Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 182, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 August 1914 — The MAID of the FOREST [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The MAID of the FOREST

By RANDALL PARRISH

D.J.LAWJ cofiY/t/cnr a. c./v?clu/?<? &

SYNOPSIS. Joseph Hayward, an ensign In the Cnited States army, on his way to Fort Haxmar, meets Simon Glrty. a renegade Whose name, has been connected with all manner of atrocities, also headed for Fort Harmar, with a message from the , British general, Hamilton. Hayward guides him to the fort. At General Harxnar’s headquarters Hayward meets Bene D’Auvray, who professes to recognize him, although he has no recollection of ever having seen her before. Hayward volunteers to carry a message for Harmar to Sandusky, where Hamilton is stationed. The northwest Indian tribes > are ready for war .and are only held’hack by the refusal of the friendly Wyandot* to join. Th 6 latter are demanding the return of Wa-pa-tee-tah. a religious teacher, whom they believe to be a prUfoner. Hayward s mission Is to assure the Wyandot* that the man la not held by the soldiers. Rene asks Hayward to ,let .her accompany him. She tells him that she is a quarter-blood Wyandot and a missionary, among the Indians. She has been In search of her father. She Insists that she ha* seen Hayward before, but In a British uniform. Hayward refuses her request and ' start* for the north accompanied by a scout named Brady and a private soldier. They come on the trail of a war party and to escape from the Indians take shelter In a hut on an Island. Hayward finds a murdered man In the hut. It proves to be Raoul D’Auvray, a former French officer who Is called by the Wyandot* "white chief.” Rene appear* and Hayward 1* puzzled by her lnslatance that they have met before. Rene recognize* the murdered man as her father, who was known among the Indian* as Wa-pa-tee-tah. She tells Hayward her father was exiled front the •French court and had spent hi* life ’ among the Indiana a* a missionary.

CHAPTER IX.—Continued. “Yes, Monsieur Brady, hut unknown to them, even to Girty himself. They know me—l 6e Miamls —and I have no fear even of their young men when painted for war." She ipoke simply, clearly, as if she would conceal nothing., “This was my father's cabin. No one knew of it but me —not even Simon Girty. It was reported at Fort Harmar that he waa dead; I did not know, yet it was that vague report which made me so eager to get back to my own people; made me reckless enough to risk the trail in company with the white renegade. I do not fear, but I despise him. Yesterday, we came upon that raiding party, and must needs join them as they journeyed our way.” “What settlements had they attacked?” “Those of the Moravians; they had scalps and booty.” “And their chief?" "Black Horse, an outlaw of the Ojlbwas; Girty knew him.” “You left them when?" “I hardly know, monsieur,” glancing toward me, “perhaps two hours ago; I had forgotten time. They kept no guard, for there had been no pursuit, nor any sign of danger. It was easy to slip away unseen. None among them knew of this place, not even Girty, and 1 came alone. There was nothing for me to fear; I knew the way, and I had faith I should find my father.” "This Is the i truth?' The whole truth?” “Oul, monsieur,” and bowed her head. “Then you know nothing of any new arrivals at the camp? There were some expected?” "1. am sure not," her aroußed interest apparent in her voice. “Did others Join them? Who were they, monsieur?”

Brady looked at her searchlngly, leaning on his gun, the lines of his face Item. I could not forbear stepping forward beside her. / "Never you mind speaking,' Master Hayward,” he said shortly. “The girl needs no defender; I believe what she says. Now listen, both of you, and see what you make of it. I was within twenty yards of their -camp, at the edge of the underbrush, and could see clearly all that occurred about the fire. There was nf guard set, but the prisoner lay between twy Indians, so that any attempt at rescue was impossible. I could not tell Just how many were in the band, for some were lying well back beyond the range of light I saw Olrty* however, get up and put wood on the flame. I had sight drawn on the devil, yet dared not fire: Then he lay down again, and I crept around toward where he had disappeared, thinking J might use a knife to rid the world of such a beast But before I could reach him there came along the shore a considerable body of Indians. The sand made no Bound, and they passed so close to where I lay one fellow stepped upon my hand. Yet they passed by. trooping into the camp, and I counted thirty.” "Of what tribe, monsieur?” “From the Wabash. I caught words in the language of the Shawnees. They had a white man with them.” "A prisoner?” “No; he talked with Glrty in English, and then to the savages in their own tongue. J could only catch a word now and then I could understand, but he pointed toward the* island, and seemed to urge them this way. I dared not Btay there longer, for fear I should be too late, and so crept backward, and got away.” She stepped forward and grasped bis arm. "What was the white man like, monsieur? You saw his face?” "No; never once did he front the fire. I heard his voice, and could see the outline of his figure. He was a big fellow, not unlike the enßlgn here, and he wore a red coat” For one moment she stood motionless, one hand pressed against her

temple, the other grasping his sleeve. The cheek toward me flamed red. “You—you are sure?” she faltered. “He—he looked like that?” • "Yes, mademoiselle,” his tone that of surprise. “It. was dark but I could ■ see that." ' * “And this man is really an American officer?" her dark eyes flashing toward me. “He has never been in the north before?” A grim smile curled Brady’s lips, as his keen gray eyes swept over the two of ns. “I reckon maybe it was 'bout a year ago I fust met the ensign, mademoiselle,' up at Fort Pitt, an* off an’ on ever since we’ve run against each other along the Ohio.. I don’t know what all this may be leadin’ to, but so far as I can see*, he ain’t no cause to tell you a lie." • She hesitated, glancing from his sober, face into mine; then impulsively held out her hand.

“I—l am glad, monsieur,” her lips trembling. "I —I cannot tell you how glad. It is such a strange thing that you should look so much alike and bear the same name. Can the other be a relative of yours?” I shook my head. “Hardly; we are I suppose of English stock, bdt my family has been a hundred years in Maryland. But about this Englishman?” "He was ever urging the tribes to war, lying to them, pledging them help. He came to my people—l am a Wyandot—often. He met my father there in council, the one ever advocating war, the other counseling peacs. He failed in his mission to our people, yet somehow my father liked him; perhaps it was a pleasure to talk again with one who knew Europe and the late books. And the Englishman, hoping thus to finally win my father over to his side, was moet cordial. He played a part that he might keep my father on long journeys to other tribes, while he remained behind to poison the minds of our own people. I overheard hiß words, his lying promises to our warriors. Yet in. spite of all, the'Wyandots remained at peace; they alone held back the tribes from war. I appealed to them, monsieur; I, a mere girl, held before them a cross, and they listened, and were afraid. They drove the Englishman from the camp, back to his master.” “And what then?" “My father still trusted him, and he came back once more. They went away together, as I supposed on some mission to the tribes. I heard nothing, no message came back. I came to this island with two of my people, but there was no one here; the cabin was deserted. There came to me a report that they were seen together on the Wabash, and I Journeyed theye also. The Miamls told me 'a strange Btory of treachery and -death at the hands of the Amerlcains. I half believed it a lie; yet I must know. My Wyandots would go no further; they were afraid, eo I came by myself to the Shawnees, and then, with French boatmen, journeyed up tiro great river to the fort of the Americain commander. You know the rest, messieurs.” She was leaning bock -against the table, holding herself by her hands. Her story had been told swiftly, interjected with- French phrases where English failed her. “Yes," I burst forth, “you came here again and found him dead—murdered —and—and you believed I did it"

CHAPTER X. The Barrier Between. Her eyes deserted Brady’s face and sought mine. "Not now, monsieur, not now," she said gently. "I was blind then with suspicion. The name, the face, the giant form deceived me. But, messieur% we must not stand and talk. I am in no danger; they will never lay nhnds on me, but they will come here seeking you. It will be as the Englishman wishes; he will tell them you are here, that you have killed Wa-pa-tee-tab of the Wyandots. He will point out to them the dead body, and cry for vengeance. They are young warriors, mad already with blood-lust —Miamis, Shawnees, Ojibwas—many of them outcasts from their tribes. No words of mine will restrain them, or save you. There will be blood and war. You must not wait, meßsieuiw; you must go!" “And leave you here with those demons ?” She made a swift gesture. “I!—Mother of God, you do not understand. There is nothing for me to fear. They dare not touch me. They know me—l am a Wyandot To do me evil would mean war. It is of yourselves you must think. I will remain here with my father’s body; they will find me alone when they come.” Bhe stepped past Brady to the door, opened it and glanced out into the night. ' “ T is an hour yet until day," she said eomlng back. "That will give you time. They will be hire with the first light of dawn. There will be no attack until then. You must delay no longer.” We followed her out into the night, across the narrow clearing into the fringe of woods. There were clouds overhead, and very dark, but there seemed to be a path winding through the dense tangle of underbrush. Only

for a moment did the girl hesitate, bending down and listening. Then she led the way around a narrow point of eand, pressed back some bushes, and revealed the sharp prow of a canoe. Brady flung down his pack, and hauled the light craft down to the edge of the water.

"Lay hold there, Schultz,” he ordered in low voice, "till we get her afloat" 1 stood alone back in the shadow, hfesitating, uncertain. It was in my heart to refuse to dosert her Inhere. She turned/toward met “You mupt get away at once,” she said. “Thdj-e is little enough time. Head straight out for the opposite shore.” “But I have no wish to go without you.”, “Without me?” her voice questioning. “There is nothing for me to flee from; I have nothing; to fear from Indians. Is it so hard for you to recall what I am?” “Yes, It is, mademoiselle,” I pleaded earnestly. “My thought will not associate you with these savages. Perhaps I might if I knew your people, but not such ruthless murderers as those yonder, wearing the scalps of women. Who is to protect you from that motley crew? Will itbeGirty? or that English agent ?”

Her eyes met mine even In the darkness. » “I shall need appeal to neither, monsieur. You do not in the least understand. lam not a mere squaw of the Wyandots, but a teacher they love. There is not a tribe from the Wabash to the upper lakes among whom my name is not known. I have even sat in council with the chiefs, and spoken. Touch me, those outlaws-! Not One would dare lay a finger upon me. I am as safe among then!' as my father was." “But he was killed.” “By no Indian hand. Please, monsieur, do not urge nfe any more. As it is I am balanced between two duties—to go with you, guard you, and see you safe, or remain and condemn my father’s murderer." “You believe then —” "That he was the Englishman who bears your name. That man alone had knowledge of this hut oh* the island; he alone possessed opportunity. The scarlet jacket left behind, and his sudden, appearance in the Indian camp, all point direct Jo his guilt. I remain to make sure; that is my duty, Monsieur Brady!” The scout rose to his feet, a black tfmudge in the night, and came up the low bank to where we gtood. "You called, mademoiselle?” r “Yes; I was talking with the officer, but perhaps you do not understand all. Captain D’Auvray was known to the Wyandots as Wa-pa-tee-tah. He is

dead, and his body will be taken to Sandusky; I shall tell the Wyandots how he died. There is no longer need that monsieur should meet them in council. It is better that you return to Fort Harmar.” She paused, but neither of us spoke, and she held out her hand. "Good-by, Monsieur Brady.” He accepted the proffered hand awkwardly, dropped it- almost instantly, and Btepped back. “I reckon that would be the best way, miss,” he stammered, “so maybe we better go. Are you ready, sir?" "Yes, run out the canoe; I'll be there in a minute; Mademoiselle.” She turned toward me. as ne went noiselessly across the sand beach. Her hand was not exteqded, but I had the courage to reach put and grasp it in my own. “Do not say good-by to me,” I whispered, feeling my voice tremble. “I go because you wish it, because it seems to be the wise thing to do; but I will

not believe we are nevef to meet again.” “ - “Yet that Is not likely, monsieur.” “If I seek you it might be.” “It will require more than peaceful travel to do that,” she replied soberly. "There is going to be war.” "War! The Indians of the northwest?”

“Yes; the time has come—is here. The council at Sandusky was for nd other purpose. Girty’s message was merely an excuse for the Wyandots to joih the other tribes. He confessed as much to me. It was because my realized his helplessness longer to restrain British influence, that he disappeared. It is war, moneleur.” “But not between us," I insisted, shocked at the picture, “jdademoiselle, come with me. There is nothing left to hold you to this life amohg savages. With your father dead, why should you continue to bury yourself in these woods? You have education, refinement, gentleness; why ehould you not go now, before war breaks along the border?”

“And desert my people?” “But they are not your people; you are white, not red. That small drop of Indian blood in your veins does not make you a Wyandot. You have nothing else in common with them. Why not be yourself, choosing life among I thought she hesitated, and I grasped her hand more closely, the hot blood leaping in my veins. In the dim light I could see her lowered face, the’eyee downcast. "No, monsieur,” she said at last, Very low. “It is good of you to think thus of me, but —but I cannot do that. You must not urge. The Wyandots* need me—more now -that my- father is gone than ever before. They are my people; I was born tothem, and played as a child in their villages. They love me, trust me, and I help them .by teaching them the Christ. To desert them would be to desert him, I cannot do that, monsieur, merely to gratify myself."

“But have I no call upon you?” I insisted in desperation. "No, monsieur,” and she was looking at me now with some amassment. “ ’T is scarce an hour since I believed you a murderer. We do not know each other. Let me trust, and believe in you; do not speak like that” "I meant nothing wrong, mademoiselle,”! broke in hastily, stung by her words of reproof. “You have come to me out of the woods like a new life. I know it is strapge, all strange, but there is already something' between us that can never be severed.” / “Is there, monsieur?” / “Yes; race makes no difference/ I thought it did once. When you safd back there in the shadow of the stockade that you were a Wyandot it was ag if you struck me a blow in the face. I ewore then I would think of you no more, yet, even that night, you were in my dreama, and since your face has been in my memory.” * I felt her handclasp tighten on mine, although her body remained motionless. . “You do not believe me in earnest?” “I! How can I, monsieur? I think you jest, you amuse yourself. Let us stop it all now. You' go back to your people, I to mine, and we will both forget No! Do not say more! I will not listen. Come with me to the boat.” I followed her down the bank, words burning on my lips she gave me no chance to speak, for she moved with -quick -decision.- The two menhad the canoe turned over, at the very edge of the water, and the scout was upon his knees in the sand. He looked up hastily at our approach. “I reckon we stay here, miss,” he said soberly “Somebody has smashed a hole through the bottom with a stone.” * She uttered a little cry of alarm, leaning over his shoulder. “A hole! How could that be? Surely it was no accident!” He arose to his feet, brushing off his knees.

"That’s what I told the Dutchman, though neither of us could find the rock. I reckon the Englisher did that job; he had it all figured out, and meant to keep us yere.” I saw her look up at the man’s face, and then about in bewilderment. “You think that—why?” ’*Caus,e it seems ter me nat’ral. I reckon it’s ’bout what I would a done if I was in his fix. He had proof against us, if he could get some In June along as witnesses. Nobody would ever believe what we said, or even wait ter listen. All he had to do was catch us yere, charge us with murder, an’ turn them devils loose. Thet would let him out slick aa a whistle.” She stood erect, one hand pressed against her. teipple. / “Then—then what is to be done?" she questioned blankly, "why—what—quick, look there!” She was bending forward and pointing out at the lake. Some dark, moving object was visible in the water only a few yards from Bhore. (TO BE CONTINUED.) A s 1 ;

“A Hote l Surely It Was No Accident."