The Man with the Iron Hand

by John Carl Parish

CHAPTER VII

THE SECRET COUNCIL

Night came on cold and still. In the river the floating particles of ice grew into a solid sheet until the stream was covered from shore to shore. La Salle, having retired with his men to the quarters assigned, set guards about the lodges and dropped off to sleep. In their own long lodges the Indians rolled up in blankets and dreamed perchance of the warpath and the triumphant return of warriors bearing the scalps of the Iroquois.

In the darkness off to the northeast half a dozen Indians quietly filed along the trail toward the village. They were loaded down with burdens. Into the village they slipped stealthily and came to the lodge of the chief. Soon furtive figures of Indian men were creeping from this lodge and that until the chiefs and warriors had gathered in a secret night council with the strangers from the northeast.

La Salle and his men slept on in peace, while Nicanopé and Omawha and their friends sat in a circle and listened to the words of the nocturnal visitors. Monso, a Mascoutin chief, was the spokesman, and with him were five or six Miamis. The burdens they bore were kettles and hatchets and knives, as presents to accompany the story they had come so secretly to tell to the Illinois. And this was their message. La Salle was a friend of the Iroquois. Even now he was on his way to the enemies of the Illinois on the Great River beyond. He would give these foes arms and ammunition and come back with them from the west while the Iroquois closed in from the east. Thus, surrounded and trapped, the Illinois would meet their ruin. Their only hope was to prevent La Salle from going farther and from joining their enemies on the Mississippi.

Monso told his message with effect; and fear fell upon the men of the Peoria village as they pondered over the warning which had come to them in this weird night council. Beneath the dirt floor of the lodge they buried the presents which Monso had brought. The strangers, having given their disquieting news, slipped out into the dark and disappeared as quietly as they had come; while the Peoria men crept back to their lodges and tried to forget the alarm which Monso had brought into the village.

At the secret council in which Monso and the Miamis told their story there was one who did not share the fear of his fellows; but he said nothing. The chief Omawha sat quietly throughout the council and passed out with his brother chiefs without a word. But in the early morning he came in secret to La Salle and unfolded to him the story of the night.

As on the face of the river that had frozen over since the arrival of the French, there had come by morning a change in the mood of the Illinois Indians. Yesterday they were happy and friendly, full of smiles and good words for La Salle and his dark-skinned companion and the score and more of their men. To-day they were cold and suspicious. They believed Monso and feared—feared for their homes and for the lives of every man, woman, and child of the tribes. The dread of the Iroquois rose fresh in their minds as they saw in the powerful Frenchmen the allies of their enemies. The cold sun of winter rose to its highest in the sky and started on its journey down to the west. Something must be done and at once or they were lost.

Nicanopé sent word to the lodge of La Salle that he was preparing a feast for him and his men. Presently through the streets of the Indian town stalked the strange procession of white men on their way to the feast. From the entrance of every lodge curious Indians watched the visitors pass. Most of them, perhaps, followed the movements of La Salle—long of limb and steadfast of face, with keen eyes, and hair that flowed down over his collar. But many eyes strayed from him to his dark-faced, black-haired companion, who appeared to be second in command and whose right arm as he walked hung by his side with a peculiar heaviness. This man was Henry de Tonty; and in all the Western world there beat no braver heart than his. Nor did the gallant La Salle have truer friend and follower in the troublous days that were at hand.

Besides these two men there were perhaps thirty Frenchmen—some of them weatherbeaten with many years’ experience in the wilds, and some of them young and not long arrived from distant France. Here also were three long-robed and sandaled friars, not gowned in black like Marquette and the lately departed Allouez, but in gray gowns and hoods. One was young and short and vigorous; one was old, yet full of spirit. The third walked with a pompous tread, and a complacent pride sat upon his round face.