“THE CUSTOM IS THAT THE WITCH MUST DIE.”

THE TRAIL OF THE SENECA

By

JAMES A. BRADEN

AUTHOR OF

“CONNECTICUT BOYS IN THE WESTERN RESERVE,”
“FAR PAST THE FRONTIER,” “CAPTIVES THREE,” Etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY R. G. VOSBURGH

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

NEW YORK—AKRON, OHIO—CHICAGO

COPYRIGHT, 1907

by THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

Contents

ILLUSTRATIONS

[“The custom is that the witch must die”]

[He kept his eyes on the Seneca unceasingly]

[He wheeled and sent the redskin sprawling]

[They asked him to go with them]

CHAPTER I—THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL

A hatchet of stone, cumbersome and crude, but a dangerous weapon once, though now it is only a silent memento of the days of Captain Pipe, of Lone-Elk, of Fishing Bird, the scowling Big Buffalo and the graceful, pretty Gentle Maiden as well, lies on my table as I write.

Of Captain Pipe, Big Buffalo and certain of the others, I have already told you something;—but you have yet to hear of Lone-Elk, the Seneca,—Lone-Elk, the outcast from the villages of his people,—bold and strong yet crafty, deceitful, treacherous,—and still, withal as ambitious and as vain an Indian as ever trod the long-ago forest fastnesses.

It is of Lone-Elk that I am to tell you now. What part this tomahawk, which lies upon my table, had in the story may later be revealed to you, but as for that, it is not of great soon to feel the awful force of his evil power, calmly fished from their canoe at the opposite side of the water.

Never before had the Delawares prepared so lavishly for the fall Thanksgiving. To celebrate the Festival of the Harvest when the corn and the beans and the squashes, the tobacco and the nuts had been gathered in was no new thing among them, but Lone-Elk had made the plans for a far more elaborate entertainment this year than the people of Captain Pipe’s village were accustomed to have. And notwithstanding that the Seneca was a wanderer from his own home country and might never go back to his rightful tribe, the chief of the Delawares had allowed him to assume the leadership in every arrangement for the happy occasion.

However, Lone-Elk well knew how best to prepare all things to please and favor Captain Pipe, and he did not fail to see to it that the latter was given many opportunities to display his dignity and his eloquence and wisdom in the speech-making and addresses to the spirits during the exercises in the Council House. What could be more natural, then, than that the head Delaware should refuse to listen to those of his people who would have criticised the policy of allowing a comparative stranger’ to direct and lead them?

The wandering October breezes scarcely rippled the waters of the little lake. They whispered in the half-bare branches of the trees and seemed to play at hide-and-seek with the fallen leaves. The blue smoke curling up from the hole in the roof of the Council House was scarcely moved by them. All was serenely quiet in and about the Indian town on this autumn day in the year 1792, excepting only in the Council House itself, where all the Delawares and even a few Mingoes, or stragglers from other tribes or towns, were come together for Thanksgiving. All had come but one.

Even the most ardent of the young braves had put aside their talk of war—all summer long they had talked of little else—to participate in the celebration, and each had brought a contribution of meat of his own killing for the feast which was to follow the speech-making and offerings to the Great Spirit. All the youngsters, the boys and girls of the village, were there. The old men and women, also, were present. Captain Pipe of course was there and Fishing Bird and Long Hair and Little Wolf. Of all the people of the town upon the lake only one was missing from the ceremonies.

A solemn scene it was when Hopocon, or Pipe, for the former was his Indian name, in his imposing chieftain’s costume stood before the little fire in the center of the long, low bark building and sprinkled broken tobacco leaves upon the coals that their incense rising might bear his words on high. It was an impressive scene as well, and though the number present was large, the greatest quiet prevailed.

It was also an interesting sight. The warriors and bucks were in their brightest and newest kilts, leggins and moccasins, with braided belts bound like sashes about their waists or over their shoulders. Some wore the head-dress of colored eagle feathers; some did not. Lone-Elk was of the former and in addition a piece of silver, supported by a cord of leather about his neck, dangled against his broad, bronze chest, while at his left knee hung a rattle made of deer’s hoofs.

Among the more elderly Indians there was less display in dress, but many of the young women were in holiday raiment, adding a still further touch of color to the picture. Among the latter was Gentle Maiden, the daughter of Captain Pipe. A loose gown of doeskin worked with many colored beads and the quills of porcupines hung from her shoulders to her ankles. On her feet were ornamented moccasins and above them leggins. Two long strings of beads were suspended about her neck, contrasting in color with the deep black of two heavy plaits of hair, falling nearly to her waist.

The leaves of tobacco crimpled and turned to flame on the glowing, hot coals.

“Great Spirit, listen to our words. We burn this tobacco. The smoke rises to thee. We thank thee for thy great goodness in causing our mother [the earth] to bring forth her fruits. We thank thee that our supporters [corn, beans and squashes] have yielded abundantly.

“Great Spirit, our words continue to flow toward thee. Preserve us from all danger. Preserve our aged men. Preserve our mothers. Preserve our warriors. Preserve our children. May our thanks, rising with the smoke of this tobacco, be pleasing to thee.”

Thus spoke Captain Pipe. Save only for the sound of his voice, the crackling of the tobacco upon the fire, and the soughing of the wind there was perfect silence in the Council House.

Only when the address was finished did there come a stir of animation among the assembled Indians. Closer to the walls, farther from the fire, which was in the center of the floor, they crowded then, while out from among them came those who were to join in the dance of Thanksgiving. There were fourteen of these, including Lone-Elk and other warriors and behind the men came Gentle Maiden and four other young women—fourteen in all.

Two singers seated near the center of the large room began a weird, wildly musical chant, their words telling of thanks to the Great Spirit, while in accompaniment to their voices they beat the air with rattles made of the shells of turtles.

As the singing began the dance was started and with many graceful swayings of his body, lifting his feet but little above the ground and often striking his heels upon the earth in keeping with the music’s time, Lone-Elk led his followers round and round.

Unlike the dance of war, there were no violent expressions of countenance or movements of the body; no striking or attacking of imaginary foes. Every step was gentle and every motion was graceful. Thus for two or three minutes the dance continued. The assembly looked on with quiet rapture, pleased and happy.

Presently the music ceased, the dancing was discontinued and while the dancers walked slowly and more slowly in a wide circle around the fire, an old man arose and spoke. It was Neobaw, wrinkled and lean. He wore no headdress or other ornament and his clothing consisted only of moccasins, buckskin trousers and a faded red blanket which he wore over his shoulders. His coarse and tangled hair hung loosely over his ears and about his shoulders. Neohaw was a medicine-man and was both feared and respected. His words were:

“We return thanks to Heno [thunder] for his protection from reptiles and from witches and that he has given us his rain.”

The old man spoke very slowly but with a show of superior learning, as if he and no other was really fit to address so important a spirit. As he resumed his seat the singing and dancing began again and for an interval continued as before.

Again, at the conclusion of the music, an aged warrior rose. His voice quavered and his body trembled with its feebleness beneath the robe of fur about his shoulders, but his eyes shone with fervor as he said: “We return thanks to Gaoh [the wind] that by his moving the air disease has been carried from us.”

Then as before the music and the dance were resumed and were followed by still another short but earnest expression of thanksgiving, each part of the exercises appearing in its proper order as Lone-Elk had planned and directed, and as many of the Delawares knew of their own knowledge that the ancient custom was.

Thanksgiving to the lakes and rivers, to the sun and moon and stars, to the trees and flowers and all nature was expressed in the many brief addresses, till at last the singers’ voices were hoarse and the dancers were wet with perspiration, and weary.

An address by Captain Pipe in which he once again thanked the Great Spirit for goodness to the Delawares and for all which was theirs, concluded the religious ceremonies of the Harvest Festival and slowly the Indians dispersed from the Council House. Some went away to games and some to their lodges, while others loitered in and about the village. For the women had all been listening to the speeches and watching the dancers and had yet to prepare the feast which was to follow, continuing into the night.

By himself Lone-Elk wandered from the village. Strolling down the slight descent to the edge of the lake, he took his way along the narrow strip of sand and sod of which the beach consisted and soon was out of sight. The music and dance had recalled strongly to his mind his home among the Senecas and those earlier days before he was an exile.

An audible “Ugh” came from Lone-Elk’s lips and he scowled as if out of patience with himself. Turning then and leaving the water’s side, he pushed through some brush to the higher bank above. On this elevation he paused, and turning about gazed carelessly over the lake. Far across its smooth surface he could see a canoe and two young men in it.

“Palefaces,” he murmured and another “Ugh,” this time in a tone of contempt, parted his tight-set lips. For a second or two he watched the little craft and its occupants, then strode slowly into the forest.

A straggling half circle of perhaps a mile the Seneca’s feet marked in the freshly fallen leaves while he made his way indirectly toward the village. As he drew near his listless step quickened and his reflective, downcast eyes became alert and sharp. Harsh tones were rising from a group of braves not far from him. Then his approach was noticed.

A young Delaware with only a fringed kilt and leggins covering his nakedness, turned and pointed a finger at the Seneca menacingly, but quickly another seized the outstretched hand and pressed it down. By this time the approaching Indian was close at hand.

“Does Lone-Elk know of Big Buffalo?” the foremost of the Delawares inquired. “The Seneca left the village to walk beside the water. Now he comes back from a different direction. Does he know of Big Buffalo? Know that Big Buffalo is dead in the bushes that the water runs among? Little Wolf is here. Little Wolf saw Big Buffalo dead—found the Buffalo dead among the bushes by the water—found Big Buffalo killed.”

CHAPTER II—A SENTENCE OF DEATH—ACCUSED OF WITCHCRAFT

“Big Buffalo would have nothing to do with the Harvest Festival as Lone-Elk planned it and the Seneca has killed him,” was in substance the report which quickly passed among the Delawares when Little Wolf had come running to the village, telling of the discovery he had made—telling how he had found the dead body among the brush and reeds as he went in search of an arrow idly sent flying from his bow, after the exercises in the Council House were over.

The finger pointed at him as he had come up, though hastily pushed aside, was enough to tell Lone-Elk that he was suspected, even if no word had been spoken.

“Is it said that Lone-Elk killed Big Buffalo?” the Seneca demanded of the Indian who told to him the news.

“Big Buffalo would not come into the Council House for the Harvest Thanksgiving that was planned by Lone-Elk,” said another of the Delawares. “It is this that they say.”

The scowl on the Seneca’s face became more bitter and contemptuous. With a look of disdain he left the group, fast increasing in numbers about him, and walked with head held high directly to the lodge of Captain Pipe.

The finding of Big Buffalo dead had put a sudden damper on the day’s festivities. The squaws discontinued their preparations for the feast, and while the young bucks and warriors gathered about to discuss the mysterious death of one of the best known, though by no means best liked, of their number, children clung about their mothers’ knees as the latter also flocked from lodge to lodge to talk of the strange discovery.

There were few outward signs of excitement or emotion,—that was a thing the Indians rarely showed. But in a cold, impassive way every person in the village was keenly interested. Never had there been so disturbing a thing at a time of festivity before.

Many eyes turned toward Lone-Elk as he strode toward Captain Pipe’s lodge and entered the hut. Even as he did so two warriors, still in holiday garb, came carrying the body of Big Buffalo between them. Without a word they bore the corpse to the home it had always known in life, where lived the dead man’s mother—an old, old woman now, who loudly lamented the death of her son as she sat on the ground just within the tumble-down bark lodge.

“Big Buffalo is found dead,” said Lone-Elk to Captain Pipe.

A look and significant shrug of the shoulders was the only answer.

“If one dies when a festival is prepared, the custom is to put the body by,—to say to the sorrowful, ‘We will mourn with you another time; join in the feasting with us till the festival is over.’ It is an old, old custom,” Lone-Elk said. “When the festival is over, also, it may be asked, ‘How did Big Buffalo die?’”

“The custom is to kill him who kills another without the right of war and not in fair fight. It is a good custom,” Captain Pipe made answer and looked at the Seneca searchingly.

“Lone-Elk did not kill Big Buffalo,” the younger Indian said in answer to the chief’s questioning look, and his voice was icy cold.

“If Lone-Elk did not kill Big Buffalo,” Captain Pipe returned in the same manner, slowly and sternly, “then shall Lone-Elk find him that did kill Big Buffalo. Let him come not back until he has done this. The Delawares have no fear of any living creature; but no Delaware kills one of his own people. With the Senecas it is not always so.”

For a moment Lone-Elk’s sharp eyes scrutinized the chief’s face as if he would find a double meaning in the Delaware’s closing sentence. Could it be that Captain Pipe knew his whole history—knew the reason he returned no more to his own nation? But quickly he answered the older Indian’s scathing words, and his voice was harsh and bitter as he said:

“Does Captain Pipe think, then, that because Big Buffalo, like a whipped dog, slunk away and would not appear in the Festival of the Harvest, the mind of Lone-Elk was poisoned against him? In his own breast does Captain Pipe find lodgment for the thought that so petty a thing could turn a Seneca to anger? No! Hear me! Lone-Elk but smiled at the childishness of Big Buffalo.”

“Let Lone-Elk show the Delawares how Big Buffalo died,” the chief haughtily answered, and his tones were a challenge. Even as he spoke, too, he turned his back to the Seneca and the latter, clenching his teeth to suppress the angry words he thought, wheeled about and left the lodge.

As Lone-Elk walked quickly to his own lodge he plainly noticed that not a friendly eye was turned toward him. His own glances the Delawares evaded by looking the other way, but he knew full well that they turned to gaze after him when he had passed, and he felt the things they were saying of him. It was a desperate situation. The charge of murder might quickly be followed by the charge of witchcraft, and that could mean only a choice between flight and death.

Indeed, to hoodwink the Delawares long enough to permit him to get away from them never to return seemed to the Seneca for the moment his wisest course. Still, how had Big Buffalo died? If his death was from natural causes could he not quickly prove such to have been the case, and then, the Delawares admitting it, rebuke them for their suspicions? That would be excellent! Nothing could help him more in his keen desire for a recognized position of permanent leadership.

All in a twinkling these thoughts crowded upon the brain of Lone-Elk. They restored his great self-confidence and his feeling of superiority. Looking neither to right nor left, he walked with all the dignity of his haughty nature to the hut where the body of the dead Indian lay. With a few soothing words to the lamenting squaws about the door, he entered the rude shelter and bent low over the silent figure of the departed warrior. Even as he did so a new thought came to the Seneca and he gloomily shrugged his shoulders as if to conceal his delight from those who might be watching.

Slowly Lone-Elk examined the half-covered body of Big Buffalo and silently nodded his head as if he found only that which he expected to find.

“See,” he said very calmly to the women and to Fishing Bird and one or two other braves who had drawn near,—“see, no bruises. A witch has killed Big Buffalo. It is as Lone-Elk says. Only a witch’s power can kill a warrior so.”

“A witch—Big Buffalo killed by a witch!” The word was spread about the village with the speed of the wind.

Many of the Indians and Captain Pipe among them gathered about the Seneca.

“It is as Lone-Elk supposed. It is as Lone-Elk now says; a witch has killed Big Buffalo,” he boldly declared. “Listen to my words. Lone-Elk knows the hand which struck a warrior of the Delawares down. Lone-Elk alone can tell how Big Buffalo died; but the Delawares well know the custom of the people of the Long House [the Iroquois] and of all the Indians, that witches shall be put to death.”

There was a stir of ill-suppressed excitement. Lone-Elk was using strong words. Whom would he accuse? To be accused of practicing witchcraft was nothing short of a sentence of death. The accusation was itself sufficient. No evidence was necessary.

“Lone-Elk knows the hand which reached out to wither the strength of Big Buffalo, even as flowers are turned black by cold,” the Seneca went on, slowly and solemnly. “When the speeches and the dancing in the Council House were over Lone-Elk walked to cool himself beside the water. Across the lake he saw in a canoe the young Palefaces who have come unbidden here to cut down the trees and drive off the game which belong only to the Indians,—even as others of the Longknives have done in the lands where lived our fathers. Two of the Palefaces there were when Lone-Elk first saw them.

“Again Lone-Elk looked and only one was there—only one Paleface in the canoe; but over the water floated a cloud of foul-smelling vapor. Nearer and nearer the cloud came. Soon it passed into the woods. Again did Lone-Elk look. Again the cloud appeared and as it moved across the quiet waters drew near the canoe in which there still was but one of the two Palefaces.

“And even as Lone-Elk watched a strange thing happened. Quick as the leap of a frightened deer was the cloud changed to the form of a bird—a large, black bird with heavy, beating wings. Straight to the canoe the great bird flew. Still Lone-Elk watched closely and held his breath hard with wonder. Once, twice the strange bird circled about the solitary Paleface, then flew swiftly into the canoe. Instantly there appeared two young Palefaces where only one had been before. And the bird,—the big, black bird was gone. In his hands the Paleface witch—he you call ‘Little Paleface’ it is—held a tomahawk.

“The sun shone bright upon it and even far across the water did Lone-Elk see the red blood still wet and shining. Not then did Lone-Elk know. Not then did Lone-Elk guess the awful thing which happened. Now does he know—now do all the Delawares know how came Big Buffalo to die.”

There was a stir followed by a deeply threatening murmur among the assembled Indians. It boded ill—ah, ill indeed,—to the young white pioneers.

Flushed with the success of his narrative and vain to find himself so hearkened to, even by those who a little while before were his accusers, the Seneca would have added to his extraordinary story and elaborated upon the many fearsome shapes the cloud assumed of which he told. The words were in his mind but he hesitated to try the credulity of the Delawares further. Yet speak he must. The Indians still pressed nearer. They would hear more; and Lone-Elk therefore continued.

“The witch must die. If only one Paleface is bewitched then only one must die. Let all the Delawares hear now and remember. Lone-Elk will kill him that killed Big Buffalo—and the White Fox as well, if the White Fox is also a witch as his brother that you call ‘Little Pale-face’ is.”

If any of the Indians doubted the words of the Seneca, none showed it. Few red men there were who did not believe in witchcraft and Lone-Elk had made his tale just fanciful and weird enough to win and hold their faith in all his declarations.

In those days too, not only among the Delawares but among more advanced Indian nations as well, witchcraft was more than a mere superstition. It was feared and hated as an actually existing thing, more awful than the most deadly disease. The declaration of any one Indian that another was a witch was almost certain to be followed by the killing of the one accused. It was the duty as well as the privilege of the accuser to take the other’s life.

Little wonder is it, when these circumstances are considered, that Lone-Elk’s declarations, made in the most convincing and emphatic manner of which his eloquence was capable, made a deep impression! Many were visibly frightened. The thought that soon they might be struck down, even as Big Buffalo had been, was far more disquieting than to face a foe in hand-to-hand combat.

One of the Delawares there was, however, who went quietly away soon after Lone-Elk had finished speaking, and as if only loitering about, came presently to his own hut. Here he removed the gayest part of the holiday dress he wore, including the sash of scarlet cloth—relic of some plundered settlement, no doubt—and with his gun over his shoulder sauntered again through the village as if he were starting out to hunt.

This Indian was Fishing Bird. He found Lone-Elk still talking,—still surrounded by an attentive, awestruck throng. When the Harvest Festival was over, the Seneca was saying, then would be the time to mourn Big Buffalo’s death and then the time to avenge his murder. It was an old, old custom, he went on, that if one died when a festival was being enjoyed, the body should be laid aside until the season of the merrymaking was over. Addressing Captain Pipe directly, he appealed to the chief to say if the ancient custom should not now be observed.

The leader of the Delawares saw plainly that Lone-Elk’s proposal pleased his people.

“Then shall it be as the Seneca says,” he made answer, and waiting to hear nothing more, Fishing Bird, with a glance across the lake to make certain the white boys were still fishing near the far-away shore, turned slowly into the woods. He walked with lagging steps only until the village was left well behind, then eagerly dashed forward at a run.

CHAPTER III—THE WARNING

“Now just-one more!”

“Oh, look a’here! that’s what you’ve been saying for a half hour or more! You see where the sun is, don’t you!”

“All right, then, I don’t care; but there’s-a regular whale almost on my hook and it’s too bad to-disappoint him,” the first speaker returned. Even as he answered, however, he drew in the long, heavy fishing pole he held and followed his companion’s example in winding his line on a broad, flat stick notched at both ends.

It was time, indeed, that the day’s sport be ended. The autumn sun was scarcely visible through the branches of the trees to the west. The air, so soft and warm at mid-day, was growing cold, and six miles or more lay between the young fishermen and the homely but snug log cabin which was their home, and whose pleasant fire and comforts the nipping wind now made doubly attractive.

Those of you who have read “Far Past the Frontier” or “Connecticut Boys in the Western Reserve” will have recognized in the two fisher lads thus introduced Return Kingdom and John Jerome, once more in the Ohio wilderness to complete their home-making after the trying times of the preceding spring and winter, ending, as you know, with the recovery of the hidden fortune which cost so many lives and for which so many searched in vain.

Of course it was John,—slight of figure but strong, tough and wiry as a wolf, and full of fun as a lively young fellow of eighteen or so could be, who had shown such reluctance to put away his line and yield no longer to the temptation to try for “just one more.”

Of course it was Ree Kingdom, tall and broad shouldered, who pointed out the fast-setting sun and recognized the necessity of starting homeward before darkness hid the way. Somehow it always was left to Ree to guide and direct. His quiet manner, energy, resourcefulness and thoughtfulness made him naturally the leader. He was very little older than his lifelong friend, Jerome, but the latter was always willing that Ree should be the captain in all their various enterprises. And yet it may well be said that John was a very agreeable and helpful private in all undertakings, whether in matters of work, matters of sport and recreation, or matters involving their common safety in this wild country of Ohio where they had set about to establish their home and at the same time carry on a profitable trade with the Indians.

“We might have crossed over and had a look at the Delawares’ Harvest Festival,” said John, stretching himself preparatory to beginning the homeward journey.

“Still, the art of minding your own business is often worth cultivating. It’s a pretty good idea, sometimes,” Kingdom answered with a smile, and picked up a paddle to shove the canoe off into deeper water. Just as he did so a piece of dried mud, such as would weigh an ounce or two, dropped into the little craft directly in front of him.

“Hello, here! Hello, Fishing Bird!” exclaimed John who, as he was facing the reed-lined shore, was the first to see whence the bit of dried earth came, and recognized at once an old friend from the Indian town.

“How now, Fishing Bird? We thought you were busy with the Harvest Festival that Lone-Elk planned so grandly. How come—”

Kingdom’s greeting, rapidly following John’s, was interrupted by the Indian placing a finger to his lips and shaking his head most earnestly.

“Paleface brothers listen, Paleface brothers not make any noise at all. Hear all Fishing Bird will say,” the Delaware began in a subdued undertone, keeping himself almost wholly concealed by the tall grass and reeds at the water’s edge.

“No! look other way!” he urged, speaking rapidly but low, as both the white lads turned toward him. “Maybe Lone-Elk watching. Lone-Elk says Little Paleface is a witch and must be killed. Big Buffalo is dead—found dead by Little Wolf in the bushes by the water—and now Lone-Elk says a cloud that was Little Paleface bewitched touched Big Buffalo with a tomahawk and so he died. So must Little Paleface go away—go far, heap far away. Go soon—right now! Lone-Elk come quick. Bye.”

A slight rustling of the grass was followed by silence. For a second the young white men waited, their faces turned away from the shore as the Indian had asked. When they no longer heard him, however, they quickly looked about, but only to find themselves alone. As quietly as he had come and as suddenly, had the Delaware disappeared.

Considerably perplexed and more than a little astonished, the boys looked at each other inquiringly.

“Real nice,” said John. “It appears that I’m a witch and that I touched Big Buffalo with a tomahawk and killed him! What d’ye think of that, now!”

A smile which was more brave than merry was on John’s face, but Ree’s brow was wrinkled by deep thought.

“There’s a chance that Fishing Bird has stretched this thing—that it’s not half as bad as he makes out,” Kingdom returned at last. “But the worst of it is, we don’t know. Hang it all, why did he have to rush off so after telling just enough to make us want to know more? Yet we’ve got to give him credit for what he has done, and the only safe thing is to take full account of all he said,—take full account of all of-it till we find out just what it’s worth, at least.”

“What d’ye say to going across to their town and finding out just what that Seneca’s up to, Ree? Pretend, of course, that we haven’t heard a thing unusual; just dropped in to look at the Festival and say ‘howdy.’”

But Kingdom shook his head to this proposal at once.

“If there’s going to be trouble it will catch us soon enough without our setting out to hunt it,” he said. “Fishing Bird was in dead earnest and afraid lest he be caught or suspected of giving warning. That’s the reason he left so quickly. No, John, the thing for us to do is to make tracks in good order toward the little log house and keep our eyes open every minute.”

“And I killed Big Buffalo—just to think that I killed that ugly, prowling, malicious old rascal! Faith, ’twould make me laugh if—if—”

John’s musing exclamation was unfinished. With a swift stroke of the paddle Kingdom sent the canoe sweeping through the water with sudden liveliness and the lad who, under the name of “Little Paleface,” must answer to the charge of witchcraft, could only seize a paddle, also, to use as a rudder and likewise assist in hurrying the light bark craft onward.

Heading into a long arm of the lake extending northward, the boys touched shore at last at a little point of high ground which projected through the mass of rank grass, reeds and bushes bordering the water at this point, and continued on foot among trees and underbrush. Kingdom shouldered the canoe while John carried their rifle, paddles and goodly string of fish.

There was not much opportunity to talk and each lad was busy with his own thoughts. However, when after a long walk overland they reached a considerable’ stream, by the aid of which they could complete their journey in the more comfortable manner the canoe afforded them, John was not long in breaking the silence.

“Ree,” he said, with rather more earnestness and show of temper than was usual with him, “I shouldn’t be surprised if they come for me tonight. Confound the ignorant beasts!”

“I’ve been thinking so,” was the answer, “and I’m afraid they will.”

“The cabin ain’t in as good shape as it used to be; the logs dry and the roof drier! And honest to goodness, Ree, I don’t see what we’re going to do about it; I can’t help but feel but that I’m to blame for the mess, somehow, though what I ever did to get Lone-Elk down on me I don’t know, blamed if I do!”

“Why, you’re nothing of the kind, John! Get all such foolishness out of your head. And what we’re going to do about it is to be ready for them! I guess we can take care of ourselves now that we know what’s likely to happen. Actually, the thing that bothers me most is just the thought of where we’d have landed but for Fishing Bird letting us know. If ever there was an all white heart in a red skin, it’s his, and there’s no doubt about it.”

“And tomorrow we will find out from some one from the village or other Indians that happen to pass, just how the land lays—that is, if—if we don’t find out sooner,” John replied with a grim smile. “And Big Buffalo’s dead! I can hardly believe it, by thunder! I guess it was the Seneca that killed him, if anybody did. Don’t you s’pose Lone-Elk killed him, Ree?”

“Can’t tell. Off-hand I’d say it couldn’t have been any one else. It’s been common talk this long while that Lone-Elk and Big Buffalo didn’t hitch up worth a hill o’ beans, but—and hang it all, it’s this that makes the whole thing so bad a mess—we simply don’t know.”

This phase of the curious situation in which they found themselves—this air of mystery and uncertainty connected with the report and warning which had reached them, afforded a more fertile subject for discussion by the two boys than did the question of their own personal safety. The latter was a matter which must await developments, and neither boy yet realized how serious the situation was. Their quickly made agreement to hold the fort and face the trouble bravely had, for the time, disposed of that question.

But the death of the Delaware who had always been so hostile to them, and the mysterious trick of fate by which, though dead, he was still the direct cause of trouble coming just when all their plans were going forward so smoothly, and just when they were in every way getting along so comfortably, gave occasion for much speculation and exchange of ideas.

“It’s not so hard to understand why Lone-Elk should want to get rid of us and to make trouble for us,” said Kingdom reflectively, “because all summer he has been talking war and stirring things up generally.”

“And even hinting that we were sending word of what all the Delawares were doing straight to Mad Anthony at Fort Pitt,” John broke in warmly. “Fishing Bird it was that told us that, too.”

“Still I’d like to know just what took Big Buffalo off his pins,” was Ree’s reply, and so the conversation continued with no conclusion being reached excepting only that there was going to be trouble and it must be met and faced just as it had been confronted and finally overcome so many times before.

It may have been, indeed, most likely was, the very fact that always in the past they had come out of the most perilous difficulties without permanent injury, which made the two boys slow to appreciate the gravity of their present position—a position of the greatest danger; far from all human assistance and with all the Indians who hitherto had been their friends now turned against them.

The little house of logs perched on the eastern bluff directly above the river would no doubt have seemed a very lonesome spot and insecure enough to other eyes, as the boys approached it in the autumn twilight, but not so to them. With its surroundings of small but well cultivated fields in the valley below, its big, comfortable looking woodpile at the edge of the woods and the cheerful welcome of Neb and Phoebe, their two horses, whinnying their greeting from the rude log stable, it was a pleasure to them to be safely there once more.

It was home. The stout log walls would soon shut out the darkness and, they believed, the danger, holding them snug and warm with the firelight and the pleasant smell of their cooking supper within.

John looked after the horses at the barn while Kingdom built up the fire in the cabin and soon had the fish deliciously frying and several extremely generous slices of coarse corn bread toasting on the hearth. A pot of maple tea—(maple sugar boiled in water—an Indian drink) simmered from its hook above the blaze, and a bark tray of nuts, cracked and ready for dessert, was in waiting on the table.

“Better have everything shut tight,” suggested Ree as John came in.

“That’s what I’ve done,” was the answer, “not a knot-hole open. But—well, now that we are home and so jolly comfortable, does it not seem to you just as if Fishing Bird’s coming and all that he said was just some nasty dream and not really so at all? Does to me. I don’t forget it for more than a minute at a time, but I feel as if I’d wake up pretty soon and find I’d just been sleeping on my back.”

“Well, it’s too bad,” was the answer.

“We’ve got too much else to do to be bothered this way,” John returned.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ree went on, “that Captain Pipe may give that Seneca to understand a thing or two and prove to be our friend again, just when we most need him, as he has done more than once before. Still we’ve got to look alive every minute till the trouble’s over, and so you put the supper on the table, John, and I’ll just take a little look around the house and cast my eyes about the clearing for a minute.”

CHAPTER IV—WATCHED

“Peaceful as a Nanny goat,” was Kingdom’s declaration upon returning from his scouting expedition a quarter of an hour later, and both boys sat down to their evening meal feeling for the time quite secure. As was natural, however, their conversation still centered upon the strange news and warning which had come to them and they discussed many plans of possible action.

One thing seemed apparent; they must remain near the cabin or the Indians, finding it empty, would be very likely, under Lone-Elk’s leadership, to destroy it. Except to stay where they were, therefore, and face the Seneca and his charges, only one course was open. This was to take their horses and such goods as could be carried, and seek the protection of Fort Pitt or Gen. Wayne’s army encamped near there.

Of the whole evening’s talk, however, but one thing, in addition to the plan argued at the very first, was settled. It was that John should be in readiness to make his escape if such a move were found necessary. It was he and he alone who was charged with witchcraft. Fishing Bird had made this plain. Ree would be in danger only as the friend of the “witch” and it was unlikely, considering the friendly relations the boys had always sought to maintain with the Delawares, that harm would come to the elder lad unless some specific charge were lodged against him, or unless he should be forced into the fight in defense of his friend.

The latter situation was what Ree himself fully expected. If there was to be trouble he would court his full share of it and he would not have thought of planning otherwise.

Soon after supper the boys covered their fire with ashes, making the interior of the cabin completely dark; and though they spent the succeeding hours in conversation they watched the surrounding clearing from the loopholes.

Neither had much desire to sleep, but at last John prevailed upon Kingdom to lie down for awhile, and he alone remained on guard until nearly morning. Once he was given a lively thrill when a dark object emerged slowly and cautiously from the woods and crept toward the cabin. But the visitor proved to be only a wolf, which presently trotted away and was lost in the shadows again, and Jerome was well pleased that he had given Kingdom no chance to laugh by taking alarm when no danger threatened.

Some time before daybreak, Ree, who had slept but little, arose and ordered John to bed. The latter reluctantly obeyed. “For,” he said, “if a surprise is what the Seneca has in mind, it will be just before morning that they’ll be most likely to come.”

But the long night passed without a disturbing sound. When Jerome bounced out of his bunk of blankets spread upon freshly gathered leaves, after troubled dreams in which Big Buffalo pursued him with an upraised hatchet resembling a gorgeously colored sunset cloud, it was to find a cheerful blaze in the fireplace and Ree washing up the dishes left untouched since supper. The door stood open and the cool, pure air with its scent of frost-nipped leaves was like a tonic. The tinkle of the water along the banks of the river below rose musically in the almost perfect quiet prevailing in both the woods and clearing, and nowhere was there hint or sign that danger lurked near and nearer.

Waiting—lingering over their breakfast, glancing often and anxiously through the open door and frequently going out to scan the clearing from side to side and from end to end—waiting, they hardly knew for what,—in the early morning the young settlers began to find time hanging heavily on their hands.

They were not accustomed to such inactivity. To feel compelled to remain idle, too, when there were so many things they wished to be doing, was almost as trying as it was to bear up cheerfully under the constant thought that the next hour,—the next minute, even—might find them fighting for their very lives.

“This certainly seems like a lot of foolishness,” said John, at last impatiently.

“But seeming and being are two altogether different things,” Ree answered. “Still, it’s not very comfortable or enjoyable, I’ll admit. But what else can we be doing?”

“Some one’s coming!” exclaimed John in an undertone, instantly changing the trend of both his own thoughts and Ree’s. He was standing out where he could command a view of the river, while Kingdom sat in the doorway.

Quietly and with an appearance of unconcern Ree rose and went forward. Looking in the direction John in a whisper indicated, he saw three half-naked savages two hundred yards or more up the stream. They were hastily dragging a canoe out of the water and up onto the bank opposite that on which the cabin stood.

“Holler at them! Sing out something!” John urged, looking toward the Indians again himself. Not to attract their notice he had at first pretended he did not see them. “Blest if I know any of them!” he added, looking more closely.

Already the redskins were well up on the river bank and two of them had lifted the canoe up to their shoulders.

“I can’t make out why they are leaving the water in that way,” Ree answered. “Maybe we can find out. Ho, there! Howdy, brothers!”

Kingdom’s voice was clear and strong. There could be no doubt of the Indians having heard him, but the only effect of his words, apparently, was to send them hurrying into the woods the faster and in another second they had disappeared from sight.

“Umph!” Kingdom ejaculated wonderingly, “I believe they’re afraid of you, John,—afraid to sail down past us! But you can’t tell much about it, either. It may be they thought they’d find us gone and were taken by surprise to find out otherwise.”

“Well, it shows one thing, we never saw such a queer piece of business before, and it simply proves that there’s something wrong and most likely it’s just what Fishing Bird told us,” John answered, pretty soberly.

“Yes, it proves that there’s something up, sure, and I guess we’re both tired of waiting to find out more about it,” said Kingdom decisively. “So I’ll tell you what we’ll do: Just you keep yourself safe somewhere and I’ll ride Phoebe over to the Delaware town and find out all about it. We’ll surely get no news, good or bad, from Indians happening to go by if they all break into the woods on the far side of the river, before getting here!”

“Ree, you’ve told me a thousand times, if you’ve told me once, to be prudent. Now how about being prudent yourself? We’d better wait! We’ll get some word, yet.”

Kingdom made no answer at once, but he was still thinking of the plan he had so impulsively proposed and the more he pondered the more it appealed to him. Then he began to give John the benefit of his thoughts—began to argue that they could not afford to wait indefinitely, with only their supposition that they would be attacked as a reason; began to point out that the time to win the favorable attention of Captain Pipe was before fighting took place, not afterward; began to regret that he had not gone to the town of the Delawares earlier. But he would not admit that he himself would be in danger, though ever so anxious lest John should not properly take care of himself in his absence.

As usual, Kingdom had his way, though in this case it might well be questioned whether his was the right way, all things considered, and especially in view of what happened afterward.

With a final word of caution to John to keep himself safe by staying within easy reach of the cabin’s thick walls, Kingdom mounted the docile mare, given them by Theodore Hatch, the Quaker, and set off at a gallop. It was a delightfully warm, sunny autumn day and but for the load upon his spirits the daring young rider, dashing in and out among the trees, where the rough trail crooked and curved, would have been buoyantly happy. The ground was carpeted with freshly fallen leaves. The foliage of the underbrush was still scarcely touched by the frost, and the cawing of the crows and chatter of numerous smaller birds imparted a feeling as if life were a long, bright holiday.

Still, Ree could not rid his mind of the sense of danger which, like a shadow, followed always closely with him, and he turned over and over in his thoughts plan after plan for laying the whole cause of his visit clearly before Captain Pipe, and asking his interference.

Fresh and active, Phoebe kept a steady, rapid gallop, wherever the overhanging branches would permit such speed, and in but little more than an hour Kingdom drew rein within a short walk of the Indian town.

It was Ree’s intention to ascertain as fully as possible just what the Delawares were doing, and then, if the situation were not too serious, ride up to and among the scattered collection of huts as boldly and freely as he would have done on any other occasion.

But his pause to reconnoiter was fortunate. He had left the portage trail, an extension of which led to the village, and sheltered himself among some small, low trees thickly growing between the path and the lake. Dismounting, he listened closely but heard no sound. Even the Indian town must be very quiet, he thought, that not so much as a voice or the bark of a dog was heard. However, he slipped the bridle rein over Phoebe’s head and hung it loosely upon a short, projecting branch, preparatory to going forward to investigate on foot.

A footstep, light as a feather, but instantly caught by his quick ear, made Ree start. Over his shoulder he saw, half hidden by some bushes, a face turned toward him and a hand upraised in a way commanding silence.

“Gentle Maiden!” He spoke the name in an undertone, which showed both his surprise and his friendly feeling for the one addressed.

“I heard the hoofs of your horse,” said the Indian girl, drawing stealthily nearer and in the same manner looking all about her. “My Paleface brother’s friend—he is not here.” Her words seemed to put a question she feared to more directly ask, and Kingdom realized at once, if he had ever doubted before, that the warning from Fishing Bird was not without most serious reason.

While the young white man hesitated to speak, not knowing just how much he dared let the daughter of Captain Pipe understand that he knew, she continued:

“My Paleface brother is in danger. Big Buffalo was found dead and Lone-Elk, the stranger from afar, has said a witch has done it—killed Big Buffalo with a witch’s hatchet that leaves no mark. Lone-Elk says the witch is Little Paleface, the friend of my brother here,—says he saw Little Paleface, bewitched, strike the Delaware down. Even now have Lone-Elk and some others gone to seize him.”

“And Captain Pipe, your father—does Captain Pipe let them do this?” Ree asked, trying to remain calm.

“The custom is that the witch must die,” the girl made answer, turning her eyes away.

“Gentle Maiden, you know that John Jerome—you know that Little Paleface is no witch; that he no more killed Big Buffalo than you did.” Kingdom’s voice was half angry in its impatient earnestness.

“The customs of the Indians are not the customs of the white people,” the girl made answer. “Lone-Elk is powerful. What Gentle Maiden believes would be as dipping water from the lake yonder with a cup—making no difference one way, no difference another.”

“But Captain-Pipe knows better, Gentle Maiden.”

“Hopocon—my father, that you call Captain Pipe—wants none of the Paleface teachings. When the missionaries told Gentle Maiden long ago there were no witches, he only pitied them that they knew no better.”

“But—”

“No, no!” the girl broke out hurriedly. “My Paleface brother must not wait talking here. That which is, must be. Not long has Lone-Elk been gone. By riding fast the White Fox can reach his cabin before the coming of the Seneca, and with Little Paleface soon be far away where Lone-Elk will not find them. Haste! Gentle Maiden has done all she can. Paleface brother must not remember who has told him this, but oh, he must remember what he has heard! Hurry, hurry, now, or—”

“I’ll go, Gentle Maiden, I’ll go. If I can ever pay back the kindness you have done both John and me, I’ll not be slow to do it, you may be sure. But it’s a downright shame—no, what I mean is that you need never fear anyone will so much as suspect that you told me this or anything. Good-bye, good-bye.”

With such feverish anxiety and haste did Ree speak, now that he was bent only on flying to John’s rescue, he scarce knew what he said; but in a trice he was in the saddle. And yet quickly as he moved, when he turned to give a parting nod the Indian girl was gone.

Long familiarity with the woods had made the beautiful, intelligent mare, Phoebe, almost as free and light-footed among the trees and brush and rough ground, often broken by rougher roots and fallen branches, as a deer. Kingdom placed all dependence in his horse’s ability to avoid or clear every obstruction and urged the gentle creature to the utmost, paying little heed to anything save to escape the limbs of trees overhead as he hastened on. He had at once concluded that Lone-Elk and his band were undoubtedly traveling toward the cabin by the route to the east of the lake and the swamp which bounded a considerable portion of it, for otherwise he must have met them. He knew that they could easily have heard him approaching and hidden themselves until he passed, but long training had made his ears sharp and his eyes the same. Maybe he had this time, however, placed too much dependence in them.

“Anyhow, we’ll soon know, my pet,” he murmured with teeth clenched, and Phoebe seemed to understand.

Out upon the bluffs above the river, into the open for a moment, then down the precipitous hills and across the water at a shallow place horse and rider went, and, emerging soon from the woods again, were in the natural clearing—the clearing which had originally tempted the boy pioneers to locate here.

All was quiet. The cabin stood like a sentry at rest on the high bank rising abruptly from the river, then sloping down on all sides away from it. The yellow, autumn sunlight made the whole scene appear even drowsily tranquil. A sense of relief came to Kingdom, and he even felt chagrined that he had been so decidedly disturbed.

Still it was strange that John did not show himself. Perhaps the exceeding quiet all about was, after all, fraught with greatest danger. Perhaps—but Ree was at the foot of the slope now and his mind had scarcely time to present another thought before he was up the hill, and throwing himself from the horse, quickly entered the open door of the low log house.

“John!” he called in a low tone—and a little catch in his throat which he could not control, gave his voice a tremulous quaver. “John!”

“Yes, Ree;” the answer was scarcely more than a whisper, “I’m up here in the loft, and listen! You can hear me?”

“Every word.”

“Don’t act surprised or excited or show that you have found out or heard anything, for they’re watching now—Lone-Elk and a pack of Delawares have surrounded the clearing. I’ve been peeking through a crack, watching ’em half an hour or more.”

CHAPTER V—IN DRIPPING RAIN AND DARKNESS

With what consternation Kingdom received the startling intelligence John’s words conveyed would never have been guessed from his actions. He tossed his rough, squirrel-skin cap on the bunk, which was a bed by night and a lounge by day, and sat down, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

“They’re after me, I s’pose, Ree,—blame ’em!” Jerome went on in the same half whisper. “I just happened to be up here pawing over some of the skins stored away so long, and got a glimpse of the rascals among the trees. So I’ve been watching ever since, and I don’t want you to think I crawled up here to hide. Just so much as hint at such a thing and I’ll—”

John did not say what he would do, but seeing how he hated being found in a position which might be taken as a reflection upon his courage, Ree was considerably tempted to suggest that maybe he himself had better get under the bed. But it was no time for joke-making and the facetious thought had no more than occurred to him than, unspoken, it was forgotten.

“Stay up there, John, old boy; see everything you can. I’ll stroll out and put Phoebe in the lean-to and gape around some in a natural sort of way myself. The whole business looks mighty bad. What Fishing Bird said is all true; I found out that much. I’ll tell you about it when I come in.”

If John Jerome had been a lad easily alarmed or one likely to fall a ready victim to a too lively imagination, Return Kingdom would certainly have thought that he had done so in this case when, after unsaddling the mare and tying her in her stall, he sat down in the open doorway of the cabin and with apparent indifference scanned the clearing from end to end, without seeing the slightest sign of the Indians’ presence.

With his elbow on his knee, his head upon his hand, as if he were merely resting, he continued to watch the wooded boundary most intently from between the fingers which concealed his eyes. He had little fear that the Indians would fire upon him from some place of concealment among the trees; the distance was too great. A white hunter might easily have brought down a deer at the same number of yards with an exceptionally heavy charge in his long-barreled rifle, but the Redskins, as Ree well knew, usually loaded with so little powder, owing to its scarcity with them, no doubt, that he had little to fear in thus exposing himself so long as the enemy came no nearer than the edge of the woods.

“You’re downright sure you saw them, John?” inquired Kingdom, in a low voice, rising and entering.

“There he goes! There—did you see that?” came an excited undertone from Jerome as if in answer.

Instantly Kingdom looked out but he saw nothing.

“I vow! I think it was the Seneca!” John whispered. “He ran from the big beech near the patch to the clump of little trees at the left. Guess he thought no one was watching but you, and darted out when your back was turned.”

“I’ll stay back out of sight a bit, and you look sharp. Maybe we can make out what they’re up to,” Kingdom replied. Then, to lead the savages to suppose that their presence was not suspected, Ree went about making a bright fire as if to prepare dinner, and soon the smoke from the cabin chimney conveyed to the crouching redskins in hiding along the clearing’s edge the very impression he wished them to receive.

Kingdom spent half an hour,—a long half hour of suspense and anxious thoughts—in putting the room to rights, busying himself in a dozen different ways, while John peered closely from the crack, to see through which his eyes had already been strained so long they ached severely. Still he saw nothing. Whether the savages were only extremely wary or whether, as the boys fervently hoped, they had slipped away and gone as silently as they came could not be known, and continued vigilance was the only key to their safety.

All day John Jerome remained concealed in the loft, watching almost constantly from the narrow crevice which permitted him to see without being seen. All day Return Kingdom went about from the cabin into the lean-to barn, from the barn into the cabin again, and in and out of the open door a hundred times on one pretext and another, doing his best to make his every movement seem composed and natural.

He was certain in his own mind that the savages were watching for John. Perhaps they expected to see him in some fantastic and witch-like shape,—see him change from a cloud to human form, or turn himself into some wild beast.

Once a wandering crow flew into the clearing and circled idly over the little cornfield. As it flew down to a shock of corn, both boys chanced to notice it and both saw, too, a sudden, rapid movement, and then another and another, within the fringe of the woods. Were they the dancing shadows of wind-tossed branches, or were the Seneca and his band still near? Quick as the movements were, little as the boys had seen, they knew the answer to the question which occurred to them and thanked the vagrant crow for the information he had been the means of giving them.

“Still,” said John, “if those fool Delawares get it into their heads that that crow is me, and like as not Lone-Elk may tell ’em some such thing, it’ll just make the whole lot of them believe more than ever that I am a sure enough witch.”

Full well did Kingdom realize how very correct John’s observation probably was. He was confident that it was the crow which occasioned the moving about among the hiding Indians,—the flitting shadows both he and John had seen. He made no answer to his friend’s remark at once, but turned over again in his mind a plan which he had been considering all day. It seemed wise. He could think of nothing better.

“John,” said Ree at last, “if they stay away till it’s dark enough to do it, how would you like to slip away and go up among the rocky ledges for a few days?”

“Hide?” Jerome demanded rather contemptuously.

“Why, no! There’s no need to call it hiding,” Kingdom answered tactfully. “Just stay away from the cabin for awhile and give me a chance to find out what killed Big Buffalo and get the witch idea out of these crazy Delawares’ minds.”

“But, don’t you—”

“I know what you’re going to say. It is, don’t I think that the fact of your being away will make the Indians all the more certain about this witchcraft business—make them think you’ve skedaddled! We can’t help what they think. We do know, though, that they’re after you and either we’ve got to pack up and light out, or get this witch idea out of their heads. Now I think I can do it, in spite of Gentle Maiden’s discouraging talk; if I only have a chance.”

On one point, as the discussion continued, hardly above a whisper, both boys agreed. It was that some time during the night the Indians would visit the cabin. They might come as if in a friendly way just to learn whether Little Paleface was there; or they might make a determined attack. The redskins’ supposition that Ree was alone, confirmed by all that they had seen during the day, however, would probably suggest to them an apparently friendly, but in reality spying, visit.

In whatever way the lads viewed their situation they found so much of uncertainty surrounding them that at best they must take a chance.

Often and often was it this way in pioneer days. Every important movement was encompassed by more or less danger. If a settler needed but to go to mill, or to some frontier trading place for supplies, he confronted many uncertainties and often left his family in danger, too. Danger was always present, and although only the foolhardy were disregardful entirely, even the most prudent came by constant association to take it as a matter of course.

The latter was the feeling of the two boys from Connecticut. If they had been less accustomed to the alarms of the wilderness, they would, in the pinch in which they now found themselves, most probably have sought safety at once at Fort Pitt or perhaps at some of the Ohio river settlements. If they had done so their story would have been a very different one.

Though he had but reluctantly agreed to Ree’s proposal, not wishing to leave his friend to face the situation alone, John found so much to think about in the prospect of spending the night—and it might be many nights and days—alone in the woods, that the reflection that he also would be in danger was almost comforting. He thought with dread of the long and lonely hours of darkness without even a camp-fire’s comfort, but somehow there was something quite interesting about it all, too. Perhaps it was the change and the excitement, as he planned how stealthily he would steal through the woods, that appealed to him. Certain it is that he found himself anxious to be gone, and watching the deepening shadows almost impatiently lest something happen to prevent his departure before thick darkness came. His greatest fear lay in the fact that on three sides at least the cabin was, in all probability, still surrounded by Indians. On the fourth or west side was the river. How was he to reach the open woods? How reach the rocky ledges to the north and east, among whose deep ravines and clefts and long, narrow passages and shallow caves he would remain until the rage of the savages had passed?

A bank of clouds, wide as the eye could see above the treetops, had come up out of the southwest to meet the sinking sun and, when at last the shadows had filled the valley, darkness came on rapidly. The wind rose, too, and quite before its approach was suspected, a drizzling fall rain had set in, which gave promise of continuing all night.

The cabin door had stood open all day, but Ree felt he could close it now without exciting the suspicions of those who watched. As he did so, John clambered quickly down from the low loft and slipped noiselessly through the low opening connecting the lean-to stable and the single room of the cabin itself. How well he remembered the good purpose the hole had served once before! He remarked to Ree about it with a nervous little laugh, recalling that lively battle of their early days in the woods and how nearly fatal to them both it had been. But Kingdom told him to make haste; that they could not know who was watching now, and in the darkness there might be Indians even within hearing of a whisper.

Ree had improved the opportunity before night came on to fill John’s powder horn and bullet pouch and to pack in the form of a knapsack for him a blanket and a supply of dried meat and bread. These, with Jerome’s rifle, he had previously passed through the “cat hole,” as it was called, into the stable; but now that John had followed them, he suddenly found himself wishing that he had planned otherwise. Yet confident all was for the best, though the wind never had had so much of awful homesickness in its mournful sounds before, though the rain never before had beaten with such seeming tearful sorrow upon the roof, he whispered hastily:

“Be careful, old boy. Look for news by the day after tomorrow if you hear nothing before, and be sure that everything will be all right in a few days at most.”

“And you come where I am the minute you’re in danger, mind,” John answered. “Good-bye, Ree, I’m going along the river’s edge. It’ll be easy to get past anybody or anything tonight. Good-bye.”

Ree would have whispered another word of caution and of farewell, but he realized that John was gone—felt it in his very bones that he was alone, alone; and the autumn wind blew more mournfully than ever; the patter of the raindrops sounded twice as melancholy as before.

For many minutes Kingdom intently listened, then throwing wide the cabin door, made a pretense of emptying just beyond the doorstep the wooden, trough-like bowl which did duty as a wash basin. Though he made a brave show of unconcern, his heart beat hard and fast. But he was glad to see how totally dark the night was. One must have been very close indeed if he had seen John emerge from the darkness of the lean-to into the equal blackness without, he thought. Surely the Indians, if still watching, would never suspect him going out that way, and not having seen him at all would be very certain that he had been gone for a full day at least, should they call at the cabin and still not discover him.

Despite the storm, the night was warm for so late in the season, and Kingdom was glad to have the door ajar while he waited for the first step which would tell him of the Indians’ coming. He had no doubt they would come, unless their general plan was quite different from what he supposed it to be. Still, time dragged on bringing no tidings—no sound but the drip, drip of the rain, the sad sighing of the wind and now and then the rattle of some loose puncheon on the roof, moved by a passing gust more lively than the rest.

Again and again Ree mentally computed the distance John had probably traveled in the time that he had been gone. “Now he must be just about at the foot of the bluff and creeping along the water’s edge, shielded by the higher bank of the river,” he thought at first. “Now he must be half-way to the woods. Now, if nothing has happened, he is past the worst of the danger and safe among the trees.”

And so thinking, encouraged by the absence of any alarming sound, Kingdom breathed easier, and was glad John had gone along the river instead of trying to cross the stream just at the cabin’s rear and so gain the cover of the trees more quickly, as he had originally proposed, and would have done but for the possibility that even on the opposite bank of the stream there were watchers in hiding.

But safe and certain as John’s escape seemed to Ree, the truth was that during these past few minutes that young man had been in decidedly greater danger of losing his scalp than he cared ever to be again.

Creeping on hands and knees close to the wall whose dark background would help conceal his movements, John had made his way out of the barn and around to the rear of the cabin. Almost flat on his stomach, he drew himself slowly along the bluff and so descended to the valley where the river bank was not nearly so steep and comparatively low, rising only a few feet above the level of the water. Crawling cautiously along the narrow strip of slippery beach between the river’s edge and the bank, he progressed steadily toward the woods. Often he paused to listen, and even when he moved on again he strained his ears and tried his utmost to see; but so deep was the darkness that, except for the denser black wall in the distance, which he felt rather than saw was the woods, he was certain that his situation, so far as seeing went, would be the same with his eyes shut as with them wide open.

In one of his pauses to hearken closer than he could do when moving, John thought he heard a low, hoarse “Ugh!”—an inarticulate sound, but one which seemed to express impatience, weariness, and “What’s the use?” combined. He fancied he could see the shrug of the Indian’s shoulders who, he was sure, was responsible for the guttural noise. For a long time the boy did not move. The rain came dripping down almost noiselessly. The wind whispered ever so softly in the lower parts of the valley and seemed to make no sound whatever save in the woods. To John it seemed that he waited an hour, though in fact it was but a few minutes. Over his shoulder he could see the ray of light from the cabin’s open door. How far away it looked! Still that was fortunate. He would not have had it nearer for a great deal. Now he would try again. Softly—softly he raised one hand from the ground; softly, softly he raised a foot.

“Ugh!” Again it came; scarcely audible was the sound but the fierce howl of a wolf directly in his ears would not have startled, and frightened more the young white man crouching by the water.

The danger seemed nearer now—not more than three yards from him, John was certain—perhaps only two. He felt that he could put out his hand and touch the place from which it came. Again he was quiet, so quiet that he breathed in noiseless little gasps, a thing so trying on his throat and lungs that he would have felt as comfortable had he tried not to breathe at all.

But soon came another sound. Instantly John recognized it—the stealthy dipping of the paddle and low murmur of water against the nose of a canoe. Where was the canoe headed? That was the question. Toward him? Either that or up stream. The murmur of the current indicated that the craft ran not with it but against it. Now he heard the canoe touch the half submerged grass close in to shore. It was just abreast of him and within two arms’ length. Now it grated ever so lightly upon the grass which, before the fall rains, had been quite up out of the water.

Again light as a feather came the dip of the paddle, again the soft murmur of the water barely heard above the quiet, even patter of the rain. At the same moment John felt himself slipping. Slowly the wet ground was giving way beneath him. He must move. It was a case of two dangers, either stand still and slide violently into the river, or move on a step and—

He must run the risk. Faster and faster he was sliding down. He must step quickly, and step quickly he did. He made no noise himself, he thought, but some pebble or bit of earth, loosened by his movement, rolled down and dropped with a splash into the water. Again came the muttered “Ugh!” something lower than before, and oh! Heaven be praised! no longer abreast but some yards from him.

Again came the low dipping of the paddle. They were patrolling the river for him, John knew now; but they would not find him. They might paddle silently up and down the whole night long, if they wished. In fact he rather hoped they would, and chuckled inwardly at the thought.

CHAPTER VI—“THE WITCH IS HIDDEN HERE.”

That part of Lone-Elk’s band which had been appointed to hide along the river bank throughout the day and paddle up and down in the densest shadows of the shores when night had come, did not keep up their search as long as John had hoped they would, when he silently chuckled over the thought of their waste of time and effort.

When they passed so close to the lad they sought, not more than one of them suspecting how very near he was, the Delawares were closing in on the cabin, together with others on shore. Lone-Elk had given the signal, by passing the word quietly along the irregular line his braves made around the clearing, after waiting all day long. He hoped to find the “witch” in hiding in the little cabin. Even if he did not, he would impress the Delawares with the seeming truth of the charge he had made against the young white man by showing that he was away from home, engaged, presumably, in some of his dreadful witch’s work. The Seneca had, moreover, a plan in mind which made a visit to the home of the young Palefaces desirable from his point of view, whether the one they sought should be discovered or not, and now would be as good a time as any for the carrying out of his purpose.

While the Indians were yet at a distance, Kingdom, watching and listening in the cabin, heard their approach. He had kept his rifle close at hand all day, and now he casually picked the weapon up and with a show of idle carelessness polished its glossy stock with a bit of buckskin.

The savages came silently on, apparently without effort to keep from being heard. Kingdom was aware that they kept their line spread out so as to form a semicircle which, together with the river, would wholly enclose the little log house. His sharp ears assured him that this was done, but it was with well acted surprise that he sprang lightly up and stepped toward the door when Lone-Elk and one other Indian showed themselves at last within the dim ray of light shining from the fireplace.

“Come in! It’s wet and bad outside! Bring them all in!” he called pleasantly, meeting the Seneca at the threshold and glancing out as if he plainly saw the whole line of Indians outside, which in fact he did not see at all.

“White Fox speaks kindly,” answered Lone-Elk, calling Ree by the name the Delawares had long ago given him.

Only the Seneca and the one other Indian drew near the lighted space about the door, however, and these two now entered as if they were quite by themselves.

“Why should I not?” Ree answered to the Seneca’s remark, noticing as he did so, how searchingly both the savages were looking about the cabin’s single room. “We,—my white brother and myself—have had the friendship of the Delawares always.”

“It is as the white brother says,” said the second Indian, a powerful fellow whom Kingdom now recognized as a brave from the Delaware town on the Muskingum, and whom he had seen a number of times before. As he spoke, this Indian looked at Lone-Elk inquiringly. Perhaps the Seneca considered his words a challenge. At any rate he said sharply:

“Where is the other white brother! Does the White Fox wish to hide him then, if he is the friend of the Delawares? Will the White Fox hide the witch that breathed poison breath upon Big Buffalo, the witch that with a hatchet killed a Delaware warrior, yet left no mark?”

“What’s this you say? What wild talk is this, Lone-Elk? Has Lone-Elk drunk of the firewater that he comes speaking so absurdly?”

Kingdom spoke with a show of temper and in a manner distinctly creditable to the part he was bound to act.

“It is the law that witches must be put to death,” the Seneca returned vigorously. “Lone-Elk has said that Little Paleface with a witch’s hatchet killed a Delaware warrior—killed Big Buffalo. Now must the witch be given up to the friends of him that was killed.”

“Well, I can only tell you that the one you call Little Paleface is not here. He is far away and may not come back for some days,” Kingdom answered quietly. “Now if Lone-Elk will believe this, and it is the truth, he will return to the town of the Delawares and I will myself go there tomorrow to have a talk. Is it a friendly thing for Delaware braves to remain hidden all about the lodge of their Paleface brothers as they are doing now? Let them all come into the light. Let them see that my brother who is accused so falsely—so unfairly and so unjustly—let them see, I say, that he is not here, and we will plan to have a talk tomorrow.”

Lone-Elk gave a short, fierce whoop. Instantly fifteen or more Indians rushed into the cabin, crowding-the little room quite uncomfortably.

“The witch is hidden,” said Lone-Elk, loudly. “If the Little Paleface is here let him show himself.”

As Kingdom looked quickly from one to another of the Indians he observed with sorrow that Fishing Bird was among them. Had this good fellow turned against his white friends, too? But no, that quick friendly look as their eyes met was proof of his friendship still.

There being no answer to the Seneca’s invitation to Little Paleface to show himself, except the grunted “Ughs!” of some of the Delawares, Lone-Elk sprang quickly up the ladder of poles and peered into the loft. Others followed his example, climbing up on stools or by the aid of the roughness of the wall. Some looked up the chimney. Some searched here, some there. One party of five or six, lighting hickory bark torches at the fire, went into the barn. In five minutes the whole cabin was turned topsy-turvy.

“You see it is just as I told you in the beginning,” said Kingdom in a friendly tone, but somewhat impatiently. “Now will you not consent to a talk! Let it be in the Council House of the Delawares—let it be any place you choose. I think I can prove to you that this charge of witchcraft is placed against one who is as true and honest as ever man could be.”

Ree was sorry to see that the Delawares looked to Lone-Elk to answer. He had more fear of this one Indian, under the circumstances, than of any other half dozen warriors in Captain Pipe’s town.

“Let it be as the White Fox says,” the Seneca answered. “Yet will my Paleface brother not deceive himself by thinking he deceives Lone-Elk. The Paleface witch but hides. If it is not so, let the witch come to the talk.”

Not for a second did Kingdom allow this challenge to be unanswered. Like a flash every eye had turned to him; but instantly he said:

“Will the Seneca go to Fort Pitt and there put Little Paleface on trial before those whose customs are the customs of the Palefaces? No, of course he will not. And just so would it not be fair for Lone-Elk to demand more than he would be willing himself to give.”

HE KEPT HIS EYES ON THE SENECA UNCEASINGLY.

The justice of Kingdom’s position was clear to the majority of the Indians and he could not help but notice it; still Lone-Elk’s reply in curt, surly tones was far from pleasing.

“Yet the White Fox asks for a talk! Like squaws that tell one another of the worms that harmed the corn does the Paleface want the Delawares to meet together with him and speak idle words! Words! Words, that mean nothing and come to nothing.”

With a move of his hand to his companions to follow, the Seneca left the cabin. Rapidly the other Indians marched off in single file after him. Fishing Bird, somehow, was the last to leave. As he went out of the door, he cast a glance of friendliness, which was also a look of warning, to Ree and the peace of mind of that young gentleman was not increased thereby.

By no means certain that the Indians would not return, Kingdom sat for a long time on the edge of his bunk, listening and thinking. He had great satisfaction in knowing that John was comparatively safe for the time, at least, and thankful, indeed, that his chum’s departure had been so timely. He longed for another and more satisfactory talk with Fishing Bird. He must have such a talk, he resolved, if it could by any chance be arranged, before he undertook to show the Delawares that Big Buffalo had not been killed by witchcraft. Perhaps that friendly fellow would be able to give him the right clue to the whole situation. Might it not be he would frankly declare that it was by the hand of Lone-Elk, himself, that the warrior’s life had been snuffed out!

In his own mind Ree had little doubt concerning the true cause of Big Buffalo’s death; but by what means the Seneca had put out of his way the one member of Captain Pipe’s community who openly resented his leadership there would most probably be a difficult question to answer.

So the lonely lad sat pondering a long time; how long he did not know or care. The rain was still falling, the wind still sighing dolefully when he arose at last, closed and barred the door, also barred the opening which served as a window, and removing only his moccasins lay down to rest. Repeatedly did he picture to his mind’s eye John Jerome tramping slowly, silently through the wet leaves, among the dripping underbrush and trees, stopping often to get his bearings from the wind, and so making his weary and most lonesome way to the protection they had agreed upon.

Repeatedly his thoughts returned to the “big talk” which he must attend tomorrow; but sound sleep came to him at last, even while a crouching figure moved swiftly and stealthily into the clearing and paused as if in hiding behind a shock of corn—the very one on which the crow had perched in the afternoon—then stole on again and disappeared.

Even as the first object appeared, another approached the cabin and moved to the protection of the darker shadows of the stable. For a minute or two the figure stood quiet in the denser darkness beside the building, then moved cautiously toward the little cornfield as if attracted by a faint rustle of corn leaves which seemed to come from that vicinity.

The rain still fell in a quiet, unbroken drizzle, but the wind had abated and there was no reason to suppose that it caused the movement of the corn, which attracted the attention of the crouching creature. Still listening with utmost care, the crouching figure moved nearer to the spot from which the noise ensued.

To discern any object that was without motion, at a distance of even a few feet in the pitch darkness, was an impossibility; but as the rustling of the corn ceased, the one who had been attracted by the sound made out a stealthy movement in the vicinity and instantly stood still. When the darker shadow had passed beyond his vision he dropped to the ground and listened with his ear against the wet grass and earth. After a time he rose and ran forward ever so lightly, pausing at the edge of the woods.

Hour after hour passed. A dull gray light appeared on the clouds to the east. Rising then, and stretching himself, the silent watcher with frequent looks toward every point went directly to the barn built up against the white boys’ cabin, opened the door and leaving it slightly ajar, sat down upon the floor in such a way that he could command a view of the greater part of the clearing.

The opening of the door of the barn made Return Kingdom move, sound asleep though he was, and directly he awoke, conscious of having heard some disturbing sound. What it was he did not know. For a time he listened, but finding that drowsiness was overcoming him, he roused himself with a sudden determination to investigate.

Springing up quietly, Kingdom put on his moccasins and opening a loophole, peeped out. Though still very dark inside the cabin, he could make out principal objects in the clearing, and noted nothing in the least unusual. Suppressing a most sleepy yawn, he decided to creep into his bunk and forget his troubles in restful unconsciousness until broad daylight came.

Very likely the noise which had wakened him was made by one of the horses, the lad thought. He peeped into the stable through a chink in the wall. Discovering immediately that the door of the lean-to was open, and remembering that he had closed it as usual, he was alarmed at once. He seized his rifle, unbarred the cabin door and rushed out.

As he swung wide the door of the stable, to learn the cause of it not being properly closed, a hand was held out to him and its mate was raised in a sign of silence.

Startled, Kingdom stepped back a pace, but before the other could speak he had recovered himself.

“Fishing Bird!” he exclaimed. “What in the world are you doing here at such a time as this, Fishing Bird?”

CHAPTER VII—THE SECRET LEAD MINE

“Listen, White Fox, listen, my Paleface brother,” said Fishing Bird softly as he took Kingdom’s hand and drew him gently into the barn; then dropping his voice to a whisper:

“Lone-Elk has been here. All night did Fishing Bird watch and follow him. Then Fishing Bird hid here for maybe Lone-Elk be coming back when white brother still was sleeping. Morning comes now. No more danger.”

How to thank this friendly Indian Ree did not know. As he realized the hardship Fishing Bird had undergone to guard him from the wily, crafty Seneca, his voice trembled with emotion in trying to express his gratitude. Almost in the same breath he begged further information and an explanation of Lone-Elk’s presence; asked to know how, in the darkness, the Delaware had been able to watch him without being himself discovered. Where had Lone-Elk gone? Why had he come at all?

Seated on a little mound of hay, well within the stable yet where he could readily see out, and dividing his attention between the clearing and Kingdom, who sat beside him, Fishing Bird told his story.

He had feared from the beginning that his warning to the two white boys to flee would be unheeded, he said, and so determined, since he could give them no assistance, that he would at least keep his eyes on Lone-Elk. The Delawares had accepted the proposal of the Seneca that the death of Big Buffalo be not allowed to break up the Harvest Festival entirely, and so the night of the feast day had been spent in merry-making, as the custom was.

With but little rest the morning after the festival, however, Fishing Bird went on in his own simple but honest way. Lone-Elk, calling on as many as wished to do so to accompany him, had set out for the house of the Palefaces. It was his purpose first to locate Little Paleface and catch him off his guard, lest by witchcraft he should bring harm to the Indians before they could lay hands on him, Fishing Bird explained. So all day the Indians had watched the cabin and kept themselves hidden so that they would not easily be seen even if in approaching their home the boys should come upon them suddenly from behind.

Lone-Elk told the Delawares that a crow, which flew down in the cornfield, was almost certainly Little Paleface himself, and as night came on he assured them that the witch would either be found in the cabin in the natural form of a man or be caught trying to escape in the form of a bird.

Some had asked why the witch would not simply become an animal or a cloud or some such thing and so easily evade them, but the Seneca’s only answer to this was a growl at their ignorance and a hint that only children asked such questions.

Much that Fishing Bird told him was so nearly the same as Kingdom had previously guessed that the information was in no way surprising. But one thing which did surprise and interest him a great deal was the friendly Delaware’s account of the escape of John Jerome.

Fishing Bird, having no belief in Lone-Elk’s talk of witchcraft and being anxious to aid in the escape, rather than the capture of the so-called witch, was even more intent in watching all that went on than were any of the others, Lone-Elk excepted. In this way he accounted for his discovery of some object beside the river bank in the darkness as he and two other Delawares were paddling noiselessly toward the cabin—an object which he partially recognized, though none of the others so much as suspected its presence. Solely for the purpose of giving warning he had made sounds which would be heard and which, he was certain, had been heeded.

Ree could only thank his loyal friend again and again and he did not hesitate to tell the faithful fellow that he had almost certainly saved John Jerome from capture. This pleased Fishing Bird greatly. His pleasure was quite equal to that of a child which is praised for some duty well done.

“In fact,” added Kingdom, putting his hand gratefully on the Delaware’s arm, “we can never begin to pay you back for all you have done for us. But still you can help us so much more that I want to feel that I can depend on you. I won’t ask anything of you which is going to get you into trouble, and if I do, you must tell me. Neither do I want you to do anything or tell me anything which you do not feel that you can willingly do or tell. Is this fair and friendly, Fishing Bird?”

The Indian thoughtfully nodded.

“First then, why did Lone-Elk come back here in the night?”

The Delaware did not know and said so.

“I can guess that, anyhow,” Kingdom went on. “But here’s a more important question, Fishing Bird. Who, or what, do you think, killed Big Buffalo?”