It would be difficult to tell which fared the worse during the long winter, the Germans who had forced their way to the Schoharie Valley in November, or those who remained, like John Conrad, in the settlements. All were poor, all were ill-clad, all were insufficiently fed. The cruel winter continued the weeding-out of the weak. At Schoharie the Indians helped the newcomers according to their promise, and what food and furs they could spare they gave cheerfully.

In March, John Conrad and all those who had remained started to Schoharie. There were indications of an early spring, and it was important that crops should be sown. From Conrad nothing had been heard and his father grew daily more anxious. Sabina, like Margareta and Magdalena, had found a mate, and Barbara had taken her place with the kind Englishwoman.

No sooner had the journey begun than the last of the winter's storms was upon the little party. Little children died and grown persons suffered cruelly. Joined with their friends at Schoharie in the valley of their dreams, the pilgrims waited, with what patience they could summon, for spring.

When, finally, the snow had melted for the last time and the meadows were growing green and the willows were yellow along the river, the hearts of the Germans rested at last. The lovely valley was lovelier than their dreams. Log houses were built, farms were laid out, and with their poor tools they prepared to create a German valley which should bloom like the rose.

Still no word of Conrad was to be had. He was in the village of Quagnant to the west—that the Indians knew, but they could tell no more. His father grew more and more anxious and unhappy. As he worked the soil, he lifted his head to watch; when his day's work was done, he walked into the forest toward the west.

Meanwhile, as Conrad followed the long stride of Quagnant through the budding forest, he remembered the weary journey in November from Schenectady to the Indian village. Then he had nearly perished with exhaustion; now he walked without weariness. Quagnant remembered also and commented approvingly.

"Eyes-like-the-Sky does not stumble or faint. He is a true Indian."

"This is a smooth trail."

In Indian fashion Quagnant made a comparison.

"That was a smooth trail, but to Eyes-like-the-Sky it was unfamiliar. The heart of the Indian seemed also strange to you, but now it is plain."

As the two sat by a little camp-fire in the cool evenings, Quagnant looked solemnly at Conrad. They had now many companions; tall chiefs wrapped in blankets and stalking solemnly, young men heavily armed and thickly painted. The strangers stared at Conrad in amazement, their keen eyes piercing the thick layer of paint with which his cheeks were covered. When Conrad glanced back at them, they looked at his eyes and shook their heads. They talked with Quagnant of the Long House, of distant enemies whom they called the Lenape, and of other matters which Conrad did not understand. It was clearly evident that Conrad's presence startled and shocked them.

Presently Quagnant grew communicative. One evening when he and Conrad camped alone, he told him something of the affairs of the Indians.

"The Five Nations are at peace, but they will not always be at peace. Many important things are coming to pass, Conrad."

It was in the middle of a bright May morning that Quagnant and his companion reached the end of their journey. The trail led over the last stream, through the last wood and thence to a great hill, upon whose side lay a large Indian village. Here it was that the hundreds of small human streams had converged; here the savages were gathered, it seemed to Conrad, in an innumerable host. At sight of them, his heart throbbed and his skin pricked with fright. Quagnant's face was hideous, and here Quagnant was repeated hundreds of times. Quagnant's great body, crowned with its bristling eagle feathers, was a bit terrifying even to Conrad, and here was Quagnant's fierce strength multiplied by a great army. There were Indians wrapped in blankets, Indians without covering, Indians with hideous nose-rings, and here and there shamans or medicine men with masks of animals, as though the very beasts of the forest had come to join the council.

When strength returned to Conrad's frightened heart, he breathed a frantic prayer to be allowed to escape. For such a scene as this no experience of his life had prepared him. But he dared not show a sign of fear; he must walk on behind Quagnant, up the street of the village between the gigantic creatures and before the black, beady, piercing eyes. As Quagnant approached, he was hailed with many a loud "Ho, Ho." The sound which followed him was different,—a low, disapproving murmur.

Straight up the great hill led the feet of Quagnant; close to him followed Conrad. At the summit of the hill the forest trees had been cut in a wide circle and the ground had been beaten like a hard floor. About the rim of the circle were placed tree-stumps and logs; in the middle burned a fire, round which crouched shamans, more hideous than the warriors. Beside them lay their drums of tightly stretched skin and their rattles of turtle shell or gourd. They sat motionless, their eyes upon the fire.

Quagnant bade Conrad sit down at the edge of the woods, and himself sat beside him. One by one Indians came to speak to him, to Conrad a consoling sign of his importance. Longest of all he spoke with an Oneida chief named Shikellamy. What they said Conrad could not hear, but he could see that Shikellamy looked upon him kindly.

"He has a great heart and a wise mind," said Quagnant as the chief went away. "In council he makes our way clear."

At noon the shamans beat their drums and shook their rattles, and at once, breaking off conversation with one another or with the squaws of the village, the Indians approached the council fire. Certain ones, Quagnant and Shikellamy among them, took seats together on the tree-stumps; the others sat on logs or on the ground. Outside the circle stood scores of young men. Presently the shamans ceased to beat their drums and shake their rattles and crouched again about the fire.

Now followed a period of complete silence. The chiefs did not move; the young warriors seemed scarcely to breathe; even from the village came no sound of speech and no cry of child.

Shikellamy was the first to rise. He spoke in a deep voice and was listened to with breathless attention.

"Brothers of the Long House, it is now many years since the great tree was planted under whose young roots we buried our hatchets. Many moons have risen and waned since we wove our wampum into one belt. Many feasts have been eaten since the undying flame of our council fire was lighted, and since Mohawk, Seneca, Onondaga, Oneida, and Cayuga became brothers. The great tree will continue to grow, the sun and moon to rise and the council fire to send out into the forest its clear light. Our hatchets, buried in the ground, will rust before they are dug up.

"We are now at peace with all men, and strangers seek our favor. Our enemies fear us and we fear no one.

"But, brothers of the Long House, there are matters to be considered. Claims have been laid against us. Our young men, in the heat of anger and inflamed by drink, have done here and there a little injury. The tears of those whom they injured must be wiped away with presents. Each wrong must be considered and we must make recompense without grudging.

"These matters are, however, small. Our brother Onotio has something to say to us. Our brother Onas has also something to say to us. Between Onotio on the one side and Onas on the other, there is undying hatred, whose cause is shut off from our eyes. We cannot remain friends both to Onotio and to Onas, who draw nearer and nearer to one another through the forests. Soon the two black clouds will meet, and the grass on the warpath will be trodden down.

"It is for the consideration of these matters that the council is assembled."

When Shikellamy had finished a loud uproar was made by the medicine men. They rose and faced the east, then prostrated themselves again and again. The Great Spirit was being invoked.

Now with astonishing order the various businesses of which Shikellamy had spoken were presented to the council and settled. The young Indians who had quarreled with their neighbors were admonished and fined. Young Eagle was to send five deerskins to dry the tears of the warrior whose son he had injured; Short Arm was to send three blankets to the widow of the man whom he had killed. Against these decisions there was no protest. The code which the young men had disobeyed was clearly understood and its penalties accepted without argument.

When the relations of the allied nations to the French and English came to be spoken of, there was a change in the spirit of the meeting. Now all whispering ceased; every one sat motionless, listening with knitted brows and bright, eager eyes. The council was informed minutely of the affairs of the English colonies to the east and the French settlements to the west. Conrad listened as eagerly as the rest, his terror lost in amazement.

"I am a swift runner," said Short Arm. "I went in three days to Harris's Ferry. The children of Brother Onas are creeping, creeping to the west and to the north. They are coming into the Long House. They are grazing their cattle where our deer have grazed. They are our enemies."

"The pale-faces are in Schoharie," said a dark-faced, hideously painted old chief. As he spoke he pointed at Conrad. "Not only are they given lands, but they are taken into our wigwams. They are our enemies."

From some one came a sneering laugh. Now Conrad was sure of what would be his fate. Then, on the opposite side of the council fire, a tall figure rose. Conrad's lips parted; he was about to cry out; then he held his lips closely shut with his hand.

"It is the King of Rivers! It is the King of Rivers!"

"This talk about the children of Onas is nonsense. The children of Onotio are more hateful. They come into the Long House from the north. They think nothing of their promises. They have allied themselves with our enemies; they are our enemies. There are no two words about them."

Now Quagnant rose, and standing with folded arms looked about until he had met every piercing eye. Last of all he sought the wide blue ones at the edge of the forest. Like the other Indians, Quagnant spoke eloquently.

"Brothers, we are of the extended lodge. The Long House is no mere hut like the dwelling of the Catawbas. We have made our enemies to flutter like frightened young birds. At the Catawbas and the Lenape we laugh.

"Now strangers seek to live with us in the Long House,—a great people, pale of face, with new customs and long guns. Some are our friends, some are our enemies. They have brought us good things and bad things. With the guns they have brought we have become powerful, but with the fire-water they have brought we have become mad.

"We cannot tell which among these pale-faces are our friends. Their words are not ours and their faces are not ours. They give little in exchange for much. Our furs are to them no more valuable than a few beads, our hunting-grounds no more than a few hatchets."

"It is a good day's journey from the Susquehanna to the Black Mountain," cried a voice. "This they have taken for a piece of bright cloth and a glass in which to see one's face!"

"Their traders lie to us!" cried another.

The hideously painted old chief rose.

"Year by year their ships come. They overrun our land, given by the Great Spirit. They enter at the front of the Long House to shove us out at the back; at the back, to push us out at the front. I counsel death to all!"

A great trembling seized upon Conrad. Then he saw that Quagnant still stood, motionless, waiting to continue his speech. Quagnant would not forget the icy bank and the deep pool!

"Brothers," said Quagnant, "let us be orderly in council, not like chattering birds. The words of Quagnant were not finished."

At once silence was restored.

"The various brothers have spoken," went on Quagnant. "Many have spoken without thought. They desire war, without reflecting that the pale-face has long guns also, without reflecting that ships will bring new pale-faces. There is a pale-face to whom I have put many questions; he tells me that they are across the sea like the leaves of the forest. To talk of making war upon all is child's talk.

"What we should do, brothers of the Long House, is to enter into understanding with the pale-face, so that we may say, 'To this river the land is yours, beyond is ours.' Then our mind will be clear to them, then messengers can go to and fro and—"

"They will not listen!" cried the old warrior. "They have laughed our messengers in the face."

Quagnant waited again until the old warrior had been frowned at by half the assemblage. Quagnant approached now the carefully planned climax of his address.

"The pale-faces will not listen to us, it is true. They do not understand us. But they will listen to another pale-face. I have had in my wigwam a young pale-face. I have watched his behavior. He has done things which will move the hearts of the brothers of the Long House when I tell them. I will tell them at length. We have made of him an Indian. He speaks our words. He—"

Now the fierce old warrior would not be stayed. He sprang to his feet, hatchet in hand.

"He may well speak our words when he sits at our councils! Such a thing has never been heard of in the Long House. Let him go away and go quickly."

Shikellamy crossed the open space toward Quagnant.

"Let the young braves take him away," said he.

At once Conrad found himself surrounded. Down the hillside he was led and to the far end of a long meadow through which flowed a stream.

There, when the curiosity of the young Indians about what was going on in the council could be no longer resisted, he was left alone. He could hear on the rising wind the sound of many voices and now a single voice raised in impassioned speech. About him the shades of the spring night were falling and a cold breath from the water chilled him through. Hungry and tired, he sat with his hands clasped round his knees and his cheek bent upon them. The forest seemed to press upon him. A more terrible oppression came from the thought of the savage creatures on the hillside, gathered from the wilderness, debating now whether to deal with the whites in peace or to exterminate them with knife and flame.

He thought of his father's dreams of a great country where there should be liberty and peace. With honesty and at the same time with firmness must these children of the wilderness be met or dreams and their dreamers would perish in a night.

Presently a dark form stole toward him across the meadow. He heard a strange singing unlike the voice of man or animal. He saw strange forms approach; with faces masked and bodies wrapped in skins of deer and panther and bear. He moved to the nearest tree and stood with his back against it. He thought now no more of his father's dreams, or of God's purpose of which his father talked, but prayed in his pious German way that he might meet his death bravely.

He found himself taken by the hand and led up the hill, the strange forms following after. Through the Indian village where the women stared from firelit doorways, and where over great fires meat was cooking, to the center of the council he was taken, and there he was placed alone beside the council fire. About sat the chiefs, behind them in the shadowy circle the young men. Conrad stood still, his eyes seeking Quagnant. If death should come, he hoped its messenger would be a swift knife. The medicine men were behind him; it would be by their hands that the blow would be struck.

Shikellamy was the first to speak. Upon his magnificent body the firelight danced. His immobile face told nothing of his heart, but it seemed to Conrad that his voice was kind.

"We have listened to the story of our brother Quagnant," said he. "We believe that you are honest and true. We believe that you speak our words. In order that we may bind ourselves to you and you to us"—now Conrad's heart stood still—"in order that we may bind ourselves to you and you to us, we make you a member of the Five Nations. We give you our heart and you give us your heart. He who is our friend is your friend. He who is our enemy is your enemy. We invite you to the extended lodge, we bid you come to our feasts. We will give you in token deerskins to make you clothes and shoes."

Now there was a long pause. The rising wind moaned in the pine trees, the fire leaped. Shikellamy crossed to the council fire and held out his great hand.

"We give you also in token a new name. 'Eyes-like-the-Sky' you are to the children, but among men you are, 'He-holds-our-fate.'"

Now the King of Rivers came forward. A true Indian, he gave no sign that he recollected the camp of Blackheath and the strange encounter which reached now its stranger consummation.

"We are to see dark sights," said he. "I see wars, with Indians creeping upon pale-faces and pale-faces upon Indians. I hear cries to the Great Spirit. See that you, who are now our Tongue, are true to us. Then the English will conquer the French and the land will have peace. Between the Indian and the English is a bond. You are that bond."

Now Shikellamy spoke again.

"You will have a great name while you live, and after you die your Indian brothers will visit the place where you lie. Your children will say with pride, 'I am of the great He-holds-our-fate, his blood is mine, I have his brave heart.' Will you be true to your brothers?"

"I will be true to my brothers."

Then, at the side of a beckoning Quagnant, Conrad sat down.

"You have done well," said Quagnant. "Now the feast begins."

Conrad made no answer. He saw the Long House, enormous, mysterious; he saw the little fringe of white faces between it and the sea. He saw the hopes and fears of the dwellers in the Long House and the hopes and fears of the strangers. Both were in his own heart.

In June, John Conrad's eager, anxious eyes were satisfied. He still walked each evening into the forest. There on a fallen tree he sat and looked toward the west. One clear evening, he saw coming toward him an erect, alert young Indian and sprang up to make the same eager inquiry with which he greeted all Indians. Then he stood still. The Indian was clad in doeskin, his hair was long, his feet were moccasined—but his eyes were blue!

"My son!" cried John Conrad.

Hand in hand the two sat down on the fallen tree.

"How are my brothers and sisters?" asked Conrad.

"I have heard no ill news of them. Sabina is married, and Barbara has taken her place with a kind mistress in Schenectady. Of all my dear children you are left me, Conrad. What has befallen you?"

Conrad talked steadily and quietly. He was different; his eyes were steady, his figure erect, his voice deep. He told of the strange life, of the harsh training, of the bitter suffering from hunger and cold.

When he described the council, John Conrad shivered.

"A thousand times I wished I had not let you go!" Then in the gathering dusk his eyes sought his son's face. "What are you going to do now, Conrad?"

Conrad turned and smiled into the anxious eyes.

"I am going to help you and I am going to teach the children their letters. Father,"—Conrad looked back into the darkening woods,—"the life among the Indians seems already like a dream; but there they are waiting, a fearful menace to us all. Suppose that I should some day be the one to keep the peace! Perhaps God has saved me for that through much danger and perversity."

John Conrad breathed a long sigh. He did not look into the future, but into the past.

"Your mother and I could not give our children riches and honor," said he slowly. "We tried to give them faith in God and willingness to do their simple duty. If you have learned those lessons from us or in the forest among the Indians, you are at last a man. Your mother—"

But John Conrad could not finish, needed not to finish. The hand within his tightened and an arm was thrown across his bent shoulders. Together the two sat silently, as they had stood long ago in Gross Anspach in the moonlight by the little church. Their thoughts traveled together from sister to sister and brother to brother, and finally back once more across the sea. Then, at last, John Conrad spoke.

"It has been a long journey and a weary one," said he, "but my children will have a better chance than I in the world. There may be other journeys before me, but tonight my heart is at rest."

THE END

The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A

JUST DAVID

By Eleanor H. Porter