The road was not much of a road. Rather, it was an Indian trail, broadened by white men, who had hewed down the great trees that had stood along it, making a rutted stump-encumbered mudhole-filled passage, through which a wagon must move slowly and perilously. Once started along it the teamster must go on. There was no place to turn aside and few places when it was possible to turn back.
Jack had no thought of turning back. He was pressing forward with feverish haste. Fort Wayne was eighty miles way—a four days’ journey which Jack hoped to make in three. He was wild to seek his kinswoman before it was too late. But he could not shirk his self-appointed task. The departure of Tecumseh and his braves for the north to join the British warned him anew that war was imminent and that ammunition might be sorely needed in the fort. As a matter of fact war had already been declared and couriers were speeding north, west, and south from Washington bearing the news. One was about to find General Hull at Fort Findlay, which he had just built in the middle of the Black Swamp.
Throughout the long afternoon Alagwa lay quiet in the wagon, steadily gaining her physical strength though not attaining any great degree of mental quietude. Her brain, in fact, was whirling. Within two days she had passed through experiences more outside her usual routine than she had undergone in all her life before. First had come Captain Brito with his claims of kinship and his tales of another land; then had followed Tecumseh’s narration of the circumstances under which she had come under his care, her appeal to be allowed to help those who had helped her, and her assignment to duty; next had come her disguise, her start southward, its tragic ending and her finding of the young white chief, her kinsman; last had been the meeting of the two white men and the illuminating discourse between them. Over all hung the memory of the runner who was trailing her through the forest, ready to bear her messages to Tecumseh and her friends.
Most of all her thoughts centered on Jack and Brito. Much of their talk she had been unable to understand, but certain parts of it had been burnt into her consciousness. First, she had great possessions—possessions greatly coveted by white men. Tecumseh had said that all white men would commit any crime to get wealth; and she had accepted his statement as a general fact not to be disputed. All her life she had been taught to believe it. And now these two white men, her kinsmen, had in a way confirmed it, for each clearly believed that the other was seeking her, not for her own sake, but for what was hers.
Could both be right, she wondered? Could both have bad hearts and forked tongues? She remembered that Captain Brito had not told her of her possessions but had pretended that he had come for her as a matter of duty. His words concerning this had been forked, and she found it easy to believe that they would be forked concerning other things. But the other—the young white chief! Was he false also? No doubt he was, she decided scornfully; his clear eyes and frank brow were merely a disguise behind which he could best gain his ends. All white men were bad and he was no exception. She was a prisoner and she would probably be in his company for some time to come. By the aid of her boy’s disguise (Ah! But she was thankful for it) she would find him out—would find that he, too, was seeking her for her wealth. Then she could hate him as she should.
Tired of lying prone she tried to sit up and managed to do so without feeling the access of dizziness and pain that had attended her former effort. She moved silently, as she had been trained to do by her life with the Indians, and her change of position did not attract the notice of Williams, who was driving stolidly along. Almost instantly, however, the rear of the wagon was darkened by a horse’s head and above it she saw the smiling blue eyes of the young chief.
“Well, youngster!” he called, merrily. “How are you? Feeling better?”
Color flooded the girl’s cheeks as she gazed at him. He was even pleasanter-looking than her memory had told her. From his broad forehead to his square, resolute chin and smiling, trustful mouth, he was all she could have hoped. She felt her carefully nurtured distrust melting and strove to call it back.
“Yes,” she answered, with a sudden catch of her breath. “Yes. Better.”
“That’s good.” Jack pushed back his hat and wiped away the perspiration that stood upon his brow. “You are not much hurt, really,” he went on. “The bullet cut the artery of your leg and you lost a whole lot of blood; in fact, you were pretty nearly drained dry before I could stop it. Except for that it didn’t do much harm, and as soon as you get back your strength you’ll be up and about.”