Chapter II (3)

Long before they reached the Delaware Line, they could hear the sounds of feasting and dancing. It was growing dark, and the great heathen ceremonies were at their height. Many a time had the good old missionary attended these dances, always putting in a word for Christianity whenever he saw a fitting opening, always hoping that the day would come when the hideous idol would be laid low, and these darkened souls brought to the Light of the World. But to-night he felt strangely fearful, almost cowardly, for the whole tribe had gathered to pay tribute to their god, and it is a dangerous thing to belittle the god or the faith of any nation that is in earnest in its belief.

Old Chief Single-Pine welcomed the missionary and Wampum graciously, but his people scowled and looked menacingly at the sight of "The Black Coat," then continued their dancing. The great Delaware idol was there in all its hideousness, life size, in the form of a woman, and carved from one solid block of wood, then painted and stained the Indian copper color. It stood on a slight elevation in the centre of the big log "church," grotesque and repulsive as an image could well be made. Wampum hated the thing, and found it difficult not to hate these people who worshipped it. His own ancestors had been pagans, but never heathen. They had worshipped a living God, not a wooden one, and the boy turned in sadness, and some horror, from the spectacle of these idolatrous Delawares. Then his eyes lighted with pleasure, for there, near the door, stood Fire-Flower and Fish-Carrier. True, they were not now telling their boastful but harmless tales of mighty hunting and prowess, but their friendly faces still looked laughter-loving and genial, and Wampum moved quickly towards them. "I did not know you ever came here," he said.

"Not often," said Fire-Flower. "But you said you were to bring the missionary, so we came."

Something in his voice gave Wampum a hint that perhaps the loyal old hunters expected trouble, and so had come in case they were needed.

"Thank you," was all the boy replied, but they knew he understood.

Meanwhile, Mr. Nelson was talking with Single-Pine, who, exhausted with dancing, was allowing himself a brief rest and smoke. "My friend," began the missionary, "do you really believe in the power of that god of wood?"

The old chief glanced about cautiously, then, lowering his voice, said:

"I am tired, oh, Black Coat, of this thing! I would come to the Christian's God if I could, but my people will not let me."

Mr. Nelson grasped the dark fingers resting near his own. "Chief Single-Pine," he said excitedly, "will you yourself give me leave to do away with this idol? Will you promise me that if I cut it down you will make no outcry--that you will not defend it; that you will not urge your people to rise against me; that you will sit silently, wordlessly; that you will take my part?"

For a moment the old Indian wavered, hesitated, then said desperately, "I promise."

The missionary arose, removed his hat, and lifting his white face to heaven, prayed aloud, "God help me, make me strong and fearless to do this thing." But at his side was Wampum, his clinging brown fingers clutching the black-coated arm. He had overheard all the conversation, and his young face took on grayish shadows and lines of anxiety as he said, "No, no, Mr. Nelson, _not you_! They may kill you. Your wife, your girl babies--remember them. Think of them. This is _my_ work, not yours." Instantly he dashed outside, returning with the axe he had hidden in the wagon. Without a glance in any direction, he strode into the centre of the log lodge, the dark worshippers fell aside, surprised into silence, and the slender Mohawk boy braced his shoulders, lifted his head, and--

"Don't, don't, Wampum, boy!" choked the missionary, "It is wild, it is useless. Stop, oh, stop!"

But he might as well have ordered a hurricane to stop. With a splendid sweep of strong young arms, the boy whirled the axe in a circle above his shoulders and brought it down crashing with full force on the idol. The figure split from top to base, the neck was severed, and the painted wooden head rolled ingloriously to the floor. Then, amid a stony silence, more menacing than any words, the boy stood with squared shoulders and uplifted chin, his fierce beauty more imperial, more majestic, than ever before.

For an instant the black eyes of a hundred Delaware warriors glared at him with hate and bloodshed in their depths. Then, with a furious yell, they turned to their chief for his commands, but old Single-Pine sat with bowed head, his face hidden in his hands, his lips silent. A sullen murmur ran through the throng, but they knew their chief had at last taken the great step into Christianity; and while Wampum yet stood alone and unafraid, his axe in his hand, and the head of the ruined idol at his feet, the entire tribe filed past, and one by one shook hands with the white-haired old missionary, for, as faithful followers of their chief, they, too, must embrace the white man's faith.

It was Fire-Flower who spoke first, touching the boy's hand. Wampum started, as if from a dream.

"Boy," said the old hunter, "I have seen no man so brave."

Wampum shuddered. "My uncle," he said proudly, "I have lived among brave people, but--" here he shuddered again, for he was only a boy, after all. "Oh, how black their eyes were, and how they hated me!"

"They never hated you as much as we love you," returned the old hunter. The word "love" had never passed his lips before, and Wampum knew then that not only had his courageous act brought the blessing of the white man's God, but it had won for him the priceless friendship of this stalwart old Indian, whose wisdom and whose laughter would be shared with him through all his coming life.

The good missionary said never a word as they drove home through the dark, but as they parted for the night he laid his hand silently, gently, on the proud, dark young head. No word was spoken, but the boy knew that a blessing was not always expressed in language, and that there are some kinds of courage that do not need scalps at one's belt to show that one has fought a good fight.

The King Georgeman