Part 8

"There is no time to lose!" exclaimed Jack. "The soldiers from the fort are close upon our heels, we did but delay their approach till we heard your signal. What is to be done? They are in a mood for vengeance."

"Ugh! Let the boats be burnt!"

The howl of the wolf, repeated twice, was given, and the next moment a column of smoke was observed in the direction of the canoes, followed by several loud explosions, as the kegs of gunpowder, which formed part of the lading, blew up.

The next instant the head of the French column appeared through the trees, and White Eagle, seeing the uselessness of continuing the fight against such overwhelming odds, withdrew across the stream with his warriors.

"The Wacondah calls us to our wigwams," he said; and now, lightened of their loads, and carrying only their rifles and scalps, the Iroquois struck across the forest in a south easterly direction, and soon put several leagues between themselves and the French, who arrived soon afterwards, only to find the ashes of the fire and the fragments of the canoes strewn around.

Chagrined and vexed beyond measure that they had once more been baulked of their prey, and that the "Iroquois devils" had got the best of them, they discontinued the useless pursuit, and returned to the fort.

The Indians travelled quickly, and soon reached the head waters of the Genesee River, and on the afternoon of the fifth day, from a lofty eminence they looked down upon the lodges and wigwams of their tribe in the peaceful valley below.

A triumphant yell broke from their lips as they beheld this welcome sight, for ever welcome to the soul of the returning warrior is the lodge that he calls his home. The village was quickly deserted by its inhabitants, for every stripling and maiden, all the squaws and children came dancing and shouting to receive them.

With all the agility and suppleness of the deer, the Indian youths came bounding forth to caper about the braves, to finger those gruesome trophies that hung at their girdles, and to carry their rifles and tomahawks. Their faces were radiant with the lofty hero-worship that burned in their young hearts. How they longed to leave the comparative security of the village and join the war parties!

The maidens, too, well versed in all the art and coquetry of the forest, their long raven tresses decked with flowers, their dark eyes beaming with love, welcomed home their sweethearts with unfeigned joy. But there is always a fly in the honey, and the joy of victory was somewhat marred by the bitter lamenting of those squaws whose husbands and sons returned no more.

A hasty meal was then prepared and set before the Indians in wooden platters and gourds, and as soon as this was cleared away by the attendant squaws, a fire was lit and the braves seated themselves in a circle and waited solemnly for the passing round of the peace-pipe and the council that was to follow. A feeling of reverence and awe seemed to pervade the very atmosphere, and the paleface youths became not a little uneasy, wondering what important event was about to happen next.

The two strangers had caused no little curiosity by their presence, especially amongst the squaws and striplings, but so far no one had addressed them personally. Evidently they were all waiting for some explanation as to why these two palefaces returned home with the braves and were not treated as prisoners. Their curiosity was soon to be satisfied.

A low murmur of voices ran around the council fire, and as if by instinct the braves rose to their feet, and in one place the serried ranks opened to admit a very aged chief, who came from one of the lodges near the "painted post" and slowly made his way to the assembly. He was accompanied by several other aged chiefs, but none amongst them looked so wise or even so old, by a generation at least, as the Sagamore, who now toiled painfully across the ground.

His form had once been straight like the fir-tree, but it was now bent, and he leaned heavily on his staff. His face was covered with wrinkles, and his white locks carried the snows of more than a hundred winters. Not till this aged chief had taken his seat at the post of honour amongst the chiefs that formed the front circle did the Indians deign to follow his example.

Then the sacred pipe, the calumet, was lit and solemnly passed from mouth to mouth, and amid a silence that could almost be felt, the blue smoke curled upwards around the fire and scented the still air of the early evening.

At last the White Eagle rose to speak, and as he did so every eye was intently fixed upon him; even the squaws, who stood at a respectful distance from the charmed circle, stayed their gossip and strained their ears to listen to the weighty words of this renowned sachem.

"Father, you see that we come not back with empty hands. The wigwams of the Algonquins are empty. Their squaws and their children gaze no longer upon their braves, for the scalps of their warriors hang at the girdles of my children."

A hum of satisfaction arose from every part of the circle at these words.

"The Great Spirit has called ten of my braves to the happy hunting-fields out there beyond the sunset," continued the chief, raising his right hand as he spoke and pointing to where the sun had just set amongst the pines, leaving a train of red and gold. "But they had no wounds upon their backs, for their faces were never turned away from their enemies. Their squaws and their children shall be provided for. I have spoken, for the words of a chief are few!"

A low buzz of conversation went round the circle as White Eagle resumed his seat, and many an eye was turned towards the palefaces, as though some explanation of their presence was needed. At length the aged chief rose slowly, assisted by two other chiefs.

Every voice immediately lapsed into silence as the old Sagamore, with flowing locks that were white as the driven snow, began to speak. So aged was he that the oldest warrior in that grim circle could scarcely remember him otherwise than he now was. The children of his generation, and the generation that followed him, had passed away like leaves before the north wind.

"My children!" he began, and his voice at first was low and broken, but they listened to him with all the reverence that awe and superstition can give.

"Many suns have risen and set since 'Keneu,' the war-eagle of his tribe, led his people forth to battle. A hundred winters have whitened the forests and the plains since he first followed the trail of the deer. Then we were chiefs and sagamores from the shores of the Great Salt Lake, far back to the Gitche Gumee and the mountains beyond the plains where, amid the eternal snows, the Manitou dwells in the Silence. Then the forests were full of deer, the plains were full of herds, and the streams were filled with fish; and no paleface was to be found in all the land, for the Wacondah had placed his red children in a land of plenty, and the smoke from the council fire and the calumet, the peace-pipe, rose from every valley, and beside every stream were their lodges, for my people were happy."

"Ugh!" came the ready cry of assent from many a dark-skinned warrior, and many a furtive glance was cast in the direction of the two palefaces.

"Then from the land of the sun-rising," continued the Sagamore, "in his white-winged birch canoe, that brought the thunder and the lightning, came the paleface; and he laid the forest low before him, and he drove my people westward, for the face of the Manitou was turned in anger from his children. Then we turned our faces westward, towards the land of the setting sun, and the regions of the Home-Wind, and we said--

"'Here we will hunt the red deer and the beaver, and from these clear streams we will take the sturgeon and the salmon, and here, when the Manitou calls us, we will die, where we see not the smoke of the paleface, nor hear the sound of his axe.' Was it well then, chief, to bring hither the children of the East Wind?"

The old man ceased speaking and sank down once more upon the rude log that served as a dais, and the silence became even yet more intense when the White Eagle rose again and said--

"Once a mighty paleface came to the lodge of Keneu. Hungry and weary, he came from the land of Wabun, driven here by the cruel laws of his people, and he brought to us the thunder and the lightning, and he taught my people knowledge and wisdom from the sacred writings in the shining land of Wabun. He became the brother and the friend of the red man, and we taught him to hunt the moose and the deer and the beaver, and the Great Sagamore loved him, and gave him a place at the council fire of my people."

"He is the friend of Keneu, and since many moons his lodge stands empty; but who are these? Are they the children of Miquon?" abruptly asked the aged chief, "or the children of the Canadas?"

"They are the children of the Yengeese, and they raised their hands to help the Eagle when his wings were pinioned by the French of the Canadas, and the red man forgets not his friends, when his fetters are freed, else would the Manitou be angry. They are my brothers, and the white blood has been washed from their veins. Will the great father turn them from his lodge?"

This speech produced a wonderful transformation in the faces of all who heard it, and when several other warriors had spoken of the prowess and courage of Red Feather and Black Hawk, a gentler look came over the Sagamore's face as he spoke.

"It is well!" he said. "The Wacondah has willed it. They shall dwell in the lodges of the Iroquois, and my young men shall teach them to hunt the swift deer and the beaver." Then the council broke up, and the men repaired to their wigwams.

This formal introduction over, the youths were shown to a lodge, next the one that awaited the return of the paleface hunter just referred to, and during the weeks and months of their sojourn amongst the tribe they were treated with all the respect and esteem that belonged to an Indian brave. The war hatchet had been buried for a while, so they joined the hunting-parties that often scoured the forests, and they soon became expert in the arts and crafts of these children of the forest, until each could handle a canoe, shoot the rapids and hunt the deer like a true Indian.

"Come with me, my paleface brothers," said White Eagle one day, just before the first snow of winter. "Come with me and I will show you how the Manitou provides for his red children."

So they took their canoes and paddled all day, and then next day they carried their canoes over a portage until they reached the sweet waters of the Tioga River. As soon as the sun had gone down the chief took a pine torch and held it, lighted, over the stream. Almost immediately a dozen fine salmon, attracted by the torch, came to the very edge of the stream. Then a fire was kindled close to the bank, and immediately the river seemed full of living creatures of the finny tribe.

"Look! What a glorious sight!" exclaimed Jamie; "the water is alive with fish." And it was true, for, attracted by the huge blaze, they came tumbling over each other, leaping out of the water by dozens, until the whole surface glowed and shimmered, green and red and purple.

Then the Indians who had accompanied them in order to get a supply for the tribe, entered the water, and with long spears made of hard wood, something after the fashion of a trident, speared and hooked the salmon to their heart's content.

As the youths stood spellbound, gazing at this almost miraculous sight, the chief tapped them on the shoulder and said--

"Does the Manitou fill the rivers of the palefaces with fish and their forests with furs?"

"We have never seen such plenty, chief, in the land of the palefaces. Very often if a man takes a fish from a stream, or a deer from the forest, he is sent to prison and sometimes put to death."

"Humph!" said the chief in a tone of surprise. "Now I know why the paleface comes over the Salt Water to the hunting-grounds of his red brother."

The lads were so dumfounded by this unusual sight that their thoughts turned instinctively to that little burn that sang its way down through a wood-lined vale far away in another land, where to land a single fish was a heinous crime, and yet how they loved that little spot, now so far away; but the voice of the chief awoke them from their reverie, saying--

"Come, my brothers, and fill your canoe with the gifts of the Manitou."

They needed no second bidding, and the next minute they, too, were enjoying the magnificent sport. Very soon all the canoes were filled, and then after a hearty supper of fresh salmon, the fish were sorted, dressed and prepared for drying, after which they were carried home for the winter's supply.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE MOCCASIN PRINT IN THE FOREST*

During their stay amongst the Iroquois, which had now extended over rather more than a year, the two English youths had gained the esteem and friendship of two young Indians, both the sons of the White Eagle. Their names were respectively "Young Eagle" and "Swift Arrow."

The former was a strong and supple youth of seventeen, sturdy as an oak, but as straight as a cedar. His brother, who was a year younger, had gained his title of "Swift Arrow" because he was so fleet of foot that he could overtake the swiftest deer of the forest with comparative ease. Both inherited much of the courage and fearlessness of their sire.

These four companions spent much of their time, now that the summer had come again, in hunting and fishing, often staying for weeks together in the fastnesses of the forest. They became well-nigh inseparable. Many were the adventures and escapades, and many the dangers, too, that they braved in each other's company.

Once, in descending the rapids of a neighbouring stream, their canoe had struck a rock which capsized her and hurled all the occupants into the boiling surf. This was nothing unusual, but they were expert swimmers, and immediately struck out for the bank. Arrived there, the Young Eagle missed one of his paleface friends. It was Jack, who had struck the rock in falling and was rendered unconscious, and carried away down the stream. The other two, exhausted with their desperate struggle in the rapids, were hardly able to reach the shore; but Young Eagle, arriving there first, and seeing the unfortunate youth being carried away, immediately leapt into the boiling surf, and succeeded, after a desperate struggle, in saving Jack from drowning.

This brave, unselfish act Jack was able to repay the week afterwards, for in pursuing a wounded bear too keenly Young Eagle had the misfortune to lose his footing, and when he attempted to rise the bear was just in the act of tearing him to pieces in its mad wounded frenzy; when Jack, heedless of the danger which he himself ran, rushed into the very "hug" of the wounded bear, and plunged his long hunting-knife into its heart. The bear rolled over upon them both, but the last wound proved fatal, and the huge monster lay still in death.

A dozen incidents of this nature had only cemented the ties which bound these friends together, and the English youths could scarcely bear to think of that near future when they must part from their red brothers, for much as they loved the forest, they felt somehow that their life was not to end here, and their desire to help their country, either on land or sea, during the present war with the French, which, though it had commenced on the continent of Europe, and had been continued on the high seas, had yet had its echo in the forests and backwoods of the North American Colonies, and, indeed, was destined to have its end there.

Once, during the latter part of the summer of the year 1759, they had been absent from their lodges for several weeks, hunting the shaggy brown bear, the jaguar, the fox, and the wolf, for their skins, in that part of the forest which stretched far away from the head waters of their own streams to the Mohawk River, when one afternoon they suddenly struck a fresh trail, which showed the prints of moccasined feet.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the Young Eagle, who was the first to discover them.

"What is the matter? Is it the trail of an enemy or a friend?" demanded Jack. "By your demeanour I should say that you've struck the trail of a serpent."

"I like it not," merely remarked the Indian youth.

All four of them now got down to the work of examining the trail. Every bit of turf, every leaf or broken twig was carefully examined. Then they cautiously followed the trail, with bent figures and cocked rifles. At any moment they might be ambushed, if it should prove to be an enemy that had passed that way.

"Why do you suspect that it is an enemy, when we are so near the hunting-grounds of the Oneidas and the Mohicans?" asked Red Feather.

"Look! This no Iroquois moccasin," said the Young Eagle, stooping to pick up a worn-out, discarded moccasin, worked with beads after the pattern of the French Indians.

They clustered round this piece of evidence, which seemed incontestable, for a rude attempt had been made to work even the Lilies of France on the discarded footgear.

When they had finished their scrutiny of this moccasin, one word broke from all their lips--

"Algonquins!"

But what were the fiends doing here, so far from the River of Canada? And how many of them had come from across the lakes?

These were the questions they set themselves to settle next, as they continued their keen search for any little trifle which might help to explain these things, for to the Indian the forest is an open book, and every twig and leaf may be a written page.

They followed the trail cautiously for another quarter of an hour, until they came to a spot where the footprints showed more deeply in the soft black earth, and after another careful examination, Swift Arrow declared that there were at least fifteen or twenty of the enemy, and that they must be a war party, out for scalps, and to harass the enemies of the Canadas.

"Look! This is not an Algonquin moccasin that has left this mark," said Red Feather, who for some minutes had been examining a footprint that was both broader and longer than the rest, and also of a different pattern. "Here, get down to it, Eagle, and examine it for yourself."

The young chief did as he was requested, and measured the print with the palm of his hand, and compared it with the others.

"You see, the heel mark is deeper than any of the other prints, as though the man had walked like this----" and here Jamie imitated the carriage of a man who plants his heels firmly on the ground when he walks.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the Eagle, rising from the ground. "My paleface brother is right. 'Tis not the moccasin of an Indian at all."

"Not an Indian?"

"No!"

"Who, then, can it be?"

"'Tis the moccasin of a paleface that has left that mark!"

"A paleface?" exclaimed the English youths, raising their voices above a whisper, for the first time since the trail had been discovered.

"Then it must be a French officer who is in command of the party!" and this seemed to all of them the solution of the problem.

The trail was a fresh one, too, and the enemy could not be far away, so they immediately held a council of war, to decide what had best be done. But the sun had set and it was almost dark, and they were compelled to camp in a little bower near by, where the overhanging trees afforded them a secluded spot, not easy for an enemy to find.

They did not light a fire, lest it should discover their position to the enemy. In silence they ate their evening meal, which consisted of a little dried venison. Then they resolved to wait till morning before they followed the trail further.

"Let my paleface brothers sleep, and Young Eagle and Swift Arrow will watch," said the young chief.

"That's not quite fair," said Jamie, "for you'll never wake us till sunrise, and you must be just as much fatigued as we are, for you did more than your share in carrying the canoes at the portage."

"Young Eagle all ears and eyes when an enemy is near. He feels not fatigue. Let my brothers sleep."

The English youths had to give way, for they had to confess that though they had learnt many things during their sojourn amongst the Iroquois, yet their sense of alertness and keenness of perception could in no wise be matched against these children of the forest. Soon, therefore, the young palefaces were fast asleep upon a bed of leaves and spruce branches, unconscious of the dangers that surrounded them.

They had been asleep perhaps for an hour, when the cry of a night-hawk, followed by the howl of a coyote, was heard in the distance. On hearing these the Young Eagle gave a significant look at Swift Arrow, and without speaking a word, the latter arose, quietly pushed aside the branches, and disappeared into the forest in the direction of the sounds.

It was quite dark now, for there was no moon, and the stars showed but faintly through the thick foliage of the trees overhead.

An hour passed--two hours--but the Indian youth returned not. Had he scented danger? Was the enemy lurking near? Then why did he not return? Surely nothing had happened to him. The young chief noticed that Jamie's sleep began to be troubled. Once or twice he had murmured something in his sleep, and Young Eagle had touched his lips, as if to close them, lest the sounds might betray them.

"The Wacondah is speaking to my paleface brother," said the young chief inwardly, "for his sleep is still troubled."

The lad's slumbers were indeed troubled, and yet 'twas only a dream, that he had often dreamt before. His brain had often been puzzled as to why this particular dream should recur to him so often. He dreamt that he was a little bairn again, far away across the Big Salt Lake, in the Homeland; and that a rough but kindly man took him on his knee, and spoke to him in tones of melting tenderness. "Poor motherless bairn!" he said, and the tears rained down his rough face. But the little child, with sunshine in his bonny face, and laughter in his bright blue eyes, crowed and chuckled, and pulled the rough man's beard.

It was at this point that Young Eagle had placed his hand on the lips of his sleeping companion, causing him to start, and to open his eyes for an instant, but he quickly closed them again.

Then his dream continued, but it changed suddenly. Side by side with Jack, and his two dusky companions, he ranged the forest, hunting the bear, and trapping the beaver in his lodges of bark and logs, when suddenly they came upon an Indian camp in a little clearing of the forest, and there with his back to an elm-tree, tied hand and foot, was an old paleface hunter, undergoing torture at the hands of a band of cruel red men.

Bravely he suffered it all, like a hero, and not a cry of pain escaped his lips. A dozen arrows, knives and hatchets pierced the tree about his head and face, and although the _coup de grace_ had not been given, yet the blood flowed freely from several wounds. His lips were compressed, and not a groan escaped them, but inwardly he prayed to God that death might bring him release from this slow and cruel torture.

A fierce-looking chief taunted him with being a paleface snake, and a Yengeese, and urged his warriors to prolong the torture.

"Let us see if a cursed Yengeese has red blood in his veins, or whether he has the heart of a Delaware," he cried.

"Your tongue is forked, Muskrat, and your warriors tremble at the sight of a paleface, so that their knives cannot find his heart!" cried the hunter, in the hope of urging his enemies to end his torture by a fatal blow.

"My young men wish to know if a Yengeese can bear pain like a red warrior."

"Your young men are squaws! Go tell your Canada Father to find them petticoats!"