Part 7

When In-nan-ga-eh had passed Liddenah on entering the village, he had barely noticed her because he supposed that he could have her any time for the asking. When he learned that she was the wife of another, he suddenly realized that he wanted her very badly, that she was the cause of his journey Northward. The old passion surged through his veins; it was what the bark-peelers call “the second run of the sap.”

Through his sisters, who were among Liddenah’s most intimate friends, he sought a clandestine meeting with his former sweetheart. They met at the “Stepping Stones,” a crossing near the headwaters of Cowanshannock, in a mossy glade, which had formerly been his favorite trysting place with over a score of doting maidens in the ante-bellum days.

Liddenah, inspired by her great love, never looked more beautiful. She was probably a trifle above the average height, gracefully, but solidly made. Her skin was very white, her eyes dark, her hair that of a raven, while her aquiline nose, high cheek bones and small, fine mouth made her resemble a high-bred Jewess more than an Indian squaw, a heritage perhaps from a remote Semitic origin beyond the Pacific. She showed openly how happy she was to meet In-nan-ga-eh, until he told her the story of his tragic love, how she had broken his young heart by cruelly marrying another while he languished in a Southern prison camp. In vain she protested that, on all sides came seemingly authentic reports of his death; he was obdurate in the destiny he had decreed. Quinnemongh must die by his hand, and he would then flee with the widow to the country of the Ottawas. The hot blood surging in his veins, like a second flow of sap in a red maple, must be appeased by her submission.

Liddenah was horrified; she came of eminently respectable ancestry, she admired Quinnemongh, her husband, almost to the point of loving him, but where that affection ended, her all-pervading obsession for In-nan-ga-eh began and knew no limitations in her being.

“Tonight”, said In-nan-ga-eh, scowling dreadfully, “I will surprise the vile Quinnemongh in his lodge house, and with one blow of my stone war-hammer crush in his skull, then I will scalp him and meet you at the stepping stones, and by the moonlight we will decamp to the far free country of the Ottawas, his scalp dangling at my belt as proof of my hate and my bravery”.

Liddenah gave a reluctant assent to the fiendish program when they parted. On her way home through the forest path her conscience smote her with Mosaic insistence–the blood of her ancestors, of the Lost Tribe of Israel, would not permit her to sanction the murder of a good and true warrior. She would immolate herself for her family honor, and for her respect for Quinnemongh.

Arriving at the lodge-house she went straight to Quinnemongh and confessed the story of her meeting with the perfidious In-nan-ga-eh, all but the homicidal part. Quinnemongh was not much surprised, as he knew of her great love for the ex-Cherokee prisoner, and In-nan-ga-eh’s capricious pride.

“Quinnemongh”, she said, between her sobs, for, like a white girl, she was tearful, “I was to meet In-nan-ga-eh tonight, when the moon is over the tops of the trees, by the stepping stones, and we were to fly together to the country of the Ottawas. You present yourself there in my stead, and tell the false In-nan-ga-eh that I have changed my mind, that I am true to my noble husband”.

Needless to say, Quinnemongh was pleased at this recital, and promised to be at the ford at the appointed time. Like most persons under similar circumstances, he was eager to be on his errand, and departed early, armed with his favorite scalping knife. Liddenah kissed and embraced him, calling him her “hero”, and once he was out of sight, she darted into his cabin and lay down among his blankets and buffalo robes, covering herself, all but the top of her brow, and huddling, all curled up, for the autumnal air was chill.

The moon slowly rose higher and higher until it reached the crowns of the giant rock oaks along the edge of the “Indian fields”. The gaunt form of In-nan-ga-eh could now be seen creeping steadily out of the forest, bounding across the clearing and, stone axe in hand, entered the cabin where he supposed that Quinnemongh was sleeping. A ray of shimmery moonlight shone full on the upturned forehead of his victim. Animated by a jealous hate, he struck a heavy blow with his axe of dark diorite, crushing in the sleeper’s temples like an eggshell. Leaving the weapon imbedded in his victim’s skull, he deftly cut off the long bushy scalp with his sharp knife, and, springing out of the hut, started off on a dog-trot towards the stepping stones, waving his bloody, gruesome souvenir.

He approached the fording with the light of the full moon shining on the waters of the brook; he was exultant and grinding his teeth in lustful fury. Who should he see there–not the fair and yielding goddess Liddenah, but the stalwart form of the recently butchered and scalped Quinnemongh. Believer in ghosts that he was, this was almost too much of a visitation for him. Pausing a minute to make sure, he rushed forward brandishing the scalp in one hand, his knife, which caught the moon’s beams on its blade in the other.

“Wretch”! he shrieked at Quinnemongh, “must I kill you a second time to make you expiate your sin at marrying Liddenah”?

Quinnemongh, who stood rigid as a statue at the far side of the ford, replied, “You have not killed me once; how dare you speak of a second time”?

“Whose scalp have I then”? shouted In-nan-ga-eh, as he continued to rush forward.

“Not mine surely”, said Quinnemongh, as he felt his comparatively sparse locks.

Just as the men came face to face it dawned on both what had happened, and with gleaming knives, they sprang at one another in a death struggle. For half an hour they fought, grappling and stabbing, kicking and biting, in the shallow waters of the ford. Neither would go down, though Liddenah’s scalp was forced from In-nan-ga-eh’s hand, and got between the breasts of the two combatants, who pushed it, greasy and gory, up and down as they fought. They literally stabbed one another full of holes, and bit and tore at their faces like wild beasts; they carved the skin off their shoulders and backs, they kicked until their shin bones cracked, until finally both, worn out from loss of blood, sank into the brook and died.

In the morning the scalped and mutilated form of Liddenah was discovered among the gaudy blankets and decorated buffalo robes; a bloody trail was followed to the stepping stones, where the two gruesome corpses were found, half submerged in the red, bloody water, in an embrace so inextricable, their arms like locked battling stags’ antlers that they could not in the rigidity of death be separated. Foes though they were, the just and patient Indians who found them could do nothing else but dig a common grave in the half-frozen earth, close to the stepping stones, and there they buried them together, with Liddenah’s soggy scalp and their bent and broken knives, their bodies to commingle with earth until eternity.

VIII _Black Chief’s Daughter_

It was the occasion of the annual Strawberry Dance at the Seneca Reservation, a lovely evening in June, when, after a warm rain, there had been a clear sunset, and the air was sweet with the odor of the grass, and the narrow roads were deep with soft, brown mud and many puddles of water.

In the long, grey frame Council House all was animation and excitement. The grim old Chief, Twenty Canoes, decked out in his headdress of feathers, followed by the musicians with wolf-skin drums filled with pebbles had arrived, and taken places on the long bench that ran almost the entire length of the great hall. Other older and distinguished Indians, Indian guests from the Cornplanter Reservation in Pennsylvania, and from the New York Reservations at Tonawanda, and the Geneseo, and a few white visitors, including the Rev. Holt, the Town Missionary and Attorney Vreeland, the agent, with their families, completely filled the lengthy bench.

The Indian dancers, male and female, gaily attired, had been gathering outside, and now, with the first rattle of the drums, filed into the room and began to dance. As the first loud tattoo was heard, the dancers commenced shaking their shoulders, holding their arms rigid, and the “Shimmy” of decadent New York and Philadelphia of nearly half a century later, was rendered effectively by its originators, the rhythmic aborigines. As they danced in single file around the visitors’ bench and past the Chief, to the beat of the wolf skin drums, they melodiously chanted, first the men, and then the women: “Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wanna; Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wanna.” At times the women joined in the general song, swelling the volume of the melody, until it drowned out the drum-beats. The windows were open and the perfume of lilacs was wafted in on the evening breeze, as the swaying files of Indian braves and maidens shimmied around and around. Among the white visitors was one young man who was particularly impressed, as he was there not out of idle curiosity, but to study the manners and customs of the last of the Senecas, in order to write his doctor’s thesis at the University, the subject being “The Later History of the Seneca Indians in New York.”

Christian Trubee, for that was his name, had always been interested in the redmen, a natural heritage from pioneer and frontiersman ancestors who had fought the Indians all along the Allegheny Mountains and in the Ohio River basin. He had lately come to Steamburg, putting up at Pat Smith’s “long house,” where he had quickly become acquainted with Simon Black Chief, a handsome Indian youth who picked up a living as a mountebank among the frequenters of the ancient hostelry.

Simon was a wonderful runner, and if he could interest the lumber buyers and the traveling men, would match himself against a little black mare owned by Smith and usually ridden by the landlord’s stepson, for a half mile or mile, and generally beat his equine rival. Other times he would ride the horse at a gallop, without saddle or bridle, over the common between the hotel and the Erie Railroad Station, picking up handkerchiefs, cigars and quarter dollars off the greensward without ever once losing his equilibrium.

On the evening in question, he invited the young student to accompany him to the Strawberry Dance at the Council House, and passing by the one-roomed board shack where he lived, his sister, known as Black Chief’s Daughter, came out and joined them, so that the trio proceeded single file to the scene of the festivities. Neither Simon nor his sister danced that evening, but sat near their distinguished guest, explaining as best they could the methods and art of the performers, for they were very proud of the Indian dancing and music. As the evening progressed, Christian Trubee found himself admiring the Indian maid at his side more than he did the shimmying hordes on the floor, or the quaint picturesqueness of the unique ceremonial.

Black Chief’s daughter was certainly the best looking girl present, almost more like an American than an Indian in appearance, for her profile was certainly on refined lines, and it was only when looking her full in the face did the racial traits of breadth of the bridge of the nose, flatness of lips and deep duskiness of complexion reveal themselves. Her dark eyes were very clear and expressive, her teeth even and white, her neck and throat graceful, and her form long, lithe and elegant.

Christian Trubee liked her very much, and was entirely absorbed by her at the time of the last beat of the drums when, with a loud yell, the dance concluded, and the now limp and perspiring Indian dancers crowded out of doors into the cool moonlight. On the way back Simon Black Chief led the way, his long hair blowing in the breeze, his sister following. Trubee did not follow single file, but walked beside the fair damsel. She was as tall as he was, though she wore deerskin shoes without heels. When they parted, in the long lush grass, before the humble cabin, she promised to show him some of the interesting spots on the reservation–the grave of Blacksnake, the famous chief and orator, the various tribal burial places, and a visit to King Jimmerson, who alternated with Twenty Canoes as President of the Seneca Nation, to see the silver war crowns of Red Jacket, Blacksnake and The Cornplanter, and to Red House to meet Jim Jacobs, the venerable “Seneca Bear Hunter.”

All of these excursions duly came to pass, about one a day, as the weather turned steadily clear, day after day, when the Keewaydin blew, and the distant mountains along The Beautiful River wore a purple green, and fleecy white clouds tumbled about in the deep blue sky. On these excursions Black Chief’s Daughter seemed to be the equal of her brother and Trubee as a pedestrian, was never tired, always cheerful and anxious to explain the various points of interest.

At one of the graveyards she pointed out the last resting place of an eccentric redman known as “Indian Brown,” with two deep, round holes in the mound, made according to his last wishes, because he had been such a bad Indian in life, that when the Devil came down one hole to get him, he would escape by the other!

The three young people got along famously on the trips and Trubee was absorbing an unusual amount of aboriginal history and lore, and under the most pleasant circumstances. While he never said a word of affection or even compliment to Black Chief’s Daughter, he felt himself deeply enamored, and often, in his quiet moments, pictured her as his wife. Once or twice came the answering thought, how could he, a man of so much education and refinement, take for life a mate who could not read, and whose English was little better than a baby’s jargon? Where would he take her to? Would she like his life, for surely he could not become a squaw man on the reservation? On the other hand, she was gentle, sympathetic and thoughtful, and the blood of regal Indian ancestors gave her a refinement that sometimes education does not convey. But he was happy in the moment, as are most persons of adaptability of character. He was at home in any company, or in any circumstances, and had he been old enough to enlist, would have made a brilliant record in the Civil War; as it was he was but ten years of age when the conflict ended.

As the days wore on, each one more delightful than its predecessor, Simon Black Chief and his sister vied with one another to plan trips to points of interest. One evening Simon asked his white friend if he had ever seen a wolf-house, the local Indian method of trapping these formidable animals.

“What was it like, and where was there one?” was Trubee’s instant reply.

“A wolf-house,” said Simon, "is a walled trap like a white man’s great, big mouse-trap, with a falling door. There is still one preserved over at the Ox Bow, at the tall, stone mansion called ‘Corydon,’ across the Pennsylvania line."

Trubee’s interest was aroused, not only in the wolf-house, but the “tall stone mansion” and its possible occupants. Simon explained to him that an English gentleman lived there, a son-in-law of one of the heads of the Holland Land Company. He had been a great hunter in his earlier days, following exclusively the methods taught him by the Indians. It was a longer trip than any yet attempted, but Trubee secured Pat Smith’s little black mare and two other horses, so that the trio departed on horseback for the distant manor house. Black Chief’s Daughter, who rode astride, was a skillful and graceful horsewoman, even though her mount was a poor excuse of horseflesh.

The trip along The Beautiful River was very enjoyable, and at length they came in sight of “Corydon” on the hill, above the river, a great, high, dark stone structure, ivy grown, standing in a group of original white pines, some of these venerable monarchs being stag-topped, while others had lost their crests in sundry tempests. There was a private rope ferry across the river, but they rode the horses through the stream, which was so deep in one place that the animals were forced to swim. They rode into the grounds, past the huge stone gate posts, up the hill, under the dark pines. As they neared the front door, the portico designed by the famous Latrobe, several dogs which looked like Scottish deerhounds rushed down from the porch and began to leap about the horses’ throatlatches, barking loudly.

Trubee checked his horse, and asked Simon, who was acquainted with the family, to dismount and inquire if he might inspect the wolf-house, which stood on a heathy eminence behind the garden. Once wolves had been so plentiful and so bold that five of the monsters had been caught in the trap in the space of three months.

Before Simon Black Chief could dismount, two figures emerged from the house, a young man and a young woman. Trubee’s quick glances made mental pictures of both. The man was about thirty-five years of age, short and thickset, with blond hair parted in the middle, a small mustache and “Burnsides,” decidedly military in his bearing. The girl was of medium height, possibly twenty years of age, decidedly pretty, with Sudan brown hair, hazel eyes, clear cut features, a fair complexion and wearing a flowing Mother Hubbard gown of prune-colored brocade.

Trubee rode up to them, bowing, reining his horse, which he turned over to Simon and, dismounting, apologized for his intrusion. He explained how the Indian had told him of the curious wolf-house back of the garden and how it would help him in his researches to see it. The girl graciously offered to show it to him, but first invited the Indian girl to dismount and rest. The young man remained talking to the Indian, but the Seneca maid continued to sit on her horse, rigid and silent as a Tanagra. On the way to the wolf-house, Christian Trubee introduced himself, and, being able to mention several mutual acquaintances, which put him on an easy footing with the fair chatelaine of “Corydon”.

The charming girl told him that she was Phillis Paddingstowe, the daughter of the lord of the manor, which made Trubee feel like saying how natural it was to find _Phillis_ at _Corydon_! The young military-looking man, “the little Colonel” she called him, was Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Caslow, who had served with General Huidekoper, “the hero of Gettysburg” in that immortal conflict, and was at Corydon for a few days on a trout fishing trip. The old garden through which they passed on the way to the wolf-house was full of boxwood trees, which had been brought from Bartram’s gardens in Philadelphia by wagon to Warren, and up the Ohe-yu in flat boats. They gave a spicy, aromatic odor to the summer afternoon atmosphere. The wolf-house was falling to decay, but Trubee took out his note book and sketched it and recorded its dimensions. It was surprising that wolves should come so close to a habitation, but Phillis stated that when she was a baby they had actually killed and eaten three of her father’s favorite Scotch deerhounds in one night, though they were chained to kennels at the rear of the house.

By the time they had returned from their inspection, Clement Paddingstowe, Phillis’ father, had appeared, and supplemented his daughter’s cordial invitation that they stay to tea. Trubee might have remained, but Black Chief’s Daughter, though she was again urged by Phillis and her father, seemed disinclined to partake of the hospitality. They rode down the drive all a changed party. The Indian girl had heard Trubee accept an invitation to return to “Corydon” in the near future, and noted his admiring glances at her fair person; she felt for the first time that she stood no chance against a white girl of gentle blood, though her own native antecedents were of as noble quality, for was she not Black Chief’s Daughter, and the granddaughter of the undefeated warrior, Destroy-Town?

She was silent and hung her head the whole way back to Steamburg. Phillis, though delightfully courteous by nature, seemed a trifle distant to the little Colonel that evening. Simon Black Chief was piqued at himself for having brought unhappiness to his sister. Christian Trubee was in love with Phillis Paddingstowe. Nevertheless, the young collegian was too much a man of the world not to value the kindnesses bestowed on him by Simon and his Sister, their parents and other Indians of the reservation, to become suddenly cold and indifferent. Yet, alone, he wondered why he had ever for a minute contemplated marrying an Indian girl, and how slight would be their spiritual intercourse? Yet he was here underrating Black Chief’s Daughter, who was not of the earth-earthy, and had called herself to him “an imaginative person.”

He tried to be polite and attentive to the Indian girl, but she noted that on several occasions where she planned trips for certain days, he demurred on account of engagements at “Corydon.” His manner was different; the Indian girl, uncannily intuitive, would not be deceived. The summer wore along, and Trubee saw that he could not keep up pleasing Black Chief’s Daughter, a break must come somehow. And the neglected maiden, unknown to him, was reading his every thought, and prepared to make that break first. She had brought some late huckleberries to Pat Smith’s wife at the long house, where she was told that Trubee had been absent for three days at “Corydon”; that it was rumored he would marry Clement Paddingstowe’s daughter in the Fall.

As she walked along the path between the yellow, half-dead grasses, swinging the little iron pot that had contained the berries, she began planning for the dissolution of her unhappy romance. There were many May apples or mandrakes ripening in the low places, and, stooping, she uprooted several plants, half filling the pot with them. Then she left the trail, and started across the meadow toward a group of ancient hemlock trees, beneath which was the Cold Spring. Near the spring were large, flat stones laid up like seats, and the remains of some stone hearths where the Indians often roasted corn. She had her flints and steel with her, and gathered enough dry twigs and punk to light a fire. Then she sat down on one of the flat stones and, with her hands over her face, she reviewed the story of her love for Trubee. He had cared for her at first; that was consolation, but she was helpless beside the white rival; red blood was as nothing beside blue. Then she nervously tramped out the fire, as if to start on again. This life was a very little thing, after all; if her dream had failed in this existence, better end it, and come back again and fulfill it, even as a flower or bird; it was impossible to prevent living again. She began to munch the roots of the May apples which she had gathered, and then began to walk across the fields toward the graveyard which contained the tomb of “Indian Brown,” the bad man.