Henry was borne back by the weight and impact, but, making an immense effort, he recovered himself and, seizing the wrist of the Indian's knife hand, exerted all his great strength.The warrior wished to change the weapon from his right band, but he dared not let go with the other lest he be thrown down at once, and with great violence.His first rush having failed, he was now at a disadvantage, as the Indian is not generally a wrestler.
Henry pushed him back, and his hand closed tighter and tighter around the red wrist.He wished to tear the knife from it, but he, too, was afraid to let go with the other hand, and so the two remained locked fast.Neither uttered a cry after the first contact, and the only sounds in the dark were their hard breathing, which turned to a gasp now and then, and the shuffle of their feet over the earth.
Henry felt that it must end soon.One or the other must give way.Their sinews were already strained to the cracking point, and making a supreme effort he bore all his weight upon the warrior, who, unable to sustain himself, went down with the youth upon him.The Indian uttered a groan, and Henry, leaping instantly to his feet, looked down upon his fallen antagonist, who did not stir.He knew the cause.As they fell the point of the knife bad been turned upward, and it had entered the Indian's heart.
Although he had been in peril at his hands, Henry looked at the slain man in a sort of pity.He had not wished to take anyone's life, and, in reality, he had not been the direct cause of it.
But it was a stern time and the feeling soon passed.The Wyandot, for such he was by his paint, would never have felt a particle of remorse had the victory been his.
The moon was now coming out, and Henry looked down thoughtfully at the still face.Then the idea came to him, in fact leaped up in his brain, with such an impulse that it carried conviction.
He would take this warrior's place and go to the Indian camp.So eager was he, and so full of his plan, that he did not feel any repulsion as he opened the warrior's deerskin shirt and took his totem from a place near his heart.It was a little deerskin bag containing a bunch of red feathers.This was his charm, his magic spell, his bringer of good luck, which had failed him so woefully this time.Henry, not without a touch of the forest belief, put it inside his own hunting shirt, wishing, although he laughed at himself, that if the red man's medicine had any potency it should be on his own side.
Then he found also the little bag in which the Indian carried his war paint and the feather brush with which he put it on.The next hour witnessed a singular transformation.A white youth was turned into a red warrior.He cut his own hair closely, all except a tuft in the center, with his sharp hunting knife.The tuft and the close crop he stained black with the Indian's paint.
It was a poor black, but he hoped that it would pass in the night.He drew the tuft into a scalplock, and intertwined it with a feather from the Indian's own tuft.Then he stained his face, neck, hands, and arms with the red paint, and stood forth a powerful young warrior of a western nation.
He hid the Indian's weapons and his own raccoon-skin cap in the brush.Then he took the body of the fallen warrior to the edge of the swamp and dropped it in.His object was not alone concealment, but burial as well.He still felt sorry for the unfortunate Wyandot, and he watched him until he sank completely from sight in the mire.Then he turned away and traveled a straight course toward the great Indian camp.
He stopped once on the way at a clear pool irradiated by the bright moonlight, and looked attentively at his reflection.By night, at least, it was certainly that of an Indian, and, summoning all his confidence, he continued upon his chosen and desperate task.
Henry knew that the chances were against him, even with his disguise, but he was bound to enter the Indian camp, and he was prepared to incur all risks and to endure all penalties.He even felt a certain lightness of heart as he hurried on his way, and at length saw through the forest the flare of light from the Indian camp.
He approached cautiously at first in order that he might take a good look into the camp, and he was surprised at what he saw.In a single day the village had been enlarged much more.It seemed to him that it contained at least twice as many warriors.Women and children, too, had come, and he heard a stray dog barking here and there.Many more fires than usual were burning, and there was a great murmur of voices.
Henry was much taken aback at first.It seemed that he was about to plunge into the midst of the whole Iroquois nation, and at a time, too, when something of extreme importance was going on, but a little reflection showed that he was fortunate.Amid so many people, and so much ferment it was not at all likely that he would be noticed closely.It was his intention, if the necessity came, to pass himself off as a warrior of the Shawnee tribe who had wandered far eastward, but he meant to avoid sedulously the eye of Timmendiquas, who might, through his size and stature, divine his identity.
As Henry lingered at the edge of the camp, in indecision whether to wait a little or plunge boldly into the light of the fires, he became aware that all sounds in the village-for such it was instead of a camp-had ceased suddenly, except the light tread of feet and the sound of many people talking low.He saw through the bushes that all the Iroquois, and with them the detachment of Wyandots under White Lightning, were going toward a large structure in the center, which he surmised to be the Council House.He knew from his experience with the Indians farther west that the Iroquois built such structures.
He could no longer doubt that some ceremony of the greatest importance was about to begin, and, dismissing indecision, he left the bushes and entered the village, going with the crowd toward the great pole building, which was, indeed, the Council House.
