Chapter XXI: A Scout of Three

"We must scout the Doom Trail," I said as we carried the canoe through the water-gate and deposited it within the stockade. "I will write the governor at once of affairs at Jagara and La Vierge du Bois. But this last business makes it necessary he should have sure intelligence of what passes to Canada."

"_Ja_," agreed Corlaer slowly. "Budt I hafe another scheme we might try first--tonight."

"What?"

He surveyed the scores of dwindling canoes, their silvery birchen sides agleam in the sunlight, their dripping paddle-blades shining as the paddlers drove them along.

"They will make camp by sunset at der point of der three rocks. Am I right, Ta-wan-ne-ars?"

The Seneca assented.

"That is eight--ten--miles from here. _Ja_, we can make it."

"Make what?" I asked impatiently.

"Der distance. Andt my plan."

"What plan, man?"

"To put der grin on der other side of Joncaire's face, by ----! Now you listen."

And he outlined an undertaking which seemed absurdly simple until I chanced to look up and see that fleet of canoes clouding the eastern horizon of the lake.

"They are too many for us," I objected.

"_Ja_, if they know we come," he admitted. "Budt they do not. Andt I hafe seen brandy-kegs in among der furs."

"It is well worth trying," said Ta-wan-ne-ars deliberately. "If it succeeds it will set back the plans of Onontio and Murray."

"Andt if it does not, then you tell der Gofernor Peter Corlaer tried once too often to get der joke back on Joncaire."

With which sage comment, Peter took himself off to arrange with the post commandant for drawing certain supplies we should require for this new expedition.

Two hours later an express left Oswego with dispatches for Governor Burnet, describing the situation at Jagara and our experiences at La Vierge du Bois, as well as the passage of Joncaire's argosy of furs, the greatest haul which had so far been made by either country that year on the frontier. Before the gate was slammed shut again we three slipped out and waved good-by to the garrison on the walls.

We traveled parallel with the shore of the lake and made no effort to set a fast pace. Ta-wan-ne-ars and I were still tired from our exertions in escaping the hellish abode of the False Faces. We were glad to halt when we glimpsed the glow of fires on the beach ahead of us.

From this point our advance was more cautious, and we parted company with Corlaer in some bushes, whence we could distinguish figures dancing around the flames and hear the distant yells of the guests of Joncaire as they caroused on his thoughtful provision of brandy. The Dutchman stripped to his belt. Ta-wan-ne-ars relieved him of his musket, powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and I shouldered his clothes and pack.

"By der blasted pine--a goodt mile beyondt der other side," whispered Peter as he waded into the water.

"You are sure you can stay afloat so long!" I asked with some misgiving.

"_Ja_," he said scornfully. "When you hear a noise like a fish rising three times, that is Peter."

He settled knife and tomahawk against either thigh, slung a spare flask of powder beside them, sank forward to his chin and began to cleave the water with powerful, overhand strokes.

"A merry evening to you," I called gently.

A grunt was my answer.

"We must hurry, brother," admonished Ta-wan-ne-ars.

He started off at right angles with the path we had been following, and we fetched a circle around the group of fires, coming ultimately to a high point above the shore half a mile beyond them. Here we rested, both because our weariness was very great and because we desired to witness Peter's exploit, and, if need be, be prepared to aid him.

It was past midnight, and the fires had burned low and the brandy-drinkers soaked themselves stupid. Not a sound came to us, except for the calling of a wolf from the heavy timber inshore and the croaking of water-birds.

'Twas Ta-wan-ne-ars' eagle vision which saw the danger-signal. He gripped my arm.

"Look, brother," he hissed.

I looked, and a flame spurted upward between the fires and the water. There was a sharp explosion. A long minute elapsed, and then a chorus of excited yells rose, dropped and was sustained.

The flame mounted higher, and we could see figures running this way and that in confusion. A musket barked. Others echoed it.

"They saw him in the water," remarked Ta-wan-ne-ars.

"Do you think he escaped?" I asked.

"We should hear the scalp-yell if he was taken or killed. Hark! They still babble like animals."

We listened for ten minutes, and whilst the yelling continued, with intermittent shooting, there was nothing to indicate triumph or satisfaction. In the meantime the flames which Peter had kindled, after flourishing grandly, gradually died out as the awakened savages removed those canoes which had not caught fire and threw water on such as were only smoldering.

We waited another five minutes to make sure the search did not trend in our direction, but the bewildered tools of Joncaire were convinced the attack had come from Oswego and the shouting and firing shifted away from us toward the fort. So we picked up our burdens and descended between boulders and stunted trees to a little bay which was marked by the shattered stump of a pine.

Half an hour passed uneventfully. Then the steady lapping of the water against the beach was disturbed by the splash a fish makes in rising. It was repeated twice. Ta-wan-ne-ars leaned over and splashed the water thrice with his hand. A grunt boomed out of the darkness. Ripples spread in a widening circle, and a huge form stepped noiselessly ashore, ignoring our helping hands.

"Oof, that was a goodt joke on Joncaire," muttered Peter. "Some canoes I smash with der ax andt some I blow up with der powder andt more are burnedt. Where are my clothes? I am soaked like der muskrat. _Ja_, when we get to der woods I findt me a bear and gife myself a rub with grease. I hafe bubbles under my skin."

"You were long in coming," said Ta-wan-ne-ars. "My brother is not hurt?"

"_Nein, nein_. Those drunken swine couldt not hit me. I swam far oudt andt at der first up der lake to fool them. Then I turned andt swam back under der water. Ooof, what a swim! I tell you I hafe bubbles under my skin! _Ja_!"

"Did you damage them much?" I asked eagerly.

Peter suspended the operation of struggling into his shirt and chuckled shrilly.

"I wouldt gife much to see der face of that Joncaire when he counts his canoes andt der fur-packs he has left. Twice now we get der joke on him."

Wet as he was, with the water dripping from his lank hair, he insisted upon quitting that dangerous locality at once. We tramped across country until the sun was high, and we stumbled upon an isolated family of Onondagas, who made us free of their _ga-no-sote_. They relieved Peter's principal want by furnishing him bear's grease, with which he anointed himself vigorously before sleeping.

We spent two days with these people, recuperating in preparation for the stern task ahead of us. After parting with them we continued in leisurely fashion eastward, keeping well to the north of the Great Trail of the Long House and avoiding as much as possible contact with the Onondagas, Oneidas and Mohawks whose countries we traversed. Some ten days after leaving Oswego we found ourselves on the verge of that untracked domain which was roamed by the Keepers of the Doom Trail.

Here we paused to take counsel with one another.

"Somewhere this side of the Mohawk the Trail begins," said Ta-wan-ne-ars. "Shall we follow the river and scout for signs there?"

"'Tis there the Keepers must be most vigilant," I suggested.

"_Ja_," spoke up Peter, "andt if we do not come to harm, yet Murray will know we watch."

"What then?" asked Ta-wan-ne-ars.

"Let us scout der country well back from der river. You know aboudt where lies La Vierge du Bois. It shouldt not be difficult to strike der line of der Trail."

This plan we agreed upon, and, so that we might not be constrained to use our muskets in the forbidden territory, we obtained from a Mohawk village a quantity of jerked meat and parched corn mixed with maple sugar ample to sustain us for a week or more. And in order to assure that our departure would be free from the observation of spies we left our last camp after dark and in two parties, Ta-wan-ne-ars and myself going in one direction and Peter in another.

Our meeting-place was a grove on the bank of a creek, one of the tributaries of the Mohawk. We reached it without observation, and lay in concealment most of the day, starting again in the late afternoon and moving warily through the forest, following no particular course, but addressing ourselves rather to the effacement of all evidence of our passage.

We discovered nothing, and the next day and many others went by with no better luck. Sometimes we encountered the slots of deer or bear, and the woodcraft of my comrades would be baffled temporarily until they had proved beyond doubt that the trace was not used by human feet. Once we came upon signs of old encampments, and diligently scouted the vicinity, only to be convinced they were the relics of some casual hunting-party.

Our provisions were exhausted, and we were compelled to live from hand to mouth upon such game as Ta-wan-ne-ars could snare or kill with his tomahawk--and certes he was wondrous proficient in both arts. But we kept on, bearing always eastward and quartering the country in every direction. Game there was in plenty, sure testimony that man seldom came here; dense underbrush linked the towering trunks; there was not so much as a footprint in hundreds of square miles to reveal human occupancy.

Yet in the very midst of this deserted wilderness we came upon what we sought. We had abandoned the headwaters of the Mohawk and were following one of its middle branches, a shallow stream with pebbly, shelving banks, wading close inshore so as not to disturb the close-growing shrubbery. We all saw it simultaneously--a tattered, weather-stained fragment of canvas, caught on a snag in the current. I fished it out with my musket-barrel.

"A pack-cofer," declared Peter immediately.

"And safely identified," I added, putting my finger on an unmistakable thistle in green paint with three-quarters of a letter "M" above it.

A mile farther on Ta-wan-ne-ars exclaimed and pointed upward to the trunk of a tall elm. Partly shaded by the foliage of the lower boughs a deep blaze was revealed in the bark.

We waded ashore and investigated. The underbrush was as thick as elsewhere, but presently Peter gave a heave with his bull-like shoulders and a whole section of growths, which had been laced together with vines on a backing of boughs, lifted gate-fashion. Beyond stretched a narrow alley, whose carpet of grass showed it to be seldom traveled.

"If this be not the Doom Trail 'tis worth a look none the less," I whispered.

Peter nodded, and slipped through the opening. I followed him, and Ta-wan-ne-ars brought up the rear.

Here in this hidden path the forest noises became remote. Even the birds ceased to twitter overhead, and the slightest stirring of the treetops made us drop to earth in expectancy of attack. Yet when the attack came we were taken completely by surprize.

We had progressed some five miles from the beginning of the trail, and had reached a point where it forked--or perhaps I should say was joined by a second trail. At any rate the united trails continued into a beaver swamp, where they disappeared. We scouted the swamp, but could see no signs of a path across it; and Peter led the way to the right, intending to encircle it.

The beavers had thinned the timber hereabout and cut down most of the brushwood, so that we walked at ease between wide-spaced trunks. We were all of us alert, but the first warning that we were under observation was a green-feathered arrow which sang between Peter and me and buried its head in the ground.

"Don'dt fire, whatefer you do," muttered Peter as he threw himself behind the nearest trunk.

Ta-wan-ne-ars and I copied his example. I found myself on the right of the three. The others had selected standing trunks. I had chosen, perforce, a fallen giant which some forest wind had overthrown. I crawled along the trunk into the tangle of roots, and from there gained a clump of bushes growing about the hole from which it had been torn. I could see Ta-wan-ne-ars crouched behind his trunk, with his musket beside him and his tomahawk in his hand. Peter was concealed from view.

The green-feathered arrow had ceased quivering and I idly followed the angle of its inclination. My eyes traveled forward--and focused upon a hideous painted face which peered from a screen of sumac.

The watcher motioned behind him, and a second painted visage glided to his side. Ta-wan-ne-ars, seeking to draw their fire, thrust out the end of his scalp-lock, and the first watcher instantly drew bow and sent an arrow that grazed the trunk.

Nothing happened for a while. The Keepers waited, and Ta-wan-ne-ars and Peter remained under cover. I surveyed the situation. From the hole in which I lay a depression of the ground ran eastward past the lair of the Cahnuagas in the sumac clump. I started to crawl up it, dragging my musket after me, but before I had gone a dozen feet I was obliged to abandon the gun in order to insure that my progress should be silent.

Ta-wan-ne-ars, aware that I was up to something, called to Peter, and the two of them executed a series of feints which kept the Keepers occupied. When I was parallel with the sumac clump I sought shelter under a patch of wild blackberry-bushes. Cautiously parting my screen--which was exceedingly thorny and painful--I was able to view the Keepers from the rear. They were ensconced in what was evidently a permanent sentry-post. Beyond the sumacs was a low bark hut masked with boughs. At their feet were muskets. The bows they held were employed for the purpose of adding mystery to their attack.

So accustomed were the Keepers to the overpowering spell of the Doom Trail, which weakened the nerves of all trespassers, that they were wholly confident of the success of their tactics in first frightening us and afterward running us down at pleasure. They stood behind the sumac screen, their bushy feather head-dresses close together, grins of anticipation cracking the paint on their evil faces.

I worked myself a little more in rear of their position, then rose quietly and drew knife and tomahawk. I was an amateur at casting the ax, but this was no time for hesitation. I flung it with all my might, and yelled the nearest approach I could compass to the war-whoop.

The tomahawk struck one of the Keepers with the flat of its blade, felling him. The other savage turned quickly and loosed his arrow at me, aiming wide in his confusion. He stooped for his musket, but I was on him with my knife and he was forced to leap back and meet me on even terms. Ta-wan-ne-ars and Peter came running between the trees, whooping encouragement.

They arrived in the nick of time, for the Cahnuaga I had tried to tomahawk was on his feet, ready to shoot me as I dodged the knife-blade of his mate. The Seneca brained this man with the butt of his gun, and Peter methodically tripped my adversary and helped me pinion him.

Ta-wan-ne-ars paused long enough to remove what was left of the scalp of his victim, then crossed to us and set his bloody knife to the throat of the survivor.

"Is it to be torture or a quick death, Cahnuaga dog!" he demanded.

The red eyes of the Keeper glared at him. "Death," the man spat, and strove to gnaw at the hands which held him.

"Then speak truly. Who travels Doom Trail today?"

"Nobody. We watch always."

Ta-wan-ne-ars pricked him slightly.

"You watch always," assented the Seneca. "Yes. And who comes?"

A shout echoed through the forest aisles. The red eyes of the Cahnuaga flared exultantly. His mouth opened.

"Yaaa-aaaa-aaa-ah--"

Ta-wan-ne-ars drove his point home, and the scream ended in an awful bubbling gasp.

The shout was repeated.