The Sun Maid Part 14

Save for the danger to her young charges, she would have done so even then. Far superior though she had always been to them, her heart yearned over the helpless women of her tribe whom she had left behind.

"But that cannot be. They were tied fast by their motherhood to the homes wherein they may have perished, even as I am tied here by my adopted ones. The beasts, too, are tied; but they, at least, may have a moment's freedom."

So she loosed them, and guided them to the pool where they could drink, and watched them curiously, to see if they would avail themselves of the liberty she had thus offered. But they did not. They quaffed the clear water, then tossed their velvet nostrils about its depths till it was soiled and worthless; yet they turned of their own accord away from the wind-swept prairie into the shelter of the trees, and grouped themselves beneath one, as if uniting against some common, unseen enemy.

"They are wiser than their masters," said Wahneenah, patting her Chestnut's beautiful neck; and seeing a deeper glade, where they might spend the night even more safely, she led them thither and fastened them again. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances she would have left them untethered; but she knew not then at what moment she might again need them, as they had been needed earlier in the day.

When the darkness fell, Wahneenah put aside the brushwood door which she had placed before the entrance to the cave, and sat down upon the withering branch to watch and wait. The children were both asleep, and she knew that if the Black Partridge were still alive and able he would seek her there, as he had promised on that day in the past when they had discussed the possibility of what had really now occurred.

She was not to be disappointed. While she sat, contrasting the happiness that had been hers on just the night before with the uncertainty of this, there sounded in the sloping tunnel the tread of a moccasined foot. Also, she could hear the crowding of a stalwart figure against its sides, and there was something in both sounds which told her who was coming.

"My brother is late."

"It is better thus, it may be, than not at all."

"The voice of the Black Partridge is sorrowful."

"The heart of the chief is broken within him."

For a s.p.a.ce after that neither spoke. Then Wahneenah rose and set a candle in a niche of the wall and lighted it. By its flame she could see to move about and she presently had brought some food in a dish and placed a gourd of water by the chief's side.

The water he drank eagerly and held the cup for more; but the food he pushed aside, relapsing into another silence.

Finally, Wahneenah spoke.

"Has the father of his tribe no message for his sister?"

"Over what the ear does not hear, the heart cannot grieve."

"That is a truth which contradicts itself."

"The warrior of Wahneenah judged well when he chose this cavern for a possible home."

"It is needed, then? As the Black Partridge foretold."

"It is needed. There is no other."

The words were quietly spoken; but there was heart-break in each one.

"Our village? The home of all our people? Is it not still safe and a refuge for all unfortunates among the nations?"

"Where Muck-otey-pokee laughed by the waterside, there is now a heap of ruins. The river that danced in the sunlight is red with the blood of the slain and of all the lodges wherein we dwelt, not one remains!"

"My brother! Surely, much brooding has made you distraught. Such cannot be. There were warriors, hundreds of them in the settlement and before their arrows the pale-faces fall like trees before the woodman's axe."

"If the arrows are not in the quiver, can the warrior shoot? Against the man who steals up in the rear, can one be prepared? It was a short, sharp battle. The innocent fell with the guilty, and the earth receives them all. Where Muck-otey-pokee stood is a blackened waste.

Those who survived have fled, to seek new homes wherever they may find them. In her pathways the dead faces stare into the sky as even yet, among the sandhills, lie and stare the unburied dead of the Fort Dearborn ma.s.sacre. It is fate. It is nature. It is the game of life.

To-day one wins, to-morrow another. In the end, for all--is death."

For a while after that, Wahneenah neither moved nor spoke, and the Black Partridge lapsed into another profound silence. Finally, the woman rose, and going to the fireplace, took handsful of its ashes and strewed them upon her head and face. Then she drew her blanket over her features, and thus, hiding her sorrow even from the witness of the night, she sat down again in her place and became at once as rigid and impa.s.sive as her brother.

Thus the morning found them. Despite their habit of wandering from point to point, the village of Muck-otey-pokee was the rallying-place of the Pottawatomies, their home, the ancient burial-ground of their dead. Its destruction meant, to the far-seeing Black Partridge, also the destruction of his tribe. Therefore, as he had said, his spirit was broken within him.

But at the last he rose to depart, and still fasting. With the solemnity of one who parted from her forever, he addressed the veiled Wahneenah and bade her:

"Put aside the grief that palsies, and find joy in the children whom the Great Spirit has sent you. They also are homeless and orphaned.

There are left now no white soldiers to harry and distress. This cavern is warmer than a wigwam, and there is store of food for many more than three. Remain here until the springtime and by then I may return. I go now to my brother Gomo, at St. Joseph's, to counsel at his fireside on what may yet be done to save the remnant of our people. You are safer here than in any village that I know. Farewell."

But, absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, the Black Partridge for once forgot his native caution; and without waiting to reconnoitre, he mounted his horse and rode boldly away from the shelter of the brush into the broad light of the prairie and so due north toward the distant encampment of his tribesmen.

Yet the glittering eyes of a jealous Indian were watching him as he rode. An Indian who had been sheltered by the hospitality of the great chief, and for many months, in Muck-otey-pokee; but who had neither grat.i.tude nor mercy in his heart, wherein was only room for treachery and greed.

As Black Partridge rode away from the cave by the river, the other mounted his horse and rode swiftly toward it.

CHAPTER XI.

UNDER A WHITE MAN'S ROOF.

The log cabin of Abel and Mercy Smith stood within a bit of forest that bordered the rich prairie.

As homes went in those early days, when Illinois was only a territory, and in that spa.r.s.ely settled locality, it was a most roomy and comfortable abode. The childless couple which dwelt in it were comfortable also, although to hear their daily converse with one another a stranger would not so have fancied. They had early come into the wilderness, and had, therefore, lived much alone. Yet each was of a most social nature, and the result, as their few neighbors said, of their isolated situation was merely "a case of out-talk."

When Mercy's tongue was not wagging, Abel's was, and often both were engaged at the same moment. Her speech was sharp and decisive; his indolent, and, to one of her temperament, exceedingly aggravating.

But, between them, they managed to keep up almost a continuous discourse. For, if Abel went afield, Mercy was sure to follow him upon various excuses; unless the weather were too stormy, when, of course, he was within doors.

However, there were times when even their speech lagged a little, and then homesickness seized the mistress of the cabin; and after several days of preparation she would set out on foot or on horseback, according to the distance to be traversed, for some other settler's cabin and a wider exchange of ideas.

On a late November day, when the homesickness had become overpowering, Mercy tied on her quilted hood and pinned her heavy shawl about her.

She had filled a carpet bag with corn to pop and nuts to crack, for the children of her expected hostess and had "set up" a fresh pair of long stockings to knit for Abel. She now called him from the stable into the living room to hear her last remarks.

"If I should be kep' over night, Abel, you'll find a plenty to eat.

There's a big pot of baked beans in the lean-to, and some apple pies, and a pumpkin one. The ham's all sliced ready to fry, and I do hope to goodness you won't spill grease 'bout on this rag carpet. I'm the only woman anywhere 's round has a rag carpet all over her floor, any way, and the idee of your sp'ilin' it just makes me sick. I----"

"But I hain't sp'iled it yet, ma. You hain't give me no chance. If you do--"

"If I do! Ain't I leavin' you to get your own breakfast, in case I don't come back? It might rain or snow, ary one, an' then where'd I be?"

"Right where you happened to be at, I s'pose," returned Abel, facetiously.

But it was wasted wit. The idea of being storm-stayed now filled the housewife's mind. She was capable, and full of New England gumption; but her husband "was a born botch." True, he could split a log, or clear a woodland with the best; and as for a ploughman, his richly fertile corn bottom and regular eastern-sort-of-garden testified to his ability. But she was leaving him with the possibility of woman's work to do; and as she reflected upon the condition of her cupboard when she should return and the amount of cream he would probably spill, should he attempt to skim it for the churning, her mind misgave her and she began slowly to untie the great hood.

"I believe I won't go after all."

"Won't go, ma? Why not?"