they wait for night, they can surround
us in the darkness. Perhaps it would be better for us to slip away when
twilight comes. Carpenter and the train have a long lead now.”

“Yes,” said Shif'less Sol, “Now, what in tarnation is that?”

“A white flag,” said Paul. A piece of cloth that had once been white had
been hoisted on the barrel of a rifle at a point about sixty yards away.

“They want a talk with us,” said Henry.

“If it's Braxton Wyatt,” said Long Jim, “I'd like to take a shot at him,
talk or no talk, an' ef I missed, then take another.”

“We'll see what they have to say,” said Henry, and he called aloud: “What
do you want with us?”

“To talk with you,” replied a clear, full voice, not that of Braxton
Wyatt.

“Very well,” replied Henry, “show yourself and we will not fire upon you.”

A tall figure was upraised upon a grassy hummock, and the hands were held
aloft in sign of peace. It was a splendid figure, at least six feet four
inches in height. At that moment some rays of the setting sun broke
through the gray clouds and shone full upon it, lighting up the defiant
scalp lock interwoven with the brilliant red feather, the eagle face with
the curved Roman beak, and the mighty shoulders and chest of red bronze.
It was a genuine king of the wilderness, none other than the mighty
Timmendiquas himself, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots.

“Ware,” he said, “I would speak with you. Let us talk as one chief to
another.”

The five were amazed. Timmendiquas there! They were quite sure that he had
come up with the second force, and he was certain to prove a far more
formidable leader than either Braxton Wyatt or Moses Blackstaffe. But his
demand to speak with Henry Ware might mean something.

“Are you going to answer him?” said Shif'less Sol.

“Of course,” replied Henry.

“The others, especially Wyatt and Blackstaffe, might shoot.”

“Not while Timmendiquas holds the flag of truce; they would not dare.”

Henry stood up, raising himself to his full height. The same ruddy
sunlight piercing the somber gray of the clouds fell upon another splendid
figure, a boy only in years, but far beyond the average height of man, his
hair yellow, his eyes a deep, clear blue, his body clothed in buckskin,
and his whole attitude that of one without fear. The two, the white and
the red, kings of their kind, confronted each other across the marsh.

“What do you wish with me, Timmendiquas?” asked Henry. In the presence of
the great Wyandot chief the feeling of hate and revenge that had held his
heart vanished. He knew that Paul and Shif'less Sol would have sunk under
the ruthless tomahawk of Queen Esther, if it had not been for White
Lightning. He himself had owed him his life on another and more distant
occasion, and he was not ungrateful. So there was warmth in his tone when
he spoke.

“Let us meet at the edge of the solid ground,” said Timmendiquas, “I have
things to say that are important and that you will be glad to hear.”

Henry walked without hesitation to the edge of the swamp, and the young
chief, coming forward, met him. Henry held out his hand in white fashion,
and the young chief took it. There was no sound either from the swamp or
from those who lay behind the logs on the island, but some of the eyes of
those hidden in the swamps watched both with burning hatred.

“I wish to tell you, Ware,” said Timmendiquas, speaking with the dignity
becoming a great chief, “that it was not I who led the pursuit of the
white men's women and children. I, and the Wyandots who came with me,
fought as best we could in the great battle, and I will slay my enemies
when I can. We are warriors, and we are ready to face each other in
battle, but we do not seek to kill the squaw in the tepee or the papoose
in its birch-bark cradle.”

The face of the great chief seemed stirred by some deep emotion, which
impressed Henry all the more because the countenance of Timmendiquas was
usually a mask.

“I believe that you tell the truth,” said Henry gravely.

“I and my Wyandots,” continued the chief, “followed a trail through the
woods. We found that others, Senecas and Mohawks, led by Wyatt and
Blackstaffe, who are of your race, had gone before, and when we came up
there had just been a battle. The Mohawks and Senecas had been driven
back. It was then we learned that the trail was made by women and little
children, save you and your comrades who stayed to fight and protect
them.”

“You speak true words, Timmendiquas,” said Henry.

“The Wyandots have remained in the East to fight men, not to kill squaws
and papooses,” continued Timmendiquas. “So I say to you, go on with those
who flee across the mountains. Our warriors shall not pursue you any
longer. We will turn back to the valley from which we come, and those of
your race, Blackstaffe and Wyatt, shall go with us.”

The great chief spoke quietly, but there was an edge to his tone that told
that every word was meant. Henry felt a glow of admiration. The true
greatness of Timmendiquas spoke.

“And the Iroquois?” he said, “will they go back with you?”

“They will. They have killed too much. Today all the white people in the
valley are killed or driven away. Many scalps have been taken, those of
women and children, too, and men have died at the stake. I have felt shame
for their deeds, Ware, and it will bring punishment upon my brethren, the
Iroquois. It will make so great a noise in the world that many soldiers
will come, and the villages of the Iroquois will cease to be.”

“I think it is so, Timmendiquas,” said Henry. “But you will be far away
then in your own land.”

The chief drew himself up a little.

“I shall remain with the Iroquois,” he said. “I have promised to help
them, and I must do so.”

“I can't blame you for that,” said Henry, “but I am glad that you do not
seek the scalps of women and children. We are at once enemies and friends,
Timmendiquas.”

White Lightning bowed gravely. He and Henry touched hands again, and each
withdrew, the chief into the morass, while Henry walked back toward his
comrades, holding himself erect, as if no enemy were near.

The four rose up to greet him. They had heard part of what was said, and
Henry quickly told them the rest.

“He's shorely a great chief,” said Shif'less Sol. “He'll keep his word,
too. Them people on ahead ain't got anything more to fear from pursuit.”

“He's a statesman, too,” said Henry. “He sees what damage the deeds of
Wyoming Valley will do to those who have done them. He thinks our people
will now send a great army against the Iroquois, and I think so, too.”

“No nation can stand a thing like that,” said Paul, “and I didn't dream it
could happen.”

They now left the oasis, and went swiftly along the trail left by the
fugitives. All of them had confidence in the word of Timmendiquas. There
was a remote chance that some other band had entered the swamp at a
different point, but it was remote, indeed, and it did not trouble them
much.

Night was now over the great swamp. The sun no longer came through the
gray clouds, but here and there were little flashes of flame made by
fireflies. Had not the trail been so broad and deep it could easily have
been lost, but, being what it was, the skilled eyes of the frontiersmen
followed it without trouble.

“Some uv 'em are gittin' pow'ful tired,” said Tom Ross, looking at the
tracks in the mud. Then he suddenly added: “Here's whar one's quit
forever.”

A shallow grave, not an hour old, had been made under some bushes, and its
length indicated that a woman lay there. They passed it by in silence.
Henry now appreciated more fully than ever the mercy of Timmendiquas. The
five and Carpenter could not possibly have protected the miserable
fugitives against the great chief, with fifty Wyandots and Iroquois at his
back. Timmendiquas knew this, and he had done what none of the Indians or
white allies around him would have done.

In another hour they saw a man standing among some vines, but watchful,
and with his rifle in the hollow of his arm. It was Carpenter, a man whose
task was not less than that of the five. They were in the thick of it and
could see what was done, but he had to lead on and wait. He counted the
dusk figures as they approached him, one, two, three, four, five, and
perhaps no man ever felt greater relief. He advanced toward them and said
huskily:

“There was no fight! They did not attack!”

“There was a fight,” said Henry, “and we beat them back; then a second and
a larger force came up, but it was composed chiefly of Wyandots, led by
their great chief, Timmendiquas. He came forward and said that they would
not pursue women and children, and that we could go in safety.”

Carpenter looked incredulous.

“It is true,” said Henry, “every word of it.”

“It is more than Brant would have done,” said Carpenter, “and it saves us,
with your help.”

“You were first, and the first credit is yours, Mr. Carpenter,” said Henry
sincerely.

They did not tell the women and children of the fight at the oasis, but
they spread the news that there would be no more pursuit, and many
drooping spirits revived. They spent another day in the Great Dismal
Swamp, where more lives were lost. On the day after their emergence from
the marsh, Henry and his comrades killed two deer, which furnished greatly
needed food, and on the day after that, excepting those who had died by
the way, they reached Fort Penn, where they were received into shelter and
safety.

The night before the fugitives reached Fort Penn, the Iroquois began the
celebration of the Thanksgiving Dance for their great victory and the many
scalps taken at Wyoming. They could not recall another time when they had
secured so many of these hideous trophies, and they were drunk with the
joy of victory. Many of the Tories, some in their own clothes, and some
painted and dressed like Indians, took part in it.

According to their ancient and honored custom they held a grand council to
prepare for it. All the leading chiefs were present, Sangerachte,
Hiokatoo, and the others. Braxton Wyatt, Blackstaffe, and other white men
were admitted. After their deliberations a great fire was built in the
center of the camp, the squaws who had followed the army feeding it with
brushwood until it leaped and roared and formed a great red pyramid. Then
the chiefs sat down in a solemn circle at some distance, and waited.

Presently the sound of a loud chant was heard, and from the farthest point
of the camp emerged a long line of warriors, hundreds and hundreds of
them, all painted in red and black with horrible designs. They were naked
except the breechcloth and moccasins, and everyone waved aloft a tomahawk
as he sang.

Still singing and brandishing the tomahawks, which gleamed in the red
light, the long procession entered the open space, and danced and wheeled
about the great fire, the flames casting a lurid light upon faces hideous
with paint or the intoxication of triumph. The glare of their black eyes
was like those of Eastern eaters of hasheesh or opium, and they bounded to
and fro as if their muscles were springs of steel. They sang:

  We have met the Bostonians [*] in battle,
  We slew them with our rifles and tomahawks.
  Few there are who escaped our warriors.
  Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.

     [* Note: All the Americans were often called Bostonians by
     the Indians as late as the Revolutionary War.]

  Mighty has been our taking of scalps,
  They will fill all the lodges of the Iroquois.
  We have burned the houses of the Bostonians.
  Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.

  The wolf will prowl in their corn-fields,
  The grass will grow where their blood has soaked;
  Their bones will lie for the buzzard to pick.
  Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.

  We came upon them by river and forest;
  As we smote Wyoming we will smite the others,
  We will drive the Bostonians back to the sea.
  Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.

The monotonous chant with the refrain, “Ever-victorious is the League of
the Ho-de-no-sau-nee,” went on for many verses. Meanwhile the old squaws
never ceased to feed the bonfire, and the flames roared, casting a deeper
and more vivid light over the distorted faces of the dancers and those of
the chiefs, who sat gravely beyond.

Higher and higher leaped the warriors. They seemed unconscious of fatigue,
and the glare in their eyes became that of maniacs. Their whole souls were
possessed by the orgy. Beads of sweat, not of exhaustion, but of emotional
excitement, appeared upon their faces and naked bodies, and the red and
black paint streaked together horribly.

For a long time this went on, and then the warriors ceased suddenly to
sing, although they continued their dance. A moment later a cry which
thrilled every nerve came from a far point in the dark background. It was
the scalp yell, the most terrible of all Indian cries, long, high-pitched,
and quavering, having in it something of the barking howl of the wolf and
the fiendish shriek of a murderous maniac. The warriors instantly took it
up, and gave it back in a gigantic chorus.

A ghastly figure bounded into the circle of the firelight. It was that of
a woman, middle-aged, tall and powerful, naked to the waist, her body
covered with red and black paint, her long black hair hanging in a loose
cloud down her back. She held a fresh scalp, taken from a white head,
aloft in either band. It was Catharine Montour, and it was she who had
first emitted the scalp yell. After her came more warriors, all bearing
scalps. The scalp yell was supposed to be uttered for every scalp taken,
and, as they had taken more than three hundred, it did not cease for
hours, penetrating every part of the forest. All the time Catharine
Montour led the dance. None bounded higher than she. None grimaced more
horribly.

While they danced, six men, with their hands tied behind them and black
caps on their heads, were brought forth and paraded around amid hoots and
yells and brandishing of tomahawks in their faces. They were the surviving
prisoners, and the black caps meant that they were to be killed and
scalped on the morrow. Stupefied by all through which they had gone, they
were scarcely conscious now.

Midnight came. The Iroquois still danced and sang, and the calm stars
looked down upon the savage and awful scene. Now the dancers began to
weary. Many dropped unconscious, and the others danced about them where
they lay. After a while all ceased. Then the chiefs brought forth a white
dog, which Hiokatoo killed and threw on the embers of the fire. When it
was thoroughly roasted, the chiefs cut it in pieces and ate it. Thus
closed the Festival of Thanksgiving for the victory of Wyoming.

CHAPTER XIII. A FOREST PAGE

When the survivors of the band of Wyoming fugitives that the five had
helped were behind the walls of Fort Penn, securing the food and rest they
needed so greatly, Henry Ware and his comrades felt themselves relieved of
a great responsibility. They were also aware how much they owed to
Timmendiquas, because few of the Indians and renegades would have been so
forbearing. Thayendanegea seemed to them inferior to the great Wyandot.
Often when Brant could prevent the torture of the prisoners and the
slaughter of women and children, he did not do it. The five could never
forget these things in after life, when Brant was glorified as a great
warrior and leader. Their minds always turned to Timmendiquas as the
highest and finest of Indian types.

While they were at Fort Penn two other parties came, in a fearful state of
exhaustion, and also having paid the usual toll of death on the way. Other
groups reached the Moravian towns, where they were received with all
kindness by the German settlers. The five were able to give some help to
several of these parties, but the beautiful Wyoming Valley lay utterly in
ruins. The ruthless fury of the savages and of many of the Tories,
Canadians, and Englishmen, can scarcely be told. Everything was
slaughtered or burned. As a habitation of human beings or of anything
pertaining to human beings, the valley for a time ceased to be. An entire
population was either annihilated or driven out, and finally Butler's
army, finding that nothing more was left to be destroyed, gathered in its
war parties and marched northward with a vast store of spoils, in which
scalps were conspicuous. When they repassed Tioga Point, Timmendiquas and
his Wyandots were still with them. Thayendanegea was also with them here,
and so was Walter Butler, who was destined shortly to make a reputation
equaling that of his father, “Indian” Butler. Nor had the terrible Queen
Esther ever left them. She marched at the head of the army, singing,
horrid chants of victory, and swinging the great war tomahawk, which did
not often leave her hand.

The whole force was re-embarked upon the Susquehanna, and it was still
full of the impulse of savage triumph. Wild Indian songs floated along the
stream or through the meadows, which were quiet now. They advanced at
their ease, knowing that there was nobody to attack them, but they were
watched by five woodsmen, two of whom were boys. Meanwhile the story of
Wyoming, to an extent that neither Indians nor woodsmen themselves
suspected, was spreading from town to town in the East, to invade thence
the whole civilized world, and to stir up an indignation and horror that
would make the name Wyoming long memorable. Wyoming had been a victory for
the flag under which the invaders fought, but it sadly tarnished the cause
of that flag, and the consequences were to be seen soon.