We found his still smouldering fire and some split fish baking in green leaves; nets, hooks, spears, and a bark shoulder-basket. And he had been a King’s savage truly enough, foraging, no doubt, for Brant or Butler, who had great difficulty in maintaining themselves in a territory which they had so utterly laid waste — for we found in his tobacco pouch a few shillings and pennies, and some pewter buttons stamped, “Butler’s Rangers.” Also I discovered a line of writing signed by old John Butler himself, recommending the St. Regis to one Captain Service, an uncle of Sir John Johnson, and a great villain who recently had been shot dead by David Elerson, one of my own riflemen, while attempting to brain Tim Murphy with an axe.
“The poor fool,” I repeated, turning away, “Had he not meddled with war when his business lay only in hunting, he had gone free or, if we had caught him, only as a prisoner to headquarters.”
Mayaro shrugged his contempt of the St. Regis hunter; the Oneida youth sat industriously braiding his first trophy; the others had rekindled the embers of the dead man’s fire and were now parching his raw corn and dividing the baked river-trout into six portions.
Mayaro and I ate apart, seated together upon a knoll whence we could look down upon the river and upon the fire, which I now ordered to be covered.
From where I sat I could see the burly Wyandotte, squatting with the others at his feed, and from time to time my glance returned to him. Somehow, though I knew not why, there was about this Indian an indefinable something not entirely reassuring to me; yet, just what it might be I was not able to say.
Truly enough he had a most villainous countenance, what with his native swarthiness and his broken and dented nose, so horridly embellished with a gash of red paint. He was broad and squat and fearfully powerful, being but a bulk of gristly muscle; and when he leaped a gully or a brook, he seemed to strike the earth like a ball of rubber and slightly rebound an the light impact. I have seen a sinewy panther so rebound when hurled from a high tree-top.
The Oneida youth had now braided and oiled his scalp and was stretching it on a willow hoop, very busy with the pride and importance of his work. I glanced at Mayaro and caught a gleam of faint amusement in his eyes; but his features remained expressionless enough, and it seemed to me that his covert glance rested on the Wyandotte more often than on anybody.
The Mohican, as was customary among all Indians when painted for war, had also repainted his clan ensign, although it was tatooed on his breast; and the great Ghost Bear rearing on its hind quarters was now brilliantly outlined in scarlet. But he also wore what I had never seen any other Indian wear when painted for any ceremony in North America. For, just below the scarlet bear, was drawn in sapphire blue the ensign of his strange clan-nation — the Spirit Wolf, or Were-Wolf. And a double ensign worn by any priest, hunter, or warrior I had never before beheld. No Delaware wore it unless belonging to the Wolf Clan of the Lenni-Lenape, or unless he was a Siwanois Mohican and a Sagamore. For there existed nowhere at that time any social and political society among any Indian nation which combined clan and tribal, and, in a measure, national identity, except only among the Siwanois people, who were all three at the same time.
As I salted my parched corn and ate it, sitting cross-legged on my hillock, my eyes wandered from one Indian to another, reading their clan insignia; and I saw that my Oneida youth wore the little turtle, as did his comrade; that the Stockbridge Indian had painted a Christian Cross over his tattooed clan-totem — no doubt the work of the Reverend Mr. Kirkland — and that the squatting Wyandotte wore the Hawk in brilliant yellow.
“What is yonder fellow’s name?” I asked Mayaro, dropping my voice.
“Black-Snake,” replied the Mohican quietly.
“Oh! He seems to wear the Hawk.”
The Sagamore’s face grew smooth and blank, and he made no comment.
“It’s a Western clan, is it not, Mayaro?”
“It is Western, Loskiel.”
“That clan does not exist among the Eastern nations?”
“Clans die out, clans are born, clans are altered with the years, Loskiel.”
“I never heard of the Hawk Clan at Guy Park,” said I.
He said, with elaborate carelessness:
“It exists among the Senecas.”
“And apparently among the Wyandottes.”
“Apparently.”
I said in a low voice:
“Yonder Huron differs from any Indian I ever knew. Yet, in what he differs I can not say. I have seen Senecas like him physically. But Senecas and Hurons not only fought but interbred. This Wyandotte may have Seneca blood in him.”
The Sagamore made no answer, and after a moment I said:
“Why not confess, Mayaro, that you also have been perplexed concerning this stranger from Fort Pitt? Why not admit that from the moment he joined us you have had your eye on him — have been furtively studying him?”
“Mayaro has two eyes. For what are they unless to observe?”
“And what has my brother observed?”
“That no two people are perfectly similar,” he said blandly.
“Very well,” I said, vexed, but quite aware that no questions of mine could force the Sagamore to speak unless he was entirely ready. “I suppose that there exist no real grounds on which to suspect this Wyandotte. But you know as well as do I that he crossed not the river with the others when they did to death that wretched St. Regis hunter. Also, that there are Wyandottes in our service at Fortress Pitt, I did not know before.”
I waited a moment, but the Mohican said nothing, and I saw his eyes, veiled like a dreaming bird of prey, so immersed did he seem to be in his own and secret reflections.
Presently I rose, went down to the fire, felt with my fingers among the ashes to be certain no living spark remained, chatted a moment with the Oneida youth, praising him till under all his modesty I saw he was like to burst with pride; then gave the signal for departure.
“Nevertheless,” I added, addressing them all, “this is not a scalping party; it is the six eyes of an army spying out a way through this wilderness, so that our wagons, artillery, horses, and cattle may pass in safety to Tioga Point.
“Let the Sagamore strike each tree to be marked, as he leads forward. Let the Mole repeat the blow unless otherwise checked. Then shall the Oneida, Grey-Feather, mark clearly the tree so doubly designated. The Oneida, Tahoontowhee, covers our right flank, marching abreast of the Mohican; the Wyandotte, Black-Snake, covers our left flank, keeping the river bank in view. March!”
All that afternoon we moved along south and west, keeping in touch with the Susquehanna, which here is called Oak Creek, though it is the self-same stream. And we scouted the river region thoroughly, routing out nothing save startled deer that bounded from their balsam beds and went off crashing through the osiers, or a band of wild turkeys that, bewildered, ran headlong among us so that Tahoontowhee knocked over two with his rifle butt, and, slinging them to his shoulders, went forward buried in plumage like same monstrous feathered goblin of the forest.
The sun was now dropping into the West; the woods on our right had darkened; on our left a pink light netted the river ripples. Filing in perfect silence, save for the light sound of a hatchet and the slithering of sappy bark, I had noticed, or thought I noticed, that the progress of the Wyandotte was less quiet than ours, where he ranged our left flank, supposedly keeping within the forest shadow.
Once or twice I thought I heard a small stone fall to the willow gully, as though accidentally dislodged by his swiftly passing moccasins. Once, at any rate, I caught the glimmer of the sun striking some bit of metal on him, where he had incautiously ranged outside the protecting shadow belt.
That these things were purely accidental I felt sure, yet I did not care to have them repeated. And for a long while there was neither sound nor sun-glitter from him. Then, without even a glance or a word for me, the Mohican quietly dropped back from the lead, waited until the last Oneida had passed, and moved swiftly o
n a diagonal course to the left, which brought him in the tracks of the Wyandotte.
He continued on that course for a while, I taking his place in the lead, and the Wyandotte unconscious that he was followed. Then the Sagamore came gliding into our file again, and as he passed me to resume his lead, he whispered:
“Halt, and return along the bank. The Black-Snake has overrun a ford where there are signs for my brother to read and consider.”
I turned sharply and lifted my hand; and as the file halted I caught a glimpse of the Oneida, Tahoontowhee, on our right, and motioned him to cross, head the Wyandotte, and return with him. And when in a few moments he came toward us, followed by the Huron, I said, addressing them all:
“There should be a ford hereabouts, if I am not badly mistaken, and I think we have accidentally overrun it. Did you see nothing that might indicate it, Black-Snake, my brother?”
There was a furtive flicker of the Wyandotte’s eyes which seemed to include everybody before him, then he said very coolly that he had seen no riffle that might indicate shallow water, but that there was a ford not far below, and we ought to strike it before sunset.
“Halt here,” said I, pretending to remain still unconvinced. “Sagamore, do you come with me a rod or so upstream.”
“There is no ford within a rod or two,” said the Wyandotte stolidly.
And, after we had left the others, the Mohican murmured, as we hastened on:
“No, not with one rod or two, but the third rod marks it.”
Presently, speeding under the outer fringe of trees, I caught sight of a thin line across the water, slanting from shore to shore — not a ripple, but as though the edge of an invisible reef slightly affected the smooth-flowing, glassy surface of the stream.
“He might have overlooked that,” said I.
The Sagamore’s visage became very smooth; and we climbed down among the willows toward the sand below, and there the Mohican dropped on his hands and knees.
Directly under his eyes I saw the faint print of a moccasin. Startled, I said nothing; the Mohican studied the print for a few moments, then, crouching, crept forward among the sand-willows. I followed; and at long intervals I could make out the string of moccasin tracks, still visible in the loose, dry sand.
“Could it be the St. Regis?” I whispered. “He may have been here spearing fish. These tracks are not new.... And the Wyandotte might have overlooked these, too.”
“Maybe St. Regis,” he said.
We had now crept nearly to the edge of the water, the dry and scarcely discernible tracks leading us. But they were no fresher in the damp sand. However, the Mohican did not seem satisfied, so we pulled off our thigh-moccasins and waded out.
Although the water looked deep enough along the unseen reef, yet we found nowhere more than four feet, and so crossed to the other side. But before I could set foot on the shelving sand the Mohican pulled me back into the water and pointed. There was no doubting the sign we looked upon. A canoe had landed here within an hour, had been pushed off again with a paddle without anybody landing. It was as plain as the nose on your face.
Which way had it gone, upstream or down? If it had gone upstream, the Wyandotte must have seen it and passed it without reporting it. In other words, he was a traitor. But if the canoe had gone downstream from this spot, or from some spot on the left bank a little above it, there was nothing to prove that the Wyandotte had seen it. In fact, there was every probability that he had not seen it at all. And I said as much to the Sagamore.
“Maybe,” he replied calmly.
We now cautiously recrossed the stream, scarcely liking our exposed position, but there was no help for it. After we had dressed, I marked the trees from the ford across the old path, which was visible here, and so through to our main, spotted trail; the Mohican peeled a square of bark, I wiped the white spot dry, and wrote with my wood-coal the depth of water at the crossing; then we moved swiftly forward to join the halted scouts.
Mayaro said to me: “We have discovered old moccasin tracks, but no ford and no canoe marks. It is not necessary for the Black-Snake to know.”
“Very well,” said I calmly. “Do you suspect him!”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But — he once wore his hair in a ridge.”
“What!”
“I looked down on him while he ate fish at the St. Regis fire. He has not shaved his head since two weeks. There is a thin line dividing his head, where the hairs at their roots are bent backward. Much oil and brushing make hairs grow that way.”
“But — what Indians wear their hair that way — like the curved ridge on a dragoon’s helmet?”
“The Eries.”
I stared at him without comprehension, for I knew an Erie scalp when I saw one.
“Not the warriors,” he added quietly.
“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” I demanded. But we were already within sight of the others, and I heeded the cautioning touch of his hand on my arm, and was silent.
When we came up to them I said:
“There are no riffles to indicate a ford” — which was true enough— “and on the sand were only moccasin tracks a week old.”
“The Black-Snake saw them,” said the Wyandotte, so frankly and calmly that my growing but indefinite suspicions of his loyalty were arrested for the moment.
“Why did not the Black-Snake report them?” I asked.
“They were St. Regis, and a week old, as my brother says.” And he smiled at us all so confidingly that I could no longer believe ill of him.
“Nevertheless,” said I, “we will range out on either flank as far as the ford which should be less than a mile down stream.” And I placed the Wyandotte between both Oneidas and on the forest side; and as the valley was dry and open under its huge standing timber, I myself led, notching the trail and keeping a lively eye to the left, wherever I caught a glimpse of water sparkling.
Presently the Mohican halted in view of the river-bank, making a sign for me to join him, which I did, briefly bidding the Stockbridge Mole to notch the trees in my stead.
“A canoe has passed,” said the Sagamore calmly.
“What! You saw it?”
“No, Loskiel. But there was spray on a boulder in a calm pool.”
“Perhaps a deer crossed, or a mink or otter crawled across the stone.”
“No; the drops were many, but they lay like the first drops of a rain, separate and distinct.”
“A great fish leaping might have spattered it.”
“There was no wash against the rock from any fish-swirl.”
“Then you believe that there is a canoe ahead of us going with the current?”
“An hour ahead — less, I think.”
“Why an hour?”
“The sun is low; the river boulders are not hot. Water might dry on them in an hour or less. These drops were nearly dry, save one or two where the sun made them shine.”
“A careless paddle-stroke did it,” I said in a low voice.
“No Indian is careless.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, Loskiel, that the boulder was splashed purposely, or that there are white men in that canoe.”
“Splashed purposely?” I said, bewildered.
“Perhaps. The Black-Snake had the river watch — until you changed our stations.”
“You think it might have been a sign for him from possible confederates.”
“Maybe. Maybe clumsy white men.”
“What white men? No forest runners dare range these woods at such a time as this. Do you mean a scalping party of Butler’s men?”
“Maybe.”
We had been walking swiftly while we spoke together in low and guarded tones; now I nodded my comprehension, sheered off to the right, took the trail-lead, replacing the Stockbridge Mole, and signalled the nearest Oneida, Grey-Feather, to join Mayaro on the left flank. This made it necessary for me to call the Wyandotte into touch, which I did; and the other Oneida, the “Night-H
awk,” or Tahoontowhee, closed in from the extreme outer flank.
The presence of that canoe worried me, nor could I find any explanation for it. None of our surveyors was out — no scouts had gone in that direction. Of course I knew that we were likely to run across scouts or scalping parties of the enemy almost anywhere between the outlet to Otsego Lake and Tioga Point, yet somehow had not expected to encounter them until we had at least reached the Ouleout.
Another thing; if this phantom canoe was now within an hour of us, and going with the current, it must at one time have been very, very close to us — in fact, just ahead and within sight of the Wyandotte, if, indeed, it had not come silently downstream from behind us and shot past us in plain view of the Black-Snake.
Was the Wyandotte a traitor? For only he could have seen this. And I own that I felt more comfortable having him on our right flank in the forest, and away from the river; and as I notched my trees I kept him in view, sideways, and pondered an the little that I knew of him, but came to no conclusion. For of all things in the world I know less of treachery and its wiles than of any other stratagem; and so utterly do I misunderstand it, and so profound is my horror of it, that I never can credit it to anybody until I see them hanged by the neck for it or shot in hollow square, a-sitting upon their coffins.
Presently I saw the Sagamore stop and make signs to me that the ford was in sight. Immediately I signalled the Wyandotte and the farther Oneida to close in; and a few moments later we were gathered in the forest shadow above the river, lying on our bellies and gazing far down stream at the distant line of ripples running blood-red under the sunset light.
Was there an ambush there, prepared for us? God knew. Yet, we must approach and examine that ford, and pass it, too, and resume our march on the right bank of the river to avoid the hemlock swamps and rocky hills ahead, which no wagons or artillery could hope to pass.
My first and naturally cautious thought was to creep nearer and then send the Wyandotte out under cover of our clustered rifles. But if he were truly in any collusion with an unseen enemy they would never fire on him, and so it would be useless to despatch him on such a mission.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 713