The level stretch of land along the north bank of the Illinois River, where lay the lodges of the Kaskaskias, swarmed with hundreds of Indian braves who were eager to be off into the woods and across the plains. What was so stupid as life among the lodges with the women and old men when the far-off wilds called them, when streams might carry their pirogues into lands where their enemies lay sleeping and unwatchful, when the trails to north and south and east and west might lead them into woods and fields where bountiful game would fall before their arrows? Why should the white chief make so serious objection? Other bands had set off some days before in spite of his protests.
No one had seen signs of the Iroquois, and the alarm raised so often began to lose its terror. Besides, was Tonty such a good prophet after all? He had told them that La Salle would return by the end of May, and now May had long been gone and sure tidings had come that La Salle was dead.
It was not yet fall. Across the river the leaves of the trees, still fresh and green, were turning and rippling in the winds. Even the sound of their whispering said to the Indians: “Soon we will be dropping off and the frosts will come. Hunting is good. Come away into the woods.” And they went.
September found not half the warriors left in the village; but Tonty and his three young men were still there. The two gray-robed Recollets—one short and sturdy and young, and the other who had seen the seasons change as often as the old men in the village—withdrew to a cabin in the midst of a field some distance from the town. La Salle had not come back; nor had the round-faced priest, who strutted so pompously down to the water’s edge in February and paddled off with Ako and the Picard toward the sunset.
The Indians hoped Tonty would continue to stay with them. More than four months he had lived in their midst, and now it was twice that time since he had first come into their valley. He dealt with them honestly and without fear, and he had taught them many new ways. The Illinois were archers whose fame had spread throughout the length and breadth of the valley of the Mississippi; but Tonty had shown them how to use the guns that spat fire and dropped a foe while the bow was bending—the guns that made the Iroquois so dreaded.
In spite of privation and discouragement, desertions and loss of friends, Tonty gave no sign that he had lost heart. If only the Indians could hear again the reassuring words of the lamented Chassagoac and forget the warnings of his still suspicious brother, Nicanopé, they could learn to trust the French and to love this white leader like a brother.
Once Tonty had set off in a canoe to see if he could learn at the settlement at Mackinac some news of his chief who all people said was dead. The Indians protested against his departure, but in vain. He did not go far, however, for the river was at that time so low that he ran upon shoals and was obliged to return to the village.
Toward the middle of September came the hoped-for rains, and one day Tonty and his men drew their canoe out of the water, turned it upside down, and began to renew its coat of gum ready for another trial of the river. Some of the Indians watched him as he worked with his curious left-handed movements. Others were too busy entertaining a friendly Shawnee who was paying a visit to the village. As night came on, the Shawnee departed, making his way toward the south and west. The rounded roofs of the village caught the arrows shot by the setting sun and then sank into dusk. Under each roof Indian men stretched out upon buffalo hides and lost themselves in dreams. The women arranged the lodges for the night and then lay down beside brown little papooses whose round eyes had long been closed. So the quiet night settled down upon the village. Three times would the oaks along the river sow their leaves to the winds of winter before another such peaceful night would come upon the village and its people.
The next day Indians of the village saw the Shawnee come hurrying back, cross the river, and rush hot-foot into the town. “The Iroquois!” he panted to the excited chiefs. Two leagues off to the southwest, on the banks of the Aramoni, a tributary of the Illinois River, he had discovered an army of five or six hundred Iroquois coming to attack the village. Turmoil fell upon the Kaskaskias. Where were their warriors? More than half of them were scattered to the four quarters of the valley. Only four or five hundred remained. And where were the guns which Tonty had so carefully trained them to use? Gone for the most part with the absent warriors. Only a few were left, with ammunition for three or four shots apiece. The rest of the braves had only bows and arrows and war clubs. Tonty had been right, but it was no time now to lament.
A reconnoitring party sent out to spy upon the enemy soon came back in great excitement. About five hundred Iroquois were encamped along the Aramoni. They had guns and pistols and sabers. Most of them had shields of wood or of leather, and some wore wooden breastplates. And with the Iroquois were a hundred Miamis, armed with bows and arrows. The anger of the Illinois rose with their fear. The Miamis, their neighbors and kin, should smart for this afterward. But the spying party had still further news to tell. Among the moving figures of the enemy they had seen one arrayed in a black robe and a Jesuit’s cowl. Calmer eyes would have seen that it was only an Iroquois c............