She saw a man standing by the fire in the first room, leaning upon a long, thin rifle. He was a backwoodsman. He wore fringed deerskin hunting-shirt and leggings. On his head at a rakish angle, sat a raccoon skin cap, with its striped tail caressing his broad shoulder. A pouch for bullets hung from the man’s belt, a hunting-knife was stuck in a sheath and a carved powderhorn was slung over his chest by a strap.
All these things Molly saw in a flash and in that flash, her Indian life faded completely away. The man was the same height and build as her father. The side of his cheek was stubbly with rough whiskers. His clothes were her father’s clothes. Or, was she dreaming?
Molly took hold of a bunk-pole and gripped it tight. She stared at the rifle, at its shining metal, glittering in the firelight. Had she seen it before? Had she taken it once in her hands to point it at an Indian? But the man did not speak. He did not turn and look at her.
Then she could wait no longer. Past the waiting, astonished Indians, past the crackling fire, into his arms she rushed.
The man’s face looked down at her and from his thin lips, a word of astonishment broke out. “Hello!” he said, weakly. “Who’s this?”
Then she knew it was not her father. The voice was the voice of another man, who was not her father at all. But it had a familiar ring to it. Had she heard the voice before?
Molly’s arms dropped weakly down and she almost fell to the ground, so limp had she become. She stepped back a little and looked at him keenly. Then she smiled, for the face took her back, back again swiftly to Marsh Creek Hollow. No, it was not her father. It was Old Fallenash, the white trader; and his words drawled soft and sweet, spoken as only backwoodsmen spoke them.
“Why, look-a-here!” cried the man, staring hard. “Seems like I’ve seen you before somewhere, but not in them clothes—not all decked out in Indian togs! Have they been tryin’ to make an Indian out of a white gal with yaller hair? Seems like I can see you back down there somewhere, a-sittin’ in a log cabin on a three-legged stool, dressed up in purty blue homespun. Now, ain’t it a fact?”
“Oh, Fallenash!” Molly was in his arms again, unashamed. “Oh, Fallenash, have I changed, then, so much? Don’t say that you don’t remember. Tell me you know who I am!” The girl was sobbing now. The pain of not being recognized stabbed her through and through.
The assembled Indians began to exclaim. Their cries of astonishment made a murmuring chorus behind the words of man and girl.
“If only you’d take off them Indian togs and put on blue homespun again,” said Fallenash, lamely, “I’d know ye in a minute, gal. Sure as I’m a white man, sure as my name’s Fallenash, I’ve seen them blue eyes somewhere. But your skin’s gone brown now, too, just like an Indian’s and my eyesight’s gittin’ dimmer each day.”
“Oh, Fallenash, Fallenash! Don’t say you have forgot!” cried Molly, unhappily. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. I’m Molly Jemison from Marsh Creek Hollow! You used to come time and again! Each year you came…”
“To be sure! To be sure!” Old Fallenash settled his coonskin cap more firmly. “Now I know. You’re Tom Jemison’s darter, from Marsh Creek Holler in Pennsylvania. Many’s the time I’ve sat on Tom’s big hearthstone and talked far into the night. Remember? I’ll say I remember. There’s no other hair as yaller as Molly Jemison’s along the hull frontier, and I’d orter know, I’ve traveled everywhere.”
“Oh, Fallenash!” Molly hung to his arms and would not let him go. Like water from a fresh mountain spring, the words came pouring: “How long since you’ve been there? When did you see them last? Did they send a message along for me, in case you would find me? Did they send you to search me out? Oh, tell me they’re well and hearty…Oh, tell me they think of me still…”
“Slowly, now slowly!” answered Fallenash. “This ain’t no time to be talkin. The Indians are anxious to trade and I must give them attention. There’s Chief Burning Sky and there’s Panther Woman a-comin’. She scares the gizzard out of me. I can’t talk to ye now, but I will later, before I go.”
Then, seeing the look of disappointment on the girl’s face, he decided he might as well get the worst over.
“I ain’t been to Marsh Creek Holler,” he said, quickly, “not for a long, long time I ain’t. I didn’t know ye was took by the Injuns. Honest, I never dreamed of such a thing. The Chief’s comin’ now with his woman…don’t forgit, I’ll see ye by and by.”
Just then Squirrel Woman darted out from behind the others and pulled Molly back into the crowd.
“Once more you rush forth to talk to a pale-face!” she scolded. “With shame I behold you, rushing out before the eyes of all the village. Only the Chief and men of importance may speak to the trader—children never. How oft must I tell you—you are an Indian, your lips are to form words only of Indian.”
Squirrel Woman’s words passed over Molly’s head. Fallenash had not been to Marsh Creek Hollow for a long, long time. Fallenash did not even know, after all the long months, that she had been taken by the Indians. He had not seen her family. The news was crushing, but still there was hope. Perhaps then, he would be going there soon. Perhaps he would take her along. She watched the trading with impatience.
The Indians had brought packs of furs and hides, and baskets of nuts to trade. Fallenash passed tobacco around and the smoking and talking began. The trader brought from his pack several small shiny brass kettles and set them in a row on his blanket. He spread out rolls of bright-colored cloth and blankets, strings of gay, brilliant beads and a fine array of silver jewelry, tools and weapons.
The Indians stared at the objects, fascinated. After a long delay, the Chief gave the signal for the trading to begin and, one by one, the buyers approached.
“Beads are better’n porcupine quills,” said Fallenash, lifting a handful and letting them fall in a shower. “You don’t have to go to the trouble of dyein’ ’em; they don’t get sticky and crack like quills. Quills are all right for embroidering deerskin, but for this handsome cloth, you want handsome beads.”
He unrolled a bolt of bright red broadcloth and held it up in the fire-light, while his coaxing, wheedling voice went on: “Good quality cloth in the brightest colors—every bit as durable as deerskin. Soon you’ll forget how to tan your hides—you’ll all be wearing cloth! As for earthen pots that break so easy, you’ve most forgot them already. See these brass kettles—you can kick ’em around! They’ll bend, but they won’t break! They’ll last forever. Cheap, too—considerin’ what you’re gettin’. How ’bout some handsome silver bracelets for your women?”
Molly saw the greedy looks on the faces of the Indian women. She saw the frown on Chief Burning Sky’s face grow heavier. Was he displeased with the trader and his wares? Did he dislike seeing the Indians buy white men’s goods? How eager and greedy she herself would have been—at any other time! But now, all she could think of was Fallenash’s news.
Log-in-the-Water, the laziest Indian in the village, seized a pair of silver ear-rings and held them up. After careful examination and long pondering, he offered a beaver skin to pay. Fallenash nodded and the exchange was made.
Big Kettle, known for his greediness, came next. For a fine steel tomahawk he reluctantly piled his skins higher and higher and grudgingly handed them over.
Gray Wolf, sullen and leering, demanded fire-water to quench his thirst. Fallenash shook his head and said quietly, “Soberness makes more money for a trader than drunkenness.” Gray Wolf left the room, swearing.
Molly stood at the edge of the crowd and looked over the Indians’ heads. Some of the women bargained endlessly for pieces of cloth, for beads and jewelry. Others walked away with shining brass kettles on their arms. Would the trading never be over? Gradually the trader’s wares found their way into the Indians’ hands, and the furs and nuts for payment were placed on the ground by his side.
Still the Indians lingered by the fire. They waited for Fallenash, who traveled over both frontier and wilderness, who had fre
e entry to white and Indian camp-fires alike, to speak, for he was always the bearer of news. Molly hid behind a bark barrel to keep out of sight of the Indian women.
“Blood has indeed flowed red,” Fallenash began in Indian, approaching the subject with grave caution, “to color the falling leaves with rich autumn brilliance.”
Chief Burning Sky’s face changed not at all. As if he were already acquainted with the news, or suspected in advance its import, he gazed quietly into the fire.
“Fort Duquesne has fallen!” announced Fallenash. “The French have lost it to the English.”
He looked around the circle. The news was greeted with silence. Not a head was turned, not a word was said.
“Them English were too strong for them, even with the Indians’ help,” the trader went on. “The French, I am sorry to say, had to run, some down the River Ohio, others overland to Presque Isle and others up the Allegheny River to Venango. A friend of mine who was there told me about it. Fort Duquesne’s only a mass of black and burning ruins. It’s been completely destroyed.”
“The fort?” cried Molly. Forgetting her caution, she ran to the man’s side. “The fort with the peach tree in the yard?”
But Fallenash paid no attention to her.
“When them English under Forbes came rushing in, in three columns, they had nothing to do,” he continued, his eyes upon the Chief’s face. “They found the fortifications blown up and the barracks and storehouses burned to the ground. Only thirty chimney stacks were left standing. The French had to do it themselves—to keep it from falling into the hands of them English. Looks like they got good and scared and ran for their lives when they saw them English coming. The Indians ran, too, I suppose.”
He paused, then went on: “Them English will have to build it up again, if they want a fort of their own there—at the forks of the River Ohio, and I reckon they do. Sir William Johnson, I hear, is no friend of the Frenchmen. He’ll be takin’ Fort Niagara next, if we don’t watch out, and Quebec too, they say. Then a Frenchman’s hide won’t be worth a pinch of tobacco. Trouble is, the French need more help from the Indians than they’ve been gettin’.”
As the trader spoke, he did not look once at the white girl there before him. Leaning on his knee, she drank in all his words and tried to comprehend their meaning. Fort Duquesne, with the cold, gray stockade walls, burned to the ground! Only the chimney stacks of the log houses left standing. The barn, the well-sweeps, the garden, the peach tree—all were gone. The Frenchmen were gone as well as the Indians. Now the English, the red-coated English were there. She could never go back again to Fort Duquesne—to the man and woman who had wanted to keep her.
“Which side will the Iroquois take, English or French?” asked Fallenash, bluntly, looking toward the Chief. “You Senecas will have to make up your minds. You want to hold them English back on the Atlantic seaboard, don’t you? So far, you’ve been good friends of the French and they need you now worse than ever. You won’t let them English talk you over to their side, will you?”
“That is a question I cannot answer,” said the Chief. “The League of the Iroquois must decide. The People of the Long House must speak for themselves.”
“Well, if you desert the French,” said Fallenash, with a smile, “it means goodbye to all French agents and traders. Me—I ain’t on one side nor t’other. I like the Indians better. But when this fightin’ begins, I’ll have to run fast to save my hide. Maybe I’ll have to give up this wandering life and settle down somewhere—where there ain’t no tomahawks flyin’!”
“Will you be going back to Marsh Creek Hollow then?” asked Molly, quickly.
But the question was not answered, for Squirrel Woman’s hand grasped the girl’s shoulder and away she was hustled to Red Bird’s lodge.
Molly was determined to speak to Fallenash before he left the village. All night she thought over what she would say. All night she tossed and turned, trying to keep awake. At dawn, unheard and unseen, she crept from her bed and ran out the door. As she expected, the trader was already there. He was loading his pack-train as she came up.
“Take me with you, Fallenash!” she cried. “Oh, please take me away with you!”
“Why, gal, I can’t do that,” answered the trader seriously. “I feel mighty sorry for any white gal who’s been took by the Injuns and can’t git back to her folks again. But I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
Molly watched as the man adjusted the ropes of bark that bound the burdens to the horses’ backs.
“I could walk, if there’s no room to ride on the horses,” she said, hopefully. “Ever since the white people at Fort Duquesne wanted to keep me, I can’t seem to think of anything else. Somehow, I must get away from the Indians…I could stay with you till you go back to Marsh Creek Hollow again. I would help all I could and I can travel anywhere—I’m strong again, now.”
Old Fallenash glanced at the girl’s thin face and frame. Then he sat down on a stump and drew her down beside him. His weatherbeaten face folded into lines of anxiety and strain.
“I wish to God I could help you, Molly,” he said, in a solemn voice, “but I can’t. You see, I’ve got a trading-post on Buffalo Creek and that’s no place for a nice white gal. Sometimes the Indians get drunk and angry and they cut up purty lively.”
“I could hide till they went away,” suggested Molly.
“Then, there’s another reason,” Fallenash went on. “I have…well, you see…I have an Indian woman living with me and she’s not a very good housekeeper. It would be just another Indian home and not half as good as you have here. I know these Senecas well. They’ll be good to you. Besides, if I took you, it would make the Senecas angry. I want to go on livin’ a while yet. I don’t want to lose my scalp. I’m not ready to feel a tomahawk stickin’ in my back, either!”
“They would kill you?” asked Molly.
“They would kill me sure, if I took you away,” said Fallenash. “No, gal, you stay right here and try to be contented. If you just make up your mind to it, you’ll be happy enough. Say your catechism like your mother taught you, pray to God every day and try not to forget to speak in English.”
“I do! Oh, I do!” cried Molly. “Ma said I must never forget and I don’t mean to.”
“Don’t take it too hard,” Fallenash went on, with real sorrow in his voice. “It’s a fine, free, open life and you can be happy if you’ll just make up your mind to like it. The Indians don’t work half so hard as the whites and they get lots more joy out of life. In fact, I think Indian life is not half bad myself. I like it.”
“You do?” asked Molly, her face brightening. “Do you mean what you say?”
“I do,” said Fallenash. “That’s why I got me an Indian woman and live as much like an Indian as I can.” He paused, then continued: “Have you ever happened to think? The Indians don’t make you read books or do sums. They don’t make you knit and sew seams every minute. They don’t sit in church all day long. They don’t scold and think about their sins all the time.”
Molly’s thoughts flew back to home. Once there had been a time when knitting and sewing were irksome; when she had hated reading and doing sums. Betsey “took to” those things, but Molly bungled. If only now she could have a seam to sew or a stocking to knit—how well she would do it!
A shadow fell on her face as she spoke. “Oh, Fallenash, tell me. Do you think there’s any way I can ever get home again?”
“Well, of course, there’s always a chance somebody might come…but I doubt it. No, there ain’t no way,” replied Fallenash, firmly. “You’d best try to be contented here. Once these Senecas have adopted you, they’ll fight tooth and nail ’fore they’ll give ye up. No, you’d better just forget about goin’ home and be happy here.”
The girl’s thin white face fell again into despair. The trader with a conscience-stricken look of half-guilt, dug into his pack and brought out a shining string of glass beads. He leaned over and tied them about the girl’s neck.
r /> “There!” he cried. “When you see them purty beads, just remember Old Fallenash would help ye if he could.”
Slowly he walked over to his waiting pack-train. At the signal of his shout, the horses started. The trader looked back at the white girl sitting on the stump, but she did not raise her head.
11
Running Deer
A BURDEN-STRAP WITH MOOSE-HAIR embroidery Corn Tassel shall have,” said Earth Woman, softly, as if talking to herself.
Molly had just come in. She lifted Blue Jay off her back. Her cheeks, touched by the chill of late autumn winds, glowed faintly pink. She smiled, but did not speak. She stretched her hands out to the welcome warmth of the fire. Then she unbound the Indian baby and set him on his feet.
“See! Blue Jay walks!” she cried in excitement. “His back has grown straight from the hickory board. His legs have grown strong and sturdy. Now he walks alone.”
The Indian woman chuckled. “He is not the first Indian baby who has learned to walk alone. My son was just so fine and strong when he was young.”
“But see!” cried Molly, laughing. “He turns his toes in, just like a woman. A man should not walk so.
“Ohé!” cried Earth Woman. “Let him walk so. It is well for a boy to toe in. Then all the better will he walk on snow-shoes when the time comes.”
Molly began to beat time, chanting in a monotone. Blue Jay lifted first one foot, then the other. “See! He dances! Shining Star has taught him. She is indeed a wise mother.”
“After dancing,” said Earth Woman, smiling, “he will learn to swim. When the moon of flowers comes again, Blue Jay will swim in the river.”
“His name will have to be changed to Blue Trout then!” said Molly.
While Blue Jay, chattering happily, explored the lodge, Molly sat down by the fire and began braiding three strands of coarse bark fiber together, twisting it hard, to make a strong rope. A kettle, filled with narrow strips from the inner bark of slippery-elm, covered with ashes and water, boiled on the fire. Skeins made up of small fibers of bark which had been boiled, dried and twisted, were piled up near by. Balls of finely twisted basswood cord lay on the floor.