Chapter 2

She was reloading her flintlock with deft and steady hands. The girl, who had hitherto obeyed instructions like one dazed, stood irresolute in the center of the room, gazing from door to cradle, and back again. A tomahawk struck the door, came halfway through, and stuck, quivering.

“They’re too many of ’em, they’ll get in,” groaned Granny, shaking her fist at it. “But don’t give up,whatever happens to me—you hear? I can delay them awhile, maybe. You take the bread knife and fight for your life, Polly Todd—for more than your life, remember! Laugh, scream like one crazed—they spare mad folk sometimes. Fight ’em off tooth and nail, till help comes. Remember why! Your husband, the child⸺”

Step by step, Polly had moved toward the door. Over her shoulder she watched the old woman, who was at the window, her back turned, sighting for another shot. Her lip was drawn up so that the teeth showed. She shivered, slid the bars, and opened the door. Indians slipped past her and leaped upon the old woman. Polly screamed:

“No! Grandmother,look out! No!”

The last of the Indians to enter was a tall young chieftain, wearing a bonnet of gray eagle’s feathers. He lifted his hand with a gesture of quiet dignity, and spoke slowly and gravely:

“We know of old this white woman—her years and courage. Do not fear for her.”

He faced Polly in silence, a stately, splendid young creature in blanket and loin cloth, painted as to face and body, but not for war. His was the regalia of a bridegroom. The girl sat by the cradle in an attitude of complete submission, hands folded, head bowed.

Meanwhile Granny battled desperately with the Indians who held her, grinning. They bound her hands behind her, forced her down upon a stool, tying her feet to its legs, but never hurting her.

She did not cease for a moment her maledictions. “You vile devils! You thieves, you murderers! Wait til’ my grandson catches you! Steal what you can find—there’s food, gear, money—but let you lay so much as a finger on that girl or her child, and he’ll get you if he has to go to hell for you. Ezra!” she screamed suddenly. “Help! Help! Take your dirty hand out of my mouth, you fiend! You’ll not stop me yelling until you kill me. Ezra-ah-h!”

They gagged her with her own knitting, but still she strained at her thongs, spluttering, glaring, cursing them with her fierce eyes. The Indians laughed among themselves. One said: “Old Long-knife squaw heap big fighting brave—ugh!”

They began to run about rapidly, picking up everything in sight, always with a cautious eye on Gray Eagle, however. One tied an apron around his waist, so that it hung down behind; one spied the moccasins Polly had sewed for Ezra, and appropriated them with a grunt of satisfaction; another seized the bread knife, and made a pass with it at the old woman, who did not wince.

The chieftain spoke at last, gravely:

“The Moon-maid has waited for me?”

“Ah, too long,” whispered Polly.

He smiled. “That is well. The Eagle bides his time. He has no desire to strike, only to take in peace what is his. Come, then.”

He turned to the door, and the girl followed. Granny strained forward, glaring terribly, struggling to be heard; but the girl did not look at her. Then from the cradle came a faint, thin wail.

Polly started, like one waking from a trance, and rushed back to the cradle. The Indian followed. Hearing him, she turned at bay, both arms stretched backward over the cradle as if in protection. He put her aside, and leaned over to look, frowning.

“Ho!” he muttered. “A man-child. The Moonmaid’s son?”

She nodded, fearfully.

“A white child,” he said, still gazing. “And too young. It is not mine. The Moon-maid has lied!”

His hand went to the tomahawk at his belt.

Polly cried out, sank to her knees, her arms embracing his legs.

“No,no! Listen! The baby is mine, mine! But you did not come, they were my people, what was I to do? I but one and they so many! In my heart I waited. Granny! Granny, tell him⸺”

The Indian looked down at her, his face slowly relaxing. He turned to the door again, saying, “Come!”

Polly, with a gasp of relief, bent quickly to pick up the child, but he stopped her with a stern gesture.

“No. It is not my son. Gray Eagle is no thief.”

She moaned. “You mean, I am to leave him? But how can I, how can I? Not yet! He will be hungry.” Her two hands went with a piteous gesture to her breasts.

Gray Eagle said: “Choose.”

He stalked to the door and out. The other Indians followed. Polly stared after them, wringing her hands, whimpering like an animal. She met the intent gaze of her grandmother fixed upon her.

“What shall I do? What shall Ido! You tell me! I knew it would be so. He will not come again—unless—to kill! And how shall I find him? How shall I ever go to him? Yet my baby, my little son—”

Slowly, stiffly, the old woman’s head turned until her eyes indicated the door through which the Indian had gone. Polly covered her face with her arms. “You mean, I am to go? You tell me that?” She went to the old woman, stroking the wrinkled cheeks, the hands, desperately. “It is good-by, then! Ezra—you will make him understand, remind him of what he said about the prior claim? Tell him—tell him I would have stayed, perhaps—if I could⸺”

Without another glance at the cradle, she ran out. The old woman’s eyes closed, as if in unbearable pain. Then they opened again, suddenly, for Polly was back.

“I cannot. Icannot!” she whimpered, running to the cradle. She lifted the baby, rolled it close in a blanket as if to hide it, and ran out, holding it close.

Granny strained forward, listening intently. Then after a moment came a wild wail:

“No, no, you shall not! Give him to me,givehim. He is mine! I beg, Ibegyou not⸺Nenemoosha, Nenemoosha⸺”

The old woman’s eyes almost started out of their sockets, two great tears burst from them—and then the door opened and Gray Eagle re-entered, carrying the rolled blanket. He laid it in the cradle without comment, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Presently there came a distant sound that made Mistress Estill shrink and quiver—the triumphant scalp-halloo of the Iroquois, receding.

Then silence reigned. There was no sound from the cradle. Granny had long ceased to struggle. The candle guttered and went out; the embers on the hearth died into blackness. Night passed.

With the first faint gray of dawn, galloping hoofs approached, then the voice of Ezra Todd was to be heard calling strongly: “Polly, Polly, my wife! I am here, coming.” A short, sharp cry, and Ezra appeared in the doorway, grasping at the sides of it like one spent.

Ezra appeared in the doorway, grasping the side as if spent. “Dark in here, dark,” he muttered. “Polly, are you here?”

Ezra appeared in the doorway, grasping the side as if spent. “Dark in here, dark,” he muttered. “Polly, are you here?”

“Dark in here, dark,” he muttered. “I must make a light—oh, my God, I dare not! Polly,Polly, are you here?” His voice rose to a cry, then steadied itself. “What chance, with the negro dead, and an Indian body in the yard! They were in haste, to have left that. Oh, damn them!” He was moving about like a drunken man, feeling for the candle. Granny made a slight sound. He started violently. “What’s that? Not all dead? Oh, quick, quick!” His shaking hand managed at last to strike a spark from the tinder box. The candle flared. He leaped toward the old woman.

“Ah-h! Only you! What have they done with her? Where is my wife? But you can’t speak yet, of course not! Patience, man, patience.” Thus exhorting himself, he removed the gag, loosened her, brought water, liquor, all in a terrible, clumsy haste, muttering as he worked.

“They told me at Cook’s that Indian canoes had been seen. I turned back, rode all night—the mare’s foundered. But too late. Ben killed, Polly gone—where, where? Ah! Now you can speak. Quick, woman!”

Granny struggled for her voice. Perhaps she was also struggling for time to collect her wits.

“Come, come, in mercy’s name!” groaned Ezra. “Tell me at least if they got Polly!”

Granny nodded, gulping.

“And the child—they took the baby, too?”

Granny shook her head, pointing a tremulous hand toward the cradle at which she did not look.

“So! They separated my poor lass from her child? The hell hounds! And now, which way? Answer me!” In hysterical impatience he shook her. “Tell me whichwaythey went, up or down stream?”

The old woman gulped and gurgled unintelligibly, and he sprang away as if he could bear no more.

“If you won’t help me, I must go. I’m sorry for you, I will send neighbors—but I must go!”

Granny made a hoarse effort: “Go—where?”

“Where? In God’s name! To find my wife.”

“No use,” croaked Granny.

Ezra cried out. “No use? Don’t, don’t say it, woman! I’ve not lost my wits, or my woodcraft. See, I’m quite steady!” He held out a hand that trembled like a leaf. “There’ll be some trace, we’ll find her. The neighbors are out. We found her before, we shall again—-”

“No use,” Granny croaked once more. The tears streamed unheeded down her cheeks.

It was the tears that made him understand—Mistress Estill was no weeping female. He backed from her until he reached a table, and leaned on it heavily, as if he could no longer stand erect.

“You are trying to tell me—that they did not take Polly—alive?”

Granny had found her voice at last. She told her lie with pride.

“Take Polly alive? How should they take her alive—my granddaughter! You think she would not hold herself too dear for that? Your wife, the mother of your son? She might well have gone with them unharmed; some women do, more shame to them! But not her. She fought them off, fought them like any wildcat. ‘Take your foul hands from me,’ she said, ‘for I belong to the one man only—my husband! Dead you may take me if you can, but living no other man shall have me—never!’”

The man’s head slowly lifted. A strange look came over his ravaged face, a look almost of relief.

“She said that, did she? My Polly! My brave, loving, loyal little mate! I might have known⸺”

The old woman, closely watching him, lied with growing confidence.

“And so, seeing they could not get her otherwise, they killed her, son; killed her clean and swift as a body would want to die, not lingering on after the heart has gone out of her, beyond her time—but fighting to the last, like any man, for the things she holds dearer than life, her home, her child, her—her love⸺”

Ezra burst into a terrible sobbing, and the old woman, rising with infinite difficulty, managed to hobble over to him by the aid of stools and table, and held his head against her breast. She was whispering under her breath, “God forgive me, God forgive me!”

At last he stirred, saying dully, “Her body—perhaps they will have left me that—-”

“No, no,” said Granny in startled haste, “not even that. You see”—she had need to think rapidly—“they—they dragged Polly down to the river, she struggling every step of the way, calling on your name, cursing them—no, no, not cursing!—what am I thinking of? That was another child of mine, her father.” She passed a distracted hand over her brow. “But, anyway, ’twas there they had killed her, Ezra, because she—she wouldn’t get into the canoe, you see, they could not force her away from you. Ah, a grand fight she made of it! And so they—they did the thing, and cast her body into the river. ’Tis a swift water, son. She’ll be far from this by now, drifting who knows where—who knows where?”

The man’s head fell upon his breast. It did not occur to him to ask further questions, to wonder how the woman could have seen so much, bound as she was, and through a closed door.

In the silence that followed, the baby awoke and cried.

“God be praised!” gasped Granny. “He is alive then, alive! I have not dared to ask, or to look. So still he was—-”

“Like his mother,” said Ezra. He went to the cradle and stood gazing, his face a-quiver. Suddenly he stooped and took something out of the baby’s clenched fist; a long, gray feather. “What is this?” he asked, dully.

Granny started. The Indian, then had left his sign, his warning! But she managed to answer, carelessly:

“Oh, that? Why, he must have pulled it out of his mother’s feather duster, strong little man that he is! Come, Ezra, make up the fire, son. ’Tis time for the child’s nursing bottle.”

For Mistress Estill, builder of empire, had little energy left to waste on grief.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 1923 issue ofMcClure’s Magazine.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 1923 issue ofMcClure’s Magazine.

Back to IndexNext