The Bushfighters/Chapter 13

by Hugh Pendexter

 

CHAPTER XIII

THE VOTE OF THE AXES

FOR three days the Indian boy, the two rangers and the woman spy made their way south. The pace was slow. Willis suffered more from exhaustion and nerve-strain than Putnam had anticipated. He seemed indifferent to the danger of pursuit by the Potawatomi and desired only to rest on the clean forest floor with his head pillowed on the girl's knees.

Young Brant spouted for small game, something he could knock over with ax or arrow. Willis seldom spoke and the girl was lost to all but her lover's eloquent eyes. Two young fools, Putnam called them. After twenty-four hours had failed to show that the Potawatomi were on their trail Putnam ceased to fear pursuit. To make sure he scouted far up the back trail seeking signs and found none.

So soon as he decided that there was no danger he grew impatient to return to active duty on the lake. Willis, however, developed a curious physical apathy, and it required the efforts of young Brant and Putnam to keep him moving.

But on the third day a marked improvement was noticeable in the rescued ranger. His senses became objective, and he declared that he could walk without help.

Although this proved to be true the girl insisted that he must go with her to the nearest Mohawk village and rest; and it resulted in Putnam's bidding them good-by in the depths of the forest. Leaving the boy and the girl to conduct Willis to some Mohawk Castle, the ranger tucked his gun under his arm and gladly struck off for the head of Lake George.

He was impatient to learn how Major Rogers had fared with the Canadian regulars at Sabbath Day Point. He was anxious to get back into harness and have done with side exploits.

The status of the girl impressed him as being more favorable. He was convinced that she would not leave her lover to go forest-running and collecting news for the French. So long as Willis remained incapacitated she would remain anchored at his side.

On the morning of the fourth day Putnam reached the Fort Edward military road, striking into it where Sir William Johnson had camped the year before. It was his intention to follow it to Fort William Henry near by, but one of Rogers' men overtook him and electrified him by announcing:

“Major Rogers sends me to the fort for reenforcements. Marin and his men are back there somewhere near old Fort Anne. Our scouts found their trail yesterday.”

“What is the major's force?”

“Some eighty rangers, some light infantry and some provincials.”

This news was sufficient to send Putnam speeding across-country toward the abandoned post. Marin was Montcalm's most famous partizan leader, a foe worthy of any opponent's best efforts. Wherever Marin led his Canadians and red allies, there was the crux of danger.

Less than two hours of travel brought Putnam to the west branch of Wood Creek a short distance above its junction with the east branch. As he gained the bank two shots rang out directly south of him, or in the direction of Fort Anne a mile away. He waited several minutes and two more shots split the air.

“That can't be a fight,” he muttered, turning and following the bank up-stream. “But if it isn't a fight, what is it? And Marin supposed to be close at hand.”

He had not traveled more than an eighth of a mile before he came to an opening and was astonished to behold some threescore rangers lounging on the ground and watching Major Rogers and another shooting at a birch-bark target. The second man Putnam recognized as Lieutenant Irwin.

“Captain Putnam! Glad to see you!” cried Rogers. “How about the young man?”

“Got him clear all right. Queer story, but it can keep. You're not afraid your shots will bring Marin down on you?”

“No danger. Wish they would,” lightly replied Rogers. “Leftenant Irwin and I have a little wager up. And, —— me, I'm afraid he's going to best me.”

“But, major,” remonstrated Putnam, “if Marin should come and find this handful of men——”

“And the men you don't see,” chuckled Rogers, pointing toward the woods. “I've got infantry and provincials. We whipped that detachment at Sabbath Day Point. Glorious fight. You ought 'a' been there. Wait a minute.”

He turned back to the firing-line and sent a bullet within a hair's-breath of dead center. Lieutenant Irwin fired and missed by an eighth of an inch. As Rogers reloaded he said:

“Marin's down here for mischief. Hit his trail yesterday. Think he's planning a raid on Fort Edward. He's got between four and five hundred Canadians and Indians. I'm waiting for my scouts to come in.

“You will lead the provincials, as they are nearly all Connecticut men. You'll find them in the bush there, also Captain Dalzell, who's to hold the middle of the line, the regulars, I shall bring up the rear with the rangers.”

“I met your scout going for reenforcements. Will you wait for them?”

“Lord, no! Just like to know they're coming. All right, leftenant; see if you can match this.”

This time he drilled the black spot through the center.

Putnam crossed the opening and entered the woods, his heart uneasy. If Marin and his force were within hearing of the» shooting he would either attack or steal away. In either case there would be no chance of taking him by surprize. This bit of carelessness was not in keeping with Rogers' usual custom.

Putnam came to the regulars sprawled out on the forest floor and staring through the gloomy depths with uneasy eyes. A little apart from the men was Captain Dalzell, calm and unconcerned, fated to be killed by Pontiac's warriors at Detroit.

Exchanging greetings with Dalzell, Putnam passed on to the provincials, who were quite at home in the wild environment. The men were greatly pleased to have a Connecticut man as commander, and even more pleased that the man should. be of Putnam's distinction.

“Let 'em come!” cried one. “We've got Wolf Putnam! We'll give 'em their guts full of fighting.”

Putnam called for silence and began to instruct them as to their position in the line and the work expected of them. He had spoken for only a minute when he heard a commotion in the opening and the sharp voice of Rogers hurling commands.

“—— full of fiddlers, boys!” roared Putnam.

“They've bumped us! Up lads, and follow me.”

Before the men could more than get on their feet Lieutenant Irwin came running through the words and calling out:

“Captain Putnam, Major Rogers says for you to start your men up the creek for Fort Anne. Our scouts report Marin is below the fort, probably on his way to attack the Fort Edward supply wagons. Either that or he's trying to get across to East Creek to escape by way of South Bay.”

“Thank —— it wasn't a surprize attack,” muttered Putnam. “My respects to Major Rogers. The provincials start at once.”

The provincials fell in and the regulars under Dalzell took their position behind them. Putnam led the way in person, keeping close to the creek, He sent a man back to Rogers, asking if he should depend on provincial scouts to cover the advance, or if some of the rangers should be detailed for this most important work.

While waiting for a reply he ordered some of his most likely men to precede the long-drawn-out line. Before the messenger had returned or any of his own scouts had reported the trail debouched from the forest and into the bush-covered area surrounding the old fort.

Still in advance of his men, Putnam struck into the narrow Indian trail. He had covered nearly three-fourths of the distance across the opening and was wondering what signs his men had picked up in the woods beyond when a firelock blazed on his right, or west of the trail. For a second he supposed it was one of his own men; then he glimpsed a savage face.

“On your hands and knees!” he thundered to his men. “We're ambushed!”

THERE came a volley of bullets and a cloud of arrows. The savage who had fired his piece prematurely came leaping through the bushes to retrieve his error by some startling coup, and he fell upon Putnam. The ranger flung him off, blocked a swing of the Indian's ax and, pulling his knife, slashed it across the hideous countenance. With a howl of pain the warrior crashed into the bushes.

The line of fire told Putnam that Marin had arranged his ambush in a half-circle, the deepest point being where it cut the trail. If the flanks closed in the provincials would be in great danger of being pinched off from the rest of the forces.

For a few moments the provincials seemed to be dazed by the suddenness of the attack, but quickly recovered their nerve and sent up a cheer. Putnam roared commands for them to keep concealed below the bushes and to deploy on both sides of the trail.

The regulars were inclined to remain huddled together, and Putnam could hear Dalzell striving to make them spread out to prevent a flank attack. At the peril of his life Putnam stood erect and looked back for some sign of Rogers and his rangers. These at that moment were a mile away.

The hidden foe increased their fire and the provincials began to give ground, falling back through the bushes yet stanchly attempting to form a line, each man fighting on his own initiative. Putnam rallied them with his thunderous battle-cry, leading the advance with a contempt for danger that inspired them all.

The regulars also now settled down to business and proved their metal by pressing forward to get at death-grips with the concealed enemy.

A Canadian, naked and painted like an Indian, leaped up from cover as Putnam crashed forward and hurled his ax. Putnam dropped and threw his ax, splitting the fellow's head.

Now the battle was general all along the curving front, the provincials doggedly fighting from clump to clump, the regulars coming to their support in good form under Dalzell's encouragment. Rogers as yet had not reached the clearing.

Marin gave the order for his men to charge, hoping to overwhelm both provincials and regulars before the rangers could arrive. Putnam bellowed for his men to stand firm.

A giant of a Caughnawaga, wearing the totem of an eagle on his massive chest, rose from the ground and plunged for Putnam. The latter threw forward his gun, cocked it and pulled the trigger; but the piece missed fire, and the next instant the savage had wrenched it from his hands and felled him with a blow from a club.

Although but partly stunned he was unable to offer any great resistance for several moments, and when he would have renewed the conflict it was to find a rawhide thong looped about his wrists, which had been twisted behind his back. The Caughnawaga began retreating toward the edge of the forest, keeping the throng taut and his captive's wrists drawn well forward. Struggle as he would, the ranger was unable to overcome the savage's great advantage.

Before he realized his captor's intentions the latter had dodged around a small spruce and had a line of the tough cord entangling the prisoner's legs. With great dexterity the savage further secured the kicking feet. To tie Putnam against the tree was now easily accomplished. Leaving him there to await the outcome of the battle, the Indian darted back into the bush to win more glory.

Putnam soon perceived that the provincials were slowly giving ground, although there was no suggestion of a panic. Indians and Canadians were streaming by him on both sides. The prisoner, regardless of his danger, began shouting for his men to stand firm, his stentorian voice reaching across the clearing

A French bas-officer yelled for him to keep still, then leveled a fusee at his breast; but the piece missed fire. With a furious oath the man reversed the gun and dashed the butt against Putnam's jaw.

The provincials continued falling back, but deploying to right and left and preventing Marin's flanks from closing in. And if the surprize attack had cost the head of the column dear, so also had the enemy paid a heavy toll.

Putnam, with jaw numb and all but fractured was no longer able to sound his battle-call.

A young warrior, not overanxious to reach the forefront of the fighting, halted on beholding him and let drive with his ax. The prisoner did not move his head and the blade barely grazed his scalp.

With a grunt of admiration at the captive's bold bearing the brave recovered his ax and threw it a second time. Once more the iron sunk into the tree within a fraction of an inch of the prisoner's head. Several times did the brave prove his skill and the white man's iron nerve before bounding away.

From his position against the tree Putnam could see but little of the actual fighting, but his ears informed him quite accurately. When he heard the firing greatly increased at the opposite end of the clearing he knew Rogers and his men had come up at last.

Not only did the firing increase, but it drew nearer; and Putnam's heart leaped with joy. Now painted. Canadians and painted red men began repassing him as the reenforced provincials grimly set about routing the enemy.

There followed a new phase of danger for the prisoner, for this retreat of the enemy placed him between two fires. Bullets discharged by friends struck the tree and even penetrated his clothing. Arrows were constantly going plop into the bark on both sides of his head. Some of these, he believed, were purposely sent to prevent his rescue.

He was exposed to this cross-fire for some time, but by some miracle escaped being wounded. Just as his hopes were high that another five minutes would see him released Marin ordered a charge, and the mixed band of skrieking partizans again swept forward. The provincials recoiled a bit, then stiffened and began to advance, for the deadly gun-fire of Rogers' eighty rangers was now registering heavily.

Back again surged the enemy, dismayed by the knowledge that they were whipped; and this time the big Caughnawaga was in the van of those retreating and remembered his prisoner long enough to cut the thong binding the ankles, and to sever the rawhide holding him to the tree. With upraised ax the Indian hurried his captive to the rear.

As Putnam glimpsed the dead and the many wounded he grunted through his swollen jaws—

“—— my blood, as Eph Willis says, but we've licked them!”

He was forced deep into the forest until well back of the French line, and on being allowed to halt was immediately divested of all his clothing, including his foot-gear, with the exception of his breeches. By this time the Indians were on the edge of a panic and eager to continue retreating. To add to their fears some sixty of Marin's Canadians now burst through the undergrowth in a mad rabble and deserted the fighting.

The Caughnawaga tightened the cord around Putnam's wrists until the pain was unendurable, and added a long line as a leading string. Next he gathered up the packs of the dead and wounded and heaped them upon the captive's broad shoulders until Putnam could hardly stand. Away streamed the Indians with the Caughnawaga making after them and relentlessly pulling his prisoner along by means of the string. Glimpsing a white coat hurrying by Putnam managed to gasp:

“Attendez! In God's mercy make them untie my hands and take off some of this load.”

“Go to the devil!” was the rejoinder in English.

“Then kill me as an act of kindness.”

The officer swung back, walking with a limp, and stooped to stare into Putnam's sweat-smeared face. Speaking to the Indian in the Caughnawaga Mohawk dialect, he urged him to release the man's wrists and to lighten his load, as otherwise he would kill him.

The chief pondered this a moment and decided that the advice was good. He severed the thongs confining the ranger's wrists. Next he threw off some of the packs, and with a deep groan of relief Putnam straightened his aching back and began following his captor.

“Wait!” snarled the officer.

Then to the Caughnawaga:

“Why take prisoners for ransom or the torture if you kill their feet? Is this man a moose or a wolf that he can walk through this wilderness in the naked hide?”

Again the Caughnawaga heeded and fished a pair of moccasins from one of the discarded packs and permitted Putnam to stop and put them on.

Putnam twisted his head to thank the officer but through a blur of sweat only glimpsed the tails of the white coat disappearing through the bushes.

The flight was now almost a rout, the defection of the Canadians being generally known and the number being greatly exaggerated. The Indians had no heart for a give-and-take battle; and, hearing that all of their white allies had fled, they refused to take orders from Marin.

They were now arrived at the northern limits of a twelve-mile stretch of morass and were eager to pass this as the west branch of Wood Creek was on their immediate left and formed narrow, dangerous exit from the scene of the fight.

They crowded through pell-mell, their confidence not returning until they were clear of the swampy region.

Once they struck into the road that cut across the East Branch the retreat became orderly, the warriors making good time. This was a good road, and extended parallel to Wood Creek to a point on Lake Champlain directly across from Ticonderoga. It was a much better route than Dieskau's Path along the west shore of Wood Creek and less liable to surprize attacks from the English.

Putnam managed to keep up with the red men despite his heavy burdens, but became separated from his captor quite early in the day.

At nightfall and after fires had been built in the black arches of the forests the Indians took time to consider him.

He had hoped to escape during the confusion of the retreat and under cover of darkness. He had expected the Indians to travel all night, but when he saw the fires springing up and the packs being piled in a heap his hopes diminished.

Some one removed the load from his back and he fell on the ground in a state of total collapse.

HE WAS indifferent to the murder-lusting eyes focused upon him. It interested him not at all when saplings were cut and laid across his inert body so that his guards could recline on the ends and be aroused by his slightest effort to escape.

For two hours he lay in a semi-stupor, and he was brought back to full consciousness only by his terrible thirst. On opening his eyes he saw that many more Indians had straggled in; and none entered the camp who did not pause and glare with gloating eyes down on the scratched and bruised face of the captive.

One of these bore a hideous slash across his face, extending from cheek to cheek and nearly severing his nose. Putnam tried to induce this savage to bring him some water, and a moccasin spurned his swollen jaw as an answer.

“The fellow I cut in the fight,” he told himself as he stared steadily into the malignant eyes.

The savage hissed threats and passed on to the fire. Putnam rolled his eyes about in search of the friendly Frenchman or the Caughnawaga who had captured him. Neither was in the camp. So far as he could observe he was surrounded by French Mohawks and Oneidas and a few Abnaki.

Scouts arrived and reported that there was no sign of a pursuit. Immediately more fuel was heaped on the fires and the warriors grouped themselves in a half-circle around the prisoner. The man whose face Putnam had slashed at the beginning of the fight now rose and demanded—

“Who owns this white man?”

No one spoke for a minute. Then an Oneida rose and replied:

“Once the Red Eagle was with him. That was at the beginning of the march. He is not here to claim him. He must be dead.

“It is not good that a white man should be among us without an owner,” cried the wounded warrior, his small eyes blazing wickedly.

“Ho! chorused the assemblage in approval. “Black Turtle has spoken.”

“Many of our red brothers have fallen, and their bones can never be covered,” continued Black Turtle. “Little Onontio [the governor of Canada] will give us brandy and cloth; but will these gifts feed the ghosts of our dead? Great Onontio [the King of France] will send us many gifts; but a friend can not cover the bones of our dead and wipe up the blood of our slain.

“The floor of the lodge must be made clean with new bark hiding the red spots. This can be done only by our enemies. What will they give us? They send no wampum. They strike an ax in our face.

“But now they give us one of their warriors, a very brave man. This man will die very brave. The ghosts of our warriors will be glad when the ghost of this brave white man walks among them and says our fires sent him to them. Then they will know we have covered their bones with his bones; and the wicked birds will not talk to us at night. I have spoken.”

“Ho! Ho! He looks like a brave man. He will not make us hang our heads in shame by dying like a weak man,” shouted a warrior.

A guttural chorus of “Ho! Ho!” endorsed this sentiment.

The spokesman turned his evil gaze on Putnam and glared at him mockingly and then called out—

“Let the axes say if we must cover the bones of our dead this night.”

With a cunning twist of the hand each brave sent his French tomahawk spinning eight or ten feet above his head, the firelight glinting on the revolving blade and causing each to suggest a wheel of fire. The axes rose in true perpendicular and fell back into their owner's hands without a body moving, without a hand being lifted to catch them. It was as if a curtain of flickering fire rose above the half-circle to drop abruptly to the ground.

Black Turtle witnessed this approval of his plea with greedy eyes. He pulled out his own ax and, staring straight ahead, sent it spinning high above his head. Without stirring from his tracks or seeming to note the return of the weapon he simply opened his hand and caught it by the handle.

“So do we all say,” he cried.

Another pause for the sake of decorum, and then came the vital query—

“Shall we roast this white man to cover our dead?”

Again the axes rose as one, an exhibition of the juggler's art, and fell into the waiting hands. Once more the speaker sent his own ax to the boughs over his head and caught it by the handle without appearing to be conscious of the act.

“So do we all say!” he triumphantly cried.

In spite of his thirst and the excruciating pain in his swollen jaws Putnam had followed the speeches and the vote of the axes with close attention. His death sentence had been pronounced. His strength was sapped, but his indomitable will could not be weakened.

He heard the blows of tomahawks eagerly trimming the boughs from some small conifer.

He caught glimpses of warriors carrying dry brush. Then the saplings were removed from his aching body and he was jerked to his feet and stripped naked.

The man performing the last office slapped his hand against the swollen jaw. With a low, bull-like rumble Putnam struck him in the neck with his clinched fist, knocking him senseless.

Another struck the swollen visage with the flat of his tomahawk, sending the prisoner reeling to his knees. As he staggered to his feet his hands clutched one of the saplings, and before his grinning tormentor could guess the captive's purpose the butt end of the sapling struck him in the mouth, dislodging several teeth and ripping open, his cheek. With a scream the warrior recovered his balance and sprang to finish the captive.

He was promptly seized by the master of ceremonies, who shouted:

“Let us remember we are of the Iroquois and before that of the Hurons. A brave man ready to die should not be beaten like a dog.

“My brother is angry because the white man cut his face. So did this white man cut my face. It does not hurt me.”

And to show his unconcern for the horrible and disfiguring wound he ran the point of his knife along the gash, causing it to bleed. This example of fortitude quieted the infuriated brave, who fell back and endeavored to ignore his hurts. Black Turtle continued—

“Let some one give him water, so he may take more time in dying.”

A kettle of water was at once produced and Black Turtle carefully held it while Putnam drank. The ranger did not need to meet the malignant gaze over the rim of the kettle to understand the motive behind this act of seeming kindness. Yet never did a drink taste so good, and in finishing he contrived to slop much of the water over his neck and shoulders, Then, lifting his head, he managed to proclaim—

“If I ain't swallowed enough water to put out all the fires you hellions can start I'll die very respectably, and be —— to you, you mangy curs.”

All caught his meaning, and more than one sardonic face broke into a slight smile of admiration for his bearing. He was gently conducted inside the circle of brush and the green rawhide thongs were fastened to his ankles and then to the stake with considerable slack allowed.

The stub of a limb had been left above his head for a purpose. Over this a line was passed and then down under his arms and across his chest; this to hold him upright should the torture cause him to collapse. His hands were fastened behind the stake, and again a liberal allowance of slack was made. Putnam calmly tested the cords and the rawhide under his arms and told himself:

“They allow more room than the Potawatomi let Willis have. I could almost slide behind this post.”

Then after his gaze had roved round the circle of brush he critically added—

“Just far enough away to get an even bake.”

BLACK TURTLE now brought a torch from the fire and suddenly dashed it toward Putnam's face. The ranger did not flinch although the heat shriveled up his eyebrows. The spectators shouted approval, and the Turtle ignited the brush. Putnam called out in English, speaking slowly that it might be interpreted by those understanding:

“I killed and scalped a Potawatomi sorcerer and two of his men near Fort Edward. A few sleeps ago I took a white man away from the Potawatomi as they were trying to burn him in their camp near the Hatirontaks. Eight out of twenty were alive when I took my friend away.

“I have killed French Mohawks around Lake George. I have sent many Canadian Indians ahead of me. I have never met any who could fight me man to man. White men train their women and children to whip French Indians away with sticks if ever they get lost and come near our settlements.”

“Ho! Ho!” thundered the warriors, spinning their axes. “We know he is a very brave man. His orenda is very strong. Teharonhiawagon, the Master of Life, hears the White man's challenge song and finds it good.”

A drop of moisture fell on Putnam's neck, and almost immediately he announced—

“My orenda tells me your fire is poor and will not burn.”

The brush was crackling merrily and throwing off much heat. The warriors smiled grimly and made ready to dance about their victim. The flames spread and the ranger began to feel the heat searing his naked body. He was on the point of sagging back the full length of the slack and thus affording his tormentors their first great thrill of joy when the rain began. It was but a shower, yet sufficient to reduce the fire to smoking embers.

“My orenda tells me I shall not burn,” cried Putnam through his clenched teeth. “The French Indians forgot how to make a fire when they left the Long House.”

With angry exclamations the Indians raked aside the dampened fuel and hastened deep into the forest for dry brush. Scowling glances were directed at the complacent prisoner by those who remained near the stake.

His reputation as a bushfighter, his fame for being devoid of fear, was well known throughout the red confederacy supporting the cause of the Great Onontio. Just what his magic would enable him to accomplish remained to be seen; but the opportune arrival of the shower bespoke of a very powerful orenda.

Although converted into “praying” Mohawks by the zealous priests, they had not washed paganism from their blood. This was the man who by supernatural aid had overcome the mighty manito of the Potawatomi sorcerer. The more recent battle with the Potawatomi they had not heard about, but never for a moment did they doubt the prisoner's version of it.

Now the braves returned with dry brush. Before arranging it one of their number peered up through the narrow opening above the torture post and beheld the stars. Fire was brought from the sheltered camp blaze, and again the red tongues began licking a path around the prisoner. The heat scorched, and the prisoner drew his body aside.

“Where is the white man's orenda now?” mocked Black Turtle.

The fire was now half-way around the circle and the savages began their dance. The first few steps were taken slowly, much like the leisurely movement of a mechanism not sufficiently wound up. The heel and ball of each foot was brought down forcefully. As the fire spread and as the victim was forced to writhe and twist more rapidly the dancers grew more furious in their deportment, and madness seized upon them.

So hideous and grotesque were their actions and motions, so ridiculous in his eyes were their insane gesticulations, that Putnam lifted his head and began laughing. At first they believed that his sufferings had deprived him of his senses, and some one called out that he should be removed from the stake until he could regain his reason and realize he was being tortured.

Several shook off the frenzy of the dance and studied him sharply. They decided he was laughing because he was genuinely amused. The warriors were amazed and stared at him in dumb astonishment.

By degrees their intelligence appreciated the great spirit of the man, only they misconstrued his mirth. They credited him with a supernormal disdain for pain, whereas he took no pride in his ability to laugh. His quality of courage was inherent. He could no more assume responsibility for it than he could for the color of his eyes. To intimate friends he frankly vowed he never experienced the sensation of bodily fear. Had the Caughnawaga known this they would have explained it as phase of madness, and while viewing him with awe they would have witheld some of the admiration they expressed by grunts and their deep: “Ho! Ho!”

“Ho! A mighty chief! A Roianer Chief!” shouted the Black Turtle.

“He dies strong!” cried others.

But now the flames were completing the circle, and the prisoner's freedom of movement no longer afforded him a surcease from torment. He pressed hard against the stake and fought to betray no weakness as he felt his skin shriveling.

Just as he was surrendering his last hope Marin, the partizan, rushed on the scene and with loud maledictions kicked the brush aside. Before the stupefied Indians could resent his interference he had caught up a kettle of water and dashed it over Putnam's tortured body. And never did a baked skin absorb moisture so gratefully. Marin was deeply versed in reading the Indian mind and well knew that the advantage was his only so long as he maintained the initiative. Facing the scowling warriors, he wrathfully cried:

“You take it on yourselves to kill the prisoner of the Red Eagle. You rob a war chief of his prisoner. Where are the prisoners you Caughnawaga braves took? Are you so poor in prisoners you must roast a man captured by another? You will explain to Red Eagle, who will soon be here.”

Nonplused by this plain speaking and fully aware of their gross breach of deportment in putting another man's captive to death, the warriors took the defensive; and Black Turtle replied:

“We thought this man was no man's man. If he belongs to the Red Eagle, why did the Eagle leave him on the open for us to keep from escaping?”

“Because the Eagle was busy on the Great Onontio's business,” hotly replied Marin. “Because he believed that when his brothers found a white man bound and loaded with packs in their midst they would know some brave warrior had captured him.

“Did the Caughnawagas believe that this great white warrior tied and stripped himself and loaded himself with Indian packs? You can tell your words to the Eagle when he comes and finds his prisoner half-roasted.”

“We believed that the warrior who took the white man prisoner had been killed, leaving him a prisoner of the nation. We can talk our words to Red Eagle and hold our faces high. We have done no wrong to the Eagle,” sullenly answered Black Turtle.

Satisfied in having saved Putnam from the stake, Marin led the ranger to one side and called for bear's oil. This was promptly provided, and, aided by hands that were as deft and gentle as they had been remorseless, Putnam's body was well oiled and some of his clothing returned to him.

“Your burns are not bad,” encouraged Marin as Putnam for the third time buried his face in a kettle of water.

“In another five minutes I'd been well done,” mumbled Putnam through his swollen jaws. “Took all the moisture out of my hide and bones. I can't get enough water. What next?”

“I hope to get you to Montcalm alive.”

“The Red Eagle?”

“He is back along the trail. If you're able to walk we'll try to go on before he comes.”

“Then he might not mind seeing me tortured?”

“Not if he could have the leading part.”

“I'm much obliged to you, M'sieu Marin, no matter how it turns out. Could I have something to eat?”

“By the way you talk I'm afraid you can't use your jaws.”

The partizan had correctly diagnosed Putnam's condition. While he could talk it was impossible for him to masticate food, the slightest effort causing him unbearable agony.

“If those red devils really wanted to hurt me they oughter made me eat,” he groaned.

Marin was both resourceful and determined to play the capable host. From his pack he took some ration biscuits and soaked them to a pulp in water. These Putnam managed to swallow. The partizan next ran to a camp-kettle and procured a piece of bear-meat. He cut this into small pieces, and Putnam sucked the juice through his teeth.

AS PUTNAM finished the last piece of meat Red Eagle stalked into camp.

He halted in the middle of the wide circle of silent warriors and gazed about. The charred brush, the empty stake and the sight of Marin caring for Putnam told him the whole story. Throwing back his head, he haughtily demanded—

“Who thought he had a right to burn the prisoner of the Eagle?”

There was dead silence for a minute; then a middle-aged warrior with white bars painted across his face stood up and composedly informed the other:

“The Caughnawaga Mohawks find a white man of the Yengees on the trail to this place. No one was with him to claim. There was no totem mark on him to show who owned him.

“Those of our people who serve the Little Onontio and the Great Onontio knew of only one death for such. Had he been a weak man we would have hit him in the face with an ax and left him for the wolves. Being a very brave man, one who would honor us by his death, we decided to burn him.”

The Eagle lowered angrily at the circle of immobile faces and said:

“He is the prisoner of the Eagle. It is for the Eagle to say when and where he shall die.

“Sometimes the Eagle strikes down game and leaves it for those whose feet are stuck in the ground. But it is for the Eagle to give, not to be robbed. It would be very bad if my brothers in dancing around a prisoner kicked an ax from the earth.”

This veiled threat was more distasteful to Marin than would be the death of one of Roger's rangers, and he quickly advanced to smooth out the trouble. What with the desertion of his Canadians and his daily difficulty in handling the Indians as a unit he was constantly called upon to exercise a rare diplomacy.

At the risk of offending his hearers by violating Indian etiquette he began speaking. He reminded his audience that they were all children of the Great Onontio, and that the enemy laughed whenever they quarreled among themselves. He spoke soothingly, and insisted that while the Red Eagle's prey was not to be made free with by others yet the mistake had been a natural one; that the prisoner was very brave and had carried himself well.

The prisoner's bearing, he argued, had reflected the utmost credit on his captor; for only a most mighty war chief could capture such a dauntless fighter alive. If the Caughnawagas had erred in not waiting longer before putting the man to the torture they had at least satisfied themselves that the Red Eagle was watched over by an all-powerful orenda when he captured a man who could laugh as the flames ate into his flesh.

“No ax has been kicked loose from the forest floor,” he declared in conclusion. “If any one here thought he saw the blade of an ax close to the top of the ground he was mistaken. What he saw was long gift knives from Montcalm. If his eyesight is very keen he can see even into Fort Ticonderoga and behold many kegs of brandy and an ox waiting to be roasted.”

This speech closed the breach between the Eagle's offended dignity and the warriors' chagrin at being taken to task after losing a night's entertainment. The Eagle even condescended to say—

“When we get under the walls of the fort and have a keg of brandy brought out the Eagle will show you how a brave man should be sent to his death.”

“Ho! Ho!” cheered the warriors, much pleased with the promise. “Let us go to the place where the white man shall receive it.”

“Out of the frying-pan into the fire,” mused Putnam.

“There is but one chance of saving you,” whispered Marin. “If you will tell Montcalm what he wants to know he will take you from the Indians. I will go ahead and tell him you will talk and bring back soldiers and remove you to the fort.”

“I'll roast in —— before I'll tell Montcalm what he wants to know.”

“You'll talk, or roast on the beach opposite Ticonderoga,” warned Marin. “We can interfere with our Indians only when there is much to gain.”

“You waste your time,” muttered Putnam.

“You can't help the provinces by dying at the stake. And our Caughnawagas can keep a man alive for two days.”

“I shall never harm the provinces by living,” declared the ranger.

“Still, I will go ahead. If you're wise and change your mind we will be ready with your ransom.”

“You waste your time,” repeated Putnam.

The Indians began to break camp, and Marin glided: away to make the fort and return with soldiers. Putnam nursed his aching jaws and waited for the packs to be strapped on his back. But Red Eagle remained seated near the torture post, his brows drawn down in meditation. When the others realized he was in no hurry to take up the march Black Turtle asked him if he was ready.

“They say this man laughed when the flames ate his flesh,” slowly replied the Eagle. “If that is true then you did not know how to burn him. No man laughs when the Eagle burns him.

“We can always have brandy at the fort. Why take this man along when we can burn him here and drink our brandy afterward?

“This talk about his laughing at Chaughnawaga fire is not good. Either his orenda is stronger than the Eagle's or my brothers have forgotten how to make a fire.”

This unexpected speech met with enthusiastic approval. Those warriors busy with the packs abandoned their tasks with alacrity and grouped about Red Eagle.

Marin was gone, and this time the endurance of the white man would be fully measured. The captive's respite would make the spectacle all the more enjoyable. There could be no more subtle method of breaking down a stanch spirit than to withdraw the torture and then renew it. As the Eagle stalked toward his prisoner the Caughnawagas trooped after him, jeering and dancing.

First a shower of rain and then the partizan had saved the ranger, but he could scarcely expect a third intervention. He summoned all his will-power to meet the end bravely.

As the Eagle towered above him and informed him of his doom there came a call from the forest. The savages glared uneasily at the black depths and some of the younger men slipped away to investigate. The Eagle alone gave the voice no heed, but seized Putnam by the arm and helped him to his feet, saying—

“White man, you are about to go into the darkness to find your uncles.”

“Qui vive?” shouted a voice close at hand.

“Français!” called back Putnam.

The Eagle stepped forward to meet the newcomer, his face furrowed by a heavy scowl. A man in the white and black of the Canadian regulars limped into the firelight.

On beholding him the Eagle exclaimed aloud in joy and hastened to help the man gain a mound of packs and recline upon them. Putnam observed that he was an officer, but did not venture to address him. The man swept his gaze over the Indians and the prisoner, and noted the stake. He panted for breath and when able to speak said to the Eagle—

“You owe me a life.”

“The Red Eagle's life belongs to his French brother,” humbly conceded the chief.

Then to the staring throng:

“My French brother while suffering from a hurt saved the life of the Eagle after we had left the fighting at the old fort. It was then that the Eagle was separated from his prisoner. The Eagle pays his debts of hate and love.”

For a few moments the officer pumped for breath, then pointed a trembling hand at Putnam and faintly said:

“You shall pay your debt with his life. I claim it.”

Red Eagle glared at the officer, then at Putnam, his lips twitching. Then with a haughty toss of the head thundered:

“The Eagle pays. When the debt is hard all the more reason why he should pay. His life is yours. Take it!”

And he flung Putnam to his knees before the officer and shoved an ax into the latter's hand.

The officer fingered the ax for a moment, then threw it aside, saying:

“It is well. The Caughnawagas are men of their word. That is why the Great Onontio loves them and will give them back their ancient lands now held by the Long House.

“This man's life is mine. It is for me to say when I will take it. Make a litter of saplings and carry me to the fort. This man shall walk by my side. I am badly hurt. My red brothers must guard my property for me and see it comes to no harm.”

He dropped a hand on Putnam's shoulder.

Disgruntled and mutinous at being robbed of their victim a second time, the Indians drew apart and glared menacingly at the newcomer. Black Turtle talked under his breath to those about him. Red Eagle snatched up the ax the officer had rejected, and, striding toward the group, hoarsely demanded:

“Who makes talk about what the Eagle does with his own? Do my feet trip over the broken chain of friendship and kick up an ax from the ground? Or is it only a bad dream sent by evil spirits? Do my brothers want me to break my promise to the man who saved my life, or do I dream it?”

Black Turtle stirred uneasily as the Red Eagle's gaze rested on his slashed face. Finally he said:

“It is good that a Caughnawaga should talk with a straight tongue and keep his promise.”

With that he turned and made into the forest to follow the road to Ticonderoga.

Others followed the Turtle, while some remained to make and carry the litter. Putnam whispered to his deliverer—

“I never thought to owe my life to a Frenchman.”

This in English. And in English the officer replied:

“Nor did I ever think to owe my life to one of Rogers' Rangers. I am the man with the hole in his leg that you captured and prevented your men from killing. I was abandoned, even as you had ordered, when your men were driven ashore above Sloop Island by some of our soldiers. The wound did not prove serious, but today's fighting opened it up again. Now we are quits, Captain Putnam.”

EPHRAIM WILLIS lay on his back on the sweet grass and told war stories to an infant cuddled on his breast.

“And that's about how it happened, younker. He saved my life, then went and got caught and was took to Canada.

“Now don't go to blaming me. I did try to get to him. Didn't I get a crack over the head from a Caughnawaga ax trying to get to him? It was that belt over the head that let me come back here to make your acquaintance.

“But you can't keep the old wolf caged. He's been exchanged. Colonel Peter Schuyler of New Jersey fixed it. You'll see him sometime. He's a Connecticut man, even if he was born in Salem. You're Connecticut, too. Don't ever forget that, you young whelp.

“Well, lemme see what we was saying. Old Loudoun took Louisbourg, and Montcalm come down and took Fort William Henry. It was a horrible mess. But Louisbourg's taken; Frontenac is taken. So give a cheer if you want to.”

“Some one coming,” called a soft voice from the house.

Willis crawled to his feet and set the baby on his shoulder. As he watched the man coming down the road on horseback his eyes quickened and he set off at a run, the baby squalling and bringing a slim figure from the house in swift pursuit.

“Oh, Lord! If this ain't a sight for sore eyes!” gasped Willis, resting the baby on the saddle and shaking hands with a crushing grip.

“The end is near, lad,” said Putnam cheerily. “You must go back with me. There's brave work to be done. Sir Jeffrey Amherst goes against Ticonderoga. General James Wolfe goes to attack Quebec. Where'n sin did you get this youngster you've unloaded on me?”

Willis grinned sheepishly and pointed to the flushed-faced young woman now close at hand.

“Guess she thought the Indians had got him. I got married after quitting the Mohawk village and making Albany. Hooray, Elizabeth! Here's Wolf Putnam back from Montreal and much fighting. I'm going back with him to finish it up. Cap'n, she's a prime Connecticut woman now.”

Jan the Rogue's daughter eyed Putnam wistfully, then gave him her hand and took the baby to her breast and resignedly said—

“I knew you would come for him, or send.”

“Only for a little while. It is the duty of Connecticut men. Connecticut women always help by saying, 'Go.'”

“Then I say, 'Go.' For my baby is Connecticut born, and I am a Connecticut woman. God will make it end right for mothers and little babies.”