“Do you ever fight them?”
“When they are not too many. The braves of Wampset have often sent them howling back to their lodges. But when we are weak and they are strong, we hide in the bush. Sassacus, sachem of the Pequods, would give much wampum for the scalp of Wampset.”
“Does Wampset love the white chiefs at Windsor?”
“Wampset can not love the men who tread upon the graves of his fathers. The Pequods are my enemies. By day and night they watch for the camp-fires of Wampset; but they are brave, and they are Indians. Is the white man owner of the soil? Did he receive it as an inheritance? No; it is the land of the Indian. Pequod or Narragansett, Mohawk or Nipmuck, it is theirs! No, Wampset does not love white men; but the young chief who saved my life in battle is my friend. I will aid him, if it is in my power.”
“I must not stay,” said Carl. “There is work before me. I will go out toward the fort, and you must follow with your braves. Give me a token by which I may pass your warriors in safety.”
The chief unclasped a wampum bracelet from his brawny arm, and fastened it upon that of his young friend. “The Nipmuck doesn’t live,” said he, “who would lay a finger upon the man who wears this. Go in peace.”
Carl rose, took up his rifle and left the lodge. His horse was tied to a post near the door. He mounted and rode away toward the east. Wampset looked after him with a half-sigh, for he saw in him a type of the men before whom his nation was fading like dew in the sunshine.
Carl pursued his way until he struck the river a few miles from Windsor. There was something peculiar in the temper of this young man. He was relentless to his enemies—eager for their blood; but true as steel to his friends. In his code, nothing was too much to do for the man who had saved his life. To risk his own seemed to him a duty which he must perform. Young as he was, he was a fit tool for such work as Joseph Van Zandt assigned him. He had fled from the old country with the blood of a brother on his hands—shed in a moment of anger. Others had felt his steel, and the story had never been told. He thought it an easy way to pay his debt to Joseph, merely by taking the life of William Barlow.
Approaching the trading-post, he paused and considered. He felt quite certain that he might enter the place without fear, as there had been no open rupture between the commandants of the two posts. But he was naturally of a suspicious disposition, a feeling which is common to such natures as his.
He finally rode into the place and was kindly received. He gave them to understand that he had been out upon a scout at the command of Van Curter, and had been chased by a part of the band of Wampset. They knew that the young German was an active scout, and thought nothing of the story. Willie and Boston Bainbridge had not yet come in. After finding out all he cared to know, Carl rode away toward Good Hope, upon the trail usually pursued by travelers. Once out of sight of the village, he went aside from the path, took down his rifle and looked at the priming, and sat down beside the trail, with a look of grim determination upon his face.