Alice of Old Vincennes

by Maurice Thompson

  CHAPTER XV

  VIRTUE IN A LOCKET

  Long-Hair stood not upon ceremony in conveying to Beverley theinformation that he was to run the gauntlet, which, otherwise stated,meant that the Indians would form themselves in two parallel linesfacing each other about six feet apart, and that the prisoner would beexpected to run down the length of the space between, thus affordingthe warriors an opportunity, greatly coveted and relished by theirfiendish natures, to beat him cruelly during his flight. This sort ofthing was to the Indians, indeed, an exquisite amusement, asfascinating to them as the theater is to more enlightened people. Nosooner was it agreed upon that the entertainment should again beundertaken than all the younger men began to scurry around gettingeverything ready for it. Their faces glowed with a droll crueltystrange to see, and they further expressed their lively expectations byplayful yet curiously solemn antics.

  The preparations were simple and quickly made. Each man armed himselfwith a stick three feet long and about three-quarters of an inch indiameter. Rough weapons they were, cut from boughs of scrub-oak, knottyand tough as horn. Long-Hair unbound Beverley and stripped his clothesfrom his body down to the waist. Then the lines formed, the Indians ineach row standing about as far apart as the width of the space in whichthe prisoner was to run. This arrangement gave them free use of theirsticks and plenty of room for full swing of their lithe bodies.

  In removing Beverley's clothes Long-Hair found Alice's locket hangingover the young man's heart. He tore it rudely off and grunted, glaringviciously, first at it, then at Beverley. He seemed to be mightilywrought upon.

  "White man damn thief," he growled deep in his throat; "stole fromlittle girl!"

  He put the locket in his pouch and resumed his stupidly indifferentexpression.

  When everything was ready for the delightful entertainment to begin,Long-Hair waved his tomahawk three times over Beverley's head, andpointing down between the waiting lines said:

  "Ugh, run!"

  But Beverley did not budge. He was standing erect, with his arms,deeply creased where the thongs had sunk, folded across his breast. Arush of thoughts and feelings had taken tumultuous possession of himand he could not move or decide what to do. A mad desire to escapearose in his heart the moment that he saw Long-Hair take the locket. Itwas as if Alice had cried to him and bidden him make a dash for liberty.

  "Ugh, run!"

  The order was accompanied with a push of such violence from Long-Hair'sleft elbow that Beverley plunged and fell, for his limbs, after theirlong and painful confinement in the raw-hide bonds, were stiff andalmost useless. Long-Hair in no gentle voice bade him get up. The shockof falling seemed to awaken his dormant forces; a sudden resolve leapedinto his brain. He saw that the Indians had put aside their bows andguns, most of which were leaning against the boles of trees here andyonder. What if he could knock Long-Hair down and run away? This mightpossibly be easy, considering the Indian's broken arm. His heart jumpedat the possibility. But the shrewd savage was alert and saw the thoughtcome into his face.

  "You try git 'way, kill dead!" he snarled, lifting his tomahawk readyfor a stroke. "Brains out, damn!"

  Beverley glanced down the waiting and eager lines. Swiftly hespeculated, wondering what would be his chance for escape were he tobreak through. But he did not take his own condition into account.

  "Ugh, run!"

  Again the elbow of Long-Hair's hurt arm pushed him toward the expectantrows of Indians, who flourished their clubs and uttered impatientgrunts.

  This time he did not fall; but in trying to run he limped stiffly atfirst, his legs but slowly and imperfectly regaining their strength andsuppleness from the action. Just before reaching the lines, however, hestopped short. Long-Hair, who was close behind him, took hold of hisshoulder and led him back to the starting place. The big Indian's armmust have given him pain when he thus used it, but he did not wince."Fool--kill dead!" he repeated two or three times, holding his tomahawkon high with threatening motions and frequent repetitions of his oneecho from the profanity of civilization. He was beginning to draw hismouth down at the corners, and his eyes were narrowed to mere slits.

  Beverley understood now that he could not longer put off the trial. Hemust choose between certain death and the torture of the gauntlet, asfrontiersmen named this savage ordeal. An old man might have preferredthe stroke of the hatchet to such an infliction as the clubs mustafford, considering that, even after all the agony, his captivity andsuffering would be only a little nearer its end. Youth, however, hasfaith in the turn of fortune's wheel, and faith in itself, no matterhow dark the prospect. Hope blows her horn just over the horizon, andthe strain bids the young heart take courage and beat strong. Moreover,men were men, who led the van in those days on the outmost lines of ourmarch to the summit of the world. Beverley was not more a hero than anyother young, brave, unconquerable patriot of the frontier army. Hissituation simply tried him a trifle harder than was common. But it mustbe remembered that he had Love with him, and where Love is there can beno cowardice, no surrender.

  Long-Hair once again pushed him and said

  "Ugh, run!"

  Beverley made a direct dash for the narrow lane between the braced andwatchful lines. Every warrior lifted his club; every copper facegleamed stolidly, a mask behind which burned a strangely atrociousspirit. The two savages standing at the end nearest Beverley struck athim the instant he reached than, but they taken quite by surprise whenhe checked himself between them and, leaping this way and that, swungout two powerful blows, left and right, stretching one of them flat andsending the other reeling and staggering half a dozen paces backwardwith the blood streaming from his nose.

  This done, Beverley turned to run away, but his breath was alreadyshort and his strength rapidly going.

  Long-Hair, who was at his heels, leaped before him when he had gone buta few steps and once more flourished the tomahawk. To struggle wasuseless, save to insist upon being brained outright, which just thenhad no part in Beverley's considerations. Long-Hair kicked his victimheavily, uttering laconic curses meanwhile, and led him back again tothe starting-point.

  A genuine sense of humor seems almost entirely lacking in the mind ofthe American Indian. He smiles at things not in the least amusing to usand when he laughs, which is very seldom, the cause of his merrimentusually lies in something repellantly cruel and inhuman. When Beverleystruck his two assailants, hurting them so that one lay half stunned,while the other spun away from his fist with a smashed nose, all therest of the Indians grunted and laughed raucously in high delight. Theyshook their clubs, danced, pointed at their discomfited fellows andtwisted their painted faces into knotted wrinkles, their eyes twinklingwith devilish expression of glee quite indescribable.

  "Ugh, damn, run!" said Long-Half, this time adding a hard kick to theelbow-shove he gave Beverley.

  The young man, who had borne all he could, now turned upon himfuriously and struck straight from the shoulder, setting the wholeweight of his body into the blow. Long-Hair stepped out of the way andquick as a flash brought the flat side of his tomahawk with great forceagainst Beverley's head. This gave the amusement a sudden anddisappointing end, for the prisoner fell limp and senseless to theground. No more running the gauntlet for him that day. Indeed itrequired protracted application of the best Indian skill to revive himso that he could fairly be called a living man. There had been nodangerous concussion, however, and on the following morning camp wasbroken.

  Beverley, sore, haggard, forlornly disheveled, had his arms bound againand was made to march apace with his nimble enemies, who set outswiftly eastward, their disappointment at having their sport cut short,although bitter enough, not in the least indicated by any facialexpression or spiteful act.

  Was it really a strange thing, or was it not, that Beverley's mind nowbusied itself unceasingly with the thought that Long-Hair had Alice'spicture in his pouch? One might find room for discussion of a cerebralproblem like this; but our history cannot be delayed with analyses a
ndspeculations; it must run its direct course unhindered to the end.Suffice it to record that, while tramping at Long-Hair's side andgrowing more and more desirous of seeing the picture again, Beverleybegan trying to converse with his taciturn captor. He had aconsiderable smattering of several Indian dialects, which he turnedupon Long-Hair to the best of his ability, but apparently withouteffect. Nevertheless he babbled at intervals, always upon the samesubject and always endeavoring to influence that huge, stolid,heartless savage in the direction of letting him see again the childface of the miniature.

  A stone, one of our travel-scarred and mysterious western granitebowlders brought from the far north by the ancient ice, would show asmuch sympathy as did the face of Long-Hair. Once in a while he gaveBeverley a soulless glance and said "damn" with utter indifference.Nothing, however, could quench or even in the slightest sense allay thelover's desire. He talked of Alice and the locket with constantlyincreasing volubility, saying over and over phrases of endearment in ahalf-delirious way, not aware that fever was fermenting his blood andheating his brain. Probably he would have been very ill but for thetremendous physical exercise forced upon him. The exertion kept him ina profuse perspiration and his robust constitution cast off themalarial poison. Meantime he used every word and phrase, every gruntand gesture of Indian dialect that he could recall, in the iterated andreiterated attempt to make Long-Hair understand what he wanted.

  When night came on again the band camped under some trees beside aswollen stream. There was no rain falling, but almost the entirecountry lay under a flood of water. Fires of logs were soon burningbrightly on the comparatively dry bluff chosen by the Indians. Theweather was chill, but not cold. Long-Hair took great pains, however,to dry Beverley's clothes and see that he had warm wraps and plenty toeat. Hamilton's large reward would not be forthcoming should theprisoner die, Beverley was good property, well worth careful attention.To be sure his scalp, in the worst event, would command a sufficienthonorarium, but not the greatest. Beverley thought of all this whilethe big Indian was wrapping him snugly in skins and blankets for thenight, and there was no comfort in it, save that possibly if he werereturned to Hamilton he might see Alice again before he died.

  A fitful wind cried dolefully in the leafless treetops, the stream hardby gave forth a rushing sound, and far away some wolves howled likelost souls. Worn out, sore from head to foot, Beverley, deep buried inthe blankets and skins, soon fell into a profound sleep. The firesslowly crumbled and faded; no sentinel was posted, for the Indians didnot fear an attack, there being no enemies that they knew of nearerthan Kaskaskia. The camp slumbered as one man.

  At about the mid-hour of the night Long-Hair gently awoke his prisonerby drawing a hand across his face, then whispered in his ear:

  "Damn, still!"

  Beverley tried to rise, uttering a sleepy ejaculation under his breath."No talk," hissed Long-Hair. "Still!"

  There was something in his voice that not only swept the last film ofsleep out of Beverley's brain, but made it perfectly clear to him thata very important bit of craftiness was being performed; just what itsnature was, however, he could not surmise. One thing was obvious,Long-Hair did not wish the other Indians to know of the move he wasmaking. Deftly he slipped the blankets from around Beverley, and cutthe thongs at his ankles.

  "Still!" he whispered. "Come 'long."

  Under such circumstances a competent mind acts with lightning celerity.Beverley now understood that Long-Hair was stealing him away from theother savages and that the big villain meant to cheat them out of theirpart of the reward. Along with this discovery came a fresh gleam ofhope. It would be far easier to escape from one Indian than from nearlya score. Ah, he would follow Long-Hair, indeed he would! The neededcourage came with the thought, and so with immense labor he crept atthe heels of that crawling monster. It was a painful process, for hisarms were still fast bound at the wrists with the raw-hide strings; butwhat was pain to him? He shivered with joy, thinking of what mighthappen. The voice of the wind overhead and the noisy bubbling of thestream near by were cheerful and cheering sounds to him now. So muchcan a mere shadow of hope do for a human soul on the verge of despair!Already he was planning or trying to plan some way by which he couldkill Long-Hair when they should reach a safe distance from the sleepingcamp.

  But how could the thing be done? A man with his hands tied, though theyare in front of him, is in no excellent condition to cope with a freeand stalwart savage armed to the teeth. Still Beverley's spirits rosewith every rod of distance that was added to their slow progress.

  Their course was nearly parallel with that of the stream, but slightlyconverging toward it, and after they had gone about a furlong theyreached the bank. Here Long-Hair stopped and, without a word, cut thethongs from Beverley's wrists. This was astounding; the young man couldscarcely realize it, nor was he ready to act.

  "Swim water," Long-Hair said in a guttural murmur barely audible."Swim, damn!"

  Again it was necessary for Beverley's mind to act swiftly and withprudence. The camp was yet within hailing distance. A false move nowwould bring the whole pack howling to the rescue. Something told him todo as Long-Hair ordered, so with scarcely a perceptible hesitation hescrambled down the bushy bank and slipped into the water, followed byLong-Hair, who seized him by one arm when he began to swim, and struckout with him into the boiling and tumbling current.

  Beverley had always thought himself a master swimmer, but Long-Hairshowed him his mistake. The giant Indian, with but one hand free touse, fairly rushed through that deadly cold and turbulent water,bearing his prisoner with him despite the wounded arm, as easily as iftowing him at the stern of a pirogue. True, his course was down streamfor a considerable distance, but even when presently he struck outboldly for the other bank, breasting a current in which few swimmerscould have lived, much less made headway, he still swung forwardrapidly, splitting the waves and scarcely giving Beverley freedomenough so that he could help in the progress. It was a long, coldstruggle, and when at last they touched the sloping low bank on theother side, Long-Hair had fairly to lift his chilled and exhaustedprisoner to the top.

  "Ugh, cold," he grunted, beginning to pound and rub Beverley's arms,legs and body. "Make warm, damn heap!"

  All this he did with his right hand, holding the tomahawk in his left.

  It was a strange, bewildering experience out of which the young mancould not see in any direction far enough to give him a hint upon whichto act. In a few minutes Long-Hair jerked him to his feet and said:

  "Go."

  It was just light enough to see that the order had a tomahawk toenforce it withal. Long-Hair indicated the direction and drove Beverleyonward as fast as he could.

  "Try run 'way, kill, damn!" he kept repeating, while with his left handon the young man's shoulder he guided him from behind dexterouslythrough the wood for some distance. Then he stopped and grunted, addinghis favorite expletive, which he used with not the least knowledge ofits meaning. To him the syllable "damn" was but a mouthful of forciblewind.

  They had just emerged from a thicket into an open space, where theground was comparatively dry. Overhead the stars were shining in greatclusters of silver and gold against a dark, cavernous looking sky, hereand there overrun with careering black clouds. Beverley shivered, notso much with cold as on account of the stress of excitement whichamounted to nervous rigor. Long-Hair faced him and leaned toward him,until his breathing was audible and his massive features were dimlyoutlined. A dragon of the darkest age could not have been morerepulsive.

  "Ugh, friend, damn!"

  Beverley started when these words were followed by a sentence in anIndian dialect somewhat familiar to him, a dialect in which he hadtried to talk with Long-Hair during the day's march. The sentence,literally translated, was:

  "Long-Hair is friendly now."

  A blow in the face could not have been so surprising. Beverley not onlystarted, but recoiled as if from a sudden and deadly apparition. Thestep between supreme exhilaration and ut
ter collapse is now and theninfinitesimal. There are times, moreover, when an expression on theface of Hope makes her look like the twin sister of Despair. The momentfalling just after Long-Hair spoke was a century condensed in a breath.

  "Long-Hair is friendly now; will white man be friendly?"

  Beverley heard, but the speech seemed to come out of vastness andhollow distance; he could not realize it fairly. He felt as if in adream, far off somewhere in loneliness, with a big, shadowy formlooming before him. He heard the chill wind in the thickets roundabout, and beyond Long-Hair rose a wall of giant trees.

  "Ugh, not understand?" the savage presently demanded in his brokenEnglish.

  "Yes, yes," said Beverley, "I understand."

  "Is the white man friendly now?" Long-Hair then repeated in his owntongue, with a certain insistence of manner and voice.

  "Yes, friendly."

  Beverley said this absently in a tone of perfunctory dryness. Histhroat was parched, his head seemed to waver. But he was beginning tocomprehend that Long-Hair, for some inscrutable reason of his own, wasdesirous of making a friendship between them. The thought wasbewildering.

  Long-Hair fumbled in his pouch and took out Alice's locket, which hehanded to Beverley. "White man love little girl?" he inquired in a tonethat bordered upon tenderness, again speaking in Indian.

  Beverley clutched the disk as soon as he saw it gleam in the star-light.

  "White man going to have little girl for his squaw--eh?"

  "Yes, yes," cried Beverley without hearing his own voice. He was tryingto open the locket but his hands were numb and trembling. When at lasthe did open it he could not see the child face within, for now even thestar-light was shut off by a scudding black cloud.

  "Little girl saved Long-Hair's life. Long-Hair save white warrior forlittle girl."

  A dignity which was almost noble accompanied these simple sentences.Long-Hair stood proudly erect, like a colossal dark statue in thedimness.

  The great truth dawned upon Beverley that here was a characteristicact. He knew that an Indian rarely failed to repay a kindness or aninjury, stroke for stroke, when opportunity offered. Long-Hair was atypical Indian. That is to say, a type of inhumanity raised to the lastpower; but under his hideous atrocity of nature lay the indestructiblesense of gratitude so fixed and perfect that it did its work almostautomatically.

  It must be said, and it may or may not be to the white man's shame,that Beverley did not respond with absolute promptness and sincerity toLong-Hair's generosity. He had suffered terribly at the hands of thissavage. His arms and legs were raw from the biting of the thongs; hisbody ached from the effect of blows and kicks laid upon him while boundand helpless. Perhaps he was not a very emotional man. At all eventsthere was no sudden recognition of the favor he was receiving. And thispleased Long-Hair, for the taste of the American Indian delights inimmobility of countenance and reserve of feeling under great strain.

  "Wait here a little while," Long-Hair presently said, and withoutlingering for reply, turned away and disappeared in the wood. Beverleywas free to run if he wished to, and the thought did surge across hismind; but a restraining something, like a hand laid upon him, would notlet his limbs move. Down deep in his heart a calm voice seemed to berepeating Long-Hair's Indian sentence--"Wait here a little while."

  A few minutes later Long-Hair returned bearing two guns, Beverley's andhis own, the latter, a superb weapon given him by Hamilton. Heafterward explained that he had brought these, with theirbullet-pouches and powder-horns, to a place of concealment near bybefore he awoke Beverley. This meant that he had swum the cold riverthree times since night-fall; once over with the guns andaccouterments; once back to camp, then over again with Beverley! Allthis with a broken arm, and to repay Alice for her kindness to him.

  Beverley may have been slow, but at last his appreciation was, perhaps,all the more profound. As best he could he expressed it to Long-Hair,who showed no interest whatever in the statement. Instead of respondingin Indian, he said "damn" without emphasis. It was rather as if he hadyawned absently, being bored.

  Delay could not be thought of. Long-Hair explained briefly that hethought. Beverley must go to Kaskaskia. He had come across the streamin the direction of Vincennes in order to set his warriors at fault.The stream must be recrossed, he said, farther down, and he would helpBeverley a certain distance on his way, then leave him to shift forhimself. He had a meager amount of parched corn and buffalo meat in hispouch, which would stay hunger until they could kill some game. Nowthey must go.

  The resilience of a youthful and powerful physique offers many aproblem to the biologist. Vital force seems to find some mysteriousreservoir of nourishment hidden away in the nerve-centers. Beverley setout upon that seemingly impossible undertaking with renewed energy. Itcould not have been the ounce of parched corn and bit of jerked venisonfrom which he drew so much strength; but on the other hand, could ithave been the miniature of Alice, which he felt pressing over his heartonce more, that afforded a subtle stimulus to both mind and body? Theyflung miles behind them before day-dawn, Long-Hair leading, Beverleypressing close at his heels. Most of the way led over flat prairiescovered with water, and they therefore left no track by which theycould be followed.

  Late in the forenoon Long-Hair killed a deer at the edge of a wood.Here they made a fire and cooked a supply which would last them for aday or two, and then on they went again. But we cannot follow them stepby step. When Long-Hair at last took leave of Beverley, the occasionhad no ceremony. It was an abrupt, unemotional parting. The stalwartIndian simply said in his own dialect, pointing westward:

  "Go that way two days. You will find your friends."

  Then, without another look or word, he turned about and stalkedeastward at a marvelously rapid gait. In his mind he had a good tale totell his warrior companions when he should find them again: howBeverley escaped that night and how he followed him a long, long chase,only to lose him at last under the very guns of the fort at Kaskaskia.But before he reached his band an incident of some importance changedhis story to a considerable degree. It chanced that he came uponLieutenant Barlow, who, in pursuit of game, had lost his bearings and,far from his companions, was beating around quite bewildered in awatery solitude. Long-Hair promptly murdered the poor fellow andscalped him with as little compunction as he would have skinned arabbit; for he had a clever scheme in his head, a very audacious andoutrageous scheme, by which he purposed to recoup, to some extent, thedamages sustained by letting Beverley go.

  Therefore, when he rejoined his somewhat disheartened and demoralizedband he showed them the scalp and gave them an eloquent account of howhe tore it from Beverley's head after a long chase and a bloody hand tohand fight. They listened, believed, and were satisfied.