A skillful hunter, a brave warrior, the greatest chief of the Illinois, Chassagoac lay dying. Five years ago he had known Father Marquette, and now just a little while ago he had been baptized by one of the gray-robed friars who belonged to the band of his friend La Salle. But as his death came on, it was to his own people that he turned. The manitou of the French was so far away, while the medicine men of his tribe were so near. So they gathered about him with their dances and their incantations; they made passes over his body and muttered strange words; they lifted their eyes and their voices toward the four winds of the heavens; and they waved rattles in a vain effort to appease the spirit that sought to rob them of their chief. It was useless. Chassagoac had looked about him for the last time. For a moment it was quiet in the lodge. Then a long despairing wail rent the air; and outside among the lodges every man and woman and child knew that the spirit of the great Chassagoac had gone out of him forever.
CHAPTER XIII
THE IROQUOIS COME
The level stretch of land along the north bank of the Illinois River, where lay the lodges of the Kaskaskias, swarmed with hundreds of Indian braves who were eager to be off into the woods and across the plains. What was so stupid as life among the lodges with the women and old men when the far-off wilds called them, when streams might carry their pirogues into lands where their enemies lay sleeping and unwatchful, when the trails to north and south and east and west might lead them into woods and fields where bountiful game would fall before their arrows? Why should the white chief make so serious objection? Other bands had set off some days before in spite of his protests.
No one had seen signs of the Iroquois, and the alarm raised so often began to lose its terror. Besides, was Tonty such a good prophet after all? He had told them that La Salle would return by the end of May, and now May had long been gone and sure tidings had come that La Salle was dead.
It was not yet fall. Across the river the leaves of the trees, still fresh and green, were turning and rippling in the winds. Even the sound of their whispering said to the Indians: “Soon we will be dropping off and the frosts will come. Hunting is good. Come away into the woods.” And they went.
September found not half the warriors left in the village; but Tonty and his three young men were still there. The two gray-robed Recollets—one short and sturdy and young, and the other who had seen the seasons change as often as the old men in the village—withdrew to a cabin in the midst of a field some distance from the town. La Salle had not come back; nor had the round-faced priest, who strutted so pompously down to the water’s edge in February and paddled off with Ako and the Picard toward the sunset.
The Indians hoped Tonty would continue to stay with them. More than four months he had lived in their midst, and now it was twice that time since he had first come into their valley. He dealt with them honestly and without fear, and he had taught them many new ways. The Illinois were archers whose fame had spread throughout the length and breadth of the valley of the Mississippi; but Tonty had shown them how to use the guns that spat fire and dropped a foe while the bow was bending—the guns that made the Iroquois so dreaded.
In spite of privation and discouragement, desertions and loss of friends, Tonty gave no sign that he had lost heart. If only the Indians could hear again the reassuring words of the lamented Chassagoac and forget the warnings of his still suspicious brother, Nicanopé, they could learn to trust the French and to love this white leader like a brother.
Once Tonty had set off in a canoe to see if he could learn at the settlement at Mackinac some news of his chief who all people said was dead. The Indians protested against his departure, but in vain. He did not go far, however, for the river was at that time so low that he ran upon shoals and was obliged to return to the village.