Роберт Чамберс - The Hidden Children

"What fashion?" asked Grey–Feather, so innocently that I could not determine whether he was playing into the Sagamore's hands.

"The fashion of wearing the hair in a short, stiff ridge," said the Mohican. "Has the Black–Snake ever seen it worn that way?"

"Never," said the Huron. And there was neither in his voice nor on his features the slightest tremour that we could discover in the fading light of the afterglow.

I rose to put an end to this, for my own nerves were now on edge; and I directed the two sentinels to their posts, the Wyandotte and the Oneida, Tahoontowhee.

Then I lay down beside the Mohican. All the Indians had unrolled and put on their hunting shirts; I spread my light blanket and pillowed my head on my pack.

In range of my vision the Mole had dropped to his knees and was praying with clasped hands. Shamed, I arose and knelt also, to say in silence my evening prayer, so often slurred over while I lay prone, or even entirely neglected.

Then I returned to my blanket to lie awake and think of Lois, until at last I dreamed of her. But the dream was terrible, and I awoke, sweating, and found the Sagamore seated upright in the darkness beside me.

"Is it time to change the guard?" I asked, still shivering from the horror of my dream.

"You have scarce yet closed your eyes, Loskiel."

"Why are you seated upright wide awake, my brother?"

"There is evil in the wind."

"There is no wind stirring."

"A witch–wind came slyly while you slept. Did you not dream, Loskiel?" In spite of me I shivered again.

"That is foolishness," said I. "The Wyandotte's silly talk has made us wakeful. Our sentinels watch. Sleep, Mayaro."

"Have you need of sleep, Loskiel?"

"I? No. Sleep you, then, and I will sit awake if it reassures you."

The Sagamore set his mouth close to my ear:

"The Wyandotte is not posted where you placed him."

"What? How do you know?"

"I went out to see. He sits on a rock close to the water."

"Damn him," I muttered angrily. "I'll teach him―"

"No!"

The Mohican's iron grip held me in my place.

"The Night–Hawk understands. Let the Wyandotte remain unrebuked and undisturbed while I creep down to yonder ford."

"I do not intend to reconnoitre the ford until dawn," I whispered.

"Let me go, Loskiel."

"Alone?"

"Secretly and alone. The Siwanois is a magic clan. Their Sagamores see and hear where others perceive nothing. Let me go, Loskiel."

"Then I go, also."

"No."

"What of our blood–brotherhood, then?"

There was a silence; then the Mohican rose, and taking my hand in his drew me noiselessly to my feet beside him.

By sense of touch alone we lifted our rifles from our blankets, blew the powder from the pans, reprimed. Then, laying my left arm lightly on his shoulder, I followed his silent figure over the moss and down among the huge and phantom trees faintly outlined against the starlit water.

When at length from the forest's edge we saw star–beams splintering over broken water, cutting the flat, translucent darkness of the river with necklaces of light, we halted; for this was the ford foaming there in obscurity with its silvery, mellow voice, unheeded in the wilderness, yet calling ever as that far voice called through the shadows of ages dead.

Now, from where we stood the faint line of sparkles seemed to run a little way into the darkness and vanish. But the indications were sufficient to mark the spot where we should enter the water; and, stepping with infinite precaution, we descended to the gravel. Here we stripped to the clout and laid our rifles on our moccasins, covering the pans with our hunting shirts. Then we strapped on our war–belts, loosening knife and hatchet, pulled over our feet our spare ankle–moccasins of oiled moose–hide soled with the coarse hair of the great, blundering beast himself.

I led, setting foot in the icy water, and moving out into the shadow with no more noise than a chub's swirl or a minnow's spatter–leap when a great chain–pike snaps at him.

Feeling my way over bed stones and bottom gravel with my feet, striving in vain to pierce the dense obscurity, I moved forward with infinite caution, balancing as best I might against the current. Ankle–deep, shin–deep, knee–deep we waded out. Presently the icy current chilled my thighs, rising to my waistline. But it grew no deeper.

Yet, here so swift was the current that I scarcely dared move, and was peering around to find the Sagamore, when a shape loomed up on my left. And I reached out and rested my hand on the shadowy shoulder, and stood so, swaying against the stream.

Suddenly a voice said, in the Seneca dialect:

"Is it thou, Butler?"

And every drop of blood froze in my body.

God knows how I found voice to answer "Yes," and how I found courage to let my hand remain upon my enemy's shoulder.

"It is I, Hiokatoo," said the low voice.

"Move forward," I said; and dropped my hand from his shoulder.

Somehow, although I could see nothing, all around me in the water I felt the presence of living creatures. At the same moment somebody came close to me from behind, and the Sagamore breathed his name in my ear.

I managed to retain my presence of mind, and, laying my mouth against his ear in the darkness, I whispered:

"The Seneca Hiokatoo and his warriors—all around us in the water. He mistakes me for Walter Butler, They have been reconnoitring our camp."

I felt the body of the Mohican stiffen under my grasp, Then he said quietly:

"Stand still till all have passed us."

"Yes; but let no Seneca hear your Algonquin speech. If any speak I will answer for you."

"It is well," said the Sagamore quietly. And I heard him cautiously loosening his hatchet.

Presently a dark form took shape in the gloom and passed us without speaking; then another, and another, and another, all wading forward with scarce a ripple sounding against their painted bodies. Then one came up who spoke also in Seneca dialect, saying to the Mohican that the canoe was to be sent up stream on observation, and asking the whereabouts of McDonald.

So they were all there, the bloody crew! But once more I found voice to order the Seneca across, saying that I would attend to the canoe when the time came to employ it.

This Indian seemed to understand very little English, and he hesitated; but I laid my hand flat on his naked back, and gave him a slight shove toward the farther shore. And he went on, muttering.

Two more passed. We waited in nervous silence for the next, not knowing how many had been sent to prowl around our camp. And as no more came, I whispered to the Sagamore:

"Let us go back. If more are to come, and if there be among them Butler or McDonald or any white man, he will never mistake me for any of his fellows after he hears me speak."

The Sagamore turned, the water swirling to his waist. I followed. We encountered nobody until the water began to shoal. Then, in mid–stream, a dark figure loomed out of the night, confronting us, and I heard him say in the Seneca language:

"Halt and turn. You travel the wrong way!"

"Go forward and mind your business!" I said in English.

The shadowy figure seemed astounded, remaining motionless there in the ford. Suddenly he bent forward as though to see my features, and at the same instant the Sagamore seized him and jerked his head under water.

But he could not hold him, for the fellow was oiled, and floundered up in the same instant. No doubt the water he had swallowed kept the yell safe in his throat, but his hatchet was out and high–swung as the Sagamore grasped his wrist, holding his arm in the air. Then, holding him so, the Mohican passed his knife through the man's heart, striking with swiftness incredible again and again; and as his victim collapsed, he eased him down into the water, turned him over, and took his shoulders between his knees.