CHAPTER XV.
THE BAD DOCTOR
At the edge of the thicket they stopped and stood face to face, each waiting for the other to pass ahead. Tegakwita slightly bowed, with an unconscious imitation of the Frenchmen he had seen at Fort Frontenac and Montreal.
“Pass on,” said Menard, sternly. “You know the trail, Tegakwita; I do not. It is you who must lead the way.”
The Indian was sullen, but he yielded, plunging forward between the bushes, and now and then, in the shadow of some tree, glancing furtively over his shoulder. His manner, the suspicion that showed plainly in the nervous movements of his head, in every motion as he glided through thicket, glade, or strip of forest, told Menard that he had chosen well to take the second place. His fingers closed firmly about the handle of the hatchet. That he could throw at twenty paces to 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 the village. Generations ago the trees had been cleared, and no bush or sapling had been allowed a foothold on this ground. The elms and oaks and maples threw their shadows across the broad circle, and each breath of wind set them dancing over the mounds where many an hundred skeletons crouched side by side, under the grass-grown heaps of earth, their rusted knives and hatchets and their mouldy blankets by their sides. No man came here, save when a new heap of yellow earth lay fresh-turned in the sun, and a long line of dancing, wailing redmen, led by their howling doctors, followed some body that had come to claim its seat among the skeletons.
Tegakwita paused at the edge of the clearing, and looked around with that 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 where he goes.”
“We can leave them here. The leaves will hide them. I will put the hatchet under this log.” He made a motion of dropping the hatchet, closely watching the Indian; then he straightened, for Tegakwita’s right 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 the young braves. He finds it easy to take the chance with Tegakwita’s hatchet.”
“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 in any of them. When they had passed the centre he stopped, and said quietly:–
“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, at the edge of the circle. A little to one side, close to the crowding thicket, was a small, new mound. Looking now at Tegakwita, Menard could see that his front was stained with the soil. Probably he had spent the day working on the mound for his sister. While Menard stood at one side, he went to a bush that encroached a yard on the sacred ground and drew out a number of presents, with necessary articles and provisions to stay the soul on its long journey to the Happy Hunting-Ground. It was at the end of Menard’s tongue to repeat Tegakwita’s remark about hiding the weapons, but he held back and stood 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 Indian girl. Menard stood over it, looking down with a sense of pity he had never before felt for an Indian. He could not see her face, for it was pressed to the ground, but the clotted scalp showed indistinctly in the shadow. He suddenly raised, his eyes to Tegakwita, who stood opposite.
“What have you done with the white brave?” he said in fierce, low tones. “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 wait for 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 step across the body and choke the man who had killed Danton; but in a moment he was himself. He had nothing to gain by violence. And after all, the Indian had done no more than was, in his eyes, right. He bent down; and together they carried the body to the grave, close at hand. Tegakwita placed her sitting upright in the hole he had dug. By her side he placed the pots and dishes and knives which she had used in preparing the food they two had eaten. He set the provisions before her and in her lap; and drawing a twist of tobacco from his bosom, he laid it at her feet to win her the favour and kindness of his own Manitou on her journey. After each gift he stood erect, looking up at the sky with his arms stretched out above his head; and at these moments his simple dignity impressed Menard. But there were other moments, when, in stooping, Tegakwita would glance about with nervous, shifting eyes, as if fearing some interruption. His musket was always in his hand or by his side. Menard took it that he still feared the hatchet.
Then at last the ceremony was done, and the Indian with his bare hands threw the earth over the hole in the mound. Still looking nervously from bush to bush, his hands began to move more slowly; then he paused, and sat by the mound, looking up with a hesitancy that recognized 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 watched him curiously. The whole proceeding was too unusual to be easily understood. Tegakwita’s nervous manner, his request that the Captain accompany him to the mound, the weapons that never left his side,–these might be the signs of a mind driven to madness by his sister’s act; but Menard did not recollect, from his own observation of the Iroquois character, that love for a sister was a marked trait among the able-bodied braves. Perhaps it was delay that he sought. At this 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 wait longer.”
“Tegakwita has worked hard. His heart is sick, his body lame. Will the Big 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 their spring, Tegakwita.”
“The White Chief speaks with a biting tongue.”
“You have been speaking with a lying tongue. You think I do not know why you have brought me here; you think I do not understand the evil thoughts that fill your mind. You are a coward, Tegakwita. But you will not succeed to-night.”
The ill-concealed fright that came into the Indian’s face and manner told 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 would be simple. And as Menard well knew, more than one brave of the Onondagas, who had known him both as friend and enemy, would shrink when the moment came to attack the Big Buffalo single-handed, even though taking him at a disadvantage. Now Tegakwita was hesitating, and struggling to keep his eyes from the thicket.
“Yes, I will help you. We will close this matter now, and go back to the village where your cowardly hands will be tied by fear of your chiefs. Drop your musket.”
“The Big Buffalo speaks in anger. Does he think to disarm Tegakwita that he may kill him?”
“Lay your musket on the ground before us. Then I will drop the hatchet.”
Tegakwita stepped around the grave, and leaning the musket across a stone stood by it. Menard’s voice was full of contempt.
“You need not fear. The Big Buffalo keeps his word.” He tossed the hatchet over the grave, and stood unarmed. “Drop your knife.”
Tegakwita hesitated. Menard took a step forward, and the knife fell to the ground.
“Come. We will work side by side.” He was surprised at Tegakwita’s slinking manner. He wondered if this Indian could by some strange accident have been given a temperament so fine that sorrow could unman him. To the Iroquois, gifted as they were with reasoning power, life held little sentiment. Curiously enough, as Menard stood in the light of the young moon watching the warrior come slowly around the grave, which still showed above the earth the head and shoulders of the dead girl, he found himself calling up the rare instances he had known of a real affection between Indians.
Tegakwita stood by him, and without a word they stooped and set to work, side by side, scraping the earth with their fingers over the body. Tegakwita found a dozen little ways to delay. Menard steadily lost patience.
“Tegakwita has forgotten,” said the Indian, standing up; “he has not offered the present to his sister’s Oki.”
“Well?” said Menard, roughly.
Tegakwita’s voice trembled, as if he knew that he was pressing the white 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 glances toward the thicket,–these meant that others were coming. Something delayed them; Tegakwita must hold the Big Buffalo till they arrived. With never a word Menard sprang over the grave; but the Indian was quicker, and his hand was the first on the musket. Then they fought, each struggling to free his hands from the other’s grasp, rolling over and over,–now half erect, tramping on the soft mound, now wrestling on the harder ground below. At last Menard, as they whirled and tumbled past the weapons, snatched the knife. Tegakwita caught his wrist, and then it was nigh to stabbing his own thigh as they fought for it. Once he twisted his hand and savagely buried the blade in the Indian’s side. Tegakwita caught his breath and rallied, and the blood of the one was on them both. At last a quick wrench bent the Indian’s wrist back until it almost snapped,–Menard thought that it had,–and the stained blade went home once, and again, and again, until the arms that had clung madly about the white man slipped off, and lay weakly on the ground.
Menard was exhausted. The dirt and blood were in his hair and eyes and ears. He was rising stiffly to his knees when the rush of Indians came from the bushes. He could not see them clearly,–could hardly hear them,–though he fought until a musket-stock swung against his head and 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 wipe his eyes, but a rough hand caught it and drew a thong tightly about his wrists. Slowly his senses awakened, and he could see indistinctly the silent forms,–some standing motionless, others walking slowly about. It was strange. His aching head had not the wit to meet with the situation. Then they jerked him to his feet, and with a stout brave at each elbow and others crowding about on every side, he was dragged off through the bushes.
For a long time the silent party pushed forward. They were soon clear of the forest, passing through rich wild meadows that lifted the scent of clover, the fresher for the dew that lay wet underfoot. There were other thickets and other forests, and many a reach of meadow, all rolling up and down over the gentle hills. Menard tried to gather his wits, but his head reeled; and the struggle to keep his feet moving steadily onward was enough to hold his mind. He knew that he should watch the trail closely, to know where they were taking him, but he was not equal to the effort. At last the dawn came, gray and depressing, creeping with deadly slowness on the trail of the retreating night. The sky was dull and heavy, and a mist clung about the party, leaving little beads of moisture on deerskin coats and fringed leggings and long, brown musket barrels. The branches drooped from the trees, blurred by the mist and the half dark into strange shapes along the trail.
The day was broad awake when Menard gave way. His muscles had been tried to the limit of his endurance during these many desperate days and sleepless nights that he had thought to be over. He fell loosely forward. For a space they dragged him, but the burden was heavy, and the chief ordered a rest. The band of warriors scattered about to sleep under the trees, leaving a young brave to watch the Big Buffalo, who slept motionless where they had dropped him in the long grass close at hand. On every side were hills, shielding them from the view of any chance straggler from the Onondaga villages, unless he should clamber down the short slopes and search for them in the mist. A stream tumbled by, not a dozen yards from Menard and his yawning guardian.
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 there was little wind near the ground. The Captain listened for a time to the noise of the stream before looking about. He changed his position, and rheumatic pains shot through his joints. For the second time in his life he realized that he was growing old; and with this thought came another. What sort of a soldier was he if he could not pass through such an experience without paying the old man’s penalty. To be sure his head was battered and bruised, and scattered over his shoulders and arms and hips were a dozen small wounds to draw in the damp from the grass, but he did not think of these. In his weak, half-awake state, he was discouraged, with the feeling that the best of 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 sank down on his heart like a weight. But this thought served another purpose: to think of the maid was to think of her danger; and this was to be the alert soldier again, with a plan for every difficulty as long as he had life in his body. And so, before the mood could drag him down, he was himself again.
Most of the Indians were asleep, sprawling about under the trees near the water. The warrior guarding Menard appeared to be little more than a youth. He sat with his knees drawn up and his head bowed, his blanket pulled close around him, and his oily black hair tangled about his eyes. Menard lay on his back looking at the Indian through half-closed eyes.
“Well,” he said in a low, distinct voice, “you have me now, haven’t you?”
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 nothing will be seen. I can speak quietly. A nod of your head will tell me if anyone 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 Big Buffalo. I killed half a score of your bravest warriors in their own village. Do you think these thongs can hold the Big Buffalo, who never has been held by thongs, who is the hardest fighter and the boldest hunter of all the lands from the Mohawk to the Great River of the Illinois? Listen, I will tell you how many canoes of furs the Big Buffalo has in the north country; I will tell you–”
The Indian’s head nodded almost imperceptibly. A yawning brave was walking slowly along the bank of the stream, gathering wood for a fire. He passed to a point a few rods below the prisoner, then came back and disappeared among the trees.
“I will tell you,” said Menard, keeping his voice at such a low pitch that the guard had to bend his head slightly toward him, “of the great bales 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 of the Long House? No brave shall have such a musket,–with a long, straight barrel that will send a ball to the shoulder of a buffalo farther than the flight of three arrows. His blanket shall be the brightest in Onondaga; his many clothes, his knives, his hatchets, his collars of wampum shall have no equal. He can buy the prettiest wives in the nation. Does my brother understand?”
The fire had been lighted, and a row of wild hens turned slowly on wooden spits over the flames. One by one the warriors were rousing and stirring about among the trees. There were shouts and calls, and the grumbling talk of the cooks as they held the long spits and turned their faces away from the smoke, which rose but slowly in the damp, heavy air. Menard lay with his eyes closed, as if asleep; even his lips hardly moved as he talked.
“My brother must think quickly, for the time is short. All that I promise he will have, if he will be a friend to the Big Buffalo. And every Onondaga knows that the word of the Big Buffalo is a word that has never been broken. My brother will be a friend. He will watch close, and to-night, when the dark has come, he will let his knife touch 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 no means of knowing was that since the battle at the hut, and the short fight in the council-house, the younger braves had centred their superstitions on him. It was thought that his body was occupied by some bad spirit that gave him the strength of five men, and that he had been sent to their village by a devil to lure the warriors into the hands of the French. These were not the open views that would have been heard at a council; they were the fears of the untried warriors, who had not the vision to understand the diplomacy of the chiefs, nor the position in the village to give them a public hearing. They had talked together in low tones, feeding the common fear, until a few words from the Long Arrow had aroused them into action. And so this guard was between two emotions: the one a lust for wealth and position in the tribe, common to every Indian and in most cases a stronger motive than any of the nobler sentiments; the other an unreasoning fear of this “bad doctor,” the fear that to aid him or to accept furs from him would poison the ears of his own Oki, and destroy his chance of a name and wealth during his life, and of a long, glorious hunt after death.
“My brother shall come with me to the land of the white men, where there is no trouble,–where he shall have a great lodge like the white chiefs, with coloured pictures in gold frames, and slaves to prepare his food. He shall be a great chief among white men and redmen, and his stores shall be filled to the doors with furs of beaver and seal.”
Menard’s voice was so low and deliberate that the Indian did not question his statements. He was tempted more strongly than he had ever been tempted before, but with the desire grew the fear of the consequences. As for the Captain, he was clutching desperately at this slender chance that lay to his hand.
“I have given my brother his choice of greater power than was ever before offered to a youth who has yet to win his name. The stroke of a knife will do it. No one shall know, for the Big Buffalo can be trusted. My brother has it before him to be a red chief or a white chief, 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 gave a little start, and slowly rising, walked away, yielding his place as guard to an older man. Menard rolled over and pressed his face to the ground as if weary; he could then watch the youth through the grass as he moved to the fire, but in a moment he lost sight of him. The new guard was a stern-faced brave, and his appearance promised no help; so the Captain, having done all that could be done at the moment, tried to get another sleep, struggling to put thoughts of the maid from his mind. Perhaps, after all, she was safe at the village.
Meantime the youth, after a long struggle with the temptings of the bad doctor, yielded to his superstition, and sought the Long Arrow, who lay on the green bank of the stream. In a few moments the story was 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 in his quiet voice.
Menard slowly raised his eyes, and looked coolly at the chief without replying.
“The tongue of the Big Buffalo is weary perhaps? It has moved so many times to tell the Onondaga what is not true, that now it asks for rest. The Long Arrow is kind. He will not seek to move it again. For another sleep it shall lie at rest; then it may be that our braves shall find a way to stir it.”
Menard rolled over, with an expression of contempt, and closed his eyes.
“The Long Arrow was sorry that his white brother was disappointed at the torture. Perhaps he will have better fortune after he has slept again. Already have the fires been lighted that shall warm the heart of the White Chief. And he shall have friends to brighten him. His squaw, too, shall feel the glow of the roaring fire, and the gentle hands of the Onondaga warriors, who do not forget the deaths of their own blood.”
Menard lay still.
“Another sleep, my brother, and the great White Chief who speaks with the voice of Onontio shall be with his friends. He shall hear the sweet voice of his young squaw through the smoke that shall be her garment. He shall hear the prayers of his holy Father by his side, and shall know that his spirit is safe with the Great Spirit who is not strong enough to give him his life when the Long Arrow takes it away.”
There was still a mad hope that the chief spoke lies, that the maid and Father Claude were safe. True or false, the Long Arrow would surely talk thus; for the Iroquois were as skilled in the torments of the mind as of the body. He was conscious that the keen voice was going on, but he did not follow what it said. Again he was going over and over in his mind all the chances of escape. It might be that the youth had been moved by his offer. But at that moment he heard the Long Arrow saying:–
“ … Even before his death the Big Buffalo must lie as he has always lied. His tongue knows not the truth. He thinks to deceive our young braves with talk of his furs and his lodges and his power in the land of the white men. But our warriors know the truth. They know that the Big Buffalo has no store of furs, no great lodges,–that he lives in the woods with only a stolen musket, where he can by his lies capture the peaceful hunters of the Onondagas to make them the slaves of his Chief-Across-the-Water.”