“We have kept good friends with them so far.”
“But the British can stir them up easily. Rum and firearms may do the mischief. Still, it is true that some day I may have to fight for my life, or something I hold dearer than life.”
“Are you going back north?”
Marchand shook his head. He was sitting on a pile of skins leaning against the wall, picturesque in his voyageur’s attire, which was highly ornamented with Indian work. Now and then in the intervals of talk he blew out a volume of smoke from his pipe, or made rings in the air when he took it from his mouth. There was something jaunty and light-hearted about him in spite of the resolute eyes.
“Nay,” with a shake of the head, “I have cut myself out of that. I like the life, too. Denys, were you ever very much in love? But no, that is a foolish question, for you are the sort of man to fight for the one who roused your soul. And so many pretty girls are here in St. Louis!”
“Yes, I heard you had married,” evading the half inquiry.
“I want you to see her, my beautiful Indian prize. Though I suspect there is a strain of French blood back of her mother, who was brought somewhere from Canada. And when her father was killed at one of those dreadful massacres up on the strait (her mother had died before), she and her brother were adopted in one branch of the Huron tribe. Her brother married a chief’s daughter. I saw her first more than a year ago, in the winter. She was only a child, not as forward as most Indian maids. And last winter we met again, and yes, fell in love with each other. The squaw who had been like a mother to her consented. But straightway there was trouble. Her brother had chosen a brave for her, a fellow noted for his fighting propensities and his love of drink. It was surmised that he was buying her. She shrank from him with horror. He had had two wives already, and rumor said he had beaten one to death. I was ready to leave with my men and pack, and she came to me in terror and despair. She would have killed herself, I know, before she could have gone to such a brute. We loved each other, and the old woman Nasauka pitied us, and had a strong liking for me. So it was arranged. I was to start with my people, leaving her behind. When the train was several days under way I was to remain at a given point where Nasauka was to meet me with the girl, and then return to ward suspicion from the right track. I only hope the poor woman did not suffer for her kindly sympathy for us. We made our way along without any alarm. At a mission station a priest married us. And now we are safe here and doubtless unsuspected. But I shall not expose myself to any dangers, at least for several years to come. There are other trails to work on. Or we may go farther south.”
“Quite a romantic story, Marchand. The saints be praised that you rescued her from such a life, though I think she would have chosen death rather. I have known of several instances. Yes, it will be safer not to visit the old hunting ground, even if the brave solaces himself with a new wife.”
“And now you must see her. I know there is a little prejudice, and,” with a cynical sort of smile, “if I had a sister I should not let her marry an Indian if I had to shut her up in a convent. But there are many charming Indian girls and kindly hearted squaws, true as steel, who will suffer anything rather than betray. Strange, too, when you find so much deceit and falseness and cruelty among the men.”
“The women take all the virtues, perhaps. Yes, I shall be glad to welcome you. To-morrow you will bring her to dine with us. Meanwhile, you have found a home?”
“With the Garreaus. Pierre did the same thing, you know, and is happy enough with his two pretty children. Ah, when you see my beautiful wife you will not wonder that I went mad for her,” laughing with a kind of gay triumph.
Ah, if he had been brave enough at twenty to fly with Renée Freneau! But would she have dared an unblessed marriage? And then neither dreamed of such a result from the journey to Canada.
“I shall not blame you,” Gaspard answered gravely. “And if you want a staunch friend, here he is,” springing up and holding out his hand.
“A thousand thanks, Gaspard Denys. I wanted to tell you my story. It is not for every one, only the fact that I have loved and married her. And now it grows late. Good-night.”
They clasped hands again cordially. Denys shut his shop door and went through to the other room. Mère Lunde was telling over some beads. Renée sat in the chimney corner, but the fire was out long ago.
“Why did you let that man talk so long to you?” with pretty imperiousness. “And I grew very sleepy. But I wanted to say good-night.”
“He had much to relate, a story you will like to hear sometime. And he is coming to-morrow to bring a pretty Indian wife that he found up by the Strait of Michilimackinac. That is a long name, is it not?”
“And is the strait long—as long as to the end of the millpond?”
“It is of more account. It connects the big Lake Michigan with Lake Huron.”
Geography had not come to be one of the studies, and the only maps were the traders’ rough outlines of journeys.
She was not considering the lakes. Her thoughts were as rapid as a bird’s flight.
“Is she like Mattawissa?”
“Oh, younger, much younger. Only a girl. Fifteen or sixteen perhaps. They will come to dinner to-morrow. Mère Lunde,” raising his voice a little, “we shall have guests to-morrow. Give us a good dinner.”
“Guests! How many?” in a cheerful tone.
“Oh, only two. A young trader and his wife, a pretty Indian girl. Unless, indeed, some one else drops in.”
This often happened in a town where there were no inns, and sometimes led to rather amusing episodes when a traveller mistook the wide-open doors and a bountiful table for a hostelry.
“Did you see her?” asked Renée, following out her own thoughts.
“No, but I have known him some time. He was a young lad here in the town, François Marchand.”
Mère Lunde shut down the cover of the box that held her beads, and picked up the end of her stout apron. It always seemed to assist her memory.
“Marchand. And a boy. Had he very blue eyes?”
“Yes, and he has them still,” laughed Denys.
“Then I know. He was a nice lad. It is a thousand pities he has married an Indian. Yes, you shall have a good dinner. Renée, it is time thou went to bed.”
Renée rose and kissed Uncle Gaspard. She had, ever since her illness, that seemed to have drawn them nearer together, if such a thing had been possible.
As a great honor the next day, she brought out her pretty bowl and filled it with flowers. Uncle Gaspard had made a small table with a drawer that held Mère Lunde’s beads and some other choice articles, and had a shelf low down on which was kept a work-basket with sewing materials, for at times Renée was seized with a fit of devotion to her needle. On the top of the table she set the bowl.
Curious eyes had followed François Marchand down the Rue de l’Eglise. For with a vanity quite natural the young girl had taken in her flight her beautifully ornamented dress that would have adorned any Indian bride. Long afterward in the Marchand family they used to display grandmère’s exquisitely worked suit.
Gaspard Denys with Renée by the hand went out to the gate to bid them welcome. Renée almost stared. A slim, graceful figure of medium height, with a face that in some towns would have attracted more attention than the attire. Large, soft eyes of dusky, velvety blackness, a complexion just tinted with Indian blood, the cheeks blossoming in the most exquisite rose hue, while the lips were cherry red. Her long hair was brushed up from her straight, low brow, held with a band of glittering bead work, and falling about her shoulders like a veil, much softer and finer than ordinary Indian hair. Her short skirt had a band of shining white feathers overlapping each other, with here and there a cluster of yellow ones that resembled a daisy. The fine, elegantly dressed fawnskin was like velvet. The bodice was wrought with beads and variously colored threads and a sort of lace the Indian women made, though it was an infrequent employment, being rather tedious. Over her shoulders a cape of soft-dressed, creamy skin, with designs worked here and there in fine detail.
She colored daintily on being presented to M. Denys, and he in turn brought forward his little protégé, who held up her head proudly and felt almost as tall. But a second glance conquered Renée. She proffered both hands cordially.
“Oh, I am sure I shall like you,” she cried frankly. How could any one help adoring so much beauty! For Renée was not envious of beauty alone.
The young wife took the hands with glad pressure, and they went in together.
“Here is a friend who remembers you,” said Denys to Marchand. “Her son died, and at that juncture I wanted a housekeeper. She fits in admirably.”
Mère Lunde trembled with delight when he shook her hand so heartily and expressed his pleasure at seeing her again, declaring that she had grown younger instead of older, which was true enough, so great a restorer is freedom from care and fear of coming want.
“But the child?” said Marchand with curiosity in his eyes.
The child was playing hostess to the young wife with the ease and grace of a true Frenchwoman, and displaying the adornments of her room. This and that had come from Mattawissa, who made beautiful articles that Uncle Gaspard sent to New Orleans, and who was sweet and friendly, not like some of the morose old Indian women about. But then Mattawissa was not old.
Gaspard smiled at the little girl’s chatter, and explained briefly.
“One would hardly think such a pretty innocent thing could belong to old Antoine! Is he still in with the river pirates? His goods must be hidden somewhere. He does not keep them in the house, it would seem, for the guards found nothing when they searched.”
“He is a shrewd old dog,” replied Gaspard. “But his wife and his daughter were of a different kind. And you see he could not have taken charge of the child.”
Marchand nodded.
The dinner was certainly Mère Lunde’s best. The men had their talk about trade and who was prospering, but the two girls, who sat side by side, had some gay laughs, and occasionally hard work to understand each other. Wawataysee, the Firefly, as she was called in her native language, knew a little French and a little English, and often confused them. Renée had picked up a few words of English, but the tongue was quite despised at that time. And when the dinner was through they went out to walk, pausing at the little old church and the priest’s house on the way to the fort, and the little plot about.
Father Valentine came out and gave them a cordial greeting. Denys did the honors.
The priest bent his head close to Marchand’s.
“You have been true and fair with this beautiful girl?” he asked a little anxiously. “She is your lawful wife?”
“Yes, oh, a thousand times yes. Here is the good father’s signature and that of the witnesses. It was at the little mission at St. Pierre’s.”
He took out a bundle of papers in a deerskin wallet. Tied securely in a little package by itself was the priest’s certificate.
Father Valentine nodded, well pleased. “And she is a baptized Christian,” he added. “I wish you both much happiness.”
“Suppose you keep this awhile for me,” said Marchand, “while I am changing about. I hardly know yet where I shall settle.”
“Gladly will I oblige you. But why not stay here, my son? St. Louis needs industry and energy and capable citizens for her upbuilding.”
“I am thinking of it, I confess. I have already met with a warm welcome from old friends.”
They walked round about the fort. Wawataysee knew curious legends of Pontiac and had heard of the siege of Detroit. Indeed, many of the Hurons had participated in it. And here was the end of so much bravery and energy, misdirected, and of no avail against the invincible march of the white man.
It was a very gay summer to Renée de Longueville.
Rosalie Pichou protested and grew angry at being superseded.
“She is only an Indian after all,” the girl exclaimed disdainfully. “And my mother thinks it a shame M’sieu Marchand should have married her when there were so many nice girls in St. Louis.”
“But she is beautiful and sweet. And, Rosalie, Uncle Gaspard will not care to have you come if you say ugly things about her.”
“Well, I can stay away. There are plenty of girls to play with. And I shall soon be a young ma’m’selle and have lovers of my own, then I shall not care for a little chit like you. You can even send the cat back if you like.”
The cat had grown big and beautiful and kept the place free from mice and rats, which was a great object in the storeroom. Uncle Gaspard said he would not trade it for a handsome silver foxskin, which everybody knew was worth a great deal of money in France.
Madame Marchand made many friends by her grace and amiability. She taught Renée some beautiful handiwork, and with the little girl was always a welcome visitor at Mattawissa’s, though at first they had as much difficulty understanding each other’s Indian language as if it had been English. But what a lovely, joyous summer it was, with its walks and water excursions up and down the river and on the great pond!
On Saturday she went with Renée to be instructed in the Catechism, and whichever father was there he seemed impressed with Wawataysee’s sweet seriousness and gentle ways.
Then autumn came on. The great fields of corn were cut, the grapes gathered and the wine made. The traders came in again and boats plied up and down. Uncle Gaspard was very busy, and the men about said, making money. The women wondered if Renée de Longueville would get it all, and what old Antoine Freneau had; if so she would be a great heiress.
There were nuts to gather as well, and merry parties haunted the woods for them. Oh, what glorious days these were, quite enough to inspirit any one! Then without much warning a great fleecy wrap of snow fell over everything, but the sledging and the shouting had as much merriment in it.
Gaspard Denys did not want Renée to go to midnight mass at Christmastide.
“Oh, I am so much bigger and stronger now,” she said. “I am not going to be such a baby as to take cold. Oh, you will see.”
She carried her point, of course. He could seldom refuse her anything. And the next morning she was bright enough to go to church again. And how sweet it was to see the children stop on the porch and with bowed heads exclaim, “Your blessing, ma mère, your blessing, mon père,” and shake hands with even the poorest, giving them good wishes.
Then all parties went home to a family breakfast. Even the servants were called in. Then the children ran about with the étrennes to each other.
“Uncle Gaspard,” Renée said, “I want to take something to my grandfather. He brought me that beautiful chain and cross last year, and I made a cake that Mère Lunde baked, and candied some pears, thinking of him.”
“Perhaps he is not home. You can never tell.”
“He was yesterday. M. Marchand saw him. Will you go?”
“You had better have Mère Lunde. I am busy. But if I can find time I will walk down and meet you. And—Renée, do not go in.”
“I will heed,” she answered smilingly.
The road was hardly broken outside the stockade. Once or twice she slipped and fell into the snow, but it was soft and did not hurt her. Mère Lunde grumbled a little.
“There is a smoke coming from the chimney,” Renée cried joyfully. “Let us go around to the kitchen door.”
They knocked two or three times. They could hear a stir within, and presently the door was opened a mere crack.
“Grandfather,” the child began, “I have come to wish you a good Christmas. I am sorry you were not at church to hear how the little babe Jesus was born for our sakes, and how glad all the stars were, even, so glad that they sang together. And I have brought you some small gifts, a cake I made for you, alone, yesterday. You made me such a beautiful gift last year when I was ill.”
“And you’ve come for another! That’s always the way,” he returned gruffly.
“No, grandfather, I do not want anything, only to give you this basket with good wishes and tell you that I am well and happy,” she said in a proud, sweet voice, and set the basket down on the stone at the doorway. “It would not be quite right for you to give me anything this year.”
Her gray fur cloak covered her, and her white fur cap over her fair curls gave her a peculiar daintiness.
“Good-by,” she continued, ”with many good wishes.”
He looked after her in a kind of dazed manner. And she did not want anything! True, she had enough. Gaspard Denys took good care of her—he was too old to be bothered with a child.
But she skipped along very happily. The Marchands were coming in to supper, and in the meanwhile she and Mère Lunde would concoct dainty messes. She would not go out sledding with the children lest she should take cold again.
It was all festival time now. It seemed as if people had nothing to do but to be gay and merry. Fiddling and singing everywhere, and some of the voices would have been bidden up to a high price in more modern times.
And on New Year’s day the streets were full of young men who went from door to door singing a queer song, she thought, when she came to know it well afterward. Part of it was, “We do not ask for much, only the eldest daughter of the house. We will give her the finest of the wine and feast her and keep her feet warm,” which seemed to prefigure the dance a few days hence. Sometimes the eldest daughter would come out with a contribution, and these were all stored away to be kept for the Epiphany ball.
In the evening they sang love songs at the door or window of the young lady to whom they were partial, and if the fancy was returned or welcomed the fair one generally made some sign. And then they said good-night to the master and mistress of the household and wished them a year’s good luck.
If a pretty girl or even a plain one was out on New Year’s day unattended, a young fellow caught her, kissed her, and wished her a happy marriage and a prosperous year. Sometimes, it was whispered, there had a hint been given beforehand and the right young fellow found the desired girl.
But the king’s ball was the great thing. In the early afternoon the dames and demoiselles met and the gifts were arranged for the evening. Of the fruit and flour a big cake was baked in which were put four large beans. When all was arranged the girls and the mothers donned their best finery, some of it half a century old, and kept only for state occasions. The older people opened the ball with the minuet de la cour, which was quite grand and formal.
Then the real gayety began. With it all there was a certain charming respect, a kind of fine breeding the French never lost. Old gentlemen danced with the young girls, and the young men with matrons. Children were allowed in also, and had corners to themselves. It was said of them that the French were born dancing.
There were no classes in this festivity. Even some of the upper kind of slaves came, and the young Indians ventured in.
Gaspard Denys took the little girl, who was all eagerness. M. and Madame Garreau brought their guests, the Marchands, for society had quite taken in the beautiful young Indian, who held her head up so proudly no one would have dared to offer her a slight.
Among the gayest was Barbe Guion. She had not taken young Maurice, who had gone off to New Orleans. People were beginning to say that she was a bit of a coquette. Madame Renaud announced that Alphonse Maurice was too trifling and not steady enough for a good husband. In her heart Barbe knew that she had never really meant to marry him.
At midnight the cake was cut and every young girl had a piece. This was the great amusement, and everybody thronged about.
“A bean! a bean!” cried Manon Dupont, holding it high above her head so all could see.
Then another, one of the pretty Aubry girls, whose sister had been married at Easter.
“And I, too,” announced Barbe Guion, laughing.
They cleared a space for the four queens to stand out on the floor. What eager glances the young men cast.
Manon Dupont chose her lover, as every one supposed she would, but there was no fun or surprise in it, though a general assent.
“And how will she feel at the next ball when he has to choose a queen?” said some one. “She is a jealous little thing.”
Ma’m’selle Aubry glanced around with a coquettish air and selected the handsomest young fellow in the room.
Who would Barbe Guion choose? She looked dainty enough in a white woollen gown with scarlet cloth bands; and two or three masculine hearts beat with a thump, as the eyes fairly besought.
Gaspard Denys was talking with the burly commandant of the fort, though it must be admitted there was very little to command. She went over to him and handed him her rose.
He bowed and a slight flush overspread his face, while her eyes could not conceal her delight.
“You do me a great deal of honor, ma’m’selle, but you might have bestowed your favor on a younger and more suitable man. I thank you for the compliment,” and he pinned the rose on his coat.
She smiled with a softened light in her eyes.
“It is the first time I have had a chance to choose a king,” she said in a caressing sort of voice. “I could not have suited myself better. And—I am almost eighteen. Elise was married a year before that.”
“You are not single for lack of admirers, ma’m’selle.” She remembered he used to call her Barbe. “What did you do with Alphonse, send him away with a broken heart?”
“His was not the kind of heart to break, monsieur. And a girl cannot deliberately choose bad luck. There is sorrow enough when it comes unforeseen.”
Then they took their places. Renée had been very eager at first and watched the two closely. M. Marchand had appealed to her on some trifle, and now she saw Barbe and Uncle Gaspard take their places in the dance.
“Did she—choose Uncle Gaspard?” the child exclaimed with a long respiration that was like a sigh, while a flush overspread her face.
“He is the finest man in the room! I would have chosen him myself if I had been a maid. And if you had been sixteen wouldn’t you have taken him, little girl? Well, your day will come,” in a gay tone.
Wawataysee placed her arm over the child’s shoulder. “Let us go around here, we can see them better. What an odd way to do! And very pretty, too!”
Renée’s first feeling was that she would not look. Then with a quick inconsequence she wanted to see every step, every motion, every glance. Her king! Barbe Guion had chosen him, and the child’s eyes flashed.
It was a beautiful dance, and the gliding, skimming steps of light feet answered the measure of the music exquisitely. Other circles formed. The kings and the queens were not to have it all to themselves.
The balls were often kept up till almost morning, though the children and some of the older people went home. Gaspard made his way through the crowd. Madame Marchand beckoned him, and as he neared them he saw Renée was clinging to her with a desperate emotion next to tears.
“Is it not time little ones were in bed?” she asked with her fascinating smile and in pretty, broken French. “Madame Garreau wishes to retire. It is beautiful, and every one is so cordial. I have danced with delight,” and her pleasure shone in her eyes. “But we will take the child safe to Mère Lunde if it is your will.”
“Oh, thank you. Yes. You will go, Renée? You look tired.” She was pale and her eyes were heavy.
“And you—you stay here and are Ma’m’selle Barbe’s king,” she said in a tone of plaintive reproach that went to his heart.
“That is only for to-night. There are other queens beside her.”
“But she is your queen.” The delicate emphasis amused him, it betrayed the rankling jealousy.
“And you are my queen as well, to-morrow, next week, all the time. So do not grudge her an hour or two. See, I am going to give you her rose, my rose, to take home with you.”
She smiled, albeit languidly, and held out her small hand, grasping it with triumph.
He broke the stem as he drew it out, leaving the pin in his coat.
“Now let me see you wrapped up snug and tight. Mind you don’t get any cold. Tell Mère Lunde to warm the bed and give you something hot to drink.”
She nodded and the party went to the dressing room. The two Indian women chattered in their own language, or rather in a patois that they had adopted. Wawataysee was very happy, and her soft eyes shone with satisfaction. Her husband thought her the prettiest woman in all St. Louis.
Renée gave her orders and Mère Lunde attended to them cheerfully.
“For if you should fall ill again our hearts would be heavy with sorrow and anxiety.” she said.
Renée had carried the rose under her cloak and it was only a little wilted. She put it in some water herself, and brought the stand near the fireplace, for sometimes it would freeze on the outer edges of the room, though they kept a big log fire all night.
Gaspard went back to Ma’m’selle Barbe.
“Oh, your rose!” she cried. “Where is it?”
He put his hand to his coat as if he had not known it. “The pin is left,” he said. “What a crowd there is! St. Louis is getting overrun with people,” laughing gayly. “Give me a rose out of your nosegay, for it would signify bad luck to go on the floor without it.”
He took one and fastened it in his coat again, and they were soon merrily dancing. There was no absolute need of changing partners, and the queens were proud of keeping their admirers all the evening.
Barbe was delighted and happy, for Gaspard evinced no disposition to stray off, and danced to her heart’s content, if not his. He had grown finer looking, certainly, since he had relinquished the hardships of a trapper’s life. His complexion had lost the weather-beaten look, his frame had filled out, and strangely enough, he was a much more ready talker. Renée chattered so much, asked him so many questions, and made him talk over people and places he had seen that it had given him a readiness to talk to women. Men could always find enough to say to each other, or enjoy silence over their pipes.
She seemed to grow brighter instead of showing fatigue, and her voice had musical cadences in it very sweet to hear. The touch of her hand on his arm or his shoulder in the dance did give him a peculiar sort of thrill. She was a very sweet, pretty girl. He was glad not to have her wasted on Alphonse Maurice.
But the delicious night came to an end for her. There was a curious little strife among some of the young men to make a bold dash and capture a queen. The girls were sometimes willing enough to be caught. Barbe had skilfully evaded this, he noted.
“Ma’m’selle Guion has the bravest king of them all,” said a neighbor. “He is a fine fellow. I wonder, Mère Renaud, you do not fan the flame into a blaze. He is prospering, too. Colonel Chouteau speaks highly of him and holds out a helping hand. If I had daughters no one would suit me better.”
Madame Renaud smiled and nodded as if she had a secret confidence.
Mothers in old St. Louis were very fond and proud of their daughters and were watchful of good opportunities for them. And those who had none rather envied them. It was the cordial family affection that made life in these wilderness places delightful.
Barbe was being wound up in her veil so that her pretty complexion should suffer no ill at this coldest hour of the twenty-four, after being heated in the dance. She looked very charming, very tempting. If he had been a lover he would have kissed her.
“You come so seldom now,” she said in a tone of seductive complaint. “And we were always such friends when you returned from your journeys. The children have missed you so much. And Lisa wonders—”
“I suppose it is being busy every day. At that time you know there was a holiday between.”
“But there is no business now until spring opens,” in a pleading tone.
“Except for the householder, the shopkeeper. Oh, you have no idea how ingenious I have become. And the men drop in to talk over plans and berate the Governor because things are not in better shape. We would fare badly in an attack.”
“Are we in any danger from the British?”
“One can never tell. Perhaps they may take up Pontiac’s wild dream of driving us over the mountains into the sea. No,” with a short laugh, “I am not much afraid. And our Indians are friendly also.”
“Come, Barbe,” counselled Madame Renaud, but she took her husband’s arm and marched on ahead like an astute general.
Barbe clung closely to her attendant, for in some places it was slippery.
“Next time you will transfer your attentions,” she said with a touch of regret. “I wonder who will be your queen for a night?”
“The prettiest girl,” he said gayly.
“Madame Marchand is beautiful.”
“But she is no longer a girl.”
“Oh, no. You see a good deal of her, though?”
“They are over often. We are excellent friends.”
“Renée is quite bewitched with her.”
“Yes, they are very fond of each other.”
And somehow she, Barbe, was no more fond of the child than the child was of her.
Madame Renaud studied her sister’s face as they were unwinding their wraps. It was rather pale, not flushed and triumphant as she hoped.
Gaspared Denys stirred the fire in his shop and threw himself on a pile of skins and was asleep in five minutes. It had been a long while since he had danced all night.
They all slept late. There was no need of stirring early in the morning. They made no idol of industry, as the energetic settlers on the eastern coast did. Pleasure and happiness were enough for them. It ran in the French blood.
When Gaspard woke he heard a sound of an eager chattering voice. He rubbed his limbs and stretched himself, looked down on his red sash and then saw a withered red rose that he tossed in the fire.
“Ah, little one, you are as blithe as a bee,” was his greeting.
“Oh, Uncle Gaspard, you have on your ball clothes. When did you come home?” she asked.
“I dropped asleep in them. I am old and stiff this morning. I tumbled down on a pile of skins and stayed there.”
“You don’t look very old. And—are you a king now?” rather curiously.
“I must be two weeks hence. Then I resign my sceptre, and become an ordinary person.”
“And Mère Lunde said you had to choose a new queen.” There was a touch of elation in her voice.
“That is so. And I told Ma’m’selle Guion I should look out for the very prettiest girl. I shall be thinking all the time.”
“I wish you could take Wawataysee. She is the prettiest of anybody, and the sweetest.”
“And she has already chosen her king for life.”
“The breakfast will get cold,” warned Mère Lunde.
There were more snows, days when you could hardly stir out and paths had to be shovelled. The next ball night it stormed, but Renée did not care to go, because M. and Madame Marchand were staying all night and they would play games and have parched corn and cakes and spiced drinks. Wawataysee would sing, too. And though the songs were odd, she had an exquisite voice, and she could imitate almost any bird, as well as the wind flying and shrieking through the trees, and then softening with sounds of spring.
Sometimes they danced together, and it was a sight to behold, the very impersonation of grace; soft, languid mazes at first and then warming into flying sprites of the forest. And how Renée’s eyes shone and her cheeks blossomed, while the little moccasined feet made no more sound than a mouse creeping about.
There was no especial carnival at St. Louis, perhaps a little more gayety than usual, and the dances winding up at midnight. Nearly every one went to church the next morning, listened to the prayers reverently, had a small bit of ashes dropped on his or her head, went home and fasted the rest of the day. But Lent was not very strictly kept, and the maids were preparing for Easter weddings.
“It is strange,” said grandaunt Guion, “that Barbe has no lover. She is too giddy, too much of a coquette. She will be left behind. And she is too pretty to turn into an old maid. Guion girls were not apt to hang on hand.”
There was, it is true, a side not so simple and wholesome, and this had been gathering slowly since the advent of the governor. More drunken men were seen about the levee. There was talk of regular orgies taking place at the government house, and the more thoughtful men, like the Chouteaus, the Guerins, the Guions, and the Lestourniers, had to work hard to get the fortifications in any shape, and the improvements made were mostly done by private citizens.
Of course there were many rumors, but old St. Louis rested securely on her past record. What the people about her were losing or gaining did not seem to trouble her. Now and then a river pirate was caught, or there was some one tripped up and punished who had traded unlawfully.
This had been the case with a French Canadian named Ducharme, who had been caught violating the treaty law, trading with Indians in Spanish territory, and giving them liberal supplies of rum in order to make better bargains with furs. His goods were seized and confiscated, but he was allowed to go his way, breathing threats of retaliation.
France had recognized the independence of the colonies, which had stirred up resentment in the minds of many of the English in northern Michigan. It was said an English officer at Michilimackinac had formed a plan of seizing or destroying some of the western towns and stations where there was likely to be found booty enough to reward them. Ducharme joined the scheme eagerly and gathered roving bands of Ojibways. Winnebagoes and Sioux, and by keeping well to the eastern side of the Mississippi marched down nearly opposite Gabaret Island, and crossed over to attack the town.
Corpus Christi was a great festival day of the church. Falling late in May, on the 25th, it was an out-of-doors entertainment. After mass had been said in the morning, women and children, youths and maidens, and husbands who could be spared from business, went out for a whole day’s pleasure with baskets and bags of provisions.
The day was magnificent. The fragrance of spruce and fir, the breath of the newly grown grasses, the bloom of trees and flowers, was like the most exhilarating perfume, and stirred all the senses.
Spies had crept down the woods to reconnoitre and assure themselves their arrival had not been suspected. It seemed indeed an opportune moment. It was now mid-afternoon. There had been dancing and merriment, the children had run and played, gathered wild strawberries and flowers, and some of the more careful ones had collected their little children and started homeward.
To the westward was Cardinal Spring, owned by a man of that name, but considered free property. He and another hunter had been shooting game, and as he stooped for a drink his companion espied an Indian cautiously creeping through the trees.
“Indians! Indians!” he shouted, and fired.
Cardinal snatched up his gun, but a storm of bullets felled him. Rivière was captured. A young Frenchman, catching sight of the body of Indians, gave the alarm.
“Run for your lives! Fly to the fort!” he shouted.
There were men working in the fields, and nearly every one took his gun, as much for the chance at game as any real fear of Indians. They covered the retreat a little, and as this was a reconnoitring party, the main body was at some distance.
“Fly! Fly!” Men who had no weapons caught little ones in their arms and ran toward the fort. All was wild alarm.
“What is it?” cried Colonel Chouteau, who had been busy with some papers of importance.
“The Indians! The Indians!” shouted his brother.
“Call out the militia! Where is the Governor?”
“In his own house, drunk as usual,” cried Pierre indignantly, and he ran to summon the soldiers.
There had been a small body of troops under the command of Captain Cartabona, a Spaniard sent from Ste. Genevieve at the urgent request of the chief citizens, but it being a holiday they were away, some canoeing down the river or fishing, and of the few to be found most of them were panic stricken. The captain had been having a carouse with the Governor.
“Then we must be our own leaders. To arms! to arms! every citizen! It is for your wives and children!” was the inspiriting cry.
“You shall be our leader!” was shouted in one voice almost before the Colonel had ceased. For Colonel Chouteau was not only admired for his friendliness and good comradeship, but trusted to the last degree.
Every man rushed for his gun and ran to the rescue, hardly knowing what had happened save that the long-feared attack had come upon them unawares. They poured out of the fort, but the flying women and children were in the advance with the Indians back of them.
Colonel Chouteau marshalled his little force in a circuitous movement, and opened a volley that took the Indians by surprise. They fell back brandishing their arms and shouting to their companions to come on. Then the Colonel saw that it was no mere casual attack, but a premeditated onslaught. Already bodies were lying on the ground struggling in death agonies.
The aim was so good that the assailants halted, then fell back to wait for their companions. This gave most of the flying and terrified throng an opportunity to reach the fort. For the wounded nothing could be done at present.
Now the streets were alive with men who had no time to pick out their own families, but ran, musket or rifle in hand, to man the fort. Colonel Chouteau and his brother Pierre were experienced artillerists, and stationed themselves at the cannon.
The Indians held a brief colloquy with the advancing body. Then it was seen that an attack was determined upon. They approached the fort, headed by several white leaders, and opened an irregular fire on the place.
“Let them approach nearer,” commanded the Colonel. The walls of the stockade and the roofs of the nearest houses were manned with the residents of the town. A shower of arrows fell among them. Surprised at no retaliation, the enemy ventured boldly, headed by Ducharme.
Then the cannons poured out their volley, which swept down the foremost. From the roofs muskets and guns and even pistols made a continuing chorus. Ducharme fell. Two of the white leaders were wounded also. Then another discharge from the cannons and the red foes fell back. The plan had been to wait until almost dusk for the attack, but the incident at the spring had hastened it.
Ducharme had not counted on the strength of the fort, and he knew the town was but poorly supplied with soldiers, so he had persuaded the Indians it would fall an easy prey and give them abundant pillage. But the roar and the execution of the cannon dismayed them, and many of them fled at once. Others marched slowly, helping some of the wounded.
General Cartabona came out quite sobered by the fierceness of the attack.
“Would it not be well to order a pursuit?” he questioned.
“And perhaps fall into a trap!” returned Colonel Chouteau with a touch of scorn. “No, no; let us bring in the wounded as we can.”
Gaspard Denys had been among the first to rush to the defence of the town. Marchand had gone out with the party, and Mère Lunde was to care for Renée. He had not stopped to look or inquire. He saw Madame Renaud.
“Oh, thank heaven my children are safe! But Barbe! I cannot find Barbe!” she cried.
“And Renée?” his voice was husky.
“She was with the Marchands. They were going to the woods. Oh, M’sieu Denys, what a horrible thing! And we felt so safe. The Indians have been so friendly. But can you trust them?”
He was off to look after the wounded. A number were lying dead on the field. No, Renée was not among them. They carried the wounded in gently, the dead reverently. The good priest proffered his services, and Dr. Montcrevier left his beloved experiments to come and minister to them. The dead were taken to the church and the priest’s house.
All was confusion, however. Darkness fell before families were reunited. Children hid away in corners crying, and were too terrified to come out even at the summons of friendly voices. Colonel Chouteau and his brother were comforting, aiding, exhorting, and manning the fort anew. General Cartabona set guards at the gates and towers, for no one knew what might happen before morning.
Denys had hurried home as soon as he could be released. “Renée!” he called. “Mère Lunde!” but no one replied. He searched every nook and corner. He asked the Pichous. No one had seen them. A great pang rent his heart. And yet—they might have hidden in the forest. Ah, God send that they might not be taken prisoners! But Marchand was with them. He knew the man’s courage well. He would fight to the death for them.
“I must go out and search,” he said in a desperate tone. “Who will accompany me?”
A dozen volunteered. They were well armed, and carried a rude lantern made of tin with a glass in one side only. They saw now that their fire had done good execution among their red foes. The trampled ground showed which way the party had gone, and they were no longer in sight.
“Let us try the woods. They came by the way of the spring,” said one of the party.
They found the body of Cardinal and that of an old man, both dead. They plunged into the woods, and, though aware of the danger, Denys shouted now and then, but no human voice replied. Here, there, examining some thicket, peering behind a clump of trees, startling the denizen of the woods, or a shrill-voiced nighthawk, and then all was silence again.
They left the woods and crossed the strip of prairie. Here lay something in the grass—a body. Denys turned it over.
“My God!” he exclaimed in a voice of anguish. “It is François Marchand.”
He dropped on the ground overwhelmed. If he was dead, then the others were prisoners. There was no use to search farther to-night. To-morrow a scouting party might go out.
They made a litter of the men’s arms and carried Marchand back to the fort, to find that he was not dead, though he had a broken leg and had received a tremendous blow on the head.
A sad morning dawned over St. Louis, where yesterday all had been joy. True, it might have been much worse. In all about a dozen had been killed, but the wounded and those who had fallen and been crushed in the flight counted up many more. And some were missing. What would be their fate? And oh, what would happen to Wawataysee if some roving Indian should recognize her! As for Renée, if he had not wholly understood before, he knew now how the child had twined herself about his heart, how she had become a part of his life.
Marchand’s blow was a dangerous one. The Garreaus insisted upon nursing and caring for him, but Madame Garreau was wild about the beautiful Wawataysee. She knew the Indian character too well to think they would show her any mercy, if she was recognized by any of the tribe. And Renée, what would be her fate?
General Cartabona was most anxious to make amends for past negligence. The militia was called to a strict account and recruited as rapidly as possible, and the fortifications made more secure. He took counsel with Colonel Chouteau, who had the best interests of the town at heart.
“We must make an appeal for the Governor’s removal,” insisted the Colonel. “It is not only this cowardly episode, but he is narrow-minded and avaricious, incompetent in every respect, and drunk most of the time. He cares nothing for the welfare of the town, he takes no interest in its advancement. After such men as Piernas and Cruzat he is most despicable. Any Frenchman born would serve Spain better.”
“That is true. I will head a petition of ejectment, and make it strong enough to be heeded.”
The dead were buried, the living cared for. Even the fallen enemies had been given decent sepulture outside the town. And Gaspard Denys felt that he must start on his journey of rescue, if indeed that was possible.
He chose two trusty young fellows, after shutting his house securely, providing his party with ammunition, and provisions for a part of their journey, as much as they could carry. He found the Indians had boats in waiting on the Illinois River, and after proceeding some distance they had separated in two parties, going in different directions. Some of the prisoners had been left here, as they did not care to be bothered with them.
The one party kept on up the river. They learned there were some women with them, and were mostly Indians. It was not an easy trail to follow. There had been a quarrel and another separation, a drunken debauch, part stopping at an Indian village. And here Denys heard what caused him almost a heart-break.
They had fallen in with some Hurons who had bought two of the captives. An old woman was set free with two men and sent down the river. The others were going up north.
“It is as I feared, Jaques,” he said. “They will carry Madame Marchand to her old home as a great prize. Ah, if François were only well! But I shall go on for life or death. I will not ask you to share my perils. Wawataysee came from somewhere up by the straits. She ran away with Marchand. She was to be married to an old Indian against her will. And no doubt he will be wild with gratification at getting her back, and will treat her cruelly. The child is mine and I must save her from a like fate. But you and Pierre may return. I will not hold you bound by any promises.”
“I am in for the adventure,” and Pierre laughed, showing his white teeth. “I am not a coward nor a man to eat one’s words. I am fond of adventure. I will go on.”
“I, too,” responded Jaques briefly.
“You are good fellows, both of you. I shall pray for your safe return,” Denys said, much moved by their devotion.
“And we have no sweethearts,” subjoined Pierre with a touch of mirth. “But if I could find one as beautiful and sweet as Madame Marchand I should be paid for a journey up to Green Bay.”
“It might be dangerous,” said Denys sadly.
He wondered if it was really Mère Lunde they had set free. It would be against her will, he was sure, and it would leave the two quite defenceless. A thousand remembrances haunted him day and night. He could see Renée’s soft brown eyes in the dusk, he could hear her sweet voice in the gentle zephyrs, that changed and had no end of fascinating tones. All her arch, pretty moods came up before him, her little piquant jealousies, her pretty assumptions of dignity and power, her dainty, authoritative ways. Oh, he could not give her up, his little darling.
There was sorrow in more than one household in old St. Louis, but time softened and healed it. And now the inhabitants congratulated themselves on their freedom heretofore from raids like these. Towns had been destroyed, prisoners had been treated to almost every barbarity. Giving up their lives had not been the worst.
But the summer came on gloriously, and Colonel Chouteau made many plans for the advancement of the town. He was repairing the old house where his friend had lived, and improving the grounds, and everyone felt that in him they had a true friend.
One July day three worn and weary people came in at the northern gate, and after the guards had looked sharply at them there was a shout of joy. Pierre Duchesne, whose family had lived on a faint hope, young Normand Fleurey, and Mère Lunde, looking a decade older and more wrinkled than ever.
She sat down on a stone and wept while the sounds of joy and congratulation were all about her.
Who could give her any comfort? She suffered Gaspard Denys’s pain as well as her own. And though there had been adventures and hiding from roving Indians, living on barks and roots, she could not tell them over while her heart was so sore.
She went to the old house, where the three had known so much content.
“He will come back some day,” she said, “but the child—” and her voice would break at that.
She heard Marchand had been very ill with a fever, beside the wounds. He had come near to losing his leg, and was still a little lame, and very weak and heartbroken. His wife had been torn from his arms when an Indian had given him the blow on his head with a club, and there memory had stopped. Though Mère Lunde would talk to no one else, to him she told the sad story. And he had been lying helpless all the time Wawataysee had been in such danger! Yes, he knew what would happen to her now, but presently he would go up to the strait and never rest until he had killed all who worked her ill. Oh, if she had fallen into the hands of her old tribe!
That thought was madness. But he understood what the courage of her despair would be. She would not suffer any degradation, death would be a boon instead. Ah, if he could have joined Denys! He knew the cruelty and treachery of those whose hands she had fallen into. And the child!
But it would be useless to start disabled as he was, although his anger was fierce enough, and Denys was well on the journey. Yet it was terrible to wait with awful visions before his eyes. He had seen both men and women tortured, and the agonies prolonged with fiendish delight.
Mère Lunde opened the house and cleared up the dust and disorder. The garden was overgrown with weeds and everything was running riot. Marchand insisted upon lending a helping hand here. Many an evening they sat in the doorway wondering, hoping and despairing.
The wild cry of “The Indians! the Indians!” had roused a small group from their desultory enjoyment. They were pouring down in what seemed a countless throng. Marchand had no weapon except his knife.
“Run,” he cried. “Make for the fort! Keep at the edge of the wood while we can!”
Wawataysee seized Renée’s hand. The Indian girl was as fleet as a deer. She could have saved herself, but she would not leave the child. They had now reached the open. All was screams and confusion and flying fugitives.
A tall Indian was behind them with a club. Wawataysee gave a wild shriek and the next instant stumbled over her husband’s prostrate body. The Indian rushed on.
“Oh!” cried Renée in wild affright, standing still in terror, the flying crowd like swirling leaves before her eyes.
The sharp crack of a rifle made her spring back. Were both killed now? But Wawataysee moved, groaned.
“They have shot him now, my beloved!” She raised the bleeding head and pressed it to her bosom. “Oh, he has been killed, I know. Why did I not die with him? Oh, Renée—”
Escape now was as impossible as succor. The Indian girl moaned over her husband, and made a futile attempt to drag him back to the edge of the wood to hide him. But suddenly she was violently wrenched away, and an Indian with a hand hold of each began to run with them toward the river. At last Renée fell and he had to pause. Meanwhile the firing from the fort had begun with its execution.
Wawataysee began to plead with her captor, who turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. Renée was crying in a desperate fashion, from both fright and fatigue. He raised his club, but the young wife clasped the child in her arms.
“Kill us both,” she exclaimed, “as you have already killed my husband.”
“White man?” with a grunt. “Squaw woman. Make some Indian glad.” Other prisoners were being brought in this direction, and among them Mère Lunde, who had started to reach the fort and bear the tidings to Gaspard.
“Oh, my dear child,” she cried. “The good God help us. They are trying to take the town.” And she almost fell at their feet.
Then they were marched on, the Indian guards behind with clubs and tomahawks, now and then goaded by a light blow that would not disable. The cries grew fainter, though they still heard the roar of the cannon.
And now the sun was slanting westward and the trees cast long shadows, the sound of the river fell on their ears mingled with the homeward song of birds. The heat began to wane, the air was dewy sweet.
It was almost dusk when they reached the boats, and they were bidden to get in and were conveyed to the opposite shore. Here they were bound together, two and two, with their hands fastened behind them. One Indian was detailed to watch them while the others took the boats back.
Ducharme’s arm hung helplessly by his side, and the English renegades began to upbraid him, while the Indians, seeing that no pillage was possible and no gain could be made, drew away sullenly and began to march toward the rendezvous, leaving some of their own badly wounded behind. It was midnight before they rejoined the others. Then, fearing pursuit, they started up the river again, rousing those who had fallen asleep. All told they had barely thirty prisoners, and had left as many of their own behind.
Mère Lunde had been allowed near the two girls, and now they huddled together in the boat. Renée had fallen asleep again.
“You do not know where they will take us?” Mère Lunde inquired.
Wawataysee shook her head. “They will go up the Illinois River,” she whispered.
“Do you think they will not follow?” in a low, desperate tone. “Master Denys and—”
“Oh, he is dead,” with a heart-breaking moan. “I held him to my heart and he made no stir, I kissed his cold lips and there was no warmth. But for the sweet child I should have begged them to kill me too, so that my spirit should be with his. If she could be restored safely, my own life I would hold as nothing.”
“They have started ere this. Do not despair,” and her lips were close to the Indian girl’s ear.
“Then I shall thank the Great Spirit for the child’s sake.” Heaven grant they might be rescued.
The stir and lap of the river and the boats had a mysterious sound in the weird darkness. Then the cry of some wild animal or a bit of wind sweeping through the trees at the edge, here and there. The stars shone out overhead. Mère Lunde dropped asleep also. But Wawataysee sat with wide-open eyes. One moment she said to herself that he could not be dead, the next his white face and half-closed, dulled eyes were against her breast. She felt as if she must shriek and tear her hair, but there was the Indian’s self-control, and the thought of her companions who might be made to suffer for her. But she could not go out of life for her own satisfaction merely, unless it came to the martyrdom worse than death, for the child was a sacred charge. Gaspard Denys would go to the death, even, for both of them, and she was grateful for all the kindness and countenance he had given her at St. Louis.
They turned up a small stream, tributary to the Illinois. At noon they drew the boats up to what looked like an impenetrable brushwood, and disembarked, pulling in the boats and canoes. There was a sort of trodden path through the wild shrubbery, and tangled vines overhung it. Two of the Indians went ahead, the prisoners were driven next, and the rest of the party brought up the rear.
“Oh, where are we going?” cried Renée in affright, clutching Wawataysee’s dress with both hands.
The girl shook her head.
They were stiff from their cramped position in the boats and faint from hunger. Now and then one received a blow and an admonition to hurry on. At length they came in sight of a clearing, an Indian settlement, with wigwams and a space planted with corn. Women were moving about over their fires, children playing or stretched out in the sun. Skins were tacked from tree to tree drying, and several women were busy making garments and leggings, some young girls cutting fringes. It was a pretty, restful scene to the tired travellers.
An old man rose, it almost seemed from the earth itself. He was thin and gaunt, hollow-cheeked and wrinkled to the last degree. From his attire and his head-dress of feathers one could gather that he was the chief of the small settlement.
“Why all this warlike array and these prisoners?” he asked sharply. “We are at peace with our white brothers. We have gathered in the remnant of our tribe, we have few young braves among us, we are mostly women and children. We have nothing to be despoiled of, we do no hunting save for ourselves.”
“We want only a little food and rest, good father Neepawa. We will not molest you and yours. We are going up to the Great Lakes. We have been led astray by a white chief who promised us much plunder, but the town was too strong for us. He has gone south to one of the English forts and taken some of his followers, leaving the prisoners with us. Give us some food and we will go on.”
Their request was acceded to, but with no special cordiality. The thing they would most have liked was whiskey, but that was not to be supplied at this simple Indian village.
“Oh, if we could stay here!” sighed Renée. “Do you know where they mean to take us?” and her eyes dilated with fear.
“Only that we are going farther north.”
Wawataysee was fain to have some conversation with the Indian women, but she soon saw that every effort was adroitly frustrated. Still, they were fed abundantly and some provisions given the party. They reembarked late in the afternoon and made their way down to the Illinois River and up farther on their journey, until their provisions were gone, when they were obliged to land again.
After foraging about awhile they met a party of Indians and traders quite plentifully supplied with whiskey. This led to quarrels and disputes. A number of them were tired of having the prisoners to feed, and had changed their minds about going north. They were roving Indians who had no strong ties anywhere. Half a dozen decided to cast in their lot with the traders.
And now those going on picked out the most likely of the prisoners. Some of the strong young men who would be useful in the capacity of slaves, one half-breed woman who had astuteness enough to make herself of account in preparing food and did not resent the small indignities offered.
As they marched down to the river’s edge these were first put on the boat. Then Wawataysee and the child. Mère Lunde started to follow, but was rudely thrust back.
“I must, I must!” she shrieked, struggling with her captor; “I must stay with the child!”
“Push off!” was the command. Three Indians stepped in and the boat was propelled out in the stream. Then Wawataysee saw what had happened and half rose, crying wildly that they should take on the poor creature begging in her desperation.
“She is ours! We cannot do without her!”
The Indian pushed her down on her seat and uttered a rough threat.
“Oh, what will they do with her?” shrieked Renée.
A blow was the only answer. Renée fell into her companion’s lap sobbing wildly. Wawataysee tried to soothe and comfort her. But she felt strangely defenceless. The half-breed she mistrusted. If there could be some escape! She studied every point. They were no longer bound, but out here on the river one could do nothing.
So passed another night and day and a second night. No place of refuge had been found in their brief landings. But they reached another settlement, not as orderly or inviting as that of Chief Neepawa. Still, they were glad of a rest. And now their captors seemed undecided again. Two or three were already tired of the journey with its hardships.
An Indian woman found a place in her wigwam for the two girls. They were bound at night and their keeper had strict injunctions about them.
The Elk Horn, as one of the most authoritative Indians was called, now assumed the command. He had an idea, that he kept quite to himself, that he might dispose of his prisoners to some advantage, to make up in part for the ill-advised raid on St. Louis. There were many roving Indians about whose tribes had been decimated by wars and sickness, and who attached themselves to the English or American cause, whichever offered the most profit, and who liked a lawless, wandering life and plunder.
The keeper seemed kindly disposed toward the two girls and treated them well, though she watched them sharply. Wawataysee had been careful to talk in a patois of broken French and the Sioux that she had picked up. She understood nearly all that her captors said and thus held them at a disadvantage, but she could not learn what Elk Horn’s plans were, if indeed he had any certain ones. She admitted that she had left a husband in St. Louis, for there were moments when she could not believe him dead, and that this was the end of their tender love! And she was young, she had just tasted of the sweetness of it all.
There were hours of heart-break, when it seemed as if she could not endure Renée’s prattle, and would fain shake off the soft touch on her arm, the kisses on her forehead, for the awful, desperate want of the other kisses, the other clasp. And oh, how strong the longing was at times to throw herself headlong into the river and let her spirit of love fly to that other land, that the good God provided for His children.
Then she would think of Gaspard Denys and his love for the little maid. He had seen enough of the cruelty of her race to know the danger. Ah, why had the great All-Father allowed any human beings to become such fiends? Up in her northern home she had heard things that turned the blood to ice. And she had been so near the white settlements.
Yes, she must care for the little one, keep with her, befriend her, try to restore her to her dear protector.
It was best to claim that Renée was her little sister by adoption. If they could only get back! Why should they go up north? What was that more than any other place!
The woman at this would shake her head doubtfully. Yet Wawataysee could see that she softened, and once she asked how far it was to St. Louis, and how one could get there.
Wawataysee’s heart beat high with hope. Yet how could two girls reach there alone? They might meet other Indian bands who would capture them. There were wild animals. And they might not get a canoe. They had no money. Still, she would escape if they could and pray to the good God to keep them safe. Often and often she and Renée comforted themselves with the sweet, brief prayers they had learned. And oh, where was poor Mère Lunde!
Several days of rest were vouchsafed to them. Then one day a company of hunters joined them, among which there were a few white prisoners as well. One, a young fellow, strolled about with evident curiosity, and came upon the girls in a leafy covert near the wig-wam. They were given a little liberty by their keeper on promising by the Great Manitou they would not attempt to escape.
“It would be of no use,” said the woman. “An alarm would be given, and you do not know your way anywhere. Then you might be beaten when you were captured, and confined with thongs. Have patience. Sometimes all the braves go off to hunt.”
The young man listened to the French with delight. Two of the other captives were English and they had conversed mostly with signs and Indian words they had picked up.
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.
“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 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.”