It makes my old head dizzy to recall the events of that hour across the years that have intervened. Possibly I, as I write these words, am the only person living who has looked upon that old stockade and taken part in its tragic history. What a marvellous change has less than a century witnessed! Once the outermost guard of our western frontier, it is now the site of one of the great cities of two continents. To me, who have seen these events and changes, it possesses more than the wonderment of a dream.
That day, as I rode forward, I saw but little of the Fort's formation, for my eyes and thoughts were so filled with those frenzied savages that hemmed us about, and the cool deployment of the few troops that guarded our passage-way, that everything else made but a dim impression. Yet the glimpse I obtained, even at that exciting moment, together with the subsequent experiences that came to me, have indelibly impressed each detail of the rude Fort upon my memory.
It stands before me now, clear-cut and prominent, its outlines distinct against the background of blue water or green plains. In that early day the Fort was a fairly typical outpost of the border, like scores of others scattered at wide and irregular intervals from the Carolina mountains upon the south to the joining of the great lakes at the north, forming one link in the thin chain of frontier fortifications against Indian treachery and outbreak. It bore the distinction, among the others, of being the most advanced and exposed of all, and its small garrison was utterly isolated and alone, a forlorn hope in the heart of the great wilderness.
The Fort had been erected nine years before our arrival, upon the southern bank of a dull and sluggish stream, emptying into the Great Lake from the west, and known to the earlier French explorers as the river Chicagou. The spot selected was nearly that where an old-time French trading-post had stood, although the latter had been deserted for so long that no remnant of it yet lingered when the Americans first took possession, and its site remained only as a vague tradition of those Indian tribes whose representatives often visited these waters.
The earliest force despatched by the government to this frontier post erected here a simple stockade of logs. These were placed standing on end, firmly planted in the ground and extending upward some fifteen feet, their tops sharpened as an additional protection against savage assailants. This log stockade was built quite solid, save for one main entrance, facing to the south and secured by a heavy, iron-studded gate, with a subterranean or sunken passage leading out beneath the north wall to the river, protected by a door which could be raised only from within. The enclosure thus formed was sufficiently large to contain a somewhat restricted parade-ground, about which were grouped the necessary buildings of the garrison, the quarters for the officers, the soldiers' barracks, the commandant's office, the guardhouse, and the magazine. These rude structures were built in frontier style, of cleaved logs, and with one exception were but a single story in height, so that their roofs of rived shingles were well below the protection of the palisade of logs. Besides these interior buildings, two block-houses were built, each constructed so that the second story overhung the first, one of them, standing at the southeast and one at the northwest corner of the palisaded walls. A narrow wooden support, or walk, accessible only from one or the other of these block-houses, enabled its defenders to stand within the enclosure and look out over the row of sharpened logs.
At the time of our arrival the protective armament of this primitive Fort, besides the small-arms of the garrison, consisted of three pieces of light artillery, brass six-pounders of antique pattern, relics of the Revolution. Outside the Fort enclosure, only a few yards to the west along the river bank, stood the agency building, or, as it was often termed, "goods factory," built for purposes of trading with the Indians, so that it would not be necessary to open the Fort to them. This agency building was a rather large two-story log house, not erected for any purposes of defence. Along the southern side of the stream, in both directions, the soldiers had excavated numerous root-houses, or cellars, in which to store the products of their summer gardens,—these excavations fairly honeycombing the bank.
Such was Fort Dearborn in August of the fatal year 1812. It stood ugly, rude, isolated, afar from any help in time of need. Its nearest military neighbor lay directly across the waters of the Great Lake, where a small detachment of troops, scarcely less isolated than itself, garrisoned a similar stockade near the mouth of the river Saint Joseph. To the westward, the vast plains, as yet scarce pressed by the adventurous feet of white explorers, faded away into a mysterious unknown country, roamed over by countless tribes of savages; to the northward lay an unbroken wilderness for hundreds of leagues, save for a few scattered traders at Green Bay, until the military outpost at Mackinac was reached; to the eastward rolled the waters of the Great Lake, storm-swept and unvexed by keel of ship, an almost unsurpassable barrier, along whose shore adventurous voyagers crept in log and bark canoes; while to the southward alternating prairie and timber-land stretched away for unnumbered leagues the Indian hunting-grounds,—broken only by a few scattered settlements of French half-breeds.
From the walls of the Fort the eye ranged over a dull and monotonous landscape, nowhere broken by signs of advancing civilization or even of human presence. A few hundred yards to the east the waves of Lake Michigan broke upon the wide, sandy beach, whence the tossing waters stretched away in tumultuous loneliness to their blending with the distant sky. Southward, along the shore of the lake, the nearly level plain, brown and sun-parched, soon merged into rounded heaps of wind-drifted sand, barely diversified by a few straggling groups of cottonwoods. To the westward extended the boundless prairie, flat and bare as a floor, except where the southern fork of the little river cut its way through the soft loam, and gave rise to a scrubby growth of cottonwood and willow; while northward, across the main body of the river, the land appeared more rugged and broken, and somewhat heavily wooded with oak and other forest trees, but equally devoid of evidences of habitation.
In all this wide survey from the little knoll on which the Fort stood, five houses only were visible. These were built roughly of logs in the most primitive style of the frontier, and, with a single exception, were now deserted by their occupants, who had retreated for safety to the stockade of the Fort. The single exception was the larger and more ambitious dwelling standing on the north bank of the river, occupied by John Kinzie and his family, himself an old-time Indian trader, whose honesty and long dealing with the savages had made him confident of their friendship and fidelity. At one time, however, so threatening had become the strange bands that flocked in toward Dearborn, as crows to a feast, he also deserted his home, and, with those dependent upon him, sought refuge within the Fort walls; but, influenced by the pledge of the Pottawattomies, and believing that safety lay in trusting to their friendship, they had returned to their own house. The other cabins were scattered to the westward of the stockade, close to the river bank. These dwellings had been occupied by the families of Ouilmette, Burns, and Lee, respectively; while the last named owned a second cabin, built some distance up the south branch of the river, and occupied by a tenant named Liberty White.
The prospect was in truth depressing to one accustomed to other and more civilized surroundings. A spirit of loneliness, of fearful isolation, seemed to hover over the restless waters upon the one hand, and those vast silent plains on the other; sea and sky, sky and sand, met the wearied eye wherever it wandered. The scene was unspeakably solemn in its immensity and loneliness; while irresistibly the thought would wander over those fateful leagues of prairie and forest that stretched unbrokenly between this far frontier and the few scattered and remote settlements that were its nearest neighbors.
It was not until some time later that these sombre reflections pressed upon me with all their force. After the excitement of our first boisterous greeting was over, and I found opportunity to lean across the top of the guarded stockade and gaze alone over the desolate spectacle I have endeavored to describe, I could feel more acutely the hopelessness of our situation and the danger threatening us from every side. But at the moment of our entrance, all my interest and attention had been centred upon the scenes and persons immediately about me. It was my first experience within the stockaded walls of an armed government post. The scene was new to my young senses, and, in spite of the excitement that still heated my blood, I looked upon it with such absorbing interest as to be forgetful for the moment even of the fair girl who rode in at my side.
The dull clang of the heavy iron-bound gate behind us was a welcome sound after the fierce buffetings of our perilous passage; yet it only partially shut off the savage howlings, while above the hideous uproar came the sharp reports of several guns. But the instant bustle and confusion within scarcely allowed opportunity to notice this disorder; moreover, there had come to us a sense of safety and security,—we were at last within the barriers we had struggled so long to gain. However the savage hordes might rage without, we were now beyond their reach, and might take breath again.
Our little party, closely bunched together, with Wells and the timorous Miamis at its head, surged quickly through between the bars, and came to a halt in an open space, evidently the parade-ground of the garrison, the bare earth worn smooth and hard by the trampling of many feet. A tall flag-pole rose near the centre, and the wavering shadow of the banner at its top extended to the eastern edge of the enclosure. Out from the log-houses which bordered this enclosure there came a group of people to welcome us,—officers and soldiers, women neatly dressed and with bright intelligent faces, women of rougher mould attired in calico or deerskin, hardy-looking men in rude hunter's garb, picturesque French voyageurs wiry of limb and dark of skin, an Indian or two, silent, grave, emotionless, a single negro, and trailing behind them a number of dirty, delighted children, and dogs of every breed and degree. It was a motley gathering, and appeared almost like a multitude as it hurried forth into the open parade-ground, and surged joyfully about us, all eager to welcome us to Dearborn, and hopeful that we brought them encouragement and relief. We were of their own race, a link between them and the far-distant East; and our coming told them they were not forgotten.
The odd commingling of tongues, the constant crowding and scraps of conversation, the volley of questioning from every side, was confusing and unintelligible. I could gain only glimpses here and there of what was going on; nor was I able to judge with any accuracy of the number of those present. I looked down upon their appealing, anxious faces, with a sad heart. In some way the sight of them brought back thoughts of the savage, howling mob without, clamoring for blood, through which we had won our passage by sheer good-fortune; of those leagues of untracked forest amid whose glooms we had ploughed our way. I thought of these things as I gazed upon the helpless women and children thronging about me, and my heart sank as I realized how great indeed was the burden resting upon us all, how frail the hope of safety. Death, savage, relentless, inhuman death in its most frightful guise with torture and agony unspeakable, lurked along every mile of our possible retreat; nor could I conceive how its grim coming might long be delayed by that palisade of logs. We were hopeless of rescue. We were alone, deserted, the merest handful amid the unnumbered hordes of the vast West. Swift and terrible as this conception was when it swept upon me, it grew deeper as I learned more fully the details of our situation.
Just in front of where I lingered in my saddle, the crush slightly parted, and I noticed a tall man step forward,—a fair man, having a light beard slightly tinged with gray, and wearing the undress uniform of a captain of infantry. A lady, several years his junior, stood at his side, her eyes bright with expectancy. At sight of them, Captain Wells instantly sprang from his horse and hastened forward, his dark face lighted by one of his rare smiles.
"Captain," he exclaimed, clasping the officers hand warmly, and extending his other hand in greeting to the lady, "I am glad indeed to have reached you in time to be of service; and you, my own dear niece,—may we yet be permitted to bring you safely back to God's country."
I was unable to catch the reply of either; but I noted that the lady flung her arms about the speaker's neck and kissed his swarthy cheek.
Then Captain Wells spoke more loudly, so that his words reached my ears.
"But, Heald," he said, "what means all this litter of garrison equipment lying scattered about? Surely you have no present intention to leave the Fort, in face Of that savage mob out yonder?"
"'T is the orders of General Hull," was the low; and somewhat hesitating response, "and the Pottawattomie chiefs have pledged us escort around the head of the lake. But this is no place to discuss the matter. As soon as possible I would speak with you more fully in my office."
The look of undisguised amazement upon Wells's face startled me; and as I glanced about me, wondering whom I might take counsel with, I was astonished to note the horse that Toinette had ridden standing with empty saddle. De Croix, negligently curling his mustache between his slender fingers, gazed at me with a blank stare.
"Where is Mademoiselle?" I questioned anxiously, as he remained silent."Surely she was with us as we came in!"
"Pish! of course," he returned carelessly; "if she chooses to dismount and rejoin her friends, what has that to do with John Wayland? Cannot the girl so much as move without your permission, Monsieur?"
The words were insolent, not less than the manner that accompanied them. Instantly there flashed upon me the thought that this Frenchman sought a quarrel with me; but I could conceive no reason therefor, and was not greatly disposed to accommodate him.
"'T was no more than curiosity that urged my question," I answered, assuming not to notice his bravado. "I was so deeply interested in other things as to have forgotten her presence."
"Something no lady is ever likely to forgive," he interjected. "But what think you they propose doing with us here?"
As if in direct answer to his question, the young officer who had met us without now elbowed his way through the throng, until he stood at our horses' heads.
"Gentlemen," he said, with a quick glance into our faces, "dismount and come within. There is but little to offer you here at Dearborn, we have been cut off from civilization so long; but such as we possess will be shared with you most gladly."
De Croix chatted with him in his easy, familiar manner, as we slowly crossed the parade; while I followed them in silence, my thoughts upon the disappearance of Toinette and the Frenchman's sudden show of animosity. My glance fell upon the groups of children scattered along our path, and I wondered which among them might prove to be Roger Matherson's little one. At the entrance of one of the log houses fronting the parade,—a rather ambitious building of two stories, if I remember rightly, with a narrow porch along its front,—an officer was standing upon the step, talking with a sweet-faced woman who appeared scarce older than seventeen.
"Lieutenant Helm," said Ronan, politely, "this is Captain de Croix, of the French army."
He presented De Croix to Mrs. Helm, and then turned inquiringly toward me.
"I believe I have failed to learn your name?"
"I am simply John Wayland," I answered, and, with a glance at my face,Lieutenant Helm cordially extended his hand.
"We are greatly pleased to welcome you both," he said earnestly, but with a grave side-glance at his young wife, "though I fear we have little to offer you except privation and danger."
"How many have you in the garrison?" I questioned, my eyes upon the moving figures about us. "It looks a crowd, in that narrow space."
"They are all there who are able to crawl," he said, with a grave smile. "But in this case our numbers are a weakness. In the garrison proper we have four commissioned officers, with fifty-four non-commissioned officers and privates. To these may be added twelve settlers acting as militiamen, making a total defensive force of seventy men. But fully twenty-five of these are upon the sick-list, and totally unfit for active duty; while we are further burdened by having under our protection twelve women and twenty children. It almost crazes one to think of what their fate may be."
"Your defences look strong enough to keep off savages," broke in De Croix, "and I am told there is a sufficiency of provisions. Saint Guise! I have seen places where I had rather reside in my old age; yet with plenty of wine, some good fellows, and as lovely women as have already greeted me here, 'twill not prove so bad for a few weeks."
Helm glanced at him curiously; then his gaze, always gravely thoughtful, wandered back to me.
"We are to evacuate the Fort," he said quietly.
"Evacuate?" echoed the Frenchman, as if the word were displeasing. "'T is a strange military act, in my judgment, and one filled with grave peril. Does such decision come from a council?"
"There has been no council," broke in Ronan, hastily. "The commander has not honored his officers by calling one. Such were the orders as published on parade this morning."
He would have added more, but Helm warned him, by a sudden look of disapproval.
"I understand," he explained quietly, "that the instructions received from General Hull at Detroit were imperative, and that Captain Heald was left no discretion in the matter."
"I have not yet discovered the man who has seen the orders," exclaimed the Ensign hotly, "and we all know it means death."
Helm faced him sternly.
"A soldier's first duty is obedience," he said shortly, "and we are soldiers. Gentlemen, will you not come in?"
As I sat in the officers' quarters, listening to the conversation regarding existing conditions at the Fort and the unrest among the Indians of the border, my thoughts kept veering from sudden and ungracious disappearance of Mademoiselle to the early seeking after that hapless orphan child for whose sake I had already travelled so far and entered into such danger. Evidently, if I was to aid her my quest must be no longer interrupted.
With characteristic gallantry, De Croix had at once been attracted toward Lieutenant Helm's young and pretty bride, and they two had already forgotten all sense of existing peril in a most animated discussion of the latest fashionable modes in Montreal. I was not a little amused by the interest manifest in her soft blue eyes as she spoke with all the art of a woman versed in such mysteries, and at the languid air of elegance with which he bore himself. Meanwhile, I answered as best I might the flood of questions addressed to me by the two officers, who, having been shut out from the world so long, were naturally eager for military news from Fort Wayne and from the seat of government. As these partially ceased, I asked: "Has a date been set for the abandonment of the Fort?"
"We march out upon the fifteenth," was Helm's reply, "the day after to-morrow, unless something occurs meanwhile to change Captain Heald's plans. I confess I dread its coming, much as I imagine a condemned man might dread the date of his execution," and his grave eyes wandered toward his young wife, as if fearful his words might be overheard by her. "There are other lives than mine endangered, and their peril makes duty doubly hard."
"Lieutenant," I said, recalled to my own mission by these words, "I myself am seeking to be of service to one here,—the young daughter of one Roger Matherson, an old soldier who died at this post last month. He was long my father's faithful comrade in arms, and with his dying breath begged our care for his orphan child. It has come to us as a sacred trust, and I was despatched upon this errand. Can you tell me where this girl is to be found?"
Before he could frame a reply, for he was somewhat slow of speech, his wife, who had turned from De Croix, and was listening with interest to my story, spoke impulsively.
"Why, we have been wondering, Mr. Wayland, where she could have gone. Not that we have worried, for she is a girl well able to care for herself, and of a most independent spirit. She disappeared very suddenly from the Fort several days ago; we supposed she must have gone with my mother when Mr. Kinzie took his family back to their home."
"With Mr. Kinzie?" I questioned, for at that moment I could not recall hearing the name. "May I ask where that home is?"
"He is the very good step-father of my wife, and one she loves as truly as if he were her own father," answered Helm, warmly; "a man among a thousand. Mr. Kinzie is an Indian trader, and has been here for several years, if indeed he be not the first white settler, for old Pointe Au Sable was a West Indian mulatto. His relations with these savages who dwell near the Great Lake, and especially those of the Pottawattomie and Wyandot tribes, are so friendly that he has felt safe to remain with his family unguarded in his own home. They have always called him Shaw-nee-aw-kee, the Silver-man, and trust him as much as he trusts them. He is, besides, a great friend of Sau-ga-nash, the half-breed Wyandot; and that friendship is a great protection. His house is across the river, a little to the east of the Fort; it can easily be seen from the summit of the stockade. But we have had no direct communication for several days; the orders have been very strict since the gates were closed. It is not safe for our soldiers to venture outside except in force, and neither Kinzie nor any of his family have lately visited us. Doubtless they feel that to do so might arouse the suspicion of their Indian friends."
"But are you sure they are there, and safe? And do you believe the oneI seek will be found with them?"
"Smoke rises from the chimney, as usual, and there was a light burning there last evening. We do not know certainly that your friend is there, but think such is the case, as she was extremely friendly with a young French girl in their employ named Josette La Framboise."
I sat in silence for some time, thinking, and neglectful of the conversation being carried on around me by the others, until we were called to supper by the soldier who officiated as steward for the officers' mess. I remember many details of the situation, as they were frankly discussed in my presence while we lingered at the table; yet my own reflections were elsewhere, as I was endeavoring to determine my duty regarding the safety of her whom I had come so far to aid. Surely, my first object now must be to ascertain where she was, in order to be at her service when the hour for departure came. Nor had I any time to spare, if we were to march out on the fifteenth. I cannot describe, at this late day, how strangely my allegiance wavered, in that hour, between the unknown, unseen girl, and the fair, vivacious Toinette. My heart drew me toward the one, my clear duty to the other; and I could see no way out of the dilemma except to find Elsa Matherson without delay, in order that the two should be close together where, as need arose, I could stand between them and whatever of evil impended.
I fear I was an indifferent guest, for I was never nimble of tongue, and that night I was more silent than usual. However, De Croix most effectually hid my retirement by his rare good-humor and the sparkling badinage with which he concentrated all attention upon himself, and was consequently soon in the happiest of moods. I know not how the fellow succeeded in working the miracle, but he sat at the board, upon Mrs. Helm's left hand, powdered and curled as if he were gracing a banquet at the Tuileries. His ruffled shirt, glittering buckles, and bright blue waistcoat, were startling amid such homely surroundings; while his neatly folded handkerchief of lace exhaled a delicate perfume. Deeply as I was immersed in my own thoughts and plans, I could not help admiring his easy grace, and more than once forgot myself in listening to his marvellous tales and witty anecdotes.
He was detailing a recent scandal of the French court, passing delicately over its more objectionable features, when I grasped the opportunity to slip unobserved from the room into the open of the parade-ground. It proved a dark night without, but the numerous lights in the surrounding buildings, whose doors and windows were open, sufficiently illumined the place, so that I found my way about with little difficulty. A group of soldiers lounged at the open door of the guard-house, and I paused a moment to speak with one, a curly-headed lad, who sat smoking, his back resting easily against the logs.
"Are the outer gates ever opened at night?" I asked.
He glanced up at me in surprise, shading his eyes to be assured of my identity before speaking.
"Scarcely either day or night now, sir," he replied, respectfully, "but between sunset and sunrise they are specially barred, and a double guard is set. No one can pass except on the order of Captain Heald."
"In which direction is the Kinzie house?"
He pointed toward the northeast corner of the stockade.
"It is just over there, sir, across the river. You might see the light from the platform; beyond the shed yonder is the ladder that leads up into the blockhouse."
Thanking him, I moved forward as directed, found the ladder, and pushed my way up through the narrow opening in the floor of the second story. The small square room, feebly lighted by a single sputtering candle stuck in the shank of a bayonet, contained half a dozen men, most of them idling, although two were standing where they could readily peer out through the narrow slits between the logs. All of them were heavily armed, and equipped for service. They looked at me curiously as I first appeared, but the one who asked my business wore the insignia of a corporal, and was evidently in command.
"I wish to look out over the stockade, if there is no objection. I came in with Captain Wells's party this afternoon," I said, not knowing what their orders might be, or if I would be recognized.
"I remember you, sir," was the prompt response, "and you are at liberty to go out there if you desire. That is the door leading to the platform."
"The Indians appear to be very quiet to-night."
"The more reason to believe them plotting some fresh deviltry," he answered, rising to his feet, and facing me. "We never have much to disturb us upon this side, as it overhangs the river and is not easy of approach; but the guard on the south wall is kept pretty busy these last few nights, and has to patrol the stockade. The Indians have been holding some sort of a powwow out at their camp ever since dark, and that 's apt to mean trouble sooner or later."
"Then you keep no sentry posted on the platform?" I asked, a thought suddenly occurring to me.
"Not regularly, sir; only when something suspicious happens along the river. There 's nobody out there now excepting the French girl,—she seems to be fond of being out there all alone."
The French girl? Could it be possible that he meant Toinette? I was conscious of a strange fluttering of the heart, as I stepped forth upon the narrow footway and peered along it, searching for her. I could distinguish nothing, however; and as I slowly felt my way forward, testing the squared log beneath me with careful foot and keeping hold with one hand upon the sharpened palisades, I began to believe the corporal had been mistaken. The door, closing behind, shut off the last gleam of light, and I was left alone in utter darkness and silence, save for the low rumble of voices within the Fort enclosure, and the soft plashing below where the river current kissed the bank at the foot of the stockade.
I had gone almost the full length of that side, before I came where she was leaning against the logs, her chin resting upon one hand, her gaze turned northward. Indeed, so silent was she, so intent upon her own thought, I might have touched her unnoticed in the gloom, had not the stars broken through a rift in the cloud above us, and sent a sudden gleam of silver across her face.
"Mademoiselle," I said, striving to address her with something of the ease I thought De Croix would exercise at such a moment, "I meant not to intrude upon your privacy, yet I am most glad to meet with you once more."
She started slightly, as though aroused from reverie, and glanced inquiringly toward me.
"I supposed my visitor to be one of the guard," she said pleasantly; "and even now I am unable to distinguish your face, yet the sound of the voice reminds me of John Wayland."
"I am proud to know that it has not already been forgotten. You deserted me so suddenly this afternoon, I almost doubted my being welcome now."
She laughed lightly, tapping the ends of the logs with her finger-tips.
"Have you, then, never learned that a woman is full of whims, Monsieur?" she questioned. "Why, this afternoon your eyes were so big with wonder that they had forgotten to look at me. Truly, I spoke to you twice to aid me from the saddle; but you heard nothing, and in my desperation I was obliged to turn to the courtesy of Captain de Croix. Ah, there is a soldier, my friend, who is never so preoccupied as to neglect his duty to a lady."
"It was indeed most ungallant of me," I stammered, scarce knowing whether she laughed at me or not. "Yet my surroundings were all new, and I have the training of De Croix in such matters."
"Pah! 't is just as well. I am inclined to like you as you are, my friend, and we shall not quarrel; yet, with all his love for lesser things, your comrade has always shown himself a truly gallant gentleman."
I made no answer to these flattering words, for I felt them to be true; yet no less this open praise of him, falling from her lips, racked me sorely, and I lacked the art to make light of it.
"The soldiers in the block-house tell me you come here often," I ventured at last, for the dead silence weighed upon me. "You have never seemed to me like one who would seek such loneliness."
"I am one whom very few wholly comprehend, I fear, and surely not upon first acquaintance," she answered thoughtfully, "for I am full of strange moods, and perhaps dream more than other girls. This may have been born of my early convent training, and the mystic tales of the nuns; nor has it been lessened by the loneliness of the frontier. So, if I differ from other young women, you may know 't is my training, as well as my nature, that may account for it. I have led a strange life, Monsieur, and one that has known much of sadness. There are times when I seek my own thoughts, and find liking for no other company. Then I come here, and in some way the loneliness of water and plain soothe me as human speech cannot. I used to love to stand yonder by the eastern wall and gaze out over the Great Lake, watching the green surges chase each other until they burst in spray along the beach. But since I went adrift in the little boat, and felt the cruelty of the water, I have shrunk from looking out upon it. Monsieur, have you never known how restful it sometimes is to be alone?"
"My life has mostly been a solitary one," I answered, responding unconsciously to her mood, and, in doing so, forgetting my embarrassment. "It is the birthright of all children of the frontier. Indeed, I have seen so little of the great world and so much of the woods, that I scarcely realize what companionship means, especially that of my own age. I have made many a solitary camp leagues from the nearest settlement, and have tracked the forest alone for days together, so content with my own thought that possibly I understand your meaning better than if my life had been passed among crowds."
"Ah! but I like the crowds," she exclaimed hastily, "and the glow and excitement of that brighter, fuller life, where people really live. It is so dull here,—the same commonplace faces, the tiresome routine of drill, the same blue sky, gray water, and green plains, to look upon day after day. Oh, but it is all so wearisome, and you cannot conceive how I have longed again for Montreal and the many little gaieties that brighten a woman's world. There are those here who have never known these happier things; their whole horizon of experience has been bounded by garrison palisades; but 't is not so with me,—I tasted of the sweet wine once, when I was a girl, and the memory never leaves me."
"Yet you are often happy?"
"'T is my nature, Monsieur, a legacy of my mother's people; but I am not always gay of heart when my lips smile."
"And the coming of the French gallant has doubtless freshened your remembrance of the past?" I said, a trifle bitterly.
"It has indeed," was her frank admission. "He represents a life we know so little about here on the far frontier. To you, with your code of border manliness, he may appear all affectation, mere shallow insincerity; but to me, Captain de Croix represents his class, stands for the refinements of social order to which women can never be indifferent. Those were the happiest days of my life, Monsieur; and at Montreal he was only one among many."
She was gazing out into the black void as she spoke, and the slowly clearing skies permitted the starlight to gleam in her dark eyes and reveal the soft contour of her cheek.
"You do not understand that?" she questioned finally, as I failed to break the silence.
"I have no such pleasant memory to look back upon," I answered; "yet I can feel, though possibly in a different way, your longing after better things."
"You realize this sense of loneliness?—this absence of all that makes life beautiful and worth the living?"
"Perhaps not that,—for life, even here, is well worth living, and to my eyes the great sea yonder, and the dark forests, are of more interest than city streets. But in one sense I may enter into your meaning; my thought also is away from here,—it is with a home, scarcely less humble than are our present surroundings, yet it contains the one blessing worth striving after—love."
"Love!" she echoed the unexpected word almost scornfully. "'T is a phrase so lightly spoken that I scarce know what it may signify to you. You love some one then, Monsieur?" and she looked up at me curiously.
"My mother, Mademoiselle."
I saw the expression upon her face change instantly. "Your pardon," she exclaimed, hastily. "'T was not the meaning I had thought. I know something of such love as that, and honor you for thus expressing it."
"I have often wondered, since first we met, at your being here, seemingly alone, at this outermost post of the frontier. It seems a strange home for one of your refinement and evident delight in social life."
"'T is not from choice, Monsieur. My mother died when I was but a child, as I have already told you. I scarce have memory of her, yet I bear her name, and, I am told, inherit many of her peculiarities. She was the daughter of a great merchant at Montreal, and the blood of a noble family of France flowed in her veins. She gave up all else to become my father's wife; nor did she ever live to regret it."
Her voice was so low and plaintive that I hesitated to speak; yet finally, as she ceased, and silence fell between us, I asked another question:
"And 't was then you voyaged into this wilderness with your father?"
"I have never since left him while he lived," she answered softly, her head resting upon her hand. "But he also has gone now, and I merely wait opportunity to journey eastward."
"He was a trader, you told me once?"
"A soldier first, Monsieur; a true and gallant soldier, but later he traded with the Indians for furs."
I felt that she was weeping softly, although I could see but little, and I leaned in silence against the rough logs, gazing out into the black night, hesitating to break in upon her grief. Then a voice spoke rapidly at the farther end of the stockade, and a sudden glow of light shot like an arrow along the platform. I turned quickly, and there in the open doorway, clearly outlined against the candle flame, stood De Croix.
"It looks a narrow walk, my friend," he said rather doubtfully, peering forward with shaded eyes, "and 'tis dark as Erebus; yet gladly will I make the venture for hope of the reward."
The door closed behind him, shutting off the last vestige of light; and we, with our eyes accustomed to the gloom, could mark his dim outline as he advanced toward us. His actions belied his words, for he moved with all his accustomed jauntiness along the uncertain foot-way, barely touching the top of the palisades with one hand to guide his progress. He was almost upon the girl before he perceived either of us; and then his earliest words surprised me into silence.
"Ah, Toinette!" he cried eagerly, "I fear I must have kept you waiting overlong; yet I was with Mrs. Helm,—a most fair and charming bride,—and scarce noted the rapid passage of time."
"I naturally supposed it was a woman," she answered, with what I interpreted as a strained assumption of indifference, "as that has ever been your sufficient reason for breaking faith with me."
"Do not interpret it so, I beg," he hastened to implore. "Surely, my being a few moments in arrears is not a matter sufficiently serious to be called a breakage of faith. I do assure you, Toinette, you were never once absent from my thought."
"Indeed?" she exclaimed incredulously, and with an echo of suppressed laughter in her voice. "Then truly you are far more to be commiserated on this occasion than I, for in truth, Monsieur de Croix, I have not missed you over-much. I have enjoyed most excellent company."
"The mysterious spirits of the starry night?" he questioned, looking out into the darkness, "or the dim figures of your own imagination?"
"Very far from either," she retorted, with a laugh; "a most substantial reality, as you are bound to confess. Master Wayland, is it not time for you fitly to greet Captain de Croix? He may deem you lax in cordiality."
I can perceive now how dearly the laughing witch loved to play us one against the other, hiding whatever depth of feeling she may have had beneath the surface of careless innocence, and keeping us both in an uncertainty as aggravating as it was sweet. I could not read the expression upon De Croix's face in the gloom, yet I saw him start visibly at her almost mocking words, and there was a trace of ill-suppressed irritation in his voice.
"Saint Guise! 'T was for that, then, he left us so mysteriously," he exclaimed, unconsciously uttering his first thought aloud. "But how knew he you were to be here?"
Before she could answer, I spoke, anxious to relieve her of embarrassment; for 't was ever my nature to yield much without complaint.
"As it chances, Captain de Croix, she did not know," I said, standing back from the palisades where he could see me more clearly. "I left the table below with no thought of meeting Mademoiselle, and came out on this platform for a different purpose. As you know, I am visiting Dearborn upon a special mission."
"Ah, true," and I could feel the trace of relief in his voice as he instantly recalled my story. "You also sought a girl in this wilderness,—may I ask, have you yet found trace of her?"
I heard Mademoiselle move quickly.
"A girl?" she asked in surprise. "Here, at Dearborn?"
"She was at Dearborn until very lately, but they tell me now I must seek for her at the Kinzie house. It was for the purpose of marking its position from the Fort that I came up here."
For a moment no one of our voices broke the strained silence. I was troubled by this knowledge of a pre-arranged meeting between these two, yet felt it was nothing with which I had a right to interfere. This careless French girl, whom I had known for scarcely two days, was not one to be easily guided, even had I either reason or excuse for attempting it.
"'T is strange," she said, musingly, "that she has never so much as spoken to me about it; yet she was always shy of speech in such matters."
"Of whom do you speak, Toinette?" questioned De Croix.
"Of Master Wayland's young friend with the Kinzies," she answered, the old sprightliness again in her voice. "I know her very well, Monsieur,—a dear, sweet girl,—and shall be only too glad to speed you on to her. Yet 't is not so easy of accomplishment, hemmed in as we are here now. Yonder is the light, Master Wayland; but much of peril may lurk between. 'Tis not far, were the way clear; indeed, in the old days of peace a rope ferry connected Fort and house, but now to reach there safely will require a wide detour and no little woodcraft. There were patrols of savages along the river bank at dusk, and it is doubtful if all have been withdrawn."
I looked as she pointed, and easily distinguished the one glittering spark that pierced the darkness to the north and east. I wondered at her earlier words; yet they might all be true enough, for I knew nothing of this Elsa Matherson. Before I could question further, De Croix had interfered,—eager, no doubt, to be rid of me.
"Upon my soul!" he exclaimed recklessly, "if I could voyage here from Montreal to win but a smile, it should prove a small venture for our backwoods friend to cover yonder small distance.Sacre! I would do the deed myself for one kiss from rosy lips."
I have wondered since what there was about those words to anger me. It must have been their boastful tone, the sarcasm that underlay the velvet utterance, which stung like salt in a fresh wound. I felt that from the summit of his own success he durst laugh at me; and my blood boiled instantly.
"You are wondrous bold, Monsieur," I retorted, "when the matter is wholly one of words. I regret I cannot pledge you such reward, so that I might learn how you would bear yourself in the attempt."
He stared at me haughtily across the shoulder of the girl, as it doubting he heard aright.
"You question my courage to venture it?"
"It has been my experience that the cock that crows the loudest fights the least."
"Oh, hush, Messieurs!" broke in Mademoiselle, her voice showing suppressed amusement. "This platform is far too narrow to quarrel upon; and, besides, the condition of the wager is most easily met,—that is, if my lips be deemed of sufficiently rosy hue."
I know I stood with opened mouth, so astounded by these mocking words as to be stricken dumb; but not so De Croix. The audacity of his nature made eager response to the bold challenge.
"Do you mean what you say, Toinette?" he asked, striving to gain a view of her face in the darkness.
"Do I? And pray, why not?" she questioned lightly. "One kiss is not so very much to give, and I shall never miss it. 'T is duller here than at Montreal, and no doubt 't will greatly interest me to witness the race. Surely it will prove a better way to end your foolish quarrel than to shoot each other. But come, Messieurs, why do you hesitate so long? is not the prize enough?"
He bowed gallantly, and took her hand.
"'T would be the ransom of a king," he answered; "though first I wish to know the terms of this contest more clearly."
She looked out into that silent and lonely night, her eyes upon the distant gleam, and instinctively our glances followed hers. It was a dull desolation, with no sound, no movement, in all the black void. The stars gleamed dull on the water of the river beneath us, and we could dimly see the denser shadow of the opposite shore; beyond this, nothing was apparent save that distant candle flame. What lay between,—what strange obstruction of land, what ambushed foes,—neither of us had means of knowing. We could simply plunge into the mystery of it blindfolded by the fates. Yet to draw back now would brand either of us forever with the contempt of her who had challenged us so lightly.
"'T is all simple enough," she said at last, her eyes glowing with quick excitement. "The goal is yonder where that light glows so clearly, though I warn you the longest way round may prove the surest in the end. To the one of you who reaches there first and returns here, I am to give one kiss as a measure of reward. I care not how it may be accomplished,—such minor matters rest with your own wits."
"But the young girl we seek," he insisted; "must she also be brought here upon the return?"
"Pish! what care I what may be done with the girl? Besides, she is far safer from the savages there than she would be here."
I saw De Croix lean far out over the sharpened palisades and peer downward. The movement gave me instantly a thought of his purpose, and, unnoticed, I loosened the pistol-belt about my waist and silently dropped it upon the platform. Whatever desperate chance he might choose to take, I was determined now to equal.
"Doth the water of the river come to the very foot of these logs?" he asked, unable to determine in the darkness.
"No, Monsieur, the earth slopes downward for some feet, yet the current is at this bank, and gives much depth of water at the shore."
"But of what width is the strip of earth between?"
"Perhaps the length of a tall man."
"Saint Guise! 'tis well I thought to ask!" he explained jauntily. "And now, Mademoiselle, if you will but kindly hold this coat and sword, I shall strive to show you how highly I value the prize offered, and what a French gentleman can do for love."
I fully grasped his purpose now, and even as he turned toward her, holding out the valuables he hesitated to lose, I scaled the low barrier in my front, planted my feet firmly between the pointed stakes, and sprang boldly into the darkness.
It was a greater distance to the water than I had supposed, but I struck at last fairly enough, and went down until I thought I should never come up again. As I rose to the surface and shook the moisture from my face and ears, a light laugh rang out high above me, and Mademoiselle's clear voice cried mockingly:
"The backwoodsman has taken the first trick, Monsieur."
I saw De Croix's body dart, like a black arrow, far out into the air, and come sweeping down. He struck to my left, and a trifle behind me; but I waited not to learn just how. With lusty strokes I struck out for the north shore. It was a hard swim, for my deerskins held the water like so many bags, and the current, though not rapid, was sufficiently strong to make me fight valiantly for every foot of way. I came out, panting heavily, upon a low bank of soft mud, and crept cautiously up under the black shadow of some low bushes growing there. I took time, as I rested, to glance back, hoping thus to learn more of the direction I should follow; for the Kinzie light was no longer visible, and my struggle with the current had somewhat bewildered me. I neither saw nor heard anything of De Croix; but the flame of the candle gleaming through the narrow slits of the block-house told me clearly where it stood, while a wild yelling farther to the southward convinced me that our Indian besiegers were yet astir and concocting some fresh deviltry at their camp. With a half-uttered prayer that they might all be there, I hastily pressed the water from my soggy clothes and plunged forward into the unknown darkness. A big cottonwood, as from its shape I judged it to be, rose against the stars in my front,—a dim outline swaying slightly in the westerly wind, and I took it as my first guide-mark, moving over the rough unknown ground as rapidly and silently as possible.
The soft moccasins I wore aided me greatly, nor were there many trees along the way to drop twigs in the path to crackle under foot; yet I found the ground uneven and deceptive, rifted with small gullies, and more or less bestrewn with stones, against which I stumbled in the darkness. I was too thoroughly trained in the stern and careful school of the frontier not to be cautious at such a time, for I knew that silence and seeming desolation were no proof of savage desertion; nor did I believe that Indian strategy would leave the north of the Fort wholly unguarded. Any rock, any black ravine, any clump of trees or bushes, might well be the lurking-place of hostiles, who would only too gladly wreak their vengeance upon any hapless straggler falling into their hands. I was unarmed, save for the long hunting-knife I carried in the bosom of my shirt; but my thought was not of fighting,—it was to get through without discovery.
To De Croix I gave small consideration, save that the memory of the wager was a spur to urge me forward at greater speed. The place was strangely, painfully still; even the savage yelling of the distant Indians seemed to die away as I advanced, and nothing broke the oppressive silence but an occasional flutter of leaves, or my own deep breathing. I had gone, I take it, half or three-quarters of a mile, not directly north, but circling ever to the eastward, seeking thus to reach the house from the rear, when I came to a sharp break in the surface of the land, somewhat deeper and more abrupt than those before encountered. It seemed like a cut or ravine made by some rush of water lakeward; and, as I hesitated upon the edge of it, peering across and wondering if I had better risk the plunge, my eyes caught the blaze of the Kinzie light scarce a hundred yards from the opposite bank of the ravine.
Assured that I was headed right, I stepped off with a new confidence that, for the moment, conquered my usual prudence,—for the steep bank gave way instantly beneath my weight. I grasped vainly at the edge, fell heavily sidewise, and rolled like a great log, bruised and half-stunned, into the black gorge below. I remember gripping at a slender bush that yielded to my touch; but all the rest was no more than a breathless tumble, until I struck something soft at the bottom,—something that squirmed and gripped my long hair savagely, and pushed my head back with a grasp on the throat that nearly throttled me.
It was all so sudden, so unexpected, that for the moment I was helpless as a child, struggling merely from the natural instinct of preservation to break free. I could perceive nothing, the darkness was so intense; yet as I gradually succeeded in getting my hands loose, I wound them in long coarse hair, pressed them against bare flesh, heard deep labored breathing close to my face, and believed I was struggling with a savage.
It was a question of mere brute strength, and neither of us had had the advantage of surprise. I could feel the sharp prick of my own knife as he hugged me to him, but I dare not reach for it, and I held his arms so tightly that he lay panting and struggling as if in a vise. It was an odd fight, as we turned and tossed, writhed and twisted among those sharp pointed rocks like two infuriated wild-cats in the dark, neither venturing to break hold for a blow, nor having breath enough in our bodies for so much as a curse. My adversary struck me once with his head under the chin, so hard a blow that everything turned red before me; and then I got my knee up into the pit of his stomach and caused him to quiver from the agony of it; yet the fellow clung to me like a bull-terrier, and never so much as whined.
It was never my nature to yield easily, and I felt now this struggle was to cost his life or mine; so I clinched my teeth, and sought my best to push back the other's head until the neck should crack. But if I was a powerful man, this other was no less so, and he fought with a fierce and silent desperation that foiled me. We dug and tore, gouged and struck, digging our heels into the soft earth in a vain endeavor to gain some advantage of position. My cheek, I knew, was bleeding from contact with a jagged stone, and I was fast growing faint from the awful tension, when I felt his arms slip.
"My God!" he panted. "The devil has me!"
So startled was I by these English words, that I loosed my grip, staring breathlessly through the darkness.
"Are you white?" I gasped, so weakened I could scarce articulate.
For a moment he did not answer, but I could hear his breath coming in gasps and sobs. Then he spoke slowly, his voice hoarse from exertion.
"By the memory of Moses! I was once,—but that squeeze must have turned me black, I 'm thinkin'. An' ye're no Injun?"
"Not so much as a feather of one," I retorted. "But that is what I took you to be."
We were both sitting up by this time, he with his back against the bank, both of us panting as if we could never regain our breath, and eagerly seeking to see each other's features in the gloom. Any attempt at conversation was painful, but I managed at last to stammer:
"You must be a whalebone man, or I 'd have broken every rib in your body."
"An' I 'm not a bit sure ye did n't," was the response, uttered between puffs. "'T was the worst grip ever Ol' Tom Burns had squeeze him,—an' I 've felt o' bars mor' nor oncet. Who may ye be, anyhow, stranger? an' for what cause did ye jump down yere on me?"
There was a trace of growing anger in his tone, as remembrance of the outrage returned to his mind, which caused me to smile, now that I could breathe less painfully. It seemed such a ludicrous affair,—that dark struggle, each mistaking the purpose and color of the other.
"My name is Wayland," I made haste to explain, "and I left the Fort but now, hoping by this round-about route to reach the Kinzie place and return under cover of darkness. I slipped on the edge of the bank up yonder, and the next thing I knew we were at it. I can assure you, friend, I supposed myself in the arms of a savage. You say your name is Burns?"
"Ol' Tom Burns."
"What? It is not possible you are the same who brought a message toMajor Wayland on the Maumee?"
"I reckon I am," he said, deliberately. "An' be you the boy I met?"
"Yes," I said, still doubtful. "But how came you here?"
"Wal, here's whar I belong. I've bin a sorter huntin' an' trappin' yer'bouts fer goin' on nine year or so, an' I built a shanty to live in up yonder by the forks. I hed n't much more nor got home frum down east, when the Injuns burnt thet down; an' sence then I ain't bin much o' nowhar, but I reckon'd I 'd go inter ther Fort to-morrow and git some grub."
He spoke with a slow, deliberate drawl, as if not much accustomed to converse; and I pictured him to myself as one of those silent plainsmen, so habituated to solitude as almost to shun companionship, though he had already let drop a word or two that made me deem him one not devoid of humor. Suddenly I thought of De Croix.
"Has any one passed here lately?" I asked, rising to my feet, the old emulation throbbing in my veins. "A white man, I mean, going north."
"Wal," he answered slowly, and as he also stood up I could make out, what I had not noted in our previous meeting, that he was as tall as I, but spare of build; "I ain't seen nuthin', but some sort o' critter went ploughin' down inter the gulch up yonder, maybe ten minutes 'fore ye lit down yere on me. Dern if I know whether it were a human er a bar!"
"Will you show me the nearest way to the Kinzie house?"
"I reckon I 'll show ye all right, but ye bet ye don't git me nigher ner a hundred foot o' the door," he returned seriously. "John Kinzie 's a mighty good man, stranger, but he an' Ol' Tom Burns ain't never hitched worth a cent."
We climbed silently, and came out together upon the top. A slight beam of light crept along through the open door of the log house just in front of us, and for the first time I caught a fair view of my companion. He was a tall, gaunt, wiry fellow, typical in dress and manner of his class,—the backwoodsmen of the Southwest,—but with a peculiarly solemn face, seamed with wrinkles, and much of it concealed beneath a bushy, iron-gray beard. We eyed each other curiously.
"Dern if ever I expected ter meet up with ye agin in no sich way as this," he said shortly. "But thet 's the house. Be ye goin' ter stay thar long?"
"No," I answered, feeling anxious to have his guidance back to theFort, "not over five minutes. Will you wait?"
"Reckon I may as well," and he seated himself on a stump.
No one greeted me at the house, not even a dog; though I could see figures moving within. Either the occupants felt that an assumption of confidence was their best security, or experienced no fear of Indian treachery, for I rapped twice before there was any response. A young girl, with a face of rare beauty and a pair of roguish black eyes, peered out curiously. At sight of a stranger she drew back slightly, yet paused to ask:
"Did you wish to see some one here?"
"I am seeking for a young girl," I answered, wondering if this could possibly be she, "and they told me at the Fort I should probably find her here. May I ask if you are Elsa Matherson?"
For a moment she looked out at me, as if I might be an escaped lunatic.Then she turned her face over her shoulder toward those within.
"Mr. Kinzie," said she, "here 's another man looking for ElsaMatherson."
A heavily-built man in shirt-sleeves, with a strong, good-humored face, and a shock of gray hair, appeared beside the girl in the doorway.
"'T is not the same scamp that kissed you, Josette," he exclaimed, after examining me intently in the dim light, "but I doubt not he may prove of similar breed, and it behooves you to be careful where you stand."
"Has De Croix been here?" I questioned, scarcely deeming it possible he could have outstripped me in our race through the night.
"I know not the rascal's name," was the reply, in the man's deep voice, "but certain I am there was one here scarce ten minutes agone asking after this same Matherson girl. Saint James! but she must have made some sweet acquaintances, judging from the looks of her callers! Josette has been rubbing the fellow's kiss off her lips ever since he caught her unawares."
"He was a dandified young fellow?" I urged, impatient to be off, yet eager to be sure.
The girl laughed lightly, her roguish eyes ablaze with merriment.
"He might be sometime, Monsieur," she cried, evidently glad to talk, "but to-night he reminded me of those scare-crows the farmers near Quebec keep in their fields; a little chap, with a bit of turned-up mustache, and a bright eye, but rags,—gracious, such rags as he wore!"
'T was De Croix, there could be no doubt of it,—De Croix, torn and dishevelled by his mad rush through the darkness, but with no shred of his reckless audacity gone. There was naught left me now but to race back upon his trail, hopeful for some chance that might yet allow me to come in first on the return journey. In my throat I swore one thing,—the graceless villain should never collect his reward at both ends of his journey. He had already stolen the sweets from Josette's red lips, but he should never claim those of Mademoiselle. I lingered for but a single question more.
"But this Elsa Matherson,—she is not here, then?"
"No," returned Mr. Kinzie, somewhat gruffly, "and has not been since the closing of the gates of the Fort. I think you are a parcel of mad fools, to be chasing around on such an errand; yet humanity leads me to bid you come in. There is not a safe foot of ground to-night for any strange white man within three hundred miles of Dearborn."
I glanced about me into the black shadows, startled at his solemn words of warning. Away to the southward a faint glimmer told of the location of the Fort; farther to the west, a sudden blaze swept up into the sky, reflected in ruddy radiance on the clouds, and the thought came to me that the savages had put torch to the deserted cabin on the south branch of the river.
"No doubt 'tis true," I answered hastily; "yet, whatever the danger may be, I must regain the stockade before dawn."
I saw him step forward, as if he would halt me in my purpose; but, wishing to be detained no longer, my thoughts being all with De Croix and Mademoiselle, I turned away quickly and plunged back into the darkness.
"You young fool!" he called after me, "come back, or your life will be the forfeit!"
Without so much as answering, I ran silently in my moccasins to the spot where I had left Ol' Tom Burns. He sat upon his stump, motionless, apparently without the slightest interest in anything going on about him.
"Ol' Kinzie was gol-dern polite ter ye, sonny," he commented. "Reckon if an Injun was a scalpin' me right on his front doorstep he 'd never hev asked me ter walk inside like that! He an' me sorter drew on each other 'bout a year ago, down at Lee's shebang; an' he don't 'pear ter fergit 'bout it."
"Show me the nearest safe passage to the Fort," I said, interrupting him, almost rudely.
He got up slowly, and cast his eyes with deliberation southward.
"Oh, thar ain't no sich special hurry, I reckon," he answered with an exasperating drawl. "We 'll be thar long afore daylight,—perviding allers we don't hit no Injuns meantime,—an' the slower we travel the less chance thar is o' thet."
"But, friend Burns," I urged, "it is a racing matter. I must reach there in advance of another man, who has already been here ahead of me."
"So I sorter reckoned from what I heerd; but ye need n't rip the shirt off ye on thet account. The feller can't git in thar till after daylight, nohow. Them sojers is too blame skeered ter open the gates in the dark, an' all the critter 'll git if he tries it will be a volley o' lead; so ye might just as well take it easylike."
The old man's philosophy seemed sound. De Croix would certainly not gain admittance until he could make himself known to the guard, and, carefully as the stockade was now patrolled, it was hardly probable he would be permitted to approach close enough for identification during the night. De Croix was no frontiersman, and was reckless to a degree; yet his long training as a soldier would certainly teach him a measure of caution in approaching a guarded fort at such a time.
"'Tis doubtless true," I admitted, "yet I shall feel safer if we push on at once."
"Ye called the feller De Croix, didn't ye?" he asked. "Is it theFrench dandy as was at Hawkins's?"
"Yes," I answered, "and I guess you don't care much to help him."
Burns wasted no breath in reply, but moved forward with noiseless step. Glancing back, I could clearly perceive Kinzie framed in the light of his open door. The vivacious French lass stood beside him, peering curiously out across his broad shoulders. Then we sank into the blackness of the ravine, and everything was blotted from our sight.
Burns evidently knew the intricacies of the path leading to the Fort gate, for I soon felt my feet upon a beaten track, and stumbled no more over the various obstacles that rendered my former progress so uncertain. My guide moved with excessive caution, as it seemed to me, frequently pausing to peer forward into the almost impenetrable darkness, and sniffing the night air suspiciously as if hoping thus to locate any lurking foes when his keen eyes failed in the attempt. So dark was it that I had almost to tread upon his heels in order to follow him, as not the slightest sound came from his stealthy advance. As he surmounted the steeper inclines of land, I was able to perceive him dimly, usually leaning well forward and moving with the utmost caution, his long rifle held ready for instant use. As we drew nearer the river,—or where I supposed the river must be, for I could distinguish but little of our position,—he swerved from the footpath we were following, and the way instantly grew rougher to our feet.
"Reckon we 'd better hit the crick a bit below the Fort," he muttered, over his shoulder; "less likely ter find Injuns waitin' fer us thar."
"You think there are savages on this shore?"
He turned partially, and peered at me through the darkness.
"I never heerd tell as Injuns was fools," he answered briefly. "In course thar 's some yere, an' we 're almighty likely ter find 'em."
On the bank of the river, which I could see dimly by the faint light of a star or two that had broken through the cloud-rifts, he paused suddenly, sniffing the air like a pointer dog.
"The gol-dern fools!" he muttered, striking his rifle-butt on the ground with an expression of disgust. "They 've gone and done it now!"
"Done what?" I questioned, almost guessing his meaning as a pungent odor assailed my nostrils. "That smells like rum!"
"'T is rum. Dern if ever I see whar the A'mighty finds so many blame idjits ter make sojers of! Them ar' fellers in the Fort wer n't in tight 'nough pickle, with a thousand savages howlin' 'bout 'em, so they 've went an' poured all their liquor inter the river! If I know Injun nature, it jist means the craziest lot o' redskins, whin they find it out, ever was on these yere plains. I bet they make thet fool garrison pay mighty big fer this job!"
"You mean the destruction of the liquor will anger them?"
"Anger? It'll drive 'em plum crazy,—they'll be ravin' maniacs! It's the hope o' spoils thet's held 'em back so long. They 've wanted the Fort to be 'vacuated, so as they could plunder it,—thet's been the song o' the chiefs to hold their young men from raisin' ha'r. But come, sonny, thar 's nothin' gained a-stayin' here, an' dern me if I want ter meet any Injun with thet thar smell in the air. I don't swim no river smellin' like thet one does. We 'll hev ter go further up, I reckon, an' cross over by the ol' agency buildin'."
We crept up the edge of the stream, keeping well in under the north bank, and moving with the utmost caution, for the chances were strong that this portion of the river would be closely watched by the redskins. We met with no obstacle, however, nor were we apparently even observed from the stockade, as we slowly passed its overhanging shadow. I could distinguish clearly its dark outlines, even making out a head or two moving above the palisades; but no hail of any kind rang out across the intervening water, and we were soon beyond the upper block-house, where a faint light yet shone. We could see the dim shape of the two-story factory building, looking gloomy and deserted on the south shore. Burns lay flat at the water's edge, studying the building intently; and his extreme caution made me a bit nervous, although I could scarcely determine why, for I had thus far marked not the slightest sign of danger.
"I reckon we 'll hev ter risk it," he said at length, as he bound his powder-horn upon his head with a dark cloth. "Come right 'long arter me, and don't make no splashin'."
He slipped off so silently that I scarcely knew he was gone, until I missed the dark outline of his figure at my side. With all possible caution, I followed him. The current was not strong, but I partially faced it, and struck out with a long, steady stroke, so that my progress, as nearly as I could judge, was almost directly across the stream. Burns had been completely lost to my sight, although as I looked along the slightly glistening water I could see for some distance ahead. I remember a black log bearing silently down upon me, and how I shrank from contact with it, fearful lest it might conceal some human thing. Soon after it had swirled by, my feet touched the shelving bank, and I crept cautiously up into the overhanging shadow. Burns was there, and had already reconnoitred our position; for my first knowledge of his presence came when he slowly lowered himself down the bank until he lay close beside me.