Strongheart : a novel

Front matter

Collection of Native North American Indian Books* Historical Books, Atlases, plus other important atlthors and family heirloom books.

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Contents

PARTI; SAVAGERY

CHAPTER PAGE

I. In the Land of the Ojibways 9

PART II: CIVILIZATION XL Dorothy 144

XII. On the Quadrangle 163

XIII. The Nocturne in G Major 167

XIV. The Song of Elopement 191

XV. Thorne’s Ground for Jealousy 212

XVI. An Experiment that Eailed 222

XVII. Livingston’s Losing Battle 241

XVIII. Strongheart’s Dream 254

XIX. The Plotter 273

XXI. The Penalty of Friendship 296

XXII. Race Prejudice 312

XXIII. Everywhere the Same Wall 335

SEQUEL

XXIV. The Chief 34^

XXV. Tribal Concessions 361

XXVI. The White Squaw 372

XXVII. The Horns of a Moose 383

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

“I laid down the camera and grabbed the rifle.” Frontispiece 41

Strongheart caught the white man by the throat 81

His face as grave as if he were performing a sacred ceremony. 204 Was it to hear this that he had traveled so many hundred miles ? 373

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Part I

SAVAGERY

Chapter I In The Land Of The Ojibways

Just north of Lakes Huron and Superior there is a country wherein even now the enthusiastic explorer may find hills and valleys never before trod by the foot of the white man, lakes not yet seen by the white man’s eye, rivers whereon no craft has floated save the Ojibway’s bark canoe.

There, deer, and moose, and elk abound to lure men of wealth to their slaughter ; there stand yet vast tracts of white pine, sturdy guardians of earth’s deepest serenity, to lure the timberman, advance guard of civilization, to their destruction; there lie doubtless mineral secrets which some day will be exposed to the clamor of stamp mills and the frontier saloon ; there the venturesome holiday-maker from the cities of the United States may still stumble upon the rude dwellings of unregistered Indians who sometimes travel as far as the railroad and then retire to their silent haunts, affrighted at the noisy terrors of civilization ; a land, it seems, where Nature has made her last stand in the course of her enforced retreat to the snow-bound regions of the North.

It was in this land that a young man traveled southward by canoe one midsummer afternoon. Little he had to exercise the paddle, save to guide his frail craft, for the current bore him swiftly while it chuckled to listening banks of its burden. The trees on either side touched leafy hands and whispered of it. Here and there a gray-bearded cliff frowned gravely at the traveler and, it may be, sent some message thrilling beneath the soil in warning to brethren battling with the stream where it bends to avoid a hill and fights its impetuous Vv^ay among and over impeding rocks. They knew, these ancient cliffs and towering trees, what punishm.ent the river had in store for him who presumed to make it do his bidding. Time had been when dare-devil natives of the wilds had shot the rapids to win a wager, or prove courage, and so gain a feather for the bonnet; there had been now and again a hero of the wilderness who had dodged the rocks and leaped the falls in safety^ but so few were they that the natives of this day knew them only by legendary names, and trusted not themselves to the hazardous attempt ; what, then, should this traveler, whose face showed the pallor of a strange people beneath its temporary bronze, hope to accomplish save his own destruction? The river, excited with the joy of it, began to laugh.

The young man raised his head at the sound. He peered forward, not so much in anxiety as in curiosity. Some suggestion of prudence led him to glance at the banks for a possible landing-place. He saw none where he could stop with safety to his craft, for already the current leaped with him, and it might have been impossible even to turn the canoe to shore. So he set his lips in a smile of determination, and poised himself to apply the paddle swiftly and powerfully to evade such obstacles as might appear before him.

It was where the Pangisibi (“Little River,” as the natives call it) tears madly through half a circle in order to force its way past the barrier of hills. The descent grows steeper and steeper, until, rounding the last arc of the curve, there is a short plunge almost like a cascade that brings the stream triumphantly to a pool where the water boils with ever-decreasing violence, and, spreading wide over the new-found level, chatters at last of its victory to half submerged stones that form a natural and easy ford for the rare travelers who have need of it.

Two men, each bearing a rifle, emerged from the forest on the east side of the ford, and proceeded to cross it. One was under the medium height, and his clothes sat loosely on him — soft hat, black shirt, shabby trousers and moccasins ; the other tall, commanding in mien, carried the hall marks of civilization even into the depths of the wilderness in that he wore shoes of dressed leather, and garbed his body and limbs in the picturesque habiliments affected by the sportsman from the city. The tall man walked first, and his steps were as sure on the scattered stones as those of his moccasined companion. They were proceeding silently along the open space beside the pool on the western side, when the short man suddenly caught the other by the arm and pointed to the white-flecked turmoil below the falls. They saw an overturned canoe floating toward the shallows, and a human head sinking near it.

There was a startled exclamation from the tall man, a brief word of command, and each dropped his rifle. He of the moccasins ran swiftly back to the ford, waded in, and, tenderly as one might care for a suffering child, kept the canoe from rubbing against the stones, lifted it and bore it, dripping, upside down, over his head to the open space, and laid it gently upon the grass. He glanced toward his companion, but, perceiving no need of assistance, gave his attention wholly to the canoe, pressing the frail bark here and there with his knuckles, and shaking his head gravely as he found abundant signs of damage.

The tall man was in the pool. He had leaped straight in, and had swam half way across while the other was running to the ford. In the middle he sank for a moment, and when he reappeared he had the unfortunate canoeist under the shoulders. Using his left arm to keep the young man’s head above water, he propelled himself with his right, and so gained the bank. He laid the man on the grass, and turned him on his face, v/orking over him with more energy than knowledge of the most approved modern methods of first aid; but there was virtue in the a'ncient, crude ways, and in this instance the signs of animation on the part of the subject were speedily manifested. When the tall man observed them, he called to his companion, and hastened to a spot a fev/ yards further up stream where a quantity of charred wood gave evidence of former camps. It was, indeed, a favorite halting-place for travelers in the wilderness, and had been so, undoubtedly, since ages before authentic history began. There was dry wood now within reach, a few sticks only, but enough for a beginning, and kindling was supplied by bark stripped quickly from a birch tree. The tail man produced matches from a metal box that the water had not penetrated, and set the flam.es sputtering over the bark ; then he ran here and there, gathering other bits of wood and placing them on the fire.

Meantime, he of the moccasins left the canoe with apparent reluctance, for what more interesting and important can there be to the O jibway than a bark canoe which has been serviceable and may yet be restored to usefulness? and stooped over the half drowned traveler. There was nothing to do for him except to let life resume its full activity unimpeded, whereas skillful hands might at least prepare the pitch for mending the canoe. The traveler lay with eyes closed, but he was breathing, .and presently he made a convulsive movement as if he would get up.

“Dorothy!’' he gasped, as he looked vaguely about him, and clutched at the grass. Then his features contorted with an expression of acute pain, and he sank back again.

The watcher called to his companion, and the tall man came on the run. A few words passed, and he of the moccasins obediently took up the other’s task of attending to the fire. Again the eyes of the canoeist opened, but this time he did not try to rise. He looked wearily at the man who bent over him.

‘‘Feeling all right now?” asked the rescuer.

“I can breathe,” was the reply.

“Yes, that’s better than a stomach full of water, isn’t it? Will you try to get up? It will be better for you, you know, if you can exercise a little. I’ll help.”

So saying, he put his hands under the canoeist’s shoulders and lifted, but immediately laid the man down again, for a half suppressed groan, and the twitching of face muscles showed that there had been painful injury somewhere.

“Better let me lie still awhile,” said the canoeist, very white, and speaking with difficulty.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Feet and ankles.”

“All right above?”

“I think so.”

“Then you’ll be all right soon. Feet will get well, but I’ll take off your shoes. There may be a swelling by and by, you know, which would be worse with shoes on, and then we should have to cut the shoes off, which would be bad in this country where there isn’t a store at every corner.”

The rescuer applied his fingers swiftly to the young man’s shoe-laces, and presently bared his feet. “Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “there’s some damage there. Well, if you can’t walk, and so get exercise, the next best thing is to get heat. I’ll carry you to the fire.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed the young man, feebly, “got a fire? Did you have it all ready for me?”

The other made no reply, but picked him up and carried him to the fire and placed him on the ground with, his back to a log and his feet toward the blaze. The little journey caused the canoeist some pain, but he bore it without groan or comment now that his consciousness had fully returned. “You’re wet yourself,” said he, catching his breath a bit. “Did you jump in there after me?” and he turned his gaze toward the pool.

“I had to,” said the other.

“Because I wouldn’t float to the shore? I’m sure I’m obliged to you. Confound it! I don’t remember that I ever had my life saved before. See here, you need the fire as much as I do, don’t you?”

“No. I can keep moving. It doesn’t hurt a woodsman to get wet.”

He had removed his coat and was wringing the water from it. “I’m going to strip,” he continued tranquilly, “and hang my clothes by the fire, for they’re not comfortable. If you can stand it you’d better do the same. I mean, if you can get your clothes ofif. I’ll help, you know. The danger is that you’ll catch cold.”

“Sure,” said the canoeist, but there was doubt in his 15 tone in spite of the confident word, for he was beginning to think again, and he wondered how he could avoid a cold if he lay naked while his clothes were drying; and beyond that, what was to happen to him if the excruciating pain in his ankles did not cease? He was puzzled rather than anxious, but, when he looked all around as if to seek an answer to his queries, he saw a man standing at the eastern end of the ford, and immediately his mind was absorbed in other matters than his narrow escape from drowning and the discomforts of his situation. “By Jove!” he exclaimed, “there’s Dossegayl”

The tall man looked toward the ford, and, as he did so, the man there began to cross.

“He’s a drunken redskin I employed,” added the canoeist, by way of explanation. “I was chasing him when I upset — that is, I was going to the place where I left him this morning, but I didn’t expect to find him there, or ever see him again.”

There was no response from the tall man, who stood with his back to the canoeist, and neither spoke again until Dossegay halted a few yards from the fire. Then Dossegay said something in his native tongue, and the tall man answered him in the same language. Dossegay spoke at some length, and at the end took from his coat a large pocketbook and handed it to the tall man who, in turn, gave it to the canoeist.

“I see you understand the redskin’s lingo,” said the canoeist, with a touch of admiration in his tone. “My guide does, too.”

“Yes, I understand them,” the tall man responded.

The canoeist eagerly opened the pocketbook and took from it a photograph and a letter. He glanced at them, made sure quickly that they were what they should be, replaced them in their compartment, and laid the book on the ground beside him. There was the light of deep satisfaction in his eyes, and a faint color on his cheek.

“Is your money all right?” asked the tall man.

“Oh!” and the canoeist’s tone seemed to convey an apology for having overlooked such a detail. He picked up the pocketbook, opened it again and withdrew a considerable packet of banknotes. “Not a dollar gone,” he said, after counting.

“I thought so,” was the tall man’s comment. “The Ojibway may get drunk, but he doesn’t steal. Dossegay,” he continued, “says he expects to get the sack for what he did, and he wasn’t following you up in any hope of keeping his job; but when he came to himself after you had gone, he found your pocketbook on the ground where your tent was, and he thought you would want it. So he hit the trail after you. He would have gone on without seeing you here, for the trail is on the other side of the river, but he saw and smelt the smoke of our fire, and he turned aside to see what was up. That’s his story.”

“See here, Dossegay,” cried the canoeist, “you don’t get the sack, see? You stay, stick, hang on, you don’t lose your job, savvy? I say, mister, tell him that in his own lingo so he’ll sure catch on, will you?”

The tall man complied gravely, Dossegay listening without the slightest change of facial expression, and at the end of a short conversation he looked toward the canoeist and said ‘‘Migwetch” — thank you — quite as if he were offering condolences for a death in the family. Then, said the tall man, “He will stay, and he will change clothes with you. He’s near enough to your size to make it possible to get into his clothes, and yours will dry very soon when we rig them up by the fire. After that he’d better go on and tell your friends what has happened to you and where they can find you. We won’t stay here, for it would be risky for you. Mukwa and I will carry you to our camp. It’s not more than three miles. Your guide will know how to find it, and if he didn’t Dossegay would tell him. It’s what your people would call a summer resort. My people go there every season.”

“Your people!” echoed the canoeist, in a tone of the profoundest amazement, and he looked sharply at his rescuer. “You don’t mean to say that you’re an Indian 1”

“I am an O jibway,” was the muffled reply, the tall man’s voice being momentarily indistinct because he was pulling his shirt off over his head. He stood wringing the water from the garment, and the canoeist saw that the dark hue of his face, which he had supposed was merely the deep tan of constant outdoor life, continued to the shoulders and broad chest which shone in the afternoon sun as if the man were a statue of burnished copper. “My name is Soangetaha,” he added. “My father is chief of the tribe.”

The canoeist looked at the Indian in silent fascination. It was clear enough now what race was his;

now that the features were scrutinized analytically, the facial characteristics of the red man were plainly evident ; his hair, which was cut rather modishly, was jet black and coarse; that might have revealed his race to the canoeist’s casual glance but that Soangetaha, who had thrown off his hat when he leaped into the pool, had put it on again immediately after coming out; now he was again bareheaded.

"‘What a build for an athlete!” was the canoeist’s silent comment, as he admiringly viewed the Indian’s muscular development. “Not an ounce of surplus flesh anywhere.”

“Soangetaha,” he said aloud. “That’s an easier name than some that your people have. I suppose it has a meaning, hasn’t it?”

“Yes; your people would call it Strongheart.”

CHAPTER II “we are all men”

“I like that better,” said the canoeist, ingeniously. “My name is Livingston. I hope I didn’t say anything offensive about your people.”

“No,” Strongheart replied; “if you had, your quick forgiveness of Dossegay would have made it right. We’re used to being misunderstood and unappreciated. I think you’ll find that Dossegay will keep straight the rest of the time he is with you, and I would willingly bet that he got started on his drunk while he was in some white-man settlement.”

“You’re quite right, Strongheart. We picked him up in the Soo. He got a flask there and carried it with him unknown to us. I s’pose he reckoned that it would be a long time between drinks, and that he’d better make the most of his opportunity. Anyhow, yesterday he was more of a hindrance than a help, and this morning he was dead to the world. We could do nothing with him, couldn’t even wake him, and there was no use in lugging him along. So we left him asleep on the ground, with enough grub near to last him for a day or so. You see, I’m making a trip with another fellow, my best friend. Frank Nelson is his name. It’s just for the fun of being in the woods, with a little fishing and hunting thrown in when we feel like it. You must think me all sorts of a fool for getting upset as I did.”

‘‘I should say your guide was a fool, or strangely ignorant, for letting you try to shoot the Pangisibi rapids.”

“Oh ! the guide’s all right. Perhaps you know him, Steve Winterton.”

“Yes, I know Winterton. What was he thinking of? He knows the Pangisibi as well as the Ojibways — ”

“He didn’t know what I was up to, Strongheart. Pll tell you all about it, for I want the blame to stick where it belongs, on me. We set out for a lake Steve told us of which he said had never been visited by white men. He’s never been there himself, but he knew of it, he said, from the Indians. I s’pose he wasn’t stringing us, was he?”

“Did he name the lake?” Strongheart asked.

“Yes; he said the Indian word for it meant Long Lake.”

“Ginsagaigan.”

“That sounds like it. Have you been there?”

“Yes. I think Winterton was right. I never heard of white men going to it. I should say it would be four days from here.”

“Well, that tallies with what Steve said. Anyhow, after we broke camp this morning, leaving Dossegay behind us, we paddled up stream a few miles and came to a place where we had to portage our canoes and baggage. I presume you know all about it ?”

Strongheart nodded. “The place where you began your portage,” said he, “was not more than a quarter of a mile below here. The river makes a long curve among the hills. You hit a straight trail over them and struck the river again away above the rapids.”

“I can’t answer for the straight trail,” said Livingston. “It seemed blamed crooked to me, but we did strike the river again all right, and found that a tornado had been there before us and had raised hob with the trail both on land and water. It was almost impossible to lug the canoes over the last dozen yards or so, but we managed it and found a tolerably clear space on the river bank where we had to stop and think. Steve said we’d better camp there for tonight, for it might take him and Joe the rest of the day to find a way around the difficulty. We had grub, and then Steve went off on an exploring trip on one side of the river, and Joe found a place where he could squirm through the wreckage on the other. They agreed that they’d be back a long time before sundown, and Frank and I settled down to a cosy afternoon. He went to pottering with his camera, taking shots at the wreckage, and I — well, I had some idea of writing a description of it, ‘from our correspondent in the field,’ you know, only it wouldn’t have been for publication. But, I — well, I reached for my pocketbook to consult things there, just a picture of a girl, and a letter, you know; I think a good deal of ’em. Naturally. However, I reached for the pocketbook, and blamed if I could find it. You can imagine how I felt, mebbe. Of course Frank hadn’t seen the pocketbook, and he was dead certain it wasn’t mixed up with the baggage, but I couldn’t be satisfied, and I pulled everything to pieces before I could give up hunting for it. Then all of a sudden I had a fool inspiration and knew what had happened. ‘Frank,’ said I, ‘that cussed redskin, Dossegay, has got it.’ You see, I believed that Dossegay had stolen the pocketbook while I was asleep, and had pretended to be drunk in the morning just so that we would leave him there and give him a good chance for a getaway.”

“If he had stolen it in the night,” Strongheart suggested, “he would have had his chance for a getaway then. He could have gone down stream in one of the canoes, and scuttled the other so that you would have had difficulty in pursuing; and he could have left the canoe after a few miles to float on down stream while he took to the woods on foot. Unless your Joe could have happened to scent his steps at the very spot where he left the canoe, you never could have come upon his trail except by accident.”

Livingston listened with an expression of solemn sheepishness. “I told you it was a fool inspiration,” said he. “I never thought of anything but my own smart theory that he had faked his drunkenness, and I immediately had an attack of energy. Dossegay had no canoe. Therefore, I reasoned, he must foot it back, and I reckoned that I could travel down stream in a canoe a good deal faster than he could walk, or run. Especially, you see, as I knew there was a swift current where the river makes the long bend. Steve hadn’t told us much about it. Simply said we couldn’t paddle against the current. Fact is, Steve’s a good deal like the Indians; he doesn’t seem to care about talking — I beg your pardon again. I don’t mean any offense by that. There are plenty of white men whom I should like better if they would take pattern from the Indians and cultivate silence. But, you see, the fact is I find it hard to remember that you’re an Indian. You seem just like — like the rest of us,” and Livingston smiled at the lameness of his conclusion.

Strongheart’s features were quite as impassive as those of Mukwa and Dossegay, who were cutting forked stakes and thrusting them into the ground near the fire. The animation he had displayed during Livingston’s first moments of returning consciousness had departed, and for the moment he seemed to have taken on, or relapsed into the stolidity of the traditional aborigine. But he responded to the white man’s last observation. ^‘We are all me i,”'^said he. (^‘'That’s it!” cried Livingston, “that’s it! and the trouble is that fool whites sometimes overlook that fact, don’t they ? } But,” as the Indian made no further response, “to get on with my particular folly, I decided to try and overhaul Dossegay. Frank advised letting the money go. He had his roll safe, and we were where we couldn’t spend money, you know, and if we got where we needed it we hadn’t any doubt that we could get more by telegraphing home. But, you see, it wasn’t the money I cared so much about. I didn’t stop to do much thinking, but just hopped into the canoe and shoved oi¥. It went all right for some time, and I really thought I was going to make it, when all of a sudden I was simply pitched out, neck and crop! I saw the canoe turn square over, and I guess I don’t know what happened after that.”

“You probably bumped your head against a rock.”

Livingston ran his fingers over his cranium. “Guess that’s so,” he said; “I hadn’t thought of it before, but there is a sore spot there.”

“You were very lucky to escape being killed instantly.”

“I was luckier still because you were waiting for me. Do you make it a habit to watch at the foot of the rapids for white men who think they know a whole lot that isn’t so?” Livingston laughed a little. “You see,” he added, “I haven’t begun to tell you how grateful I am. I don’t seem to know how. I am quite aware that you saved my life — ”

“I can’t see that there’s anything to say about it,” Strongheart interrupted, in a tone that implied his wish to dismiss the subject. “You wouldn’t expect one man to let another drown, would you? If I had done that, there might have been something to say.”

“In which case I shouldn’t have been the fellow to say it,” retorted Livingston, and he laughed lightly again, noting with curious interest that there was no responsive smile on Strongheart’s part.

Livingston’s narrative had not been as uninterrupted as it appears to be in this account of it; for, during the first part, Strongheart had helped divest him of his wet clothes and put on the dry ones of

Dossegay. At the end, both Strongheart and Dossegay were sitting, quite like primitive savages, their faces to the fire, their backs to the hot sun, while two suits of clothes were steaming, laid across poles resting on the forked stakes that Mukwa and Dossegay had provided. Strongheart spoke to Dossegay in O jibway. They seemed to have a brief argument, after which Dossegay arose, took his moccasins in one hand and went to the bank of the pool. He let himself slowly into the water, and then swam across, holding the moccasins above his head all the way. This done, he flicked the water from his feet with his hands, put on the moccasins, and disappeared in the forest.

'‘What does all that mean?” asked Livingston, who had watched the proceeding with increasing wonderment.

“Winterton and Joe will be badly scared when they get back to your camp and learn what has happened. They’ll be sure you are dead,” said Strongheart. "They may be back now, for the afternoon is most over. Dossegay has hit the trail to relieve their anxiety as soon as possible. He may meet them coming back, for of course they’ll begin a search for you at once. Wherever he finds them, he’ll let them know where you are, and they’ll join you before the night is old. Dossegay will take them to our summer village. You won’t do any walking for at least a week, and when you are well, if you still want to go on to Long Lake there’s a trail from the village that we can show you. If you don’t care to stay with us

Sr RON GHE ART until you can walk, Winterton and Joe can take you back to the Soo, or anywhere else.”

“Don’t mention it!” cried Livingston; “I should like nothing better than to recuperate in your village, if you’ll let me.”

“You will be welcome.”

“Thanks, but you haven’t satisfied my curiosity about Dossegay. He went off without anything on — ”

“He took his moccasins to protect his feet. That is all he needs. I told him I thought your friends ought to be notified in a hurry, and he agreed with me.”

“But I thought it was agreed that he should wear my clothes.”

“They are still wet, you see. He didn’t care to wait for them to dry. He’s all right. And he thought you’d be better pleased if your clothes were kept for yourself.”

Livingston said, “Well, by Jove!” and attempted no more lucid expression on the subject, but his thoughts were remarkably active. There was an unexpectedness about the red man’s fine feeling that fairly made him gasp. He began to rejoice at the accident that had brought him into such intimate contact with — what? “We are all men,” Strongheart had said. Why should a manly act on the part of an Indian be unexpected? Livingston was not altogether clear about it, in which respect he was not different from many another white man of more years when he comes to his first knowledge at first hand of Indian character.