Роберт Чамберс - The Hidden Children

"Kill that executioner!" panted Lois, struggling in my arms. "In God's name, slay him where he stands!"

"It means our death," said the Sagamore.

The Night Hawk came crouching close to my shoulder. He had unslung and strung his little painted bow of an adolescent, and was fitting the nock of a slim arrow to the string.

He looked up at me; I nodded; and as the executioner clapped his heels together, straightened himself, and drew the arrow to his ear, we heard a low twang! And saw the black hand of the Seneca pinned to his own bow by the Night Hawk's shaft.

So noiselessly was it done that the fascinated throng could not at first understand what had happened to the executioner, who sprang into the air, screamed, and stood clawing and plucking at the arrow while his bow hung dripping with blood, yet nailed to his shrinking palm.

Amochol, frozen to a scarlet statue, stared at the contortions of the executioner for a moment, then, livid, wheeled on the Prophetess, shaking from head to foot.

"Is this your accursed magic?" he shouted. "Is this your witchcraft, Sorceress of Biskoonah? Is it thus you strike when threatened? Then you shall burn! Take her, Andastes!"

But the Andastes, astounded and terrified, only cowered together in a swaying pack.

Restraining Lois with all my strength, I said to the Mohican:

"If Boyd comes not before they take her, concentrate your fire on Amochol, for we can not hope to make him prisoner―"

"Hark!" motioned the Sagamore, grasping my arm. I heard also, and so did the others. The woods on our left were full of noises, the trample of people running, the noise of crackling underbrush.

We all thought the same thing, and stood waiting to see Boyd's onset break from the forest. The Red Priest also heard it, for he had turned where he stood, his rigid arm still menacing the White Sorceress.

Suddenly, into the firelit circle staggered a British soldier, hatless, dishevelled, his scarlet uniform in rags.

For a moment he stood staring about him, swaying where he stood, then with a hopeless gesture he flung his musket from him and passed a shaking hand across his eyes.

"O Amochol!" cried the Sorceress, pointing a slim and steady finger at the bloody soldier. "Have I dreamed lies or have I dreamed the truth? Hearken! The woods are full of people running! Do you hear? And have I lied to you, O Amochol?"

"From whence do you come?" cried Amochol, striding toward the soldier.

"From the Chemung. Except for the dead we all are coming—Butler and Brant and all. Bring out your corn, Seneca! The army starves."

Amochol stared at the soldier, at the executioner still writhing and struggling to loose his hand from the bloody arrow, at the Sorceress who had veiled her face.

"Witch!" he cried, "get you to Yndaia. If you stir elsewhere you shall burn!"

He had meant to say more, I think, but at that moment, from the southern woods men came reeling out into the fire–circle—ghastly, bloody, ragged creatures in shreds of uniforms, green, red, and brown—men and officers of Sir John's regiment, men of Butler's Rangers, British regulars. On their heels glided the Seneca warriors, warriors of the Cayugas, Onondagas, Caniengas, Esauroras, and here and there a traitorous Oneida, and even a few Hurons.

Pell–mell this mob of fighting men came surging through the fire–circle, and straight into Catharines–town, while I and my Indians crouched there, appalled and astounded.

I saw Sir John Johnson come up with the officers of his two battalions and a captain, a sergeant, a corporal, and fifteen British regulars.

"Clear me out this ring of mummers!" he said in his cold, penetrating voice. "And thou, Amochol, if this damned town of thine be stocked, bring out the provisions and set these Eries a–roasting corn!"

I saw McDonald storming and cursing at his irregulars, where the poor brutes had gathered into a wavering rank; I saw young Walter Butler haranguing his Rangers and Senecas; I saw Brant, calm, noble, stately, standing supported by two Caniengas while a third examined his wounded leg.

The whole place was a tumult of swarming savages and white men; already the Seneca women, crowding among the men, were raising the death wail. The dancing girls huddled together in a frightened and half–naked group; the Andastes cowered apart; the servile Eries were staggering out of the corn fields laden with ripe ears; and the famished soldiers were shouting and cursing at them and tearing the corn from their arms to gnaw the raw and milky grains.

How we were to withdraw and escape destruction I did not clearly see, for our path must cross the eastern belt of forest, and it was still swarming with fugitives arriving, limping, dragging themselves in from the disaster of the Chemung.

Hopeless to dream of taking or slaying Amochol now; hopeless to think of warning Boyd or even of finding him. Somewhere in the North he had met with obstacles which delayed him. He must scout for himself, now, for the entire Tory army was between him and us.

"There is but one way now," whispered the Mohican.

"By Yndaia," I said.

My Indians were of the same opinion.

"I should have gone there anyway," said Lois, still all a–quiver, and shivering close to my shoulder. I put my arm around her; every muscle of her body was rigid, taut, yet trembling, as a smooth and finely turned pointer trembles with eagerness and powerful self–control.

"Amochol has driven her thither," she whispered. "Shall we not be on our way?"

"Can you lead, Mayaro?" I whispered.

The Mohican turned and crawled southward on his hands and knees, moving slowly.

"For God's sake let them hear no sound in this belt of bush," I whispered to Lois.

"I am calm, Euan. I am not afraid."

"Then fallow the Sagamore."

One by one we turned and crept away southward; and I was ever fearful that some gleam from the fire, catching our rifle–barrels or axe–heads, might betray us. But we gained the denser growth undiscovered, then rose to our feet in the open forest and hurried forward in file, crowding close to keep in touch.

Once Lois turned and called back in a low, breathless voice;

"I thank Tahoontowhee from my heart for his true eye and his avenging arrow."

The young warrior laughed; but I knew he was the proudest youth in all the West that night.

The great cat–owls were shrieking and yelping through the forest as we sped southward. My Indians, silent and morose, their vengeance unslaked and now indefinitely deferred, moved at a dog trot through the forest, led by the Sagamore, whose eyes saw as clearly in the dark as my own by day.

And after a little while we noticed the stars above us, and felt ferns and grass under our feet, and came out into that same glade from whence runs the trail to Yndaia through the western hill cleft.

"People ahead!" whispered the Sagamore. "Their Sorceress and six Eries!"

"Are you certain?" I breathed, loosening my hatchet.

"Certain, Loskiel. Yonder they are halted within the ferns. They are at the stream, drinking."

I caught Lois by the wrist.

"Come with me—hurry!" I said, as the Indians darted away and began to creep out and around the vague and moving group of shadows. And as we sped forward I whispered brokenly my instructions, conjuring her to obey.

We were right among them before they dreamed of our coming; not a war–cry was uttered; there was no sound save the crashing blows of hatchets, the heavy, panting breathing of those locked in a death struggle, the deep groan and coughing as a knife slipped home.

I flung a clawing Erie from me ere his blood drenched me, and he fell floundering, knifed through and through, and tearing a hole in my rifle–cape with his teeth as he fell. Two others lay under foot; my Oneidas were slaying another in the ferns, and the Sagamore's hatchet, swinging like lightning, dashed another into eternity.