Randall Parrish - When Wilderness Was King

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For a moment no one ventured to reply; the mob stood halted now, robbed
of its leaders and its courage, even the noisy medicine-man silenced
before this stern array of protecting chiefs. Loose as was Indian
discipline and tribal authority, even in drunkenness those desperate
warriors dared not openly disregard such a display of power.

"Have the Pottawattomies spoken well?" questioned the old chief,
sternly, "or have our words wronged our brothers?"

A giant of a fellow, whose broad face and huge head seemed
disproportionate even to his big body, his long coarse hair profusely
ornamented with shells and beads flashing gaudily in the firelight,
pushed his way out from among the silent mass.

"Gomo, the great war-chief of the Pottawattomies, has spoken well," he
said in a deep voice that rolled like distant thunder. "The Wyandots
did not know; they war not with Frenchmen, nor harm the women of the
Pottawattomies. The Great Spirit hath made us brothers, and we have
smoked together the pipe of peace."

Gomo moved forward with Indian dignity, and exchanged solemn greeting
with the new-comer.

"It makes the hearts of the Pottawattomies light to hear the words of
Sau-ga-nash," he said gravely. Then he turned and waved his hand to
his clustered warriors. "Release the Frenchman, and place him for
safety in the council lodge. Pass the woman free. It is the will of
our chiefs."

The council lodge! I glanced about me apprehensively; surely this must
be the same tepee in which Captain Heald and I had met the chiefs!
There were no signs of ordinary Indian occupancy, and now as I looked
about me the firelight from without revealed clearly the shading of
those grotesque figures I recalled as having been sketched upon the
outer covering. So it was here that De Croix was to be confined! I
crept back hastily, dropping into place the loosened flap through which
I had been peering. A skin or two were lying on the grassy floor; and
I grasped the larger of these, drawing it over me while I rolled as
closely as possible against the farther wall, hoping desperately that
no Indian guards would be posted within.

The uproar outside continued, as if there were still opposition to the
commands of the chiefs; but presently, as I peeped through a hole in
the skin held over me, I perceived a sudden flash of light as the flap
covering the entrance was drawn aside. I saw a number of dark hands
thrust within, a savage face or two peering for a moment about the
darkened interior; but to my inexpressible relief only one body was
thrust inside, with such violence, however, as to cause the man to fall
face downward at full length. The next instant the lodge was again
wrapped in utter darkness. By God's mercy I remained undiscovered, and
was alone with De Croix.

For a short time, assured as I was of this fact, I did not venture to
creep from my place of concealment, or make my presence known to my
companion. What ears might be listening, I knew not; nor dared I trust
too much to the Frenchman's already over-taxed nerves. He did not move
from the position where he fell; but I could hear him groan and sob,
with now and then a broken ejaculation. Without, the yelling and
uproar grew perceptibly less, although an occasional outburst gave
evidence that the carousal was not wholly ended. Finally I pushed back
the robe that covered me, now grown uncomfortably warm, and crept
cautiously toward the place where I knew him to be lying. It was
intensely dark, and I was still fearful lest he might cry out if I
startled him.

"De Croix," I whispered, "make no alarm; I am Wayland."

"Wayland!" I could mark the amazement in his tone, as he instantly sat
upright, peering through the gloom in the direction whence my voice
came. "_Mon Dieu_! You are here? You saw all of it?"

"Ay," I answered, reaching out and groping in the darkness until I
grasped his hand. "You have had a hard time, my lad; but the worst is
over, and hope remains for us both."

He shuddered so violently I could feel the spasm shake his body.

"'Twas not the dying," he protested; "but did you see her, Wayland?
Merciful God! was it really a living woman who stood there, or a ghost
returned from the other world to haunt me and make living worse than
death?"

"You mean the sister who interposed to save you?" I asked. "She was as
truly alive as either of us. Think you she is not a stranger?"

He groaned, as if the confession was wrung from him by the terror of
eternal torment.

"_Mon Dieu_! She is my wife!"

"Your wife?"

"Ay, my wife,--Marie Faneuf, of Montreal."

"But how comes she here, Monsieur, living in the Pottawattomie camp?
And how comes it that you sought another in this wilderness, if you
were already long wedded?"

"Saint Guise! but I cannot tell you," and his voice shook with the
emotion that swept him. "'T is like a black dream, from which I must
yet awaken. She died, I swear she died; the sisters told me so at the
convent of the Ursulines, whither she fled to escape my
unkindness,--for I did her wrong; and I stood by the grave as the body
they called hers was lowered into the ground. For all these years have
I thought it true; yet the girl yonder was Marie. But you,
Wayland,--know you aught of her?"

"Only that she guided me hither in search of Mademoiselle. On the way
we conversed, and she let me know that she had dedicated her life to
the service of these Indians, seeking to save their souls."

"'T is like enough; she was ever half a nun, and most religious. Yet
made she no mention of me, and of my crying out at the house?--for I
must indeed have seen her there!"

"She asked me your name, Monsieur, and when I told her she said she
recalled it not. Knew she you by some other?"

He did not answer, though I could mark his heavy breathing, as if he
strove with himself for mastery. Nor did I speak again, eager as I now
was to arrange some plan for the future; for this man was certainly in
no condition to counsel with.

I know not how long I may have rested there in silence, seeking vainly
in my own mind for some opening of escape, or means whereby I might
communicate with Mademoiselle. Would the strange woman forget me now,
or would she venture upon a return with her message? If not, I must
grope forward without her, hampered as I should be by this unnerved and
helpless Frenchman. Outside, the noise had almost wholly ceased,--at
least, close to where we were,--and I could perceive that a slight
tinge of returning day was already in the air, faintly revealing the
interior of the lodge.

As I sat thus, drifting through inaction into a more despairing mood,
the rear covering of the tepee moved almost imperceptibly, and I turned
hastily to seek the cause, my heart in my throat lest it prove an
enemy, perhaps some stealthy savage still seeking the life of De Croix.
It was far from being light as yet, but there was sufficient to show me
the faint outline of a woman's figure. The Frenchman had seemingly
heard nothing; and I rose quickly and faced her eagerly.

"You have found her?" I questioned anxiously. "I beg you tell me that
she yet lives!"

"Hush! you speak too loud," was the low reply. "The one you seek is, I
think, confined within the lodge of Little Sauk, and thus far remains
unharmed. I have not been able to reach her, but she has been
described to me as young, with dark hair and eyes, and as having been
dragged from a horse near the rear of the column. Think you she is the
one you seek?"

"I do indeed!" I cried, in a rapture of relief. "Where is this lodge
in which they hold her?"

She hesitated to answer, as if she somewhat doubted my discretion.

"It is the third from the fire, in the row west of this," she said at
last. "But it is already daylight, and you must lie hidden amid these
skins until another night, when I will strive to aid you. You will be
safe here, if you only keep hidden; and I have brought with me food for
you both."

I had quite forgotten De Croix, in my eagerness to learn news of
Mademoiselle; but now I realized he had risen to his knees, and was
gazing at our visitor through the dim shadows as if half fearful even
yet that she was but a spectre. In that gray dawn his face was ghastly
in its whiteness,--the dark lines under his eyes, his matted hair, and
the traces of blood upon his cheek, yielding a haggardness almost
appalling.

"Marie!" he sobbed, catching his breath between the words as if they
choked him, "Marie, in God's name, speak one word to me!"

I saw the girl start, looking around at him with eyes widely opened,
yet with an expression in them I could not fathom; it was neither
hatred nor love, though it might easily have been sorrow.

"Marie," he urged, rendered despairing by her silence, "I have done you
wrong, great wrong; but I thought you dead. They told me so,--they
told me it was your body they buried. Will you not speak a word of
mercy now?"

Dim as the light was, I saw her eyes were moist as she gazed down upon
him; but there was no faltering in her voice.

"You were right, Monsieur le Marquis," she said slowly, "Marie Faneuf
is dead. It is only Sister Celeste who has aided in the preservation
of your life in the name of the Master. Make your acknowledgment to
the Mother of Christ, not to me, for such mercy."

I knew not when she passed out, or how; but we were alone once more,
and De Croix was lying with his face buried in the short grass.

CHAPTER XXXI

A SEARCH, AND ITS REWARD

I slept at last, soundly, for several hours, lying well hidden behind
the skins at the back of the lodge. There seemed nothing else to do;
for poor De Croix had no thought other than that of the woman who had
just left us, and I was exhausted by hours of excitement and toil. He
was asleep when I awoke, lying just as I had left him, his face still
buried in the short trodden grass that carpeted the floor.

It was so quiet without that I listened in vain for a sound to indicate
the presence of Indians. Silence so profound was in strange contrast
with the hideous uproar of the preceding night, and curiosity led me
finally to project my head from beneath the lodge covering and gain a
cautious glimpse of the camp without. The yellow sunshine of the calm
summer afternoon rested hot and glaring on the draped skins of the
tepees, and on the brown prairie-grass, trampled by hundreds of passing
feet. I could perceive a few squaws working lazily in the shade of the
trees near the bank of the river; but no other moving figures were
visible. Several recumbent forms were within my sight, their faces
toward the sun, evidently sleeping off the heavy potations of the
night. Otherwise the great encampment appeared completely deserted;
there were no spirals of smoke rising above the lodge-poles, no
gossiping groups anywhere about.

It was plain enough to me. Those of the warriors capable of further
action were elsewhere engaged upon some fresh foray, while the
majority, overcome by drinking, were asleep within their darkened
lodges. Surely, daylight though it was, no safer moment could be
expected in which to establish communication with Toinette. With night
the camp would be again astir; and even if I succeeded in reaching her
at some later hour it would leave small margin of darkness for our
escape. Every moment of delay now added to our grave peril, and there
was much planning to be done after we met. Possibly I should have
waited, as I had been told to do; but it was ever in my blood to act
rather than reason, and I am sure that in this case no cause remains
for regret.

I must confess that my heart beat somewhat faster, as I crept slowly
forth and peered cautiously around the bulging side of the big lodge I
had just left, to assure myself no savages were stirring. It was not
that I greatly feared the venture, nor that a sense of danger excited
my nerves; but rather the one thought in my mind was that now my way
lay toward Mademoiselle. How would she greet me? Should I learn my
fate from her tell-tale eyes, or by a sudden gleam of surprise in her
lovely face? These were the reflections that inspired me, for a new
hope had been born within me through the forced confession of De Croix.

There was little danger of exposure while I advanced through the
shelter of the lodges, for I was always under partial cover. But I
waited and watched long before daring to pass across the wide open
space in the centre of which the fire had been kindled. The
torture-post yet stood there, black and charred, while the ground
beneath was littered with dead ashes. The bodies of three white men,
two of them naked and marked by fire, lay close at hand, just as they
had been carelessly flung aside to make room for new victims; yet I
dared not stop to learn who they might have been in life. The sight of
their foul disfigurement only rendered me the more eager to reach the
living with a message of hope.

I moved like a snake, dragging my body an inch at a time by firmly
grasping with extended hands the tough grass-roots, and writhing
forward as noiselessly as if I were stalking some prey. There were
times when I advanced so slowly it would have puzzled a watcher to
determine whether mine was not also the body of the dead. At length,
even at that snail's rate of progress, I gained the protection of the
tepees upon the other side of the camp, and skulked in among them. The
lodge just before me, blackened by paint and weather, must be the one I
sought. I rested close within its shadow, striving to assure myself
there was no possibility of mistake. As my eyes lifted, I could trace
in dim outline the totem of the chief faintly sketched on the taut
skin: it was the same I had noted on the brawny breast of Little Sauk.

Never did I move with greater woodland skill, for I felt that all
depended upon my remaining undiscovered; a single false move now would
defeat all hope. Who might be within, concealed by that black
covering, was a mystery to be solved only by extremest caution.

Inch by inch I worked the skin covering of the tepee entrance up from
the ground, screwing my eye to the aperture in an effort to penetrate
the shrouded interior. But the glare of the sun was so reflected into
my eyeballs, that it left me almost blind in the semi-gloom beneath
that dark roof, and I could distinguish no object with certainty.
Surely, nothing moved within; and I drew myself slowly forward, until
half my body lay extended upon the beaten dirt-floor. It was then that
I caught a glimpse of a face peering at me from out the shadows,--the
face of Toinette; and, alas for my eager hopes of surprising her heart
and solving its secrets! the witch was actually laughing in silence at
my predicament. The sight made my face flush in sudden indignation;
but before I could find speech, she had hastily accosted me.

"Good faith, Master Wayland! but I greet you gladly!" she said, and her
soft hand was warm upon mine; "yet it truly caused me to smile to
observe the marvellous caution with which you came hither."

"It must have been indeed amusing," I answered, losing all my vain
aspirations in a moment under her raillery; "though it is not every
prisoner in an Indian camp who could find like cause for merriment."

Her eyes grew sober enough as they rested inquiringly on my face, for
all that they still held an irritatingly roguish twinkle in their
depths.

"It was the expression upon your face which so amused me," she
explained. "I am not indifferent to all that your coming means, nor to
the horrors this camp has witnessed. More than that, you appear to me
like one risen from the dead. I have truly mourned for you, John
Wayland. I lost all power, all desire tor resistance, when I saw you
stricken from your horse, and often since my eyes have been moist in
thoughts of you. No doubt 't was but the sudden reaction from seeing
you again alive that made me so forgetful of these dread surroundings
as to smile. I beg you to forgive me; it was not heartlessness, but
merely the way of a thoughtless girl, Monsieur."

It had been impossible for me to resist her cajolery from the
beginning; and now I read in her eyes the truth of all she spoke.

"There is naught for you to forgive, Mademoiselle," I answered, drawing
myself wholly within the tepee and resting on my knees. "But are you
quite alone here, and without guards?"

"For the present, yes. Little Sauk has been gone from the camp for
some hours. They watch me with some care at night,--yet of what use
can their guarding be? If I should get without the lodge, escape would
be hopeless for a girl like me. But now tell me about yourself. Are
you also prisoner to the Indians? Surely I saw you struck down in that
mad melee. 'Twas then I lost heart, and gave up every hope of rescue."

"No, I am not a prisoner, Mademoiselle. I fell, stunned by a blow
dealt me from behind, but was saved from capture by the falling of my
horse across my body. I am here now of my own will, and for no other
purpose than to save you."

"To save me! Oh, Monsieur! it would make me blush really to think I
ranked so high in your esteem. Was it not rather that other girl you
came to seek,--the one you sought so far through the wilderness, only
to find hidden in this encampment of savages? Tell me, Monsieur, was
she by any chance of fate the heroine who last night plucked Captain de
Croix from the flames of torture?"

"You know, then, of his danger and deliverance?" I said, not feeling
eager to answer her query. "'T was a most brave and womanly act."

"A strange exercise of power, indeed, Monsieur," and she looked
directly into my eyes; "and the savages tell me she claimed to have
knowledge of him."

Surely I had a right to relate the whole story of De Croix's
confession; yet somehow I did not deem it the manly thing to do.
Rather, I would let her learn the truth in God's own time, and from
other lips than mine. Perchance she would respect me more in the end
for keeping silence now. But in this decision I failed to consider
that hasty words of explanation might naturally lead her to believe the
existing friendship mine instead of his.

"We met her across the river in the darkness last night," I answered.
"At my request, she acted as my guide into the Indian camp."

The expression in her eyes puzzled me; nor could I interpret the sudden
flush that lent color to her cheeks.

"You are frank, Monsieur," she said quietly, "and doubtless 'tis better
so. But the strange situation of this young woman has much of romance
about it, and interests me greatly. How chances she to be here?
Surely she cannot be of Indian blood?"

"She holds connection with some sisterhood of the Church, as I
understand, and has lived for some time amid the Pottawattomies,
seeking to win the heathen to Christ."

"A Catholic?" she asked, her eyes brightening with deeper interest.

"Such is my understanding, though in truth she never said as much to
me. Indeed, we spoke little, Mademoiselle, for our path was in the
midst of peril, even before the capture of poor De Croix upset all our
plans."

"Doubtless," she answered with a slight trace of sarcasm in the soft
voice. "But Captain de Croix,--he was not seriously injured, I trust?
Where have the savages confined him? And know you what they intend as
to his future?"

"He will forever bear some scars, I fear," I answered, wondering dully
at the calmness of her inquiry. "I have just left him sleeping quietly
in the council tent. Know you anything of what fate has befallen other
of our friends of the garrison?"

Her eyes grew sad. "Only what little I have learned through the
taunting of my own captor," she answered, her voice trembling.
"Captain Wells is dead, together with Ensign Ronan and Surgeon Van
Voorhees. Both Captain Heald and his wife were sorely wounded, and
they, with Lieutenant Helm, are prisoners somewhere in the camp; but
the Lieutenant's wife is safe with the Silver-man's family across the
river. The Indians hold these in hope of ransom, and wreak their
vengeance upon the common soldiers who were so unfortunate as to fall
into their hands alive. Yet few, I think, survived the massacre."

"You have doubtless guessed aright. I noted with what fearful spirit
of revenge the savages dealt with some of their captives, while sparing
others. Surely you, for instance, have met with but little hardship
thus far at the hands of Little Sauk?"

She glanced up at me, with a touch of the old coquettishness in her
dark eyes and a quick toss of her head, while one white hand smoothed
her soft hair.

"Think you then, Monsieur, I do not look so ill?"

In spite of every effort at control, my heart swept into my eyes; she
must have read the swift message, for her own drooped instantly, with a
quick flutter of long lashes against her cheeks.

"I have already told you how greatly I admire you," I faltered, "and
you make no less fair a picture now."

"Then I shall not tempt you to add to your compliment," she hastily
responded, rising to her feet, "for I like loyalty in a man better than
mere gallantry of speech. You ask me about Little Sauk. He holds me
for ransom,--although Heaven knows 'twill prove but waste of time, for
I am aware of no one in all the East who would invest so much as a
dollar to redeem me from Indian hands. Yet such is his purpose, as
told to me this morning."

"Perchance, then," I urged, doubtfully, "you may prefer remaining
quietly here rather than risk the peril of trying to escape?"

She looked at me keenly, as if in wonder at my words; and I could see
that her eyes were moistening with the sudden rush of feeling.

"You are either dull of comprehension, John Wayland," she said, a bit
pertly, "or else you understand me less than any man I ever knew. If I
seem brave and light of heart amidst all this horror, 't is merely that
I may not utterly break down, and become an object of contempt. I
feel, Monsieur, I am not devoid of heart nor of the finer qualities of
womanhood. Prefer to remain here? Holy Mother of Christ! It would be
my choice to die out yonder on the prairie, rather than stay here in
these Indian lodges. There is no peril I would not face joyfully, in
an effort to escape from this place of torture and barbarity. I
confess that an hour ago I cared not greatly what my end might be; I
had lost heart and hope. But now your coming, as of one risen from the
dead, has brought back my courage."

"You will go, then, whenever and wherever I say?"

She stepped forward with her old frank confidence, resting both hands
in mine, her eyes upon my face.

"Out yonder in the night, and amid the sand, John Wayland," she said
earnestly, "I remember saying I would travel with you whithersoever you
wished. I know you far better now than I did then, and I hesitate not
at taking upon myself the same vow."

What power then sealed my lips, I know not. Doubtless there is a fate
in such matters, yet 't is strange the light of invitation in her eyes
did not draw me to lay bare my heart. In naught else had I a drop of
coward blood within my veins; while here I hesitated, fearful lest her
pleading face might change to sudden roguishness, and she laugh lightly
at the love that held my heart in thrall. Truly, the witch had puzzled
me so sorely with her caprices, her quick change of mood, her odd
mixture of girlish frankness and womanly reserve, that I knew not which
might prove the real Toinette,--the one to trust, or the one to doubt.
So I stood there, clasping her soft hands in mine, my heart throbbing,
yet my tongue hesitating to perform its office. But at last the
halting words came in a sudden, irrepressible rush.

"Toinette!" I cried, "Toinette! I could forget all else,--our danger
here, the horrors of the night just passed, the many dead out
yonder,--all else but you."

She gave a sudden startled cry, her affrighted eyes gazing across my
shoulder. I wheeled, with quick intuition of dangers and there, just
within the entrance of the tepee, the flap of which he had let fall
behind him, in grave silence stood an Indian.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE PLEDGE OF A WYANDOT

A single glance told me who our unwelcome visitor must be. That giant
body, surmounted by the huge broad face, could belong to none other
than the Wyandot, Sau-ga-nash,--him who had spoken for the warriors of
this tribe before the torture-stake. He stood erect and rigid, his
stern, questioning eyes upon us, his lips a thin line of repression.
With a quick movement, I thrust the girl behind me, and faced him,
motionless, but with every muscle strained for action. The Indian
spoke slowly, and used perfect English.

"Ugh!" he said. "Who are you? A prisoner? Surely you cannot be that
same Frenchman we helped entertain last night?"

"I am not the Frenchman," I answered deliberately, vainly hoping his
watchful eyes might wander about the lodge long enough to yield me
chance for a spring at his throat, "though I was one of his party. I
only came here to bring comfort to this poor girl."

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