The White Squaw

There was one among the Indians who viewed their fair captive with no great favour.

It was Maracota.

His devotion to Oluski had been so blindly true that, in his narrow-minded memory of the old chief’s wrongs, he had become bloodthirsty and remorseless. Naturally of a revengeful disposition, he saw, in the leniency of both Wacora and Nelatu towards the pale-faced maiden, too much of forgiveness.

This stirred his evil passions to their depth, and he sought for an opportunity to do her an injury.

With a shrewd guess at the truth, he looked upon Cris Carrol’s escape as another evidence of that toleration which ill consorted with his sanguinary hatred of the white race.

He dared not take open measures, but insidiously strove to turn the people of the tribe against their white captive, as well as Wacora.

His success was not commensurate with his wishes. They admired their chief too much to believe anything to his prejudice, and Maracota became himself looked upon as a restless agitator – a subject more zealous than loyal.

He saw, accordingly, that any injury to the captive must be accomplished by his own agency; the more so, as he had already endeavoured to excite a feeling of jealousy in Nelatu’s mind, of which she and Wacora were the objects. The generous youth not only refused belief, but angrily reproved the slanderer, for daring to couple his cousin’s name with an act so unworthy!

When a person resolves upon mischief it is astonishing how many opportunities present themselves.

Alice, although unsuspicious of the enmity of which she was the object, avoided Maracota. She did so from a different motive. She knew that it was he who had fired the fatal shot at her brother, and could not help regarding the act with abhorrence. His sister, how could she?

And, as his sister, how could she look upon his executioner without repugnance – more than repugnance – with horror?

The exigencies of the war had kept Maracota away from the town, and for long periods; but the same causes that brought Wacora back, also controlled his return.

He felt that now, if ever, was the time to carry out his schemes of malignity.

He accordingly watched her every movement; amongst others, the many lonely visits she paid to the ruined fort.

There was the opportunity he wanted, if he could only find the means to avail himself of it.

In a community of red men, where everything is reduced, even in times of a temporary peace, to dull routine, it was not difficult to devise a plan of revenge. But it must be unnoticed, or go unpunished, for he had a wholesome dread of Wacora’s displeasure, and was not disposed to incur it.

Some days had elapsed since the interview described between the chief and his captive, during which time they had seen nothing of each other.

Wacora, with great delicacy, had avoided her, and she had kept herself within the dwelling assigned to her, afraid to meet him, yet pondering deeply over what he had said.

In spite of a natural prejudice against the Indian race, she was startled and wonder-stricken at the nobility of thought and rare talent he had exhibited. She did not doubt but that a portion, at least, of his argument was based on false reasoning, but she was not subtle enough, or perhaps indisposed, to detect the erroneous argument. We are very apt to acknowledge the truth of what we admire, whilst admitting its errors.

Alice Rody was in this predicament.

She had learned to respect the Indian chief, and her respect was tinged with admiration of his good qualities.

This mental ratiocination had occupied her during the days of her seclusion.

She endeavoured to divert her mind to other subjects, and to this end determined to pay another visit to the old fort. She was prompted to it by a thought of having too long forgotten the Indian maiden who slept within the ruins.

It was a glorious morning as she set forth for a walk to the place.

The way was through a belt of timbered land leading to a creek, spanned by a rude wooden bridge. On the other side lay the ruin.

The wood was passed in safety, and she reached the water’s edge. To her amazement she found the creek greatly swollen; this often happened after heavy rains, though she had never before seen it in that condition.

She proceeded along the causeway leading to the bridge, that seemed to offer a safe means of crossing.

She paused to contemplate the current, bearing upon its bosom the torn trunks of trees caught in its rapid course.

In another moment she was upon the bridge, and had got midway over it, when a tremulous motion of the planks caused her to hesitate. As she stood still the motion ceased, and smiling at her fears she again proceeded.

Not far, however. Ere she had made three steps forward, to her horror the motion re-commenced with greater violence.

She saw it was too late to retreat, and sped onward, the planks swaying fearfully towards the water.

Believing it best to proceed, she took courage for a fresh effort, and kept on towards the other side. It was a fatal resolution.

Just as she had prepared for her last spring the planks gave way with a creaking sound, and she was precipitated into the stream.

Her presence of mind was gone, and in an instant she was submerged beneath the seething current of the flood.

She rose again, gave utterance to a shriek, and was again swallowed up, her wail of agony being uttered in the water.

At that moment a face that expressed fiendish delight appeared through the bushes, on the bank; nor did it vanish until assured that all was over, and Alice Rody had sunk below the surface, never more to return to it alive.

Then, and not till then, the form emerged from out the underwood, and scrambling to the rude pier from which the planks had parted, stood surveying the scene.

It was Maracota!

“Good!” cried he. “So perish all who would make the red man forgive the injuries of his race. She was the child of a villain – the sister of a fiend!”

He stooped down and examined the broken fragments of the bridge.

“Maracota’s axe has done the deed well,” said he, continuing his soliloquy, “and he has nothing to fear. Her death will be attributed to accident. It was a great thought, and one that Oluski’s spirit will approve. Maracota was his favourite warrior, and to please his shade has he done this deed, and will do more. Death to the pale-faces – death to their women and children! Death and extermination to the accursed race!”

The vengeful warrior rose from his stooping position, cast one hurried glance upon the turbulent stream, and once more entering the underwood, disappeared from the spot.

Chapter Forty Two.

A Soliloquy

Wacora came from the council chamber, where the warriors had assembled, and passed over to the house where dwelt his white captive.

This was no unusual thing for him when he deemed himself safe from her observation. Upon the day in question, however, he had resolved to see her.

The time had come when active measures were about to be taken by the United States Government in order to “suppress” (such was the term used) the Indians in Florida, and although none could know at that moment how difficult the undertaking would prove, all were alive to the fact that the work was about to commence in earnest.

Information of this had reached the young Seminole chief; and he saw the necessity of removing his tribe from their present residence.

Hence the council – hence, also, his visit to Alice Rody.

He had determined to lay the facts fully before her, in order that she might name the time of return to her own people.