A Little Girl in Old Detroit, Amanda Minnie Douglas [primary phonics TXT] 📗

watched the child skipping, leaping, pulling down a branch and letting it fly up again. Then she jumped across the brook with a merry shout, and a tree hid her.

Pani studied the turf, the ants and beetles running to and fro, the strange creatures with heavy loads. A woodpecker ran up a tree and pulled out a white grub. "Tinkle, tinkle, bu-r-r-r," said the little stream. Was that another shout?

Presently Pani rose and went toward the stream. "Jeanne! Jeanne!" she called. The forest echoes made reply. She walked up, Jeanne had gone in that direction. Once it seemed as if the voice answered.

Yes, over yonder was a great thicket of bloom. Surely the child would not need to go any farther. Presently there was a tangle of underbrush and wild grapevines. Pani retraced her steps and going farther down crossed and came up on the other side, calling as she went. The woods grew more dense. There was a chill in the air as if the sun never penetrated it. There was no real path and she wandered on in a thrill of terror, still calling but not losing sight of the stream.

And now the sun dropped down. Terrified, Pani made the best of her way back. What had happened? She had seen no sign of a wild animal, and surely the child could not be lost in that brief while!

She must give an alarm. She ran now until she was out of breath, then she had to pause until she could run again. She reached the farms. They were mostly all long strips of land with the houses in reach of the stockade for safety.

"Andre Helmuth," she cried, "I have lost the child, Jeanne. Give an alarm." Then she sank down half senseless.

Dame Helmuth ran out from the fish she was cooking for supper. "What is it?" she cried. "And who is this?" pointing to the prostrate figure.

"Jeanne Angelot's Pani. And Jeanne, she says, is lost. It must be in the woods. But she knows them so well."

"She was ever a wild thing," declared the dame. "But a night in the woods alone is not such a pleasant pastime, with panthers, and bears have been seen. And there may be savages prowling about. Yes, Andre, give the alarm and I will look after the poor creature. She has always been faithful to the child."

By the time the dame had restored her, the news had spread. It reached Wenonah presently, who hastened to the Helmuths'. Pani sat bewildered, and the Indian woman, by skillful questioning, finally drew the story from her.

"I think it is a band of roving Indians," she said. "I am glad now that Paspah is at home. He is a good guide. But we must send in town and get a company."

"Yes, yes, that is the thing to do. A few soldiers with arms. One cannot tell how many of the Indians there may be. I will go at once," and Andre Helmuth set off on a clumsy trot.

"And the savory fish that he is so fond of, getting spoiled. But what is that to the child's danger? Children, come and have your suppers."

They wanted to linger about Pani, but the throng kept increasing. Wenonah warded off troublesome questions and detailed the story to newcomers. The dame brought her a cup of tea with a little brandy in it, and then waited what seemed an interminable while.

The alarm spread through the garrison, and a searching party was ordered out equipped with lanterns and well armed. At its head was Jeanne's admirer, the young lieutenant.

Tony Helmuth had finished his supper.

"Let me go with them," he pleaded. "I know every inch of the way. I have been up and down the creek a hundred times."

Pani rose. "I must go, too," she said, weakly, but she dropped back on the seat.

"Thou wilt come home with me," began Wenonah, with gentle persuasiveness. "Thou hast not the strength."

She yielded passively and clung piteously to the younger woman, her feet lagging.

"She was so glad and joyous all day. I should not have let her go out of my sight," the foster mother moaned. "And it was only such a little while. Heaven and the blessed Mother send her back safely."

"I think they will find her. Paspah is good on a trail. If they stop for the night and build a fire that will surely betray them."

She led Pani carefully along, though quite a procession followed.

"Let her be quiet now," said the younger squaw. "You can hear nothing more from her, and she needs rest. Go your ways."

Pani was too much exhausted and too dazed to oppose anything. Once or twice she started feebly and said she must go home, but dropped back again on the pine needle couch covered with a blanket. Between waking and sleep strange dreams came to her that made her start and cry out, and Wenonah soothed her as one would a child.

All the next day they waited. The town was stirred with the event, and the sympathy was universal. The pretty Jeanne Angelot, who had been left so mysteriously, had awakened romantic interest anew. A few years ago this would have been a common incident, but why one should want to carry off a girl of no special value,--though a ransom would be raised readily enough if such a thing could save her.

On the second day the company returned home. No trace of any marauding party had been found. There had been no fires kindled, no signs of any struggle, and no Indian trails in the circuit they had made. The party might have had a canoe on Little river and paddled out to Lake St. Clair; if so, they were beyond reach.

The tidings utterly crushed Pani. For a fortnight she lay in Wenonah's cabin, paying no attention to anything and would have refused sustenance if Wenonah had not fed her as a child. Then one day she seemed to wake as out of a trance.

"They have not found her--my little one?" she said.

Wenonah shook her head.

"Some evil spirit of the woods has taken her."

"Can you listen and think, Pani?" and she chafed the cold hand she held. "I have had many strange thoughts and Touchas, you know, has seen visions. The white man has changed everything and driven away the children of the air who used to run to and fro in the times of our fathers. In her youth she called them, but the Church has it they are demons, and to look at the future is a wicked thing. It is said in some places they have put people to death for doing it."

Pani's dark eyes gave a glance of mute inquiry.

"But I asked Touchas. At first she said the great Manitou had taken the power from her. But the night the moon described the full circle and one could discern strange shapes in it, she came to me, and we went and sat under the oak tree where the child first came to thee. There was great disturbance in Touchas' mind, and her eyes seemed to traverse space beyond the stars. Presently, like one in a dream, she said:--

"'The child is alive. She was taken by Indians to the _petite_ lake, her head covered, and in strong arms. Then they journeyed by water, stopping, and going on until they met a big ship sailing up North. She is in great danger, but the stars watch over her; a prisoner where the window is barred and the door locked. There is a man between two women, an Indian maiden, whose heart hungers for him. She comes down to meet him and follows a trail and finds something that rouses her to fierce anger. She creeps and creeps, and finds the key and unlocks the door. The white maiden is afraid at first and cowers, for she reads passion in the other's eyes. O great Manitou, save her!' Then Touchas screamed and woke, shivering all over, and could see no further into the strange future. 'Wait until the next moon,' she keeps saying. But the child will be saved, she declares."

"Oh, my darling, my little one!" moaned the woman, rocking herself to and fro. "The saints protect thee. Oh, I should have watched thee better! But she felt so safe. She had been afraid, but the fear had departed. Oh, my little one! I shall die if I do not see thee again."

"I feel that the great God will care for her. She has done no evil; and the priests declare that he will protect the good. And I thought and thought, until a knowledge seemed to come out of the clear sky. So I did not wait for the next moon. I said, 'I have little need for Paspah, since I earn bread for the little ones. Why should he sit in the wigwam all winter, now and then killing a deer or helping on the dock for a drink of brandy?' So I sent him North again to join the hunters and to find Jeanne. For I know that handsome, evil-eyed Louis Marsac is at the bottom of it."

"Oh, Wenonah!" Pani fell on her shoulder and cried, she was so weak and overcome.

"We will not speak of this. Paspah has a grudge against Marsac; he struck him a blow last summer. My father would have killed him for the blow, but the red men who hang around the towns have no spirit. They creep about like panthers, and only show their teeth to an enemy. The forest is the place for them, but this life is easier for a woman."

Wenonah sighed. Civilization had charms for her, yet she saw that it was weakening her race. They were driven farther and farther back and to the northward. Women might accept labor, they were accustomed to it in the savage state but a brave could not so demean himself.

Pani's mind was not very active yet. For some moments she studied Wenonah in silence.

"She was afraid of him. She would not go out to the forest nor on the river while he was here. But he went away--"

"He could have planned it all. He would find enough to do his bidding. But if she has been taken up North, Paspah will find her."

That gave some present comfort to Pani. But she began to be restless and wanted to return to her own cottage.

"You must not live alone," said Wenonah.

"But I want to be there. If my darling comes it is there she will search for me."

When Wenonah found she could no longer keep her by persuasion or entreaty, she went home with her one day. The tailor's widow had taken some little charge of the place. It was clean and tidy.

Pani drew a long, delighted breath, like a child.

"Yes, this is home," she exclaimed. "Wenonah, the good Mother of God will reward you for your kindness. There is something"--touching her forehead in piteous appeal--"that keeps me from thinking as I ought. But you are sure my little one will come back, like a bird to its nest?"

"She will come back," replied Wenonah, hardly knowing whether she believed it herself or not.

"Then I shall stay here."

She was deaf to all entreaties. She went about talking to herself, with a sentence here and there addressed to Jeanne.

"Yes, leave her," said Margot. "She was