a bitterly cold night was closing in when ree reached the cabin.
“i rather guess there will be no prowlers around this evening,” he remarked, as he shook the snow from his coonskin cap in front of the roaring fireplace, and held his hands to the blaze to warm them.
“ree,” said john, ignoring the remark, “mr. hatch wants a feather bed. we were talking about it as you came in. i told him we could make him one from turkey feathers.”
“so we can,” was the answer. “we’ll begin saving feathers right away.”
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“it is because i have decided to remain here until i can go in quest of the rascals who have the missing part of my aunt’s letter,” the quaker put in, very seriously. “for poor ichabod is dead—dead and gone—and the money, lads, is mine—all mine. oh, i must obtain the paper which was stolen from me! all mine—the money and all—it is all mine,” he murmured, and from time to time repeated—“all mine—all mine!”
much thinking of the hidden treasure and his assertion that he was the only creature known to be alive who had any valid claim to the fortune, seemed fast to be making theodore hatch a covetous, disagreeable old man. he had changed wonderfully in the short time since the boys had known him.
“thou shalt stay as long as we do, if thou likest, friend,” said ree, adopting the quaker manner of speaking. “but the indians have fought a great battle near the wabash river and sadly defeated general st. clair and his troops. what the result will be as concerns ourselves, we must wait and see.”
183
“what’s that?” john exclaimed.
all that he had learned from gentle maiden, ree then told his friends, and he told them also of the destitute circumstances in which he found the people still remaining in captain pipe’s village.
there arose in john’s mind at once the same question that had perplexed ree—should they help these needy indians, while those who ought to be at home providing for them were fighting the white troops and, no doubt, killing settlers and plundering and burning their cabins?
“after all, we can’t let the poor redskins starve,” he said at last.
“just what i said to myself on the way home,” ree replied.
184
theodore hatch had risen and was walking up and down the one tiny room of the cabin, despondent and deeply sorrowing, as was usual with him when he heard news of bloodshed. he spoke no word, but at last, still deep in thought, laid himself down upon his bed and buried his face in the coarse pillow formed in part by his closely-watched saddle bags. his position had not changed when the two boys were ready to go to bed, and, thinking he slept, they covered him over with a blanket and bearskin.
all night the wind howled through the valley of the cuyahoga, bending the strongest limbs of the forest trees and snapping dead branches off short with a sudden crackling which added to the threatening noises all about. all night the snow went flying before the gale, piling itself in drifts upon the log doorstep of the lonely cabin, against every fallen tree and against every rock and bluff for miles around,—in the haunted spot where the sunken eyes of the dead black eagle stared upward through their mantle of white, and beside the smoky hut where gentle maiden knelt before the fire and besought the great spirit to send aid to her father’s people.
185
all night the storm raged and even the dismal voices of the wolves were stilled and they slunk into their cavern homes; so much the safer were the timid deer seeking shelter among the low-boughed trees of the ravines. all night the troubled quaker lay face downward upon his bed, his mind struggling between his love for gold and his wish to do right. on their own bed in the corner, return kingdom and john jerome soundly slept or, partially awakened from time to time by the fierceness of the tempest, dreamed the hours away.
the coming of morning showed the hours of darkness to have been very busy ones for the storm king.
“i think we will not be venturing far from the cabin to-day,” said john, looking out.
“lucky there is no need of doing so,” ree answered.
“dear friends”—it was the quaker who spoke, and his voice was strangely soft and low, reminding the boys at once of the caressing way in which he always addressed his mare, ph?be—“whatever the depth of snow or the cold, i am going to the town of the delawares to carry them whatever food thee will spare me for them.”
186
“why, you mustn’t think of doing so, mr. hatch,” said ree. “i do not believe the indians are really suffering, as yet.”
“they need food, and more than food for their bodies merely,” was the answer. “they are but ignorant savages, but bravely they are bearing all the suffering which comes to them because their strong men have gone forth to fight for what they righteously believe to be their own; and i shall go among them, and even as our illustrious william penn would do were he alive and here, i shall both feed and teach them.”
some great change had come over theodore hatch. but the day before he would have shown but little interest in any subject save that of the hidden fortune. now he did not mention it, but bundled up and visited the log stable adjoining the cabin to tell ph?be his plans, as he had so often told the gentle animal of the treasure, saying over and over again, “all mine—all mine.”
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the depth of the snow was so great and the way so difficult that, finding the quaker determined to follow out the plan he had formed, the two boys agreed that ree should accompany him, mounted on neb, while mr. hatch rode his own horse. with a generous supply of provisions, therefore, the two set out, leaving john alone to guard the cabin and the quaker’s prized saddle bags, and to cut and store near the house a stock of wood for the fireplace.
well-nigh buried beneath the snow, ree and his companion found the village of the delawares a desolate place indeed, upon their arrival there after nearly three hours of floundering through great drifts and over fallen trees and brush, the trail being so hidden by its spotless cloak that to follow it closely was quite impossible.
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the meat the white men carried to the indians, however, was really badly needed. it became evident at once that the whole truth had not been revealed to ree by gentle maiden—because of her pride, perhaps—and several of the oldest and most feeble of the indian men and women were genuinely sick solely for want of food. the children, too, though bearing their suffering with true indian grit,—not a cry or whimper escaping them,—were most desperately hungry.
“our dogs knew our distress and their danger, and our women could not come near to them to kill one for eating. always did they run away, howling or sometimes almost speaking words of fear—or—or woe,” said gentle maiden, telling of the suffering of her father’s people, while ree and mr. hatch warmed themselves at the fire in the chief’s cabin. at the same time the girl’s mother was carrying more wood to make a brighter blaze, and the hungry delawares were feeding themselves ravenously in their own cabins or beside a fire built near the center of the space the irregular collection of huts enclosed.
189
“thy father will not travel far through snow so deep,” the quaker said in answer. “he and his fighting men will be slow in reaching home, therefore. yet, young friend, i shall come among thee with food for thee and thine until he shall return. is it true that thou wert taught by the moravian preachers, my dear?”
“the missionaries trained my tongue to speak the language of the palefaces. they were very kind. still their god is not the god of the indians, my father says. my father has lived long. he knows much.”
the quick intuition of the girl in recognizing the quaker as one who would wish to teach the delawares the religion of the white people, and her way of telling him that his efforts would meet with poor appreciation, amused ree, though he sincerely wished his friend all success.
“dear child, thy father in heaven is all wise and approves the love thou bearest thy earthly father. goodness is in thy heart, and—see, though one of thy own people, it may be, has done this, yet do i come to thee as a friend who seeks only to do thee good.”
190
as he spoke, the quaker bent down and pointed to the scalpless top of his head. with scarcely a tremor gentle maiden followed his words and action and realized at once what he had undergone.
“yea, verily, my head was cut thus, and i was left for dead, but forgiveness is in my heart,” the quaker said.
“my father’s people did not that,” said the girl, with somewhat of haughtiness in her voice. “the paleface brother was shot by one who roams far and alone. he is not of my father’s tribe. his war is his own war. he comes and goes—now here—now far—much far off. on his arm he marks with paint one band of black for every paleface killed. many bands are on his arm. many palefaces he has killed. never will his war be ended. he must not know my paleface preacher brother, that he thinks he killed, still lives. yet it is his war. gentle maiden may not speak more.”
191
theodore hatch was considerably puzzled by the girl’s speech; but ree, quickly understanding her, explained to him that for each person he killed the prowling indian, whoever he might be, pricked in black a circlet about his arm, in addition to taking the scalp; that for some reason he would never cease his attacks upon the whites, and that if he discovered that one man, whom he supposed he had killed, was still alive, he would seek to make that man’s death certain, or kill some other man instead.
“the young paleface speaks well. gentle maiden cannot tell so many words of english now as when her tongue was trained to speak them,” the indian girl said, confirming ree’s explanation of her warning to the quaker.
“i shall see him and reason with him. it is wrong that his heart should be set against all white people, though many may have misused him. where shall i find him?”
“he comes and goes. he is not of the delawares. his war is his own war. i have spoken,” the girl made answer.
192
“i tried to have gentle maiden tell me of this lone indian myself, but the delawares will not say who he is,” said ree, fearing the quaker might give offense by pressing the maiden to tell more than she was willing to do. “he is not a delaware, yet captain pipe believes he has some just cause for making war on the whites, secretly and alone, and does not attempt to stop him. am i right, gentle maiden?”
the indian girl nodded her head and said simply, “yes.”
the conversation turned to other subjects, both mr. hatch and ree being anxious to learn to what extent the people of the village would need assistance during the winter, in case captain pipe should not return. it quickly became apparent that the indians would require a great deal of aid. they had almost nothing left to eat, and every cache (holes in the earth in which corn or other provisions were hidden) had been emptied.
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the prospect that on the white neighbors of the savages would fall the task of providing them with meat was not, to ree, a pleasing one. true, it was a duty and must be performed, but it would take the time of himself or john the greater part of every day, he quickly saw. the quaker was undoubtedly willing to do his part, but his mind was bent more upon the spiritual than the bodily welfare of the indians, and, moreover, he would scarcely shoot a deer even if he had an opportunity.
promising to return in a day or two, ree and mr. hatch took their leave, mounted their horses and started homeward. the wind was still blowing in sudden gusts and was bitterly cold. the trail through the snow, made in reaching the indian town, however, rendered the return journey easier, and good progress was being made when, as the two rode along the edge of a high bluff between the village and their cabin, a strong wind caught the broad brim of the quaker’s hat and sent it sailing over the edge of the steep hillside, into the gully.
“i’ll get it for you,” said ree, who was considerably in advance of his companion, and, reaching a place where the descent was less precipitous, he rode into the ravine, then back to a point even with that where mr. hatch had paused.
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an odd picture the quaker presented as he sat astride his mare, leaning slightly forward, his uncovered, scalpless head exposed to the wind, while he held out his arm pointing to the spot where his beaver lay.
ree glanced up to note the direction which the outstretched finger indicated. almost at the same moment a terrific shriek sounded high and loud above the roaring wind, followed by another and another.
in an instant ree’s rifle was at his shoulder. no sign of any living creature could be seen, however, save theodore hatch sitting bolt upright in his saddle staring in vacant astonishment across the ravine.
“for goodness sake, what is it?” eagerly cried the boy.
“verily, i think it was the young indian who tried to kill me—who has my scalp,” muttered mr. hatch, in tones of awe.
195
with all haste ree recovered the quaker’s hat and made speed to reach his side. but the indian had vanished.
“he went so very suddenly i scarcely saw him,” the quaker explained. “i only heard him scream.”
the meaning of it all came to ree’s mind like a flash. the lone indian, prowling along the opposite side of the ravine, had been attracted by the noise of their horses, and slipped up to find what was to be seen. he had come just in time to discover the quaker in a ghost-like attitude, pointing into the valley meaningly, while his scalped crown and rigid quiet added to the supernatural appearance he made. recognizing the horse and the rider, the latter a man whose scalp was even then fastened to his own belt, the indian had been terrified beyond measure—thinking he saw a ghost—the ghost of one of his victims.
196
“i shall be greatly mistaken if he does not follow us to find out just exactly what he did see,” said ree, explaining his supposition concerning the indian’s fright. “there is no doubt but what he is watching from a distance at this very minute.”
and ree was right. the lone indian did follow at a respectful distance, and the fact that he did so was a fortunate thing for the young pioneers, as they afterward discovered.
