Buckskin, before answering his young comrade, pondered on the scene before him. In the hollow nestling at the foot of the hill and clasped in the bend of the river lay the large Indian village, all astir with motion and excitement. But it seemed not to be the fever of war and slaughter which so often convulses the aboriginal man, but a jubilee of mirth and innocent delight. They were looking down on one of the most considerable towns of the Seneca tribe in western New York, near what is now Olean. Hurrying through the village streets, laughing groups of dark-skinned youths and maids carried wreaths of wild-flowers, branches of trees, and great sheaves of maize-stalks toward a lofty pole which towered in the centre.
"To think I shouldn't 'a' known quick as powder flashin'" finally said Buckskin John, whose iron face and tanned skin showed his occupation no less than his garb. "It's the Feast of the Green Corn[2] among these Iroquois devils, an' then they're allus as frisky as so many lambs. They put off the wolf-skin for a while, but they keep it mighty handy, I kin tell ye."
"Perhaps it'll give us a better chance to try our luck," answered Mark, whose face was that of a lad of sixteen, though his height and the sturdy square of his chest looked older. He wrung his hands excitedly, and continued, with a quiver in his voice, shaking his long rifle in the direction of the village: "What can we do? I shall go crazy if we fail. Mother's grievin' to death, fadin' each month into a mere shadder. 'Twas all right till last year, Buckskin, and she showed no sign but what she'd a'most forgot about our lost Nellie. Then we heard of the little white gal in Cornplanter's village, and that he was the very chief who made the raid when we lived at Fort Pitt. Then Cunnel Johnson over to Fort Niagara, though he did fight agin us in the late war, came to see Cornplanter six months ago. An' the chief would say nuthin' but that the little gal, whoever her parents were, was no longer white, but Indian, his adopted sister, whom he loved dearer than life. That broke mother's heart, for she began to pine soon as she found as Cornplanter ud never let the captive free."
Mark's brief rehearsal did scant justice to a typical drama of the border. Six years before, during the early days of the Revolutionary war, a war party of the Senecas had made an irruption into western Pennsylvania, and among their captives was a girl of four years old belonging to the Lytte family. The great chief, who shares with Red Jacket the highest mark in Seneca tradition, took the trembling captive to his mother with the words:
"My mother, I bring to you a daughter to supply the place of my brother, killed by the Lenapé six moons ago. She shall dwell in my lodge and be my sister." So little Eleanor Lytte became Ma-za-ri-ta, "the Ship under Full Sail," so named from her joyous and energetic disposition.
"Waal, we'll have to go slow," Buckskin had answered his companion. "I'll resk my topknot to help ye, lad, but we'll see how the lan' lays." The old hunter knew that at this festival-time hospitality would be flung with both hands to all comers. So they moved down the hill into the main village street, where a tall Indian, with all the insignia of a great sagamore in his tattooing, head-dress, and port, received them with a grave welcome.
"My white brothers have come to the green-corn feast of the Senecas. They are welcome. Our hearts are glad, and all we have is theirs." Then he ordered his guests conducted to a well-built log house, where a generous provision for all their wants was found. They had scarcely satisfied their simple needs when the music of Indian flutes and drums drew them to the door, and there they found the messenger ready to conduct them to the "long house," where the procession was forming which would begin the festivities.
MA-ZA-RI-TA LED THE CHANT AS THEY DANCED ABOUT THE PILLAR.
Foremost, hand in hand with the chief, was a brilliant little figure, a girl about ten years old. With a skin naturally snow-white, but now kissed to a ruddy hue by the sunshine, and long brown plaits glittering with the most brilliant beads; petticoat and bodice of the finest broadcloth, and around her neck and shoulders rows of silver brooches and strings of white and purple wampum; on her feet deer-skin moccasins embroidered with porcupine quills, contrasting with the scarlet leggings above—Ma-za-ri-ta looked indeed the fit princess of the revels. The pride which shone in Cornplanter's eyes, the admiration with which all the Indians gazed on the dancing girl—for her feet had already begun to move to a nimble measure—struck a chill to the heart of Mark, for it seemed a portent of sure defeat. Her blue eyes sparkled with joy as she danced in the van, followed by the Seneca girls in pairs, all attired in gala dress, and with wreaths of flowers on their heads. Then came Cornplanter and his lesser chiefs, the warriors, the squaws, and the children, and the march advanced to the pole in the centre of the village, shaped in a square enclosure, that painted pole horribly etched with the scars of innumerable tomahawks when the frenzy of war-dancing made it the symbol of the enemy's body. Now the great mast was belted thick with greenery to its very top, corn-stalks with pendent ears, bunches of golden-rod, and all the richest spoil of the thickets and meadows. Ma-za-ri-ta's sweet voice, as the dance of the maidens gyrated more and more swiftly about the gorgeous pillar, led the chant among the more shrill and unmusical notes of her companions.