HORNETS WITH AND WITHOUT WINGS
During Francois’s visit a runner
came in with the report that two Indians, descending
the Ohio River in a canoe, had been fired upon and
killed by the whites. Inflamed by the brandy they
had drank, and infuriated by the report, several of
the younger men blacked their faces, set up a war
post and danced around it in the firelight like demons,
yelling and throwing their hatchets into the post.
The following morning a party of them set out for
revenge.
On such occasions Rodney kept in hiding
as much as possible and his mind was dark with forebodings,
so that he would wake in the night from dreams of
torture and find himself wet with perspiration.
A little later Logan himself came
to the village, pleading that the Indians dig up the
hatchet and unite in a war of revenge upon the whites
for the outrage committed against him. He was
a distinguished looking Indian, straight and tall,
a typical chieftain of the better sort. Ahneota
pleaded the necessity of delay, but, that being of
no avail, urged him to secure the services of Cornstalk,
the wise and wily Shawnee chief.
Rodney sympathized with the Indians
until a returning party brought back scalps torn from
the heads of women and children as well as from men,
and then his heart sickened and he looked on them with
trembling to see if among them he could discover that
of his father.
Having no rifle, the boy armed himself
with the bow, this being his only defence in case
of attack, though he knew it would be of little use
against savages armed with rifles. One day, in
the latter part of July, he was strolling through
the forest not far from the village when he heard
voices.
During his captivity Rodney had learned
to stalk game and this training he now put to use.
Stealthily approaching, he saw a group of strange
Indians, and with them Caughnega. The latter had
set up, in a little opening among the trees, his wigwam
of skins, in which he was accustomed to perform certain
of the rites of a “medicine man.”
The boy knew that Caughnega’s fame was not confined
to the local tribes, and at once concluded these Indians
had come to consult him, probably as to what the spirits,
good and evil, might have to say respecting the approaching
war.
Evidently Caughnega had begun his
work, for he was now ready to enter his wigwam.
Silence came upon the group waiting patiently outside.
After quite a long wait a medley of sounds issued from
the interior of the wigwam in which Caughnega was
shut and the structure itself rocked as if in a gale.
Knowing that Indians can mimic the sounds of all animals
and birds with which they are acquainted, the boy had
no doubt these sounds were made by Caughnega himself.
If so, he was certainly an artist, and the assembled
group sat around awestruck, for they had no doubt
the noises were made by the spirits.
After the disturbance subsided, Caughnega
came out and, standing before them, addressed them,
telling what, he said, the spirits had told him.
The message incited the savages to great ardour, which
they manifested by brandishing their tomahawks and
yelling.
“So this is the work that villain
is doing unknown to Ahneota,” thought Rodney.
Just then he espied a large nest of hornets suspended
to a limb overhanging the group. He recognized
the nest as that of a variety of hornet which is large
and valiant. The spirit of mischief entered the
boy and, taking careful aim, he shot an arrow, which
struck and tore away a portion of the paper nest.
Now a hornet does not hold a council
of war when disturbed, but instantly attacks, like
an Indian, the first object that presents itself,
and in this instance Caughnega was the first target.
He stood, his back toward the nest,
pouring out the words of the message in sonorous tones.
Suddenly this flow of language was punctuated by a
blood-curdling yell, as one of those winged bullets
struck him just behind the left ear. About the
same moment others in the group were hit. Yells
and back somersaults were mingled for a moment, and
then those doughty warriors fled as never from the
face of a white man.
Rodney lay on the ground in convulsions
of silent laughter.
On returning to the village the boy
related his story to the old chief, who listened gravely
and at the end said, “The Great Spirit will
be angry.”
“Do you believe the ‘medicine
man’ can talk with him?” asked Rodney,
incredulously.
“Ahneota knows the ways of the
birds and the beaver, but the ways of the spirits
he does not know. I see the medicine lodge tremble
and hear voices; they are not the voices of Indians.”
Rodney did not dare to argue the matter,
and there was silence for a long time. In the
flickering firelight the old chief’s face was
ghastly.
The boy fell into an unpleasant reverie.
Soon would come the moment when he must flee, for
to remain, he was sure, would mean his death.
The difficulties of escape, because of the uprising
among the Indians, had greatly increased.
“Between here and La Belle Riviere
are many Mingoes, Delawares and Shawnees. Little
Knife cannot fly nor leap from tree to tree like panther.
He must be brother of Ahneota.”
The boy was startled. It seemed
to him that the Indian had been reading his thoughts.
“The paleface comes and Ahneota’s
brother must take his scalp. That Little Knife
cannot do,” Rodney replied.
Silence of many minutes followed.
Rodney became uneasy and was about to leave when the
chief, taking a stick in his trembling hand, drew it
over the sand and began to describe the country which
lay between them and the Ohio River.
“Before another moon,”
he said, “the palefaces will come in many canoes
to the Indians’ country. Little Knife will
run to meet them. He will not be the brother
of the chief. He must go to his people. He
must go like the fox.”
The following day Ahneota called in
several men of the village and Rodney. Then,
giving his rifle to the boy, he said: “Little
Knife has been brother of Ahneota, has brought him
meat when he starved. He must have gun to bring
more meat, for the chief is old and cannot hunt.”
The Indians did not look pleased,
for the rifle was a valuable one and much coveted.
One said, “White blood must be washed away,”
but, as the old chief made no reply, they went away.
As the boy started to leave the lodge
the Indian lifted his head and said, “When Little
Knife points the old chief’s gun at man, let
him not see the colour of skin.”
Rodney now began to store up, against
the emergency he knew was approaching, a stock of
dried venison, and hominy and parched corn. His
experience when surrounded by hostile savages had taught
him the difficulty of securing food on the march.
As he lay in the shadow of a bush
one day he noticed a little worm travelling along
a twig. It was the variety commonly called an
“inch worm,” which advances by pulling
its rear up to its forward feet, its back in a curve,
and then thrusts forward its length. As the boy
watched its laborious progress he thought, “If
one may only keep going he’ll get there in time,”
and somehow he felt encouraged. Had he not thought
it his duty to remain and care for the old chief he
would have set forth that very hour.
As he came near the village several
guns were fired in quick succession down at the creek
and he knew a party of savages had returned from one
of their raids!
The inmates of the village hurried
down to meet the newcomers, but the boy lagged behind.
Soon they came running back and formed two lines.
Some captive must run the gauntlet!
The prisoner was a man of forty years
or more. His hair was long and matted and his
arms were bound. Evidently his captors had found
him a difficult subject with whom to deal. In
running the gauntlet he could not ward off the blows,
his arms being tied, but he delivered one well directed
kick that doubled a brave up in agony. He got
through, but was horribly beaten. All the while
he was yelling at the savages in derision, calling
them old women and apparently doing everything in
his power to enrage them.
A post was set in the ground in front
of the encampment, and the prisoner was led out and
tied to it. On the way he kicked an Indian, who
in his rage would have killed him on the spot, had
not another interfered. Sudden death in preference
to torture was evidently what the captive sought,
but it was not to be granted.
Thinking Ahneota might prevent the
torture, which now seemed inevitable, Rodney hurried
to the chief’s lodge. Within, it was almost
dark and he could but dimly see the figure of the man
seated on a bear skin, his back against a bale of
furs. His head was inclined forward, his chin
on his breast.
“Ahneota!” called the
boy loudly in his excitement, but there was no answer.
Thinking the Indian slept, the boy
grasped him by the arm to wake him.
Ahneota had passed to the “happy hunting ground!”