long alagwa sat, staring into the face of her dead. she knew now, for once and ever more that he was her dead, hers, hers, hers alone. a week before she had not known that he existed. four days before she had thought she hated him for the woe his people had inflicted upon hers. two days before she had offered to fight with him to the death, but she had told herself that she had done this because he was facing her foes as well as his. now, only a moment before, she had shot down her british kinsman, the ally of her people, in vengeance for his death. in dull wonder her thoughts traversed step by step the path that had brought her to this end, until in one blinding flash of enlightenment, she read her own soul. he was hers, her mate, created for her by gitchemanitou the mighty, foreordained for her in the dim chaos out of which the world was shaped.
and he was dead! he had never known her for what she was, had never thought to call her wife. to him she had been a comrade only, not bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. and yet she knew that he had held her dear; day by day she had felt that he was holding her dearer and dearer. if she had been granted time——
[196]but she had not been granted time, for he was dead. and she was left desolate. she could not even follow him to the happy hunting grounds, for they were for men, not women.
suddenly a thought came to her. she remembered that she was dressed as a boy and that her costume had deceived all the men who had seen her. might she not deceive also the guardians who waited at the entrance of the trail that led to the hunting grounds? if she faced them boldly, manfully, as a warrior should, might she not win her way past them to jack’s side? there would be no sharp-eyed women there to spy her out, and once within she would stay forever. never by word or by sign would she betray herself; always she would remain jack’s little comrade. no one would ever guess.
she would try it. her hand dropped to her belt and closed on the slender hilt of the hunting knife that hung there. then it slowly fell away.
before she played the man and started on the long, dark trail, she would be very woman. the moments that life had denied her, that the happy hunting grounds might ever deny her, she would steal now, now, from the cold hand of death himself.
desperately she searched the features of her dead. they were pinched and pallid with the awful pallor of death. lower and lower she bent, yearning over him, more of the mother than of the sweetheart in her mien. gently she kissed his forehead,[197] his eyelids, his cheeks, his firm, bold mouth, taking toll where she would, bride’s kiss and widow’s kiss in one. again and again she pressed her warm lips to his till beneath her caress they seemed to warm, reddening to tints of life.
suddenly his lips twitched and his eyes opened. “bob!” he muttered. then once more his eyelids drooped.
alagwa screamed, short and sharp. he was not dead. jack was not dead. gitchemanitou the mighty had given him back to her. hers it was to keep him.
gently she laid his head upon the ground and sprang up. one of cato’s pans lay close at hand; she snatched it and raced to the river down the protected way dug seventeen years before by general wayne.
soon she was back, bringing a mass of sopping water plants. over the red wound on jack’s forehead she bound them.
under her touch jack’s eyes reopened. but they did not meet her anxious gaze; they rolled helplessly, uncontrolled by his will. his lips formed words, but they were thick and harsh. “where—where—no, he’s killed. i—saw—him—fall. he—he—bob! bob!” his voice ran up in a shriek.
alagwa bent till her face almost touched his. “i’m here, jack,” she breathed. “can’t you see me?”
[198]the lad’s eyes snapped into focus. for an instant they brightened with recognition; then they fell away. but he had recognized her. “i thought you—were dead,” he muttered. “i saw you fall. i—i tried to kill him for that—more than for all else. but—but——” his words wandered.
the color flowed into alagwa’s cheeks. her eyes were very soft. “i thought you were dead, too,” she murmured. “but we are both alive—both alive!” her voice thrilled with wonder.
jack’s fingers fumbled till they found the girl’s free hand and closed upon it. “you’ve been a bully little comrade,” he muttered. “bully little comrade! bully little com——” his voice died weakly away. his eyes closed for a moment, then opened again. “cato?” he questioned.
alagwa straightened. she had forgotten cato since she had seen him go down beneath the indian’s tomahawk. anxiously she looked about her. then, abruptly, she started, stiffening like a wild thing at sight of the hunter.
not a score of feet away sat brito, clutching his wounded side, glaring at her with blood-shot eyes. her hand fell to the knife in her belt, and she gathered her feet beneath her, every muscle tense, ready to spring.
for a moment the picture held, then jack’s fingers tightened on her other hand, holding her back.
[199]“what is it? what is it?” he mumbled, piteously. “what is it?”
“nothing. it’s nothing!” alagwa’s voice was low and soothing. brito seemed severely wounded. he was not attempting to approach. perhaps he could not. she leaned forward slightly, so as to cut off jack’s line of sight. he must not know. not till the last possible moment must he know. forward she leaned, features rigid, teeth locked behind set jaws, nostrils distended, staring brito in the face.
the englishman tried to meet her eyes but his own dropped. he tried to rise, but his strength failed him. then he began to edge himself backward, eyes fixed on the girl. soon he reached the glacis and dragged himself slowly up it. at the top he paused, a momentary flash of his former spirit burning in his eyes.
“bravo! little one!” he faltered, so feebly that the girl could scarcely hear the words, “bravo! you’re a true telfair. i wanted you before for your money. now i want you for yourself. you’re mine and i’ll have you. i’ll have you, understand? sooner or later i’ll have you. remember!” his clutch upon the crest of the glacis loosened and he slipped out of sight.
alagwa stared at the spot where he had vanished, listening to the thudding of the soft earth into the ditch beneath him. toward what refuge he was[200] striving she did not know, but she was sure that he could not reach it on his own feet. if all of his party were slain, and she did not doubt that they were, he could escape only by water. both the auglaize and the maumee below the fort were navigable for small boats, and if brito and his comrades had come in one, he might regain it and float down the maumee, possibly to safety.
should she let him go? no pity was in her heart. the frontier was grim; it translated itself into primitive emotions, taking no account of the shadings of civilization or of the blending of good and evil that inheres in every man. those brought up amid its environment hated their enemies and loved their friends; they took no middle course. brito was an enemy and alagwa hated him. all her life she had been taught to let no wounded enemy escape. brief had been her acquaintance with the englishman, but it had been long enough to show her what manner of man he was. should she let him go to come back again, perhaps to destroy the thread of life that still remained in the helpless man by her side. or should she finish the work she had begun and make jack safe against at least this deadly foe. feverishly she fingered the hilt of her knife.
as she hesitated jack’s plaintive voice came again. “who’s talking” he mumbled. “i—i can’t see. i can’t think. i—i—bob! bob!”
[201]“i’m here, jack!” alagwa’s fingers tightened upon his.
over the lad’s face came a look of peace. “something’s happened to me,” he breathed. “but you’ll stay with me, won’t you, bob?”
“yes! yes! i’ll stay with you. don’t fear. i’ll never leave you.”
“good.... i—i seem weak somehow. did somebody hit me?... i want to get up. i must get up. help me.” the lad caught at her arm and tried to pull himself up.
alagwa did not hesitate. she was sure that, for a time at least, he would far better lie flat upon the ground. “don’t get up!” she commanded. “lie still. you have been wounded. very nearly have you taken the dark trail to the land of the hereafter. you must lie still.” her voice was imperative.
jack yielded to it. “all right!” he sighed. “but—but i want cato.”
once more alagwa remembered the negro. she stood up and looked about her.
the dawn was long past. the sun had risen above the tree tops and was flooding the fort with yellow glory, making plain the havoc that the brief fight had wrought, searching out the tumbled dead and crowning their broken forms with pitiful gold. prone they lay, grotesquely tossed, grim with the majesty of death. round them life bourgeoned,[202] careless of their fate. the waters rippled, the wind whispered overhead, the birds chorused in the tree tops, the jewelled flies, already gathering, buzzed in the glowing air. far down the maumee, on the sunlit water, a black spot shaped itself for a moment, and then was gone. alagwa saw it and guessed that it was captain brito and his boat.
cato was lying face down where he had fallen. across his body lay that of the warrior who had stricken him down. close at hand lay two other braves, their well-oiled bodies and shaven heads glistening in the sun. alagwa did not even look at them; they were not friends—they were outlaws—outlaws suborned by brito to attack jack because he had been in search of her. the shawnees were still her friends—she was still true to tecumseh. but these were private foes. she had been trained in a hard school and their deaths affected her no more than would those of so many wild beasts.
she bent over cato. his posture, to her trained eyes, spoke eloquently of death. nevertheless, she would see. panting, for the fight had torn open the half-healed wound upon her leg, she dragged the dead indian away and gently fingered the long, broad gash that ran across the negro’s head. blood from it had stiffened his wool into a mat of gore. the hatchet had struck slantingly or had been deflected, but it had cut deep. never had alagwa seen such a wound upon the head of a living man. sorrowfully[203] she stared at it, for cato had been kind to her. at last, hopelessly but determinedly she rolled his body over and placed her hand above his heart.
it was beating, slowly but strongly.
amazed, the girl sprang up. heedless of her injured leg she raced to the river and back again and poured the cooling water on his head, washing away the blood that had run down his forehead and had filled his eyes.
instantly cato gasped and groaned. “here! you mandy,” he protested. “you quit dat! don’t you go flingin’ no more of mars’ telfair’s plates at me. massa ain’t gwine to stand havin’ his plates busted that a-way, no, he ain’t, not by no nigger living. you hear me.”
alagwa heard but she did not understand. the negro accent and forms of speech were still partly beyond her. but she knew that cato was alive and she dashed what was left of the water into his blood-streaked face.
the shock completed her work. intelligence snapped back into the negro’s eyes and he sat up. “lord! massa!” he cried. “what’s done happen? whar dem injuns go? whar’s mars’ jack?”
“mr. jack’s badly hurt. very near he go to die. but gitchemanitou save him. you are wounded, too. i thought you were dead.”
cato fingered the cut upon his head. then he grinned. “lord!” he exclaimed. “dat injun[204] oughter knowed better than to hit a nigger on the head. but”—his grin faded—“but whar mars’ jack?”
“over yonder!” alagwa gestured with her head. “but wait. let me wash and bind up your head. sit still.”
much against his will cato waited while the girl’s deft fingers washed away the caked blood and bound a poultice of healing leaves across the gaping cut. then he took the hand that she offered and scrambled to his feet and tried to make his way to jack’s recumbent form.
but at the first step he limped and groaned. “lord!” he muttered. “i done bust my feet mighty bad somehow. but i gwine to git to mars’ jack. yes, suh, i certainly am.”
with many groans he made his way across the ground to jack’s side. “mars’ jack! mars’ jack!” he cried. “you ain’t dead, is you?”
the sound of his voice roused jack and he opened his eyes. thankfully alagwa saw that he made no attempt to rise. “hello, cato!” he mumbled. “is that you? no, i’m not dead. i’m all right. how about you, cato?”
“i’se all right, mars’ jack, ’cep’n that my feet hurts mighty bad. dat injun hit me a whack over the head, and that hurts. but seems like my feet hurts wusser.”
jack’s eyes twinkled. “you must have been[205] standing on a stone when that indian hit you over the head,” he said. “i reckon he drove your feet down on the stone mighty hard.”
jack laughed weakly. then suddenly an expression of terror came into his face and his whole form seemed to shrink and crumble. when alagwa reached his side he was unconscious.
long but vainly the girl worked over him. he did not revive and an icy cold hand seemed to close about her heart.
from her childhood she had been familiar with wounds. with the shawnees, as with most other indians, it was a point of honor to leave no wounded friend upon the battlefield. at whatever cost, for whatever distance, they brought home all who survived the sharp deadly struggles of the day. not once but many times alagwa had bound up wounds and had cared for injured warriors. jack’s condition had not at first seemed strange to her. she had supposed him only dazed from the blow he had received and needing only a brief rest to regain his strength. but now, abruptly, there flashed into her mind the memory of two warriors, brought home from a foray, who bore no visible wounds but who were yet wrecked in body and in mind. like jack they had been struck upon the head. like him they had revived and had seemed to be gathering strength. then abruptly they had collapsed and had lain feebly quiescent, dazed, with wandering lips[206] and eyes, for weeks and months before they died. she did not know what the white men called this, but she knew the thing itself.
was jack to be like this? it could not be! passionately her heart cried out against it. and yet—and yet—even thus she was glad, glad, that gitchemanitou had given him back to her. only let him live, let him live, and——
but he could not live where he was. the ruined fort was a point of extreme danger. one war party bound for the north had already passed it on their way down the auglaize, and at any moment another might follow. none would pass the ruins of the ancient fort without visiting it, even if no sign of the recent struggle were visible from the water or from the trail along the bank. if jack was to be ill for a long time, she must get him back to fort wayne.
and she must do it all. cato was a splendid servant but useless so far as initiative was concerned. on her and her alone the responsibility must rest. desperately she looked around, seeking inspiration.
while she had worked over jack the sun had mounted higher and higher. the tall forest trees that ringed the clearing shimmered in the golden downpour, the fretted tracery of their branches quivering against the burnished vault of the sky. the forest creatures had grown used to the presence of men and were going about the business of their[207] lives unafraid. a huge red squirrel scurried up one of the few remaining palisades of the ancient circuit and sat upon its top, chattering. the water in the river rippled incessantly as fish or turtle or snake came and went. great bullfrogs croaked on the banks. from every tuft of grass and every rock and log rose the shrill stridulation of insects. gorgeous butterflies in black and gold and white fluttered about the stricken field. the mule and the two horses were uninjured and were cropping the sweet grass, heedless of the fate that had overtaken their masters.
but more than horses was needed. jack could not ride and even if he could cling to the saddle he would do so at the peril of his life.
there was nothing to do but to make a travois—a structure of dragging poles by which the indians transported their sick and wounded, their tents, and household goods. calling cato to saddle the horses, she picked up the hatchet that had split the negro’s scalp, and hurried out of the fort to return a moment later with two long straight poles. these, with cato’s help, she firmly bound, butt up, on either side of her horse, which she knew to be the gentler of the two, then lashed together the long flexible ends that trailed out behind. backward and forward, across the angle between, she wove the rope that had bound the pack. upon this network she fastened blankets till the whole had become a sort[208] of pointed hammock, with sloping flexible sides, one end of which rested on the ground while the other sloped upward ending well out of reach of the horse’s heels. by the time she had finished cato had packed the camp equipment on the back of the mule.
with some difficulty the two dragged jack upon the travois. then alagwa took the bridle of the horse.
“i lead,” she said. “you ride other horse.”
willingly the negro climbed to the saddle. “i’se mighty glad to,” he declared, gratefully. “lor’, massa, if you knowed how my feet hurt! i reckon mars’ jack was right. i must ha’ been standin’ on a rock.”
four days later—for it took twice as long to go from fort defiance to fort wayne as it had taken to go from fort wayne to defiance—alagwa stood in peter bondie’s house in the room that had served her for a night, watching with dumb fear-filled eyes as the surgeon from the fort straightened up from his long inspection of jack’s exhausted form.
“concussion of the brain,” he said, at last. “he’ll get well, but he’ll be ill for weeks and probably for months.”
