Indian Captive (20 page)

Sobbing, she turned away, but Shagbark drew her back again.

“The Senecas are the richer for having a daughter like you, Corn Tassel,” said the old man. “They have much to learn from the pale-face. Sympathy, love for our brother, is what we all most need. That you can teach us as no one else can, little one. Perhaps that is why the Great Spirit led you to come to us. Perhaps only you, in all the world, could do this for us and that is the reason that you became a captive!”

He paused, then continued: “Hunting is a man’s work. It is not meant for women. Their tender hearts are better suited for the care of little children and for tending growing things—the corn, beans and squashes. It is man’s duty to bring in meat for food and woman’s to prepare it for eating. And now, let us see. This young hunter, who has brought a fine, fat turkey to his mothers lodge, has earned a reward. He shall have not only a quiver full of new flint-headed arrows, but a new bow as well. From now on, he shall hunt with bow and arrows fit for the best hunter in the tribe.”

Shagbark brought out a strong, beautifully shaped, carved bow made of a hickory sapling and strung with sinew cord.

“See if you are able to draw this bow, Turkey Feather,” he said to the boy.

Turkey Feather drew the bow easily. Shagbark handed him an arrow and bade him come outdoors. Pointing to a great hickory tree, he said, “Take aim at the topmost branch of that tree, but do not shoot.”

Turkey Feather took his position and pulled the arrow back.

“Shoot that duck as it flies across!” said Shagbark, quietly.

Whizz!
The flint-headed arrow went singing through the air and in a moment the bird dropped to the ground.

“One of these days,” said Shagbark, solemnly, “Turkey Feather will be a great hunter.”

“Please accept this duck for your supper, Grandfather,” said Turkey Feather, running back with the bird in his hand. “May I always be worthy of the man’s bow and arrows which you have seen fit to give me.”

“We will go now to Chief Burning Sky’s lodge,” said Shagbark. “We will present the new hunter, Turkey Feather, to the Chief.”

Dusk fell and evening came. The night air was cold with the fresh briskness of late autumn. Inside Chief Burning Sky’s lodge, a crowd had gathered. A bright fire burned on the hard clay ground and threw flickering lights on the upturned faces. Several women moved silently about in the shadows, bringing in loads of hemlock and pine wood which crackled and sputtered as the fire consumed it.

Inside the door, Molly hesitated. She had not yet mixed with the people of Genesee Town. Except for the children, they were strangers to her. Perhaps they did not know that a white girl captive had been brought to the village. Then she wondered why they were so quiet. Something unusual must be about to happen. She looked over their heads. She saw Old Shagbark and Turkey Feather go into the adjoining room and speak to the Chief and his men. Then, in a moment, she forgot them entirely, for she saw something which took her completely by surprise.

She saw a man standing by the fire in the first room, leaning upon a long, thin rifle. He was a backwoodsman. He wore fringed deerskin hunting-shirt and leggings. On his head at a rakish angle, sat a raccoon skin cap, with its striped tail caressing his broad shoulder. A pouch for bullets hung from the man’s belt, a hunting-knife was stuck in a sheath and a carved powderhorn was slung over his chest by a strap.

All these things Molly saw in a flash and in that flash, her Indian life faded completely away. The man was the same height and build as her father. The side of his cheek was stubbly with rough whiskers. His clothes were her father’s clothes. Or, was she dreaming?

Molly took hold of a bunk-pole and gripped it tight. She stared at the rifle, at its shining metal, glittering in the firelight. Had she seen it before? Had she taken it once in her hands to point it at an Indian? But the man did not speak. He did not turn and look at her.

Then she could wait no longer. Past the waiting, astonished Indians, past the crackling fire, into his arms she rushed.

The man’s face looked down at her and from his thin lips, a word of astonishment broke out. “Hello!” he said, weakly. “Who’s this?”

Then she knew it was not her father. The voice was the voice of another man, who was not her father at all. But it had a familiar ring to it. Had she heard the voice before?

Molly’s arms dropped weakly down and she almost fell to the ground, so limp had she become. She stepped back a little and looked at him keenly. Then she smiled, for the face took her back, back again swiftly to Marsh Creek Hollow. No, it was not her father. It was Old Fallenash, the white trader; and his words drawled soft and sweet, spoken as only backwoodsmen spoke them.

“Why, look-a-here!” cried the man, staring hard. “Seems like I’ve seen you before somewhere, but not in them clothes—not all decked out in Indian togs! Have they been tryin’ to make an Indian out of a white gal with yaller hair? Seems like I can see you back down there somewhere, a-sittin’ in a log cabin on a three-legged stool, dressed up in purty blue homespun. Now, ain’t it a fact?”

“Oh, Fallenash!” Molly was in his arms again, unashamed. “Oh, Fallenash, have I changed, then, so much? Don’t say that you don’t remember. Tell me you know who I am!” The girl was sobbing now. The pain of not being recognized stabbed her through and through.

The assembled Indians began to exclaim. Their cries of astonishment made a murmuring chorus behind the words of man and girl.

“If only you’d take off them Indian togs and put on blue homespun again,” said Fallenash, lamely, “I’d know ye in a minute, gal. Sure as I’m a white man, sure as my name’s Fallenash, I’ve seen them blue eyes somewhere. But your skin’s gone brown now, too, just like an Indian’s and my eyesight’s gittin’ dimmer each day.”

“Oh, Fallenash, Fallenash! Don’t say you have forgot!” cried Molly, unhappily. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. I’m Molly Jemison from Marsh Creek Hollow! You used to come time and again! Each year you came…”

“To be sure! To be sure!” Old Fallenash settled his coonskin cap more firmly. “Now I know. You’re Tom Jemison’s darter, from Marsh Creek Holler in Pennsylvania. Many’s the time I’ve sat on Tom’s big hearthstone and talked far into the night. Remember? I’ll say I remember. There’s no other hair as yaller as Molly Jemison’s along the hull frontier, and I’d orter know, I’ve traveled everywhere.”

“Oh, Fallenash!” Molly hung to his arms and would not let him go. Like water from a fresh mountain spring, the words came pouring: “How long since you’ve been there? When did you see them last? Did they send a message along for me, in case you would find me? Did they send you to search me out? Oh, tell me they’re well and hearty…Oh, tell me they think of me still…”

“Slowly, now slowly!” answered Fallenash. “This ain’t no time to be talkin. The Indians are anxious to trade and I must give them attention. There’s Chief Burning Sky and there’s Panther Woman a-comin’. She scares the gizzard out of me. I can’t talk to ye now, but I will later, before I go.”

Then, seeing the look of disappointment on the girl’s face, he decided he might as well get the worst over.

“I ain’t been to Marsh Creek Holler,” he said, quickly, “not for a long, long time I ain’t. I didn’t know ye was took by the Injuns. Honest, I never dreamed of such a thing. The Chief’s comin’ now with his woman…don’t forgit, I’ll see ye by and by.”

Just then Squirrel Woman darted out from behind the others and pulled Molly back into the crowd.

“Once more you rush forth to talk to a pale-face!” she scolded. “With shame I behold you, rushing out before the eyes of all the village. Only the Chief and men of importance may speak to the trader—children never. How oft must I tell you—you are an Indian, your lips are to form words only of Indian.”

Squirrel Woman’s words passed over Molly’s head. Fallenash had not been to Marsh Creek Hollow for a long, long time. Fallenash did not even know, after all the long months, that she had been taken by the Indians. He had not seen her family. The news was crushing, but still there was hope. Perhaps then, he would be going there soon. Perhaps he would take her along. She watched the trading with impatience.

The Indians had brought packs of furs and hides, and baskets of nuts to trade. Fallenash passed tobacco around and the smoking and talking began. The trader brought from his pack several small shiny brass kettles and set them in a row on his blanket. He spread out rolls of bright-colored cloth and blankets, strings of gay, brilliant beads and a fine array of silver jewelry, tools and weapons.

The Indians stared at the objects, fascinated. After a long delay, the Chief gave the signal for the trading to begin and, one by one, the buyers approached.

“Beads are better’n porcupine quills,” said Fallenash, lifting a handful and letting them fall in a shower. “You don’t have to go to the trouble of dyein’ ’em; they don’t get sticky and crack like quills. Quills are all right for embroidering deerskin, but for this handsome cloth, you want handsome beads.”

He unrolled a bolt of bright red broadcloth and held it up in the fire-light, while his coaxing, wheedling voice went on: “Good quality cloth in the brightest colors—every bit as durable as deerskin. Soon you’ll forget how to tan your hides—you’ll all be wearing cloth! As for earthen pots that break so easy, you’ve most forgot them already. See these brass kettles—you can kick ’em around! They’ll bend, but they won’t break! They’ll last forever. Cheap, too—considerin’ what you’re gettin’. How ’bout some handsome silver bracelets for your women?”

Molly saw the greedy looks on the faces of the Indian women. She saw the frown on Chief Burning Sky’s face grow heavier. Was he displeased with the trader and his wares? Did he dislike seeing the Indians buy white men’s goods? How eager and greedy she herself would have been—at any other time! But now, all she could think of was Fallenash’s news.

Log-in-the-Water, the laziest Indian in the village, seized a pair of silver ear-rings and held them up. After careful examination and long pondering, he offered a beaver skin to pay. Fallenash nodded and the exchange was made.

Big Kettle, known for his greediness, came next. For a fine steel tomahawk he reluctantly piled his skins higher and higher and grudgingly handed them over.

Gray Wolf, sullen and leering, demanded fire-water to quench his thirst. Fallenash shook his head and said quietly, “Soberness makes more money for a trader than drunkenness.” Gray Wolf left the room, swearing.

Molly stood at the edge of the crowd and looked over the Indians’ heads. Some of the women bargained endlessly for pieces of cloth, for beads and jewelry. Others walked away with shining brass kettles on their arms. Would the trading never be over? Gradually the trader’s wares found their way into the Indians’ hands, and the furs and nuts for payment were placed on the ground by his side.

Still the Indians lingered by the fire. They waited for Fallenash, who traveled over both frontier and wilderness, who had free entry to white and Indian camp-fires alike, to speak, for he was always the bearer of news. Molly hid behind a bark barrel to keep out of sight of the Indian women.

“Blood has indeed flowed red,” Fallenash began in Indian, approaching the subject with grave caution, “to color the falling leaves with rich autumn brilliance.”

Chief Burning Sky’s face changed not at all. As if he were already acquainted with the news, or suspected in advance its import, he gazed quietly into the fire.

“Fort Duquesne has fallen!” announced Fallenash. “The French have lost it to the English.”

He looked around the circle. The news was greeted with silence. Not a head was turned, not a word was said.

“Them English were too strong for them, even with the Indians’ help,” the trader went on. “The French, I am sorry to say, had to run, some down the River Ohio, others overland to Presque Isle and others up the Allegheny River to Venango. A friend of mine who was there told me about it. Fort Duquesne’s only a mass of black and burning ruins. It’s been completely destroyed.”

“The fort?” cried Molly. Forgetting her caution, she ran to the man’s side. “The fort with the peach tree in the yard?”

But Fallenash paid no attention to her.

“When them English under Forbes came rushing in, in three columns, they had nothing to do,” he continued, his eyes upon the Chief’s face. “They found the fortifications blown up and the barracks and storehouses burned to the ground. Only thirty chimney stacks were left standing. The French had to do it themselves—to keep it from falling into the hands of them English. Looks like they got good and scared and ran for their lives when they saw them English coming. The Indians ran, too, I suppose.”

He paused, then went on: “Them English will have to build it up again, if they want a fort of their own there—at the forks of the River Ohio, and I reckon they do. Sir William Johnson, I hear, is no friend of the Frenchmen. He’ll be takin’ Fort Niagara next, if we don’t watch out, and Quebec too, they say. Then a Frenchman’s hide won’t be worth a pinch of tobacco. Trouble is, the French need more help from the Indians than they’ve been gettin’.”