CHAPTER XV

STRANGE VOICES

As for Florence and Jeanne, they were still hidden away in that riddle of a place by the lake shore on "made land."

A more perplexing place of refuge could not have been found. What was it? Why was it here? Were there men about the place within the palisades? These were the questions that disturbed even the stout-hearted Florence.

They were silent for a long time, those two. When at last Jeanne spoke, Florence started as if a stranger had addressed her.

"This place," said Petite Jeanne, "reminds me of a story I once read before I came to America. In my native land we talked in French, of course, and studied in French. But we studied English just as you study French in America.

"A story in my book told of early days in America. It was thrilling, oh, very thrilling indeed! There were Indians, real red men who scalped their victims and held wild war dances. There were scouts and soldiers. And there were forts all built of logs hewn in the forest. And in these forts there were--"

"Fort," Florence broke in, "a fort. Of course, that is what this is, a fort for protection from Indians."

"But, Indians!" Jeanne's tone reflected her surprise. "Real live, wild Indians! There are none here now!"

"Of course not!" Florence laughed a merry laugh. "This is not, after all, a real fort. It is only a reproduction of a very old fort that was destroyed many years ago, old Fort Dearborn."

"But I do not understand. Why did they put it here?" Petite Jeanne was perplexed.

"It is to be part of the great Fair, the Century of Progress. It was built in order that memories of those good old frontier days might be brought back to us in the most vivid fashion.

"Just think of being here now, just we alone!" Florence enthused. "Let us dream a little. The darkness is all about us. On the lake there is a storm. There is no city now; only a village straggling along a stagnant stream. Wild ducks have built their nests in the swamps over yonder. And in the forest there are wild deer. In the cabins by the river women and children sleep. But we, you and I, we are sentries for the night. Indians prowl through the forest. The silent dip of their paddles sends their canoes along the shallow water close to shore.

"See! There is a flash of light. What is that on the lake? Indian canoes? Or floating logs?

"Shall we arouse the garrison? No! No! We will wait. It may be only logs after all. And if Indians, they may be friendly, for this is supposed to be a time of peace, though dark rumors are afloat."

Florence's voice trailed away. The low rumble of thunder, the swish of water on a rocky shore, and then silence.

Petite Jeanne shook herself. "You make it all so very real. Were those good days, better days than we are knowing now?"

"Who can tell?" Florence sighed. "They seem very good to us now. But we must not forget that they were hard days, days of real sickness and real death. We must not forget that once the garrison of this fort marched forth with the entire population, prepared to make their way to a place of greater safety; that they were attacked and massacred by the treacherous red men.

"We must not forget these things, nor should we cease to be thankful for the courage and devotion of those pioneers who dared to enter a wilderness and make their homes here, that we who follow after them might live in a land of liberty and peace."

"No," Petite Jeanne's tone was solemn, "we will not forget."

* * * * * * * *

In the meantime the pleasure-seeking throng, all unconscious of the storm that had threatened to deluge them, still roamed the streets. Their ranks, however, were thinning. One by one the bands, which were unable to play because of the press, and might not have been heard because of the tumult, folded up their music and their stands and instruments and, like the Arabs, "silently stole away." The radio stars who could not be seen answered other calls. Grandstands were deserted, street cars and elevated trains were packed. The great city had had one grand look at itself. It was now going home.

And still, lurking in the doorway, the grown boy in shabby clothes and the hunchback lingered, waiting, expectant.

"It won't be long now," the hunchback muttered.

"It won't be long," the other echoed.

* * * * * * * *

Petite Jeanne, though a trifle disappointed by the dispelling of the mystery of their immediate surroundings, soon enough found herself charmed by Florence's vivid pictures of life in those days when Chicago was a village, when the Chicago River ran north instead of south, and Indians still roamed the prairies in search of buffaloes.

How this big, healthy, adventure-loving girl would have loved the life they lived in those half forgotten days! As it was, she could live them now only in imagination. This she did to her heart's content.

So they lingered long, these two. Seated on a broad, hand-hewn bench, looking out over the dark waters, waiting in uncertainty for the possible return of the storm that, having spent its fury in a vain attempt to drown the lake, did not return, they lived for the most part in the past, until a clock striking somewhere in the distance announced the hour of midnight.

"Twelve!" Petite Jeanne breathed in great surprise. "It will not rain now. We must go."

"Yes." Florence sprang to her feet. "We must go at once."

The moon was out now; the storm had passed. Quietly enough they started down the winding stairs. Yet startling developments awaited them just around the corner.

In the meanwhile on the city streets the voice of the tumult had died to a murmur. Here came the rumble of a passing train; from this corner came the sound of hammers dismantling grandstands that the morning rush might not be impeded. Other than these there was no sign that a great city had left its homes and had for once taken one long interested look at itself only to return to its homes again.

As Florence and Jeanne stepped from the door of the blockhouse they were startled by the sound of voices in low but animated conversation.

"Here, at this hour of the night!" At once Florence was on the defensive. The fort, she knew, was not yet open to the public. Even had it been, located as it was on this desolate stretch of "made land," it would be receiving no visitors at midnight.

"Come!" she whispered. "They are over there, toward the gate. We dare not try to go out, not yet."

Seizing Jeanne by the hand, she led her along the dark shadows of a wall and at last entered a door.

The place was strange to them; yet to Florence it had a certain familiarity. This was a moment when her passion for the study of history stood her in good stead.

"This is the officers' quarters," she whispered. "There should be a door that may be barred. The windows are narrow, the casements heavy. Here one should be safe."

She was not mistaken. Hardly had they entered than she closed the door and let down a massive wooden bar.

"Now," she breathed, "we are safe, unless--"

She broke short off. A thought had struck her all of a heap.

"Unless what?" Jeanne asked breathlessly.

"Unless this place has a night watchman. If it has, and he finds us here at this hour of the night we will be arrested for trespassing. And then we will have a ride in a police wagon which won't be the least bit of fun."

"No," agreed Jeanne in a solemn tone, "it won't."

"And that," whispered Florence, as she tiptoed about examining things, "seems to be about what we are up against. I had thought the place a mere unfurnished wooden shell. That is the way the blockhouse was. But see! At the end of this room is a fireplace, and beside it are all sorts of curious cooking utensils, great copper kettles, skillets of iron with yard-long handles and a brass cornhopper. Coming from the past, they must be priceless."

"And see! There above the mantel are flintlock rifles," Jeanne put in. "And beside the fireplace are curious lanterns with candles in them. How I wish we could light them."

"We dare not," said Florence. "But one thing we can do. We can sit in that dark corner where the moon does not fall, and dream of other days."

"And in the meantime?" Jeanne barely suppressed a shudder.

"In the meantime we will hope that the guard, if there be one, goes out for his midnight lunch and that we may slip out unobserved. Truly we have right enough to do that. We have meant no harm and have done none."

So, sitting there in the dark, dreaming, they played that Florence was the youthful commander of the fort and that the slender Jeanne was his young bride but recently brought into this wilderness.

"The wild life and the night frighten you," Florence said to Jeanne. "But I am young and strong. I will protect you. Come! Let us sit by the fire here and dream a while."

Jeanne laughed a low musical laugh and snuggled closer.

But, for Jeanne, the charm of the past had departed. Try as she might, she could not overcome the fear that had taken possession of her upon realizing that they were not alone.

"Who can these men be?" she asked herself. "Guards? Perhaps, and perhaps not."

She thought of the dark-faced man who so inspired her with fear. "We saw him out there on the waste lands," she told herself, as a chill coursed up her spine. "It is more than probable that he saw us. He may have followed us, watching us like a cat. And now, at this late hour, when a piercing scream could scarcely be heard, like a cat he may be ready to spring."

In a great state of agitation she rose and crept noiselessly toward the window.

"Come," she whispered. "See yonder! Two men are slinking along before that other log building. One is stooped like a hunchback. He is carrying a well-filled sack upon his back. Surely they cannot be guards.

"Can it be that this place is left unguarded, and that it is being robbed?"

Here was a situation indeed. Two girls in this lonely spot, unguarded and with such prowlers about.

"I am glad the door is b-barred." Jeanne's teeth chattered.

Having gone skulking along the building across the way, the men entered and closed the door. Two or three minutes later a wavering light appeared at one of the narrow windows.

"Perhaps they are robbing that place of some precious heirlooms!" Florence's heart beat painfully, but she held herself in splendid control.

"This buil-building will be next!" Jeanne spoke with difficulty.

"Perhaps. I--I think we should do something about it."

"But what?"

"We shall know. Providence will guide us." Florence's hand was on the bar. It lifted slowly.

What was to happen? They were going outside, Jeanne was sure of that. But what was to happen after that? She could not tell. Getting a good grip on herself, she whispered bravely:

"You lead. I'll follow."