The Little Red Foot

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER VI

  RUSTIC GALLANTRY

  There were few lanterns and fewer candle lights in Johnstown; sober folkseemed to be already abed; only a constable, Hugh McMonts, stood in themain street, leaning upon his pike as I followed the new moon out oftown and down into a dark and lovely land where all was still andfragrant and dim as the dreams of those who lie down contented with theworld.

  Now, as I jogged along on my mare, Kaya, over a well-levelled road, mymind was very full of what I had seen and heard at Johnson Hall.

  One thing seemed clear to me; there could be no foundation for anyuntoward rumours regarding Sir John,--no fear that he meant to shame hishonoured name and flee to Canada to join Guy Johnson and his Indians andthe Tryon County Tories who already had fled.

  No; Sir John was quietly planning his summer farming. All seemedtranquil at the Hall. And I could not find it in my nature to doubt hispledged word, nor believe that he was plotting mischief.

  Still, it had staggered me somewhat to see Hiakatoo there in hisceremonial paint, as though the fire were still burning at Onondaga. ButI concluded that the Seneca War Chief had come on some private affairand not for his nation, because a chief does not travel alone upon aceremonial mission. No; this Indian had arrived to talk privately withHare, who, no doubt, now represented Guy Johnson's late authority amongthe Johnstown Tories.

  Thinking over these matters, I jogged into the Mayfield road; and as Ipassed in between the tall wayside bushes, without any warning at alltwo shadowy horsemen rode out in front of me and threw their horsesacross my path, blocking it.

  Instantly my hand flew to my hatchet, but at that same moment one of thetall riders laughed, and I let go my war-axe, ashamed.

  "It's John Drogue!" said a voice I recognized, as I pushed my mareclose to them and peered into their faces; and I discovered that theseriders were two neighbors of mine, Godfrey Shew of Fish House, and Joede Golyer of Varick's.

  "What frolic is this?" I demanded, annoyed to see their big pistolsresting on their thighs and their belted hatchets loosened from thefringed sheaths.

  "No frolic," answered Shew soberly, "though Joe may find it a matter forhis French mirth."

  "Why do you stop folk at night on the King's highway?" I inquiredcuriously of de Golyer.

  "Voyons, l'ami Jean," he replied gaily, "Sir Johnson and his Scottishbare-shanks, they have long time stop us on their sacre King's highway.Now, in our turn, we stop them, by gar! Oui, nom de dieu! And we shallsee what we shall see, and we shall catch in our little trap what shallstep into it, pardieu!"

  Shew said in his heavy voice: "Our authorities in Albany have concludedto watch, for smuggled arms, the roads leading to Johnstown, Mr.Drogue."

  "Do they fear treachery at the Hall?"

  "They do not know what is going on at the Hall. But there are rumoursabroad concerning the running in of arms for the Highlanders, and theconstant passing of messengers between Canada and Johnstown."

  "I have but left the Hall," said I. "I saw nothing to warrantsuspicion." And I told them who were there and how they conducted atsupper.

  Shew said with an oath that Lieutenant Hare was a dangerous man, andthat he hoped a warrant for him would be issued.

  "As for the Indian, Hiakatoo," he went on, "he's a surly and cunninganimal, and a fierce one as are all Senecas. I do not know what hasbrought him to Johnstown, nor why Moucher was there, nor Steve Watts."

  "Young Watts, no doubt, came to visit his sister," said I. "That isnatural, Mr. Shew."

  "Oh, no doubt, no doubt," grumbled Shew. "You, Mr. Drogue, are one ofthose gentlemen who seem trustful of the honour of all gentlemen. Andfor every gentleman who _is_ one, the next is a blackguard. I do notcontradict you. No, sir. But we plain folk of Tryon think it wisdom towatch gentlemen like Sir John Johnson."

  "I am as plain a man as you are," said I, "but I am not able to doubtthe word of honour given by the son of Sir William Johnson."

  De Golyer laughed and asked me which way I rode, and I told him.

  "Nick Stoner also went Mayfield way," said Shew with a shrug. "I thinkhe unsaddled at Pigeon-Wood."

  They wheeled their horses into the bushes with gestures of adieu; Ishook my bridle, and my mare galloped out into the sandy road again.

  The sky was very bright with that sweet springtime lustre which comesnot alone from the moon but also from a million million unseen stars,all a-shining behind the purple veil of night.

  Presently I heard the Mayfield creek babbling like a dozen laughinglasses, and rode along the bushy banks looking up at the mountains tothe north.

  They are friendly little mountains which we call the Mayfield Hills, allrising into purple points against the sky, like the waves on LakeOntario, and so tumbling northward into the grim jaws of theAdirondacks, which are different--not sinister, perhaps, but grim andstolid peaks, ever on guard along the Northern wilderness.

  Long, still reaches of the creek stretched away, unstarred by risingtrout because of the lateness of the night. Only a heron's croak soundedin the darkness; there were no lights where I knew the Mayfieldsettlement to be.

  Already I saw the grist mill, with its dusky wheel motionless; and, tothe left, a frame house or two and several log-houses set in clearedmeadows, where the vast ramparts of the forest had been cut away.

  Now, there was a mile to gallop eastward along a wet path toward SummerHouse Point; and in a little while I saw the long, low house calledPigeon-Wood, which sat astride o' the old Iroquois war trail to theSacandaga and the Canadas.

  It was a heavy house of hewn timber and smoothed with our blue clay,which cuts the sandy loam of Tryon in great streaks.

  There was no light in the windows, but the milky lustre of the heavensflooded all, and there, upon the rail fence, I did see Nick Stonera-kissing of Betsy Browse.

  They heard my horse and fluttered down from the fence like two robins,as I pulled up and dismounted.

  "Hush!" said the girl, who was bare of feet and her gingham scarcepinned decently; and laid her finger on her lips as she glanced towardthe house.

  "The old man is back," quoth Nick, sliding a graceless arm around her."But he sleeps like an ox." And, to Betsy, "Whistle thy little sisterfrom her nest, sweetheart. For there are no gallants in Tryon to matchwith my comrade, John Drogue!"

  Which did not please me to hear, for I had small mind for rusticgallantry; but Martha pursed her lips and whistled thrice; and presentlythe house door opened without any noise.

  She was a healthy, glowing wench, half confident, half coquette, like aplayful forest thing in springtime, when all things mate.

  And her sister, Jessica, was like her, only slimmer, who came across thestarlit grass rubbing both eyes with her little fists, like a childroused from sleep,--a shy, smiling, red-lipped thing, who gave me herhand and yawned.

  And presently went to where my mare stood to pet her and pull the new,wet grass and feed her tid-bits.

  I did not feel awkward, yet knew not how to conduct or what might beexpected of me at this star-dim rendezvous with a sleepy, woodlandbeauty.

  But she seemed in nowise disconcerted after a word or two; drew my armabout her; put up her red mouth to be kissed, and then begged to belifted to my saddle.

  Here she sat astride and laughed down at me through her tangled hair.And:

  "I have a mind to gallop to Fish House," said she, "only that it mightprove a lonely jaunt."

  "Shall I come, Jessica?"

  "Will you do so?"

  I waited till the blood cooled in my veins; and by that time she hadforgotten what she had been about--like any other forest bird.

  "You have a fine mare, Mr. Drogue," said she, gently caressing Kaya withher naked heels. "No rider better mounted passes Pigeon-Wood."

  "Do many riders pass, Jessica?"

  "Sir John's company between Fish House and the Hall."

  "Any others lately?"

  "Yes, there are horsemen who ride swiftly at night. We hear them."

 
"Who may they be?"

  "I do not know, sir."

  "Sir John's people?"

  "Very like."

  "Coming from the North?"

  "Yes, from the North."

  "Have they waggons to escort?"

  "I have heard waggons, too."

  "Lately?"

  "Yes." She leaned down from the saddle and rested both hands on myshoulders:

  "Have you no better way to please than in catechizing me, John Drogue?"she laughed. "Do you know what lips were fashioned for except words?"

  I kissed her, and, still resting her hands on my shoulders, she lookeddown into my eyes.

  "Are you of Sir John's people?" she asked.

  "Of them, perhaps, but not now with them, Jessica."

  "Oh. The other party?"

  "Yes."

  "You! A Boston man?"

  "Nick and I, both."

  "Why?"

  "Because we design to live as free as God made us, and not asking-fashioned slaves."

  "Oh, la!" quoth she, opening her eyes wide, "you use very mighty wordsto me, Mr. Drogue. There are young men in red coats and gilt lace ontheir hats who would call you rebel."

  "I am."

  "No," she whispered, putting both arms around my neck. "You are a prettyboy and no Yankee! I do not wish you to be a Boston rebel."

  "Are all your lovers King's men?"

  "My lovers?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you one?"

  At which I laughed and lifted the saucy wench from my saddle, and stoodso in the starlight, her arms still around my neck.

  "No," said I, "I never had a sweetheart, and, indeed, would not know howto conduct----"

  "We could learn."

  But I only laughed, disengaging her arms, and passing my own around hersupple waist.

  "Listen," said I, "Nick and I mean no harm in a starlit frolic, where wetarry for a kiss from a pretty maid."

  "No harm?"

  "Neither that nor better, Jessica. Nor do you; and I know that verywell. With me it's a laugh and a kiss and a laugh; and into my stirrupsand off.... And you are young and soft and sweet as new maple-sap inthe snow. But if you dream like other little birds, of nesting----"

  "May a lass not dream in springtime?"

  "Surely. But let it end so, too."

  "In dreams."

  "It is wiser."

  "There is no wisdom in me, pretty boy in buckskin. And I love thrumsbetter than red-coats and lace."

  "Love spinning better than either!"

  "Oh, la! He preaches of wheels and spindles when my mouth aches for akiss!"

  "And mine," said I, "--but my legs ache more for my saddle; and I mustgo."

  At that moment when I said adieu with my lips, and she did not mean tounlink her arms, came Nick on noiseless tread to twitch my arm. And,"Look," said he, pointing toward the long, low rampart of Maxon Ridge.

  I turned, my hand still retaining Jessica's: and saw the Iroquoissignal-flame mount thin and high, tremble, burn red against the stars,then die there in the darkness.

  Northward another flame reddened on the hills, then another, fireanswering fire.

  "What the devil is this?" growled Nick. "These are no times for Indiansto talk to one another with fire."

  "Get into your saddle," said I, "and we shall ride by Varick's, for I'vea mind to see what will-o'-the-wisps may be a-dancing over the greatVlaie!"

  So the tall lad took his leave of his little pigeon of Pigeon-Wood, whoseemed far from willing to let him loose; and I made my adieux toJessica, who stood a-pouting; and we mounted and set off at a gallop forVarick's, by way of Summer House Point.

  I could not be certain, but it seemed to me that there was a light atthe Point, which came through the crescents from behind closed shutters;but that was within reason, Sir John being at liberty to keep open thehunting lodge if he chose.

  As for the Drowned Lands, as far as we could see through the night therewas not a spark over that desolate wilderness.

  The Mohawk fires on the hills, too, had died out. Fish House, if stillburning candles, was too far away to see; we galloped through Varick's,past the mill where, from its rocky walls, Frenchman's Creek roaredunder the stars; then turned west along the Brent-Meester's trail towardFonda's Bush and home.

  "Those Iroquois fires trouble me mightily," quoth Nick, pushing his lankhorse forward beside my mare.

  "And me," said I.

  "Why should they talk with fire on the night Hiakatoo comes to theHall?"

  "I do not know," said I. "But when I am home I shall write it in aletter to Albany that this night the Mohawks have talked amongthemselves with fire, and that a Seneca was present."

  "And that mealy-mouthed Ensign, Moucher; and Hare and Steve Watts!"

  "I shall so write it," said I, very seriously.

  "Good!" cried he with a jolly slap on his horse's neck. "But the sweeterpart of this night's frolic you and I shall carry locked in our breasts.Eh, John? By heaven, is she not fresh and pink as a dewy strawberry inJune--my pretty little wench? Is she not apt as a school-learned lasswith any new lesson a man chooses to teach?"

  "Yes, too apt, perhaps," said I, shaking my head but laughing. "But Ithink they have had already a lesson or two in such frolics, lessinnocent, perhaps, than the lesson we gave."

  "I'll break the back of any red-coat who stops at Pigeon-Wood!" criedNick Stoner with an oath. "Yes, red-coat or any other colour, either!"

  "You would not take our frolic seriously, would you, Nick?"

  "I take all frolics seriously," said he with a gay laugh, smiting boththighs, and his bridle loose. "Where I place my mark with my properlips, let roving gallants read and all roysterers beware!--even though Iso mark a dozen pretty does!"

  "A very Turk," said I.

  "An antlered stag in the blue-coat that brooks no other near his herd!"cried he with a burst of laughter. And fell to smiting his thighs andtossing up both arms, riding like a very centaur there, with his hairflowing and his thrums streaming in the starlight.

  And, "Lord God of Battles!" he cried out to the stars, stretching up hispowerful young arms. "Thou knowest how I could love tonight; but dostThou know, also, how I could fight if I had only a foe to destroy withthese two empty hands!"

  "Thou murderous Turk!" I cried in his ear. "Pray, rather, that thereshall be no war, and no foe more deadly than the pretty wench ofPigeon-Wood!"

  "Love or war, I care not!" he shouted in his spring-tide frenzy,galloping there unbridled, his lean young face in the wind. "But Godsend the one or the other to me very quickly--or love or war--for I needmore than a plow or axe to content my soul afire!"

  "Idiot!" said I, "have done a-yelling! You wake every owl in the bush!"

  And above his youth-maddened laughter I heard the weird yelping of theforest owls as though the Six Nations already were in their paint, andblood fouled every trail.

  * * * * *

  So we galloped into Fonda's Bush, pulling up before my door; but Nickwould not stay the night and must needs gallop on to his own log house,where he could blanket and stall his tired and sweating horse--I owningonly the one warm stall.

  "Well," says he, still slapping his thighs where he sat his saddle as Idismounted, and his young face still aglow in the dim, silvery light,"--well, John, I shall ride again, one day, to Pigeon-Wood. Will youride with me?"

  "I think not."

  "And why?"

  But, standing by my door, bridle in hand, I slowly shook my head.

  "There is no prettier bit o' baggage in County Tryon than JessicaBrowse," he insisted--"unless, perhaps, it be that Scotch girl atCaughnawaga, whom all the red-coats buzz about like sap flies around apan."

  "And who may this Scotch lassie be?" I asked with a smile, and busy,now, unsaddling.

  "I mean the new servant to old Douw Fonda."

  "I have not noticed her."

  "You have not seen the Caughnawaga girl?"

  "No. I remain incurious concerni
ng servants," said I, drily.

  "Is it so!" he laughed. "Well, then,--for all that they have a right togold binding on their hats,--the gay youth of Johnstown, yes, and ofSchenectady, too, have not remained indifferent to the Scotch girl ofDouw Fonda, Penelope Grant!"

  I shrugged and lifted my saddle.

  "Every man to his taste," said I. "Some eat woodchucks, some porcupines,and others the tail of a beaver. Venison smacks sweeter to me."

  Nick laughed again. "When she reads the old man to sleep and takes herknitting to the porch, you should see the ring of gallants everyafternoon a-courting her!--and their horses tied to every tree aroundthe house as at a quilting!

  "But there's no quilting frolic; no supper; no dance;--nothing morethan a yellow-haired slip of a wench busy knitting there in the sun, andlooking at none o' them but intent on her needles and with that faintsmile she wears----"

  "Go court her," said I, laughing; and led my mare into her warm stall.

  "You'll court her yourself, one day!" he shouted after me, as hegathered bridle. "And if you do, God help you, John Drogue, for they sayshe's a born disturber of quiet men's minds, and mistress of a verymischievous and deadly art!"

  "What art?" I laughed.

  "The art o' love!" he bawled as he rode off, slapping his thighs andsetting the moonlit woods all a-ringing with his laughter.