Chapter 2: The Wyandot Chief

Henry rose quickly from the noonday refreshment and, with a nod to his comrades, entered the forest at the head of the little band of hunters. Shif’less Sol and Tom Ross would have gone, too, but Adam Colfax wanted them to keep watch about the camp, and they were too loyal to insist upon having their own way when it was opposed to that of the leader.

Five men were with Henry, fairly good hunters on the whole, but more at home in the far south than in the woods of the Ohio. One, a big fellow named Larkin, had an undue pride in his skill, and another, a Frenchman, Pierre Cazotte, was a brave fellow, but uncommonly reckless. The remaining three were not of marked individuality.

Henry examined them all with swift glances, and decided at once that Larkin and Cazotte, full of overweening confidence, would want their way, but he said nothing, merely leading the band into the mass of dense green foliage that rimmed the camp around. He looked back but once, and saw his four faithful comrades sitting by the fire, it seemed to him, in an attitude of dejection. Then he went forward swiftly, and in another minute the forest shut out camp fire and comrades.

“What’s your notion, Henry?” asked Larkin. “Have you seen signs of deer or buffalo near?”

“Both,” replied Henry. “There are good springs and little open places in the woods not more than a couple of miles away. We’re pretty sure to find deer there.”

“Why not buffalo?” exclaimed Larkin. “I’ve shot more deer than I could ever count, but I’ve never killed a buffalo. It’s the first time that I’ve been in this part of the country.”

“Nor have I,” said Cazotte. “We have many people to feed, and ze buffalo ees beeg. Ze deer ees too leetle for all ze mouths back there.”

“Right you are, Frenchy,” exclaimed Larkin jovially. “We’ll pass the deer by an’ go for buffalo if we have to travel six or seven miles further. What this gang wants is buffalo, an’ buffalo it will have.”

“I don’t think we ought to go very far from the camp,” said Henry. “These woods from here to the lakes are the hunting grounds of the most warlike tribes, and bands may be near us now.”

Larkin laughed again his big jovial laugh.

“You’re thinkin’ a lot about Indians,” he said, “You’re brave--everybody knows it--but a fellow can put his mind on ‘em so hard that he can see ‘em where they ain’t.”

Henry laughed, too. He knew no offense was intended, but he was confirmed in his belief that Larkin meant to have his own way. He saw, too, that Cazotte and the others were ready to back him up. But he would not yield without a protest.

“It’s true, I am thinking a lot about Indians,” he said earnestly, “and I think I have cause to do so. They’re here in these woods now. I’m sure of it, and they know of the presence of our fleet. We ought to be very cautious.”

Larkin laughed again, and his laugh contained the slightest touch of irony.

“I’ll wager there ain’t an Indian within fifty miles,” he exclaimed, “an’ if there was one he wouldn’t keep us from our buffalo, would he, Pierre, old fellow?”

He slapped the Frenchman on the back, and Cazotte returned the laugh.

“Not a hundred Indians could keep us from heem,” he replied. “I taste the steaks of that mighty buffalo now. Ah, they so good!”

Henry flushed through his tan. He did not like even that slight touch of irony. He had held in mind a tiny prairie not more than two miles away where they were almost absolutely sure to find deer feeding, but he abandoned the idea and thought of another and larger prairie, of which he and Shif’less Sol had caught a glimpse three or four miles further on. It was quite likely that buffalo would be found grazing there.

“Very well,” he said, “if you’re bound to have it that way I’ll lead you. Come.”

He led swiftly to the northeast, and Larkin, Cazotte, and the others, already tasting their hunting triumph, followed. The undergrowth thinned, but the trees grew larger, spreading away like a magnificent park--maples, oak, beech, hickory and elm. Henry was glad to see the bushes disappear, but for the second time that day the sound that made the chill run down his spine came to his ear, the warning note of the wind among the leaves. It soon passed, and he did not hear it again.

The open woods ceased, and the bushes began once more, thicker than ever. They were compelled to go much more slowly, and Henry, risking another laugh at himself, told them to make as little noise as possible.

“Anyway, if Indians are about they’ll hear us shootin’ our buffaloes,” said Larkin. “So we needn’t mind a little snappin’ an’ cracklin’ of the bushes.”

“It’s a good plan in the woods never to make any noise, when you can help it,” said Henry.

The others heeded him for a few moments, but soon relapsed into their slovenly ways. It sounded to Henry’s sensitive ear as if an army were passing. But he would not speak again of the need of caution, knowing how soon another warning would be disregarded. Meanwhile he kept a wary watch in behalf of his careless comrades, searching the thickets with eye and ear, and trying to guard them from their own neglect.

Another mile passed, the third since they had left the camp, and they came to a little brook. As Henry crossed it he distinctly saw the impression of a moccasined foot in the soft soil of the bank. It could not be more than an hour old.

“Look there!” he said to Larkin and Cazotte. “See the proof of what I have told you. An Indian has passed here this very afternoon.”

Larkin glanced at the trace in the soft earth and shook his head dubiously.

“Do you call that the footprint of a man?” he asked. “It may be, but I can’t make it out. It might have been put there by some animal.”

Henry frowned. These men would not be convinced. But he said nothing more and continued to lead the way. Before him lay a stretch of thick wood with matted undergrowth, and beyond this, as he had discovered when scouting with Shif’less Sol in the morning, was the prairie on which they might find the buffalo.

This thicket opened and received them, the bushes closing up behind them in such compact order that nothing could be seen ten yards away. But Henry’s eyes caught the glimpse of something to their right. It was the feather of an eagle, the second that he had seen that day, but it was thrust upright, and it adorned the head of a living warrior.

“Down! Down at once!” he cried, and, seizing the careless Larkin, he fairly hurled him to the earth. At the same instant a dozen rifles crackled among the bushes. The light-hearted Frenchman fell stone dead, a bullet through his head, and two more men were wounded. A bullet had grazed Larkin’s shoulder, burning like the sting of a hornet, and, wild with pain and anger, he sprang again to his feet.

Henry had felt all along that the party was in his care, and he was resolved to save Larkin from his own folly. He also sprang up, seized the big man and dragged him down a second time. But as he sank into the concealment of the bushes he felt a blow upon the side of his head. It was like the light tap of a hammer, and for a second or two he thought nothing of it. Then his knees grew weak and his sight dim, and he knew that he was hit badly.

“Run, run!” he cried to Larkin. “The way by which we came is yet open and we may escape! It’s the only chance!”

Larkin glanced back. He had been foolish, but he was no coward.

“You’re hit and we won’t leave you!” he exclaimed.

“Go on! go on!” cried Henry, summoning up his energy with a great effort of the will. “I’ll look out for myself! Run!”

His tone was so compelling that Larkin and the others sprang up and made at top speed for the camp, the bullets whistling about them as they went. Henry tried to follow, but that extraordinary weakness in his knees increased, and it was growing quite dark. He had risen to his feet, but he sank down despite every effort of the will, and he saw a dim world whirling about him. A dozen dusky figures shot out of the obscurity. One raised a tomahawk aloft, but another stopped the arm in its descent.

He was conscious that the dusky figures stood about him in a ring, looking at him intently. But he was fast growing dizzier, and his eyelids were uncommonly heavy. He gave back their looks with defiance, and then he sank to the ground, unconscious.

Henry revived in a half hour. Some one had thrown water on his face, and he found himself sitting up, but with his hands tied securely behind his back. His head ached terribly, and he felt that his hair was thick with blood. But he knew at once that it was only a glancing wound, and that the effects, caused by the impact of the bullet upon the skull, were passing.

He was a prisoner, but all his alertness and powers were returning. He was not one ever to give up hope, and a single glance was enough to tell him the whole situation. A half dozen warriors stood about him, eight or ten more were returning, evidently from a chase, and one bore a ghastly trophy at his belt. Then three had escaped! It was perhaps more than he had hoped. He knew that another hideous decoration was in the belt of some warrior near him, but he closed his eyes to it, nor would he look at the body of the fallen Frenchman.

“You come with us,” said a warrior in fairly good English.

Henry looked at the speaker and recognized at once a chief, a young man of uncommon appearance, great in stature and with a fierce and lofty countenance, like that of the ancient Roman, sometimes found in the North American Indian. He was a truly impressive figure, his head clean-shaven except for the defiant scalp lock which stood aloft intertwined with small eagle feathers, a gorgeous red blanket from some Canadian trading post thrown carelessly about his shoulders after the fashion of a toga, a fine long-barreled Kentucky rifle lying in the hollow of his arm, and a tomahawk and knife at his belt.

Henry felt instinctively that he was in the presence of a great man, a great chief of the woods. He recognized here a spirit akin to his own, and for a full minute the two, boy and man, gazed intently at each other. Then the chief turned away with a slight laugh. He made no sound, but the prisoner knew from the motion of his lips that he laughed.

Henry looked again at the group of warriors, and now it was an examining glance. They were not Shawnees or Miamis, but certain features of paint and dress showed him that they were Wyandots, a small tribe, but the bravest that white men ever faced on the North American Continent. It became an axiom in the Ohio Valley that a Wyandot might be killed in battle, but he could not be taken prisoner. Thirteen Wyandot chiefs were in the allied Indian army that was beaten by Wayne at the Fallen Timbers; the bodies of twelve were found on the field.

Henry fully understood the character of the Wyandots, their great enterprise and desperate courage, and he knew that their presence here, west of their own country, portended some great movement. His eyes came back to the chief, who repeated his statement or rather command:

“You go with us!”

“I have no other choice,” replied the youth with a tinge of irony. Then he added, with some curiosity: “You are a chief, I see that. Will you tell me your name?”

“I am called White Lightning in your tongue,” replied the young man, making at the same time a movement of his head, very slight, but full of indescribable pride.

Henry’s gaze showed an increase of interest. He had heard that name, White Lightning. Before he went south to New Orleans it was beginning to have ominous significance on the border. White Lightning had fought in the great battle when the emigrant train was saved at the crossing of the river, but it was only since then that he had become a head chief, with the opportunity to display his terrible talents. An intensity of purpose and action like the fire that burns white had caused men to give to him the name, White Lightning, in English, but in his own Wyandot tongue he was Timmendiquas, which means The Lightning.

Henry had risen to his feet, and as they stood eye to eye each felt that the other was a worthy opponent. The chief marked the great proportions and lofty bearing of the captive youth, and a glint of approval appeared in his eyes.

“The Wyandots are happy to have taken such a prisoner,” he said, “and now we will go.”

He made a gesture, and instantly the group fell into single file, as he led the way through the forest. Henry was the fourth man in the file. All his strength had come back, but he was far too wise to attempt escape. His hands were bound behind him, and he would have no chance with such woodsmen. He must bide his time, and he marched without protest.