The Riflemen of the Ohio: A Story of the Early Days along "The Beautiful River"

All the others nodded. Everyone was anxious for the perilous task.

"We can swim the river," said Henry, "and, also, we can borrow a small boat from the fleet."

"I wouldn't borrow a boat," said Daniel Boone. "The fewer that know about us the better, even the fewer of our friends. It 'pears to me that if we were to stroll down stream a little we might find a canoe that somebody had left there for a time of need."

Henry smiled. He felt sure that the canoe would be found. But he and the others, without another word, followed Boone for a distance until they came to a point where the banks were low. Then Boone forced his way noiselessly into a patch of bushes that grew at the very water's edge, and Simon Kenton followed him. The two reappeared in a minute, carrying a spacious canoe of birch bark.

"Simon an' me took this," explained Boone, "before we went south for our friends, an' we hid it here, knowin' that we'd have a use for it some time or other. We'll crowd it, but it'll hold us all."

They put the canoe upon the water, and the five got in. Boone and Kenton lifted the paddles, but Tom Ross at once reached over and took the paddle from the hand of Daniel Boone.

"It shan't ever be told uv me," he said, "that I set still in a boat, while Dan'l Boone paddled me across the Ohio."

"An' yet I think I can paddle pretty well," said Daniel Boone in a gentle, whimsical tone.

"'Nuff said," said Tom Ross, as he gave the paddle a mighty sweep that sent the canoe shooting far out into the river. Boone smiled again in his winning way, but said nothing. Kenton, also, swung the paddle with a mighty wrist and arm, and in a few moments they were in the middle of the river. Here the light was greatest, and the two paddlers did not cease their efforts until they were well under the shelter of the northern bank, where the darkness lay thick and heavy again.

Here they stopped and examined river, forest, and shores. The fleet at the southern margin blended with the darkness, but they could dimly see, high upon the cliff, the walls of the fort, and also a few lights that twinkled in the blockhouse or the upper stories of cabins.

"They're at peace and happy there now," said Daniel Boone. "It's a pity they can't stay so."

He spoke with so much kindly sympathy that Henry once more regarded this extraordinary man with uncommon interest. Explorer, wilderness fighter, man of a myriad perils, he was yet as gentle in voice and manner as a woman. But Henry understood him. He knew that like nature itself he was at once serene and strong. He, too, had felt the spell.

"They won't be troubled there to-night," continued Boone. "The Indians will not be ready for a new attack, unless it's merely skirmishing, an' Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite will keep a good guard against them. Now which way, Simon, do you think the camp of the Indians will be?"

Kenton pointed toward the northeast, a silent but significant gesture.

"There's a little prairie over there about two miles back from the river," he said. "It's sheltered, but safe from ambush, an' it's just the place that Timmendiquas would naturally choose."

"Then," said Boone, "that's the place we'll go to. Now, boys, we'll hide our canoe here among the bushes, 'cause we're likely to need it again. We may come back mighty fast, an' it might be the very thing that we wanted most at that partickler time."

He laughed, and the others laughed, too. The canoe was well hidden among the bushes, and then the five borderers disappeared in the forest.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SPEECH OF TIMMENDIQUAS

A score of Indian chiefs sat in the center of a little, almost circular, prairie, about a half mile across. All these chiefs were men of distinction in their wild forest way, tall, lean, deep-chested, and with black eyes full of courage and pride. They wore deerskin dress, supplemented with blankets of bright blue or red, but deerskin and blankets alike were of finer quality than those worn by the warriors, many hundreds in number, who surrounded the chiefs, but at a respectful distance.

However commanding the chiefs were in presence, all yielded in this particular to one, a young man of great height, magnificent figure, and a singularly bold and open countenance. He was painted much less than the others, and the natural nobility of his features showed. Unconsciously the rest had gathered about him until he was the center of the group, and the eyes of every man, Red Eagle, Yellow Panther, Captain Pipe, and all, were upon him. It was the spontaneous tribute to valor and worth.

Near the group of chiefs, but just a little apart, sat four white men and one white boy, although the boy was as large as the men. They, too, looked over the heads of the others at the young chief in the center, and around both, grouped in a mighty curve, more than fifteen hundred warriors waited, with eyes fixed on the same target to see what the young chief might do or to hear what he might say.

There was an extraordinary quality in this scene, something that the wilderness alone can witness. It was shown in the fierce, eager glance of every brown face, the rapt attention, and the utter silence, save for the multiplied breathing of so many. A crow, wheeling on black wings in the blue overhead, uttered a loud croak, astonished perhaps at the spectacle below, but no one paid any attention to him, and, uttering another croak, he flew away. A rash bear at the edge of the wood was almost overpowered by the human odor that reached his nostrils, but, recovering his senses, he lurched away in the other direction.

It was Yellow Panther, the veteran chief, who at last broke the silence.

"What does the great Timmendiquas, head chief of the Wyandots, think of the things that we have done?" he asked.

Timmendiquas remained silent at least two minutes more, although all eyes were still centered upon him, and then he rose, slowly and with the utmost dignity, to his feet. A deep breath like the sighing of the wind came from the crowd, and then it was still again.

Timmendiquas did not yet speak, nor did he look at any one. His gaze was that of the seer. He looked over and beyond them, and they felt awe. He walked slowly to a little mound, ascended it, and turned his gaze all around the eager and waiting circle. The look out of his eyes had changed abruptly. It was now that of the warrior and chief who would destroy his enemies. Another minute of waiting, and he began to speak in a deep, resonant voice.

"You are here," he cried, "warriors and men of many tribes, Shawnee, Miami, Delaware, Illinois, Ottawa, and Wyandot. All who live in the valley north of the Ohio and east of the Mississippi are here. You are brave men. Sometimes you have fought with one another. In this strife all have won victory and all have suffered defeat. But you lived the life that Manitou made you to live, and you were happy, in your own way, in a great and fair land that is filled with game.

"But a new enemy has come, and, like the buffalo on the far western plains, his numbers are past counting. When one is slain five grow in his place. When Manitou made the white man he planted in his soul the wish to possess all the earth, and he strives night and day to achieve his wish. While he lives he does not turn back, and dead, his bones claim the ground in which they lie. He may be afraid of the forest and the warrior. The growl of the bear and the scream of the panther may make him tremble, but, trembling, he yet comes."

He paused and looked once more around the whole length of the circle. A deep murmur of approval broke forth, but the forest orator quieted it with a single lift of his hand.

"The white man," he resumed, "respects no land but his own. If it does not belong to himself he thinks that it belongs to nobody, and that Manitou merely keeps it in waiting for him. He is here now with his women and children in the land that we and our fathers have owned since the beginning of time. Many of the white men have fallen beneath our bullets and tomahawks. We have burned their new houses and uprooted their corn, but they are more than they were last year, and next year they will be more than they are now."

He paused again and looked over the circle of his auditors. His eyes were flashing, and his great figure seemed to swell and grow. Like so many men of the woods he was a born orator, and practice had increased his eloquence. A deep, angry murmur came from the crowd. The passion in their hearts responded to the passion in his voice. Even the white men, the renegades, black with treason and crime, were moved.

"They will be more next year than they are now," resumed Timmendiquas, "if we do not drive them back. Our best hunting grounds are there beyond the Beautiful River, in the land that we call Kain-tuck-ee, and it is there that the smoke from their cabins lies like a threat across the sky. It is there that they continually come in their wagons across the mountains or in the boats down the river.

"The men of our race are brave, they are warriors, they have not yielded humbly to the coming of the white man. We have fought him many times. Many of the white scalps are in our wigwams. Sometimes Manitou has given to us the victory, and again he has given it to this foe of ours who would eat up our whole country. We were beaten in the attack on the place they call Wareville, we were beaten again in the attack on the great wagon train, and we have failed now in our efforts against the fort and the fleet. Warriors of the allied tribes, is it not so?"

He paused once more, and a deep groan burst from the great circle. He was playing with the utmost skill upon their emotions, and now every face clouded as he recalled their failures and losses to them, failures and losses that they could not afford.

"He is a genius," said Simon Girty to Braxton Wyatt. "I do not like him, but I will say that he is the greatest man in the west."

"Sometimes I'm afraid of him," said Braxton Wyatt.

The face of Timmendiquas was most expressive. When he spoke of their defeats his eyes were sad, his features drooped, and his voice took on a wailing tone. But now he changed suddenly. The head was thrown back, the chin was thrust out fiercely and aggressively, the black eyes became coals of fire, and the voice, challenging and powerful, made every heart in the circle leap up.

"But a true warrior," he said, "never yields. Manitou does not love the coward. He has given the world, its rivers, its lakes, its forests, and its game, to the brave man. Warriors of the allied tribes, are you ready to yield Kain-tuck-ee, over which your fathers have hunted from the beginning of time, to the white man who has just come?"

A roar burst from the crowd, and with a single impulse fifteen hundred voices answered, "No!" Many snatched their tomahawks from their belts and waved them threateningly as if the hated white man already stood within reach of the blade. Even the old veterans, Yellow Panther and Red Eagle, were stirred in every fiber, and shouted "No!" with the others.

"I knew that you would say 'No,'" continued Timmendiquas, "although there are some among you who lost courage, though only for the moment, and wanted to go home, saying that the white man was too strong. When the fleet reached the fort they believed that we had failed, but we have not failed. We are just beginning to tread our greatest war path. The forces of the white men are united; then we will destroy them all at once. Warriors, will you go home like women or stay with your chiefs and fight?"

A tremendous shout burst from the crowd, and the air was filled with the gleam of metal as they waved their tomahawks. Excited men began to beat the war drums, and others began to dance the war dance. But Timmendiquas said no more. He knew when to stop.

He descended slowly and with dignity from the mound, and with the other chiefs and the renegades he walked to a fire, around which they sat, resuming their council. But it was not now a question of fighting, it was merely a question of the best way in which to fight.

"Besides the fleet, Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, and thirty or forty men like them have come to the relief of the fort," said Girty.

"It is so," said Timmendiquas.

"It would be a great stroke," continued the renegade, "to destroy Boone and Kenton along with the fort and the fleet"—he was as anxious as Timmendiquas to continue the attack.

"That, too, is so," said Timmendiquas gravely. "While it makes our task the greater, it will make our triumph the greater, also. We will watch the fleet, which I do not think will move yet, and when our warriors are rested and restored we will attack again."

"Beyond a doubt you're right," said Girty. "We could never retreat now and leave them to enjoy a victory. It would encourage them too much and discourage our own people too much."

Timmendiquas gave him a lightning glance when he used the phrase "our own people," and Girty for the moment quailed. He knew that the great White Lightning did not like him, and he knew why. Timmendiquas believed that a man should be loyal to his own race, and in his heart he must regard the renegade as what he was—a traitor. But Girty, with all his crimes, was not a coward, and he was cunning, too, with the cunning of both the white man and the red. He recovered his courage and continued:

"The taking of this fleet in particular would be the greatest triumph that we could achieve, and it would be a triumph in a double way. It has vast quantities of powder, lead, cannon, pistols, bayonets, medicines, clothing, and other supplies for the people in the east, who are fighting our friends, the British. If we should take it we'd not only weaken the Americans, but also secure for ourselves the greatest prize ever offered in the west."