A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

Presently she stole back to her bed. Nothing else came to startle them. When she woke again the sun was shining. Valbonais had kindled a fire, shot and dressed some birds and was broiling them before the coals.

“Was it a dream,” she asked, “or did you really shoot in the night?”

“Yes; and I have taken a part of the fox’s coat. It may be useful for moccasin soles before we are through.”

“Poor thing!” she said pityingly.

The breakfast was delightful, after the two days of dried fish. Then Renée found a patch of wild strawberries that the birds had not discovered. They were dead ripe and luscious. Now they went on with cheerful hearts, keeping the river in sight, but meeting nothing more alarming than a herd of roaming deer. It was useless to fire at them; birds would be more to the purpose. Toward night they struck a rude cabin, made by hunters, as it did not look like Indian workmanship. There had been a fire, but since that time it had rained. Inside was a table and a bed of dried hemlock branches.

“I think we had better stay,” Valbonais announced. “It is a hunter’s cabin, evidently, and no one has been here for some time. There is a little stream of excellent water. We will trust luck, at all events.”

They had some supper and were glad of shelter, for it came on to rain, but no such terrific storm as that which had worked such havoc with Black Feather and his party. The soft patter on the leaves was delightful music, though for awhile the rustle of the wind seemed almost like the advance of human beings.

It was well they were under shelter, for it rained all the next day. No one came to molest them. Valbonais caught such an excellent supply of fish that he cooked some for the following day. If there was only any ripe fruit!

“It was late in May when we left St. Louis,” Wawataysee said.

“And now it is June. What day I do not know.”

“Let us count back.”

But their reckoning was not alike. They forgot, and then recalled incidents that had marked days, then lost count again. Renée was wretchedly tired.

“Poor little thing!” exclaimed Wawataysee. “She has been very good and courageous, but it is hard for her. And look at her poor little moccasins – out to the ground.”

“Then Mr. Foxskin will serve us a useful purpose. I have nothing to fasten them on with, but can tie them with strips of his skin to-morrow. And yours?”

She flushed. Hers were in the same plight.

“But I can stand hardships better,” and she smiled cheerfully.

Renée slept all the afternoon and woke much refreshed. It had stopped raining, and now they were full of plans for to-morrow. The moon came out – the baby star had travelled nearly across it.

“I am glad it is a new moon. We shall have some benefit of it the rest of our journey,” their guide said.

“Oh, when shall we get home?” cried Renée impatiently. “Do you suppose there have been any more Indian assaults?”

“You have been remarkably favored at St. Louis. To the east, towns have been burned, people taken captive by scores or murdered. And up north it seems to have been a regular battlefield, with the French losers every time. Think of the English holding our splendid Quebec and Montreal!”

“I have been in Quebec, monsieur,” declared Renée, with amusing dignity.

“And France, too,” added Wawataysee.

Then Renée found herself quite a heroine in the eyes of Valbonais, and was delighted to recall her experiences.

They left the cabin and journeyed on; slept in the woods that night and the next. There had been several feasts of berries; they saw some green plums and green wild grapes, but neither were tempting. Now, some way, it seemed as if they had lost their reckoning. The river certainly was to the west of them.

“And we must go southward.” said Wawataysee.

Their good fortune had failed them to-day. They had found nothing. They were tired and hungry. And if they were lost! —

They turned into an opening. Here ran a clear creek, at which they quenched their thirst.

“Let us follow it some distance at least. It must go to the river. It has quite a current.”

It suddenly widened out and grew larger as they went on. They glanced at each other in dismay.

“If it goes to the river, how can we cross so wide a stream? Could either of us swim with the child? I think it would be better to go back and cross where it is narrower.”

So they retraced their steps and found that it was fed by a rivulet on the other side, almost hidden by the grass. Valbonais paused a moment to enjoy the picture. Everywhere the most serene quiet. Songs of birds, the call of some animal, the rustle of a deer and the brown, startled eyes gazing at one. The green of the foliage with its light and varying shades, the long stretches of wild grass dotted with various-colored flowers, and here and there a silvery streak of sand like a silver ribbon.

On and on, the creek growing narrower. The man’s eyes caught sight of a young fallen tree.

“I think I can bridge it over. Let me try this,” and he dragged the tree to the edge, stood it up, letting it fall with some force. It just touched the opposite shore.

“Now if I could find another. Why did I not capture a hatchet in my raid on the Indians!”

“The water is clear and deep,” said Wawataysee; “too deep for one to wade.”

“I could cross it with the child. Still I will see if there is not another dead tree.”

This time it was a larger one. It took their united strength to raise it, but it went straight across, making quite a promising bridge.

“Would you dare?” He glanced at the Indian girl with an assurance of her courage.

“Would I dare?” She laughed melodiously. Then she looked steadily at it a moment, started like an arrow from a bow and in a flash was across.

“Oh, how beautiful! Can I try?” Renée clapped her hands, and her face was brimming with delighted eagerness.

“Wait a moment.” Valbonais picked up the blanket and strapped his gun to his back, convoying them over safely and depositing them on the ground. “I wonder if we dare trust the child?”

“Oh, I think so. It is such a step,” Wawataysee answered.

He went back to her. “You will not be afraid, little one? You can run swiftly, and if you can keep a steady head – ”

“Yes, yes!” Wawataysee stood with outstretched arms and smiled. Renée started with a child’s audacity. The round logs, instead of the flat surface, confused her and she hesitated, lost her balance and went down with a cry. Valbonais sprang into the creek, but missed his first grasp of her. The next brought her safely up and Wawataysee took her, frightened and half strangled. Valbonais shook himself and laughed.

“I would rather the clothes had not taken a bath. And she is wet, but not injured.”

“It slipped and rolled,” the child began, “and then I couldn’t keep on. Oh, dear! I am all dripping.”

“Roll her in a blanket. I am sorry it is so near dark and we cannot tell quite which way to go.”

“We must keep on toward the Illinois,” said Wawataysee. “Oh, and now I think we came up a creek to the Peorias’ lodge. What if this should be the stream? Then we are nearer home than I thought.”

Her eyes shone like stars, her voice was freighted with joy, for her thought was an inspiration.

“I do not see how we could have gone out of the way,” he returned, knitting his brows.

“The river winds. We may have shortened our journey a little by it. And if we could find the lodge! Oh, I can’t help feeling that we are all right!”

She was wringing Renée’s garments and rubbing her with a blanket. Valbonais pressed the water out of his, and tried to catch the inspiration.

“Now we must go on. Renée, you must keep the blanket about you,” the elder said.

“But it is so warm. I am most smothered.”

“It will be cooler presently,” in a consoling tone.

“And I am so hungry!” she said, half crying.

They had eaten nothing since morning.

“We are all hungry. And if we can find those kindly Indians they will give us a feast.”

“I hope she is right.” Valbonais thought.

They walked briskly onward for a while. The moon came up and shed its silver radiance, setting the little stream with gems and showering the trees with her effulgent flood. But to-night they could not enjoy it – could hardly keep hope alive.

“I am so tired!” Renée began to cry in earnest and stopped short. The reaction had come and she shivered with a chill. Her slight frame was in a collapse.

“I will carry her,” said Valbonais. “We shall get along faster.”

Wawataysee took the other blanket and the gun. The summer night was growing chilly here at the edge of the creek. They waded through the other stream. Renée’s head drooped on the man’s shoulder. She had forgotten her troubles in sleep. But presently he had to pause with his burden.

“Let us sit here and rest awhile. And if you could sleep an hour it would refresh you so much.”

Wawataysee leaned against a great tree bole that was like a column. The relaxation was grateful. What with fatigue and hunger, nature was overpowered and they all slept. When Wawataysee awoke the darkness startled her. The moon had gone down. She stretched out her hand in half terror.

“You have had a nice sleep,” began Valbonais cheerfully. “I, too, caught a nap. It must be near morning. Do you feel that you can go on?”

“Oh, yes! And the child? How strong and courageous you are!”

He stood Renée down and she roused. “Oh, where are we?” she cried in affright.

“Here, dear.” Wawataysee took her hand. “We are going to the Indian lodge, where we shall get some breakfast. Can you walk?”

“Why, yes. But I am tired. Will we soon be there? And, oh, I wish it was not so dark!”

Still, she went on without further complaint. Darker and darker it seemed. She gave her other hand to Valbonais. They both felt she lagged a little.

Suddenly a rosy light shot up in the east, and out of it great spires of crimson and gold that set the heavens aflame. The stars hung low in the northwest, and one by one dropped out of sight. Countless birds filled the air with melody, and every tree and shrub shook out its fragrance.

“Courage!” Wawataysee said, but her voice was tremulous with her twenty-four hours’ fast. And the walk seemed interminable. Her feet were shodden with lead.

Oh, what was this? Fields of young corn, shedding its peculiar fragrance as the dew was vanishing in the drier air of morning. In the distance hooded wigwams, a palisade to the north for shelter, blue-gray curling wreaths going up from newly kindled fires. The barking of dogs and the curious, pervasive sense of human life.

It seemed as if an army of dogs rushed out. An authoritative voice checked them, and an Indian came forward to learn the cause of the alarm. Wawataysee sank down on a stone and the world seemed whirling round, while Renée, crying, fell into her lap.

CHAPTER XI – WAS EVER WELCOME SWEETER

It was, indeed, the lodges of the Peorias. The old chief, Neepawa, had long since given up rambling life, and with many of the elder people formed a settlement, where they had lived in peace with their white neighbors and seldom been molested by their red brethren. They were more industrious than many tribes. The main colony was about Ste. Genevieve, but these adored their old chief and his wife and enjoyed the smaller combination. They were kindly hearted and ready to hold out a helping hand, and enjoyed their seclusion.

Wawataysee had collapsed from fatigue and pure joy at the certainty that they would reach St. Louis once more. Of the next few incidents she kept only the vague remembrance of a dream. She was taken into one of the lodges and water brought to her, and when the woman saw how utterly exhausted she was, she bathed her face and combed her hair, then her poor feet, and brought her a cup of warm spiced drink, put her in some fresh garments and left her to sleep. Some other motherly hands had taken Renée in charge, who chattered with all the Indian words she had picked up and entertained her hostess extremely.

Meanwhile, Valbonais had related to the old chief his own mishaps, his meeting with Wawataysee and Renée in their captivity, the terrible storm and the disaster to Black Feather and his followers that had led to their opportunity of escape. Neepawa had heard of the attack on St. Louis, and the signal repulse the marauders had suffered. He admired the courage of the captives and was glad they had found a haven. From here they could easily be returned to St. Louis. But Valbonais also learned that they had narrowly missed an encounter with quite a large body of Sioux and Winnebagoes, who would no doubt have taken them prisoners again if they had followed the river more directly. They had made quite a wide detour, it seemed, and to that they owed their safety.

Renée seemed none the worse for her ducking and the fatigue when she had been bathed, put in dry clothes and had a bountiful breakfast. The Indian children and their plays interested her immensely. And there was so much strange and new about the settlement and other things that suggested her first Indian friend, Mattawissa.

Wawataysee slept until past noon, when she awoke refreshed, and at the first moment so surprised that she could not imagine where she was. But the familiar faces of Renée and André Valbonais quite restored her. How warmly sympathetic these children of nature were! Ah, what if they had fallen into captivity again! and she shuddered.

They talked of starting, but the old chief would not listen to such a plan.

“You have had enough of travelling in the night,” he said. “To-morrow some of our young men will take you down. Until then be content.”

So they smoked the pipe of peace and amity, and talked of the mighty changes going on in the Continent, the new nation seeming a conglomerate of many peoples, sweeping everything before them with their resistless energy; of the towns springing up where different tribes had roamed about and slaughtered each other. Almost eighty years ago Neepawa had been born, when his race was ruler of nearly all the country.

The travellers were really loaded with gifts the next morning. Two young Indians were to row them down the river and return. With many thanks they parted from their kind entertainers, with promises of grateful remembrance.

Renée could hardly contain herself. Anywhere else she must have danced for joy. Of course, there would be Uncle Gaspard. And she almost believed Mère Lunde must have found her way home, since they had succeeded under such difficulties.

And now familiar sights met their eyes. Here was the Missouri River coming to greet her mighty mother; Fort St. Charles with its hamlets, the bend in the river, the islands, the old town itself, the towers, the fort, the palisade rendered much stronger since the attack; the bluff with its rocky ledge, and then the wharf.

Business was over. There was not much doing at this season, and nearly every one had gone home. A few parties were out canoeing or rowing on the river. The two Indians would return in spite of entreaties, and they bid their white guests good-by.

Down along the levee the two girls, holding hands tightly, ran with all their speed. One hardly had a chance to see their faces. They turned up by the Government House, where a group of men sat smoking and enjoying the late afternoon coolness. Valbonais followed wonderingly. This was St. Louis! What had Indians or British hoped to gain by attacking so small a place, for he had thought of it as resembling Montreal or Quebec. Up the Rue de la Tour – there stood the shop door open —

“Uncle Gaspard! Dear Uncle Gaspard! we have come back!” cried Renée, flying in.

It was not Uncle Gaspard, but François Marchand, growing white to the very lips at the apparition that met his gaze. Was it a dream? He hardly dared approach. The words died on his lips.

Renée dropped the Indian girl’s hand and rushed through the half-open doorway. There was Mère Lunde in a chair outside, half hidden in the nest of vines, knitting leisurely. That for the moment did not surprise Renée. She caught the elder woman’s shoulder and almost shook her.

“Where is my Uncle Gaspard? Tell me at once! Where is he? Where is he?” the child cried imperiously.

Mère Lunde let her knitting fall and stared with wild eyes. “He!” she exclaimed tremulously. “He! Have you not met him? He set out almost at once for you. Oh, the good God and all the angels be praised! Now we will be happy again. Oh, child, my heart has broken for you! How did you escape?”

All the color left Renée’s eager face. She stretched out her hands as if to clasp something. The eyes seemed dulled by some far, desperate gaze.

“Uncle Gaspard! Gone!” she faltered.

“Oh, did you not meet him? Child, he would not rest until he had set out. Is it thy pretty prank, little one? Is he staying behind to tell some one the story and then surprise us?”

“He did not come!” she wailed, her heart throbbing with passionate grief. “We have not seen him. Oh, mère, mère, the cruel Indians have captured him! And I was so sure.”

She sank in a little heap at the woman’s feet. After all the dangers and alternations of hope and fear, the fatigues, the last blow had been too much for her. Mère Lunde gathered the limp form in her arms, then laid her on the rustic settle, chafing the small hands and bathing the face with a fragrant concoction of her French skill. She drew slow breaths presently, but did not open her eyes.

François Marchand gazed on his wife, speechless with a curious doubt, as one in a dream. Then he came nearer. She was thinner, the rose bloom had faded from her cheeks and there were dark shadows about her eyes. But oh, surely it was no ghost come to mock him!

He took her in his arms, and if the shape had melted into vague nothingness he would not have felt surprised. But it did not. It was soft flesh. He rained kisses on brow and cheek and lips; her sigh was a breath of perfume. Was it moments or hours?

“Thanks be to God and our good friend Gaspard!” he said presently. “Oh, my sweet blossom of northern wilds, my treasure, my queen, how I have feared and wept for thee! What lonely days! What sleepless nights! And I bound to the bed by wounds and fever and a broken limb, knowing thou wert in the hands of cruel enemies and I helpless to succor thee. And that brave soul came to thy rescue! How can we ever thank him enough?”

She could not speak at first, only return kisses for kisses. He found a seat and drew her close in tender embrace; felt the throb of the heart against his, though the whole slim figure was full of languor.

“And I was never certain if you were dead or alive. When they dragged me from you at the edge of the woods there was no motion to assure me. All night I dreamed of you, torn, perhaps, by some prowling beast, or lying there stark and stiff.”

“It was Gaspard who found me, who placed me in wise care and then set off. Oh, let us go and thank him. Every moment’s delay is ingratitude.”

“Is he not here?” She raised her head from his breast. “We have not seen him. We owe our escape and guidance to another captive – a young fellow considered a slave. But – we have not seen M. Denys.”

“Heaven send him safely back to us, then! He is a brave, noble friend. He believed you might be taken up to the straits and the child would be with you.”

She shuddered. She could not mar this happy moment by a relation of the dreadful fate which for a few days had hung over her and made her prefer death. Ah, how much harder the resolve would have been had she known of a certainty that her husband was living!

“After much tedious journeying we reached the Peoria settlement, back from the Illinois River, where the old Chief Neepawa governs a remnant of his tribe. They were most kindly and gave us rest and food until we were quite restored. Afterward they brought us home. Oh, my husband, my lord, my lover! To be with you once more is enough. I would have suffered twice the hardships and dangers for such a blissful end!”

He felt her frame tremble in his arms and pressed her closer in a transport of tenderness. Ah, the perfect content!

Then she bethought herself.

“The child,” she said, awakening to the more generous flow of sympathy that love for the time had overwhelmed. “The poor little Renée! She has looked forward every hour to meeting him again, and the disappointment will be bitter. It is more like a woman’s love than a child’s, though she is innocent of the deeper strivings of maidenhood. Come, let us go to her.”

Mère Lunde had to give the young wife a warm welcome. The tears of joy filled her faded eyes.

Renée lay on the settle, sobbing. Wawataysee bent over and would have taken her hand.

“Go away! go away!” she cried imperiously. “I do not want you. You have him to be glad with and I have no one, no one!”

The pathos of the tone was heartrending.

“Renée, my little dear, François is so glad.”

“Go away!” She turned her face to the wall and slapped impatiently with her hand. “I will not listen. The Indians have Uncle Gaspard, I know.”

Mère Lunde beckoned them. “She is very wilful at times, and now her heart is sore. But the good saints have led you both back. He has been north many a time and come home unharmed.”

“They will kill him this time!” the child almost shrieked. “There was that fierce Black Feather! Oh, he will never come back, never!”

The old woman waved them to the doorway and they turned and passed out. All the garden was abloom and sweet with the fragrance of growing fruit, tangled vines and flowers. The pale heavens had lost the light of day, and the blue of the night was hidden by a soft gray vagueness. Birds were singing good-night songs to each other and to sleepy nestlings. Marchand, with his arm around his wife, drew her into a secluded spot.

“Black Feather was a Huron,” he said, “mean, tricky, avaricious. Surely you were not in his hands?” and his grasp tightened.

“Only a little while. Oh, I would never have been taken alive to the straits! And this young Valbonais was their captive. Oh, where has he disappeared to? He had an uncle in St. Louis, whither he was coming when they captured him.”

“Tell me the story. I have had hundreds of fears for you, my darling, yet I kept trusting the All Father.”

“Oh, not to-night!” she pleaded. “Is it not enough that I am restored, and that no evil has happened to me? Let us not mar the joy of this meeting.”

So they sat until the white veil in the sky cleared away and all was a heavenly blue, with stars shining so bright they took on beautiful tints and twinkled as in a fairy dance. To the reunited hearts there had never been such a night of joy and splendor.

Renée sobbed herself to sleep, worn out with the pangs of disappointment. Mère Lunde would not disturb her. She set out a little supper for the other two, and they talked in low tones. Mère Lunde told of her wanderings, and that she had almost died of hunger and thirst.

“We who were so sadly bereft resolved to join forces,” explained Marchand. “Gaspard Denys ought not lose everything by his generosity. So I have watched the trade and tried to fill his place as best I could, and Mère Lunde has kept the house, both praying and hoping. Several prisoners have escaped or been left by the Indians, who really did not want them and were afraid to practise the cruelties of other days lest a severe punishment might overtake them.”

Renée was still dejected and inconsolable the next morning, and would receive no overtures from Wawataysee. The young wife understood. Not that Renée would have wished her any ill, but with the unreason of feminine things she could not endure the sight of their happy faces, the sound of the tender words they exchanged. She went out in the corner of the garden and made her moan, and would not be seen of the friends that came to congratulate the returned captives.

Nearly noon a young man paused at the gate, looking a little uncertain.

“It is André Valbonais!” cried Wawataysee, with delight. “I will bring him in and you must thank him with your full heart.”

Valbonais was bright and smiling, his ragged clothes, that scarcely held together, replaced by a comfortable suit, if not new; his hair trimmed and in good order – a very attractive young fellow now, certainly.

“We were going to set out on a search for you,” Wawataysee began. “In some unexpected manner we lost sight of you last night. How did you fare?”