Part 84 (1/2)
”You will return and do what a contrite heart bids you to do,” I said.
”If that might be,” he said gently, ”that would I do--for the child's sake and for hers.”
”Good G.o.d!” I said under my breath.
”Did you not surmise it?”
”No.”
”Well, then, now you know how deeply I am d.a.m.ned.... G.o.d gave me a last chance. There was a chaplain at the fort.”
”Kirkland.”
”Yes, Gann went forward.... But--G.o.d's grace was not within me.... And to see her angered me--that and the blinding hurt I had when Lana left--heart-broken, wretched, still loving me, but consigning me to my duty.... So I denied her at the bridge.... And from that moment has my unseen pilot walked beside me, and I know he leads me swiftly to my end.”
I raised my troubled eyes and glanced toward my Indians. They had stripped great squares of bark from half a dozen trees, and were busily painting upon them, in red and blue, insulting signs and symbols--a dead tree-cat, scalped, and full of arrows; a snake severed into sections; a Seneca tied to a post and a broken wampum belt at his feet.
And on every tree they had also painted the symbol of their own clans and nation--pointed stones and the stars of the Pleiades; a witch-wolf and an enchanted bear; a yellow moth alighted on a white cross; a night-hawk, perfectly recognizable, soaring high above a sun, setting, bisecting the line of the horizon.
Every scalp taken was duly enumerated and painted there, together with every captured weapon. Such a gallery of art in the wilderness I had never before beheld.
Boyd's riflemen sat around, cross-legged on the moss, watching the Indians at their labour--all except Murphy and Elerson, who, true to their habits, had each selected a tree to decorate, and were hard at work with their hunting knives on the bark.
On Murphy's tree I read: ”To h.e.l.l with Walter Butler.”
Elerson, who no doubt had sc.r.a.ped the outlines of this legend with his knife-point before Murphy carved it, had produced another message on his own tree, not a whit more complimentary: ”Dam Butler, Brant, Hiakotoo, and McDonald for b.l.o.o.d.y rogues and murtherin' rascals all!”
They were ever like this, these two great overgrown boys, already celebrated so terribly in song and legend. And the rank and file of Morgan's resembled them--brave to a fault, innately lawless, of scant education save what the forest had taught them, headstrong, quick to anger, quick to forgive, violent in every emotion through the entire gamut from love to hatred.
Boyd rose, glanced quietly at me, then made his signal. And in a few moments the riflemen were on the trail again, spotting it wherever a new path led away, trotting steadily forward in single file, my Indians ranging wide on either flank.
Late in the afternoon we came to the height of land, where the little water-courses all ran north; and here we halted, dropped packs, and the men sat down while the Sagamore and I once more went forward to the headwaters of a stream, beside which the narrow and swampy trail ran due north. And here the nature of the country changed entirely, for beyond it was all one vast swamp, as still and dark as death.
A little way along this blackish stream Mayaro halted, and for a while stood motionless, his powerful arms folded, gazing straight in front of him with the half-closed eyes of a dreaming wolf.
Never had I looked upon so sinister a country or a swamp so vast and desolate. It seemed more black than dusky, and the gloom lay not in the obscure light of thick-set spruce, pine, and hemlock, but in the s.h.a.ggy, monstrous, and forbidding growth which appeared to be soiled with some common dye, water, earth, tree-trunks, foliage--all wore the same inky livery, and seemed wrought of rusty iron, so still the huge trees stood, with every melancholy branch a-droop.
Sign of life there was none; the current of the narrow stream ran like smooth oil; nor was its motion visible where it wound between soft, black banks of depthless swamp through immemorial shadows.
The Mohican's voice came to me, low in the silence, sounding dull and remote; nor did his dreaming eyes move in their vague intensity.
”This is the land of Amochol,” he said. ”Here, through these viewless shades, his sway begins, as this stream begins, whose source is darkness and whose current moves slowly like thick blood. Here is the haunt of witch and sorcerer--of the hag Catrine, of the Wyoming Fiend, of Amochol--of Amochol! Here run the Andastes, hunting through the dusk like wolves and foxes--running, smelling, listening, ever hunting. Here slink the Cat-People under a moon which is hidden forever by this matted forest roof. This is the Dark Empire, O Loskiel! Behold!”
A slight shudder chilled me, but I said calmly enough:
”Where lies Catharines-town, O Sagamore?”
”This thick, dark stream runs through it.”
”Through Catharines-town?”
”Aye.”