Little Oskaloo Part 1

Little Oskaloo.

by Thomas Chalmers Harbaugh.

CHAPTER I.

HISTORY AND A MYSTERY.

If, in the month of July, 1794, an observing white man could have traveled unmolested from the banks of the Ohio river due north to the famous Maumee rapids, he would have been struck with the wonderful activity manifested in the various Indian villages on his route.

No signs of idleness would have greeted his eye; the young warrior did not recline in the shadow of his birchen lodge enjoying the comforts of summer life in mid forest. If his image was reflected in the clear streams, it was but for a moment, as his lithe canoe shot from bank to bank. Everything between the two rivers portended war.

Indian runners were constantly departing and arriving at the several native villages, and excited groups of Shawnees, Delawares and Wyandots discussed--not the latest deer trails nor the next moon-feast, but the approaching contest for the mastery of power.

A few years had pa.s.sed away since they had met and conquered Harmar and St. Clair. Those b.l.o.o.d.y victories had rendered the Indian bold and aggressive. He believed himself invincible, and pointed with pride to the scalps taken on the ill-fated 4th of November, '91.

But a new foe had advanced from the south--treading in the tracks of St.

Clair's butchered troops, but with his stern eye fixed on victory. The Indians were beginning to exhibit signs of alarm--signs first exhibited at the British posts in the "Northwestern Territory," where the powers and generals.h.i.+p of Wayne were known and acknowledged.

It was the impetuous, Mad Anthony who led the advancing columns through the Ohio forests. He had entered the blood-drenched territory with the victory of Stony Point to urge him on to n.o.bler deeds, and with the firm determination of punis.h.i.+ng the tribes, as well as of avenging the defeat of his predecessors.

Tidings of his advance spread like wildfire from village to village, and councils became the order of day and night alike.

The Indians knew the Blacksnake, as they called Wayne, and some, in their fear, counseled peace. But that was not to be thought of by the chiefs and the young Hotspurs whose first scalps had been torn from the heads of Butler's men.

Such sachems as Little Turtle, Blue Jacket, and Bockhougahelas stirred the Indian heart, and not a few words of encouragement came from the British forts on the Maumee.

Simon Girty and kindred spirits moved from tribe to tribe underrating Wayne before the august councils, until a united cry of "war to the knife!" ascended to the skies.

The chase suddenly lost its charms to the scarlet hunter; the dandy turned from his mirror to the rifle; the very air seemed heavy with war.

The older warriors were eager to lay their plans before any one who would listen; they said that Wayne would march with St. Clair's carelessness, and affirmed that the order of Indian battle, so successful on _that_ occasion, would drive the Blacksnake from the territory.

Under the Indian banner--if the plume of Little Turtle can be thus designated--the warriors of seven tribes were marshalling. There were the Miamis, the Pottawatamies, Delawares, Shawnees, Chippewas, Ottawas, and Senecas; and in the ranks of each nation stood not a few white renegades.

It was a formidable force to oppose the victor of Stony Point, and the reader of our forest romance will learn with what success the cabal met.

We have thought best to prelude our story with the glimpses at history just given, as it enables the reader to obtain an idea of the situation of affairs in the locality throughout which the incidents that follow take place.

It was near the close of a sultry day in July, 1794, that two men reached the right bank of the Maumee about ten miles below Fort Defiance, which Wayne had erected and garrisoned.

They looked like Wyandot warriors, painted for the warpath. They were athletic men, and one, as could be seen despite the profusion of paint which his face wore, was at least twenty years the other's senior.

Long-barreled rifles were trailed at their sides, and their belts carried the Indian's inseparable companions--the tomahawk and scalping knife.

"There goes the sun," said the youngest of the pair in unmistakable and melodious English. "Look at the old planet, Wolf Cap, if you want to see him before he goes to bed. These are dangerous times, and one does not know when the sun sets if he will be permitted to greet it in the morning."

"That is so, Harvey," was the reply, in the brusque tone of the rough frontiersman, and the speaker looked at the magnificent G.o.d of day whose last streaks of light were crimsoning the water. "There was a time when I didn't care if I never beheld the sun again. It was that night when I came home and found no house to shelter me; but a dead family among a heap of smoking ruins, and in a tree hard by a tomahawk buried to the handle."

"You have told me," the younger said, as if to spare his companion the pain of narrating the story of the Indian descent upon his cabin in Kentucky.

"So I have, but I never grow weary of talking about it. It makes me think of the revenge I have taken, and it nerves my arm anew. Boy," and the speaker touched the youth's shoulder with much tenderness, "boy, I was goin' to say that I hope the Indians will never do you such an injury."

"I hope not, Wolf Cap; but I hate them all the same."

The frontiersman did not reply for a moment, but looked across the river longingly and sad.

"Harvey," he said, suddenly starting up, "we have been separated for four days. Have you heard of him?"

"Of----" the young scout hesitated.

"Of Jim Girty, of course."

"No; but we may obtain some news of him in a few moments."

"In a few moments? I do not understand you."

"I will tell you. I am here by appointment," said the youth. "In a few moments I hope to meet a person who will give me valuable information concerning the hostiles. She----"

"A woman?" interrupted the oldest scout. "Boy, you must not trust these Indian girls too far."

"How do you know she is an Indian girl?" asked Harvey Catlett, starting.

"Because there are precious few white girls in these parts. Don't trust her further than you can see her, Harvey. I would like to take a squint at the dusky girl."

The youth was about replying when the dip of paddles fell upon his practiced ears, and Wolf Cap started back from the water's edge, for he, too, had caught the sound.

"Indians!" he said, and the click of his rifle was not heard six feet away, but the youth's painted hand covered the flint.

"No enemy at any rate," he whispered, looking in the scout's face. "Stay here till I return. It is Little Moccasin."

Without fear, but cautiously, Harvey Catlett, Wayne's youngest and trustiest trailer, glided to the edge of the water, where he was joined by a canoe containing a single person.

His giant companion rose, and, full of curiosity, tried to distinguish the features of the canoe's occupant, who was met with a tender welcome at the hands of the young scout.

But the sun had entirely set, and the couple formed dark silhouettes on a ghostly background.

For many minutes the conversation continued at the boat, and the impatient Wolf Cap at last began to creep forward as if upon a napping foe.

"I want to get a glimpse at that girl," he was saying to his eager self.

"If I think she is soft soapin' the young feller, why, this shall be their last meetin'."

The young couple did not suspect the scout's movements, and as he crouched not twenty feet from the boat and within ear shot, he was surprised to hear Catlett say:

"I'll let you go when I have shown you to my friend. He wants to see you. Come, girl."