166
“I lodged4 at the Eagle tavern that night and from there set out to find the Indian, Black Eagle, and in a few weeks I located him. But he had taken nothing from the body of Ichabod Nesbit, for killing5 whom I took him sharply to task; for, though Ichabod was no credit to me, he was yet my half-brother, as I have said. Having learned from Black Eagle where Ichabod’s body lay, beneath the stones along the trail at the foot of the hill, near where a giant tree was shattered by lightning, I went again to the Eagle tavern to get further information.
“I wished to know if Ichabod had any family or other relations of whom I might be ignorant. I found that he had none. And it was that night, as I lay at Mr. Quilling’s establishment, that my letter was taken from my saddle-bags, though they were in my room, and the greater wonder is that nothing else was stolen. Not—not that I have anything of great value about me! Indeed, no!”
167
So did the Quaker finish his story, and neither of the lads who heard it for a moment thought he had not spoken the truth.
“It must have been soon afterward6 that we chanced to stop at the Eagle,” said Ree, thoughtfully. “Quilling, being somewhat of a coward, and wanting help, took Duff and Dexter into his confidence, hoping to secure the other half of the fortune letter. They found Black Eagle and persuaded him to accompany them into this wilderness7 to find Nesbit’s body, believing either that they would reach the spot ahead of you, Mr. Hatch, or that you would be unable to find where Nesbit was killed—at any rate, that they would get his half of the letter, and, already having yours, secure the fortune.”
168
“Nay, they did not know I was coming to these desolate8 wilds,” the Quaker answered. “Not that I would intentionally9 deceive—oh, no! but fearing that rough persons along the road might molest10 me, should my mission be known, I caused Friend Quilling to believe (without staining my lips with lies, however) that I would be going back to Philadelphia, which I fervently11 hope I may yet do. But, oh, how sadly disfigured! Yet I shall not appear to disadvantage when my hat is on. That will cover the disfigurement then. No one will know my scalp is gone.”
“And when those fellows discovered,” said John, “that some one had reached Nesbit’s grave ahead of them, and Duff found out that Black Eagle had directed you to the place, saying nothing to them of having done so, he deliberately12 killed the Indian. Now, what I was going to say is just this:—Duff will kill any one of us if he gets a chance, if he thinks he can get hold of that piece of paper by doing so! What we ought to do is to go straight to those robbers and compel them to give up the letter they stole from Mr. Hatch.”
This suggestion gave the Quaker great uneasiness.
169
“No, no—we must not go near them! We must keep away from them—oh dear, oh dear!”
All in all Mr. Hatch was so distressed13 and it was now so late, that without more ado, Ree drew in the latch-string, a signal that it was bed time.
The hickory bark torch had long since burned out. The fire was low and the interior of the cabin almost dark. Confident, therefore, that no one without would notice his action, even though watching the cabin, Ree next opened loop holes on all sides and he and John carefully looked out.
All was still and calm save for the usual sounds of animals in the surrounding forest and the blowing of the wind, swirling14 fine dry snow, with which the air was filled in all directions, even under the door of the cabin.
170
“Ring will wake us up if any one comes prowling around the cabin,” said Ree, “and those chaps won’t do more than try to steal that letter. Moreover, they cannot be sure that we have it. They naturally suppose that Mr. Hatch got it, and it is not likely they are sure he is with us, or that we ever saw him, even. Their scheme will be to spy around and learn all they can before they begin to fight. As for their trying to swear upon us the killing of Black Eagle, I don’t fear that a particle.”
John acknowledged that Ree’s thoughts were probably correct, and neither lad felt any alarm as they went to bed; and as for Theodore Hatch, he was already snoring.
The snow was several inches deep and the air biting cold when the pioneer boys arose in the morning, but they welcomed the change for two reasons: first, it gave them better success in hunting and trapping, by reason of their being able to track the game; and in the second place they would be able, by reason of the snow, speedily to discover the fact if human prowlers were about; for there are times when footprints tell as much as words could do.
171
It was a matter of regret to both the boys, however, now that the hunting was so good, that they could not go together on account of the necessity of one remaining with Mr. Hatch. The Quaker was well and strong enough that he could have been left alone, but he was so afraid, and there really was such danger that Duff and his party would visit the cabin, that the lads deemed it unwise to take any chances.
The absence of the Indians—the warriors16 and hunters—was noticeable in the success the young Palefaces had with their traps and shooting; but it was also no less noticeable in the lack of business they had as traders, and to keep their store of furs piling up they hunted a great deal.
It was not an uncommon17 thing during the fine winter days which followed this first hard snow storm for John to go many miles from home in quest of game, while Ree devoted18 the day to chopping wood and clearing the land near the cabin, taking his turn at hunting the next day; but neither boy saw anything of Duff, Dexter or Quilling.
172
Occasionally wandering Indians came to the cabin, but they reported, when questioned, that they had observed no Paleface strangers anywhere about. So a feeling of greater security from molestation19 by either white or red men came to the occupants of the little log house beside the river; and about this time, too, a discovery was made which afforded a new subject for thought and conversation.
Ree was hunting one day some distance from home in the direction of the town of the Delawares upon the lake, and came upon the tracks of a young bear, which for some reason had left its winter quarters or had failed to find any. He followed the trail of the cub20 to a large oak, and discovered the animal quietly resting in a fork of the tree, twenty feet from the ground. At one shot he brought the bear down, and, securing the pelt21, it occurred to him to take the best portions of the meat to the Delaware town as a good-will offering to the old men and squaws there. He would inquire what had been heard of Captain Pipe, and might also get news of Duff’s party, or of the lone15 Indian, who had not been seen for a long time.
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Within an hour of the time the thought came to him, Ree was at the Delaware village. He could not but notice how lonely an air it had. Even the dogs seemed not to bark so vigorously as usual, but sniffed22 hungrily, leaping up at the bear meat upon his shoulder.
“How, neighbors and friends,” called Ree, as the noise of the dogs brought the Indians, Gentle Maiden23 among the rest, from the cabins, and stepping up to the daughter of Captain Pipe, he said:
“Gentle Maiden, I shot a young bear near by, and I have brought some fresh meat for you and your people, if you care for it; and if you do not, the dogs may be glad of it.”
With a graceful24 courtesy, which may have been all her own, or taught her, more likely, by the Moravian missionaries25, of whom, as a child, she had learned to speak English, the Indian girl accepted the gift, saying most earnestly, as the other Indians, half clad, wrapped in skins and worn blankets, crowded near:
174
“Truly the Great Spirit has sent you—the Great Spirit of the Red Children of the forests, or the God of the Palefaces—has sent you and this food. For days and nights—more than on the fingers of both my hands could be told—my father’s people have had no meat—only the flesh of the dogs we killed.”
Ree would have interrupted the girl to tell his regret that he and John had not known their needs to have helped them before, but she would not permit it; for Gentle Maiden, now really a young woman, though girlish in appearance in her short skirt and embroidered26 leggins, continued:
“Very little corn have we left, and of beans none; and no powder here for the one gun left with us by my father’s warriors. Yet come, rest, and eat of what we have and our people shall prepare more.”
175
Giving the bear meat to some squaws to be quickly cooked, Gentle Maiden and her mother led the way to the cabin of Captain Pipe, somewhat better than the others, though poor enough and now half filled with smoke from the fire built in the center of the earthen floor, beneath a hole in the roof.
“I had hoped to find Chief Hopocon (Captain Pipe) back from his fighting expedition,” said Ree, pretending to eat of the scanty27 quantity of parched28 corn placed before him, for hospitality’s sake, a courtesy the Indians never forgot.
“No, the fighting may not be over. There may be another great battle,” said the girl.
“Another battle?” the boy ejaculated. “Has there been one, then?”
“Has the white brother not heard?—a great battle, in which my father’s warriors and many more drove the soldiers of the Long-knives even as scared birds before a mighty29 storm, and—”
It was in the mind of Gentle Maiden to complete the sentence by saying, “and took many, many scalps,” but she wished to spare the white boy’s feelings, and hesitated.
176
“How do you know this?” Ree questioned, quickly guessing the words left unsaid.
“A runner came to tell of the mighty battle and to call all the people to be ready to drive every Paleface from our lands.”
“Tell me more of the battle,” Ree said, quietly. “Was it long ago? And where was the fighting?”
“There,” answered Gentle Maiden in a hushed but still slightly triumphant30 tone, pointing to the westward31, “a journey of seven suns, it may be, near the river called Wabash. The Paleface chief Sain Clair (General St. Clair) and many soldiers had come into the land of my father’s people and his friends to build their forts and to drive the Indians from their homes. It was at the coming of day that the battle began and the white soldiers and the warriors were many as the trees of the forest. Hard and long was the fighting, but before the sun was in the middle of the sky our warriors had conquered—our warriors had driven the white chief Sain Clair and all the soldiers from their camps, and they fled before my father’s people even as leaves when the winds blow hard.”
177
“Were many killed?”
Ree asked the question calmly, though he could hardly restrain his feelings or keep from showing the resentment32 in his heart that the Indian girl should seem to boast of the victory over the white men. And yet he knew that the savages33 had been abused and imposed upon. He knew that their children were taught to look upon the whites as their enemies and as people of “two tongues,” who would deceive and cheat and steal. Especially was this true in this land of the Ohio, where the awful massacre34 of nearly a hundred peaceable Indians by white soldiers was still fresh in the minds of the savages.
Gentle Maiden did not at once answer the question, for in her heart she felt that Ree, who had been her father’s friend, was angered by the news she told him and by her tone.
178
“Many will rise only in the spirit world,” she said at last, “many Palefaces and many warriors. Never has my father told me of any battle where the ground was so covered by the killed.”
“It is too bad, Gentle Maiden,” the white boy returned thoughtfully, and then, thinking suddenly of that unknown, lone Indian of whom he had seen or heard nothing for some time, he remarked:
“Perhaps the Indian who has been fighting the white men alone in these forests here was also in the battle. I have not seen him for a long time.”
“He was not in the battle, but a new scalp hangs at his belt.”
“Have you seen him? Has he been here?”
“He has not been here. The runner I told you of saw him; and a white hunter lies dead by the stream named the White Woman. It is his own battle the red brother fights, and he will go to war in no other way.”
“Who is he, Gentle Maiden?”
179
“My father, Chief Hopocon, may tell you. He is not of my father’s people.”
Knowing that further questioning would be useless, Ree said no more about that matter, but sought to ascertain35 to what extent his aid and John’s would be acceptable in furnishing meat for the people still remaining in the Delaware village. He quickly found that, whatever her feelings toward the Palefaces in general might be, the daughter of Captain Pipe looked upon himself and his friend in quite a different way, and she gladly heard his suggestion that, as they killed more game than they needed for themselves, he would see to it that the Delawares should not want.
180
This suggestion cost Ree considerable discomfort36 of mind, notwithstanding, and he was by no means certain that John would welcome the proposition after he had heard of the battle of which the girl told (the defeat of St. Clair, Nov. 4, 1791). And indeed it did seem to Ree himself almost unbearable37 to consider that he and John should be furnishing food to the helpless members of Captain Pipe’s village, while that honest but cruel and defiant38 chieftain and his braves were making war on the whites—his own people; also that they should be giving assistance to those who upheld the mysterious lone Indian in his secret, sneaking39 attacks upon solitary40 hunters and travelers. But he bade Gentle Maiden and the other Indians who came to see him off, a friendly farewell, and set out for home, thinking deeply of all he had heard.
The thought would come to him that he and John were bound to have trouble; for, though they might retain the friendship and good will of Captain Pipe, it was more than probable that he would be unable to restrain his warriors, and especially the warriors of other tribes, the Wyandots, Senecas and, most of all, the Mingoes, from making a bold attack upon them, now that their blood was heated by a deeper hate and their minds inflamed41 by the victory they had won. So, wearily, Ree plodded42 through the snow.
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1
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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3
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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4
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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9
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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10
molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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11
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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13
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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14
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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15
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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16
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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17
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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18
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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19
molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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20
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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21
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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22
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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23
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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24
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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25
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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26
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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28
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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29
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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30
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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31
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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32
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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33
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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34
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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35
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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36
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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37
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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38
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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39
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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40
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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41
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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