“Big Buffalo would have nothing to do with the Harvest Festival as Lone-Elk planned it and the Seneca has killed him,” was in substance the report which quickly passed among the Delawares when Little Wolf had come running to the village, telling of the discovery he had made—telling how he had found the dead body among the brush and reeds as he went in search of an arrow idly sent flying from his bow, after the exercises in the Council House were over.

The finger pointed at him as he had come up, though hastily pushed aside, was enough to tell Lone-Elk that he was suspected, even if no word had been spoken.

“Is it said that Lone-Elk killed Big Buffalo?” the Seneca demanded of the Indian who told to him the news.

“Big Buffalo would not come into the Council House for the Harvest Thanksgiving that was planned by Lone-Elk,” said another of the Delawares. “It is this that they say.”

The scowl on the Seneca’s face became more bitter and contemptuous. With a look of disdain he left the group, fast increasing in numbers about him, and walked with head held high directly to the lodge of Captain Pipe.

The finding of Big Buffalo dead had put a sudden damper on the day’s festivities. The squaws discontinued their preparations for the feast, and while the young bucks and warriors gathered about to discuss the mysterious death of one of the best known, though by no means best liked, of their number, children clung about their mothers’ knees as the latter also flocked from lodge to lodge to talk of the strange discovery.

There were few outward signs of excitement or emotion,—that was a thing the Indians rarely showed. But in a cold, impassive way every person in the village was keenly interested. Never had there been so disturbing a thing at a time of festivity before.

Many eyes turned toward Lone-Elk as he strode toward Captain Pipe’s lodge and entered the hut. Even as he did so two warriors, still in holiday garb, came carrying the body of Big Buffalo between them. Without a word they bore the corpse to the home it had always known in life, where lived the dead man’s mother—an old, old woman now, who loudly lamented the death of her son as she sat on the ground just within the tumble-down bark lodge.

“Big Buffalo is found dead,” said Lone-Elk to Captain Pipe.

A look and significant shrug of the shoulders was the only answer.

“If one dies when a festival is prepared, the custom is to put the body by,—to say to the sorrowful, ‘We will mourn with you another time; join in the feasting with us till the festival is over.’ It is an old, old custom,” Lone-Elk said. “When the festival is over, also, it may be asked, ‘How did Big Buffalo die?’”

“The custom is to kill him who kills another without the right of war and not in fair fight. It is a good custom,” Captain Pipe made answer and looked at the Seneca searchingly.

“Lone-Elk did not kill Big Buffalo,” the younger Indian said in answer to the chief’s questioning look, and his voice was icy cold.

“If Lone-Elk did not kill Big Buffalo,” Captain Pipe returned in the same manner, slowly and sternly, “then shall Lone-Elk find him that did kill Big Buffalo. Let him come not back until he has done this. The Delawares have no fear of any living creature; but no Delaware kills one of his own people. With the Senecas it is not always so.”

For a moment Lone-Elk’s sharp eyes scrutinized the chief’s face as if he would find a double meaning in the Delaware’s closing sentence. Could it be that Captain Pipe knew his whole history—knew the reason he returned no more to his own nation? But quickly he answered the older Indian’s scathing words, and his voice was harsh and bitter as he said:

“Does Captain Pipe think, then, that because Big Buffalo, like a whipped dog, slunk away and would not appear in the Festival of the Harvest, the mind of Lone-Elk was poisoned against him? In his own breast does Captain Pipe find lodgment for the thought that so petty a thing could turn a Seneca to anger? No! Hear me! Lone-Elk but smiled at the childishness of Big Buffalo.”

“Let Lone-Elk show the Delawares how Big Buffalo died,” the chief haughtily answered, and his tones were a challenge. Even as he spoke, too, he turned his back to the Seneca and the latter, clenching his teeth to suppress the angry words he thought, wheeled about and left the lodge.

As Lone-Elk walked quickly to his own lodge he plainly noticed that not a friendly eye was turned toward him. His own glances the Delawares evaded by looking the other way, but he knew full well that they turned to gaze after him when he had passed, and he felt the things they were saying of him. It was a desperate situation. The charge of murder might quickly be followed by the charge of witchcraft, and that could mean only a choice between flight and death.

Indeed, to hoodwink the Delawares long enough to permit him to get away from them never to return seemed to the Seneca for the moment his wisest course. Still, how had Big Buffalo died? If his death was from natural causes could he not quickly prove such to have been the case, and then, the Delawares admitting it, rebuke them for their suspicions? That would be excellent! Nothing could help him more in his keen desire for a recognized position of permanent leadership.

All in a twinkling these thoughts crowded upon the brain of Lone-Elk. They restored his great self-confidence and his feeling of superiority. Looking neither to right nor left, he walked with all the dignity of his haughty nature to the hut where the body of the dead Indian lay. With a few soothing words to the lamenting squaws about the door, he entered the rude shelter and bent low over the silent figure of the departed warrior. Even as he did so a new thought came to the Seneca and he gloomily shrugged his shoulders as if to conceal his delight from those who might be watching.

Slowly Lone-Elk examined the half-covered body of Big Buffalo and silently nodded his head as if he found only that which he expected to find.

“See,” he said very calmly to the women and to Fishing Bird and one or two other braves who had drawn near,—“see, no bruises. A witch has killed Big Buffalo. It is as Lone-Elk says. Only a witch’s power can kill a warrior so.”

“A witch—Big Buffalo killed by a witch!” The word was spread about the village with the speed of the wind.

Many of the Indians and Captain Pipe among them gathered about the Seneca.

“It is as Lone-Elk supposed. It is as Lone-Elk now says; a witch has killed Big Buffalo,” he boldly declared. “Listen to my words. Lone-Elk knows the hand which struck a warrior of the Delawares down. Lone-Elk alone can tell how Big Buffalo died; but the Delawares well know the custom of the people of the Long House [the Iroquois] and of all the Indians, that witches shall be put to death.”

There was a stir of ill-suppressed excitement. Lone-Elk was using strong words. Whom would he accuse? To be accused of practicing witchcraft was nothing short of a sentence of death. The accusation was itself sufficient. No evidence was necessary.

“Lone-Elk knows the hand which reached out to wither the strength of Big Buffalo, even as flowers are turned black by cold,” the Seneca went on, slowly and solemnly. “When the speeches and the dancing in the Council House were over Lone-Elk walked to cool himself beside the water. Across the lake he saw in a canoe the young Palefaces who have come unbidden here to cut down the trees and drive off the game which belong only to the Indians,—even as others of the Longknives have done in the lands where lived our fathers. Two of the Palefaces there were when Lone-Elk first saw them.

“Again Lone-Elk looked and only one was there—only one Paleface in the canoe; but over the water floated a cloud of foul-smelling vapor. Nearer and nearer the cloud came. Soon it passed into the woods. Again did Lone-Elk look. Again the cloud appeared and as it moved across the quiet waters drew near the canoe in which there still was but one of the two Palefaces.

“And even as Lone-Elk watched a strange thing happened. Quick as the leap of a frightened deer was the cloud changed to the form of a bird—a large, black bird with heavy, beating wings. Straight to the canoe the great bird flew. Still Lone-Elk watched closely and held his breath hard with wonder. Once, twice the strange bird circled about the solitary Paleface, then flew swiftly into the canoe. Instantly there appeared two young Palefaces where only one had been before. And the bird,—the big, black bird was gone. In his hands the Paleface witch—he you call ‘Little Paleface’ it is—held a tomahawk.

“The sun shone bright upon it and even far across the water did Lone-Elk see the red blood still wet and shining. Not then did Lone-Elk know. Not then did Lone-Elk guess the awful thing which happened. Now does he know—now do all the Delawares know how came Big Buffalo to die.”

There was a stir followed by a deeply threatening murmur among the assembled Indians. It boded ill—ah, ill indeed,—to the young white pioneers.

Flushed with the success of his narrative and vain to find himself so hearkened to, even by those who a little while before were his accusers, the Seneca would have added to his extraordinary story and elaborated upon the many fearsome shapes the cloud assumed of which he told. The words were in his mind but he hesitated to try the credulity of the Delawares further. Yet speak he must. The Indians still pressed nearer. They would hear more; and Lone-Elk therefore continued.

“The witch must die. If only one Paleface is bewitched then only one must die. Let all the Delawares hear now and remember. Lone-Elk will kill him that killed Big Buffalo—and the White Fox as well, if the White Fox is also a witch as his brother that you call ‘Little Pale-face’ is.”

If any of the Indians doubted the words of the Seneca, none showed it. Few red men there were who did not believe in witchcraft and Lone-Elk had made his tale just fanciful and weird enough to win and hold their faith in all his declarations.

In those days too, not only among the Delawares but among more advanced Indian nations as well, witchcraft was more than a mere superstition. It was feared and hated as an actually existing thing, more awful than the most deadly disease. The declaration of any one Indian that another was a witch was almost certain to be followed by the killing of the one accused. It was the duty as well as the privilege of the accuser to take the other’s life.

Little wonder is it, when these circumstances are considered, that Lone-Elk’s declarations, made in the most convincing and emphatic manner of which his eloquence was capable, made a deep impression! Many were visibly frightened. The thought that soon they might be struck down, even as Big Buffalo had been, was far more disquieting than to face a foe in hand-to-hand combat.

One of the Delawares there was, however, who went quietly away soon after Lone-Elk had finished speaking, and as if only loitering about, came presently to his own hut. Here he removed the gayest part of the holiday dress he wore, including the sash of scarlet cloth—relic of some plundered settlement, no doubt—and with his gun over his shoulder sauntered again through the village as if he were starting out to hunt.

This Indian was Fishing Bird. He found Lone-Elk still talking,—still surrounded by an attentive, awestruck throng. When the Harvest Festival was over, the Seneca was saying, then would be the time to mourn Big Buffalo’s death and then the time to avenge his murder. It was an old, old custom, he went on, that if one died when a festival was being enjoyed, the body should be laid aside until the season of the merrymaking was over. Addressing Captain Pipe directly, he appealed to the chief to say if the ancient custom should not now be observed.

The leader of the Delawares saw plainly that Lone-Elk’s proposal pleased his people.

“Then shall it be as the Seneca says,” he made answer, and waiting to hear nothing more, Fishing Bird, with a glance across the lake to make certain the white boys were still fishing near the far-away shore, turned slowly into the woods. He walked with lagging steps only until the village was left well behind, then eagerly dashed forward at a run.