The Pathfinder, James Fenimore Cooper [top reads .TXT] 📗

be, dear June; I would rather you should say no more than run this risk.”

“Blockhouse good place to sleep, good place to stay.”

“Do you mean that I may save my life by keeping in the blockhouse, June? Surely, surely, Arrowhead will not hurt you for telling me that. He cannot wish me any great harm, for I never injured him.”

“Arrowhead wish no harm to handsome pale-face,” returned June, averting her face; and, though she always spoke in the soft, gentle voice of an Indian girl, now permitting its notes to fall so low as to cause them to sound melancholy and timid. “Arrowhead love pale-face girl.”

Mabel blushed, she knew not why, and for a moment her questions were repressed by a feeling of inherent delicacy. But it was necessary to know more, for her apprehensions had been keenly awakened, and she resumed her inquiries.

“Arrowhead can have no reason to love or to hate me,” she said. “Is he near you?”

“Husband always near wife, here,” said June, laying her hand on her heart.

“Excellent creature! But tell me, June, ought I to keep in the blockhouse to-day — this morning — now?”

“Blockhouse very good; good for women. Blockhouse got no scalp.”

“I fear I understand you only too well, June. Do you wish to see my father?”

“No here; gone away.”

“You cannot know that, June; you see the island is full of his soldiers.”

“No full; gone away,” — here June held up four of her fingers, — “so many red-coats.”

“And Pathfinder? would you not like to see the Pathfinder? He can talk to you in the Iroquois tongue.”

“Tongue gone wid him,” said June, laughing; “keep tongue in his mout’.”

There was something so sweet and contagious in the infantile laugh of an Indian girl, that Mabel could not refrain from joining in it, much as her fears were aroused by all that had passed.

“You appear to know, or to think you know, all about us, June. But if Pathfinder be gone, Eau-douce can speak French too. You know Eau-douce; shall I run and bring him to talk with you?”

“Eau-douce gone too, all but heart; that there.” As June said this, she laughed again; looked in different directions, as if unwilling to confuse the other, and laid her hand on Mabel’s bosom.

Our heroine had often heard of the wonderful sagacity of the Indians, and of the surprising manner in which they noted all things, while they appeared to regard none; but she was scarcely prepared for the direction the discourse had so singularly taken. Willing to change it, and at the same time truly anxious to learn how great the danger that impended over them might really be, she rose from the camp-stool on which she had been seated; and, by assuming an attitude of less affectionate confidence, she hoped to hear more of that she really desired to learn, and to avoid allusions to that which she found so embarrassing.

“You know how much or how little you ought to tell me, June,” she said; “and I hope you love me well enough to give me the information I ought to hear. My dear uncle, too, is on the island, and you are, or ought to be, his friend as well as mine; and both of us will remember your conduct when we get back to Oswego.”

“Maybe, never get back; who know?” This was said doubtingly, or as one who lays down an uncertain proposition, and not with a taunt, or a desire to alarm.

“No one knows what will happen but God. Our lives are in His hands. Still, I think you are to be His instrument in saving us.”

This passed June’s comprehension, and she only looked her ignorance; for it was evident she wished to be of use.

“Blockhouse very good,” she repeated, as soon as her countenance ceased to express uncertainty, laying strong emphasis on the last two words.

“Well, I understand this, June, and will sleep in it to-night. Of course I am to tell my uncle what you have said?”

The Dew-of-June started, and she discovered a very manifest uneasiness at the interrogatory.

“No, no, no, no!” she answered, with a volubility and vehemence that was imitated from the French of the Canadas; “no good to tell Saltwater. He much talk and long tongue. Thinks woods all water, understand not’ing. Tell Arrowhead, and June die.”

“You do my dear uncle injustice, for he would be as little likely to betray you as any one.”

“No understand. Saltwater got tongue, but no eyes, no ears, no nose — not’ing but tongue, tongue, tongue!”

Although Mabel did not exactly coincide in this opinion, she saw that Cap had not the confidence of the young Indian woman, and that it was idle to expect she would consent to his being admitted to their interview.

“You appear to think you know our situation pretty well, June,” Mabel continued; “have you been on the island before this visit?”

“Just come.”

“How then do you know that what you say is true? My father, the Pathfinder, and Eau-douce may all be here within sound of my voice, if I choose to call them.”

“All gone,” said June positively, smiling good-humoredly at the same time.

“Nay, this is more than you can say certainly, not having been over the island to examine it.”

“Got good eyes; see boat with men go away — see ship with Eau-douce.”

“Then you have been some time watching us: I think, however, you have not counted them that remain.”

June laughed, held up her four fingers again, and then pointed to her two thumbs; passing a finger over the first, she repeated the words “red-coats;” and touching the last, she added, “Saltwater,” “Quartermaster.” All this was being very accurate, and Mabel began to entertain serious doubts as to the propriety of her permitting her visitor to depart without her becoming more explicit. Still it was so repugnant to her feelings to abuse the confidence this gentle and affectionate creature had evidently reposed in her, that Mabel had no sooner admitted the thought of summoning her uncle, than she rejected it as unworthy of herself and unjust to her friend. To aid this good resolution, too, there was the certainty that June would reveal nothing, but take refuge in a stubborn silence, if any attempt were made to coerce her.

“You think, then, June,” Mabel continued, as soon as these thoughts had passed through her mind, “that I had better live in the blockhouse?”

“Good place for woman. Blockhouse got no scalp. Logs t’ick.”

“You speak confidently, June; as if you had been in it, and had measured its walls.”

June laughed; and she looked knowing, though she said nothing.

“Does any one but yourself know how to find this island? Have any of the Iroquois seen it?”

June looked sad, and she cast her eyes warily about her, as if distrusting a listener.

“Tuscarora, everywhere — Oswego, here, Frontenac, Mohawk — everywhere. If he see June, kill her.”

“But we thought that no one knew of this island, and that we had no reason to fear our enemies while on it.”

“Much eye, Iroquois.”

“Eyes will not always do, June, This spot is hid from ordinary sight, and few of even our own people know how to find it.”

“One man can tell; some Yengeese talk French.”

Mabel felt a chill at her heart. All the suspicions against Jasper, which she had hitherto disdained entertaining, crowded in a body on her thoughts; and the sensation that they brought was so sickening, that for an instant she imagined she was about to faint. Arousing herself, and remembering her promise to her father, she arose and walked up and down the hut for a minute, fancying that Jasper’s delinquencies were naught to her, though her inmost heart yearned with the desire to think him innocent.

“I understand your meaning, June,” she then said; “you wish me to know that some one has treacherously told your people where and how to find the island?”

June laughed, for in her eyes artifice in war was oftener a merit than a crime; but she was too true to her tribe herself to say more than the occasion required. Her object was to save Mabel, and Mabel only; and she saw no sufficient reason for “travelling out of the record,” as the lawyers express it, in order to do anything else.

“Pale-face know now,” she added. “Blockhouse good for girl, no matter for men and warriors.”

“But it is much matter with me, June; for one of those men is my uncle, whom I love, and the others are my countrymen and friends. I must tell them what has passed.”

“Then June be kill,” returned the young Indian quietly, though she evidently spoke with concern.

“No; they shall not know that you have been here. Still, they must be on their guard, and we can all go into the blockhouse.”

“Arrowhead know, see everything, and June be kill. June come to tell young pale-face friend, not to tell men. Every warrior watch his own scalp. June woman, and tell woman; no tell men.”

Mabel was greatly distressed at this declaration of her wild friend, for it was now evident the young creature understood that her communication was to go no further. She was ignorant how far these people consider the point of honor interested in her keeping the secret; and most of all was she unable to say how far any indiscretion of her own might actually commit June and endanger her life. All these considerations flashed on her mind, and reflection only rendered their influence more painful. June, too, manifestly viewed the matter gravely; for she began to gather up the different little articles she had dropped in taking Mabel’s hand, and was preparing to depart. To attempt detaining her was out of the question; and to part from her, after all she had hazarded to serve her, was repugnant to all the just and kind feelings of our heroine’s nature.

“June,” said she eagerly, folding her arms round the gentle but uneducated being, “we are friends. From me you have nothing to fear, for no one shall know of your visit. If you could give me some signal just before the danger comes, some sign by which to know when to go into the blockhouse, how to take care of myself.”

June paused, for she had been in earnest in her intention to depart; and then she said quietly, “Bring June pigeon.”

“A pigeon! Where shall I find a pigeon to bring you?”

“Next hut; bring old one; June go to canoe.”

“I think I understand you, June; but had I not better lead you back to the bushes, lest you meet some of the men?”

“Go out first; count men, one, two, t’ree, four, five, six” - here June held up her fingers, and laughed — “all out of the way — good; all but one, call him one side. Then sing, and fetch pigeon.”

Mabel smiled at the readiness and ingenuity of the girl, and prepared to execute her requests. At the door, however, she stopped, and looked back entreatingly at the Indian woman. “Is there no hope of your telling me more, June?” she said.

“Know all now, blockhouse good, pigeon tell, Arrowhead kill.”

The last words sufficed; for Mabel could not urge further communications, when her companion herself told her that the penalty of her revelations might be death by the hand of her husband. Throwing open the door, she made a sign of adieu to June, and went out of the hut. Mabel resorted to the simple expedient of the young Indian girl to ascertain the situation of the different individuals on the island. Instead of looking about her with the intention of recognizing faces and dresses, she merely