by Zane Grey
CHAPTER IX.
Yantwaia, or, as he was more commonly called, Cornplanter, wasoriginally a Seneca chief, but when the five war tribesconsolidated, forming the historical "Five Nations," he became theirleader. An old historian said of this renowned chieftain: "Traditionsays that the blood of a famous white man coursed through the veinsof Cornplanter. The tribe he led was originally ruled by an Indianqueen of singular power and beauty. She was born to govern herpeople by the force of her character. Many a great chief importunedher to become his wife, but she preferred to cling to her power anddignity. When this white man, then a very young man, came to theOhio valley the queen fell in love with him, and Cornplanter wastheir son."
Cornplanter lived to a great age. He was a wise counsellor, a greatleader, and he died when he was one hundred years old, having hadmore conceded to him by the white men than any other chieftain.General Washington wrote of him: "The merits of Cornplanter and hisfriendship for the United States are well known and shall not beforgotten."
But Cornplanter had not always been a friend to the palefaces.During Dunmore's war and for years after, he was one of the mostvindictive of the savage leaders against the invading pioneers.
It was during this period of Cornplanter's activity against thewhites that Isaac Zane had the misfortune to fall into the greatchief's power.
We remember Isaac last when, lost in the woods, weak from hunger andexposure, he had crawled into a thicket and had gone to sleep. Hewas awakened by a dog licking his face. He heard Indian voices. Hegot up and ran as fast as he could, but exhausted as he was heproved no match for his pursuers. They came up with him and seeingthat he was unable to defend himself they grasped him by the armsand led him down a well-worn bridle-path.
"D--n poor run. No good legs," said one of his captors, and at thisthe other two Indians laughed. Then they whooped and yelled, atwhich signal other Indians joined them. Isaac saw that they wereleading him into a large encampment. He asked the big savage who ledhim what camp it was, and learned that he had fallen into the handsof Cornplanter.
While being marched through the large Indian village Isaac sawunmistakable indications of war. There was a busy hum on all sides;the squaws were preparing large quantities of buffalo meat, cuttingit in long, thin strips, and were parching corn in stone vessels.The braves were cleaning rifles, sharpening tomahawks, and mixingwar paints. All these things Isaac knew to be preparations for longmarches and for battle. That night he heard speech after speech inthe lodge next to the one in which he lay, but they were in anunknown tongue. Later he heard the yelling of the Indians and thedull thud of their feet as they stamped on the ground. He heard thering of the tomahawks as they were struck into hard wood. TheIndians were dancing the war-dance round the war-post. Thiscontinued with some little intermission all the four days that Isaaclay in the lodge rapidly recovering his strength. The fifth day aman came into the lodge. He was tall and powerful, his hair fellover his shoulders and he wore the scanty buckskin dress of theIndian. But Isaac knew at once he was a white man, perhaps one ofthe many French traders who passed through the Indian village.
"Your name is Zane," said the man in English, looking sharply atIsaac.
"That is my name. Who are you?" asked Isaac in great surprise.
"I am Girty. I've never seen you, but I knew Col. Zane and Jonathanwell. I've seen your sister; you all favor one another."
"Are you Simon Girty?"
"Yes."
"I have heard of your influence with the Indians. Can you doanything to get me out of this?"
"How did you happen to git over here? You are not many miles fromWingenund's Camp," said Girty, giving Isaac another sharp look fromhis small black eyes.
"Girty, I assure you I am not a spy. I escaped from the Wyandotvillage on Mad River and after traveling three days I lost my way. Iwent to sleep in a thicket and when I awoke an Indian dog had foundme. I heard voices and saw three Indians. I got up and ran, but theyeasily caught me."
"I know about you. Old Tarhe has a daughter who kept you from bein'ransomed."
"Yes, and I wish I were back there. I don't like the look ofthings."
"You are right, Zane. You got ketched at a bad time. The Indians aremad. I suppose you don't know that Col. Crawford massacred a lot ofIndians a few days ago. It'll go hard with any white man that gitscaptured. I'm afraid I can't do nothin' for you."
A few words concerning Simon Girty, the White Savage. He had twobrothers, James and George, who had been desperadoes before theywere adopted by the Delawares, and who eventually became fierce andrelentless savages. Simon had been captured at the same time as hisbrothers, but he did not at once fall under the influence of theunsettled, free-and-easy life of the Indians. It is probable thatwhile in captivity he acquired the power of commanding the Indians'interest and learned the secret of ruling them--two capabilities fewwhite men ever possessed. It is certain that he, like the notedFrench-Canadian Joucaire, delighted to sit round the camp fires andto go into the council-lodge and talk to the assembled Indians.
At the outbreak of the revolution Girty was a commissioned officerof militia at Ft. Pitt. He deserted from the Fort, taking with himthe Tories McKee and Elliott, and twelve soldiers, and thesetraitors spread as much terror among the Delaware Indians as theydid among the whites. The Delawares had been one of the fewpeacefully disposed tribes. In order to get them to join theirforces with Governor Hamilton, the British commander, Girty declaredthat Gen. Washington had been killed, that Congress had beendispersed, and that the British were winning all the battles.
Girty spoke most of the Indian languages, and Hamilton employed himto go among the different Indian tribes and incite them to greaterhatred of the pioneers. This proved to be just the life that suitedhim. He soon rose to have a great and bad influence on all thetribes. He became noted for his assisting the Indians in marauds,for his midnight forays, for his scalpings, and his efforts tocapture white women, and for his devilish cunning and cruelty.
For many years Girty was the Deathshead of the frontier. The mentionof his name alone created terror in any household; in everypioneer's cabin it made the children cry out in fear and paled thecheeks of the stoutest-hearted wife.
It is difficult to conceive of a white man's being such a fiend inhuman guise. The only explanation that can be given is thatrenegades rage against the cause of their own blood with the fury ofinsanity rather than with the malignity of a naturally ferocioustemper. In justice to Simon Girty it must be said that facts notknown until his death showed he was not so cruel and base asbelieved; that some deeds of kindness were attributed to him; thathe risked his life to save Kenton from the stake, and that many ofthe terrible crimes laid at his door were really committed by hissavage brothers.
Isaac Zane suffered no annoyance at the hands of Cornplanter'sbraves until the seventh day of his imprisonment. He saw no oneexcept the squaw who brought him corn and meat. On that day twosavages came for him and led him into the immense council-lodge ofthe Five Nations. Cornplanter sat between his right-hand chiefs, BigTree and Half Town, and surrounded by the other chiefs of thetribes. An aged Indian stood in the center of the lodge andaddressed the others. The listening savages sat immovable, theirfaces as cold and stern as stone masks. Apparently they did not heedthe entrance of the prisoner.
"Zane, they're havin' a council," whispered a voice in Isaac's ear.Isaac turned and recognized Girty. "I want to prepare you for theworst."
"Is there, then, no hope for me?" asked Isaac.
"I'm afraid not," continued the renegade, speaking in a low whisper."They wouldn't let me speak at the council. I told Cornplanter thatkillin' you might bring the Hurons down on him, but he wouldn'tlisten. Yesterday, in the camp of the Delawares, I saw Col. Crawfordburnt at the stake. He was a friend of mine at Pitt, and I didn'tdare to say one word to the frenzied Indians. I had to watch thetorture. Pipe and Wingenund, both old friends of Crawford, stood byand watched him walk round the stake on the red-hot coals fivehours."
; Isaac shuddered at the words of the renegade, but did not answer. Hehad felt from the first that his case was hopeless, and that noopportunity for escape could possibly present itself in such a largeencampment. He set his teeth hard and resolved to show the reddevils how a white man could die.
Several speeches were made by different chiefs and then animpressive oration by Big Tree. At the conclusion of the speeches,which were in an unknown tongue to Isaac, Cornplanter handed awar-club to Half Town. This chief got up, walked to the end of thecircle, and there brought the club down on the ground with aresounding thud. Then he passed the club to Big Tree. In a solemnand dignified manner every chief duplicated Half Town's performancewith the club.
Isaac watched the ceremony as if fascinated. He had seen a war-clubused in the councils of the Hurons and knew that striking it on theground signified war and death.
"White man, you are a killer of Indians," said Cornplanter in goodEnglish. "When the sun shines again you die."
A brave came forward and painted Isaac's face black. This Isaac knewto indicate that death awaited him on the morrow. On his way back tohis prison-lodge he saw that a war-dance was in progress.
A hundred braves with tomahawks, knives, and mallets in their handswere circling round a post and keeping time to the low music of amuffled drum. Close together, with heads bowed, they marched. Atcertain moments, which they led up to with a dancing on rigid legsand a stamping with their feet, they wheeled, and uttering hideousyells, started to march in the other direction. When this had beenrepeated three times a brave stepped from the line, advanced, andstruck his knife or tomahawk into the post. Then with a loud voicehe proclaimed his past exploits and great deeds in war. The otherIndians greeted this with loud yells of applause and a flourishingof weapons. Then the whole ceremony was gone through again.
That afternoon many of the Indians visited Isaac in his lodge andshook their fists at him and pointed their knives at him. Theyhissed and groaned at him. Their vindictive faces expressed themalignant joy they felt at the expectation of putting him to thetorture.
When night came Isaac's guards laced up the lodge-door and shut himfrom the sight of the maddened Indians. The darkness that graduallyenveloped him was a relief. By and by all was silent except for theoccasional yell of a drunken savage. To Isaac it sounded like along, rolling death-cry echoing throughout the encampment andmurdering his sleep. Its horrible meaning made him shiver and hisflesh creep. At length even that yell ceased. The watch-dogs quieteddown and the perfect stillness which ensued could almost be felt.Through Isaac's mind ran over and over again the same words. Hislast night to live! His last night to live! He forced himself tothink of other things. He lay there in the darkness of his tent, buthe was far away in thought, far away in the past with his mother andbrothers before they had come to this bloodthirsty country. Histhoughts wandered to the days of his boyhood when he used to drivethe sows to the pasture on the hillside, and in his dreamy,disordered fancy he was once more letting down the bars of the gate.Then he was wading in the brook and whacking the green frogs withhis stick. Old playmates' faces, forgotten for years, were therelooking at him from the dark wall of his wigwam. There was Andrew'sface; the faces of his other brothers; the laughing face of hissister; the serene face of his mother. As he lay there with theshadow of death over him sweet was the thought that soon he would bereunited with that mother. The images faded slowly away, swallowedup in the gloom. Suddenly a vision appeared to him. A radiant whitelight illumined the lodge and shone full on the beautiful face ofthe Indian maiden who had loved him so well. Myeerah's dark eyeswere bright with an undying love and her lips smiled hope.
A rude kick dispelled Isaac's dreams. A brawny savage pulled him tohis feet and pushed him outside of the lodge.
It was early morning. The sun had just cleared the low hills in theeast and its red beams crimsoned the edges of the clouds of fogwhich hung over the river like a great white curtain. Though the airwas warm, Isaac shivered a little as the breeze blew softly againsthis cheek. He took one long look toward the rising sun, toward thateast he had hoped to see, and then resolutely turned his face awayforever.
Early though it was the Indians were astir and their whooping rangthroughout the valley. Down the main street of the village theguards led the prisoner, followed by a screaming mob of squaws andyoung braves and children who threw sticks and stones at the hatedLong Knife.
Soon the inhabitants of the camp congregated on the green oval inthe midst of the lodges. When the prisoner appeared they formed intwo long lines facing each other, and several feet apart. Isaac wasto run the gauntlet--one of the severest of Indian tortures. Withthe exception of Cornplanter and several of his chiefs, every Indianin the village was in line. Little Indian boys hardly large enoughto sling a stone; maidens and squaws with switches or spears;athletic young braves with flashing tomahawks; grim, maturedwarriors swinging knotted war clubs,--all were there in line,yelling and brandishing their weapons in a manner frightful tobehold.
The word was given, and stripped to the waist, Isaac bounded forwardfleet as a deer. He knew the Indian way of running the gauntlet. Thehead of that long lane contained the warriors and older braves andit was here that the great danger lay. Between these lines he spedlike a flash, dodging this way and that, running close in under theraised weapons, taking what blows he could on his uplifted arms,knocking this warrior over and doubling that one up with a lightningblow in the stomach, never slacking his speed for one stride, sothat it was extremely difficult for the Indians to strike himeffectually. Once past that formidable array, Isaac's gauntlet wasrun, for the squaws and children scattered screaming before thesweep of his powerful arms.
The old chiefs grunted their approval. There was a bruise on Isaac'sforehead and a few drops of blood mingled with the beads ofperspiration. Several lumps and scratches showed on his bareshoulders and arms, but he had escaped any serious injury. This wasa feat almost without a parallel in gauntlet running.
When he had been tied with wet buckskin thongs to the post in thecenter of the oval, the youths, the younger braves, and the squawsbegan circling round him, yelling like so many demons. The oldsquaws thrust sharpened sticks, which had been soaked in salt water,into his flesh. The maidens struck him with willows which left redwelts on his white shoulders. The braves buried the blades of theirtomahawks in the post as near as possible to his head withoutactually hitting him.
Isaac knew the Indian nature well. To command the respect of thesavages was the only way to lessen his torture. He knew that a cryfor mercy would only increase his sufferings and not hasten hisdeath,--indeed it would prolong both. He had resolved to die withouta moan. He had determined to show absolute indifference to historture, which was the only way to appeal to the savage nature, andif anything could, make the Indians show mercy. Or, if he couldtaunt them into killing him at once he would be spared all theterrible agony which they were in the habit of inflicting on theirvictims.
One handsome young brave twirled a glittering tomahawk which hethrew from a distance of ten, fifteen, and twenty feet and everytime the sharp blade of the hatchet sank deep into the stake withinan inch of Isaac's head. With a proud and disdainful look Isaacgazed straight before him and paid no heed to his tormentor.
"Does the Indian boy think he can frighten a white warrior?" saidIsaac scornfully at length. "Let him go and earn his eagle plumes.The pale face laughs at him."
The young brave understood the Huron language, for he gave afrightful yell and cast his tomahawk again, this time shaving a lockof hair from Isaac's head.
This was what Isaac had prayed for. He hoped that one of theseglittering hatchets would be propelled less skillfully than itspredecessors and would kill him instantly. But the enraged brave hadno other opportunity to cast his weapon, for the Indians jeered athim and pushed him from the line.
Other braves tried their proficiency in the art of throwing knivesand tomahawks, but their efforts called forth only words of derisionfrom Isaac. They left the weapons
sticking in the post until roundIsaac's head and shoulders there was scarcely room for another.
"The White Eagle is tired of boys," cried Isaac to a chief dancingnear. "What has he done that he be made the plaything of children?Let him die the death of a chief."
The maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment theprisoner. Even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn. The prisoner'sproud, handsome face, his upright bearing, his scorn for hisenemies, his indifference to the cuts and bruises, and red weltsupon his clear white skin had won their hearts.
Not so with the braves. Seeing that the pale face scorned allefforts to make him flinch, the young brave turned to Big Tree. At acommand from this chief the Indians stopped their maneuvering roundthe post and formed a large circle. In another moment a tall warriorappeared carrying an armful of fagots.
In spite of his iron nerve Isaac shuddered with horror. He hadanticipated running the gauntlet, having his nails pulled out,powder and salt shot into his flesh, being scalped alive and a hostof other Indian tortures, but as he had killed no members of thistribe he had not thought of being burned alive. God, it was toohorrible!
The Indians were now quiet. Their songs and dances would break outsoon enough. They piled fagot after fagot round Isaac's feet. TheIndian warrior knelt on the ground the steel clicked on the flint; alittle shower of sparks dropped on the pieces of punk and then--atiny flame shot up, and slender little column of blue smoke floatedon the air.
Isaac shut his teeth hard and prayed with all his soul for a speedydeath.
Simon Girty came hurriedly through the lines of waiting, watchingIndians. He had obtained permission to speak to the man of his owncolor.
"Zane, you made a brave stand. Any other time but this it might havesaved you. If you want I'll get word to your people." And thenbending and placing his mouth close to Isaac's ear, he whispered, "Idid all I could for you, but it must have been too late."
"Try and tell them at Ft. Henry," Isaac said simply.
There was a little cracking of dried wood and then a narrow tongueof red flame darted up from the pile of fagots and licked at thebuckskin fringe on the prisoner's legging. At this supreme momentwhen the attention of all centered on that motionless figure lashedto the stake, and when only the low chanting of the death-song brokethe stillness, a long, piercing yell rang out on the quiet morningair. So strong, so sudden, so startling was the break in that almostperfect calm that for a moment afterward there was a silence as ofdeath. All eyes turned to the ridge of rising ground whence thatsound had come. Now came the unmistakable thunder of horses' hoofspounding furiously on the rocky ground. A moment of paralyzedinaction ensued. The Indians stood bewildered, petrified. Then onthat ridge of rising ground stood, silhouetted against the blue sky,a great black horse with arching neck and flying mane. Astride himsat a plumed warrior, who waved his rifle high in the air. Againthat shrill screeching yell came floating to the ears of theastonished Indians.
The prisoner had seen that horse and rider before; he had heard thatlong yell; his heart bounded with hope. The Indians knew that yell;it was the terrible war-cry of the Hurons.
A horse followed closely after the leader, and then another appearedon the crest of the hill. Then came two abreast, and then fourabreast, and now the hill was black with plunging horses. Theygalloped swiftly down the slope and into the narrow street of thevillage. When the black horse entered the oval the train of racinghorses extended to the top of the ridge. The plumes of the ridersstreamed gracefully on the breeze; their feathers shone; theirweapons glittered in the bright sunlight.
Never was there more complete surprise. In the earlier morning theHurons had crept up to within a rifle shot of the encampment, and atan opportune moment when all the scouts and runners were round thetorture-stake, they had reached the hillside from which they rodeinto the village before the inhabitants knew what had happened. Notan Indian raised a weapon. There were screams from the women andchildren, a shouted command from Big Tree, and then all stood stilland waited.
Thundercloud, the war chief of the Wyandots, pulled his blackstallion back on his haunches not twenty feet from the prisoner atthe stake. His band of painted devils closed in behind him. Full twohundred strong were they and all picked warriors tried and true.They were naked to the waist. Across their brawny chests ran a broadbar of flaming red paint; hideous designs in black and white coveredtheir faces. Every head had been clean-shaven except where the scalplock bristled like a porcupine's quills. Each warrior carried aplumed spear, a tomahawk, and a rifle. The shining heads, with thelittle tufts of hair tied tightly close to the scalp, were enough toshow that these Indians were on the war-path.
From the back of one of the foremost horses a slender figure droppedand darted toward the prisoner at the stake. Surely that wildlyflying hair proved this was not a warrior. Swift as a flash of lightthis figure reached the stake, the blazing fagots scattered rightand left; a naked blade gleamed; the thongs fell from the prisoner'swrists; and the front ranks of the Hurons opened and closed on thefreed man. The deliverer turned to the gaping Indians, disclosing totheir gaze the pale and beautiful face of Myeerah, the WyandotPrinces.
"Summon your chief," she commanded.
The tall form of the Seneca chief moved from among the warriors andwith slow and measured tread approached the maiden. His bearingfitted the leader of five nations of Indians. It was of one who knewthat he was the wisest of chiefs, the hero of a hundred battles. Whodared beard him in his den? Who dared defy the greatest power in allIndian tribes? When he stood before the maiden he folded his armsand waited for her to speak.
"Myeerah claims the White Eagle," she said.
Cornplanter did not answer at once. He had never seek Myeerah,though he had heard many stories of her loveliness. Now he was faceto face with the Indian Princess whose fame had been the theme ofmany an Indian romance, and whose beauty had been sung of in many anIndian song. The beautiful girl stood erect and fearless. Herdisordered garments, torn and bedraggled and stained from the longride, ill-concealed the grace of her form. Her hair rippled from theuncovered head and fell in dusky splendor over her shoulders; herdark eyes shone with a stern and steady fire: her bosom swelled witheach deep breath. She was the daughter of great chiefs; she lookedthe embodiment of savage love.
"The Huron squaw is brave," said Cornplanter. "By what right doesshe come to free my captive?"
"He is an adopted Wyandot."
"Why does the paleface hide like a fox near the camp ofCornplanter?"
"He ran away. He lost the trail to the Fort on the river."
"Cornplanter takes prisoners to kill; not to free."
"If you will not give him up Myeerah will take him," she answered,pointing to the long line of mounted warriors. "And should harmbefall Tarhe's daughter it will be avenged."
Cornplanter looked at Thundercloud. Well he knew that chief'sprowess in the field. He ran his eyes over the silent, watchingHurons, and then back to the sombre face of their leader.Thundercloud sat rigid upon his stallion; his head held high; everymuscle tense and strong for instant action. He was ready and eagerfor the fray. He, and every one of his warriors, would fight like athousand tigers for their Princess--the pride of the proud race ofWyandots. Cornplanter saw this and he felt that on the eve ofimportant marches he dared not sacrifice one of his braves for anyreason, much less a worthless pale face; and yet to let the prisonergo galled the haughty spirit of the Seneca chief.
"The Long Knife is not worth the life of one of my dogs," he said,with scorn in his deep voice. "If Cornplanter willed he could drivethe Hurons before him like leaves before the storm. Let Myeerah takethe pale face back to her wigwam and there feed him and make a squawof him. When he stings like a snake in the grass remember thechief's words. Cornplanter turns on his heel from the Huron maidenwho forgets her blood."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When the sun reached its zenith it shone down upon a long line ofmounted Indians riding single file along
the narrow trail and like ahuge serpent winding through the forest and over the plain.
They were Wyandot Indians, and Isaac Zane rode among them. Freedfrom the terrible fate which had menaced him, and knowing that hewas once more on his way to the Huron encampment, he had acceptedhis destiny and quarreled no more with fate. He was thankful beyondall words for his rescue from the stake.
Coming to a clear, rapid stream, the warriors dismounted and restedwhile their horses drank thirstily of the cool water. An Indiantouched Isaac on the arm and silently pointed toward the huge mapletree under which Thundercloud and Myeerah were sitting. Isaac turnedhis horse and rode the short distance intervening. When he got nearhe saw that Myeerah stood with one arm over her pony's neck. Sheraised eyes that were weary and sad, which yet held a lofty andnoble resolve.
"White Eagle, this stream leads straight to the Fort on the river,"she said briefly, almost coldly. "Follow it, and when the sunreaches the top of yonder hill you will be with your people. Go, youare free."
She turned her face away. Isaac's head whirled in his amazement. Hecould not believe his ears. He looked closely at her and saw thatthough her face was calm her throat swelled, and the hand which layover the neck of her pony clenched the bridle in a fierce grasp.Isaac glanced at Thundercloud and the other Indians near by. Theysat unconcerned with the invariable unreadable expression.
"Myeerah, what do you mean?" asked Isaac.
"The words of Cornplanter cut deep into the heart of Myeerah," sheanswered bitterly. "They were true. The Eagle does not care forMyeerah. She shall no longer keep him in a cage. He is free to flyaway."
"The Eagle does not want his freedom. I love you, Myeerah. You havesaved me and I am yours. If you will go home with me and marry methere as my people are married I will go back to the Wyandotvillage."
Myeerah's eyes softened with unutterable love. With a quick cry shewas in his arms. After a few moments of forgetfulness Myeerah spoketo Thundercloud and waved her hand toward the west. The chief swunghimself over his horse, shouted a single command, and rode down thebank into the water. His warriors followed him, wading their horsesinto the shallow creek, with never backward look. When the lastrider had disappeared in the willows the lovers turned their horseseastward.
