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23. Renée heard a stir in the leaves and started with a little cry. The
hand was raised for silence.
“Pardon me. I will do you no harm,” he said, with an appeal in his
voice. “It was the language that sounded so sweet to me. I am
French. I come from Detroit. But we fell in with a band of Indians
and only three of us escaped unhurt. We were made prisoners.”
“And we are prisoners, too,” returned Wawataysee, with a sigh. “We
come from St. Louis.”
“St. Louis! How strange! I had meant to go there. I have an uncle,
Pierre Valbonais.”
“Oh, I know!” cried Renée with delight, as if she had found a friend.
“He comes in my uncle’s shop; and Uncle Gaspard likes him. They sit
and smoke together.”
“And I am André Valbonais. We are companions in adversity, both
prisoners. Whither are you going?”
Wawataysee shook her head. “We do not know, m’sieu.”
He laughed softly. “How natural that sounds! I am glad to hear a
familiar voice. Neither do I know my destination. It is one thing to-
day, another to-morrow. I do not think they know themselves. Black
Feather is chief of the gang. Now and then they quarrel. He killed
two Indians not more than a week ago who wanted to have their
own way, but he has not been cruel to us. Still, I dream of escape
continually.”
“Ah, if we could compass it together!” and Wawataysee’s beautiful
eyes went to his very heart.
The woman came out with her beadwork in her hand.
24. “You are not of our people,” she said. “You have no right here. Go
your way.”
“Perhaps not. I am a sort of compulsory guest, but I will say adieu,”
and bowing, he disappeared in the shrubbery; but his last glance
said he would find them again.
“Who was it?” The woman looked from one to the other.
“He is French, and a prisoner. The chief is Black Feather. But the
young man comes from Detroit.”
She gave a nod, as if she knew this much already.
Elk Horn and Black Feather had cemented a friendship over their
whiskey. They would start the next morning. The word was given to
be early astir, and the woman roused them.
“Every step takes us farther away,” said Wawataysee regretfully. Yet
they would be in the company of Valbonais, who had resolved upon
escape.
She walked slowly down to the river’s edge, holding Renée by the
hand. Black Feather caught sight of her. Her tall, lithe figure, her airy
step, the poise of the head, had a touch of familiarity. Ah, yes! and
the name. The pretty Firefly had been taken away from the strait by
a white trader, and her brother had been unsuccessful in his attempt
to capture her. Ah, if this was she, then he was truly in luck!
He did not attempt to come nearer, but saw her and the child step
into the boat. Elk Horn took command of this. Black Feather
gathered his small force together, and his boatload of treasures of
different kinds with which he could purchase supplies, and the other
looked on with envy.
All day Black Feather watched warily, more and more certain that
this girl would prove a treasure to him if he managed rightly. He
25. would buy her of Elk Horn.
“What do you know about her?” he inquired. “She comes from St.
Louis. Who was her father? for she has Indian blood, and I am sure
I know her tribe.”
Elk Horn looked amazed. “I believe she married a trader and came
with him. I will ask her.”
“No. Cannot some of the men tell you?”
“Oh, I think so. Have you been smitten with her charms?”
The Indian nodded, but his face showed no emotion.
They made a rude camp for the night and proceeded to cook some
supper.
“I have found out,” announced Elk Horn. “A Frenchman, Marchand,
married her. He was killed, I believe, in the assault on the town.”
“Yes, I like her. I will buy her of you. Let us make a bargain.”
“And the little one?” inquiringly.
“Oh, I do not want her. Yet she has some beauty, according to pale-
face ideas. But no, I will take only the Indian girl.”
They ate their supper of broiled fish, and then smoked in the
gathering darkness. Elk Horn deliberated. He had not exactly
thought of selling her, though it was often done with female
captives. He had two wives now, and did not want to be burdened
with a third who was a helpless young girl. Wives were for profit, in
his estimation.
Black Feather was as wary. He was not sure he wanted to marry her.
She might prove turbulent and headstrong. Half breeds were not as
26. tractable as Indian women. And they were not as strong. They might
die on your hands, and what, then, would one have for the bargain?
“You will take the child. I will not part them. You can spare a trifle
more. She will soon grow up.”
Black Feather shrugged his shoulders and was silent.
“Then there is no bargain,” declared Elk Horn. “I will offer my wares
to some other chief. I think of one farther up in the Illinois country.
But our ways may be together a few days longer. It need not make
ill friends.”
Black Feather brought out some whiskey. He knew how to tempt his
brother. To have a supply of this for days would be more satisfying
than any future gain. For the present was the great thing to the
Indian’s improvident nature. And so Black Feather made his bargain,
including the child that he really did not care for. Yet perhaps it
would be better not to separate them at present.
Elk Horn had not slept off all his potion. His compeer was awake
early, and had laid aside the promised treasures for his inspection.
Then he called his men and stealthily manned his own boats. He
judged rightly that Elk Horn would not leave the place until the last
drop of firewater had been drained, and then it would take him a
few days to get over his debauch.
“Come,” he exclaimed roughly, at length. “Here is your portion—
beads, wampum, skins and whiskey.”
Elk Horn nodded and rubbed his bleared eyes. He looked at the
goods and they seemed magnified to his sight, so adroitly were they
spread about.
“Ugh! It is early,” with a yawn.
27. “I must be on my way. You can overtake me at night. We will share
the same fire, and I will have everything prepared for my brother.
But I wish you to rouse the two captives and have them ready also.
You will lead them to the boat, so there need be no disturbance.”
Elk Horn considered. Wawataysee might object to her new master.
He felt his part had been rather underhand, but was she not his
property?
They were a little surprised at the summons, and to be hurried off
without breakfast. The canoes were already out in the river. The
larger boat had a few men in it. Elk Horn put in Renée first.
“Where are we going?” the Indian girl asked, turning toward him.
“Up the river,” roughly, in a thick, guttural voice. “Come, get in.”
She stepped aboard, not especially remarking the men. Then
suddenly her eye fell upon Valbonais, who greeted her with a joyous
expression. Had he been handed over to Elk Horn? She experienced
a certain contentment, and suspicion was allayed.
But as they emerged from the shadow of the overhanging trees she
saw that all the faces were strange. She had not noted the
newcomers in the camp, having been kept in seclusion, and it also
being her choice. Now a chill of terror ran over her. Noting the
aspect of two of the rowers more closely, she saw to her dismay that
they were Hurons. One man had his head turned from her and
bowed down.
“Why do we go so early?” asked Renée. “And we have had no
breakfast.”
“I do not know,” tremblingly.
“And why did Elk Horn stay on shore?”
28. “Did he?” with a curious lift of the brows.
“Oh, yes; I saw him. And these men—oh, where are Pierre and
Jules? But there is the young man who came and talked to us. Oh,
Wawataysee, shall we never stay anywhere again? How can we get
back to St. Louis?”
“Hush, dear; hush!”
“But I am getting hungry. And I am so tired of sailing.”
She leaned her head down on Wawataysee’s lap. Every moment the
Indian girl grew more terrified. True, Elk Horn and his men might
come on. But these Hurons!
The boat glided along. The sun rose higher and made of the river a
band of gold and gems, where each little wavelet dazzled in strange
colors. They passed great plains where grass grew rank and waved
in the wind like another sea of green. Then a belt of pines or walnut,
the first standing stiff and strong, the others mound-like.
The bowed figure had straightened itself and spoken to the men, but
not turned his face. Now he gave an order and the boat swerved in
toward the shore, grating a little on the pebbly beach. The other one
in advance turned also. Some food was distributed. He spoke in the
Huron language, and said they must make Bear Creek by night.
It was dreadful to go out in the broiling sun again, but presently a
cooling breeze blew up. They passed a chain of boats well laden,
going down, the French sailors singing a merry lilt, and they gave
each other greeting. The shadows began to grow longer and a
reviving fragrance was wafted over from the shore edge. There were
fields abloom with gay flowers, then shrubby clumps, and when the
sun went down they had neared a little cove where one could see
two rather dilapidated wigwams. Here they were to stop for the
night.
29. The men began to make a fire, while provisions were brought out of
the boat. The two girls had been left alone, but now the chief—
Wawataysee knew he was that by his dress and a long black feather
stuck through the topknot of hair—turned to her. Oh, then she was
quite sure she had seen him before and her heart stood still. Yes, it
was in that life she had fled from.
He addressed her in the Huron tongue; she answered irrelevantly in
French. A frown crossed his brow, but he handed them both out of
the boat with a firm grasp on the arm of each, and led them to the
smaller tent of the two. Some fir and hemlock branches had been
thrown on the ground and covered with a blanket.
“You and the child will be safe here. You will be well guarded,” with
a cruel little smile. “Some supper will be sent you. Compose
yourself.”
She gave no sign of recognition.
“You cannot deceive me, Firefly of the Hurons, even if some French
blood does course in your veins and you are tricked out in this attire.
Your brother’s anger was kindled against you when you made him
break his word, when you ran off with a vile Frenchman. If you could
have been found justice would have been swift and sure. And now
you will go back. You will not be a wife this time, but a slave to your
master and his other wives.”
“I am a wife already,” she answered proudly in his language, since it
was no use to feign. “I have been wedded a year by a priest, and
the Great Manitou will call down vengeance upon those who dare
interfere with his ordinances. And what right have you to bring me
here?”
“I bought you, Mistress Insolence. And I shall double my price when
the Chief Pamussac hears that you will be at his service.”
30. There was a little dagger lying in a treasure box at home. Her
husband had given it to her. If she had it here she would stab him to
the heart.
“Well, what is your reply?” he asked in a tone of triumph. “Your
white lord is dead. He cannot come at your call.”
“My reply is that we are both hungry and want some supper,” she
returned in an impatient tone. “And then some more blankets,”
glancing disdainfully at the pile of boughs. “You will hardly double
your money if you starve or maltreat me. I may die on your hands.”
Black Feather was more than amazed at the effrontery of the girl. He
stared at her, and his fingers worked as if he would like to clutch her
by the throat. Yes, what she said was true enough.
Wawataysee knew well that an Indian despised any sign of
weakness or cowardice, and that to secure good treatment she must
put on the boldness of the soldier who does not fear even death,
and from whom his persecutors can extort no groan.
“I will send you some supper. And guards shall be set to keep you
from harm,” in a mocking tone.
“Take my thanks for that,” she flung out sharply. “I am mortally
afraid of the wild beasts of the forests. And I would like some sleep
after this hot, fatiguing day and the early start of the morning.”
“Oh, what did he say?” and Renée clung to her with desperation.
“He was so fierce I thought he would kill us. And why are we here?
Where is Elk Horn?”
“My little darling, it seems that we have been sold and are to be
taken up north, unless the Great Manitou or the pitying Virgin listens
to our prayers and sends us rescue. It is a long way and something
may happen.”
31. Renée began to cry.
“Sweet, take courage. I do not know why, but I have a curious faith
that overrides my fears, that something will intervene. Elk Horn has
dealt treacherously, after the fashion of his tribe. Oh, my darling! I
know you will see Uncle Gaspard again, so dry your tears.”
“I am so tired of the journeying and those fierce men. Do you
remember the old Chief Neepawa and the women of the village?
They seemed like ours at home.”
“Ah, I wish we were there!”
The supper came in, and, in spite of their fears, they were hungry.
The wind rose and the air was delightfully cool. Wawataysee spread
the bed and the child was soon peacefully asleep. The tent pole was
a tree that had been trimmed for that purpose, and the young girl
leaned against it, watching the flicker of the fire without and the
pine torches that had been lighted. Courageous as she had
appeared, every pulse shrank and throbbed. But there was death.
She would be no man’s slave. Only Renée must not be left behind.
She knew of poisonous plants for which there was no remedy. Oh,
would she have the courage to take another’s life?
She dozed at length, even in her uncomfortable position. Then
something roused her, a rending crash and a glare that seemed to
be the world on fire. She sprang up, and the next crash she knew
was the storm that had broken over them with the wildest fury.
Were there cries of beast and men mingled with it? The deluge
seemed to sweep the ground, the trees writhed and groaned and
crashed in the fury of the gale. In the intervals she could hear voices
without. Presently the flashes of bewildering light ceased, though
the mutterings of thunder could still be heard, and the trees were
wind-swept by the fierceness of the mighty power. One and another
came down, but her tent stood the storm and was sheltered by an
angle of three trees.
32. The gray light of morning began to dawn sullenly. She watched the
faint streaks stealing through the loopholes. Renée still slept. She
went to the flap of the wigwam and raised it. The rain was pouring
in torrents. There at her feet lay a body, the leggings and deer-skin
breeches ploughed by a curious zigzag streak, scorched and torn,
and the blanket shrivelled to fragments. Some figures were moving
about like wraiths in the dusky light. It was a weird picture. She was
not at all afraid. She was used to forest storms.
One of the figures came nearer. “Ma’m’selle!” it said in a whisper.
The familiar word was the sweetest music. She stretched out her
hand.
“I never saw anything so terrible. And you—lived? Others have gone.
Three are dead. One is drowned, and Black Feather—” Valbonais’s
voice trembled.
“Well!” with a long breath. Did she hope for his death?
“He ordered the men to look after the boats. They had been drawn
up, but the ground was sloping, the rain a torrent, the blackness
something fearful save when the blinding blaze of light came. He
was there ordering, cursing, threatening. Then a tree crashed down
and pinned him to the earth. He is badly hurt about the legs, but has
voice enough left in him for four.”
Wawataysee shuddered.
“Ma’m’selle!” in a breathless manner.
“Yes?” with eager inquiry.
“I am going to escape. There never can be a more favorable
moment.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried in a piercing tone.
33. “I shall find my way to St. Louis. Ma’m’selle, if you and the child
dared and would trust me. For if I have heard aright, you are to be
taken to some chief up in the straits. And if you shrank from going
——”
“I shall never reach there alive. I know a swift, unfailing poison—”
And her words came out sharply.
He gave her a half-horrified, half-entreating look.
“It will be a hard journey. But if we should start now there is not
much chance of our being overtaken. Everything is in such
confusion, and it may be weeks before Black Feather is able to move
about. We would follow the river as well as we could, keeping out of
sight if the other boats come up, as they are likely to do. For the rest
we must trust to the good God. I shall take a gun. I have dreamed
this over many times. And if you will go——”
“You mean to start now—in the storm?”
“It will clear up presently, by noon. Meanwhile, I could plan all the
arrangements. Just now you are not a close prisoner. There is no
telling what may happen to-morrow.”
“That is true.” Wawataysee studied the eager young face. The eyes
had an honest, pleading look. “I will trust you,” she said. “Tell me
what to do when you are ready.”
The party were too terror-stricken to think much of their captives.
There were the three dead men lying out in the rain. They brought
Black Feather up to the miserable wigwam and bound up his bruised
limbs, finding that one leg only was broken. Black Feather had
tabooed the company of women on these journeys, and had a half-
breed that he had trained for a cook. Just now an old Indian nurse
would have been very serviceable. Once he roused himself from his
pain and suffering, cursing with true Indian passion.
34. “Look if the girl and the child are safe,” he commanded in
threatening tones.
They had fared very well in the storm. Both they and the shelter had
taken no harm.
Valbonais had gathered a sack of provisions and taken it down below
the camp some distance, leaving it there with the gun. He had been
very helpful all the morning, and his brief absence had not been
noted.
At noon the rain ceased, though it was nearly an hour before the
sun came out. Dinner was eaten, the boats were dragged up so as
to be within sight, and two or three of the Indians were kept busy
about their master. Two of the prisoners had been killed and one
Indian. Black Feather ordered them buried.
Valbonais came to the door of the tent.
“Give me one of the blankets,” he said, “and send the child out to
the back of the tent when you can do so unperceived. Then wrap
yourself in the other and steal away. We will take the other side of
the strip of woods. It is not wide.”
Renée ran out presently and seized his hand.
“Oh, are we going back to St. Louis?” she asked in a whisper, while
her eyes were alight with joy.
“I hope so, little one. Come this way. Now you will not be afraid to
stay here. Do not utter a cry or sound. Wrap the blanket about you
—so.”
Then Valbonais waited and waited. He made one journey to Renée
to comfort her. Then he saw Wawataysee struggling through an
aperture she had made in the tent, and ran to her assistance.
35. “There were so many of them about,” she said breathlessly. “I
pinned the tent flap down with a stout stick, so they may think I am
asleep. Oh, let us hurry. I am so afraid,” and she trembled in her
excitement, though she ran lightly along.
When they reached Renée he picked up the sack of food and slung it
over his shoulder, took the gun and one blanket, while Wawataysee
wrapped the other about herself, the gray making her more
indistinct. Renée, wild with joy, danced and skipped, and could not
repress soft gurgles of laughter as she kept on ahead of them.
Valbonais found Wawataysee fleet of foot and graceful as a forest
nymph. The blanket did not seem to impede her skimming motion.
The sense of danger and the thought of freedom inspired her, and
hope swelled anew in her breast. Surely the good God would have
François in His keeping and let them meet again.
36. CHAPTER X—IN THE WILDERNESS
The way was tolerably clear for a long distance, though shielded
from the view of the Indians by the intervening trees. When the strip
of woods failed them for shelter it was growing dusk, and, with the
rise of the wind, they could hardly have been distinguished from the
waving shrubbery. Valbonais paused and glanced back now and
then, but no pursuers were in sight.
“Take it a little more moderately,” Valbonais said. “We must not lose
sight of the river, or we may go astray. Though we have made a gain
by cutting off this point that juts into the stream. Ah, if we only had
any kind of a boat!”
“They might see us on the river.”
“Hardly at night, and not very clear at that. We must make for that
dark line ahead of us, a bit of woods where we can camp for the
night.”
It was quite dark when they reached it, and with some difficulty he
made a light. It was largely scrubby pines and the soil was sandy,
dry in spite of the tremendous rain, though evidently there had not
been as much here. Valbonais found a dead, dry branch of pine,
which he lighted, and began to explore. A short distance in was a
pile of stones heaped up four or five feet, evidently some burial spot.
He glanced at its capabilities, then began tumbling out the smaller
ones that seemed to be largely at one side.
“What are you going to do?” asked Wawataysee.
“Make a sort of cave. Oh, you will see,” laughingly.
37. “But let me help,” she cried eagerly.
“No, no! Or, if you wish, will you take my knife and cut some pine
boughs, the bushiest ones?”
He had stuck his dry branch in the sand and piled a few others
around it. Renée stood by the fire, much interested.
Valbonais tore out the stones until he had a hollow place like a great
chair. This he partly filled with the ends of the boughs Wawataysee
had gathered.
“This will make a bed for you and the child. You will have to sleep
sitting up; but you ought to be able to sleep anywhere.”
“Oh, look! look!” cried Renée, clapping her hands. “A golden baby
moon down there in the sky! Is it not beautiful?”
The sky was of deepest azure, the stars mostly to the northwest.
One was almost at the point of the crescent, as if lighting each other
on the way.
“To-morrow or the next night it will be in her arms,” said the young
fellow.
“A baby star in a cradle,” exclaimed Renée. “Oh, is it not wonderful?
What is that?” and she suddenly shrank toward her companions.
“Only the cry of some night bird. These clumps of woods are not
thick enough to harbor wild animals, thank the saints! Now,
ma’m’selle, you sit here and try it.”
He had spread a blanket over the pine boughs. She sank gracefully
into the seat and leaned back her head with a certain air of
luxuriance.
“Oh, it is splendid!” in a grateful tone.
38. Renée ran to try.
Valbonais stirred out the coals, took a piece of dried fish from his
bag and some corn cakes and toasted both. They were hungry
enough to eat without any demur—in truth, enjoyed it in the perfect
freedom from fear.
“Now,” he said, “you must settle yourself for the night. I do not think
we shall be molested. The small band will be busy with their chief
and repairing damages. Then I found some of them were very
superstitious about a woman being in the party.”
“But I was held only for the money I would bring Black Feather.
Otherwise I would have been looked upon as a useless burden. They
dropped off poor Mère Lunde on the way, and yet she could have
done them good service. Come, Renée.”
“I am not a bit sleepy,” returned Renée. “It seems almost like being
at home with no fierce Indians about; only if Uncle Gaspard were
here, and M’sieu Marchand,” she was about to add, but checked
herself.
“We must be up betimes to-morrow and on our way,” Valbonais said.
“It will not do to loiter.”
“What will you do meanwhile?” inquired Wawataysee.
“Sit here and tend the fire,” he said. “I shall only keep enough to see
about in case I have to defend myself from any midnight prowler.”
He folded the blankets around the two, who certainly looked
comfortable in their rocky bed. He pushed his way through the
thicket and ran down a short distance, where he had command of
the river. Nothing was going either way. How sweet and tranquil it all
was, after the terrors of last night! He could have stayed there hours
watching the stars come out brighter and brighter, and the soft wind
weaving strange melodies, whispering of hope.
39. Both girls were asleep when he returned. He sat down outside the
enclosure and leaned his shoulders against it. His gun was by his
side, his knife in his belt. He should have had a hatchet, too; that
useful article no one scarcely travelled without, but in the excitement
he had not thought of everything. Once he replenished the fire; then
the fuel gave out and he fell asleep.
Nothing molested them. The singing of some birds in the thicket
roused him. He hurried to the river; all was tranquil, silent, with no
enemy in sight. Then he glanced down the long and arid space,
where even grass grew sparsely in the sandy soil that held no
moisture. They must start early so as to escape the mid-day heat.
Wawataysee had risen and smoothed her ruffled plumes.
“It is so beautiful!” she said, with heartfelt pleasure. “And, oh, to be
free from horrid fears! I slept so tranquilly. Did you have any rest?”
“I forgot everything,” and he laughed with a glad sound. “I was not
a very good watcher, perhaps, but I think any unusual noise would
have startled me.”
“You are so good! What would we have done without you?” raising
her beautiful, grateful eyes.
He flushed warmly. “We cannot have much variety for breakfast,”
with a gleam of amusement. “We may fare better to-night.”
He lighted the small fire again, collecting the charred embers.
“Is it far to the river—and safe?”
“Not much of a run,” he answered. “The shore is shallow. I had a
reviving bath.”
“Come, Renée,” and she held out her hand to the child.
40. Meanwhile, Valbonais replaced the stones, wondering what hands
had brought them there in the first instance, and whether white or
Indian lay at rest beneath them. The girls were racing over the sand,
bright, fresh and glowing, and they partook of their simple breakfast
and started on their journey. The sun was not shining brightly, yet
there was no indication of rain. It was as if Nature was indulging in a
tranquil mood. Now and then a flock of birds went sailing over their
heads, and a squirrel out of place ran nimbly across the sand.
“You have no idea how far it is to St. Louis?” their companion
inquired.
“Oh, hundreds of miles!” cried Renée.
“Hardly that,” said Wawataysee. “There have been so many delays.
When I came from the straits it was with the fleet, and I hardly took
note;” flushing as she recalled the delightful journey with her
husband. “Yet it seems to me we cannot have gone so very far up.”
“Is there any particular point that you can remember? There was the
Indian settlement where we met, little thinking then that we should
be mates on a return journey. Whether it would be safe to trust
them——”
“There was another halt, up a little stream. A settlement of Peoria
Indians, who are kindly and who have adopted many habits from the
whites, are more intelligent than most other tribes. That is down
farther still. It was our first stopping place. They were very generous
with provisions.”
“That will be one of our troubles. Still there will be small game to
shoot and fish to catch.”
Although there was considerable travel down the Illinois and some
quite well-appointed stations, they were far between. The fur and
trading fleets, if the lines of flat boats and canoes could be called
that, carried abundant provisions. Roving bands of Indians and
41. parties of adventurous hunters crossing the interior were the only
travellers, and they often stopped at the forts.
They went farther out by the river. And suddenly there was a serious
surprise. Around a wooded bend came a canoe filled with Indians.
Then another and one of stores, and one figure was suspiciously
studying the shore. They had hidden among the trees, but were
peering out cautiously.
“Oh!” Wawataysee whispered, “it is Elk Horn and his party! See, he
is standing up, looking this way! O Mother of God, come to the
assistance of thy children!” and, sinking on her knees, she clasped
her hands in supplication.
It was Elk Horn. He had sobered up and began to realize that he
might have made a better bargain with his prisoners. He had
secured some more arms and ammunition, and hoped now to
overtake Black Feather. His glance around was not indicative of the
slightest certainty. He could not have dreamed that the fugitives in
the woods were the very ones he meant to quarrel and perhaps fight
about when he met Black Feather.
Wawataysee scarcely breathed until the last canoe was but a dusky
line on the river.
“We certainly are safe,” Valbonais said. “Of course, they could not
suppose we had escaped.”
“I was so afraid they were in search of a landing place. Oh, if they
had stopped!” in terror.
“Then we would have plunged farther in the woods, climbed trees
even. I do not mean to be taken a prisoner again; and surely, it will
go hard with me if you are, or hard with the abductor!” with a gleam
of resolution.
42. “I am glad they have gone up the river,” declared Wawataysee. “Now
there is no fear of meeting them.”
“If we could find some traders coming down——”
“And trust them?” There was a troubled light in her eye. “Oh, now
that I know there are two people in the world, perhaps three,
hungering for revenge on me, I am sore afraid at times. I shall never
see a Huron without reading a menace in his eye.”
Valbonais glanced at her inquiringly.
“You have heard part of the story. Let me join the tangled threads,
and you will the better understand my misgivings.”
“Let us go on now. Every hour is precious. And it will delight me to
listen to anything that has concerned thee,” bowing low to her.
So she told of her home and her affiliations with the French, being
related on her mother’s side, and how she had always liked them the
more, while her brother was proud of his Indian blood and his
chieftain father. It was not until she had met and loved François
Marchand and plighted her troth to him that she was informed of her
brother’s intentions toward her, and she prayed to him for the liberty
of choosing her own husband—admitted, indeed, that she had
chosen him and could be the wife of no one else. Then he had sent
a messenger to say that her escort was on the way with orders to
bring him to her at once, and that preparations were being made for
a grand marriage. The trading fleet was ready. She had only to step
on board. At the first mission station they had stopped for the priest
to marry them.
“So, you see, I could never, never be the wife of any other man. And
this chief has two wives. He told my brother that I should be first:
but Indian women do not always accept their dismissal so easily.”
43. There was a proud, steadfast light in her eyes, the bloom of courage
and constancy on her soft cheek. How beautiful she was!
“And M. Marchand——” in a low tone, half inquiry.
“Whether he is dead or alive I do not know. But I am his in death as
well as life,” with a firmness that bespoke the utmost devotion.
No, she would never let another wrest from her the holy bond she
had given him with her sweet maidenhood love.
Night was coming on apace again. There was no cairn of stones to
be transformed into a sleeping chamber. Renée was very tired and a
little pettish.
“Is there nothing for supper but these dried, hard cakes and the
fish?” she asked discontentedly.
“And not even that for breakfast,” Valbonais said lightly. “I must get
up early and shoot some game. There is no corn matured yet, so if
we came to growing fields the juicy ears would not be there. But I
think I can find something,” hopefully.
This night they had to have a forest bed, but he found a place soft
with a kind of dried turf, and spread out one blanket for pallet and
left one to cover them with. Then he kindled a fire at some distance,
for he had heard the cry of an animal. Farther off, then nearer, a
stealthy creeping along. He reached for his gun and glanced
cautiously around. Presently he caught the glare of two sparks of
flame coming nearer, crouching down, and he fired.
“Oh, what is it?” Wawataysee sprang up in affright.
“Some animal. I think he is dead, however.” He lighted a torch and
went nearer, touched the creature with his foot. The shot had hit
him squarely, shattering his head.
44. “Only a poor fox. Nothing for our breakfast;” yet he gave a cheerful
laugh.
“Oh, I am glad it was nothing worse.”
“Do not dream of trouble. The good God will watch over us.”
She pressed his hand. She was glad to be near a lightsome,
courageous human being.
Presently she stole back to her bed. Nothing else came to startle
them. When she woke again the sun was shining. Valbonais had
kindled a fire, shot and dressed some birds and was broiling them
before the coals.
“Was it a dream,” she asked, “or did you really shoot in the night?”
“Yes; and I have taken a part of the fox’s coat. It may be useful for
moccasin soles before we are through.”
“Poor thing!” she said pityingly.
The breakfast was delightful, after the two days of dried fish. Then
Renée found a patch of wild strawberries that the birds had not
discovered. They were dead ripe and luscious. Now they went on
with cheerful hearts, keeping the river in sight, but meeting nothing
more alarming than a herd of roaming deer. It was useless to fire at
them; birds would be more to the purpose. Toward night they struck
a rude cabin, made by hunters, as it did not look like Indian
workmanship. There had been a fire, but since that time it had
rained. Inside was a table and a bed of dried hemlock branches.
“I think we had better stay,” Valbonais announced. “It is a hunter’s
cabin, evidently, and no one has been here for some time. There is a
little stream of excellent water. We will trust luck, at all events.”
45. They had some supper and were glad of shelter, for it came on to
rain, but no such terrific storm as that which had worked such havoc
with Black Feather and his party. The soft patter on the leaves was
delightful music, though for awhile the rustle of the wind seemed
almost like the advance of human beings.
It was well they were under shelter, for it rained all the next day. No
one came to molest them. Valbonais caught such an excellent supply
of fish that he cooked some for the following day. If there was only
any ripe fruit!
“It was late in May when we left St. Louis,” Wawataysee said.
“And now it is June. What day I do not know.”
“Let us count back.”
But their reckoning was not alike. They forgot, and then recalled
incidents that had marked days, then lost count again. Renée was
wretchedly tired.
“Poor little thing!” exclaimed Wawataysee. “She has been very good
and courageous, but it is hard for her. And look at her poor little
moccasins—out to the ground.”
“Then Mr. Foxskin will serve us a useful purpose. I have nothing to
fasten them on with, but can tie them with strips of his skin to-
morrow. And yours?”
She flushed. Hers were in the same plight.
“But I can stand hardships better,” and she smiled cheerfully.
Renée slept all the afternoon and woke much refreshed. It had
stopped raining, and now they were full of plans for to-morrow. The
moon came out—the baby star had travelled nearly across it.