Part 7 (2/2)
”Your ob't and affectionate niece, ”ELIZABETH DANESFORD.”
Did she but know it, her father stood in need of cheerful letters, for the bitterness of the rising war spirit was daily making feuds between former friends, and all who talked loyalty to the king and condemned Henry, Jefferson and Was.h.i.+ngton soon discovered they were champions of an unpopular cause.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CHIEF WHO DEMANDED THE TRUTH
Four days of intense excitement, without proper food or sleep, subjected to peril of life, would test the hardiest person. Rodney Allison felt like breaking down and weeping hysterically. To add to his discomfort he believed the hut to be alive with vermin, not an uncommon condition in any Indian's wigwam, and this one looked filthy.
His unpleasant reflections were interrupted by the return of the little boy, Louis, who cried, ”Ahneota, he say you come right away.”
”The redskin who threw me in here said he would kill me if I left.”
”_Ce n'est rien_, Ahneota says come.”
Under the circ.u.mstances Rodney decided to run the risk, for evidently the little chap was the only friend he had found, so he said, ”Well, you don't want me killed, do you?”
”_Non._ I will have you to play with me. Ahneota is my friend. He will give you to me.”
They went to a wigwam at the farther end of the village and found awaiting them an old chief. He was tall and gaunt. His face was long, the nose sharply aquiline, and his eyes were as keen and bright as those of a youth. The chief's manner was very, dignified, even stern.
Louis began his plea, but was ordered to call the Indian, Caughnega.
Then, turning to Rodney, the chief asked: ”Why come to Indian country and kill game? White man's game below big river.”
Rodney hesitated. What could he say? He feared to confess that he already had escaped from Indians, it would not be a helpful introduction, to say the least; neither would he lie.
”I was lost and hungry. The bear was hungry, too. I had to shoot,” he finally said.
The searching look of the Indian embarra.s.sed him.
”The pigeon dropped by the eagle spoke not truth but said he fell.”
Rodney flushed under the fierce gaze of the bright eyes of the aged chief. Then lifting his head he resolutely replied: ”I have told you the truth, but not all of it. I am here through no fault of my own and am trying to get back to the big river and my people.”
”The big river is many days' journey. There is blood on the pigeon,”
replied Ahneota, pointing to Rodney's wrists, which yet bore the marks of the thongs with which he had been bound.
”That is the work of Indians. I was on my way down the Ohio to meet my father near the Great Kanawha. The party I was with landed for supper and was attacked by Indians, who killed some and made me a prisoner. I escaped from them and am here. Neither I nor my father ever wronged an Indian.”
”The land north of the big river belongs to the Indian. The Great Father gave it to the Indian and the palefaces smoked the pipe of peace with the red man. Now they would come and kill our game and the red man must die.”
”Our party was not seeking land north of the river when the Indians cruelly attacked us.”
”The Wyandottes are at peace with the Shawnees and do not take away their captives.”
”You all are at peace with the whites and have no right to make me a prisoner,” was Rodney's reply, so boldly spoken he feared its effect might be bad.
”Young braves will not always obey their chiefs,” was the rather evasive reply of the old man, and the boy instinctively felt he had not displeased Ahneota by his bold speech.
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