“My father, Chief Hopocon, may tell you. He is not of my father’s people.”
Knowing that further questioning would be useless, Ree said no more about that matter, but sought to ascertain to what extent his aid and John’s would be acceptable in furnishing meat for the people still remaining in the Delaware village. He quickly found that, whatever her feelings toward the Palefaces in general might be, the daughter of Captain Pipe looked upon himself and his friend in quite a different way, and she gladly heard his suggestion that, as they killed more game than they needed for themselves, he would see to it that the Delawares should not want.
This suggestion cost Ree considerable discomfort of mind, notwithstanding, and he was by no means certain that John would welcome the proposition after he had heard of the battle of which the girl told (the defeat of St. Clair, Nov. 4, 1791). And indeed it did seem to Ree himself almost unbearable to consider that he and John should be furnishing food to the helpless members of Captain Pipe’s village, while that honest but cruel and defiant chieftain and his braves were making war on the whites—his own people; also that they should be giving assistance to those who upheld the mysterious lone Indian in his secret, sneaking attacks upon solitary hunters and travelers. But he bade Gentle Maiden and the other Indians who came to see him off, a friendly farewell, and set out for home, thinking deeply of all he had heard.
The thought would come to him that he and John were bound to have trouble; for, though they might retain the friendship and good will of Captain Pipe, it was more than probable that he would be unable to restrain his warriors, and especially the warriors of other tribes, the Wyandots, Senecas and, most of all, the Mingoes, from making a bold attack upon them, now that their blood was heated by a deeper hate and their minds inflamed by the victory they had won. So, wearily, Ree plodded through the snow.
A bitterly cold night was closing in when Ree reached the cabin.
“I rather guess there will be no prowlers around this evening,” he remarked, as he shook the snow from his coonskin cap in front of the roaring fireplace, and held his hands to the blaze to warm them.
“Ree,” said John, ignoring the remark, “Mr. Hatch wants a feather bed. We were talking about it as you came in. I told him we could make him one from turkey feathers.”
“So we can,” was the answer. “We’ll begin saving feathers right away.”
“It is because I have decided to remain here until I can go in quest of the rascals who have the missing part of my aunt’s letter,” the Quaker put in, very seriously. “For poor Ichabod is dead—dead and gone—and the money, lads, is mine—all mine. Oh, I must obtain the paper which was stolen from me! All mine—the money and all—it is all mine,” he murmured, and from time to time repeated—“All mine—all mine!”
Much thinking of the hidden treasure and his assertion that he was the only creature known to be alive who had any valid claim to the fortune, seemed fast to be making Theodore Hatch a covetous, disagreeable old man. He had changed wonderfully in the short time since the boys had known him.
“Thou shalt stay as long as we do, if thou likest, friend,” said Ree, adopting the Quaker manner of speaking. “But the Indians have fought a great battle near the Wabash river and sadly defeated General St. Clair and his troops. What the result will be as concerns ourselves, we must wait and see.”
“What’s that?” John exclaimed.
All that he had learned from Gentle Maiden, Ree then told his friends, and he told them also of the destitute circumstances in which he found the people still remaining in Captain Pipe’s village.
There arose in John’s mind at once the same question that had perplexed Ree—should they help these needy Indians, while those who ought to be at home providing for them were fighting the white troops and, no doubt, killing settlers and plundering and burning their cabins?
“After all, we can’t let the poor Redskins starve,” he said at last.
“Just what I said to myself on the way home,” Ree replied.
Theodore Hatch had risen and was walking up and down the one tiny room of the cabin, despondent and deeply sorrowing, as was usual with him when he heard news of bloodshed. He spoke no word, but at last, still deep in thought, laid himself down upon his bed and buried his face in the coarse pillow formed in part by his closely-watched saddle bags. His position had not changed when the two boys were ready to go to bed, and, thinking he slept, they covered him over with a blanket and bearskin.
All night the wind howled through the valley of the Cuyahoga, bending the strongest limbs of the forest trees and snapping dead branches off short with a sudden crackling which added to the threatening noises all about. All night the snow went flying before the gale, piling itself in drifts upon the log doorstep of the lonely cabin, against every fallen tree and against every rock and bluff for miles around,—in the haunted spot where the sunken eyes of the dead Black Eagle stared upward through their mantle of white, and beside the smoky hut where Gentle Maiden knelt before the fire and besought the Great Spirit to send aid to her father’s people.
All night the storm raged and even the dismal voices of the wolves were stilled and they slunk into their cavern homes; so much the safer were the timid deer seeking shelter among the low-boughed trees of the ravines. All night the troubled Quaker lay face downward upon his bed, his mind struggling between his love for gold and his wish to do right. On their own bed in the corner, Return Kingdom and John Jerome soundly slept or, partially awakened from time to time by the fierceness of the tempest, dreamed the hours away.
The coming of morning showed the hours of darkness to have been very busy ones for the storm king.
“I think we will not be venturing far from the cabin to-day,” said John, looking out.
“Lucky there is no need of doing so,” Ree answered.
“Dear friends”—it was the Quaker who spoke, and his voice was strangely soft and low, reminding the boys at once of the caressing way in which he always addressed his mare, Phœbe—“whatever the depth of snow or the cold, I am going to the town of the Delawares to carry them whatever food thee will spare me for them.”
“Why, you mustn’t think of doing so, Mr. Hatch,” said Ree. “I do not believe the Indians are really suffering, as yet.”
“They need food, and more than food for their bodies merely,” was the answer. “They are but ignorant savages, but bravely they are bearing all the suffering which comes to them because their strong men have gone forth to fight for what they righteously believe to be their own; and I shall go among them, and even as our illustrious William Penn would do were he alive and here, I shall both feed and teach them.”
Some great change had come over Theodore Hatch. But the day before he would have shown but little interest in any subject save that of the hidden fortune. Now he did not mention it, but bundled up and visited the log stable adjoining the cabin to tell Phœbe his plans, as he had so often told the gentle animal of the treasure, saying over and over again, “All mine—all mine.”
The depth of the snow was so great and the way so difficult that, finding the Quaker determined to follow out the plan he had formed, the two boys agreed that Ree should accompany him, mounted on Neb, while Mr. Hatch rode his own horse. With a generous supply of provisions, therefore, the two set out, leaving John alone to guard the cabin and the Quaker’s prized saddle bags, and to cut and store near the house a stock of wood for the fireplace.
Well-nigh buried beneath the snow, Ree and his companion found the village of the Delawares a desolate place indeed, upon their arrival there after nearly three hours of floundering through great drifts and over fallen trees and brush, the trail being so hidden by its spotless cloak that to follow it closely was quite impossible.
The meat the white men carried to the Indians, however, was really badly needed. It became evident at once that the whole truth had not been revealed to Ree by Gentle Maiden—because of her pride, perhaps—and several of the oldest and most feeble of the Indian men and women were genuinely sick solely for want of food. The children, too, though bearing their suffering with true Indian grit,—not a cry or whimper escaping them,—were most desperately hungry.
“Our dogs knew our distress and their danger, and our women could not come near to them to kill one for eating. Always did they run away, howling or sometimes almost speaking words of fear—or—or woe,” said Gentle Maiden, telling of the suffering of her father’s people, while Ree and Mr. Hatch warmed themselves at the fire in the chief’s cabin. At the same time the girl’s mother was carrying more wood to make a brighter blaze, and the hungry Delawares were feeding themselves ravenously in their own cabins or beside a fire built near the center of the space the irregular collection of huts enclosed.
“Thy father will not travel far through snow so deep,” the Quaker said in answer. “He and his fighting men will be slow in reaching home, therefore. Yet, young friend, I shall come among thee with food for thee and thine until he shall return. Is it true that thou wert taught by the Moravian preachers, my dear?”
“The missionaries trained my tongue to speak the language of the Palefaces. They were very kind. Still their God is not the god of the Indians, my father says. My father has lived long. He knows much.”
The quick intuition of the girl in recognizing the Quaker as one who would wish to teach the Delawares the religion of the white people, and her way of telling him that his efforts would meet with poor appreciation, amused Ree, though he sincerely wished his friend all success.
“Dear child, thy Father in heaven is all wise and approves the love thou bearest thy earthly father. Goodness is in thy heart, and—see, though one of thy own people, it may be, has done this, yet do I come to thee as a friend who seeks only to do thee good.”
As he spoke, the Quaker bent down and pointed to the scalpless top of his head. With scarcely a tremor Gentle Maiden followed his words and action and realized at once what he had undergone.
“Yea, verily, my head was cut thus, and I was left for dead, but forgiveness is in my heart,” the Quaker said.
“My father’s people did not that,” said the girl, with somewhat of haughtiness in her voice. “The Paleface brother was shot by one who roams far and alone. He is not of my father’s tribe. His war is his own war. He comes and goes—now here—now far—much far off. On his arm he marks with paint one band of black for every Paleface killed. Many bands are on his arm. Many Palefaces he has killed. Never will his war be ended. He must not know my Paleface preacher brother, that he thinks he killed, still lives. Yet it is his war. Gentle Maiden may not speak more.”
Theodore Hatch was considerably puzzled by the girl’s speech; but Ree, quickly understanding her, explained to him that for each person he killed the prowling Indian, whoever he might be, pricked in black a circlet about his arm, in addition to taking the scalp; that for some reason he would never cease his attacks upon the whites, and that if he discovered that one man, whom he supposed he had killed, was still alive, he would seek to make that man’s death certain, or kill some other man instead.
“The young Paleface speaks well. Gentle Maiden cannot tell so many words of English now as when her tongue was trained to speak them,” the Indian girl said, confirming Ree’s explanation of her warning to the Quaker.
“I shall see him and reason with him. It is wrong that his heart should be set against all white people, though many may have misused him. Where shall I find him?”
“He comes and goes. He is not of the Delawares. His war is his own war. I have spoken,” the girl made answer.
“I tried to have Gentle Maiden tell me of this lone Indian myself, but the Delawares will not say who he is,” said Ree, fearing the Quaker might give offense by pressing the maiden to tell more than she was willing to do. “He is not a Delaware, yet Captain Pipe believes he has some just cause for making war on the whites, secretly and alone, and does not attempt to stop him. Am I right, Gentle Maiden?”
The Indian girl nodded her head and said simply, “Yes.”
The conversation turned to other subjects, both Mr. Hatch and Ree being anxious to learn to what extent the people of the village would need assistance during the winter, in case Captain Pipe should not return. It quickly became apparent that the Indians would require a great deal of aid. They had almost nothing left to eat, and every cache (holes in the earth in which corn or other provisions were hidden) had been emptied.
The prospect that on the white neighbors of the savages would fall the task of providing them with meat was not, to Ree, a pleasing one. True, it was a duty and must be performed, but it would take the time of himself or John the greater part of every day, he quickly saw. The Quaker was undoubtedly willing to do his part, but his mind was bent more upon the spiritual than the bodily welfare of the Indians, and, moreover, he would scarcely shoot a deer even if he had an opportunity.
Promising to return in a day or two, Ree and Mr. Hatch took their leave, mounted their horses and started homeward. The wind was still blowing in sudden gusts and was bitterly cold. The trail through the snow, made in reaching the Indian town, however, rendered the return journey easier, and good progress was being made when, as the two rode along the edge of a high bluff between the village and their cabin, a strong wind caught the broad brim of the Quaker’s hat and sent it sailing over the edge of the steep hillside, into the gully.
“I’ll get it for you,” said Ree, who was considerably in advance of his companion, and, reaching a place where the descent was less precipitous, he rode into the ravine, then back to a point even with that where Mr. Hatch had paused.
An odd picture the Quaker presented as he sat astride his mare, leaning slightly forward, his uncovered, scalpless head exposed to the wind, while he held out his arm pointing to the spot where his beaver lay.
Ree glanced up to note the direction which the outstretched finger indicated. Almost at the same moment a terrific shriek sounded high and loud above the roaring wind, followed by another and another.
In an instant Ree’s rifle was at his shoulder. No sign of any living creature could be seen, however, save Theodore Hatch sitting bolt upright in his saddle staring in vacant astonishment across the ravine.
“For goodness sake, what is it?” eagerly cried the boy.
“Verily, I think it was the young Indian who tried to kill me—who has my scalp,” muttered Mr. Hatch, in tones of awe.
With all haste Ree recovered the Quaker’s hat and made speed to reach his side. But the Indian had vanished.
“He went so very suddenly I scarcely saw him,” the Quaker explained. “I only heard him scream.”
The meaning of it all came to Ree’s mind like a flash. The lone Indian, prowling along the opposite side of the ravine, had been attracted by the noise of their horses, and slipped up to find what was to be seen. He had come just in time to discover the Quaker in a ghost-like attitude, pointing into the valley meaningly, while his scalped crown and rigid quiet added to the supernatural appearance he made. Recognizing the horse and the rider, the latter a man whose scalp was even then fastened to his own belt, the Indian had been terrified beyond measure—thinking he saw a ghost—the ghost of one of his victims.
“I shall be greatly mistaken if he does not follow us to find out just exactly what he did see,” said Ree, explaining his supposition concerning the Indian’s fright. “There is no doubt but what he is watching from a distance at this very minute.”
And Ree was right. The lone Indian did follow at a respectful distance, and the fact that he did so was a fortunate thing for the young pioneers, as they afterward discovered.
“I’m mighty glad you’re home,” was John’s greeting as Ree and Mr. Hatch dismounted before the door. “There has been somebody prowling around the woods across the clearing, and it worried me. Honest truth, I believe it was that man Duff, though he looked like an Indian.”
“It was an Indian, all right,” Ree confidently answered, “our old friend, the vanisher. We, also, saw him, or rather, heard him, and I guess he was more scared than we were, wasn’t he, Mr. Hatch?”
“Verily, I was much frightened myself,” the Quaker answered, and then Ree told all about the experience beside the ravine.
John could not be certain that the person he had seen was not the lone Indian. It was during the afternoon, he said, that he noticed a movement among the bushes on the hillside across the clearing, and watching more closely, had made certain that some one was spying on him and the cabin.
“It made me so nervous that I got to thinking maybe some one was slipping up behind me, or maybe some one would get into the shanty while my back was turned, and all of a sudden I found myself as scared as I could be, and I jumped into the house and shut the door, almost sure that I was going to be killed the very next second. Ring clawed at the door a full minute before I could gather up my courage, and laughing because I felt myself so frightened, opened the door for him to come in.”
“It was your imagination that got away with you,” said Ree, smiling. “If a chap just imagines that some one is watching him, waiting to shoot or grab him, he can scare himself worse than he would be if he really saw some one just ready to jump onto him.”
The conversation turned to other subjects then, the boys having agreed that as the wind and snow would by this time have covered up the tracks the prowler made, it would be of no use to try to find them and so determine who the fellow was. It was already dark, moreover, and so stormy a night that neither boy cared to leave the bright fireplace unless it were necessary.
Supper was over and Ree and John and Mr. Hatch, snug and comfortable, were discussing the situation of the Delawares when to their astonishment there came a knocking at the door. In all the time since the cabin was built no visitor had announced his presence in that way.
“Great guns! Who can it be?” murmured John, but Ree hastily arose to answer the call.
“Come in, come in,” came the latter’s voice cheerily, as the figure of a man crouching close to the wall, as if to escape the raw, cold wind, was revealed by the firelight when the door was opened.
Softly the person glided into the room and close to the fire, spreading out his hands to the welcome heat, but turning his face away as if the bright glare hurt his eyes. His dress and long black hair and tawny skin indicated that he was an Indian, probably of the Mohawk tribe—a Mingo, at least—but neither of the boys remembered having seen him before.
“It is a cold night,” said John, hospitably moving back from the fire to give the visitor more room.
“Ugh!”
The stranger uttered no other word, but, Indian fashion, shrugged his shoulders as if to answer that there was no doubt as to the truth of the remark.
“Have you traveled far?” John asked.
“Heap,” the fellow answered, glancing around to note where Ree was placing the rifle he had put in the boy’s hands as a sign of friendship, upon entering.
“Get our friend some meat, John,” said Ree, standing the rifle in a corner. “Sit down and warm yourself,” he next said, addressing the mysterious caller, pushing a stool toward him.
The fellow seated himself, but still turned his face away, even while eating the cold venison which John placed on another stool beside him. Again John tried to get him to talk, but he answered only in the briefest way, and said nothing except when directly spoken to. Of his own accord a little later, however, he did speak, saying: “Me good Injun; me sleep here,” pointing to the floor near the fire.
“Yes, you may sleep there,” said Ree, but behind the visitor’s back he gave John a look which said, “We must watch this chap,” and his chum winked and nodded.
Theodore Hatch seemed quite undisturbed by the presence of the unexpected guest, but continued to talk to the boys of his plans for teaching and caring for the Indians at Captain Pipe’s town. Then he drifted from that subject to wondering whether the missing part of the paper describing the hiding place of his aunt’s fortune would ever fall into his hands.
“Of one thing we must make sure,” he said, “the letter must never come into the possession of the scoundrels who robbed me. I shall never use—verily if I am to work as a missionary among these poor Indians,—I shall never need, the money my poor mother’s sister secreted for my unfortunate brother and myself; yet shall it remain hidden rather than that it should be found and gambled away and spent for rum by the wicked men who have tried to obtain it.”
“Heap tired—Injun heap tired,” said the strange creature still toasting his hands close to the fire, though it was now so warm that the others had moved back from the blaze, and John was even lying on the bed of skins and blankets in the farthest corner.
“Yes, strange friend, lie down and rest thyself,” answered the Quaker complacently, taking a large bearskin from his own bed, and handing it to the fellow.
Without a word the latter wrapped the robe about his head and shoulders and threw himself in a corner—the very corner in which Ree had put his rifle.
“I, too, am weary,” said Mr. Hatch, and removing his coat and boots he lay down on his own bed and was soon snoring.
Still Ree sat thinking, and John hummed a tune softly to himself as he lay restfully on his back, carelessly wondering whether their visitor spoke the truth when he said, “Me good Injun.” All the fear he had felt during the afternoon was forgotten. As usual he was trusting to Ree to see that precautions were taken and that no harm came to them. In the corner the man under the bearskin seemed sound asleep.
“What was that?”
Ree and John leaped to their feet together. Sharp and clear above the rattle and roar of the nightwind came the report of a rifle, fired at no great distance.
“No, no! Don’t open the door!” John called, as his more fearless chum sprang forward to look out.
The words came too late. In a trice Ree had the door swung wide and was peering into the gloom, shading his eyes with his hands.
“Help! Help!”
It was the voice of a white man, borne on the wind clearly and distinctly, out of the darkness from the edge of the forest.
“Who—who-o-o!—who-o who-oo!”
As if a giant owl were calling from the blackness of the storm, came these further cries, but in the sounds there was something strangely like a human voice.
“For mercy’s sake, Ree, don’t stand in the open door that way! You’ll be killed,” cried John, drawing his friend away.
“Who are you! This way—this way!”
These were Ree’s words and he yelled them at the top of his voice.
“Get your gun, John, we must find out who that is,” he hurriedly said.
Even as he spoke, and before John could close the door, a heavy figure leaped between them from behind, dodged sidewise out of the light, and in a moment vanished. It was the mysterious visitor.
“Halt, there! Stand, or I’ll put a bullet through you!”
It was Ree who called, but he spoke too late. His words received not the slightest attention, and in another second John succeeded in slamming the door tightly shut, while Theodore Hatch, awake but decidedly bewildered, sat up in bed and stared vacantly.
“What does it mean?”
John dropped almost helplessly upon a stool, completely mystified and not a little alarmed.
“We will have to find out,” said Ree, his lips compressed in determination. “Do you want to go out with me to look around?”
“Well, now, look a-here, Ree, we better see what we can make of this business before ever you put your foot out of the door! It looks a lot to me as though some one had set a trap for us. That owl’s hooting was a man’s voice as plain as anything I ever heard. And that chap who was in here may have been an Indian, but he was not a ‘good Injun,’ as he said, by a long sight; so be reasonable.”
“Which means be careful,” Ree smiled, examining his rifle and slipping a pistol into his belt. “It is a mighty queer affair, and the meaning of it is what I want to find out.”
“Verily, I believe it means robbery,” spoke up Theodore Hatch, tenderly rubbing the scalpless crown of his head, as if that would help him to recollect his scattered thoughts. “The Indian tried to seize my saddle bags from under my head, before he jumped through the door. I had just wakened up, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I let fly my fist at him and struck him quite a severe blow, I fear, just below the ear. I think—”
“Duff!” interrupted Return Kingdom, and into the one word he put so much force and expression that it spoke volumes.
“Honest truth, Ree, that was what I thought from the first, but I could not understand how he could disguise himself so well. He kept his face away from me, but I had one good look at him. The paint must have hid his smallpox marks.”
“I was about to say that I think—and hope, indeed, that he was not much hurt,” the Quaker went on, just a little impatient that he had been interrupted.
“It was that fellow Duff, beyond a doubt,” said Ree. “He expected to get your saddle bags, thinking he would find the half of the cut-in-two letter in them. Somehow or other his game was spoiled. Those cries of help were genuine—no shamming about them!”
“What in the world did that hooting like an owl mean then?” demanded John. “I think the game was that Dexter or that miserable Quilling or both of them were stationed outside to fire a gun and attract our attention. Duff believed that we would then run out to see what was wrong, and he, having got inside by playing the Indian, would then get that letter.”
“Well, you were right, old boy, in one thing, and that is that there is no reason why we should go out and hunt them up to-night. We will just stay quietly inside and one of us must keep an eye open for their coming back. My, how the wind howls! I really pity those poor chaps, that they are out in it.”
“Pity your grandmother!” ejaculated John.
“What a world of wickedness it is,” sighed Theodore Hatch, dolefully shaking his head and rubbing his hands.
“You and John go to sleep now, Mr. Hatch. There will be no further trouble, I guess,” Ree said to the old man kindly, after some further talk, and as the Quaker did lie down, John stretched himself on his own bed, having first buckled on a pistol and placed his rifle within reach.
The exciting incident gave Ree plenty to think about as he gazed keenly through a loop hole, vainly trying to catch sight of some spark of fire or other sign which would show him the whereabouts of the men who had so unexpectedly appeared in the vicinity. The snow-filled air and thick darkness prevented his seeing anything, however, and the shrieking wind was the only sound which came to him.
John fell asleep at last and Ree did not disturb him until at the first peep of daylight when he went into the shed to care for the two horses, first calling to his chum to get breakfast started.
The wind had gone down with the coming of dawn, but the snow was deep in all directions and the weather was more intensely cold than on the previous day. This, however, did not deter the young pioneers from starting out on a short tour of investigation as soon as the morning meal was over. And Theodore Hatch cautioned them as they set out to use gentle means rather than force, with any one they met.
Not a trace of the footprints of the mysterious visitor of the night before were to be seen. The wind and snow had covered the tracks completely. With the spirit of true woodsmen, notwithstanding, the lads made for that point at the edge of the timber from which they believed the call for help had come. Even in the woods they found nothing. The snow was over their knees on a level and in many places the drifts were almost impassable.
“It is no use floundering around this way. Let’s go home and get our snowshoes,” Ree suggested, and John needed no urging. They turned and passed out of the edge of the woods a little to the right of the point at which they had entered. A hundred feet from the timber Ree paused.
“I thought I struck my foot against something—something like the body of a bear, or a wolf, maybe,” he said.
“Froze to death,” John, who was a few yards in advance, answered carelessly, not looking back, thinking it must be some sick or wounded wolf that had perished in the storm.
“Murdered, is more like it!”
Ree’s voice was not raised above his ordinary tone, but the deep significance of his remark caused his companion to turn quickly around. The next instant he was ploughing through the drifts at a run to where Ree stood, bending over something in the snow.
It was the body of Quilling, late landlord of the Eagle tavern. In his still open eyes was a look of abject terror, and a cry of pain and fear seemed to have stopped half uttered on his lips. From his head the scalp was missing, and where his hat still lay, and under the body, the snow was red with blood.
The crimson stain upon his clothing near the left shoulder told the manner of his death. A bullet had found his heart.
“I’ll bet I can tell whose work this is!”
In an awed, half-frightened tone, as he looked upon the terrible scene, John spoke.
Ree was already on his knees in the snow trying to learn if there was not some spark of life remaining. There was none. The body was cold and in places the flesh was frozen hard.
“The lone Indian’s,” he slowly answered John’s remark. “Poor Quilling. The only wonder is that the wolves have not been here before us. It was Quilling who cried out for help, last night, John.”
“I suppose we will never know just what did happen, but it looks more and more as if a trap of some kind had been laid for us, now doesn’t it? And while Quilling and Dexter waited, perhaps, that prowling Redskin shot him. I only wish it had been Duff who was killed.”
As though they had talked the matter all over and agreed what they should do, though scarcely a word was spoken, the boys tramped up the hill to their cabin. With an axe and shovel they returned to where the body of Quilling lay. At the foot of a beech tree which they proposed to save, as the clearing of their land progressed, they laboriously dug a shallow grave.
“I would rather Mr. Hatch should know nothing about this, he is always so broken up by such things,” Ree said thoughtfully, as he leaned on his shovel, “but it does seem a pity to bury the poor fellow without a prayer or anything. Shall we tell the Quaker?”
A suggestion from Ree was sufficient always, for John. Theodore Hatch was informed of what had taken place. With tears in his eyes he repeated a few solemn words of the scriptures and bowed his head in silent prayer.
Deeply impressed, and on the verge of breaking out in sobs, though this man whose clay they buried, that wild animals might not tear the body to pieces, had been their enemy, the brave boys who performed for him the last deed of kindliness they could upon this earth, filled in the frozen mold around and above the corpse. So passed from the sight of men, far in the forest’s fastnesses, all that was mortal of Henry Quilling, and the ploughshares of later days have long since mingled his dust with the soil.
“It is another warning to us to watch out for that sneaking savage,” John remarked for the fourth or fifth time as the three returned slowly to the cabin.
“We must not forget our Delaware friends,” spoke Ree more briskly, hoping to turn the thoughts of the Quaker in a new channel; for the old gentleman was deeply depressed by what had occurred. “Do you think we better pay them another visit to-day, Mr. Hatch?”
“Verily, it is a sad business,” said the Quaker, “but our first duty always must be to the living. Yea, we must go to the Delawares.”
So it was agreed, John, however, taking Ree’s place in the journey.
The Quaker and Ree had had trouble, indeed, the day before, in getting through the drifted snow to the Delaware town, but he and John had still more difficulty this day, for the snow was deeper and the great banks were in many places breast high against their horses. And such was the old gentleman’s solicitude for his mare that, as they toiled slowly along, he more than once would have turned back, had not the dapple-gray shown a perfect willingness to bear him through the very deepest drifts to the best of its ability. John, mounted on Neb, fell behind, and let the Quaker’s horse break the path.
“It is not the difference in the strength, but in the intelligence of the beasts,” was the comment Mr. Hatch made. “Thy horse is stronger than my own, but Phœbe understands precisely what is desired of her—sweet Phœbe,” and he patted the mare’s shoulder lovingly.
The Indian town was reached at last and John shook hands with Gentle Maiden cordially as though she were an old and very dear friend. She had not seen him for long and though, according to the Indian custom, she showed no surprise or especial pleasure at the meeting, it was easily seen that she was pleased.
Still, when the girl engaged in conversation with the Quaker, John left them and picked his way through the snow to different huts of the village, rallying the boys and girls with a smile and a pleasant word and giving even the old squaws to understand that he felt perfectly at home among them. Seeing a bow and arrows hanging on a forked pole in one of the bark cabins, John took them down and called to an Indian lad, ten or twelve years of age, to show him how well he could shoot. The bow was about four and a half feet in length, and made of seasoned hickory, about an inch in thickness at the middle and a quarter of an inch or less, the narrow way, near the ends. About the parts where the greatest strain came on the bow at either side of the center, the wood was tightly wound with strong strips of deer or some other skin.
John had often seen the bows and arrows of the Indians, though most of the savages were now supplied with firearms, but he examined this bow very carefully. The arrows, too, he looked at with critical eyes, really surprised to note how cleverly they were made. The shaft of each was light but strong and straight, nearly, if not quite, three feet in length. In the larger and heavier end, arrow heads, or points, of varying size, laboriously chipped out in flint, were fastened by splitting the shaft and binding the flint tightly in the opening so made with fine, strong cords of rawhide. Similarly a feather, or in some cases two or three feathers, were fastened at the small end of the shaft to make the arrow fly true to the archer’s aim. The bow and especially the arrows, with their sharp, heavy points, were such dangerous looking weapons that John inquired of the Indian boy, partly in Delaware, partly in English:
“Can you not kill turkeys or deer with the bow, since your warriors are away and your people have no meat?”
“No shoot bows more—shoot guns,” the lad said.
“Yes, I know,” John answered, “but when you have no guns, why not use the bow?”
“Little Wolf, he shoot bow—heap good,” said the Indian lad, whose own name, John afterward discovered, was Flying Fish.
“Let’s see him shoot,” the white boy replied, and Little Wolf, who was even then peeking in at the door of the hut, while he held a bearskin about him for warmth, quickly disappeared. In a half minute, however, he returned bringing, as John correctly guessed, his own bow and arrows. They were like those Flying Fish had, only quite elaborately ornamented with colors dyed in the wood, showing that Little Wolf had much pride in the weapons.
Without a word the lad, who was of about the same age as the other Indian boy, laid off the bearskin he wore, leaving his shoulders bare to the biting cold. (His lower limbs and waist were clothed in leggins and trousers.) He threw back his head, shaking his long hair away from his face and eyes, and while John intently watched him, pointed to a leaf on the outermost branch of an oak tree, fifty feet or more from the ground and as many yards from where he stood. With careful aim he drew the string and bent the bow, which, being very stiff and strong, required much strength.
For a second he paused as the tip of the arrow rested on the bow-center, then suddenly sent the shaft flying so quickly and swiftly that the white boy nearly missed seeing it. Straight and true the arrow sped, piercing the leaf on the bough of the oak and carrying it off as neatly as if it had been plucked by hand.
In genuine astonishment and admiration, John gave his leg a vigorous slap, and diving his hand into his pocket found a small bone comb which he presented to Little Wolf then and there; and to prevent hard feelings he gave Flying Fish a similar present.
So pleased were the Indian lads and so friendly after receiving these gifts, that it occurred to John to improve the opportunity to see what he could learn from them about the prowling Redskin who seemed ever to seek and lose no chance to kill and scalp white hunters, always traveling alone, and, as Gentle Maiden had said, carrying on “his own war.”
“Killdeer, young Long-knife says,” Flying Fish explained to Little Wolf, who seemed not to understand at once to whom the white boy referred.
“Is that his name? He is not a Delaware, is he? He is not one of Captain Pipe’s people?” John asked.
“Killdeer, he comes quick—like wind; gone—like wind. No one see him.”
And hard as John tried to draw further information about the mysterious Indian from the savage youths, he could learn nothing additional. They gave evasive answers or failed, or pretended to fail, to understand him.
Half inclined to be cross at the youngsters, though they amused him not a little, John changed the subject and made the boys promise to hunt with bows and arrows and to bring peltries to the cabin to exchange for knives and trinkets.
His chief object in this was to persuade the lads to do some hunting and thus provide food for themselves and others of the Delaware town; and even had he thought of the future, he could not have known, as none can tell what even the next day or hour will bring forth, what an important part Flying Fish and Little Wolf would play in connection with his own well-being, as a result of his kindly interest in them. For as it afterward happened it was solely because of their having been instigated to go in quest of game with only such weapons as they possessed, that they made their appearance at a distant point one day when their young white friend greatly needed them.