Caddie Woodlawn (13 page)

Oh, for Tom and Warren now! But they were gone with the men for supplies. Oh, for Father, who was always so wise and brave! But she could not wait for him to come back to tell him what he would never believe about his neighbors, unless he had heard it himself. There was no use going to Mother or Clara. They would only cry out in alarm and forbid her to go, and, since Father and the boys were not here, she felt that she must go. She knew as well as Kent where Indian John and his tribe had built their winter huts of bark. Fortunately, for the moment the barn was deserted. She must go while there was still time and before anybody saw her. She led Betsy to the little back door that opened toward the river. There was only one field to cross there and then she would be in the woods. The barn would shut off the sight of her departure from the house and the road.

She had her hand on the latch of the door, when someone said: “Caddie!”

Caddie's hazel eyes blazed black in her white face as she turned. But it was only Katie Hyman who had followed her into the barn. Katie's delicate face, framed in its pale halo of hair, was full of alarm.

“Caddie, what are you doing? Where are you going?”

“Oh, Katie,” said Caddie with a choking noise like a sob, “they're going to kill John and his Indians because he hasn't come to kill us. I've got to warn him.”

“You wouldn't go to the Indians
now!”
said Katie. “Oh, Caddie, no! You
couldn't
do that!”

“I've got to!” said Caddie grimly. “They must have a chance to get away. Don't tell a soul where I've gone, Katie. Cross your heart!”

Katie hesitated, her eyes wide with terror. Caddie had always been the leader at school. It was impossible for gentle Katie to disobey her. Her fingers made a feeble crisscross in the direction of her heart.

“Cross my heart,” Katie whispered.

Caddie flung herself on Betsy's back and dug heels into her flanks. She was away across the field and into the dripping wood. The gray mist was turning into fine rain. There was still snow in the wood and there would still be ice on the river.

Katie shivered. She closed the small barn door and stood still with both hands pressed against her heart. An old cat, who had kittens in the loft, came by on noiseless feet, a dead mouse hanging from her mouth. She stared back, her own eyes round with fear.

“I crossed my heart,” she whispered.

Clip-clop-clip sounded Betsy's hoofs across the field. There was a treacherous slime of mud on the surface, but underneath it the clods were still frozen as hard as iron. Then the bare branches of the woods were all around them, and Caddie had to duck and dodge to save her eyes and her hair. Here the February thaw had not succeeded in clearing the snow. It stretched gray and dreary underfoot, treacherously rotted about the roots of big trees. Caddie slowed her mare's pace and guided her carefully now. She did not want to lose precious time in floundering about in melting snow. Straight for the river she went. If the ice still held, she could get across here, and the going would be
easier on the other side. Not a squirrel or a bird stirred in the woods. So silent! So silent! Only the clip-clop-clip of Betsy's hoofs.

Then the river stretched out before her, a long expanse of blue-gray ice under the gray sky.

“Carefully now, Betsy. Take it slowly, old girl.” Caddie held a tight rein with one hand and stroked the horse's neck with the other. “That's a good girl. Take it slowly.” Down the bank they went, delicately onto the ice. Betsy flung up her head, her nostrils distended. Her hind legs slipped on the ice and for a quivering instant she struggled for her balance. Then she found her pace. Slowly, cautiously, she went daintily forward, picking her way, but with a snort of disapproval for the wisdom of her young mistress. The ice creaked, but it was still sound enough to bear their weight. They reached the other side and scrambled up the bank. Well, so much done! Now for more woods.

There was no proper sunset that day, only a sudden, lemon-colored rift in the clouds in the west. Then the clouds closed together again and darkness began to fall. The ride was long, but at last it was over.

Blue with cold, Caddie rode into the clearing where the Indians had built their winter huts. Dogs ran at her, barking, and there was a warm smell of smoke in the air. A fire was blazing in the center of the clearing.
Dark figures moved about it. Were they in war paint and feathers? Caddie's heart pounded as she drew Betsy to a stop. But, no, surely they were only old women bending over cooking pots. The running figures were children, coming now to swarm about her. There was no war paint! no feathers! Surely she and Father had been right! Tears began to trickle down Caddie's cold cheeks. Now the men were coming out of the bark huts. More and more Indians kept coming toward her. But they were not angry, only full of wonder.

“John,” said Caddie, in a strange little voice, which she hardly recognized as hers. “Where is John? I must see John.”

“John,” repeated the Indians, recognizing the name the white men had given to one of their braves. They spoke with strange sounds among themselves, then one of them went running. Caddie sat on her horse, half-dazed, cold to the bone, but happy inside. The Indians were not on the warpath, they were not preparing an attack. Whatever the tribes farther west might be plotting, these Indians, whom Father and she trusted, were going about their business peacefully. If they could only get away now in time, before the white men came to kill them! Or, perhaps she could get home again in time to stop the white men from making the
attack. Would those men whom she had heard talking by the cellar door believe a little girl when she told them that Indian John's tribe was at peace? She did not know. Savages were savages, but what could one expect of civilized men who plotted massacre?

Indian John's tall figure came toward her from one of the huts. His step was unhurried and his eyes were unsurprised.

“You lost, Missee Red Hair?” he inquired.

“No, no,” said Caddie, “I am not lost, John. But I must tell you. Some white men are coming to kill you. You and your people must go away. You must not fight. You must go away. I have told you.”

“You cold,” said John. He lifted Caddie off her horse and led her to the fire.

“No understan',” said John, shaking his head in perplexity. “Speak too quick, Missee Red Hair.”

Caddie tried again, speaking more slowly. “I came to tell you. Some bad men wish to kill you and your people. You must go away, John. My father is your friend. I came to warn you.”

“Red Beard, he send?” asked John.

“No, my father did not send me,” said Caddie. “No one knows that I have come. You must take your people and go away.”

“You hungry?” John asked her and mutely Caddie
nodded her head. Tears were running again and her teeth were chattering. John spoke to the squaws, standing motionless about the fire. Instantly they moved to do his bidding. One spread a buffalo skin for her to sit on. Another ladled something hot and tasty into a cup without a handle, a cup which had doubtless come from some settler's cabin. Caddie grasped the hot cup between her cold hands and drank. A little trickle of warmth seemed to go all over her body. She stretched her hands to the fire. Her tears stopped running and her teeth stopped chattering. She let the Indian children, who had come up behind her, touch her hair without flicking it away from them. John's dog came and lay down near her, wagging his tail.

“You tell John 'gain,” said John, squatting beside her in the firelight.

Caddie began again, slowly. She told how the whites had heard that the Indians were coming to kill. She told how her father and she had not believed. She told how some of the people had become restless and planned to attack the Indians first. She begged John to go away with his tribe while there was still time. When she had finished John grunted and continued to sit on, looking into the fire. She did not know whether he had yet understood her. All about the fire were row on row of dark faces, looking at her steadily
with wonder but no understanding. John knew more English than any of them, and yet, it seemed, he did not understand. Patiently she began again to explain.

But now John shook his head. He rose and stood tall in the firelight above the little white girl. “You come,” he said.

Caddie rose uncertainly. She saw that it was quite dark now outside the ring of firelight, and a fine, sharp sleet was hissing down into the fire. John spoke in his own tongue to the Indians. What he was telling them she could not say, but their faces did not change. One ran to lead Betsy to the fire and another brought a spotted Indian pony that had been tethered at the edge of the clearing.

“Now we go,” said the Indian.

“I will go back alone,” said Caddie, speaking distinctly. “You and your people must make ready to travel westward.”

“Red Hair has spoken,” said John. “John's people go tomorrow.” He lifted her onto her horse's back, and himself sprang onto the pony. Caddie was frightened again, frightened of the dark and cold, and uncertain of what John meant to do.

“I can go alone, John,” she said.

“John go, too,” said the Indian.

He turned his pony into the faint woods trail by

which she had come. Betsy, her head drooping under a slack rein, followed the spotted pony among the dark trees. Farther and farther behind, they left the warm, bright glow of fire. Looking back, Caddie saw it twinkling like a bright star. It was something warm and friendly in a world of darkness and sleet and sudden, icy branches. From the bright star of the Indian fire, Caddie's mind leaped forward to the bright warmth of home. They would have missed her by now. Would Katie tell where she had gone? Would they be able to understand why she had done as she had?

She bent forward against Betsy's neck, hiding her face from the sharp needles of sleet. It seemed a very long way back. But at last the branches no longer caught at her skirts. Caddie raised her head and saw that they had come out on the open river bank. She urged Betsy forward beside the Indian pony.

“John you must go back now. I can find my way home. They would kill you if they saw you.”

John only grunted. He set his moccasined heels into the pony's flanks, and led the way onto the ice. Betsy shook herself with a kind of shiver all through her body, as if she were saying, “No! no! no!” But Caddie's stiff fingers pulled the rein tight and made her go. The wind came down the bare sweep of the river with tremendous force, cutting and lashing them with the
sleet. Betsy slipped and went to her knees, but she was up again at once and on her way across the ice. Caddie had lost the feeling of her own discomfort in fear for John. If a white man saw him riding toward the farm tonight, he would probably shoot without a moment's warning. Did John understand that? Was it courage or ignorance that kept John's figure so straight, riding erect in the blowing weather?

“John!” she cried. But the wind carried her voice away. “John!” But he did not turn his head.

Up the bank, through the woods, to the edge of the clearing they rode, Indian file. Then the Indian pony stopped.

Caddie drew Betsy in beside him. “Thank you!” she panted. “Thank you, John, for bringing me home. Go, now. Go quickly.” Her frightened eyes swept the farmstead. It was not dark and silent as it had been the night before. Lanterns were flashing here and there, people were moving about, voices were calling.

“They're starting out after the Indians!” thought Caddie. “Father hasn't been able to stop them. They're going to massacre.”

She laid her cold hand on the spotted pony's neck. “John!” she cried. “John, you must go quickly now!”

“John go,” said the Indian, turning his horse.

But, before the Indian could turn back into the
woods, a man had sprung out of the darkness and caught his bridle rein.

“Stop! Who are you? Where are you going?” The words snapped out like the cracking of a whip, but Caddie knew the voice.