On the Border with Andrew Jackson

by John T. McIntyre

For a space after the sonorous voice of Weatherford had died away there was a silence. The circle of fantastically painted and befeathered Indians remained as still as graven images; then the Shawnee chieftain spoke:

“We are glad that the great chief Weatherford speaks with the voice of welcome. We are glad that the chiefs and the old men of the Muscogee greet us with kindness. It is well; for the blood of the Muscogee runs warm in my veins. Many suns have passed since we left the hunting grounds of our tribe to seek council with our brothers; the trails have been long, the rivers swift, the mountain passes hard; but we are here, and we are heavy with the message of the red man’s wrongs.”

Again there was a silence, and then Tecumseh went on:

“It is well that my voice is only for the ears of the old men. For they are wise, and will judge well of what I have to say. Young men are quick, but they have no wisdom; they are strong when the war-whoop sounds, for their knives and tomahawks are keen, and their arrows straight. But in the council they are like young bears. My words are the wisdom of the Muscogee; let the old men give ear.”

Elskwatawa sat silently while his brother spoke. As became a wonder-worker, he was decked with the teeth and claws of bears and hill-cats; a string made up of skulls of squirrels hung from his neck. Totems and charms were plentifully distributed about his person; a broad band, made of the skin of a rattlesnake, was bound about his brow. The lank hair of this sinister looking savage hung down over his shoulders; his eyes were keen and restless. While those of all the others who made up the savage circle were fixed upon Tecumseh, his were darting here and there, restlessly. More than once they shifted in the direction of the fallen gum tree; and each time Running Elk warningly nudged the white boys crouched at his side.

But Jack Davis feared no danger; he noted from time to time the wandering glance of the Prophet; but he felt sure that the savage, no matter how keen his vision, could not penetrate the thick shadows thrown by the branches and stem of the fallen tree.

Tecumseh began to speak in a sing-song voice; item by item he took the aggressions of the paleface; wrong by wrong he took the deeds against his people. On the bravery of the red man he dwelt fervently; of the treachery and evil-doing of the whites he spoke with a tongue of scorn. Bit by bit the tide of his anger grew; key by key his voice lifted until it was shrill with fury. His savage audience was stirred profoundly by his recital; their customary stoicism was gradually shaken off; his rage infected them; they swayed their bodies to and fro, their plumes nodding in the fire-glow.

The interest and attention of Jack Davis was almost equal to that of the Creeks; he leaned forward, drinking in the utterances of the Shawnee eagerly.

“And now,” spoke Tecumseh, “at last the end has come. Suns have risen and gone down upon the white man’s advance, and the red man’s retreat before him. Moons have begun and moons have ended, and more and more the forest rings with the stroke of the axe which means death to the hunting grounds of our fathers. The march of the white man is the march of an evil spirit; the red man must stop this march or his day is done; he must stop it or he will find his grave on the great plains, in the shadow of those mountains beyond which lies another sea.”

The sound of the last word still lingered in the air when the Prophet suddenly leaped erect; his tomahawk was snatched from his belt, his right arm went back like lightning. There was a whistling hum of the weapon as it flew through the air; then the sharp blade bit deep into a branch of the gum tree close to Jack Davis’ head.