PEQUOT INDIANS

“Hm,” Fred muttered to himself, as he gazed around in wonder. “What is this?”

He immediately ran to the camp and called Matthew who was just rolling away the blankets in which they had slept.

“Look, what I have found!” he said to the boy. “It’s an Indian arrow!”

“Where was it?” Matthew asked.

“It was driven tightly into a tree, right next to where the Indian guide slept.”

“And where is the guide?” Matthew asked, growing pale.

“I don’t know,” said Fred while his lips trembled.

“Let us look for him,” Matthew suggested.

“No, let us go back to the camp, and get ready to leave,” said Agnes. “This looks dangerous to me. Something is wrong.”

The children had traveled for six days without having been molested by any one. It was late in August, and all nature seemed bathed in peace. They had not met a single Indian, but found the villages deserted. This had somewhat surprised them, yet as nothing happened, they had not attached to it any importance.

Only the guide had been suspicious. He was a Mohican, and a man of middle age, who was well acquainted with the ways of the Pequots whom he hated thoroughly.

The old Indian servant who had attended to the horses had observed nothing, and he was greatly surprised when he was informed that the guide was missing.

“I will look for him,” he said.

“No, you quickly pack the horses and get things in readiness, while Agnes and I will look for the guide. Matthew, you saddle the horses.”

“Come, sister,” Fred said, “let us investigate this mystery. Perhaps the guide has only gone after a rabbit, wishing to prepare us a dainty surprise for breakfast.”

But Agnes shook her head. “It is not a Mohican arrow, but a Pequot one,” she said. “It was driven into the tree by a warbow. See, how deeply it entered the tree! And how strong the flint is and how well preserved, in spite of its being driven into the hard wood. That arrow was sent to kill a man.”

“We must not paint the devil on the wall,” Fred said cheerfully; but suddenly he became pale, for at his feet the grass was crushed down, and two forms were lying on the ground covered with blood.

One was that of the guide, whose hand gripped the throat of his foe, a large and burly Pequot Indian.

The Pequot was dead, choked by the steel clasp of his enemy’s hand. All around, the grass was trodden down, and the ground showed what a fierce struggle had been carried on in silence, while the rest slept in peace.

Suddenly Agnes bent over the form of the Mohican and pointed to a knife which his opponent had thrust into his back, to the heft.

“Ah,” exclaimed Fred; “brave and good guide! I understand it all now. First the enemy shot the arrow and missed you, and then when you moved he fell on you from behind, and struck you with the knife. You, as a hero, without saying a word, rose and seized him by the throat, until he was dead. Brave Mohican!”

Tears gathered in the eyes of Agnes. “Oh, Fred,” she whispered; “this is terrible. Let’s go away.”

“Sister,” the boy said, “you must not talk that way; we will go away as soon as we can. But you have fear in your heart, and that is bad. Only courage and boldness will now by the grace of God save us. Be brave.”

“Pardon me,” Agnes stammered; “it was wrong of me to show fright. I will never do it again. God is with us, all is well.”

“Thank you, dear sister,” Fred said; “that makes it easier for me. And now let us bury our good guide.”

Softly he touched the body, when suddenly the Indian moved. The wound in the back was serious, but the knife had not struck a vital organ. Only the loss of blood had been severe, as without flinching he held his foe in the death grip.

“The Mohican is alive!” Agnes exclaimed; “perhaps we can save his life.”

Tenderly they lifted his body and laid it on the grass. The Mohican opened his eyes, but there was in them a glassy stare. Agnes rubbed his arms and patted his hair.

After a few moments a smile stole over the guide’s face. He had recognized the girl.

“My good friend and brother,” Fred spoke to him in the Mohican language; “I am so sorry. We thank you –­we thank you –­as the rain falls from the sky in summer. The pale face children are safe because of your valor. The Mohican fought like the brave warrior he always was. The men will sing of his bravery in the wigwam, and the women will tell his tale when the dusk falls. Never will be forgotten the brave Mohican guide who fought and conquered his foe in battle.”

The Mohican tried to speak, but his tongue would not move. He grasped the lad’s hand firmly.

Agnes bent over him. She remembered that he was a Christian. Her missionary heart overflowed with love for the guide’s soul.

“Samowat,” she tenderly pronounced his Indian name. “Samowat, friend of the white men, protector of the weak, brave and noble warrior that knows no fear, hear the voice of the little ‘bird in the woods’ that sings of Jesus. Samowat dies for his little friends that they might be safe. Jesus died for Samowat that he may be saved. Samowat, the blood of Jesus Christ cleanses you from all sin. Samowat, Jesus will come right away and take Samowat home to where happiness is. Samowat, hear my voice.”

The Indian breathed heavily and he fought hard to speak. His native Mohican, pronounced with infinite tenderness by Agnes, had made a deep impression on him.

“Samowat,” he stammered weakly, “has saved his little ’bird of the woods.’ Samowat loves Jesus, and is not afraid to die.”

For a moment he struggled in silence to gain strength for speech.

Fred poured some cold tea into his mouth which he sipped eagerly.

“It is well,” he said after a few moments. “Samowat is going home to Jesus. But –­but little white warrior –­must go –­go –­north. Pequots on war path –­they south. Hurry, little paleface warrior. Kill horses –­go Indian fashion –­walk.”

Fred bent over him for his voice was weak. Yet the Indian struggled bravely to finish his speech.

“He –­scout –­kill me. Pequots come soon. Flee.”

These were his last words. Exhausted by the terrific loss of blood, his heart failed, and he died peacefully without even a trace of agony.

Agnes wept bitterly, as she pressed the guide’s hand. Also Fred was overcome with emotion, and he bit his lips until the blood flowed.

“Sister,” he said, “call Matthew and the Indian servant; we must bury the brave guide.”

The task was assigned to the Indian servant, who alone knew how to bury him in a manner that would hide him from the curious and keen eyes of the Indians. The servant covered the graves with leaves and so skillfully did he conceal the resting place that not even Fred could see where it was.

“We must now kill the horses,” the boy said when all was finished.

“But why kill the horses?” Agnes asked. “Why, we can cover more ground on horseback than on foot.”

“We must leave the trail,” Fred answered, “and in the woods they will betray us. Also on horseback the Indians can see us the better and shoot us before we know they are near.”

“Let’s not kill them now,” Agnes pleaded. “Jenny is so true an animal. I can never see her die here.”

“All right, sister,” Fred assented; “we shall try to preserve their lives. Only I don’t know how to get through the woods with them.”