Chapter VII A Night of Horror
“And so,” Joe concluded his long story, during which the afternoon had waned and the long shadows over the prairies told of the coming night, “we left little Abby behind us and started on again. Father and Mother were terribly sad. Sometimes I was afraid that Mother could not live through it. They seemed awfully nervous and afraid all the time, too. Father never went to bed at night, but sat or lay beside the wagons with Spotty beside him and his gun in his hand, and Mother would not let any of us get away from the wagons.
“It was fearful hot all that time—hotter even than it is to-day—and we had to travel slow on account of the cow. We just plugged along, and then toward night we hauled up beside the road and camped. Nobody had any heart to eat, so it didn’t matter. Once in a while we came to a little town, or some houses, but we seldom stopped. Father seemed in a hurry to get where we were going, and Mother didn’t seem to care about anything. Two or three times we had a scare about Indians, but they never came very near to us. Then one day when it had been so hot and dusty that we were all almost suffocated we saw a kind of a draw ahead and made for it, thinking we would camp there that night. It wasn’t much of a place to camp, but we didn’t see any sign of water anywhere, and Mother was just about beat out.
“Golly, I bet I’ll never forget that evening! We were all feeling mighty miserable. I happened to look off toward the wagon road, and I saw a big cloud of dust. First I thought it was just a whirlwind, and then we were afraid it was Indians. But after a while we made out that it was an emigrant wagon, being driven by a woman. That surprised us a lot. She was driving like the old Harry, and Father ran out toward the road to meet her when we heard her yelling for help. When the wagon came nearer we saw——”
“Stop, stop, oh don’t!” cried the little Princess, covering her eyes with her hands while shudders shook her frame. “Don’t,” she cried again, “I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it! I know—I know the rest!”
“Yes,” Joe took her hand very gently, “you know the rest. It was your wagon—and—and—it brought us—you.”
For a little while all the children were silent. Ruth crept up and put her arm about the little stranger’s waist.
“I guess God sent you to us to be a little sister to us in baby’s place,” she said chokily.
Nina turned and put her arm about her neck.
“Perhaps He did. I never had any sisters or brothers. I’d like to be your sister. I like you.”
“I’m glad,” said honest Ruth, and kissed her.
“So’m I,” cried Lige; but Joe said nothing.
That night when camp was struck the three wagons were drawn into a circle with the horses and cow inside.
Joshua Peniman did not remove his clothing, but having seen his family comfortably disposed, with the strange child in the wagon with his wife and the younger children, he stretched himself out beside the wagons, with Spotty near him and his musket by his side. Joe refused to go to his place in his own wagon, but lay down beside his father.
The prairies looked vast and still under the glimmering starlight with no sound but the sough of the wind through the grass and the occasional howling of a coyote. For a long time he lay awake, some vague, haunting uneasiness upon him. Twice he sprang up, his musket leveled, every nerve and muscle strained to attention.
They had agreed that Mr. Peniman was to take the first watch of the night and Joe the second. At two o’clock Joe woke, and seeing his father patrolling up and down beside the wagons insisted that he should go to bed. This the weary man refused to do, but wrapping himself in his blankets lay down upon the ground.
Joe sat beside him, his gun leaning against his knees, and looked up at the silent stars, feeling them companions in his loneliness.
It was between two and three o’clock, and he was beginning to doze, when a low, ominous growl from Spotty caused him to start wide awake, his gun clenched in his hand.
Spotty was standing, stiff-legged, the hair on his neck raised, his lips drawn back showing his teeth, growling deeply and staring into the shadows back of the wagons.
Joe did not move, but remained motionless listening.
Presently he heard a soft rustling in the grass.
A moment later by the light of the stars he made out a dim silhouette creeping toward the wagons.
“Stop,” he cried, “or I’ll shoot!”
Instantly Joshua Peniman was on his feet.
“What is it?” he whispered huskily.
“Man—Indian—over there by the wagons!”
The whispered words had scarcely left his lips when an arrow whizzed by his ear.
Instantly Joshua Peniman’s gun, leveled at the point from which the arrow came, barked through the darkness. The shot was answered by a wild, shrill whoop, and suddenly the night seemed to be filled with flitting figures.
Joe’s gun was at his shoulder, and as one huge naked savage leaped at his father he fired. The Indian fell with a groan, but almost before he had touched the ground another had taken his place, rushing toward the white man with uplifted tomahawk and blood-curdling yell. He was almost upon him when a sharp “crack” spoke from the back of one of the wagons, and the Indian dropped and lay motionless, while Lige, half-dressed, leaped out and ran to his father’s side.
Sam on the seat of Joe’s wagon held the rifle firmly at his shoulder. His freckled face was very pale, but the blue eyes were shining in a way that boded ill to the Indian who should come within range of the old rifle.
In the opening of the big wagon, between its curtains stood Hannah Peniman, her revolver in her hand. Her face was white and set, but the hand that held the weapon did not tremble.
The night was now hideous with yells. With the blood-curdling war-whoop that had carried terror to the hearts of so many early settlers on the plains the Indians were now circling about the camp, watching their opportunity to break through.
Suddenly from somewhere in the distance rose another cry. The heart of Joshua Peniman almost died in his breast.
“Another band!” he muttered, as he crowded down the charge in the old musket. Their case had seemed hopeless before, but they had firearms while the savages seemed to be armed only with bows and arrows, and might have had a chance. But if another band of savages joined those already upon them——
“Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!” rang the cry through the night.
The Indians who were creeping up toward the wagons suddenly paused and stood still. Some sudden instinct made Joe raise his musket and fire into the air. Then at the top of his lungs shout, “Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!”
He had no idea from whom the cry had come, whether from white man or Indian, friend or foe; but some sure instinct told him that whoever they might be their presence was unwelcome to the marauders.
While the sound of his shot and cry were still reverberating in the air there came a swift rush from the darkness outside the circle of wagons, and in the starlight they could make out the naked outlines of a band of Indians who made a rush for the wagons.
In the terror and excitement of the moment they did not notice that one of the band separated himself from the rest, and slipping into the shadows made his way noiselessly as a serpent to the rear of the Carroll wagon, where he climbed under the curtain and was lost to view.
Joshua Peniman uttering a warning shout sprang to the front of the wagon in which were his wife and younger children, with the child of the deceased Carrolls. Hannah Peniman was guarding the rear of the wagon, her revolver cocked and ready in her hand, while Joe and Lige at the front and back of the other wagon were making good use of their firearms, and Sam, standing up in the front was banging away with the rifle as fast as he could load and fire.
As the Indians rushed toward them it looked for a moment to the travelers as if all hope was lost. At the moment when the savages burst through their guard the shrill “Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!” again smote upon their ears, and an instant later the sound of wild yelps and thundering hoofs was all about them, and another band of Indians, mounted and in full war panoply, burst into the encampment.
The travelers thought their last hour had come.
“To the wagons, to the wagons!” shouted Joshua Peniman. “Inside, Sam! Lige, help thy mother guard the rear! To me, to me, Joe! We must try to keep them away from this wagon at least! Now, is thee ready? Fire!”
As his words rang out above the tumult a tawny chief with eagle feathers in his hair, who was riding by, checked his horse so abruptly that he threw it back upon its haunches. He cast a swift, searching look at the man and boys who stood so resolutely before their wagons, and suddenly threw up his hand. Riding toward them he waved a piece of white cloth above his head, then halted his horse before them.
“Is thee a Quaker?” he surprised them by asking in fairly good English.
“Yes, I am,” replied Joshua Peniman, looking not at all like a Quaker with his wild, disordered hair, his set white face and his gun at his shoulder. In the excitement of the moment he had no time to think of the strangeness, the incongruity of the question. All he could think of was that for some unknown reason the other Indians seemed to have drawn off, and for a moment at least there appeared to be a pause in the savage onslaught.
The Indian who had spoken to him whirled his pony about and shouted a few words in a language they could not understand. Instantly there came a wild yelp in answer, and a moment later there was the clamor of a battle cry, the wild thundering of hoofs, the crash of blows, the uproar of battle. Before the horrified pioneers knew what was happening the sound of battle began to recede from them, had grown faint and fainter, had died away across the plain, and the night was still about them.
Even then they could not realize that they had been saved; that death—horrible death—and worse than death—had in some miraculous way been averted from them.
They expected momentarily that the savages would return. Joshua Peniman and the boys reloaded their muskets. Mr. Peniman snatching the axe from the wagon laid it beside him. Joe slipped a long sharp knife inside his belt.
Strangely enough none of them spoke. The moment was too tense, the struggle for life too imminent for words.
Moments passed. The shrill yelps and cries grew fainter and fainter and finally died away.
An intense, silent half hour went by. Then Joshua Peniman lowered his gun to the ground and looked about him.
“I believe they have gone!” he whispered.
“I believe so too!” replied Joe in the same tone.
“Keep on guard. I’ll look around.”
Cautiously and with musket ready he made a tour around the wagons.
Two Indians, both dead, lay in the grass not far away, but there was no sign of any living creature about the place but themselves.
He returned to the wagons relieved but perplexed.
What did it mean? He could not account for it.
“They appear to be gone,” he said. “For the life of me I cannot understand what happened, but somehow, by God’s merciful providence, we have been spared.”
“But how—why—why did they go away like that?” Joe demanded. “Does thee think they will return, Father?”
“It is a most mysterious proceeding. I do not know what to think of it. But I scarcely think they will return—at least not immediately.”
The children, who had been hidden under the wagon seats covered with blankets, now crept out, still too terrified to speak.
“I don’t believe they’ll come back,” said Joe, who had been thinking hard. “Do you know, Father, I believe that there must have been two tribes. I believe they are at war with one another, and that the last ones that came—those that came on horseback—drove the others away. They didn’t come together. There weren’t many of those Indians that attacked us first, and they came on foot. We would have heard horses, but they crept up on us like shadows. If Spotty hadn’t warned us we might all have been murdered in our sleep. I didn’t hear a sound until he began to growl.”
“Nor I either,” answered his father. “Thee may be right.” Then suddenly for the first time the peculiarity of the question that the big chief had asked him flashed into his mind. “Why, I guess thee is right, Joe,” he cried. “That big fellow with the eagle feathers in his hair held up a flag of truce. He asked me if I was a Quaker! I never thought about it until this moment. How strange—how passing strange! How did he guess—how could he know—it must have been he who saved us!” Then suddenly catching sight of his wife’s deathly face he turned to her. “Go lie down, Hannah, thee is all used up. The danger is past for the time. What ever miraculous interposition of God’s mercy saved us it seems clear that we are saved. Our enemies have gone and we can sleep in peace. Go to thy rest, too, Joe. Thee has done well. I feel that I have a real man to depend on in these trying times.”
The look in his eyes, the pressure of the hand on his shoulder, sent Joe away to bed with a warm glow in his heart.
Presently the camp was still again, and Joshua Peniman patrolled up and down and all about it, with his musket over his shoulder and Spotty at his heels until the rosy glow of morning was tinting the eastern sky.
Just before sunrise he received a severe shock, when looking across the pathless prairies toward the north he saw an Indian riding toward him.
For many moments he watched the advancing figure. When it came within musket range he raised his gun to his shoulder and shouted:
“Stop, or I’ll fire!”
The Indian did not check his pony, but held up a bit of white rag. As he came nearer, riding his pony as erect and motionless as a bronze statue, the pioneer saw with a start that it was the Indian who had spoken to him the night before.
“How!” he said, bringing his pony to a halt before the white man and sliding down from its back.
“How!” answered Joshua Peniman, answering the western salutation.
The Indian came closer.
“You Quaker, eh?”
Wondering, the white man answered as he had answered the night before, “Yes, I am.”
“Me Quaker too.”
“You? You a Quaker?”
A grave smile broke over the impassive, copper-colored face.
“Me Neowage, Chief Winnebagoes. Live Omaha Reservation. Friends’ Mission.”
“Oh-h!” A great light began to dawn on Joshua Peniman. “Oh, you are one of the tribe who were put in charge of the Friends’ Mission?1 Then it was you who saved us last night?”
The big chief nodded.
“Me hear you say ‘thee’ to you boy. Me know you Friend.”
“And because I was a Friend you saved me—me and my family! Oh, Friend, I thank thee!”
He stepped forward and grasped the Indian’s hand.
With a dignity equal to his own the chief shook it warmly.
“Friends good people. Good heart. Good friend to Winnebagoes.”
“Then you are a Winnebago? Who were the others—those Indians that attacked us?”
“Dirty Sioux.” He turned and spurned the dead body in the grass with his foot.
“Ah, they were Sioux, eh? Are the Sioux hostile to white men?”
“Sioux bad Indian. Heap bad heart. Winnebago good Indian. Heap white man’s friend.”
“I am glad, glad indeed to hear it. You don’t know how you relieve my anxious heart. But how did it happen that you came to our aid so opportunely last night?”
The Indian folded his arms across his brawny chest.
“My tribe war with Sioux,” he said. “Heap much trouble now. Inkpaducah on war-path. Kill heap white men. Me hear gun, know trouble. My young men on war-path. Fight Sioux all time. Me come, drive Sioux away.”
“God be thanked you did come. You saved our lives. How can I thank you?”
The Indian waved his hand with a royal gesture. As his keen eyes roved about the encampment they fell upon a scrap of paper which lay under the Carroll wagon. He strode over to it and picked it up, then remained gazing at the ground for some minutes.
The wagons stood backed up to the edge of the ravine, and back of them the ground was soft, in some places muddy.
Neowage pointed silently. Joshua Peniman hurried to his side.
“White man print,” he grunted, indicating a well-defined footmark in the muddy earth at the back of the Carroll wagon.
Joshua Peniman stooped and examined it carefully.
The sharp edges of a hard leather sole and the imprint of a boot heel were plainly discernible.
A white man!
With perplexed face he stood staring at the imprint.
That Indians might attack them was perfectly understandable, but that a white man should be among them—that a white man was one of those howling demons who had set upon his camp the night before—was a thing that he could not understand.
Neowage glanced sharply at his feet.
“Not you mark?”
“No, I was not near the back of that wagon. It was unoccupied. And you see that is a much larger foot than mine.”
“You boy?”
“No, my boys are all going barefooted.”
“Who?”
“I wish I knew.”
The Indian was turning the scrap of paper he had picked up under the wagon over and over in his hands.
“Tore,” he said, pointing to the ragged edges.
Mr. Peniman took the paper and scrutinized it carefully. It was but a small scrap, and its edges showed that it had been torn recently and hastily. As he turned it over the words: “and the said Lee C. Carroll——” caught his eye.
With a strange leap of his pulses he turned and ran to the Carroll wagon.
As he threw aside the rear curtain and looked in he uttered a loud exclamation.
The inside of the neatly-arranged wagon was in chaos, trunks torn open, boxes and bundles rifled of their contents, clothes, books, papers scattered about; and the dispatch-box, placed in the hands of Nina Carroll by her dying mother, which contained all her money, deeds, papers, and all the information that had been left her regarding herself and her parents and the relatives to whom she was to be sent—was gone!
Notes
1 During the year 1856-1857 the Winnebago tribe, being much depleted by continual wars with the Sioux and Arapahoes, sought protection at the Reservation in Omaha. There the remnants of the tribe were put under the protection of the Friends’ Mission, and many of them became converts to the faith.—SHELDON’S History of Nebraska.