Part 23 (2/2)

What good can come of people who dance round idols?” and the old hunter wrinkled his very nose in contempt.

Young Wampum knew his place too well to argue with the arrogant old hunter, so he smilingly said good-bye, and leaving them to their pipes and their memories, he set out for the Mission house, from whence he was to drive the Reverend James Nelson over to the ”Delaware Line” to have one of his frequent talks with the stubborn old chief, ”Single-Pine,”

who for ten years had held out against Christianity, clinging with determined loyalty to the religion of his forefathers, wors.h.i.+pping the repulsive wooden idol that, even in their old pagan state, the Mohawks so despised. Wampum was a great friend of Mr. Nelson's. He was only a boy of sixteen, but he helped in all the church work, translated Mr.

Nelson's speeches from English into Mohawk and the various other Indian dialects spoken on the Reserve, drove him about through the rough forest roads, paddled him down the river, and was the closest companion the good missionary had in all that wild, remote country. Even Wampum's parents were Christian church workers, but, kindly as their hearts were, they, too, shook their heads sorrowfully over the hopelessness of trying to Christianize the dark, idol-wors.h.i.+pping Delawares.

”Ah, Wampum, boy,” greeted the missionary as the young Indian presented himself at the mission house, ”we have good work before us to-day. I hear the Delawares are having a feast day. They have been dancing about that deplorable idol for two days and two nights. They tell me that old Chief Single-Pine danced eight hours without ceasing; that they have decorated the idol with silver brooches, wampum beads, every precious thing they possess. It is terrible, and my heart aches, boy, when I think how hopeless it seems. I fear they will be wors.h.i.+pping that wooden thing long after you and I have ceased working for Christ's kingdom.”

”Mr. Nelson,” said the boy, half-shyly. ”I don't agree with you. I heard, not long ago, that old Chief Single-Pine said he only kept to the idol because his people did--that he dared not cross them, but that after these ten years of your talking with him, he himself believed in the white man's Christ.”

”Oh, Wampum, if I could only believe that! If I could, I would die happy. Who told you this glorious thing?” cried the encouraged missionary.

”A Delaware boy,” replied Wampum, ”but when he told me he spat, like a snake does venom. He said he and all the tribe hated Single-Pine, for listening to you.”

For a moment the missionary was silent, then he arose, the dawn of a majestic hope in his face. ”They may hate him,” he said, ”but they will follow him. He is most powerful. They dare not rebel where he leads. If we have won Single-Pine to Christianity, we have won the whole tribe, Wampum. You have never failed me yet; will you stand by me now? Will you help me in this great work?”

”I will help you, sir,” replied the boy, his young face glowing with zeal.

”But,” hesitated the missionary, ”remember, it is dangerous. They are a fierce, savage tribe, these Delawares. Suppose--” and the good man's voice ceased. He thought of his wife and his two baby girls. Then he shuddered.

Wampum seemed to catch that thought, and instantly a strange inspiration lighted up his wonderful dark face. He set his strong white teeth together, but kept his determination to himself.

As they prepared to leave the Mission house, Wampum hung back a little, and when Mr. Nelson was not looking, he slipped into the woodshed, got the axe, and adroitly hid it under the wagon-seat. He told himself that in case of trouble he would at least have some weapon with which to defend the missionary's life, and fight for his own. Had the man of peace known this, he would have remonstrated, but Wampum, although a Christian, had good fighting Indian blood in his veins, and had no such horror of battle. He was like one of the old Crusaders, ready to fight for his faith, even if the fighting had to be done with an axe.

Long before they reached the Delaware Line, they could hear the sounds of feasting and dancing. It was growing dark, and the great heathen ceremonies were at their height. Many a time had the good old missionary attended these dances, always putting in a word for Christianity whenever he saw a fitting opening, always hoping that the day would come when the hideous idol would be laid low, and these darkened souls brought to the Light of the World. But to-night he felt strangely fearful, almost cowardly, for the whole tribe had gathered to pay tribute to their G.o.d, and it is a dangerous thing to belittle the G.o.d or the faith of any nation that is in earnest in its belief.

Old Chief Single-Pine welcomed the missionary and Wampum graciously, but his people scowled and looked menacingly at the sight of ”The Black Coat,” then continued their dancing. The great Delaware idol was there in all its hideousness, life size, in the form of a woman, and carved from one solid block of wood, then painted and stained the Indian copper color. It stood on a slight elevation in the centre of the big log ”church,” grotesque and repulsive as an image could well be made. Wampum hated the thing, and found it difficult not to hate these people who wors.h.i.+pped it. His own ancestors had been pagans, but never heathen.

They had wors.h.i.+pped a living G.o.d, not a wooden one, and the boy turned in sadness, and some horror, from the spectacle of these idolatrous Delawares. Then his eyes lighted with pleasure, for there, near the door, stood Fire-Flower and Fish-Carrier. True, they were not now telling their boastful but harmless tales of mighty hunting and prowess, but their friendly faces still looked laughter-loving and genial, and Wampum moved quickly towards them. ”I did not know you ever came here,”

he said.

”Not often,” said Fire-Flower. ”But you said you were to bring the missionary, so we came.”

Something in his voice gave Wampum a hint that perhaps the loyal old hunters expected trouble, and so had come in case they were needed.

”Thank you,” was all the boy replied, but they knew he understood.

Meanwhile, Mr. Nelson was talking with Single-Pine, who, exhausted with dancing, was allowing himself a brief rest and smoke. ”My friend,” began the missionary, ”do you really believe in the power of that G.o.d of wood?”

The old chief glanced about cautiously, then, lowering his voice, said:

”I am tired, oh, Black Coat, of this thing! I would come to the Christian's G.o.d if I could, but my people will not let me.”

Mr. Nelson grasped the dark fingers resting near his own. ”Chief Single-Pine,” he said excitedly, ”will you yourself give me leave to do away with this idol? Will you promise me that if I cut it down you will make no outcry--that you will not defend it; that you will not urge your people to rise against me; that you will sit silently, wordlessly; that you will take my part?”

For a moment the old Indian wavered, hesitated, then said desperately, ”I promise.”

The missionary arose, removed his hat, and lifting his white face to heaven, prayed aloud, ”G.o.d help me, make me strong and fearless to do this thing.” But at his side was Wampum, his clinging brown fingers clutching the black-coated arm. He had overheard all the conversation, and his young face took on grayish shadows and lines of anxiety as he said, ”No, no, Mr. Nelson, _not you_! They may kill you. Your wife, your girl babies--remember them. Think of them. This is _my_ work, not yours.” Instantly he dashed outside, returning with the axe he had hidden in the wagon. Without a glance in any direction, he strode into the centre of the log lodge, the dark wors.h.i.+ppers fell aside, surprised into silence, and the slender Mohawk boy braced his shoulders, lifted his head, and--

”Don't, don't, Wampum, boy!” choked the missionary, ”It is wild, it is useless. Stop, oh, stop!”

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