At War with Pontiac; Or, The Totem of the Bear: A Tale of Redcoat and Redskin

by Kirk Munroe

A few hours later the body of Major Hester, wrapped in the flag he had served so faithfully, was laid to rest in the presence of a thousand Indians, whose friend he had ever been, and over his grave a file of Ottawa warriors fired the echoing volley that betokened their respect for his rank.

Then was Donald led away to Pontiac's own lodge, where, in pursuance of the plan already formed, his entire body was stained a rich coppery brown and he was, in other ways, carefully disguised as an Ottawa warrior. It was given out that Atoka was to be sent as a runner to announce Pontiac's recent victory to distant tribes and to solicit their aid in carrying on the war. It was also whispered that he was to be accompanied by a member of the Metai, who should proclaim the dread curse of the magic circle against Mahng, the Ojibwa, and all who should give him aid. As the proceedings of this mysterious order were always conducted in secret, no one was surprised that the identity of its messenger was not disclosed, nor that his departure should be made at night unseen of all men save only Pontiac, chief of the Metai.

So greatly did Mahng dread the wrath of Pontiac, that from the first he took every precaution to conceal the traces of his flight. Thus Donald was obliged to set forth on this renewed search for his lost sister without an idea of what course to pursue. He only knew that the country of the Ojibwas lay to the north, and so in this direction were his steps first directed.

For many weeks did he and Atoka travel by land and over the waters of the Great Lakes, down swift rushing streams, along dim trails and through weary leagues of pathless forest, where they were only guided by that instinct of woodcraft which, in an Indian, ranks with the keenest of his senses. To Saginaw and Thunder Bay they went, to Michilimackinac and L'abre Croche, even to the far northern Sault of Ste. Marie, without finding those whom they sought. In every Indian village and camp, in every forest lodge, and to the lone hunter, whenever they crossed his trail, did they proclaim the dread message of the Metai by which Mahng, the Ojibwa, was outcast forever.

The uninitiated listened with fear and trembling; but everywhere they found brave warriors and stately chiefs, who gave the answer of the magic circle:—

"He is cursed. Let him be cursed," and did everything possible to speed their errand.

In all this time they found no sign, nor until they began to retrace their steps did they gain tidings of their quest. Now, here and there, they began to come across trembling wretches who had been with Mahng on that fatal night, but whom the terrible, far-reaching curse had since driven terror-stricken from him. Of these they learned that he had, from the first, made his way to the south to the country of the Shawnees, who had at first received him kindly. Then, as the dread sentence of the Metai reached those remoter parts, he was driven from camp to camp until there was none who dared give him shelter or aid. So he turned to the far west with a purpose of joining the fierce Dacotahs beyond the great river.

Following this faint clue, Donald and Atoka crossed Lake Michigan, ascended Green bay and the swift waters of the Fox until they could portage into the wide torrent of the Wisconsin. This they purposed to descend to the Mississippi, on whose banks they hoped for further news.

One day in the late autumn they came to a place where they must needs carry around a great fall, the roar of whose plunging waters could be heard for miles through the silent forest. From their landing Donald entered the narrow trail of the carry first, bearing the canoe on his head and shoulders, while Atoka followed after a slight delay, with their rifles and scanty camp equipage. At the highest point of the carry the pathway, barely wide enough for the passage of two persons, skirted the very brink of the awful precipice over which thundered the cataract.

Here Donald came suddenly face to face with a slight figure, bending beneath a burden, whom he instantly recognized as Ah-mo, the daughter of Pontiac. At the same moment a man emerged from behind a point of rock a few paces beyond her, whom Donald knew by instinct to be Mahng. Hurling his burden from him, careless of its fate, and shouting the anathema of the Metai, the avenger sprang past the crouching girl to grapple with his mortal foe. But the latter did not await him. With the terrible words he had so long dreaded to hear ringing in his ears, he turned to fly, slipped on the wet rocks, clutched wildly at the empty air, and pitched headlong into the awful depths of the seething caldron a hundred feet below.