Shif’less Sol moved into an easier position on the leaves.
“I guess it has somethin’ to do with them scratches on your leggins.”
“It has,” continued Henry with emphasis, “and I want to say to you boys that I’ve seen Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots.”
“Timmendiquas!” exclaimed the others together.
“No less a man than he,” resumed Henry. “I’ve looked upon his very face, I’ve seen him in camp with warriors, and I’ve had the honor of being pursued by him and his men more hours than I can tell. That’s why you see those briar scratches on my leggins, Sol.”
“Then we cannot doubt that he is here to stir the Six Nations to continued war,” said Paul Cotter, “and he will succeed. He is a mighty chief, and his fire and eloquence will make them take up the hatchet. I’m glad that we’ve come. We delayed a league once between the Shawnees and the Miamis; I don’t think we can stop this one, but we may get some people out of the way before the blow falls.”
“Who are these Six Nations, whose name sounds so pow’ful big up here?” asked Long Jim.
“Their name is as big as it sounds,” replied Henry. “They are the Onondagas, the Mohawks, Oneidas, Senecas, Cayugas, and Tuscaroras. They used to be the Five Nations, but the Tuscaroras came up from the south and fought against them so bravely that they were adopted into the league, as a new and friendly tribe. The Onondagas, so I’ve heard, formed the league a long, long time ago, and their head chief is the grand sachem or high priest of them all, but the head chief of the Mohawks is the leading war chief.”
“I’ve heard,” said Paul, “that the Wyandots are kinsmen of all these tribes, and on that account they will listen with all the more friendliness to Timmendiquas.”
“Seems to me,” said Tom Ross, “that we’ve got a most tre-men-je-ous big job ahead.”
“Then,” said Henry, “we must make a most tremendous big effort.”
“That’s so,” agreed all.
After that they spoke little. The last coals were covered up, and the remainder of the food was put in their pouches. Then they sat on the leaves, and every one meditated until such time as he might have something worth saying. Henry’s thoughts traveled on a wide course, but they always came back to one point. They had heard much at Pittsburgh of a famous Mohawk chief called Thayendanegea, but most often known to the Americans as Brant. He was young, able, and filled with intense animosity against the white people, who encroached, every year, more and more upon the Indian hunting grounds. His was a soul full kin to that of Timmendiquas, and if the two met it meant a great council and a greater endeavor for the undoing of the white man. What more likely than that they intended to meet?
“All of you have heard of Thayendanegea, the Mohawk?” said Henry.
They nodded.
“It’s my opinion that Timmendiquas is on the way to meet him. I remember hearing a hunter say at Pittsburgh that about a hundred miles to the east of this point was a Long House or Council House of the Six Nations. Timmendiquas is sure to go there, and we must go, too. We must find out where they intend to strike. What do you say?”
“We go there!” exclaimed four voices together.
Seldom has a council of war been followed by action so promptly.
As Henry spoke the last word he rose, and the others rose with him. Saying no more, he led toward the east, and the others followed him, also saying no more. Separately every one of them was strong, brave, and resourceful, but when the five were together they felt that they had the skill and strength of twenty. The long rest at Pittsburgh had restored them after the dangers and hardship of their great voyage from New Orleans.
They carried in horn and pouch ample supplies of powder and bullet, and they did not fear any task.
Their journey continued through hilly country, clothed in heavy forest, but often without undergrowth. They avoided the open spaces, preferring to be seen of men, who were sure to be red men, as little as possible. Their caution was well taken. They saw Indian signs, once a feather that had fallen from a scalp lock, once footprints, and once the bone of a deer recently thrown away by him who had eaten the meat from it. The country seemed to be as wild as that of Kentucky. Small settlements, so they had heard, were scattered at great distances through the forest, but they saw none. There was no cabin smoke, no trail of the plow, just the woods and the hills and the clear streams. Buffalo had never reached this region, but deer were abundant, and they risked a shot to replenish their supplies.
They camped the second night of their march on a little peninsula at the confluence of two creeks, with the deep woods everywhere. Henry judged that they were well within the western range of the Six Nations, and they cooked their deer meat over a smothered fire, nothing more than a few coals among the leaves. When supper was over they arranged soft places for themselves and their blankets, all except Long Jim, whose turn it was to scout among the woods for a possible foe.
“Don’t be gone long, Jim,” said Henry as he composed himself in a comfortable position. “A circle of a half mile about us will do.”
“I’ll not be gone more’n an hour,” said Long Jim, picking up his rifle confidently, and flitting away among the woods.
“Not likely he’ll see anything,” said Shif’less Sol, “but I’d shorely like to know what White Lightning is about. He must be terrible stirred up by them beatin’s he got down on the Ohio, an’ they say that Mohawk, Thayendanegea is a whoppin’ big chief, too. They’ll shorely make a heap of trouble.”
“But both of them are far from here just now,” said Henry, “and we won’t bother about either.”
He was lying on some leaves at the foot of a tree with his arm under his head and his blanket over his body. He had a remarkable capacity for dismissing trouble or apprehension, and just then he was enjoying great physical and mental peace. He looked through half closed eyes at his comrades, who also were enjoying repose, and his fancy could reproduce Long Jim in the forest, slipping from tree to tree and bush to bush, and finding no menace.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, Henry?” said the shiftless one. “I like a clean, bold country like this. No more plowin’ around in swamps for me.”
“Yes,” said Henry sleepily, “it’s a good country.”
The hour slipped smoothly by, and Paul said:
“Time for Long Jim to be back.”
“Jim don’t do things by halves,” said the shiftless one. “Guess he’s beatin’ up every squar’ inch o’ the bushes. He’ll be here soon.”
A quarter of an hour passed, and Long Jim did not return; a half hour, and no sign of him. Henry cast off the blanket and stood up. The night was not very dark and he could see some distance, but he did not see their comrade.
“I wonder why he’s so slow,” he said with a faint trace of anxiety.
“He’ll be ‘long directly,” said Tom Ross with confidence.
Another quarter of an hour, and no Long Jim. Henry sent forth the low penetrating cry of the wolf that they used so often as a signal.
“He cannot fail to hear that,” he said, “and he’ll answer.”
No answer came. The four looked at one another in alarm. Long Jim had been gone nearly two hours, and he was long overdue. His failure to reply to the signal indicated either that something ominous had happened or that—he had gone much farther than they meant for him to go.
The others had risen to their feet, also, and they stood a little while in silence.
“What do you think it means?” asked Paul.
“It must be all right,” said Shif’less Sol. “Mebbe Jim has lost the camp.”
Henry shook his head.
“It