Raymond Evelyn
The Sun Maid: A Story of Fort Dearborn

CHAPTER X.
THE CAVE OF REFUGE

Three abreast, the chestnut in the middle, the fugitives from the doomed village of Muck-otey-pokee rode like the wind in a straight, unswerving line across the prairie. After they had left a considerable distance behind them, Wahneenah turned her stern face backward, and scanned the route over which they had passed; and when her keen vision detected something like a group of glistening bayonets – to ordinary sight no larger than a point against the horizon – she abruptly doubled on her course, then made a sharp detour westward. She had early dropped her own bridle, and had since guided her horse by her low spoken commands, while in either hand she clutched a bit-ring of the Snowbird and Tempest. Her change of direction must have brought her all the more plainly into view of the pursuing soldiers, but in a few moments she had gained the shelter of a group of trees.

These sprang, apparently, out of the midst of the plain, but she knew that they really concealed the entrance to the underground pathway to the cave; and once within their shelter, she paused to breathe and gaze upon the startled faces of her children.

That of the Sun Maid was pale, indeed, with the excitement of this mad ride, but showed no fear; while Gaspar’s, alas! wore an expression of abject terror. His eyes stared wildly, his teeth were set, his nostrils drawn and pinched. He was, his foster-mother saw, already on the verge of a collapse.

She leaped from her horse, and caught the fainting boy in her arms while she directed the Sun Maid:

“Jump down and tie the horses, as the Snake-Who-Leaps showed you, by their long bridles. In any case, there is little fear but they will stand. Then follow me.”

“But what ails my Gaspar, Other Mother?” asked the child, as she sprang from her saddle. “Did somebody hurt him when the guns fired?”

“No. Tie the horses. He will be right soon. It is the fright. Make haste, make haste!”

“Yes, yes, I will. My dear old Feather-man taught Kitty everything. Every single thing about my Snowbird. I can fasten her all tight so she will never, never get away, unless I let her. I will tie Gaspar’s, too; and shall your Chestnut stay here with them two?”

But for once Wahneenah did not stop to hear her darling out. She had seen the deftness with which the little girl’s small fingers had copied the instructions of her riding-master, and had wondered at it many times. She trusted it now, knowing that the lad needed her first care, and meaning to carry him through the passage into the cave, then return for the other. She knew, also, that if the soldiers she had seen following them should come upon the tethered horses, the fact of their presence would betray her own. But from this possibility there was no escape; and, had she known it, no need for such.

She had scarcely laid the unconscious boy down upon the floor of her retreat when Kitty came flying down the tunnel, her task completed.

“So quick, papoose?”

“Yes. Every one is fastened to a pretty tree, and every one is glad. Why did we ride so fast, Wahneenah? It ’most took Kitty’s breath out of her mouth. But I did like it till my Gaspar looked so queer. Is he sick, Other Mother? Why doesn’t he speak to me?”

“He is ill, in very fact, Girl-Child. Ill of terror. Young as he is, he has seen fearful sights, and they have hurt his tender heart. But he will soon be better; and when he is you must not talk to him of our old home, or of our ride, or of anything except that we are making another little festival here in our cave. One more cup of water, papoose, but take care you do not slip when you dip it from the spring. We will bathe his face and rub his hands, and by and by he will awake and talk.”

Then, leaving the lad to the ministrations of the child, and under pretence of making “all cosy for the picnic,” Wahneenah sped cautiously back through the passage to the edge of the little grove, casting a searching glance in each direction. To her infinite relief, the glistening speck had vanished from the landscape, and she concluded that the white soldiers had ridden but a short distance north of the village, and then returned to it. She noticed with pride how the little maid had fastened each of the brave animals that had served them so well in a spot where the grass was still green and plentiful, and that there was no need of her refastening the straps which held them.

“Surely, her wisdom is more than mortal!” she exclaimed in delight; such as more cultured mothers feel when they discover that their little ones are really gifted with the common intelligence that to them seems extraordinary.

Gaspar was awake, and looking about him curiously, when she got back into the cavern; and, in response to his silent inquiry, she drew a tree-branch before the opening and nodded smilingly:

“That is to keep the sunshine out of the Dark-Eyes.”

“But – where are we? Why – oh! I remember! I remember! Must I always, always see such awful things? Is there no place in this world where I can hide?”

“Why, yes, Dark-Eye. There is just such a place; and we have found it. Don’t you remember our sanctuary? Where the Black Partridge came to eat the fish you caught? Where we have such a store of good things put aside. Rest now, after your ride, and the White Papoose shall make a pillow for you of the rushes I will pull. Then we’ll shut the branch in close, like the curtain of our wigwam, and be as safe and happy as a bird in its nest.”

Wahneenah’s assumed cheerfulness did not deceive, though it greatly comforted, the terrified boy; and the quietude of the sheltered spot, added to its dimness and his own exhaustion, soon overcame him again, and his eyelids closed. But the sleep into which he drifted now was a natural and restful one, and he roused from it, at Kitty’s summons, with something of his old courage – the courage which had made him a hero that day when he first rode the black gelding, and had used his boyish strength to do a man’s work.

“When Other Mother did make a fire and cook us such a nice breakfast, we must eat it quick. Kitty’s ready. Kitty’s dreadful hungry, Kitty is. Is you hungry, too, Dark-Eye?”

He had not thought that he was. But now that she mentioned it, he realized the fact. Fortunately, he was so young and healthy that the scenes through which he seemed destined to pass at such frequently-recurring intervals could not really affect his physical condition for any length of time. To see Wahneenah moving about the little cavern as calmly as if it were her daily habit to be there, and to catch the sound of the Sun Maid’s joyous laughter, was to make the present seem the only reality.

“Why, it’s another picnic, isn’t it? Did the things actually happen back there as I thought? Were we here all night? I used to have such terrible dreams, when I lived at the Fort, that, when daylight came, I could not forget them. I get confused between the dreams and the true things.”

“An empty stomach makes a foolish head. Many a squaw is afraid of her warrior before he breaks his morning fast, and finds him a lamb after it is eaten,” said Wahneenah, sententiously.

“Gaspar is my warrior, Other Mother; but I am never afraid of him.”

“You are afraid of nothing, Kitty!” reproved the boy.

“But I am! I am afraid I shall get nothing to eat at all, if you don’t come!”

So the children ate, and Wahneenah served them. She was herself too anxious to partake of any food, and under her placid exterior she was straining every nerve to listen for any outward sounds which might prove that their refuge had been discovered.

But no sounds came to disturb them, and as the hours passed hope returned to her; and when the Sun Maid had fallen asleep, weary of frolic, and Gaspar again questioned her concerning the morning, she answered, in good faith:

“Probably, it was not half so bad as it seemed. There were many bad Indians in the village, and it is likely for them that the white soldiers were searching. They must have gone away long since. By and by, if nothing happens, we will return to our own tepee, and forget this morning’s fright. The Snake-Who-Leaps will be proud of his pupils for the way they rode at his bidding.”

A shiver ran through the lad’s frame, and he crept within the shelter of Wahneenah’s arm.

“But did you not see what happened to him? He lies beneath the curtains of your lodge, and he will teach us no more. A white soldier shot him. I saw him fall.”

The woman herself had not seen this, and she now sprang to her feet in a fury of indignation.

“A white man killed him! That grand old brave, who should have lived to be a hundred years! It cannot be.”

“But it was.”

She was the daughter of a mighty chief. Her blood was royal, and she gloried in it. All the race-hatred in her nature roused, and, for the moment only, she glowered upon the pale-faced youth before her, as if he represented, in his small person, all the sins of his own people.

Then the paroxysm passed, and her nobler self triumphed. Sitting down again, she sought to draw the boy back into her embrace, but he held himself aloof, and would not. So she began to talk with him there, with a simple wisdom and dignity that she had learned from nature itself.

“Why should we be angry, one with another, my son? The Great Spirit is our Father. No man comes into life nor leaves it by a chance. What the Mighty One decrees, that it is befalls. Between His red-skinned children and His pale-faced ones He has put an undying enmity. I have not always so believed. I have hoped and pleaded for the peace which should glorify the world, even as the sun is glorifying the wide land outside of this dim cavern. But it is not so to be. Even as the chief, the Black Partridge, said: there is a feud which can never be overcome, for it is of the Great Spirit’s own planting. He that made us all permits it. Let us, then, in our small place, cease to fight against the inevitable. We have made the compact. We will abide by it. In a tiny corner of the beautiful world we three will live in harmony. Let the rest go. Put away your anger against my people, as I now put aside mine against yours. The Sun Maid is of both races, it seems to me. She is our Bond, our Peace-maker, our Delight. Behold! She wakes. Before her eyes, let no shadow of our mutual trouble fall. I go outside to watch. If all seems well, we may ride home at nightfall.”

Save for the danger to her young charges, she would have done so even then. Far superior though she had always been to them, her heart yearned over the helpless women of her tribe whom she had left behind.

“But that cannot be. They were tied fast by their motherhood to the homes wherein they may have perished, even as I am tied here by my adopted ones. The beasts, too, are tied; but they, at least, may have a moment’s freedom.”

So she loosed them, and guided them to the pool where they could drink, and watched them curiously, to see if they would avail themselves of the liberty she had thus offered. But they did not. They quaffed the clear water, then tossed their velvet nostrils about its depths till it was soiled and worthless; yet they turned of their own accord away from the wind-swept prairie into the shelter of the trees, and grouped themselves beneath one, as if uniting against some common, unseen enemy.

“They are wiser than their masters,” said Wahneenah, patting her Chestnut’s beautiful neck; and seeing a deeper glade, where they might spend the night even more safely, she led them thither and fastened them again. Under ordinary circumstances she would have left them untethered; but she knew not then at what moment she might again need them, as they had been needed earlier in the day.

When the darkness fell, Wahneenah put aside the brushwood door which she had placed before the entrance to the cave, and sat down upon the withering branch to watch and wait. The children were both asleep, and she knew that if the Black Partridge were still alive and able he would seek her there, as he had promised on that day in the past when they had discussed the possibility of what had really now occurred.

She was not to be disappointed. While she sat, contrasting the happiness that had been hers on just the night before with the uncertainty of this, there sounded in the sloping tunnel the tread of a moccasined foot. Also, she could hear the crowding of a stalwart figure against its sides, and there was something in both sounds which told her who was coming.

“My brother is late.”

“It is better thus, it may be, than not at all.”

“The voice of the Black Partridge is sorrowful.”

“The heart of the chief is broken within him.”

For a space after that neither spoke. Then Wahneenah rose and set a candle in a niche of the wall and lighted it. By its flame she could see to move about and she presently had brought some food in a dish and placed a gourd of water by the chief’s side.

The water he drank eagerly and held the cup for more; but the food he pushed aside, relapsing into another silence.

Finally, Wahneenah spoke.

“Has the father of his tribe no message for his sister?”

“Over what the ear does not hear, the heart cannot grieve.”

“That is a truth which contradicts itself.”

“The warrior of Wahneenah judged well when he chose this cavern for a possible home.”

“It is needed, then? As the Black Partridge foretold.”

“It is needed. There is no other.”

The words were quietly spoken; but there was heart-break in each one.

“Our village? The home of all our people? Is it not still safe and a refuge for all unfortunates among the nations?”

“Where Muck-otey-pokee laughed by the waterside, there is now a heap of ruins. The river that danced in the sunlight is red with the blood of the slain and of all the lodges wherein we dwelt, not one remains!”

“My brother! Surely, much brooding has made you distraught. Such cannot be. There were warriors, hundreds of them in the settlement and before their arrows the pale-faces fall like trees before the woodman’s axe.”

“If the arrows are not in the quiver, can the warrior shoot? Against the man who steals up in the rear, can one be prepared? It was a short, sharp battle. The innocent fell with the guilty, and the earth receives them all. Where Muck-otey-pokee stood is a blackened waste. Those who survived have fled, to seek new homes wherever they may find them. In her pathways the dead faces stare into the sky as even yet, among the sandhills, lie and stare the unburied dead of the Fort Dearborn massacre. It is fate. It is nature. It is the game of life. To-day one wins, to-morrow another. In the end, for all – is death.”

For a while after that, Wahneenah neither moved nor spoke, and the Black Partridge lapsed into another profound silence. Finally, the woman rose, and going to the fireplace, took handsful of its ashes and strewed them upon her head and face. Then she drew her blanket over her features, and thus, hiding her sorrow even from the witness of the night, she sat down again in her place and became at once as rigid and impassive as her brother.

Thus the morning found them. Despite their habit of wandering from point to point, the village of Muck-otey-pokee was the rallying-place of the Pottawatomies, their home, the ancient burial-ground of their dead. Its destruction meant, to the far-seeing Black Partridge, also the destruction of his tribe. Therefore, as he had said, his spirit was broken within him.

But at the last he rose to depart, and still fasting. With the solemnity of one who parted from her forever, he addressed the veiled Wahneenah and bade her:

“Put aside the grief that palsies, and find joy in the children whom the Great Spirit has sent you. They also are homeless and orphaned. There are left now no white soldiers to harry and distress. This cavern is warmer than a wigwam, and there is store of food for many more than three. Remain here until the springtime and by then I may return. I go now to my brother Gomo, at St. Joseph’s, to counsel at his fireside on what may yet be done to save the remnant of our people. You are safer here than in any village that I know. Farewell.”

But, absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, the Black Partridge for once forgot his native caution; and without waiting to reconnoitre, he mounted his horse and rode boldly away from the shelter of the brush into the broad light of the prairie and so due north toward the distant encampment of his tribesmen.

Yet the glittering eyes of a jealous Indian were watching him as he rode. An Indian who had been sheltered by the hospitality of the great chief, and for many months, in Muck-otey-pokee; but who had neither gratitude nor mercy in his heart, wherein was only room for treachery and greed.

As Black Partridge rode away from the cave by the river, the other mounted his horse and rode swiftly toward it.

CHAPTER XI.
UNDER A WHITE MAN’S ROOF

The log cabin of Abel and Mercy Smith stood within a bit of forest that bordered the rich prairie.

As homes went in those early days, when Illinois was only a territory, and in that sparsely settled locality, it was a most roomy and comfortable abode. The childless couple which dwelt in it were comfortable also, although to hear their daily converse with one another a stranger would not so have fancied. They had early come into the wilderness, and had, therefore, lived much alone. Yet each was of a most social nature, and the result, as their few neighbors said, of their isolated situation was merely “a case of out-talk.”

When Mercy’s tongue was not wagging, Abel’s was, and often both were engaged at the same moment. Her speech was sharp and decisive; his indolent, and, to one of her temperament, exceedingly aggravating. But, between them, they managed to keep up almost a continuous discourse. For, if Abel went afield, Mercy was sure to follow him upon various excuses; unless the weather were too stormy, when, of course, he was within doors.

However, there were times when even their speech lagged a little, and then homesickness seized the mistress of the cabin; and after several days of preparation she would set out on foot or on horseback, according to the distance to be traversed, for some other settler’s cabin and a wider exchange of ideas.

On a late November day, when the homesickness had become overpowering, Mercy tied on her quilted hood and pinned her heavy shawl about her. She had filled a carpet bag with corn to pop and nuts to crack, for the children of her expected hostess and had “set up” a fresh pair of long stockings to knit for Abel. She now called him from the stable into the living room to hear her last remarks.

“If I should be kep’ over night, Abel, you’ll find a plenty to eat. There’s a big pot of baked beans in the lean-to, and some apple pies, and a pumpkin one. The ham’s all sliced ready to fry, and I do hope to goodness you won’t spill grease ’bout on this rag carpet. I’m the only woman anywhere ’s round has a rag carpet all over her floor, any way, and the idee of your sp’ilin’ it just makes me sick. I – ”

“But I hain’t sp’iled it yet, ma. You hain’t give me no chance. If you do – ”

“If I do! Ain’t I leavin’ you to get your own breakfast, in case I don’t come back? It might rain or snow, ary one, an’ then where’d I be?”

“Right where you happened to be at, I s’pose,” returned Abel, facetiously.

But it was wasted wit. The idea of being storm-stayed now filled the housewife’s mind. She was capable, and full of New England gumption; but her husband “was a born botch.” True, he could split a log, or clear a woodland with the best; and as for a ploughman, his richly fertile corn bottom and regular eastern-sort-of-garden testified to his ability. But she was leaving him with the possibility of woman’s work to do; and as she reflected upon the condition of her cupboard when she should return and the amount of cream he would probably spill, should he attempt to skim it for the churning, her mind misgave her and she began slowly to untie the great hood.

“I believe I won’t go after all.”

“Won’t go, ma? Why not?”

“I’m afraid you’ll get everything upset.”

“I won’t touch a thing more ’n I have to. I’ll set right here in the chimney-corner an’ doze an’ take it easy. The fall work’s all done, an’ I’d ought to rest a mite.”

“Rest! Rest? Yes. That’s what a man always thinks of. It’s a woman who has to keep at it, early an’ late, winter an’ summer, sick or well. If I should go an’ happen to take cold, I don’t know what to the land would become of you, Abel Smith.”

“I don’t either, ma.”

There was a long silence, during which Mercy tied and untied her bonnet-strings a number of times; and each time with a greater hesitancy. Finally, she pulled from her head the uneasy covering and laid it on the table. Then she unpinned her shawl, and Abel regarded these signs ruefully. But he knew the nature with which he had to deal; and the occasional absences that were so necessary to Mercy’s happiness were also seasons of great refreshment to himself. During them he felt almost, and sometimes quite, his own master. He loafed, and smoked, and whittled, and even brought out his old fiddle and just “played himself crazy” – so his wife declared. Even then he was already recalling a tune he had heard a passing teamster whistle and was longing to try it for himself. He abruptly changed his tactics.

Looking into Mercy’s face with an appearance of great gladness, he exclaimed:

“Now ain’t that grand! Here was I, thinkin’ of myself all alone, and you off havin’ such a good time, talkin’ over old ways out East an’ hearin’ all the news that’s going. There. Take right off your things an’ I’ll help put ’em away for you. You’ve got such a lot cooked up you can afford to get out your patchwork, and I’ll fiddle a bit and – ”

“Abel Smith! I didn’t think you’d go and begrudge me a little pleasure. Me, that has slaved an’ dug an’ worked myself sick a help-meetin’ an’ savin’ for you. I really didn’t.”

“Well, I’m not begrudging anybody. An’ I don’t s’pose there is much news we hain’t heard. Though there was a new family of settlers moved out on the mill-road last week, I don’t reckon they’d be anybody that we’d care about. Folks have to be a mite particular, even out here in Illinois.”

Mercy paused, with her half-folded shawl in her hands. Then, with considerable emphasis, she unfolded it again, and deliberately fastened it about her plump person.

“Well, I’m goin’. It’s rainin’ a little, but none to hurt. I’ve fixed a dose of cough syrup for Mis’ Waldron’s baby, an’ I’d ought to go an’ give it to her. Them new folks has come right near her farm, I hear. If you ain’t man enough to look out for yourself for a few hours, you cert’nly ain’t enough account for me to worry over. But take good care of yourself, Abel. I’m goin’. I feel it my duty. There’s a roast spare-rib an’ some potatoes ready to fry; an’ the meal for the stirabout is all in the measure an’ – good-by. I’ll likely be back to-night. If not, by milkin’ time to-morrow morning.”

Abel had taken down the almanac from its nail in the wall and had pretended to be absorbed in its contents. He did not even lift his eyes as his wife went out and shut the door. He still continued to search the “prognostics” long after the cabin had become utterly silent, not daring to glance through the small window, lest she should discover him and be reminded of some imaginary duty toward him that would make her return.

But, at the end of fifteen minutes, since nothing happened and the stillness remained profound, he hung the almanac back in its place, clapped his hands and executed a sort of joy-dance which was quite original with himself. Then he drew his splint-bottomed chair before the open fire, tucked his fiddle under his chin, and proceeded to enjoy himself.

For more than an hour, he played and whistled and felt as royal and happy as a king. By the end of that time he had grown a little tired of music, and noticed that the drizzle of the early morning had settled into a steady, freezing downpour. The trees were already becoming coated with ice and their branches to creak dismally in the rising wind.

“Never see such a country for wind as this is. Blows all the time, the year round. Hope Mercy’ll be able to keep ahead of the storm. She’s a powerful free traveller, Mercy is, an’ don’t stan’ for trifles. But – my soul! Ain’t she a talker? I realize that when her back’s turned. It’s so still in this cabin I could hear a pin drop, if there was anybody round hadn’t nothin’ better to do than to drop one. Hmm, I s’pose I could find some sort of job out there to the barn. But I ain’t goin’ to. I’m just goin’ to play hookey by myself this whole endurin’ day, an’ see what comes of it. I believe I’ll just tackle one of them pumpkin pies. ’Tain’t so long since breakfast, but eatin’ kind of passes the time along. I wish I had a newspaper. I wish somethin’ would turn up. I – I wouldn’t let Mercy know it, not for a farm; but ’tis lonesome here all by myself. I hain’t never noticed it so much as I do this mornin’. Whew! Hear that wind! It’s a good mile an’ a half to Waldron’s. I hope Mercy’s got there ’fore this.”

Abel closed the outer door, and crossed to the well-stocked cupboard. As he stood contemplating its contents, and undecided as to which would really best suit his present mood, there came a sound of somebody approaching the house along the slippery footpath. This was so unexpected that it startled the pioneer. Then he reflected: “Mercy. She’s come back!” and remained guiltily standing with his hand upon the edge of a pie plate, like a school-boy pilfering his mother’s larder.

“Rat-a-tat-a-tat!”

“Somebody knockin’! That ain’t Mercy! Who the land, I wonder!”

He made haste to see and opened the heavy door to the demand of a young boy, who stood shivering before it. At a little distance further from the house was, also, a woman wrapped in a blanket that glistened with sleet, and which seemed to enfold besides herself the form of a little child.

“My land! my land! Why, bubby! where in the world did you drop from? Is that your ma? No. I see she’s an Indian, an’ you’re as white as the frost itself. Come in. Come right in.”

But the lad lingered on the threshold and asked with chattering teeth, which showed how chilled he was:

“Can Wahneenah come too?”

“I don’t know who in Christendom Wahneeny is, but you folks all come straight in out of the storm. ’Twon’t do to keep the door open so long, for the sleet’s beating right in on Mercy’s carpet. There’d be the dickens to pay if she saw that.”

Gaspar, for it was he, ran quickly back toward the motionless Wahneenah, and, clutching the corner of her blanket, dragged her forward. She seemed reluctant to follow, notwithstanding her half-frozen condition and she glanced into Abel’s honest face with keen inquiry. Yet seeing nothing but good-natured pity in it, she entered the cabin, and herself shut the door. Yet she kept her place close to the exit, even after Gaspar had pulled the blanket apart and revealed the white face of the Sun Maid lying on her breast.

“Why, why, why! poor child! Poor little creatur’. Where in the world did you hail from to be out in such weather? Didn’t you have ary home to stay in? But, there. I needn’t ask that, because there’s Mercy off trapesing just the same, an’ her with the best cabin on the frontier. I s’pose this Wahneeny was took with a gossipin’ fit, too, an’ set out to find her own cronies. But I don’t recollect as I’ve heard of any Indians livin’ out this way.”

By this time the water that had been frozen upon the wanderers’ clothing had begun to melt, and was drip-dripping in little puddles upon Mercy’s beloved carpet. Abel eyed these with dismay, and finally hit upon the happy expedient of turning back the loose breadth of the heavy fabric which bordered the hearth. Upon the bare boards thus revealed he placed three chairs, and invited his guests to take them.

Gaspar dropped into one very promptly, but the squaw did not advance until the boy cried:

“Do come, Other Mother. Poor Kitty will wake up then, and feel all right.”

The atmosphere of any house was always uncomfortable to Wahneenah. Even then, she felt as if she had stepped from freedom into prison, cold though she was and half-famished with hunger. Personally, she would rather have taken her bit of food out under the trees; but the thought of her Sun Maid was always powerful to move her. She laid aside the wet blanket, and carried the drowsy little one to the fireside, where the warmth soon revived the child so that she sat up on her foster-mother’s lap, and gazed about her with awakening curiosity. Then she began to smile on Abel, who stood regarding her wonderful loveliness with undisguised amazement, and to prattle to him in her accustomed way.

“Why, you nice, nice man! Isn’t this a pretty place. Isn’t it beau’ful warm? I’m so glad we came. It was cold out of doors, wasn’t it, Other Mother? Did you know all the time what a good warm fire was here? Was that why we came?”

“I knew nothing,” answered Wahneenah, stolidly.

“But I did!” cried Gaspar. “As soon as I saw the smoke of your chimney I said: ‘That is a white man’s house. We will go and stay in it.’ It’s a nice house, sir, and, like Kitty, I am glad we came. Do you live here all alone?”

“No. My wife, Mercy, has gone a visitin’. That’s why I happen to be here doin’ nothin’. I mean – I might have been to the barn an’ not heard you. You’re lookin’ into that cupboard pretty sharp. Be you hungry? But I needn’t ask that. A boy always is.”

“I am hungry. We all are. We haven’t had anything to eat in – days, I guess. Are those pies – regular pies, on the shelves?”

“Yes. Do you like pies?”

“I used to. I haven’t had any since I left the Fort.”

“Left what?”

“The Fort. Fort Dearborn. Did you know it?”

“Course. That is, about it. But there ain’t no Fort now. Don’t tell stories.”

“I’m not. I’m telling the truth.”

If this was a refugee from that unhappy garrison, Abel felt that he could not do enough for the boy’s comfort. He could not refrain his suspicious glances from Wahneenah’s dark face, but as she kept her own gaze fixed upon the ground, he concluded she did not see them. In any case, she was only an Indian, and therefore to be treated with scant courtesy.