“Why, you mustn’t think of doing so, Mr. Hatch,” said Ree. “I do not believe the Indians are really suffering, as yet.”
“They need food, and more than food for their bodies merely,” was the answer. “They are but ignorant savages, but bravely they are bearing all the suffering which comes to them because their strong men have gone forth to fight for what they righteously believe to be their own; and I shall go among them, and even as our illustrious William Penn would do were he alive and here, I shall both feed and teach them.”
Some great change had come over Theodore Hatch. But the day before he would have shown but little interest in any subject save that of the hidden fortune. Now he did not mention it, but bundled up and visited the log stable adjoining the cabin to tell Phœbe his plans, as he had so often told the gentle animal of the treasure, saying over and over again, “All mine—all mine.”
The depth of the snow was so great and the way so difficult that, finding the Quaker determined to follow out the plan he had formed, the two boys agreed that Ree should accompany him, mounted on Neb, while Mr. Hatch rode his own horse. With a generous supply of provisions, therefore, the two set out, leaving John alone to guard the cabin and the Quaker’s prized saddle bags, and to cut and store near the house a stock of wood for the fireplace.
Well-nigh buried beneath the snow, Ree and his companion found the village of the Delawares a desolate place indeed, upon their arrival there after nearly three hours of floundering through great drifts and over fallen trees and brush, the trail being so hidden by its spotless cloak that to follow it closely was quite impossible.
The meat the white men carried to the Indians, however, was really badly needed. It became evident at once that the whole truth had not been revealed to Ree by Gentle Maiden—because of her pride, perhaps—and several of the oldest and most feeble of the Indian men and women were genuinely sick solely for want of food. The children, too, though bearing their suffering with true Indian grit,—not a cry or whimper escaping them,—were most desperately hungry.
“Our dogs knew our distress and their danger, and our women could not come near to them to kill one for eating. Always did they run away, howling or sometimes almost speaking words of fear—or—or woe,” said Gentle Maiden, telling of the suffering of her father’s people, while Ree and Mr. Hatch warmed themselves at the fire in the chief’s cabin. At the same time the girl’s mother was carrying more wood to make a brighter blaze, and the hungry Delawares were feeding themselves ravenously in their own cabins or beside a fire built near the center of the space the irregular collection of huts enclosed.
“Thy father will not travel far through snow so deep,” the Quaker said in answer. “He and his fighting men will be slow in reaching home, therefore. Yet, young friend, I shall come among thee with food for thee and thine until he shall return. Is it true that thou wert taught by the Moravian preachers, my dear?”
“The missionaries trained my tongue to speak the language of the Palefaces. They were very kind. Still their God is not the god of the Indians, my father says. My father has lived long. He knows much.”
The quick intuition of the girl in recognizing the Quaker as one who would wish to teach the Delawares the religion of the white people, and her way of telling him that his efforts would meet with poor appreciation, amused Ree, though he sincerely wished his friend all success.