The Road to Frontenac Page 15

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE BAD DOCTOR.

  At the edge of the thicket they stopped and stood face to face, eachwaiting for the other to pass ahead. Tegakwita slightly bowed, with anunconscious imitation of the Frenchmen he had seen at Fort Frontenacand Montreal.

  "Pass on," said Menard, sternly. "You know the trail, Tegakwita; I donot. It is you who must lead the way."

  The Indian was sullen, but he yielded, plunging forward between thebushes, and now and then, in the shadow of some tree, glancingfurtively over his shoulder. His manner, the suspicion that showedplainly in the nervous movements of his head, in every motion as heglided through thicket, glade, or strip of forest, told Menard that hehad chosen well to take the second place. His fingers closed firmlyabout the handle of the hatchet. That he could throw at twenty pacesto the centre of a sapling, no one knew better than Tegakwita.

  The city of the dead lay in a hollow at ten minutes' walk from thevillage. Generations ago the trees had been cleared, and no bush orsapling had been allowed a foothold on this ground. The elms and oaksand maples threw their shadows across the broad circle, and eachbreath of wind set them dancing over the mounds where many an hundredskeletons crouched side by side, under the grass-grown heaps of earth,their rusted knives and hatchets and their mouldy blankets by theirsides. No man came here, save when a new heap of yellow earth layfresh-turned in the sun, and a long line of dancing, wailing redmen,led by their howling doctors, followed some body that had come toclaim its seat among the skeletons.

  Tegakwita paused at the edge of the clearing, and looked around withthat furtive quickness. Menard came slowly to his side.

  "You will take your weapons to the grave?" asked Menard, very quietly,but with a suggestion that the other understood.

  "Yes. Tegakwita has no place for his weapons. He must carry them wherehe goes."

  "We can leave them here. The leaves will hide them. I will put thehatchet under this log." He made a motion of dropping the hatchet,closely watching the Indian; then he straightened, for Tegakwita'sright hand held the musket, and his left rested lightly on his belt,not a span from his long knife.

  "The White Chief knows the danger of leaving weapons to tempt theyoung braves. He finds it easy to take the chance with Tegakwita'shatchet."

  "Very well," said Menard, sternly. "Lead the way."

  They walked slowly between the mounds. Menard looked carefully about,but in the uncertain light he could see no sign of a new opening inany of them. When they had passed the centre he stopped, and saidquietly:--

  "Tegakwita."

  The Indian turned.

  "Where is the grave?"

  "It is beyond, close to the great oak."

  "Ah!"

  They went on. The great oak was in a dense, deep-shadowed place, atthe edge of the circle. A little to one side, close to the crowdingthicket, was a small, new mound. Looking now at Tegakwita, Menardcould see that his front was stained with the soil. Probably he hadspent the day working on the mound for his sister. While Menard stoodat one side, he went to a bush that encroached a yard on the sacredground and drew out a number of presents, with necessary articles andprovisions to stay the soul on its long journey to the HappyHunting-Ground. It was at the end of Menard's tongue to repeatTegakwita's remark about hiding the weapons, but he held back andstood silently waiting.

  "Come," said the Indian.

  He parted the bushes, drew away a heavy covering of boughs, and there,wrapped in Tegakwita's finest blanket, lay the body of the Indiangirl. Menard stood over it, looking down with a sense of pity he hadnever before felt for an Indian. He could not see her face, for it waspressed to the ground, but the clotted scalp showed indistinctly inthe shadow. He suddenly raised, his eyes to Tegakwita, who stoodopposite.

  "What have you done with the white brave?" he said in fierce, lowtones. "What have you done with him?"

  Tegakwita raised one arm and swept it about in a quarter circle.

  "Ask the vultures that come when a man falls, ask the beasts that waitfor everyone, ask the dogs of the village. They can tell you, not I."

  Menard's hands closed tightly, and a wild desire came to him to stepacross the body and choke the man who had killed Danton; but in amoment he was himself. He had nothing to gain by violence. And afterall, the Indian had done no more than was, in his eyes, right. He bentdown; and together they carried the body to the grave, close at hand.Tegakwita placed her sitting upright in the hole he had dug. By herside he placed the pots and dishes and knives which she had used inpreparing the food they two had eaten. He set the provisions beforeher and in her lap; and drawing a twist of tobacco from his bosom, helaid it at her feet to win her the favour and kindness of his ownManitou on her journey. After each gift he stood erect, looking up atthe sky with his arms stretched out above his head; and at thesemoments his simple dignity impressed Menard. But there were othermoments, when, in stooping, Tegakwita would glance about with nervous,shifting eyes, as if fearing some interruption. His musket was alwaysin his hand or by his side. Menard took it that he still feared thehatchet.

  Then at last the ceremony was done, and the Indian with his bare handsthrew the earth over the hole in the mound. Still looking nervouslyfrom bush to bush, his hands began to move more slowly; then hepaused, and sat by the mound, looking up with a hesitancy thatrecognized the need of an explanation for the delay.

  "Tegakwita's arms are weary."

  "Are they?" said Menard, dryly.

  "Tegakwita has not slept for many suns."

  "Neither have I."

  The Indian started as a rustle came from the forest. Menard watchedhim curiously. The whole proceeding was too unusual to be easilyunderstood. Tegakwita's nervous manner, his request that the Captainaccompany him to the mound, the weapons that never left hisside,--these might be the signs of a mind driven to madness by hissister's act; but Menard did not recollect, from his own observationof the Iroquois character, that love for a sister was a marked traitamong the able-bodied braves. Perhaps it was delay that he sought. Atthis thought Menard quietly moved farther from the undergrowth.Tegakwita's quick eyes followed the movement.

  "Come," said the Captain, "the night is nearly gone. I cannot waitlonger."

  "Tegakwita has worked hard. His heart is sick, his body lame. Will theBig Buffalo help his Onondaga brother?"

  "Yes."

  The Indian rose with too prompt relief.

  "Your muscles need only the promise of help to give them back theirspring, Tegakwita."

  "The White Chief speaks with a biting tongue."

  "You have been speaking with a lying tongue. You think I do not knowwhy you have brought me here; you think I do not understand the evilthoughts that fill your mind. You are a coward, Tegakwita. But youwill not succeed to-night."

  The ill-concealed fright that came into the Indian's face and mannertold Menard that he was not wide of the mark. He began to understand.Tegakwita wished to get him at work and off his guard,--the rest wouldbe simple. And as Menard well knew, more than one brave of theOnondagas, who had known him both as friend and enemy, would shrinkwhen the moment came to attack the Big Buffalo single-handed, eventhough taking him at a disadvantage. Now Tegakwita was hesitating, andstruggling to keep his eyes from the thicket.

  "Yes, I will help you. We will close this matter now, and go back tothe village where your cowardly hands will be tied by fear of yourchiefs. Drop your musket."

  "The Big Buffalo speaks in anger. Does he think to disarm Tegakwitathat he may kill him?"

  "Lay your musket on the ground before us. Then I will drop thehatchet."

  Tegakwita stepped around the grave, and leaning the musket across astone stood by it. Menard's voice was full of contempt.

  "You need not fear. The Big Buffalo keeps his word." He tossed thehatchet over the grave, and stood unarmed. "Drop your knife."

  Tegakwita hesitated. Menard took a step forward, and the knife fell tothe ground.

  "Come. We will work side by side." He was surpr
ised at Tegakwita'sslinking manner. He wondered if this Indian could by some strangeaccident have been given a temperament so fine that sorrow could unmanhim. To the Iroquois, gifted as they were with reasoning power, lifeheld little sentiment. Curiously enough, as Menard stood in the lightof the young moon watching the warrior come slowly around the grave,which still showed above the earth the head and shoulders of the deadgirl, he found himself calling up the rare instances he had known of areal affection between Indians.

  Tegakwita stood by him, and without a word they stooped and set towork, side by side, scraping the earth with their fingers over thebody. Tegakwita found a dozen little ways to delay. Menard steadilylost patience.

  "Tegakwita has forgotten," said the Indian, standing up; "he has notoffered the present to his sister's Oki."

  "Well?" said Menard, roughly.

  Tegakwita's voice trembled, as if he knew that he was pressing thewhite man too far.

  "The grave must be opened. It will not take long."

  It came to Menard in a flash. The many delays, the anxious glancestoward the thicket,--these meant that others were coming. Somethingdelayed them; Tegakwita must hold the Big Buffalo till they arrived.With never a word Menard sprang over the grave; but the Indian wasquicker, and his hand was the first on the musket. Then they fought,each struggling to free his hands from the other's grasp, rolling overand over,--now half erect, tramping on the soft mound, now wrestlingon the harder ground below. At last Menard, as they whirled andtumbled past the weapons, snatched the knife. Tegakwita caught hiswrist, and then it was nigh to stabbing his own thigh as they foughtfor it. Once he twisted his hand and savagely buried the blade in theIndian's side. Tegakwita caught his breath and rallied, and the bloodof the one was on them both. At last a quick wrench bent the Indian'swrist back until it almost snapped,--Menard thought that it had,--andthe stained blade went home once, and again, and again, until the armsthat had clung madly about the white man slipped off, and lay weaklyon the ground.

  Menard was exhausted. The dirt and blood were in his hair and eyes andears. He was rising stiffly to his knees when the rush of Indians camefrom the bushes. He could not see them clearly,--could hardly hearthem,--though he fought until a musket-stock swung against his headand stretched him on the ground.

  When he recovered they were standing about him, half a score of them,waiting to see if he still had life. He raised a bruised arm to wipehis eyes, but a rough hand caught it and drew a thong tightly abouthis wrists. Slowly his senses awakened, and he could see indistinctlythe silent forms,--some standing motionless, others walking slowlyabout. It was strange. His aching head had not the wit to meet withthe situation. Then they jerked him to his feet, and with a stoutbrave at each elbow and others crowding about on every side, he wasdragged off through the bushes.

  For a long time the silent party pushed forward. They were soon clearof the forest, passing through rich wild meadows that lifted the scentof clover, the fresher for the dew that lay wet underfoot. There wereother thickets and other forests, and many a reach of meadow, allrolling up and down over the gentle hills. Menard tried to gather hiswits, but his head reeled; and the struggle to keep his feet movingsteadily onward was enough to hold his mind. He knew that he shouldwatch the trail closely, to know where they were taking him, but hewas not equal to the effort. At last the dawn came, gray anddepressing, creeping with deadly slowness on the trail of theretreating night. The sky was dull and heavy, and a mist clung aboutthe party, leaving little beads of moisture on deerskin coats andfringed leggings and long, brown musket barrels. The branches droopedfrom the trees, blurred by the mist and the half dark into strangeshapes along the trail.

  The day was broad awake when Menard gave way. His muscles had beentried to the limit of his endurance during these many desperate daysand sleepless nights that he had thought to be over. He fell looselyforward. For a space they dragged him, but the burden was heavy, andthe chief ordered a rest. The band of warriors scattered about tosleep under the trees, leaving a young brave to watch the Big Buffalo,who slept motionless where they had dropped him in the long grassclose at hand. On every side were hills, shielding them from the viewof any chance straggler from the Onondaga villages, unless he shouldclamber down the short slopes and search for them in the mist. Astream tumbled by, not a dozen yards from Menard and his yawningguardian.

  When he awoke, the mist had thinned, but the sky showed no blue.Beneath the gray stretch that reached from hill crest to hill crest,light foaming clouds scudded across from east to west, though therewas little wind near the ground. The Captain listened for a time tothe noise of the stream before looking about. He changed his position,and rheumatic pains shot through his joints. For the second time inhis life he realized that he was growing old; and with this thoughtcame another. What sort of a soldier was he if he could not passthrough such an experience without paying the old man's penalty. To besure his head was battered and bruised, and scattered over hisshoulders and arms and hips were a dozen small wounds to draw in thedamp from the grass, but he did not think of these. In his weak,half-awake state, he was discouraged, with the feeling that the bestof his life was past. And the thought that he, a worn old soldier,could have dreamed what he had dreamed of the maid and her love sankdown on his heart like a weight. But this thought served anotherpurpose: to think of the maid was to think of her danger; and this wasto be the alert soldier again, with a plan for every difficulty aslong as he had life in his body. And so, before the mood could draghim down, he was himself again.

  Most of the Indians were asleep, sprawling about under the trees nearthe water. The warrior guarding Menard appeared to be little more thana youth. He sat with his knees drawn up and his head bowed, hisblanket pulled close around him, and his oily black hair tangled abouthis eyes. Menard lay on his back looking at the Indian throughhalf-closed eyes.

  "Well," he said in a low, distinct voice, "you have me now, haven'tyou?"

  The Indian gave him a quick glance, but made no reply.

  "It is all right, my brother. Do not turn your eyes to me, and nothingwill be seen. I can speak quietly. A nod of your head will tell me ifanyone comes near. Do you understand?"

  Again the little eyes squinted through the hanging locks of hair.

  "You do understand? Very well. You know who I am? I am the BigBuffalo. I killed half a score of your bravest warriors in their ownvillage. Do you think these thongs can hold the Big Buffalo, who neverhas been held by thongs, who is the hardest fighter and the boldesthunter of all the lands from the Mohawk to the Great River of theIllinois? Listen, I will tell you how many canoes of furs the BigBuffalo has in the north country; I will tell you--"

  The Indian's head nodded almost imperceptibly. A yawning brave waswalking slowly along the bank of the stream, gathering wood for afire. He passed to a point a few rods below the prisoner, then cameback and disappeared among the trees.

  "I will tell you," said Menard, keeping his voice at such a low pitchthat the guard had to bend his head slightly toward him, "of the greatbales of beaver that are held safe in the stores of the Big Buffalo.Does my brother understand? Does he see that these bales are for him,that he will be as rich as the greatest chief among all the chiefs ofthe Long House? No brave shall have such a musket,--with a long,straight barrel that will send a ball to the shoulder of a buffalofarther than the flight of three arrows. His blanket shall be thebrightest in Onondaga; his many clothes, his knives, his hatchets, hiscollars of wampum shall have no equal. He can buy the prettiest wivesin the nation. Does my brother understand?"

  The fire had been lighted, and a row of wild hens turned slowly onwooden spits over the flames. One by one the warriors were rousing andstirring about among the trees. There were shouts and calls, and thegrumbling talk of the cooks as they held the long spits and turnedtheir faces away from the smoke, which rose but slowly in the damp,heavy air. Menard lay with his eyes closed, as if asleep; even hislips hardly moved as he talked.

  "My brother must think quickly, for th
e time is short. All that Ipromise he will have, if he will be a friend to the Big Buffalo. Andevery Onondaga knows that the word of the Big Buffalo is a word thathas never been broken. My brother will be a friend. He will watchclose, and to-night, when the dark has come, he will let his knifetouch the thongs that hold the White Chief captive."

  The Indian's face was without expression. Menard watched him closely,but could not tell whether his offer was taking effect. What he had nomeans of knowing was that since the battle at the hut, and the shortfight in the council-house, the younger braves had centred theirsuperstitions on him. It was thought that his body was occupied bysome bad spirit that gave him the strength of five men, and that hehad been sent to their village by a devil to lure the warriors intothe hands of the French. These were not the open views that would havebeen heard at a council; they were the fears of the untried warriors,who had not the vision to understand the diplomacy of the chiefs, northe position in the village to give them a public hearing. They hadtalked together in low tones, feeding the common fear, until a fewwords from the Long Arrow had aroused them into action. And so thisguard was between two emotions: the one a lust for wealth and positionin the tribe, common to every Indian and in most cases a strongermotive than any of the nobler sentiments; the other an unreasoningfear of this "bad doctor," the fear that to aid him or to accept fursfrom him would poison the ears of his own Oki, and destroy his chanceof a name and wealth during his life, and of a long, glorious huntafter death.

  "My brother shall come with me to the land of the white men, wherethere is no trouble,--where he shall have a great lodge like the whitechiefs, with coloured pictures in gold frames, and slaves to preparehis food. He shall be a great chief among white men and redmen, andhis stores shall be filled to the doors with furs of beaver andseal."

  Menard's voice was so low and deliberate that the Indian did notquestion his statements. He was tempted more strongly than he had everbeen tempted before, but with the desire grew the fear of theconsequences. As for the Captain, he was clutching desperately at thisslender chance that lay to his hand.

  "I have given my brother his choice of greater power than was everbefore offered to a youth who has yet to win his name. The stroke of aknife will do it. No one shall know, for the Big Buffalo can betrusted. My brother has it before him to be a red chief or a whitechief, as he may wish. The warriors are near,--the day grows bright;he must speak quickly."

  There was a call from the group by the fire, and the young Indian gavea little start, and slowly rising, walked away, yielding his place asguard to an older man. Menard rolled over and pressed his face to theground as if weary; he could then watch the youth through the grass ashe moved to the fire, but in a moment he lost sight of him. The newguard was a stern-faced brave, and his appearance promised no help; sothe Captain, having done all that could be done at the moment, triedto get another sleep, struggling to put thoughts of the maid from hismind. Perhaps, after all, she was safe at the village.

  Meantime the youth, after a long struggle with the temptings of thebad doctor, yielded to his superstition, and sought the Long Arrow,who lay on the green bank of the stream. In a few moments the storywas told, and the chief, with a calm face but with twinkling eyes,came to the prisoner and stood looking down at him.

  "The White Chief is glad to be with his Onondaga brothers?" he said inhis quiet voice.

  Menard slowly raised his eyes, and looked coolly at the chief withoutreplying.

  "The tongue of the Big Buffalo is weary perhaps? It has moved so manytimes to tell the Onondaga what is not true, that now it asks forrest. The Long Arrow is kind. He will not seek to move it again. Foranother sleep it shall lie at rest; then it may be that our bravesshall find a way to stir it."

  Menard rolled over, with an expression of contempt, and closed hiseyes.

  "The Long Arrow was sorry that his white brother was disappointed atthe torture. Perhaps he will have better fortune after he has sleptagain. Already have the fires been lighted that shall warm the heartof the White Chief. And he shall have friends to brighten him. Hissquaw, too, shall feel the glow of the roaring fire, and the gentlehands of the Onondaga warriors, who do not forget the deaths of theirown blood."

  Menard lay still.

  "Another sleep, my brother, and the great White Chief who speaks withthe voice of Onontio shall be with his friends. He shall hear thesweet voice of his young squaw through the smoke that shall be hergarment. He shall hear the prayers of his holy Father by his side, andshall know that his spirit is safe with the Great Spirit who is notstrong enough to give him his life when the Long Arrow takes itaway."

  There was still a mad hope that the chief spoke lies, that the maidand Father Claude were safe. True or false, the Long Arrow wouldsurely talk thus; for the Iroquois were as skilled in the torments ofthe mind as of the body. He was conscious that the keen voice wasgoing on, but he did not follow what it said. Again he was going overand over in his mind all the chances of escape. It might be that theyouth had been moved by his offer. But at that moment he heard theLong Arrow saying:--

  " ... Even before his death the Big Buffalo must lie as he has alwayslied. His tongue knows not the truth. He thinks to deceive our youngbraves with talk of his furs and his lodges and his power in the landof the white men. But our warriors know the truth. They know that theBig Buffalo has no store of furs, no great lodges,--that he lives inthe woods with only a stolen musket, where he can by his lies capturethe peaceful hunters of the Onondagas to make them the slaves of hisChief-Across-the-Water."