Chapter 2: A Forest Envoy

A group of men were seated in a pleasant valley, where the golden beams of the sun sifted in myriads through the green leaves. They were about fifty in number and all were white. Most of them were dressed in Old World fashion, doublets, knee breeches, hose, and cocked hats. Nearly all were dark; olive faces, black hair, and black pointed beards, but now and then one had fair hair, and eyes of a cold, pale blue. Manner, speech, looks, and dress, alike differentiated them from the borderers. They were not the kind of men whom one would expect to find in these lonely woods in the heart of North America.

The leader of the company--and obviously he was such--was one of the few who belonged to the blonde type. His eyes were of the chilly, metallic blue, and his hair, long and fair, curled at the ends. His dress, of some fine, black cloth, was scrupulously neat and clean, and a silver-hilted small sword swung it his belt. He was not more than thirty.

The fair man was leaning lazily but gracefully against the trunk of a tree, and he talked in a manner that seemed indolent and careless, but which was neither to a youth in buckskins who sat opposite him, a striking contrast in appearance. This youth was undeniably of the Anglo-Saxon type, large and well-built, with a broad, full forehead, but with eyes set too close together. He was tanned almost to the darkness of an Indian.

“You tell me, Señor Wyatt,” said Don Francisco Alvarez, the leader of the Spanish band, “that the new settlers in Kaintock have twice driven off the allied tribes, and that, if they are left alone another year or two, they will go down so deep in the soil that they can never be uprooted. Is it not so?”

“It is so,” replied Braxton Wyatt, the renegade. “The tribes have failed twice in a great effort. Every man among these settlers is a daring and skillful fighter, and many of the boys--and many of the women, too. But if white troops and cannon are sent against them their forts must fall.”

The Spaniard was idly whipping the grass stems with a little switch. Now he narrowed his metallic, blue eyes, and gazed directly into those of Braxton Wyatt.

“And you, Señor Wyatt?” he said, speaking his slow, precise English. “Nothing premeditated is done without a motive. You are of these people who live in Kaintock, their blood is your blood; why then do you wish to have them destroyed?”

A deep flush broke its way through the brown tan on the face of Braxton Wyatt, and his eyes fell before the cold gaze of the Spaniard. But he raised them again in a moment. Braxton Wyatt was not a coward, and he never permitted a guilty conscience to last longer than a throb or two.

“I did belong to them,” he replied, “but my tastes led me away. I have felt that all this mighty valley should belong to the Indians who have inhabited it so long, but, if the white people come, it should be those who are true and loyal to their kings, not these rebels of the colonies.”

Francisco Alvarez smiled cynically, and once more surveyed Braxton Wyatt, with a rapid, measuring glance.

“You speak my sentiments, Señor Wyatt,” he said, “and you speak them in a language that I scarcely expected.”

“I had a schoolmaster even in the wilderness,” said Braxton Wyatt. “And I may tell you, too, as proof of my faith that I would be hanged at once should I return to the settlements.”

“I do not doubt your faith. I was merely curious about your motives. I am sure also that you can be of great help to us.”

He spoke in a patronizing manner, and Braxton Wyatt moved slightly in anger, but restrained his speech.

“I may say,” continued the Spaniard, “that His Excellency Bernardo Galvez, His Most Catholic Majesty’s Governor of his loyal province of Louisiana, has been stirred by the word that comes to him of these new settlements of the rebel Americans in the land of the Ohio. The province of Louisiana is vast, and it may be that it includes the country on either side of the Ohio. The French, our predecessors, claimed it, and now that all the colonists east of the mountains are busy fighting their king, it may be easy to take it from them, as one would snip off a skirt with a pair of scissors. That is why I and this faithful band are so far north in these woods.”

Braxton Wyatt nodded.

“And a wise thing, too,” he said. “I am strong with the tribes. The great chief, Yellow Panther, of the Miamis and the great chief, Red Eagle, of the Shawnees are both my friends. I know how they feel. The Spanish in New Orleans are far away. Their settlements do not spread. They come rather to hunt and trade. But the Americans push farther and farther. They build their homes and they never go back. Do you wonder then that the warriors wish your help?”

Francisco Alvarez smiled again. It was a cold but satisfied smile and he rubbed one white hand over the other.

“Your logic is good,” he said, “and these reasons have occurred to me, also, but my master, Bernardo Galvez, the Governor, is troubled. We love not England and there is a party among us--a party at present in power--which wishes to help the Americans in order that we may damage England, but I, if I could choose the way would have no part in it. As surely as we help the rebels we will also create rebels against ourselves.”

“You are far from New Orleans,” said Braxton Wyatt. “It would take long for a messenger to go and come, and meanwhile you could act as you think best.”

“It is so,” said the Spaniard. “Our presence here is unknown to all save the chiefs and yourself. In this wilderness, a thousand miles from his superior, one must act according to his judgment, and I should like to see these rebel settlements crushed.”

He spoke to himself rather than to Wyatt, and again his eyes narrowed. Blue eyes are generally warm and sympathetic, but his were of the cold, metallic shade that can express cruelty so well. He plucked, too, at his short, light beard, and Braxton Wyatt read his thoughts. The renegade felt a thrill of satisfaction. Here was a man who could be useful.

“How far is it from this place to the land of the Miamis and the Shawnees?” asked Alvarez.

“It must be six or seven hundred miles, but bands of both tribes are now hunting much farther west. One Shawnee party that I know of is even now west of the Mississippi.”

Francisco Alvarez, frowned slightly.

“It is a huge country,” he said. “These great distances annoy me. Still, one must travel them. Ah, what is it now?”

He was looking at Braxton Wyatt, as he spoke, and he saw a sudden change appear upon his face, a look of recognition and then of mingled hate and rage. The renegade was staring Northward, and the eyes of Alvarez followed his.

The Spaniard saw a man or rather a youth approaching, a straight, slender, but tall and compact figure, and a face uncommon in the wilderness, fine, delicate, with the eyes of a dreamer, and seer, but never weak. The youth came on steadily, straight coward the Spanish camp.

“Paul Cotter!” exclaimed Braxton Wyatt. “How under the sun did he come here!”

“Some one you know?” said Alvarez who heard the words.

“Yes, from the settlements of which we speak,” replied Wyatt quickly and in a low tone. He had no time to add more, because Paul was now in the Spanish camp, and was gravely saluting the leader, whom he had recognized instantly to be such by his dress and manner. Francisco Alvarez rose to his feet, and politely returned the salute. He saw at once a quality in the stranger that was not wholly of the wilderness. Braxton Wyatt nodded, but Paul took no notice whatever of him. A flush broke again through the tan of the renegade’s face.

“Be seated,” said Alvarez, and Paul sat down on a little grassy knoll.

“You are Captain Francisco Alvarez of the Spanish forces at New Orleans?”

“You have me truly,” replied the Spaniard smiling and shrugging his shoulders, “although I cannot surmise how you became aware of my presence here. But the domains of my master, the king, extend far, and his servants must travel far, also, to do his will.”

Paul understood the implication in his words, but he, too, had the gift of language and diplomacy, and he did not reply to it. Stirred by deep curiosity, the Spanish soldiers were gathering a little nearer, but Alvarez waved back all but Wyatt.

“I am glad to find you here, Captain Alvarez,” said Paul with a gravity beyond his years; indeed, as he spoke, his face was lighted up by that same singular look of exaltation that had passed more than once over the face of the shiftless one. “And I am glad because I have come for a reason, one of the greatest of all reasons. I want to say something, not for myself, but for others.”

“Ah, an ambassador, I see,” said Francisco Alvarez with a light touch of irony.

But Paul took no notice of the satire. He was far too much in earnest, and he resumed in tones impressive in their solemnity:

“I am from one of the little white villages in the Kentucky woods far to the eastward. There we have fought the wilderness and twice we have driven back strong forces of the allied tribes, although they came with great resolution and were helped moreover by treachery.”

Braxton Wyatt moved angrily and was about to speak, but Paul, never glancing in his direction, went on steadily:

“These settlements cannot be uprooted now. They may be damaged. They may be made to suffer great loss and grief, but the vanguard of our people will never turn back. Neither warrior nor king can withstand it.”

Now Paul’s look was wholly that of the prophet. As he said the last words, “neither warrior nor king can withstand it” his face was transfigured. He did not see the Spaniard before him, nor Braxton Wyatt, the renegade, nor the surrounding woods, but he saw instead great states and mighty cities.

The Spaniard, despite his displeasure, was impressed by the words of the youth, but he took hold of himself bodily, as it were, and shook off the spell. A challenging light sprang into his cold blue eyes.

“I do not know so much about warriors,” he said, “but kings may be and are able to do what they will. If my master should choose to put forth his strength, even to send his far-extended arm into these woods, to what would your tiny settlements amount? A pinch of sand before a puff of wind. Whiff! You are gone. Nor could your people east of the mountains help you, because they, on bended knee, will soon be receiving their own lesson from the King of England.”

Francisco Alvarez snapped his fingers, as if Paul and his people were annihilated by a single derisive gesture. Paul reddened and a dangerous flash came into his eyes. But the natural diplomatist in him took control, and he replied with the utmost calmness.

“It may be so, but It is not a question that should arise. The King of Spain is at peace with us. We even hear, deep in the woods as we are, that he may take our part against England. France already is helping us. So I have come to ask you to take no share in plots against us, not to listen to evil counsels, and not to turn ear to traitors, who, having been traitors to one people, can readily be traitors to another.”

Braxton Wyatt leaped to his feet, his face blazing with wrath, and his hand flew to the hilt of the knife at his belt.

“Now this is more than I will stand!” he exclaimed, “you cannot ignore me, Paul Cotter, until such time you choose, and then call me foul names!”

The Spaniard smiled. The sight of Braxton Wyatt’s wrath pleased him, but he put out his hand in a detaining gesture.

“Sit down!” he said in a tone so sharp that Wyatt obeyed. “This is no time for personal quarrels. As I see it, an embassy has come to us and we must discuss matters of state. Is it not so, Señor, Señor--”

“Cotter! Paul Cotter is my name.”

Paul felt the sneer in the Spaniard’s last words, but he hid his resentment.

“Then your proposition is this,” continued Alvarez, “that I and my men have nothing to do with the Indians, that we make no treaty, no agreement with them, that we abandon this country and go back to New Orleans. This you propose despite the fact that the region in which we now are belongs to Spain.”

“I would not put it in quite that fashion,” replied Paul calmly. “I suggest instead that you be our friend. It is natural for the white races to stand together. I suggest that you send away, also, the messenger of the tribes who comes seeking your help to slaughter women and children.”

Braxton Wyatt half rose, but again he was put down by the restraining gesture of Francisco Alvarez.

“No personal quarrels, as I stated before,” said the Spaniard, “but to you, Señor Cotter, I wish to say that I have heard your words, but it seems to me they are without weight. I do not agree with you that the settlements of the Americans cannot be uprooted. Nor am I sure that your title to Kaintock is good. It was claimed in the beginning by France, and justly, but a great war gave it by might though not by right to England. Now Spain has succeeded to France. Here, throughout all this vast region, there is none to dispute her title. To the east of the Mississippi great changes are going on, and it may be that Kaintock, also, will revert to my master, the king.”

He waved his hand in a gesture of finality, and a look of satisfaction came into Braxton Wyatt’s eyes. The renegade glanced triumphantly at Paul, but Paul’s face remained calm.

“You would not proceed to any act of hostility in conjunction with the tribes, when Spain and the colonies are at peace?” said Paul to the Spaniard.

Francisco Alvarez frowned, and assumed a haughty look.

“I make neither promises nor prophecies,” he said, “I have spoken courteously to you, Señor Cotter, although you are a trespasser on the Spanish domain. I have given you the hospitality of our camp, but I cannot answer questions pertaining to the policy of my government.”

Paul, for the first time, showed asperity. He, too, drew himself up with a degree of haughtiness, and he looked Don Francisco Alvarez squarely in the eyes, as he replied:

“I did not come here to ask questions. I came merely to say that our nations are at peace, and to urge you not to help savages in a war upon white people.”

“I do not approve of rebels,” said Alvarez.

Paul was silent. He felt instinctively that his mission had failed. Something cold and cruel about the Spaniard repelled him, and he believed, too, that Braxton Wyatt had not been without a sinister influence.

Alvarez arose and walked over to his camp-fire. Braxton Wyatt followed him and whispered rapidly to the Spaniard. Paul, persistent and always hopeful, was putting down his anger and trying to think of other effective words that he might use. But none would come into his head, and he, too, rose.

“I am sorry that we cannot agree. Captain Alvarez,” he said with the grave courtesy that became him so well, “and therefore I will bid you good day.”

A thin smile passed over the face of the Spaniard and the blue eyes shed a momentary, metallic gleam.

“I pray you not to be in haste, Señor Cotter,” he said. “Be our guest for a while.”

“I must go,” replied Paul, “although I thank you for the courtesy.”

“But we cannot part with you now,” said the Spaniard, “you are on Spanish soil. Others of your kind may be near, also, and you and they have come, uninvited. I would know more about it.”