Chambers Robert William
The Little Red Foot
A quartermaster's sergeant asked very civilly if I desired to draw rations for my scout; and I drew parched corn, salt, dried fish, jerked venison, and pork from the brine, for ten men; and Nick and I and my Oneidas did divide between us the burthen.
"The dogs!" he kept repeating in a confused way – "the dirty dogs, to take our scalps! And I pray God your painted Oneidas yonder may do the like for them!"
I saw a horse saddled and a soldier mount and gallop off with my letter. That was sufficient for me; I gave the Continental Captain the officers' salute, and looked around at my men, who had made a green fire for me on the grass in front of the house.
It was smoking thickly, now, so I took a soldier's watch-coat by the skirts, glanced up at Maxon Ridge, then, flinging wide the garment above the fire, kept it a-flutter there and moved it up and down till the jetted smoke mounted upward in great clots, three together, then one, then three, then one.
Presently, high on Maxon, I saw smoke, and knew that Johnny Silver understood. So I flung the watch-coat to the soldier, turned, and walked swiftly along the river bank, where sheep grazed, then entered the forest with Nick at my heels and the four Oneidas a-padding in his tracks.
CHAPTER XIV
THE LITTLE RED FOOT
By dusk we were ten rifles; for an hour after we left Fish House Johnny Silver and Luysnes joined us on the Sacandaga trail; and, just as the sun set behind the Mayfield mountains, comes rushing down stream a canoe with Godfrey Shew's bow-paddle flashing red in the last rays and Joe de Golyer steering amid the rattling rapids, nigh buried in a mountain of silvery spray.
And here, by the river, we ate, but lighted no fire, though it seemed safe to do so.
I sent Godfrey Shew and the Water-snake far up the Iroquois trail to watch it. The others gathered in a friendly circle to munch their corn and jerked meat, and the Frenchmen were merry, laughing and jesting and casting sly, amorous eyes toward Thiohero, who laughed, too, in friendly fashion and was at her ease and plainly not displeased with gallantry.
It had proved a swift comradery between us and our young Oneidas, and I marvelled at the rapid accomplishment of such friendly accord in so brief a time, yet understood it came through the perfect faith of these Oneidas in their young Athabasca witch; and that what their prophetess found good they did not even think of questioning.
Her voice was soft, her smile bewitching; she ate with the healthy appetite of an animal, yet was polite to those who offered meat. And her sweet "neah-wennah"9 never failed any courtesy offered by these rough Forest Runners, who now, for the first time in their reckless lives, I think, were afforded a glimpse of the forest Indian as he really is when at his ease and among friends.
For it is not true that the Iroquois live perpetually in their paint; that they are cruel by nature, brutal, stern, and masters of silence; or that they stalk gloomily through life with hatchet ever loosened and no pursuit except war in their ferocious minds.
White men who have mistreated them see them so; but the real Iroquois, except the Senecas, who are different, are naturally a kindly, merry, and trustful people among themselves, not quarrelsome, not fierce, but like children, loving laughter and all things gay and bright and mischievous.
Their women, though sometimes broad in speech and jests, are more truly chaste in conduct than the women of any nation I ever heard of, except the Irish.
They have their fixed and honourable places in clan, nation, and Federal affairs.
Rank follows the female line; the son of a chief does not succeed to the antlers, but any of his mother's relatives may. And in the Great Rite of the Iroquois, which is as sacred to them as is our religion to us, and couched in poetry as beautiful as ever Homer sang, the most moving part of the ceremony concerns the Iroquois women, – the women of the Six Nations of the Long House, respected, honoured, and beloved.
We ate leisurely, feeling perfectly secure there in the starlight of the soft June night.
The Iroquois war-trail ran at our elbows, trodden a foot deep, hard as a sheep path, and from eighteen inches to two feet in width – a clean, firm, unbroken trail through a primeval wilderness, running mile after mile, mile after mile, over mountains, through valleys, by lonely lakes, along lost rivers, to the distant Canadas in the North.
On this trail, above us, two of my men lay watching, as I have said, which was merely a customary precaution, for we were far out of earshot of the Big Eddy, and even of our own sentries.
We were like one family eating together, and Silver and Luysnes jested and played pranks on each other, and de Golyer and Nick entered into gayest conversation with the Oneidas through their interpreter, the River-reed.
As for Nick, I saw him making calf's eyes at the lithe young sorceress, which I perceived displeased her not at all; yet she gaily divided herself between translating for the others and keeping up a lively repartee with Nick.
The Oneidas, now, had begun to shine up their war-hatchets, sitting cross-legged and contentedly rubbing up knife, axe, and rifle; and I was glad to see them so at home and so confident of our friendship.
Older men might not have been so easily won, but these untried young warriors seemed very children, and possessing the lovable qualities of children, being alternately grave and gay, serious and laughing, frank and impatient, yet caressing in speech and gesture.
From Kwiyeh, the Screech-owl, I had an account of how, burning for glory, these four youngsters had stolen away from Oneida Lake, and, painting themselves, had gone North of their own accord, to win fame for the Oneida nation, which for the greater part had espoused our cause.
He told me that they had seen Sir John pass, floundering madly northward and dragging three brass cannon; but explained naïvely that four Oneidas considered it unsafe to give battle to two hundred white men.
For a week, however, it appeared, they had hung on Sir John's flanks, skulking for a stray scalp; but it was evident that the Baronet's people were thoroughly frightened, and the heavy flank guards and the triple line of sentries by night made any hope of a stray scalp futile.
Then, it appeared, these four Oneidas gave up the quest and struck out for the Iroquois trail. And suddenly came upon nearly two score Mohawks, silently passing southward, painted for war, oiled, shaved, and stripped, and evidently searching for Sir John, to aid and guide him in his flight to Canada.
Which proved to me the Baronet's baseness, because his flight was plainly a premeditated one, and the Mohawks could not have known of it unless Sir John had been in constant communication with Canada – a thing he had pledged his honour not to do.
Others around me, now, were listening to the burly young Oneida's account of their first war-path; and presently their young sorceress took up the tale in English and in Oneida, explaining with lively gestures to both red men and white.
"Not one of the Mohawks saw us," she said scornfully, "and when they made a camp and had sent their hunters out to kill game, we came so near that we could see their warriors curing and hooping the scalps they had taken and painting on every scalp the Little Red Foot10– even on the scalps of two little boys."
Nick turned pale, but said nothing. A sickness came to my stomach and I spoke with difficulty.
"What were these scalps, little sister, which you saw the Mohawks curing?"
"White people's. Three were of men, – one very thin and gray; two were the glossy hair of women; and two the scalps of children – "
She flung back her blanket with a peculiarly graceful gesture:
"Be honoured, O white brothers, that these Mohawk dogs were forced to paint upon every scalp the Little Red Foot!"
After a silence: "Some poor settler's family," muttered Nick; and fell a-fiddling with his hatchet.
"All died fighting," I added in a dull voice.
Thiohero snapped her fingers and her dark eyes flamed.
"What are the Mohawks, after all!" she said in a tense voice. "Who are they, to paint for war without fire-right given them at Onondaga? What do they amount to, these Keepers of the Eastern Gate, since Sir William died?
"They have become outlaws and there is no honour among them!
"Their clan-right is destroyed and neither Wolf, Bear, nor Tortoise know them any longer. Nor does any ensign of my own clan of the Heron know these mad yellow wolves that howl and tear the Long House with their teeth to destroy it! Like carcajoux, they defile the Iroquois League and smother its fire in their filth! Dig up the ashes of Onondaga for any living ember, O you Oneidas! You shall find not one live spark! And this is what the Canienga have done to the Great Confederacy!"
Tahioni said, looking straight ahead of him: "The Great League of the Iroquois is broken. Skenandoa has said it, and he has painted his face scarlet! The Long House crumbles slowly to its fall.
"Those who should have guarded the Eastern Gate have broken it down. Death to the Canienga!"
Kwiyeh lifted his right hand high in the starlight:
"Death to the Canienga! They have defiled Thendara. Spencer has said it. They have spat upon the Fire at the Wood's Edge. They have hewn down the Great Tree. They have uncovered the war-axe which lay deep buried under the roots.
"Death to the Canienga!"
I turned to Thiohero: "O River-reed, my little sister! Oyaneh! Is it true that your great chief, Skenandoa, has put on red paint?"
She said calmly: "It is true, my brother. Skenandoa has painted himself in red. And when your General Herkimer rides into battle, on his right hand rides Skenandoa; and on his left hand rides Thomas Spencer, the Oneida interpreter!"11
Tahioni said solemnly: "And before them rides the Holder of Heaven. We Oneidas can not doubt it. Is it true, my sister?"
The girl answered: "The Holder of Heaven has flung a red wampum belt between Oneida and Canienga! Five more red belts remain in his hand. They are so brightly red that even the Senecas can see the colour of these belts from the Western Gate of the Long House."
There was a silence; then I chose De Luysnes and Kwiyeh to relieve our sentinels, and went north with them along the starlit trail.
When I returned with Hanoteh and Godfrey Shew, the Oneidas were still sitting up in their blankets, and the Frenchmen lay on theirs, listening to Nick, who had pulled his fife from his hunting shirt and was trilling the air of the Little Red Foot while Joe de Golyer sang the words of the endless and dreary ballad – old-time verses, concerning bloody deeds of the Shawanese, Western Lenape, and French in '56, when blood ran from every creek and man, woman and child went down to death fighting.
I hated the words, but the song had ever haunted me with its quaint and sad refrain:
"Lord Loudon he weareth a fine red coat,
And red is his ladye's foot-mantelle;
Red flyeth ye flagge from his pleasure-boat,
And red is the wine he loves so well:
But, oh! for the dead at Minden Town, —
Naked and bloody and black with soot,
Where the Lenni-Lenape and the French came down
To paint them all with the Little Red Foot!"
"For God's sake, quit thy piping, Nick," said I, "and let us sleep while we may, for we move again at dawn."
At which Nick obediently tucked away his fife, and de Golyer, who had a thin voice like a tree-cat, held his songful tongue; and presently we all lay flat and rolled us in our blankets.
The night was still, save for a love-sick panther somewhere on the mountain, a-caterwauling under the June stars. But the distant and melancholy love-song and the golden melody of the stream pouring through its bowlders blended not unpleasantly in my ears, and presently conspired to lull me into slumber.
The mountain peaks were red when I awoke and spoke aloud to rouse my people. One by one they sat up, owlish with sleep, yet soon clearing their eyes and minds with remembering the business that lay before us.
I sent Joe de Golyer and Tahioni to relieve our sentinels, Luysnes and the Screech-owl.
When these came in with report that all was still as death on the Iroquois trail, we ate breakfast and drank at the river, where some among us also washed our bodies, – among others the River-reed, who stripped unabashed, innocent of any shame, and cleansed herself knee-deep in a crystal green pool under the Indian willows.
When she came back, the disk of blue paint was gone from her brow, and I saw her a-fishing in her beaded wallet and presently bring forth blue and red paint and a trader's mirror about two inches in diameter.
Then the little maid of Askalege sat down cross-legged and began to paint herself for battle.
At the root of her hair, where it made a point above her forehead, she painted a little crescent moon in blue. And touched no more her face; but on her belly she made a blue picture of a heron – her clan being the Heron, which is an ensign unknown among Iroquois.
Now she took red paint, and upon her chest she made a tiny human foot.
I was surprised, for neither for war nor for any ceremony I ever heard of had I seen that dread symbol on any Indian.
The Oneidas, also, were looking at her in curiosity and astonishment, pausing in their own painting to discover what she was about.
Then, as it struck me, so, apparently, it came to them at the same instant what their sorceress meant, – what pledge to friend and foe alike this tiny red foot embodied, shining above her breast. And the two young warriors who had painted the tortoise in blue upon their bellies, now made each a little red foot upon their chests.
"By gar!" exclaimed Silver, "ees it onlee ze gens-du-bois who shall made a boast to die fighting? Nom de dieu, non!" And he unrolled his blanket and pulled out a packet of red cloth and thread and needle – which is like a Frenchman, who lacks for nothing, even in the wilderness.
He made a pattern very deftly out of his cloth, using the keen point of his hunting knife; and, as we all, now, wished to sew a little red foot upon the breasts of our buckskin shirts, and as he had cloth enough for all, and for Joe de Golyer, too, when we should come up with him, I and my men were presently marked with the dread device, which was our pledge and our defiance.
The sun had painted scarlet the lower Adirondack peaks when we started north on the Sacandaga trail.
When we came up with our sentinels, I gave Joe time to sew on his symbol, and the Oneida time to paint it upon his person. Then we examined flint and priming, tightened girth and cincture, tested knife, hatchet, and the stoppers of our powder horns; and I went from one to another to inspect all, and to make my dispositions for the march to the Big Eddy on West River.
We marched in the following fashion: Tahioni and Nick as left flankers, two hundred yards in advance of us, and in sight of the trail. On the right flank, the Water-snake and Johnny Silver at the same intervals.
Then, on the trail itself, I leading, Luysnes next, then the River-reed. Then a hundred yards interval, and Joe de Golyer on the left rear, Kwiyeh on the right rear, and Godfrey on the trail.
"And," I said, "if you catch a roving Tree-eater, slay him not, but bring him to me, for if there be any of these wild rovers, the Montagnais, in our vicinity, they should know something of what is now happening in the Canadas, and they shall tell us what they know, or I'm a Tory! Forward! Our alarm signal is the long call-note of the Canada sparrow!"
CHAPTER XV
WEST RIVER
The Water-snake caught an Adirondack just before ten o'clock, and was holding him on the trail as I came up, followed by Luysnes and Thiohero.
The Indian was a poor, starved-looking creature in ragged buckskins and long hair, from which a few wild-turkey quills fell to his scrawny neck.
He wore no paint, had been armed with a trade-rifle, the hammer of which was badly loosened and mended with copper wire, and otherwise he carried arrows in a quiver and a greasy bow.
Like a fierce, lean forest thing, made abject by fear, the Adirondack's sloe-black eyes now flickered at me, now avoided my gaze. I looked down at the rags which served him for a blanket, and on which lay his wretched arms, including knife and hatchet.
"Let him loose," said I to the Water-snake; "here is no Mengwe but a poor brother, who sees us armed and in our paint and is afraid."
And I went to the man and offered my hand. Which he touched as though I were a rattlesnake.
"Brother," said I, "we white men and Oneidas have no quarrel with any Saguenay that I know about. Our quarrel is with the Canienga, and that is the reason we wear paint on this trail. And we have stopped our Saguenay brother in the forest on his lawful journey, to say to him, and to all Saguenays, that we mean them no harm."
There was an absolute silence; Luysnes and Thiohero drew closer around the Tree-eater; the Water-snake gazed at his captive in slight disgust, yet, I noticed, held his rifle in a position for instant use.
The Saguenay's slitted eyes travelled from one to another, then he looked at me.
"Brother," I said, "how many Maquas are there camped near the Big Eddy?"
His low, thick voice answered in a dialect or language I did not comprehend.
"Can you speak Iroquois?" I demanded.
He muttered something in his jargon. Thiohero touched my arm:
"The Saguenay says he understands the Iroquois tongue, but can speak it only with difficulty. He says that he is a hunter and not a warrior."
"Ask him to answer me concerning the Maqua."
A burst of volubility spurted from the prisoner.
Again the girl translated the guttural reply:
"He says he saw painted Mohawks fishing in the Big Eddy, and others watching the trail. He does not know how many, because he can not count above five numbers. He says the Mohawks stoned him and mocked him, calling him Tree-eater and Woodpecker; and they drove him away from the Big Eddy, saying that no Saguenay was at liberty to fish in Canienga territory until permitted by the Canienga; and that unless he started back to Canada, where he belonged, the Iroquois women would catch him and beat him with nettles."
As Thiohero uttered the dread name, Canienga, I could see our captive shrink with the deep fear that the name inspired. And I think any Iroquois terrified him, for it seemed as though he dared not sustain the half-contemptuous, half-indifferent glances of my Oneidas, but his eyes shifted to mine in dumb appeal for refuge.
"What is my brother's name?" I asked.
"Yellow Leaf," translated the girl.
"His clan?"
"The Hawk," she said, shrugging her shoulders.
"Nevertheless," said I, very quietly, "my Saguenay brother is a man, and not an animal to be mocked by the Maqua!"
And I stooped and picked up his blanket and weapons, and gave them to him.
"The Saguenays are free people," said I. "The Yellow Leaf is free as is his clan ensign, the Hawk. Brother, go in peace!"
And I motioned my people forward.
Our flankers, who, keeping stations, had waited, now started on again, the Water-snake running swiftly to his post on the extreme right flank.
After ten minutes' silent and swift advance, Thiohero came lightly to my side on the trail.
"Brother," she whispered, "was it well considered to let loose that Tree-eating rover in our rear?"
"Would the Oneida take such a wretched trophy as that poor hunter's tangled scalp?"
"Neah. Yet, I ask again, was it wisdom to let him loose, who, for a mouthful of parched corn, might betray us to the Mengwe?"
"Poor devil, he means no harm to anybody."
"Then why does he skulk after us?"
Startled, I turned and caught a glimpse of something slinking on the ridge between our flankers; but was instantly reassured because no living thing could dog us without discovery from the rear. And presently I did see the Screech-owl run forward and hurl a clod of moss into the thicket; and the Saguenay broke cover like a scared dog, running perdue so that he came close to Hanatoh, who flung a stick at him.
That was too much for me; and, as the Tree-eater bolted past me, I seized him.
"Come," said I, dragging him along, "what the devil do you want of us? Did I not bid you go in peace?"
Thiohero caught him by the other arm, and he panted some jargon at her.
"Koué!" she exclaimed, and her long, sweet whistle of the Canada sparrow instantly halted us in our tracks, flankers, rearguard, and all.
Thiohero, still holding the Saguenay by his lean, muscular arm, spoke sharply to him in his jargon; then, at his reply, looked up at me with the flaming eyes of a lynx.
"Brother," said she, "this Montagnais hunter has given an account that the Maquas have prepared an ambuscade, knowing we are on the Great Trail."
I said, coolly: "What reason does the Saguenay give for returning to us with such a tale?"
"He says," she replied, "that we only, of all Iroquois or white men he has ever encountered, have treated him like a man and not as an unclean beast.
"He says that my white brother has told him he is a man, and that if this is true he will act as real men act.
"He says he desires to be painted upon the breast with a little red foot, and wishes to go into battle with us. And," she added naïvely, "to an Oneida this seems very strange that a Saguenay can be a real man!"
"Paint him," said I, smiling at the Saguenay.
But no Oneida would touch him. So, while he stripped to the clout and began to oil himself from the flask of gun-oil I offered, I got from him, through Thiohero, all he had noticed of the ambuscade prepared for us, and into which he himself had run headlong in his flight from the stones and insults of the Mohawks at the Big Eddy.
While he was thus oiling himself, Luysnes shaved his head with his hunting blade, leaving a lock to be braided. Then, very quickly, I took blue paint from Thiohero and made on the fellow's chest a hawk. And, with red paint, under this I made a little red foot, then painted his fierce, thin features as the girl directed, moving a dainty finger hither and thither but never touching the Saguenay.
To me she said disdainfully, in English: "My brother John, this is a wild wolf you take hunting with you, and not a hound. The Saguenays are real wolves and not to be tamed by white men or Iroquois. And like a lone wolf he will run away in battle. You shall see, brother John."
"I hope not, little sister."
"You shall see," she repeated, her pretty lip curling as Luysnes began to braid the man's scalp-lock. "You think him a warrior, now, because he is oiled and wears war paint and lock. But I tell you he is only a wild Montagnais hunter. Warriors are not made with a word."
"Sometimes men are," said I pleasantly.
The girl came closer to me, looked up into my face with unfeigned curiosity.
"What manner of white man are you, John?" she asked. "For you speak like a preacher, yet you wear no skirt and cross, as do the priests of the Praying Indians."
"Little sister," said I, taking both her hands, "I am only a young man going into battle for the first time; and I have yet to fire my first shot in anger. If my white and red brothers – and if you, little sister – do full duty this day, then we shall be happy, living or dead. For only those who do their best can look the Holder of Heaven in the face."
She gave me a strange glance; our hands parted. I gave the Canada-sparrow call in the minor key – as often the bird whistles – and, at the signal, all my scouts came creeping in.
"We cross West River here," said I, "and go by the left bank in the same order of march, crossing the shoulder of the mountain by the Big Eddy, then fording the river once more, so as to take their ambuscade from the north and in the rear."
They seemed to understand. The Montagnais, in his new paint, came around behind me like some savage dog that trusts only his owner. And I saw my Oneidas eyeing him as though of two minds whether to ignore him or sink a hatchet into his narrow skull.
"Who first sights a Mohawk," said I, "shall not fire or try to take a scalp to satisfy his own vanity and his desire for glory. No. He shall return to me and report what he sees. For it is my business to order the conduct of this battle… March!"
We had forded West River, crept over the mountain's shoulder, recrossed the river roaring between its rounded and giant bowlders, and now were creeping southward toward the Big Eddy.
Already I saw ahead of me the brook that dashes into that great crystal-green pool, where, in happier days, I have angled for those huge trout that always lurk there.
And now I caught a glimpse of the pool itself, spreading out between forested shores. But the place was still as death; not a living thing nor any sign of one was to be seen there – not a trace of a fire, nor of any camp filth, nor a canoe, nor even a broken fern.
Moment after moment, I studied the place, shore and slope and hollow.
Tahioni, flat on his belly in the Great Trail, lay listening and looking up the slope, where our Saguenay had warned us Death lay waiting.
The Water-snake slowly shook his head and cast a glance of fierce suspicion at the Montagnais, who lay beside me, grasping his sorry trade-rifle, his slitted gaze of a snake fixed on the forest depths ahead.
Suddenly, Nick caught my arm in a nervous grasp, and "My God!" says he, "what is that in the tree – in the great hemlock yonder?"
And now we began to see their sharpshooters as we crawled forward, standing upright on limbs amid the foliage of great evergreens, to scan the trail ahead and the forest aisles below – these Mohawk panthers that would slay from above.
Under them, hidden close to the ground, lay their comrades on either side of the little ravine, through which the trail ran. We could not see them, but we never doubted they were there.
Four of their tree-cat scouts were visible: I made the sign; our rifles crashed out. And, thump! slap! thud! crash! down came their dead a-sprawling and bouncing on the dead leaves. And up rose their astounded comrades from every hollow, bush and windfall, only to drop flat at our rifles' crack, and no knowing if we had hit any among them.
A veil of smoke lay low among the ferns in front of us. There was a terrible silence in the forest, then screech on screech rent the air, as the panther slogan rang out from our unseen foes; and, like a dreadful echo, my Oneidas hurled their war cry back at them; and we all sprang to our feet and moved swiftly forward, crouching low in our own rifle smoke.
There came a shot, and a cloud spread among the boughs of a tall hemlock; but the fellow left his tree and slid down on t'other side, like a squirrel, and my wild Saguenay was after him in a flash.
I saw the Oneidas looking on as though stupefied; saw the Saguenay, shoulder deep in witch-hopple, seize something, heard the mad struggle, and ran forward with Tahioni, only to hear the yelping scalp-cry of the Montagnais, and see him in the tangle of witch-hopple, both knees on his victim's shoulders, ripping off the scalp, his arms and body spattered with blood.
The stupefaction of the Oneidas lasted but a second, then their battle yell burst out in jealous fury indescribable.
I saw Tahioni chasing a strange Indian through a little hollow full of ferns; saw Godfrey Shew raise his rifle and kill the fugitive as coolly as though he were a running buck.
Nick, his shoulder against a beech tree, stood firing with great deliberation at something I could not see.
The three Frenchmen, de Golyer, Luysnes, and Johnny, had gone around, as though deer driving, and were converging upon a little wooded knoll, from which a hard-wood hogback ran east.
Over this distant ridge, like shadows, I could see somebody's light feet running, checkered against the sunshine beyond, and I fired, judging a man's height, if stooping. And saw something dark fall and roll down into a gully full o' last year's damp and rotting leaves.
Re-charging my rifle, I strove to realize that I had slain, but could not, so fierce the flame in me was burning at the thought of the children's scalps these Iroquois had taken.
"Is he down, Johnny Silver?" I bawled.
"Fairly paunched!" shouted Luysnes. "Tell your Oneidas they can take his hair, for I shan't touch it."
But Johnny Silver, in no wise averse, did that office very cheerfully.
"Nom de Dieu!" he panted, tugging at the oiled lock and wrenching free the scalp; "I have one veree fine jou-jou, sacré garce! I take two; mek for me one fine wallet!"
Down by the river the rifles were cracking fast and a smoke mist filled the woods. Ranging widely eastward we had turned their left flank – now their right – and were forcing them to a choice between the Sacandaga trail southward or the bee-line back to Canada by the left bank of West River.
How many there were of them I never have truly learned; but that scarcely matters to the bravest Indian, when ambuscaded and taken so completely by surprise from the rear.
No Indians can stand that, and but few white men are able to rally under such circumstances.
The Screech-owl, locked in a death struggle with a young Mohawk, broke his arm, stabbed him, and took his scalp before I could run to his aid.
And there on the ground lay four other scalps, two of white children, with the Little Red Foot painted on all.
I looked down at the dead murderer. He was a handsome boy, not twenty, and wore a white mask of war paint and two bars of scarlet on his chin, I thought – then realized that they were two thick streaks of running blood.
"May his clan bewail him!" shouted the burly Screech-owl. "Let the Mohawk women mourn their dead who died this day at West River! The Oneida mock them! Koué!" And his terrific scalp-yell pierced the racket of the rifles.
I heard a gruffling sound and thick breathing from behind a pine, where the Water-snake was scalping one of the tree-cat scouts – grunting and panting as he tugged at the tough and shaven skin, which he had grasped in his teeth, plying his knife at the same time because the circular incision had not been continuous.
