Chapter 10

The green of the wilderness dulled and burst into the yellow of the buckeye, the scarlet of maple, and the russet of oak. This glory in turn dulled and the leaves, like petals of withered flowers, began to drift to the earth. Through the shower of them went Erskine and Firefly, who had become as used to the wilds as to the smiling banks of the far-away James, for no longer did some strange scent make his nostrils quiver or some strange sound point his beautiful ears and make him crouch and shudder, or some shadow or shaft of light make him shy and leap like a deer aside. And the two now were one in mutual affection and a mutual understanding that was uncanny. A brave picture the lad made of those lone forerunners whose tent was the wilderness and whose goal was the Pacific slope. From his coonskin cap the bushy tail hung like a plume; his deerskin hunting-shirt, made by old Mother Sanders, was beaded and fringed�fringed across the breast, at the wrists, and at the hem, and girded by a belt from which the horned handle of a scalping-knife showed in front and the head of a tomahawk behind; his powder-horn swung under one shoulder and his bullet-pouch, wadding, flint, and steel under the other; his long rifle across his saddle-bow. And fringed too were his breeches and beaded were his moccasins. Dave had laughed at him as a backwoods dandy and then checked himself, so dignified was the boy and grave; he was the son of a king again, and as such was on his way in answer to the wish of a king. For food he carried only a little sack of salt, for his rifle would bring him meat and the forest would give him nuts and fruit. When the sun was nearing its highest, he �barked� a squirrel from the trunk of a beech; toward sunset a fat pheasant fluttered from the ground to a low limb and he shot its head off and camped for the night. Hickory-nuts, walnuts, and chestnuts were abundant. Persimmons and papaws were ripe, haws and huckleberries were plentiful. There were wild cherries and even wild plums, and when he wished he could pluck a handful of wild grapes from a vine by the trail and munch them as he rode along. For something sweet he could go to the pod of the honey-locust.

On the second day he reached the broad buffalo trail that led to the salt-licks and on to the river, and then memories came. He remembered a place where the Indians had camped after they had captured himself and his mother. In his mind was a faint picture of her sitting against a tree and weeping and of an Indian striking her to make her stop and of himself leaping at the savage like a little wildcat, whereat the others laughed like children. Farther on, next day, was the spot where the Indians had separated them and he saw his mother no more. They told him that she had been taken back to the whites, but he was told later that they had killed her because in their flight from the whites she was holding them back too much. Farther on was a spot where they had hurried from the trail and thrust him into a hollow log, barring the exit with stones, and had left him for a day and a night.

On the fourth day he reached the river and swam it holding rifle and powder-horn above his head. On the seventh he was nearing the village where the sick chief lay, and when he caught sight of the teepees in a little creek bottom, he fired his rifle, and putting Firefly into a gallop and with right hand high swept into the village. Several bucks had caught up bow or rifle at the report of the gun and the clatter of hoofs, but their hands relaxed when they saw his sign of peace. The squaws gathered and there were grunts of recognition and greeting when the boy pulled up in their midst. The flaps of the chief�s tent parted and his foster-mother started toward him with a sudden stream of tears and turned quickly back. The old chief�s keen black eyes were waiting for her and he spoke before she could open her lips:

�White Arrow! It is well. Here�at once!�

Erskine had swung from his horse and followed. The old chief measured him from head to foot slowly and his face grew content:

�Show me the horse!�

The boy threw back the flaps of the tent and with a gesture bade an Indian to lead Firefly to and fro. The horse even thrust his beautiful head over his master�s shoulder and looked within, snorting gently. Kahtoo waved dismissal:

�You must ride north soon to carry the white wampum and a peace talk. And when you go you must hurry back, for when the sun is highest on the day after you return, my spirit will pass.�

And thereupon he turned his face and went back into sleep. Already his foster-mother had unsaddled and tethered Firefly and given him a feed of corn; and yet bucks, squaws, girls, and pappooses were still gathered around him, for some had not seen his like before, and of the rest none failed to feel the change that had taken place in him. Had the lad in truth come to win and make good his chieftainship, he could not have made a better beginning, and there was not a maid in camp in whose eyes there was not far more than curiosity�young as he was. Just before sunset rifle-shots sounded in the distance�the hunters were coming in�and the accompanying whoops meant great success. Each of three bucks carried a deer over his shoulders, and foremost of the three was Crooked Lightning, who barely paused when he saw Erskine, and then with an insolent glare and grunt passed him and tossed his deer at the feet of the squaws. The boy�s hand slipped toward the handle of his tomahawk, but some swift instinct kept him still. The savage must have had good reason for such open defiance, for the lad began to feel that many others shared in his hostility and he began to wonder and speculate.

Quickly the feast was prepared and the boy ate apart�his foster-mother bringing him food�but he could hear the story of the day�s hunting and the allusions to the prowess of Crooked Lightning�s son, Black Wolf, who was Erskine�s age, and he knew they were but slurs against himself. When the dance began his mother pointed toward it, meaning that he should take part, but he shook his head�and his thoughts went backward to his friends at the fort and on back to the big house on the James, to Harry and Hugh�and Barbara; and he wondered what they would think if they could see him there; could see the gluttonous feast and those naked savages stamping around the fire with barbaric grunts and cries to the thumping of a drum. Where did he belong?

Fresh wood was thrown on the fire, and as its light leaped upward the lad saw an aged Indian emerge from one of two tents that sat apart on a little rise�saw him lift both hands toward the stars for a moment and then return within.

�Who is that?� he asked.

�The new prophet,� said his mother. �He has been but one moon here and has much power over our young men.�

An armful of pine fagots was tossed on the blaze, and in a whiter leap of light he saw the face of a woman at the other tent�saw her face and for a moment met her eyes before she shrank back�and neither face nor eyes belonged to an Indian. Startled, he caught his mother by the wrist and all but cried out:

�And that?� The old woman hesitated and scowled:

�A paleface. Kahtoo bought her and adopted her but��the old woman gave a little guttural cluck of triumph��she dies to-morrow. Kahtoo will burn her.�

�Burn her?� burst out the boy.

�The palefaces have killed many of Kahtoo�s kin!�

A little later when he was passing near the white woman�s tent a girl sat in front of it pounding corn in a mortar. She looked up at him and, staring, smiled. She had the skin of the half-breed, and he stopped, startled by that fact and her beauty�and went quickly on. At old Kahtoo�s lodge he could not help turning to look at her again, and this time she rose quickly and slipped within the tent. He turned to find his foster-mother watching him.

�Who is that girl?� The old woman looked displeased.

�Daughter of the white woman.�

�Does she know?�

�Neither knows.�

�What is her name?�

�Early Morn.�

Early Morn and daughter of the white woman�he would like to know more of those two, and he half turned, but the old Indian woman caught him by the arm:

�Do not go there�you will only make more trouble.�

He followed the flash of her eyes to the edge of the firelight where a young Indian stood watching and scowling:

�Who is that?�

�Black Wolf, son of Crooked Lightning.�

�Ah!� thought Erskine.

Within the old chief called faintly and the Indian woman motioned the lad to go within. The old man�s dim eyes had a new fire.

�Talk!� he commanded and motioned to the ground, but the lad did not squat Indian fashion, but stood straight with arms folded, and the chief knew that a conflict was coming. Narrowly he watched White Arrow�s face and bearing�uneasily felt the strange new power of him.

�I have been with my own people,� said the lad simply, �the palefaces who have come over the big mountains and have built forts and planted corn, and they were kind to me. I went over those mountains, on and on almost to the big waters. I found my kin. They are many and strong and rich. They have big houses of stone such as I had never seen nor heard of and they plant more corn than all the Shawnees and Iroquois. They, too, were kind to me. I came because you had been kind and because you were sick and because you had sent for me, and to keep my word.

�I have seen Crooked Lightning. His heart is bad. I have seen the new prophet. I do not like him. And I have seen the white woman that you are to burn to-morrow.� The lad stopped. His every word had been of defense or indictment and more than once the old chief�s eyes shifted uneasily.

�Why did you leave us?�

�To see my people and because of Crooked Lightning and his brother.�

�You fought us.�

�Only the brother, and I killed him.� The dauntless mien of the boy, his steady eyes, and his bold truthfulness, pleased the old man. The lad must take his place as chief. Now White Arrow turned questioner:

�I told you I would come when the leaves fell and I am here. Why is Crooked Lightning here? Why is the new prophet? Who is the woman? What has she done that she must die? What is the peace talk you wish me to carry north?�

The old man hesitated long with closed eyes. When he opened them the fire was gone and they were dim again.

�The story of the prophet and Crooked Lightning is too long,� he said wearily. �I will tell to-morrow. The woman must die because her people have slain mine. Besides, she is growing blind and is a trouble. You carry the white wampum to a council. The Shawnees may join the British against our enemies�the palefaces.�

�I will wait,� said the lad. �I will carry the white wampum. If you war against the paleface on this side of the mountain�I am your enemy. If you war with the British against them all�I am your enemy. And the woman must not die.�

�I have spoken,� said the old man.

�I have spoken,� said the boy. He turned to lie down and went to sleep. The old man sat on, staring out at the stars.

Just outside the tent a figure slipped away as noiselessly as a snake. When it rose and emerged from the shadows the firelight showed the malignant, triumphant face of Crooked Lightning.