The Scouts of the Valley

Up came the sun. The gray light turned to silver, and then to red and blazing gold. A long, swelling note, the triumphant cry of the pursuing warriors, rose behind him. Henry turned his head for one look. He saw a group of them poised for a moment on the crest of a low hill and outlined against the broad flame in the east. He saw their scalp locks, the rifles in their hands, and their bare chests shining bronze in the glow. Once more he sent back his defiant cry, now in answer to theirs, and then, calling upon his reserves of strength and endurance, fled with a speed that none of the warriors had ever seen surpassed.

Henry’s flight lasted all that day, and he used every device to evade the pursuit, swinging by vines, walking along fallen logs, and wading in brooks. He did not see the warriors again, but instinct warned him that they were yet following. At long intervals he would rest for a quarter of an hour or so among the bushes, and at noon he ate a little of the venison that he always carried. Three hours later he came to the river again, and swimming it he turned on his course, but kept to the southern side. When the twilight was falling once more he sat still in dense covert for a long time. He neither saw nor heard a sign of human presence, and he was sure now that the pursuit had failed. Without an effort he dismissed it from his mind, ate a little more of the venison, and made his bed for the night.

The whole day had been bright, with a light wind blowing, and the forest was dry once more. As far as Henry could see it circled away on every side, a solid dark green, the leaves of oak and beech, maple and elm making a soft, sighing sound as they waved gently in the wind. It told Henry of nothing but peace. He had eluded the pursuit, hence it was no more. This was a great, friendly forest, ready to shelter him, to soothe him, and to receive him into its arms for peaceful sleep.

He found a place among thick trees where the leaves of last year lay deep upon the ground. He drew up enough of them for a soft bed, because now and for the moment he was a forest sybarite. He was wise enough to take his ease when he found it, knowing that it would pay his body to relax.

He lay down upon the leaves, placed the rifle by his side, and spread the blanket over himself and the weapon. The twilight was gone, and the night, dark and without stars, as he wished to see it, rolled up, fold after fold, covering and hiding everything. He looked a little while at a breadth of inky sky showing through the leaves, and then, free from trouble or fear, he fell asleep.

CHAPTER II. THE MYSTERIOUS HAND

Henry slept until a rosy light, filtering through the leaves, fell upon his face. Then he sprang up, folded the blanket once more upon his back, and looked about him. Nothing had come in the night to disturb him, no enemy was near, and the morning sun was bright and beautiful. The venison was exhausted, but he bathed his face in the brook and resumed his journey, traveling with a long, swift stride that carried him at great speed.

The boy was making for a definite point, one that he knew well, although nearly all the rest of this wilderness was strange to him. The country here was rougher than it usually is in the great valley to the west, and as he advanced it became yet more broken, range after range of steep, stony hills, with fertile but narrow little valleys between. He went on without hesitation for at least two hours, and then stopping under a great oak he uttered a long, whining cry, much like the howl of a wolf.

It was not a loud note, but it was singularly penetrating, carrying far through the forest. A sound like an echo came back, but Henry knew that instead of an echo it was a reply to his own signal. Then he advanced boldly and swiftly and came to the edge of a snug little valley set deep among rocks and trees like a bowl. He stopped behind the great trunk of a beech, and looked into the valley with a smile of approval.

Four human figures were seated around a fire of smoldering coals that gave forth no smoke. They appeared to be absorbed in some very pleasant task, and a faint odor that came to Henry’s nostrils filled him with agreeable anticipations. He stepped forward boldly and called:

“Jim, save that piece for me!”

Long Jim Hart halted in mid-air the large slice of venison that he had toasted on a stick. Paul Cotter sprang joyfully to his feet, Silent Tom Ross merely looked up, but Shif’less Sol said:

“Thought Henry would be here in time for breakfast.”

Henry walked down in the valley, and the shiftless one regarded him keenly.

“I should judge, Henry Ware, that you’ve been hevin’ a foot race,” he drawled.

“And why do you think that?” asked Henry.

“I kin see where the briars hev been rakin’ across your leggins. Reckon that wouldn’t happen, ‘less you was in a pow’ful hurry.”

“You’re right,” said Henry. “Now, Jim, you’ve been holding that venison in the air long enough. Give it to me, and after I’ve eaten it I’ll tell you all that I’ve been doing, and all that’s been done to me.”

Long Jim handed him the slice. Henry took a comfortable seat in the circle before the coals, and ate with all the appetite of a powerful human creature whose food had been more than scanty for at least two days.

“Take another piece,” said Long Jim, observing him with approval. “Take two pieces, take three, take the whole deer. I always like to see a hungry man eat. It gives him sech satisfaction that I git a kind uv taste uv it myself.”

Henry did not offer a word ‘of explanation until his breakfast was over. Then lie leaned back, sighing twice with deep content, and said:

“Boys, I’ve got a lot to tell.”

Shif’less Sol moved into an easier position on the leaves.

“I guess it has somethin’ to do with them scratches on your leggins.”

“It has,” continued Henry with emphasis, “and I want to say to you boys that I’ve seen Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots.”

“Timmendiquas!” exclaimed the others together.

“No less a man than he,” resumed Henry. “I’ve looked upon his very face, I’ve seen him in camp with warriors, and I’ve had the honor of being pursued by him and his men more hours than I can tell. That’s why you see those briar scratches on my leggins, Sol.”

“Then we cannot doubt that he is here to stir the Six Nations to continued war,” said Paul Cotter, “and he will succeed. He is a mighty chief, and his fire and eloquence will make them take up the hatchet. I’m glad that we’ve come. We delayed a league once between the Shawnees and the Miamis; I don’t think we can stop this one, but we may get some people out of the way before the blow falls.”

“Who are these Six Nations, whose name sounds so pow’ful big up here?” asked Long Jim.

“Their name is as big as it sounds,” replied Henry. “They are the Onondagas, the Mohawks, Oneidas, Senecas, Cayugas, and Tuscaroras. They used to be the Five Nations, but the Tuscaroras came up from the south and fought against them so bravely that they were adopted into the league, as a new and friendly tribe. The Onondagas, so I’ve heard, formed the league a long, long time ago, and their head chief is the grand sachem or high priest of them all, but the head chief of the Mohawks is the leading war chief.”

“I’ve heard,” said Paul, “that the Wyandots are kinsmen of all these tribes, and on that account they will listen with all the more friendliness to Timmendiquas.”

“Seems to me,” said Tom Ross, “that we’ve got a most tre-men-je-ous big job ahead.”

“Then,” said Henry, “we must make a most tremendous big effort.”

“That’s so,” agreed all.

After that they spoke little. The last coals were covered up, and the remainder of the food was put in their pouches. Then they sat on the leaves, and every one meditated until such time as he might have something worth saying. Henry’s thoughts traveled on a wide course, but they always came back to one point. They had heard much at Pittsburgh of a famous Mohawk chief called Thayendanegea, but most often known to the Americans as Brant. He was young, able, and filled with intense animosity against the white people, who encroached, every year, more and more upon the Indian hunting grounds. His was a soul full kin to that of Timmendiquas, and if the two met it meant a great council and a greater endeavor for the undoing of the white man. What more likely than that they intended to meet?

“All of you have heard of Thayendanegea, the Mohawk?” said Henry.

They nodded.

“It’s my opinion that Timmendiquas is on the way to meet him. I remember hearing a hunter say at Pittsburgh that about a hundred miles to the east of this point was a Long House or Council House of the Six Nations. Timmendiquas is sure to go there, and we must go, too. We must find out where they intend to strike. What do you say?”

“We go there!” exclaimed four voices together.

Seldom has a council of war been followed by action so promptly.

As Henry spoke the last word he rose, and the others rose with him. Saying no more, he led toward the east, and the others followed him, also saying no more. Separately every one of them was strong, brave, and resourceful, but when the five were together they felt that they had the skill and strength of twenty. The long rest at Pittsburgh had restored them after the dangers and hardship of their great voyage from New Orleans.

They carried in horn and pouch ample supplies of powder and bullet, and they did not fear any task.

Their journey continued through hilly country, clothed in heavy forest, but often without undergrowth. They avoided the open spaces, preferring to be seen of men, who were sure to be red men, as little as possible. Their caution was well taken. They saw Indian signs, once a feather that had fallen from a scalp lock, once footprints, and once the bone of a deer recently thrown away by him who had eaten the meat from it. The country seemed to be as wild as that of Kentucky. Small settlements, so they had heard, were scattered at great distances through the forest, but they saw none. There was no cabin smoke, no trail of the plow, just the woods and the hills and the clear streams. Buffalo had never reached this region, but deer were abundant, and they risked a shot to replenish their supplies.

They camped the second night of their march on a little peninsula at the confluence of two creeks, with the deep woods everywhere. Henry judged that they were well within the western range of the Six Nations, and they cooked their deer meat over a smothered fire, nothing more than a few coals among the leaves. When supper was over they arranged soft places for themselves and their blankets, all except Long Jim, whose turn it was to scout among the woods for a possible foe.

“Don’t be gone long, Jim,” said Henry as he composed himself in a comfortable position. “A circle of a half mile about us will do.”

“I’ll not be gone more’n an hour,” said Long Jim, picking up his rifle confidently, and flitting away among the woods.

“Not likely he’ll see anything,” said Shif’less Sol, “but I’d shorely like to know what White Lightning is about. He must be terrible stirred up by them beatin’s he got down on the Ohio, an’ they say that Mohawk, Thayendanegea is a whoppin’ big chief, too. They’ll shorely make a heap of trouble.”

“But both of them are far from here just now,” said Henry, “and we won’t bother about either.”

He was lying on some leaves at the foot of a tree with his arm under his head and his blanket over his body. He had a remarkable capacity for dismissing trouble or apprehension, and just then he was enjoying great physical and mental peace. He looked through half closed eyes at his comrades, who also were enjoying repose, and his fancy could reproduce Long Jim in the forest, slipping from tree to tree and bush to bush, and finding no menace.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, Henry?” said the shiftless one. “I like a clean, bold country like this. No more plowin’ around in swamps for me.”