CHAPTER III.
“Murder!”
The gruesome word seemed to ring through the silent room.
“Murder!” ejaculated old Nokomis, aghast. “It is a mistake. Who would kill White Eagle? There lives not an Indian in the whole country round who does not love him. No, No.”
There was horror on the face of the young man regarding her so steadfastly. Her withered, wrinkled face was honest enough, her tones genuine.
“No!” exclaimed Mr. Maybee, recovering from the stupor into which Warren’s words had thrown him. “Blame my skin! where’s the blud?”
Warren regarded him steadily a moment, then said, “Look! Internal hemorrhage.”
He half raised the body and pointed to a bullet hole in the back.
“By the Etarn’l!” was Maybee’s horrified exclamation. “Must ’a bled to death whilst we was comin’.”
Warren nodded.
“God in heaven!” cried Judah, sinking on his knees beside the bed of skins. “It is true! But who has done it? Who could be so cruel? No one lives here but ourselves. Murdered! My father! My master!”
“Hush!” said Mr. Maybee, sternly. “Hush. ’Tain’t no time fer cryin’ nor makin’ a fuss. Tell us all you know about this business.”
“He went out after supper to look after the canoes. In a short time we heard a shout and then a cry, ‘Help! help!’ and we ran to him, Winona and I. He was leaning against a tree, and said nothing but, ‘Get me to the house; get a doctor, I am hurt.’ We flew to do his bidding. The rest you know.”
Maxwell’s brain was in a tumult of confusion. Thoughts flew rapidly through it. Suddenly he had been aroused from his solitary life in a strange land to become an actor in a local tragedy. The man lying on the bed of skins had certainly been murdered. Who then was the assassin?
Again he looked at Nokomis, who was intently watching him. She shook her head mournfully in answer to his unasked question. Mr. Maybee was nonplussed. “What’s to be done? Terrible! Murder! Why, it will kill the girl.”
Warren Maxwell started. For a moment he had forgotten the delicate child in the next room rendered so suddenly an orphan, and in so fearful a fashion.
“A doctor must be summoned to certify to cause of death, and the police authorities must be notified,” Warren said at length. “Right you are, pard,” returned Maybee. “I’m hanged ef this business hain’t knocked the spots out of yours truly. I’ll take the boat and Judah here, and be back by sunrise.”
He turned away, but Judah lingered, giving a wistful look into Maxwell’s face.
“Yes,” said Warren, laying his hand on the lad’s shoulder, “I will tell her.”
With a gesture of thanks Judah followed Mr. Maybee out into the night.
Pulling himself together, Warren, followed by Nokomis, entered the room where he had left Winona. She lay on the bed where he had placed her, still unconscious, her long hair lank with the rain, streamed about her face; her lips were slightly parted, even younger and more beautiful than he had at first thought; and as he remembered her story and the position that the death of her father placed her in, his soul went out to her in infinite pity.
“Poor child! Poor little thing!” he mused. “Heaven must have sent me here at this awful moment. You shall not be friendless if I can help you.”
He questioned Nokomis closely. The old woman shook her head.
“Alone except for old Nokomis and Judah. White Eagle loved her very much. Old Nokomis will take care of her.”
Between them the girl was restored to consciousness, and learned the truth of her father’s death told by Warren as gently as possible. She heard him with a stunned expression, pale lips and strained eyes; suddenly, as she realized the meaning of his words, she uttered a piercing cry, and sprang up exclaiming:
“My father! Oh, my father! Murdered!”
She would have rushed from the room. She struggled with Warren, trying with her small fingers to unclasp his, which with tenderness held her; she turned almost fiercely upon him for staying her. The paroxysm died as quickly as it came, leaving her weak and exhausted.
Ebenezer Maybee returned at sunrise, bringing men with him. The great storm had cleared the air of the electric heat, and the morning was gloriously beautiful. The dark forest trees were rich in the sunshine, the streams and waters of the lakes laughed and rippled as happily as if no terrible storm had just passed, carrying in its trail the mystery of a foul and deadly crime. Search revealed no trace of the assassin; no clue. There were but two strangers in the city who had visited the island, and they immediately joined the searchers when they learned of the tragedy. The storm had obliterated all traces of the murderer. There was nothing missing in the humble home that held so little to tempt the cupidity of a thief. There was not even a scrap of paper found to tell who White Eagle might have been in earlier, happier days.
Everyone seemed to regard Warren Maxwell as the person in authority. The police consulted him, referred to him; Mr. Maybee confided in him, and Winona clung to him with slender brown fingers like bands of steel. As far as Warren could learn, she had no friend in the world but the hotel keeper. What a different life this poor child’s must have been from any he had ever known.
Old Nokomis repeated many times a day: “Surely it was the Great Father must have sent you to us.”
Judah walked about all day with a dazed expression on his face, crying silently but bitterly, and a growing look of sullen fury on his dark face that told of bitter thoughts within. Over and over again his lips unconsciously formed the words:
“I’ll find him when I’m older if he’s on top of the earth, and then it’ll be him or me who will lie as my poor master lies in there to-day.”
Then came the funeral. The Indians gathered from all the adjoining cities and towns and from the Canada shore, to see the body of the man they had lived and respected committed to the ground. They buried him beneath the giant pine against which he was found leaning, wounded to death. Curiosity attracted many of the white inhabitants, among whom were the two strangers referred to in the first part of this narrative.
Two days after the funeral, Mr. Maybee and Warren sat in the latter’s room talking of Winona and Judah.
“It was a fortunit thing for us all, Mr. Maxwell, that you happened to be aroun’ during this hyar tryin’ time. You’ve been a friend in need, sir, durn me ef you ain’t.”
“Yes;” replied Warren, smiling at the other’s quaint speech, “it was a time that would have made any one a friend to those two helpless children.”
“Maybe, maybe,” returned the hotel keeper, dubiously. “But you must remember that every man warn’t built with a soul in his carcass; some of ’em’s only got a piece of liver whar the heart orter be.” Warren smiled again.
“Mr. Maybee, I want to ask you a question——”
“Go ahead, steamboat; what’s the question?”
“What is to become of Winona after I leave this place? It is different with the boy—he can manage somehow—but the girl; that is what troubles me.”
“Look hyar, young feller;” said Maybee, stretching out a big, brown hand. “I don’ guess she’ll ever have to say she’s got no friend while Ebenezer Maybee’s proprietor of the Grand Island Ho-tel. My wife’s plum crazy to git that young kidabid. We’s only awaitin’ till the new of this unfortunit recurrence has blowed over, and she gits a little used to bein’ without her pa. As fer Judah, thar’s plenty to do roun’ the stables ef he likes. But, Lor,’ that Injun-nigger! You can’t tame him down to be just an’ onery galoot like the most of ’em you see out hyar. White Eagle taught him to speak like a senator, ride bareback like a hull circus; he can shoot a bird on the wing and hunt and fish like all natur. Fac’.” he added noting Warren’s look of amusement. “Truth is,—neither of them two forlorn critters realizes what ‘bein’ a nigger’ means; they have no idee of thar true position in this unfrien’ly world. God knows I pity ’em.” But to Warren Maxwell it seemed almost sacrilege—the thought of that beautiful child maturing into womanhood among such uncouth surroundings. His mind revolted at the bare idea. At length he said with a sigh:
“What a pity it is that we know nothing of White Eagle’s antecedents. There may be those living who would be glad to take the child.”
“He was a gentleman, as your class counts ’em, Mr. Maxwell. But he never breathed a word what he was, an’ he kept away from his equals—meanin’ white men.”
“And few men do that without a reason,” replied Maxwell. “Do you know whether he was English or German?”
Mr. Maybee shook his head. “He warn’t Dutch, that’s certain; he was a white man all right. I cal’late he mote ’a been English.”
“Mr. Maybee, I’e been thinking over the matter seriously, and I have determined to write home and see if something can’t be done to educate these children and make them useful members of society. In England, neither their color nor race will be against them. They will be happier there than here. Now, if I can satisfy you that my standing and character are all right, would you object to their going with me when I sail in about three months from now?”
Mr. Maybee gazed at him in open-mouthed wonder. “Yer jokin’?” he said at length, incredulously.
“No, I mean it.”
Still Mr. Maybee gazed in amazement. Could it be possible that he heard aright?
“Je-rusalem! but I don’t know what to say. We don’ need no satisfyin’ ’bout you; that’s all right. But the idea of your thinkin’ about edjicatin’ them two Injin-niggers. You’ve plum got me. An’ too, I cal’lated some on gittin’ the gal fer my wife. Still it would be good fer the gal—durn me, but it would.”
Then he turned and grasped Warren’s hand hard.
“Mr. Maxwell, you’re a white man. I jes’ froze to you, I did the fus’ night you poked yer head in the door.”
“And I to you,” replied Warren, as he returned the warm hand-pressure.
“Don’ you ever be skeery whilst yer in Amerika an’ Ebenezer Maybee’s on top o’ the earth. By the Etarn’l, I’ll stick to you like a burr to a cotton bush, durn me ef I don’t.”
Again the men clasped hands to seal the bond of brotherhood.
“Meantime, Mr. Maybee, I wish you to take charge of them. I am called to Virginia on important business. I will leave a sum of money in your hands to be used for their needs while I am gone. When I return, I shall be able to tell just what I can do, and the day I shall leave for England.”
Mr. Maybee promised all he asked, and then retired to the bar-room to astonish his cronies there by a recital of what the English gent proposed to do for two “friendless niggers.” Maxwell rowed over to the island to tell Winona of his departure and the arrangements made for her welfare. He laughed softly to himself as he thought of his own twenty-eight years and his cool assumption of the role of Winona’s guardian. Yet he was not sorry. Upon the whole, he was glad she had been surrendered to his care, that there would be no one to intrude between them; and he felt that the girl would also be glad; she appeared to rely upon him with child-like innocence and faith. How could he fail to see that the brown eyes clouded when he went away, and brightened when he approached?
He secured the boat and directed his steps to the tall pine where she usually sat now. She was sitting there by the new-made grave, her hands folded listlessly in her lap. Her eyes were fixed upon the sunlit waves and were the very home of sorrow. At that moment, turning she beheld him. A sudden radiance swept over the girl’s features. Sorrow had matured her wonderfully.
“Ah! it is you. I have been waiting you.”
“You were sure I would come,” he smiled, taking her hand and seating himself beside her.
“Yes. And I know you never break your word—never. You said you wished to speak to me of my future.”
“Exactly. I could not go to England and leave you here alone and friendless, Winona,” he replied. “I could not bear it.”
The girl shivered. A month ago, she was a happy, careless child; to-day she had a woman’s heart and endurance. Of course he must go sometime, this kind friend; what should she do then?
“Yet I must stay. I have nowhere else to go.”
“Surely you know of some friends—relatives?”
She shook her head.
“Papa never spoke of any. He used to say that we two had only each other to love, poor papa. Oh!” with a piteous burst of grief, “I wanted no one else but papa, and now he is gone.”
“As He gave, so He has a right to take, Winona,” said Warren, gravely. He saw that she was indeed “cast upon his care;” surely there must have been some dark shadow in White Eagle’s past life to cause him to bury himself here in a wilderness among savages. Well, it must be as he had planned. He explained to Winona all that he had told Mr. Maybee.
“And you will take Judah with you?”
“Certainly,” replied Warren, “You shall not be separated.” The girl heaved a deep sigh of content. “I will go with you to your home gladly.”
Judah was as pleased as Winona when told of the plans for the future. Each looked upon Warren Maxwell as a god. Judah went with him to the mainland. Winona saw him depart bravely. She watched the boat until they effected a landing. Once he turned and waved his hat toward the spot where she was standing. When he was no longer visible she threw herself down upon the new-made grave in an abandonment of grief, weeping passionately.
One month from that day Warren Maxwell, bright, smiling and filled with pleasurable anticipations drew rein again before the Grand Island Hotel. As before, ’Tavius was there to take his horse; Mr. Maybee met him at the door; but about them both was an air of restraint.
“Well, Mr. Maybee,” he said gaily, “How are you, and how are my island protéges? I’ll row over after dinner and surprise them.”
“Come with me, Mr. Maxwell, I have something to tell you,” replied his host gravely.
Surprised at his solemn manner, Warren followed him to the chamber he had occupied on the occasion of his first visit. “It’s a sorry tale sir, I must tell you; and in all my life I never befo’ felt ashamed of bein’ an American citizen. But I can be bought cheap, sir; less than half price’ll git me.”
“The day after you lef’ thar was a claim put in by two men who had been stoppin’ roun’ hyar fer a month or more lo-catin thar game, the durned skunks. They was the owners of White Eagle’s wife an’ Judah’s mother, sir—nigger traders from Missouri, sir. They puts in a claim fer the two children under the new act for the rendition of fugitive slaves jes’ passed by Congress, an’ they swep’ the deck before we knowed it or had time to say ‘scat.’ Ef we’d had the least warnin’, Mr. Maxwell, we’d a slipped the boy an’ gal over to Canidy in no time, but you never know where a sneakin’ nigger thief is goin’ to hit ye, ’tain’t like fightin’ a man. Before we knowed it they had ’em as slick as grease an’ was gone.”
“But how could they take the children? They were both born free. It was an illegal proceeding,” cried Warren in amazement.”
“The child follows the condition of the mother. That’s the law.”
“My God, Mr. Maybee,” exclaimed Warren as a light broke in upon his mind. “Where is she now—the poor, pretty child?”
“Down on a Missouri plantation, held as a slave!”
“My God!” Warren gazed at him for a time bereft of speech, dazed by a calamity too great for his mind to grasp. “My God! can such things be?”