CHAPTER IV.
“When did you discover his absence, Joe?” was Douglas’s first question.
“Jest this minute,” Farley replied promptly. “That dang Kaintuckian waked me up with his caterwaulin’—an’ I found the Injin gone. Then I called you. Listen to that critter squallin’—an’ he calls it singin’!”
“What can have become of the Wyandot?” Ross asked, unheeding Joe’s complaining tone—as he arose and peered into the shadows.
“Don’t know,” Joe answered, with an expressive shake of the head. “But I know whatwillbecome o’ him, if he goes nosin’ ’round the camp.”
“What?”
“Some o’ the sentries ’ll take him fer a prowlin’ redskin from the town over yander, an’ put an ounce o’ lead into him—that’s what.”
“That’s ’bout so,” growled one of the militiamen from under his blanket.
“You are right,” Ross admitted. “I’ll make a circuit of the camp and try to find him.”
“An’ while you’re gone, kill that Kaintuckian ’r have the officer o’ the guard buck an’ gag him,” Farley snarled as he again threw himself upon the ground.
Douglas failed to find his red comrade and returned to his place by the fire.
“See anything o’ the Injin?” Joe sleepily inquired.
“No,” was the monosyllabic reply.
“Well turn in an’ go to sleep. He’s able to take keer of hisself. Injins is Injins—the best you can make of ’em. They’re jest like other wild varmints—always prowlin’ ’round o’ nights. He’ll turn up in the mornin’. Go to sleep.”
Douglas was worn out with the day’s toil and excitement; so, rolling himself in his blanket, he lay down. While he slumbers, let us follow Bright Wing.
The Wyandot had left the others sleeping, and had stolen to the outskirts of the camp. While Ross was searching for him, he was in hiding behind one of the wagons, awaiting a chance to slip through the line of sentries. At last his patience was rewarded; and with consummate skill and cunning, he wormed through the tall grass and bushes growing along the slope upon which the camp was situated. When he found himself safely beyond the lines, he nimbly arose to his feet and sped across the strip of wet prairie lying between the camp and the town of the Prophet.
On nearing the latter place, he halted and carefully reconnoitered. Apparently convinced the way was clear, he boldly ascended the grade leading to the village, and found himself under the walls of the fortified town.
The Prophet’s Town was a sacred place—the Mecca of his fanatical followers. Here he muttered incantations and performed miracles; here he blessed the faithful and condemned to perdition all unbelievers. Many pilgrims came and went each day. And on this night the place was full of fierce warriors—mad with fanaticism and thirsting for blood.
The town itself consisted of a large number of flimsily constructed log-cabins and lodges of poles and skins. These rude habitations were scattered irregularly over several acres of ground. The council lodge—or cabin—was centrally located. Surrounding the whole was a palisade of poles and logs. Two or three narrow openings in the wall served as gateways. To-night they were closely guarded; for the enemy lay without—and within important business was engaging the attention of chiefs and braves.
Bright Wing crouched in the shadow of the palisade and listened intently. The din of many voices came to his ears. Above the sullen, monotonous roar, occasionally arose the exultant whoop of some excited brave. Through a crack between two of the upright timbers, the Wyandot caught a glimpse of flaring torches and flaming bonfires. For a brief moment he glued his eyes to the opening. Then he arose and ran along the outer side of the wall, until he came to a point where a log-cabin occupied an angle—filling the space between two wings of the palisade. Near it was a guardedgateway. Like a squirrel the Indian clambered up the projecting ends of the logs of the hut—and boldly dropped to the ground within the inclosure.
“Ugh!” was the startled grunt of one of the guards at the gateway.
“What is it?” inquired his companion in the Shawnee tongue.
“A noise at the cabin,” was the answer.
“It was the wind rattling the bark upon the roof.”
“It may have been a paleface.”
“No!”—Contemptuously.—“The palefaces are cowards. They fear the wonderful power of Tenskwatawa—The Open Door.”
The two guards lapsed into silence. Bright Wing cautiously arose to his feet and, dodging from cabin to cabin, made his way toward the center of the village. At last he reached a spot where he could look out upon the square in which stood the council lodge—the Prophet’s temple.
The space was ablaze with fires and torches. A dense mass of savages, talking, whooping, and gesticulating, surged around the entrance to the lodge. Many different tribes were represented. The young Wyandot saw several members of his own tribe among the half-nude fanatics. Thinking, therefore, that his presence would not arouse suspicion, he resolved to mingle with the excited braves and learn what plans were afoot.
Slowly he edged forward until he reached the outskirts of the crowd. Apparently no one tooknotice of him—all eyes were fixed upon the door of the council lodge. He elbowed his way into the surging mass and stood still—his finger upon the trigger of his rifle.
The braves were in war-paint and feathers. All were fully armed. Shoulder to shoulder, stood Winnebago and Wyandot; cheek by jowl, were Shawnees and Pottawatomies.
Suddenly a mighty shout went up from the savage horde. It was prolonged for several minutes. A thousand bronzed warriors bellowed themselves hoarse. They danced, and swayed, and gyrated. Squaws and children added their piercing treble to the thunderous bass of the men. “Tenskwatawa!” was the cry. Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the tumult subsided. Naught but the heavy breathing of the multitude could be heard.
Bright Wing riveted his gaze upon the front of the council lodge. A procession was issuing from the doorway. First came a number of torchbearers, walking two abreast. They stepped apart on reaching the open air, to form an avenue through which passed a dozen forms fantastically clad and painted, making a hideous din by beating shallow drums and rattling strings of dried deer-hoofs. These were followed by a group of dignified chiefs in full war-dress. Last of all appeared a solitary figure, awful in its grotesqueness—the horrible vision of a nightmare.
“Tenskwatawa!” was the whisper that arose.It began in the front rank of the crowd and ran toward the rear, until every pair of lips in the sea of faces was moving. “Tenskwatawa! The Open Door!” Then a deathlike hush fell upon them.
The grotesque figure was that of the Prophet. He ascended a small platform to the right of the door of the council lodge, and stood looking out over the heads of torchbearers, musicians, and chiefs. The glare of blazing torches fell upon him. A buffalo-robe enveloped his body. The horns surmounted his head and gave him a demoniac aspect. The tail of the animal, whose skin he had assumed, trailed upon the ground behind him. His hideous, repellent face—in which shrewdness, avarice, and cruelty were reflected—was striped and smeared with black and yellow paints. From nose and ears depended large silver crescents; and around his neck was a string of bears’-claws. His one eye twinkled balefully.
For a full minute he stood with folded arms. Then he slowly raised his right hand toward the black heavens. As he did so, a ring upon his index finger caught the rays of the red and smoking torches and emitted a fitful stream of sparkles.
“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” wailed and sobbed the throng of savages.
Many of them prostrated themselves to the earth, some in convulsions—frothing at the mouth and gibbering incoherently; others in a state ofcataleptic rigidity—their eyes wide open and staring, their limbs immovably fixed.
The Prophet’s lips moved; but no words came forth. He was praying. At last he dropped his arm to a horizontal position, and, slowly and impressively moving his hand from side to side, began in low-pitched, resonant tones:
“Arise, children. I come to you with a message from the Great Spirit.”
The groveling braves got upon their feet, and, leaning forward, listened eagerly to every word that fell from his lips.
He continued:
“The forests and streams belong to the redmen. The Great Spirit gave them to his wild children. The palefaces have stolen our lands. The Great Spirit is displeased with his children that they have tamely submitted. All this you have heard before. The time has come for action. You must strike a blow to recover your own. The palefaces are without the gates. They come to take from us the little we have left. This is holy ground—the feet of our enemies shall not defile it. They come at a time when your great leader—the noble Tecumseh—is absent. They think to force you to submit to their propositions. They demand a council. We have promised to meet them. But we shall meet them to-night—not to-morrow. We shall take with us thetomahawk—not thepeace-pipe. Our guns shall speak for us. My children, the Great Spirit sends you this message.”
Tenskwatawa paused to note the effect of his words. The warriors silently gripped their weapons and, with blazing eyes, waited for him to proceed. Pitching his voice in a higher key, he resumed:
“The black man has returned to the palefaces. I have put a spell upon him—he will perform his mission. Ere the turn of the night the great paleface chief will be in the spirit land, with his fathers. Then will fear seize upon his warriors. In the early morning, my children, you will fall upon them and destroy them. The Great Spirit has promised me the victory. Darkness will shelter the redmen—while a great light will reveal the palefaces. I have brewed a drink of which each of you shall sip—and shall not taste death. Bullets shall pass him by—and long knives shall refuse to harm him. The Great Spirit has promised—and I have told you. I have put a spell upon the palefaces. Already one-half of them are dead or crazy. The victory shall be yours—the Great Spirit has promised.”
Again he paused, his one eye fixed upon the sea of dusky faces before him. The braves stood spellbound—awed to silence by his words and manner. Raising his voice to the highest pitch, he cried:
“If there be a coward among you, let him eat dirt and stay with the squaws. I would lead you myself, but the Great Spirit forbids. But my power shall be with you—my sign shall accompany you. See!”
Again he raised his right hand; and again the ring upon his finger scintillated dazzlingly.
“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” was the awe-stricken whisper of the multitude.
“Listen!” shouted Tenskwatawa. “Three brave chiefs shall lead you—Winnemac, White Loon, and Stone-Eater. I have said that my sign shall go with you. So it shall. See! I place it upon the noble Winnemac’s finger. It shall bring you victory over our enemies. My children, I have spoken.”
Wrapping the buffalo-skin closely around him, he descended the platform and re-entered the council lodge. The chiefs, musicians, and torchbearers followed him, in order. Then the pent enthusiasm of the warriors broke loose. They whooped, howled, and danced; they embraced each other and rolled over and over upon the ground. In a fanatical frenzy, they caught up burning firebrands and ran hither and thither. For several minutes pandemonium reigned.
Bright Wing had learned all he desired. He turned to slip away unmolested, and had reached the edge of the crowd and was rapidly making his way toward the palisade, when he came face to face with a white man. The Wyandot uttered a grunt of surprise, as he recognized the form and features of Hiram Bradford.
“Hello!” cried the latter. “Where are you running so fast, my red friend—and what are you doing here?”
The young Indian haughtily drew himself erect and retorted:
“Bright Wing among his people. What paleface scout do here.”
“Good—very good!” Bradford chuckled huskily. “Well, I’ll answer your question, Wyandot, and then you shall answer mine. I’m here as an agent of the British, and I’m doing what I can to help your people to recover what belongs to them. Now, what areyoudoing here?”
“Bright Wing come help, too,” was the quick reply.
“Y-e-s,” the scar-faced scout answered doubtingly, “but you’ve been among the palefaces—I saw you there, you know. You’ve been scouting for them.”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing grunted. “Youscout for palefaces, too. Me seeyouthere.”
Bradford was disconcerted by the Wyandot’s shrewd replies. Now he cried irritably:
“Let’s understand each other, my red friend. I was among the Americans as a spy. What were you doing in their service?”
“Bright Wing him spy, too,” was the unmoved rejoinder.
“And you have left them and come to fight with your people?”
“Ugh! me fight with friends. Paleface fight with redmen?”
“No,” Bradford reluctantly admitted; “I shan’t fight with them. I can better help them in another way. Where are you going?”
“Bright Wing him go find friends. Good-night.”
The Wyandot stalked away, leaving Bradford staring after him.
“It may be all right,” muttered the latter, “but I greatly doubt it. I suspect that cunning fellow’s here as a spy. But how did he pass the guards at the gate? Ah! here comes Gray Wolf!”
Gray Wolf was a gigantic, vicious-looking Shawnee. Evidently he and Bradford were old acquaintances. They held a hurried conversation. Then Gray Wolf hastened away in pursuit of Bright Wing. He came upon the Wyandot in an obscure corner of the inclosure, just as the latter was preparing to scale the palisade.
“Why is my brother here by himself?” the Shawnee suavely asked in his own tongue.
“Perhaps it pleases him to be alone,” Bright Wing answered haughtily, in the same language.
“And perhaps he means to leave the village?”
“And if he does, has he not the same right to go and come as the birds of the air or the beasts of the forest?”
“But Tenskwatawa has given orders that none shall leave the village until the appointed time. I know my brother. He is Bright Wing, a Wyandot.”
“AndIknow my brother.Heis Gray Wolf, a Shawnee.”
The two warriors stood glaring at each other in the darkness. Gray Wolf was the first tospeak again. He said in a low, intense tone of voice:
“My brother is the friend of the palefaces—the enemy of his race.”
Bright Wing replied proudly:
“The words that fall from my brother’s lips are not the words of truth. Bright Wing is the true friend of his race.”
“Does he stand ready to prove it?” Gray Wolf asked sneeringly.
“He does,” was the frigid reply.
“Has he the Sign of the Prophet?”
“He has.”
“Bright Wing has a forked tongue—it refuses to speak the truth,” Gray Wolf cried triumphantly. “Many haveseenthe Sign of the Prophet, and felt its power—but Tenskwatawa alonehasit.”
“Gray Wolf knows that he lies!” Bright Wing answered fiercely. “For at this moment Winnemac bears the Sign of the Prophet.”
The Shawnee was taken aback. The answer was unexpected. He growled savagely:
“Bright Wing is the dog of the palefaces. What does he here?”
The Wyandot leaned forward and hissed in the other’s ear:
“He comes to tear the throat of the wolf that helped to murder the great and kind chief, Leatherlips. Die, whelp of a Shawnee!”
Gray Wolf tried to spring out of reach of his Nemesis, shaping his lips for a war-whoop, as he didso. But the Wyandot’s tomahawk descended and buried itself in the Shawnee’s brain. The whoop ended as a death-rattle in his throat. His great bulk sank to earth, an inert mass. One bubbling expiration of the breath—and Gray Wolf was a corpse.
Bright Wing wiped the blood from his tomahawk and replaced it in his belt. Then he whipped out his scalping-knife, muttering in his own tongue:
“He helped to murder my father. His footprints will blight the flowers and grass no more. The Great Spirit willed that Gray Wolf should die by the hand of Bright Wing——”
He closed the sentence abruptly, and jerking off the reeking scalp of the Shawnee, caught up his rifle and darted away in the darkness. The sound of approaching footsteps had come to his quick ears.
A minute later a prolonged war-whoop reverberated from one end of the village to the other. In answer to it came a hundred others. All was excitement and confusion. Torches bobbed and flared here and there. An enemy was in the camp.
Bright Wing flattened his form against the sloping roof of a cabin—where he had taken refuge—and breathlessly awaited the outcome. The hut upon which he was perched stood near the edge of the inclosure, and the roof sloped toward the palisade. He was far from the blazing bonfires, and darkness sheltered him. His enemies searchedhigh and low, but failed to discover him. Three or four times groups of them stood under the low eaves and jabbered in guttural accents. Gradually the excitement subsided and darkness and silence reigned.
Hours slipped by, but Bright Wing did not dare to leave his hiding-place. He realized fully the dangers that beset him, and he shuddered, thinking of his white friends. He must give them warning. But how? He thought of many reckless plans, but abandoned each in turn.
Midnight passed—and morning was drawing nigh. Again the town was astir. The Wyandot heard the buzz of myriad voices, and knew what it meant. The allied tribes were preparing for the attack. He stretched his cramped limbs and cautiously descended to the ground. If he was to give warning, he must be off at once. He would make an attempt—no matter how reckless. For several minutes he stood in the shadow of the low building, vainly striving to map out a plan of procedure. The steady tramp of hundreds of moccasined feet greeted his ears. The Prophet’s braves were marching forth to battle.
Bright Wing ran to the palisade and sought to scale it. Failing at one point he tried another. Frantically he dug his fingers and toes into the crevices between the upright timbers. His efforts were fruitless. He did not dare to approach the spot where he had entered the inclosure; the guards near at hand were alert. The tramp-tramp of themarching warriors drew nearer. They were approaching the northeastern gate. The Wyandot made a final effort to climb the wall—and fell back. His heart sickened. Was he doomed to failure? The thought made him desperate. Recklessly he strode to the northeastern gateway and assayed to pass out. The click of a gun-lock brought him to a standstill. A guard stepped from the shadow and said:
“Has my brother the Sign of the Prophet?”
“He hasseenit,” Bright Wing mumbled, “but Tenskwatawa alonehasit.”
“Why does my brother seek to go out alone?”
“At the order of the great Winnemac he goes to scout,” was the quick-witted reply.
“Ugh!” ejaculated the sentry, taking a step backward.
The nimble-footed Wyandot darted through the gateway and disappeared—just as the head of the column of braves came in sight.
Down the incline, across the swampy prairie, and up the slope leading to the camp of the whites, Bright Wing sped like the wind—never pausing until he drew near the line of sentries. The sky was thickly clouded; a gentle drizzle was falling. Dropping upon the ground, he watched and waited for a chance to elude the vigilance of the pickets. A white man would have given the alarm, by stepping forward and permitting himself to be challenged; but the proud Wyandot scorned to do anything of the kind. Minutes passed. Suddenly,a light footfall attracted his attention; and the next moment Duke’s cold muzzle touched his hand.
“Go ’way—go to master!” Bright Wing commanded in a stern whisper.
In answer the dog threw up his nose and sniffed the damp air. Then with a low growl, he bounded away toward camp.
“Duke him smell redmen,” the Wyandot muttered to himself. “Me must go in quick—right away.”
Little by little he wriggled forward—the sentry pacing his beat within a few feet of him. The next instant the intrepid young brave was upon his feet. Like a scudding cloud he glided to the barricade of wagons, and disappeared among them. A moment later he bent over the sleeping form of Ross Douglas and, shaking him roughly, cried:
“Wake, Fleet Foot!”—The Indian name of his white friend.—“Up! Up! Winnemac and heap many braves come—come soon.”
Douglas threw off his blanket, and, leaping to his feet, cried excitedly:
“Did you say the Indians are coming, Bright Wing?”
“Ugh!” grunted the imperturbable Wyandot. “Come quick soon—sight many.”
“You mean they’re almost upon us?”
“Ugh!”
“How did you learn the fact?”
“Bright Wing go to Prophet’s Town—learn big heap.”
Duke now dashed into the circle of light and out again, barking furiously. His hoarse voice wakened Farley and his messmates. They stumbled to their feet, sleepily rubbing their eyes.
“What in dingnation’s all this hullabaloo ’bout, anyhow?” Joe demanded irritably.
“The Indians are upon us!” cried Ross. “Secure your arms—and make yourselves ready for battle. I’m off to warn the officers.”
And striking the breech of his rifle, to prime it, Douglas bounded away toward the governor’s tent.
“Jest as I pr’dicted,” Farley growled. “Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! Did anybody ever hear o’ such dang fools as Injins is? Git up in thenightto fight! Dodrot that Kaintuckian! He’s the cause o’ all this—he is, by the Queen o’ Sheby! He might ’ave knowed his caterwaulin’ ’ld bring on a rumpus—even Injins can’t stand no such unearthly noise as he makes. Great snakes—it’s darker ’n a squaw’s pocket!”
It was about four o’clock in the morning—the darkest hour in the twenty-four. The moon had risen, but was veiled by heavy clouds. The rain still fell. The smoldering camp-fires shed a faint, uncertain light over the scene. Governor Harrison had already arisen and was sitting by the fire in front of his tent. He had just pulled on his boots and was conversing with the members of his staff, who sprawled upon blankets, in a circle around the red embers. They were waiting for the signal toturn out. In a few minutes the drum would have beaten reveille. Of a sudden the report of a rifle, followed by an Indian yell, broke the stillness of the camp, and brought the officers to their feet.
“What’s the meaning of that?” Harrison asked sharply.
At that moment Ross Douglas leaped into the circle of light, shouting:
“An attack! An attack, governor! The savages are upon us! A sentry has just fired upon one and——”
His words were drowned in a torrent of Indian war-whoops. Then followed the crash and roar of discharging firearms. A streak of flame ran along the western picket line. The sentries came flying into camp. The Indians were making an onslaught on the left wing.
In a moment all was bustle and excitement. The suddenness of the attack almost caused a panic. But the commander was the firm rock upon which the wave of consternation broke. Hastily mounting his horse, he dashed toward the point of conflict, shouting his orders right and left as he went. Drum and bugle called to arms. The soldiers tumbled out, formed in line, and rushed to meet the foe. The battle was on in earnest.
The fires were stamped out, leaving the camp in darkness. Pandemonium broke loose. The rattle of discharging rifles grew to a roar. The redmen’s war-whoops were answered by yells. The castanet-like click of rattling strings of deer-hoofsmingled with the muttering roll of drums and the piercing peals of bugles. Terrified oxen lowed and bellowed; frightened pack and draught horses neighed shrilly as they broke their tethers, and ran madly about the camp. Officers—pistol in hand—rode along the lines, encouraging their men to stand firm.
The impetuosity of the savages—born of ignorance and fanaticism—was a fair match for the cool valor of the whites. Neither party would give ground. The battle spread until it raged fiercely upon three sides of the camp. The Indians forgot their ancient tactics and boldly fought in the open. They met the soldiers face to face—and madly charged the lines of bayonets. Again and again the opposing forces came together with a reeling shock. Blood drenched the dead grass. Curses and groans commingled; and over all rose the weird voice of Tenskwatawa—upon an eminence a short distance away—chanting his war-song.
Major Daviess and Colonel White fell mortally wounded. Captain Spencer and his lieutenants were all dead; and Captain Warwick was dying. Colonel Owen dropped at the governor’s side. He was mounted upon a white horse at the time; and as Harrison had ridden a white horse on the previous day, undoubtedly the Indians mistook the aide for the commander. Dead and dying braves and soldiers lay thick upon the hotly contested field.
During the battle Harrison spurred from one part of the camp to another, disposing his troops to thebest advantage. His officers begged him not to expose himself, but he persisted in being where the fire was hottest. His courage and coolness did much to hold the men steady under the deadly fusillade in the darkness. One ball pierced his hat rim and another cut a lock of hair from his temple—but still he rode unharmed through the scathing fire. Seeing an ensign—a Frenchman—sheltering himself behind a tree, the governor cried, angrily:
“Out from behind that tree, you cowardly rascal!”
“Me not behind ze tree,” explained the ensign; “ze tree in front of me. Zere, ze tree—here, my position. What can Ido, governor?”
With a laugh Harrison rode on and left the fellow.
A Winnebago broke through the lines of militia and dropped dead within the camp. A tall militiaman sprang forward to scalp the prostrate savage—but received a death-wound.
“Served him right!” snarled Joe Farley, who was loading and firing with the rapidity and precision of a piece of machinery. “Tryin’ to make an Injin of hisself—the heathen!”
The left flank began to give way before the desperate and persistent foe. Ross Douglas and Bright Wing were fighting side by side, in that quarter. A half-dozen warriors sprang through the broken lines, brandishing their arms and yelling fiendishly. Four of them fell dead in their tracks. Douglas and his comrade engaged in ahand-to-hand combat with the other two. The Wyandot quickly dispatched his opponent, but Ross was not so fortunate. His foot slipped upon the blood-soaked sod, and he fell prostrate. His savage foe, with raised tomahawk, was upon him. The young scout closed his eyes, expecting death. But the next moment the Indian lay gasping for breath, with Duke’s keen fangs buried in his throat.
“Ugh! Duke him here at right time!” grunted Bright Wing, as he rammed home another charge.
The ends of the broken line swung into place—and still the battle raged.
The rain ceased to fall; the sky began to clear. Darkness gave place to dawn. The commander ordered a charge all along the lines. Inch by inch the savages gave way—in spite of the bravery of their chiefs, and the inspiration of Tenskwatawa’s war-song. At last they could stand the cold steel of the bayonets no longer. They broke and fled. Down the slope and across the boggy prairie, toward their town, they hastened, carrying many of their dead and wounded with them. Victory had perched upon Harrison’s banner; and the palefaces had won the battle of Tippecanoe.
The victorious troops pursued the fleeing savages, until the yielding surface of the wet prairie compelled the mounted riflemen to halt. Then the whole force returned to camp. The whites had lost one hundred and eighty in killed and wounded; the Indians, probably, had lost an equal number.
At sunrise squads of soldiers were engaged in burying the dead and carrying the wounded to the surgeon’s quarters. Joe Farley was on the detail. At the southwestern angle of the camp, he came upon the body of a tall and lank militiaman. The man lay upon his side—a contorted, blood-stained heap. His head rested upon his arm, and his face was partially concealed. Supposing that the poor fellow was dead, Farley caught him by the shoulder, to turn him over. The dying man moaned feebly. Bending over him, Joe said tenderly:
“I didn’t mean to be rough, friend, I thought you was—was—are you hurt bad?”
The blue lips moved—and these words were breathed into Farley’s face:
“I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,In the cabin with the’r mother;And now the’r pap has got his death—An’ they’ll—never git—an-oth-er!”
“I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,In the cabin with the’r mother;And now the’r pap has got his death—An’ they’ll—never git—an-oth-er!”
“I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,In the cabin with the’r mother;And now the’r pap has got his death—An’ they’ll—never git—an-oth-er!”
“I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,
In the cabin with the’r mother;
And now the’r pap has got his death—
An’ they’ll—never git—an-oth-er!”
The faint voice ended in a whispering quaver. Joe sprang erect, his limbs trembling, his face as white as chalk.
“Poor critter!” he murmured, pityingly. “He’s dyin’; but he’s still thinkin’ of his wife an’ children. Poor little woman—an’ poor little boys an’ gals—down in ol’ Kaintuck! You’ll never git another husband an’ father, that’s a fact; not one that’ll think as much of you, anyhow. His words has come true. He must ’ave had a prem’nition o’ what was in store fer him. Ding-it-all-to-dangnation!I’m sorry fer him—poor feller! An’ I wish I hadn’t growled so much ’bout his caterwaulin’—I do, by Katherine! But I thought he was jest foolin’—I didn’t know he was pourin’ out his soul in singin’.”
Joe broke off suddenly and dashed the tears from his eyes. The dying Kentuckian gave one expiring groan—and passed over the dark river. The woodman stood silently looking down at the lump of senseless clay for several minutes. Then he turned and strode away, muttering:
“I don’t like this buryin’ business, nohow. It makes me down in the mouth. It’s worse ’n drivin’ oxen, by a long shot. Poor little boys an’ gals down in ol’ Kaintuck! They ain’t got no pap now—they’ll never be rocked to sleep in his arms no more.”
He stopped and shook his head sadly, reflectively.
“Where Fleet Foot and Duke?”
Farley glanced up and beheld Bright Wing at his side.
“Ross an’ the bloodhoun’?” he inquired.
“Ugh!”
“I don’t know. But where you find one of ’em you’ll find t’other, most likely. I hain’t set eyes on the dog sence last night, but I saw his master this mornin’—jest after the Injins broke an’ run. You’ll find ’em both ’round the camp somewheres.”
“Me look—no find,” answered the Wyandot with a positive shake of the head.
“Well,” Joe returned dryly, “I wouldn’t lose no sleep ’bout ’em, Injin, if I was you. They’re able to take keer o’ the’rselves.”
“Me look much long time—no find dog—no find master,” the Indian persisted.
“That so?” Joe replied—a shade of uneasiness in his tone. “Well, you’ve got nothin’ else to do—so goonhuntin’. When I git through with this bloody business o’ helpin’ to take keer o’ the dead an’ wounded, I’ll take a look ’round with you. By the way, I’m gittin’ most pow’rful hungry. But a feller told me a little bit ago the beef an’ meal was all gone, an’ some of us ’ld have to eat hoss flesh fer our breakfast. Fer my part, I ain’t ahankerin’. I can go purty nigh anything, but I draw the line at hoss-steaks. It’s a sight worse ’n havin’ a lot o’ women in love with you. W’y, Injin, one time so many female genders got in love with me, I——”
The voluble fellow stopped speaking and looked around. The Wyandot had disappeared.
“By my gran’mother’s ear-trumpet!” muttered Joe. “That redskin comes an’ goes like a shadder. S’pose he didn’t like my talk ’bout women-folks. He must ’ave some ol’ love affair ranklin’ in his gizzard. I’m mighty awful hungry, I swan. Well, if I can’t eat, I can smoke.”
And filling and lighting his pipe, he hurried away to procure help in removing the body of the Kentuckian to the place of burial.
After a scant breakfast, the soldiers busied themselvesabout the camp, righting overturned vehicles, securing stampeded animals, interring the dead, and throwing up a ring of fortifications. Governor Harrison deemed the latter proceeding a necessary precaution. He thought the savages might renew the battle as soon as darkness came again.
The day passed. Night came—a night of feverish expectancy and unrest to the exhausted soldiers. Joe Farley and Bright Wing did not sleep, but sat by the fire all night long, starting at every unusual sound and longing for morning. All the afternoon they had searched for Ross Douglas and his dog, but had found no trace of either. It was the opinion of all to whom they spoke, that the rash young scout had ventured too far in pursuit of the savages and had been killed or captured.
Dawn came at last. After breakfast, General Wells took the dragoons and mounted riflemen and went to reconnoiter the Prophet’s Town. Farley and Bright Wing obtained permission to accompany the detachment.
The general found the place deserted. But one inhabitant remained within its walls—a chief with a broken leg. The whites dressed his wound and made other provision for him, and told him to say to his people that if they would desert the standard of the Prophet and return to their own tribes, they would be forgiven.
The troops found a large quantity of corn, which was very acceptable; also some hogs and domestic fowls. These they removed to their camp.
The savages had fled precipitately, leaving many of their arms and household utensils behind them. A large number of the guns were yet wrapped in the coverings in which the British had imported them.
Farley and Bright Wing found no trace of their friend, until they were slowly and sadly returning to camp. Then, a hundred yards from the northeastern gate of the palisade, Joe picked up a silver button belonging to Douglas’s hunting-shirt. He showed it to the Wyandot, who simply nodded meaningly and pointed in the direction in which the Prophet’s followers had fled. On reaching camp, Farley carried the memento to Governor Harrison and remarked:
“Gov’nor, Ross Douglas has been missin’ sence the battle. I picked up this button close to the Prophet’s Town. Ross is a pris’ner ’mong the Injins, as sure’s shootin’—him an’ his dog, too.”
“How did it happen?” cried Harrison.
“I don’t know. But me and Bright Wing wants to foller the dang redskins an’ try to rescue him——”
“It’s madness to think of such a thing,” the governor interrupted. “You’ll throw away your lives to no purpose.”
“It don’t make no differ’nce,” Joe said doggedly. “Life ain’t worthmuchto such poor scamps as me, at best—an’ it won’t be worthnothin’if Ross Douglas is tortured an’ killed by the Injins. No, gov’nor, me an’ Bright Wing’s goin’after him. You’ll give us leave to go—an’ not have us desert, won’t you, gov’nor?”
Joe asked the question pleadingly, tears standing in his pale, watery eyes.
“Yes,go!” Harrison said, grasping the woodman’s calloused hand. “I discharge you here and now. And may the Almighty’s protecting power accompany you!”
“Amen! Thank you, gov’nor—an’ good-by,” Farley answered.
That afternoon Farley and Bright Wing shouldered their rifles and set out on the trail of the Indians. The next day the army started upon the return journey to Fort Harrison and Vincennes—the wagons loaded with wounded soldiers. The campaign had been short, sharp, and effective.