THE PRIOR CLAIM

On the banks of the Elkhorn River, not far from Frankfort, stand what is left of two rough stone chimneys, in a still-thriving cornfield. A century and more ago these were the chimneys of the log cabin which Ezra Todd and his groomsmen built for his bride, Polly.

It was furnished in those days, the one room and lean-to of it, with stout puncheon tables and stools, also the handicraft of his groomsmen; with a bed made in the pioneer fashion, a forked branch supporting a pole whose other end stuck into a chink of the logs, a second pole crossing it transversely, and this framework covered by a straw-filled tick and a fine, thick feather bed—for Polly came to her husband with a fair plenishing. There was a spinning wheel, too; and a hooded cradle stood beside the high-backed settle at the hearth, and the board shelves, laid on pegs stuck into the walls, held good earthenware dishes, and even some plates and cups and candlesticks of shining pewter.

At the back was a batten door, thickly studded in nails, that had peepholes on either side, high and low. There was a musket in a rack behind the door, and a flintlock rifle hung beneath the high, paneless window, whose solid wooden shutter, with two small apertures in it, opened inward. It seemed to Ezra Todd, on a particular afternoon early in the past century, as pleasant and as safe a home as man ever prepared reluctantly to leave for the uncertainties and discomforts of Kentucky travel.

His wife waited upon him in silence; a lithe, graceful girl, almost wild in her movements, and barefoot, although dressed otherwise rather finely for a frontier woman, in a sprigged bedgown or overdress, cambric frills to her sleeves and cap. His eyes followed her lovingly, a little anxiously, as she brought him his belt, tied it behind over his fringed leather hunting shirt, handed him the long knife and tomahawk to place in it, and lastly the red handkerchief to bind about his forehead in place of a cap—it was too warm for caps.

“They do say,” he remarked, “that Master Ames in Harrodsburg has got some new sort of cap in his store, made neither of fur nor hide, but of fine light fabric. We grow foppish! What say, Polly mine—shall I return to you tricked out in fancy headgear with a feather in it, like the fellow in the song folks are singing nowadays?” He smiled at her as he sang gaily: “‘Yankee Doodle, bow-wow-wow, Yankee Doodle Dandy⸺’”

Granny Estill looked up quickly from her knitting—a gray, bent creature, twisted with rheumatism, older than women are nowadays at her age, yet with the youthful, laughing eyes of a girl.

“What a pretty, gay tune it is,” she said, tapping her foot and humming after him. “I do like to hear a new tune now and then. Be sure you bring me one from the town, Ezra.”

He laughed kindly. “Eh, you’ve the gay heart, and the dancing foot still, I’ll be bound, spite of the rheumatics! I wouldn’t trust you at a wedding or a roof-raising. Thank you, my love,” he added, as Polly, still in silence, handed him his musket. “Now the bullet pouch, though I protest it goes against my nature to have you always waiting on me so, for all the world like one of those savage females⸺”

Granny interrupted. “Let be! A woman likes to wait on her man, son, especially so fine and proper and upstanding a man as you.”

He chuckled. “’Tis easy to see how you managed to capture four husbands for yourself, Mistress Estill! But I did not marry a wife to be a servant to me. I buy my servants,” he added, proudly, “or at least I shall be buying them as I sell the crops. Here in this rough life you women have your full share of the work, without mollycoddling an able-bodied husband into the bargain. I cannot make of our Polly a fine lady—not yet. But I can keep her from wearing herself to the bone in service of mine. Look how thin she is growing! It shames me, Granny. Can you not make her mind her food? I’ve been watching her the past few days, and I declare she does not eat enough to keep a robin alive.”

“’Tis true she eats too little—but no man can say that of your son, Ezra! Nursing mothers are always thin, be they dog, or cat, or mare, you know that. It may be she is wise to start him on the bottle, though I do not hold with these newfangled notions myself.”

Ezra’s face softened tenderly. “Polly must do as she thinks best there—though a nursing mother should have special reasons for learning to eat.” He waited a moment for Polly to speak, but as she did not do so, he murmured to her in a lower voice, “Barefoot again? Do you not like the pretty shoon I had the cobbler make to your measure? The buckles are of pure silver, lass; I had them from a French trader.”

Polly looked at her feet in embarrassment, trying to hide one with the other, and spoke for the first time.

“I—I forgot!” Her voice was musical, but shy and hesitating, as if she had not the habit of using it.

“Ah, let be!” said Granny again, protectively. “’Tis cruel to try to make a child into a woman all at once. Dearie me! How well I mind that I used to slip away to play with my wooden doll-baby weeks after I wore the cap and shawl myself—till my husband caught me and teased me out of it, because a live one was coming. Polly has had so little childhood, poor lamb! She was but ten when they took her, remember. And for that matter, ’tis a comfort sometimes to feet more broke to shoon than Polly’s to be free of the cramp of sole leather—” She glanced down comically at her own.

“If you spoil her so,” frowned Ezra, “if you encourage her wild ways, how am I ever to make a staid and proper matron of my wife?”

Granny’s eyes twinkled. “Are you so sure you want her to be a staid and proper matron? Isn’t a sweetheart better?”

In the doorway stood a tall young chieftain, wearing a bonnet of gray eagle’s feathers, a stately, splendid young creature. The girl sat by the cradle, head bowed.

But the man’s face did not relax. “Look what happened on the day of the christening! When the neighbors came in from near and far, did they find the young mother in her rightful place in the chimney settle, dressed in the quilted paduasoy petticoat my mother brought over the mountains? They did not. They found her paddling the stream, her kirtle tucked up to her bare knees, her hair unbound like a maiden’s, dipping the babe in the water and him as naked as a newborn pig! What a sight for God-fearing folk on the Sabbath day!”

Granny chuckled aloud, and Ezra laughed too, a little reluctantly, as he could not help himself.

“Oh, I dare say it was a pretty enough sight. But what conduct for young Mistress Todd, matron of a year’s standing, mother of a son, wife of one of the coming men of the country—ahem!” He strutted a little, boyishly, his eye on Polly, trying to make her smile; but she did not smile. “Perhaps,” he added, sobering, “it was the Indian form of christening—but we are not savages.”

Granny put a quick, warning finger to her lips, and Ezra added, more gently:

“There, there. I do not wish to be always scolding, only to make my little wife more like other women. People are happier when they are like to those about them—isn’t it so, Granny? And sometimes I have a fear that my Polly is not as happy with us as I had hoped to make her. Eh, child?”

With a hand under her chin, he lifted her face till their eyes met. She returned his look, long and steadily. But she did not speak. He let her go, with a deep sigh.

“I had thought the child would loosen her tongue by this.” He spoke as if she were not present. “But no matter. Too little speech in a wife is better than too much, they say.”

“She is a still woman, Ezra,” said Granny. “Some are born so. It does not mean that they are always sad women.” She added in a low voice to Polly, as the girl passed, “Speak to him, child! You will not let your man go into the wilderness without a word?”

Polly went to her husband obediently, and said with a sudden effort, “Stay!”

He turned and caught her in his arms, his face radiant.

“Why, my pretty; why my own dear! You do not want me to leave you, then? Yet it was you who bade me go. And so I passed my word, and Neighbor Cook is waiting to ride on with me, and I have told others that I would surely be at the meeting of Court in Harrodsburg. To tell the truth, I thought our son might be proud, some day, to know that his father was one of those to bring the law into Kentucky.

“It will not be for long, Polly only a matter of a week or two—but ’tis the longest and farthest we have been separated since I found you; which makes it hard both.”

He kissed her hungrily, kisses which, after a moment of passivity, she returned, almost with violence. Granny knitted obliviously, smiling to herself. He put his wife from him at last with an effort, muttering:

“I must go now, or—I cannot⸺ Eh, well, black Ben shall sleep in the lean-to each night I am gone, and ’tis many a day since the savages ventured close to a settlement, thank God! You will be safe, at least. You are not afraid?”

Polly shook her head.

“Of course not”—he laughed shortly—“you who have known so much worse than loneliness! Remember there are neighbors within gunshot, and you have Granny for company—Granny and our son. Polly!” He was eying her closely, and asked again, “You are not afraid?”

“Don’t you see,” suggested Granny, “’tis you she fears for, son, you going, out alone into the wilderness? Ah, ’tis the hardest thing a woman has to bear, the waiting!”

“But things are not as they were in your waiting days, Granny,” he said gently. “The wilderness has shrunk away from us, back to beyond the Ohio water. There are cabins and farms and settlements now, all along the road to Harrodsburg; and one or two houses as fine as any in Virginia.”

“You do not pass at all through Indian country?” she questioned.

“There is no Indian country,” he answered, with pride, “not in all Kentucky! ’Tis ours at last, thanks to you and my own parents and others who paid the price.”

“Ay, paid the price for something they never got,” muttered the old woman, bitterly. “No matter, if only their children get it! But ’tis time indeed the law came into Kentucky. Many a stranger lays claim to his acres here who neither earned nor bought them.”

“And that’s why I’m reading law by firelight, me and many others. No smug liar with a warrant in his hand is going to take from me the land that is mine by right of conquest. Ours is the prior claim here, Granny Estill!”

“Ay, ours is the prior claim. Unless,” she murmured, “’twere the red men’s, maybe—do ’e think?”

“Stuff and nonsense! What put that thought into your head? The Cherokees and the Iroquois have no real rights here. They’ve used the land merely, enjoyed it—free of cost. And for long enough. They’ve not earned it as we have, bought it with their blood and their sweat, watered it with their women’s tears, enriched it with the blood of their children, such little precious bodies as this of ours—” He stopped by the cradle, gazing down, his natural orator’s voice sinking to an abrupt pause.

“Eh, have they not?” asked Granny, innocently. “It seems that the red folk may have suffered somewhat, too.”

Ezra glanced at her uncomfortably. “You’re old, and the old get queer notions. The savages have suffered no more than they deserve to suffer; as none should know better, surely, than Mistress Estill!”

The old woman’s head drooped over her knitting. “I have no love for the Indians, God knows! Daily I pray that they may all be damned. But”—her voice altered admiringly—“’tis you will make the grand lawyer, Ezra, and I’m not one to be holding up mere facts to argufy against you. I expect you’ll be making a speech before them all at the Court meeting?”

“Several, if they should ask me,” admitted Ezra, modestly. “But I must be off. There’s bread in the wallet—what, cake, too? Good soul! And tow for cleaning the gun barrels? Yes, yes, you forget nothing a traveler may need—you learned in a good school, eh, Granny? Where’s my Polly gone?”

During this talk the girl had stood quite still, listening with apparent stolidity. But her face was not stolid. At the old woman’s slight plea for the Indians, it lighted up passionately, only to sink again into the lines of settled sadness. Polly’s face at the moment was older than Granny Estill’s. She left the room.

“She’s gone to get you a traveler’s gift,” explained Granny. “Be sure you make over it, son! Women can do with a lot of praising.”

The young man came over to her and spoke low and rapidly.

“Granny! Get her to talk while I’m gone, will you? I’ve been thinking she might open her heart to another woman, easier than to me. That’s why I sent for you to come. Has she spoken at all—of those missing years, I mean?”

“Neither of them nor of aught else, except now and then a sentence, more like a word or two. ’Tis as if, being among the savages so long, she had forgotten the use of her native tongue.”

“She was in the tribe of Gray Eagle, who speaks English well, confound him! Still, Indians are by nature a silent folk; even the squaws do not chatter. But, Granny, ’tis worse than dumbness. Listen! Many a time I’ve come in from the fields at sundown and found her with nothing done, no food prepared, the wheel idle, sitting here on the doorstep, gazing. Just gazing. Other times she was not to be found, high or low, had gone off somewhere into the woods, and would not come to my calling. More than once she’s been away well into the night, and me searching till the hair stood up on my head with fear of what I should find. She’s brooding—or bewitched, I tell you! I’ve been sick with the worry of it, fearing there might be summat wrong here.” He touched his forehead. “Now and then women with child are took that way, I’m told.”

They found her paddling the stream, her kirtle tucked up to her bare knees.

Granny nodded.

“But they get over it when the child comes, don’t they? And she hasn’t—she hasn’t! The past few days, since the christening here, it’s been worse—lying awake at my side half the night, like one listening for something. Ah, my poor lass! Who knows what happened to her there among those vile creatures, the years before we found her! Who knows what terrible, bitter memories she is holding in her young heart, with none to help! Granny, you must help her! She’s got to speak it all out, and so get rid of it.”

The old woman rose and put her hands on his shoulders.

“There, there, boy, don’t fash yourself! Just shut your eyes and love her. Perhaps the child knows better than us. It may be there are things of which it is better not to speak, more especially to the man you’ve married. Two to brood then, instead of one. Give her time, Ezra! She’s but a girl; things pass. The christening was a mistake, perhaps, so soon; too many people watching her, looking to see how she behaved after living among red savages, whispering about her, as neighbors will. That’s why I advised you to take her out of the settlement and win her back to civilized ways alone, with the things she knows best to help—woods and water and the open places. It may be I was wrong there. Perhaps they only remind her. Well, well, she has her baby now, and there’s nothing to tame a girl like her babies. Be patient!”

“But do you help us if you can, out of your wisdom,” he urged.

Granny blushed. “My wisdom, is it? Think shame how you mock an ignorant backwoods woman that’s never had the time nor the chance for a word of it!”

“I’m not talking about learning,” he said, earnestly, “though when it comes to that, you’ve got more real learning out of life than I’ll ever get out of all the books in Richmond town. Ssh! Here she comes.”

Polly re-entered from the lean-to with a pair of white, new moccasins in her hand. She offered them to Ezra, still without speaking.

Polly came in from the lean-to with a pair of fine, new moccasins in her hand. She offered them to Ezra, still without speaking.

“What, these for me?” He spoke gruffly, being moved. “Where did you get them? There’ve been no Indian traders around lately. Eh, you didn’t make them?”

Polly nodded shyly, smiling for the first time.

“Why, how fine they are! All the beading and the stitchery and the soft doeskin! I declare, they might have been made by a squaw.”

Again Granny hushed him with a quick gesture, and Ezra bit his lip.

“Well, I must be off. At this rate ’twill be dusk before I leave, and I meant to reach Cook’s before moonrise. We make an early start.” He laid the moccasins on a shelf.

Polly watched him wistfully. “You—you will not take them?”

Ezra laughed. “No, no, they’re too fine for this journey; the old ones are good enough. I’ll save them for special occasions—more christenings, perhaps!” He laughed again, slyly, kissed her close, and went out of the door with a backward wave of the hand.

Granny hobbled to the threshold and watched him over Polly’s shoulder.

“There, he’s turned to wave again. What a foolish, loving, dear lad it is! Answer him, girl, quick! You might never see him more.” She checked herself. “Whatever am I croaking about? Such days are gone.”

Polly waved a listless hand, closed the door, looked a moment at the moccasins on the shelf, and seated herself at the spinning wheel.

“Now you’ve shut the door, and shut out all the light with it,” Granny said rather testily. “’Tis nearly dark, and candles are skeerce. Besides, the sunset’s pretty, I like to watch it. Let the door stay open!”

“Too pretty. It hurts,” said the girl very low, her hand at her breast.

Granny looked at her curiously.

“Humph! You’re over young to be having a sunset hurt you, my dear.”

Polly, at the spinning wheel, was having rather poor success. The thread broke.

“Here, let me show you!” Granny spoke impatiently. “Steady, no jerking—why, have you forgotten everything your poor mother taught you before the savages got her? Poor Annie! A fool woman, but a fine hand at the spinning and weaving. Eh, what’s this—tears? I’ve not seen you cry before.” She gathered the girl’s head against her breast, her voice softening. “There, there, was it because I spoke of your mother, and that terrible time? You were so young, I thought maybe you didn’t remember. Polly! Do you remember?”

Polly shook her head, uncertainly.

“Then, what is wrong? Come, my dearie, tell it out, my lamb! That’s what Grannies are for. ’Tain’t much they haven’t come to understand⸺”

Polly said, in a very low voice, “The moccasins—”

Granny laughed aloud, relieved but sympathetic.

“Is that all? Because he didn’t wear ’em, you mean, didn’t seem to appreciate them? Lord love you, that’s a man all over. He didn’t realize, pet, he didn’t know you wanted him to show off well before all those men at the Court meeting. But he appreciated the moccasins just the same, appreciated most of all the love you put into ’em. Polly! It was love you put into ’em, wa’n’t it?”

The girl paused a moment before answering, slowly: “I do not know. He is kind, beautiful⸺ It might be—if—if⸺”

“If!” repeated Granny. “If? Then in heaven’s name why ain’t it?”

The girl gave her a queer, beseeching look, and did not answer.

“Eh, well,” sighed the old woman, “’tis your own business, sure! Reckon I’m getting to be a right meddlesome old fool.”

She resumed her knitting, the spinning wheel whirred again, the room grew darker—would have been quite dark except for a flickering light from the pine knot on the hearth. Granny’s voice came presently out of the shadows, with a dreamy quality unusual to its brisk accents:

“That smell of burning pinewood always makes me think of the forest, and of our first little cabin there in the clearing, mine and Dan’l’s. A happy time⸺”

The girl at the spinning wheel lifted her head with a sharp movement, as of pain, which was not lost on the old eyes watching her.

“Tell me, dearie—I’ve often wanted to ask: were they so terribly cruel to you, those ugly savages?” Granny asked quietly.

“They were not all cruel,” the girl said. “Nor ugly.”

“No?” repeated the other, encouraged. “Not the women, perhaps? One of them would have mothered you, I dessay? Surely even red savage women would want to protect a poor little motherless thing like you, just coming into womanhood? And—and save her from the wickedness of the men?”

“The men,” said Polly, “were not all wicked.”

Granny winced. But she spoke again, very gently, “Sometimes cruelty from men is—is better than too much kindness. Eh, Polly, my girl?”

There was no answer. The spinning wheel whirred unevenly.

Granny sighed. “Of course you needn’t talk to me unless you’ve a mind to. Only, remember, if you’ve got something to forget, that ain’t the way to do it, keeping it all to yourself; that ain’t the way to do it!”

After a pause she spoke again, haltingly:

“Sometimes I’ve thought—maybe it’s because I’m old, getting into my dotage—but I’ve thought there might be things you didn’t want to forget! I know how it takes ahold of men, that wild, free life. It sort of spoils ’em for houses and folks and duties, and such as that. They keep wanderin’ off, further and further off, till some day they don’t never come back. My Dan’l, your own grandfather, was like that. But women are different, Polly. They’ve got to be! They’ve got to mind the house, and see that the fire don’t go out; see that the courage don’t go out in their men folk, either, because it takes more than tinder to light that again. Else there soon wouldn’t be any homes to mind, all of us wanderin’ round loose in herds, like the wild beasts. Sometimes, since we got you back, Polly, I’ve been scared you might have inherited a sort of hankerin’ for the wilderness, from your grandfather, dearie⸺”

The girl had stopped spinning. She slipped over to the cradle and crouched beside it, whispering in a sort of moan, “Nenemoosha, Nenemoosha⸺”

“Ah, was he stirring in his sleep, and his deaf old Granny never heard? Takes a mother’s ear for that! But you oughtn’t to talk to him in that outlandish tongue, I declare you oughtn’t. ‘Nenemoosha’—what a name for a boy that’s just been christened a good, sound Bible ‘John’! Whatever does it mean?”

“It means ‘Beloved,’” answered the girl, very low.

“Oh, just a pet-name,” said the other, mollified, “and a right pretty one, too! Is it hungry, then, poor little starved lamb?” she added, for the baby was whimpering urgently.

The mother ran into the lean-to and returned after a moment, bringing an old-fashioned nursing bottle with a long rubber tube, which Granny eyed with great disfavor.

“Humph! What a contraption to cheat a child out of its natural rights! Don’t see many of ’em in these parts. Cook must ’a’ got it from a French trader! All well enough for his poor wean, whose mother died in the borning; but for a strong, hearty lass like you⸺ I’m surprised he would ’a’ brought it to you! Don’t seem quite modest, like.”

“I asked him for it,” said Polly.

“Asked him! Whatever for?”

The girl answered, hesitatingly, “If—if I should be taken away, like young Mistress Cook⸺”

“Nonsense!” interrupted Granny, briskly. “None of that, my girl! No silly thoughts. You’re peaked, to be sure; but tain’t as if you coughed, nor run a low fever, nor looked to be sickening up for something. You’ll live to see the little tad followin’ at your heels like a puppy, and another of him lying in the cradle. That’s right!” she went on, as Polly dropped to her knees beside the baby, and bent low over him, her face hidden. “That’s the place to forget what’s troubling you, there with him at your breast. No more foolish fancies! And no more wandering for wife and mother of men like ours, Polly, my darling. They’ll do the wandering—with us to come back to in their own good time. ’Tis a fine, thrilling life out there in the wilderness—but ’tis a happier one, here under our own apple trees at home, eh?”

The room was growing quite dark.

“Better put a fagot on,” added the old woman. “Never neglect your fire, child, ’tis bad housekeeping. And then come here. I want to talk to you.” Polly crouched obediently at her knee, turning up a face full of trust and love.

“No, not like that!” said the other sharply. “Sit like a civilized body, do, not squatting on your haunches like one of them squaw critters. There, that’s better! Sometimes you give me a turn, with your savage ways. Polly, do ’e know why I’ve come out to live with you and young Ezra here, me that’s got a good home of her own, and had thought to be done forever with the border life? You see, I kind of lost my courage, that time the savages got your pa and ma, and took you captive—not that I hadn’t plenty of other children left, but Johnny, your father, was my first—Dan’l’s boy; and nobody has their first but once.

“It went sort of hard with me, dearie. I heard it all, you see, though I wa’n’t in it, Johnny having put me under the floor at the first yell—always taking such care of his mother, that boy! I heard poor Annie shrieking as they killed the other children—she was always sort of pore-sperrited; I heard your father strugglin’ and cussin’ every foot of the way as they drug him out to the bonfire in the yard—a very cussin’ man was John, and he wanted to make them mad enough to kill him and be done with it. But they wouldn’t. And then, at the last, I heard him singing.”

The old woman was trembling violently, and Polly stared at her.

“Singing?” she repeated.

“Ay, can’t you remember? Can’t you remember even that? I’d like you to remember that! But maybe they’d carried you out of hearing. I couldn’t stand it any more, I had to see what they were doing to my boy. So I crept along under the floor till I found a chink in the logs I could peep out of. They had him marching round and round a stake, with the fire licking at him already; and this was the song he sang”—Granny’s face was lifted, with eyes closed, like some old sibyl’s, and she raised a quavering voice to the tune of “Wearing of the Green”—

“He was warning me, you see,” she whispered. “Still taking care of his mammy; and him with the flames licking his body, and them he loved lying dead at his feet⸺”

Her voice died away, and Polly reached up a hand to stroke her cheek, her breast.

“My father,” she murmured proudly, “that was my father! But”—quickly—“Gray Eagle was not there, he was not chief then. He never tortures—only kills,” she added quickly.

“Killin’s bad enough,” said Granny grimly, “when it happens to them you love. Wait and see!” She paused suddenly, her face tense. “Queer, to hear turkeys gobbling in the corn this time of year. I must have imagined it, talking about Indians. They used to make sounds like that; or like whippoorwills—”

At that moment the note of a whippoorwill sounded, distinct and clear. Granny pulled herself together, with a short laugh.

“I declare I’m getting as timid and notional as town folks, scaring myself with my own tales! Well, Polly, I started to tell you why I’ve come out again to the sort of place I never expected to see more. ’Twa’n’t to help you when the baby borned—plenty of neighbor women to do that, nowadays. ’Twas because—I didn’t like what I was hearin’ about my granddaughter, Johnny’s girl. It didn’t seem to me you was doin’ us credit. Always mopin’ and pindlin’ around, humoring yourself!

“Why, Polly, my child, don’t you know ’tis a wife’s first duty to go cheerful about her house, even if she don’t feel to be cheerful inside? And why you shouldn’t feel to be cheerful beats me!”

Polly laid her cheek against her grandmother’s knee, a caressing, disarming gesture that was very sweet.

“Listen,” said Granny, more gently. “I got to confess something. When Simon Kenton come and told me he was making up a party of our boys to go and rescue a blue-eyed child he’d seen in a tepee over in the Ohio country, Polly, I prayed—it wa’n’t you. I did so! Many’s the hour I’d spent on my knees, asking God to see that you was dead, thanking Him for taking your parents before they knew what had come to you—you so pretty and tender, just coming into womanhood. And when runners come in ahead to say it really was you they’d found and were fetching back, I says to myself: To what? What is there in life for a girl who’s been the—the plaything of savage brutes? What decent man would marry her after this, and let her mother his children? Ah, I’d seen captives brought back before, and I knew what it meant!

“But Simon Kenton made me ashamed of those black thoughts. He told me that out here in the wild places men had come to realize that purity is something which comes from within, not without; that a woman’s honor couldn’t possibly be harmed by anybody or anything, except herself. And then he told me that one of the finest young men in his company had already bespoke your hand. Eh, that was a wonderful hearing, a brave and beautiful hearing!”

Polly sprang erect, and spoke proudly.

“But I did not wish to be married to one of his young men!”

Polly sprang to her feet and spoke proudly: “But I did not wish to be married to one of his young men!”

“No, poor child,” said the other, with great gentleness. “’Twas a feeling that did you credit, as all thought. But since Ezra Todd was willing to take the chance—you see the importance of getting you married, and quickly, too! A fine, upstanding fellow, Ezra! Look what he’s done already: cleared his land, planted it to corn and orchard, bought you a good stout nigger to do the work many a housewife has to do for herself, built this comfortable cabin, given you clothes such as any town lady might envy. Ah, Polly, have you no gratitude?”

“Yes,” said the girl.

“Well, I should hope so! And what a wedding it was! The liveliest I ever saw, though I’ve seen a-plenty of gay ones, had a few myself, for that matter. Neighbors riding in from miles about, Simon Kenton and all his hunters to help with the roof-raising, Master Boone himself come to do honor to my grandchild—for Dan Boone knows well what it is to lose a girl to the savages, and get her again. Such dancing and eating and drinking—and courting! I vow there wasn’t a sober man in our neighborhood for the whole week. And even some of the women.”

She chuckled reminiscently. “’Twas more than just a wedding, you see, ’twas a public rejoicing, a real triumph—for everyone, it seemed like, except the bride. Not that people didn’t understand, my dearie! More than one said to me, ‘Poor maid, she’s mazed yet with her own good fortune, thinking on the horrors she’s escaped.’ But now”—the old voice grew stern—“they don’t understand. Ezra himself, your husband, don’t understand⸺ Polly! Are you listening to me?”

The girl was alert, rigid, her eyes fixed on the window. She lifted a cautious hand.

“Ssh! There! Something moves outside.”

Granny rose vigorously, though with the aid of her cane, and went to the window.

“Who’s there?” she demanded. “Oh—you, black Ben! What are you doing tiptoeing around, startling people? Didn’t the master tell you to stay in the lean-to after dark, until he gets back?”

A voice spoke from without.

“Yais’m, ole miss. I ’lowed I’d better slip down to de pound to see whaffor de cattle makin’ such a to-do. Ack like dey skeert o’ suthin.”

“Dearie me,” said Granny, “I hope it isn’t a wildcat! I doubt if I could kill one of the critters nowadays.” She laughed. “Did I ever tell you about the time I killed a wildcat, Polly, a real painter?”

She paused as she passed the chimney shelf, noticing something on it which she picked up to examine.

“Why, ’tis an eagle’s feather, a gray one. It’s some time since I’ve seen an eagle near the settlements. They seem to be passing with the Indians. Where’d it come from, do you reckon?”

“I found it,” replied the girl, slowly. “On our doorstep. Two days ago.”

“On our step? Well, well! After the chickens, of course. But it comes close. I must tell Ben to watch for it—he’s a good shot, for a nigger. Well, about my wildcat, child. Get your knitting; a good housewife never sits idle. We won’t need lights for that. I don’t hold with this newfangled way of lighting a dip as soon as you’d say jack-robinson. Rank wastefulness, I call it. Get you a stool and sit beside me—no, closer. I like to be able to touch your pretty hair now and then, just to be sure you’re here. For so long—you weren’t.”

The girl seated herself between Granny and the cradle, facing the window, toward which the other’s shoulder was turned.

“’Tis a long story,” began the old woman, “but then all of mine are that. You’re patient with a garrulous old tongue, dearie. It happened afore we come over the mountains, Dan’l and me—your real grandfather, you know, the first of my husbands. He was away at the time—he was mostly away, being that sort—and I had your father Johnny in the cradle, and another coming, as usual; when one evening toward dusk, like now, I heard a commotion in the hen yard. I seized my musket and run out. And there in the midst of the fowl crouched a wildcat! I outs with a screech and ups with my gun, not having time to take aim; and then I started to the cabin at a run, the critter after me. It was a race for life, and I reckon the painter’d have won it—his first leap landed so close that his claws tore my petticoat. But out of the door comes our old hound Jinny, rampaging, she having a litter of pups under my bed at the time and fierce as a lion with it—and the painter got her instead of me, laying her wide open with one rip. I was so mad about poor old Jinny that I forgot how scared I was, and turned and busted that cat’s head in with the butt of the gun—I did so!”

Polly seemed to be listening, tensely.

“You do well to hearken to me brag,” said Granny, with a placid chuckle. “For I was certainly as brave as you make ’em, those days! Like Jinny with her litter of pups. When Dan’l come back he was proud of me, said it wa’n’t no use wasting a gun on a woman of my ability, all I needed was a broom handle.”

Slowly a head appeared above the window ledge—an Indian head, crowned with feathers. Polly stared at it as if paralyzed.

Slowly, while she spoke, a head had appeared above the window ledge—an Indian head, crowned with feathers. Polly stared at it as if paralyzed. The Indian returned her gaze, gave a swift glance about the room, made a slight movement of the head backward, and disappeared. Polly’s hand reached back to clutch convulsively at the cradle. She spoke breathlessly, haltingly:

“And now—the time my Daniel grandfather disappeared—tell about that!”

The Indian returned the girl’s gaze, then glanced swiftly about the room.

Granny sighed deeply. “What, another tale? Eh, well, it is your story, too! Dan’l had always the wanderfoot; he was a great one for wanting to see the far side of things. He’d urge and beg me to go along—but how could I, me with small children? We quarreled about it a good deal. But I always said to him—for that sort must never be apron-tied—I said, ‘You go first, and if it’s so grand over there as you think, come back one of these days in your coach-and-four and fetch your family.’ Again and again he’d get so mad he’d take me at my word—only to come slipping meekly home after a week or a month, or maybe two of them. Because he loved me, you see, for all my quarrelin’ ways.”

“Yes. And you him?” queried the girl, softly.

“Eh, child, better than you know! Better than I knew myself, perhaps.”

“Better than—your children?” whispered Polly.

Granny’s head drooped. “I’m afraid so. Women can’t help their feelings, even when they do their duty—or what seems to them such. Once, he was gone so long that folks said he wa’n’t coming back. A hunter told me he was dead, that he’d seen Dan’l’s curly red scalp drying at the door of an Indian tepee. And so he had! Only some folks are tough enough to outlive even a scalping. They pestered me to be marrying again; they would not let me be. A woman has no chance to mourn her dead in peace in this country—we’re too skeerce. So I promised at last to marry the man that wanted me worst. But on the day set for the wedding, what should I hear but a musket shot, in the woods beyond my clearing—a musket whose voice I knew well! It was my Dan’l’s Betsey-gun.”

“Ah-h!” Polly took the corner of her apron, and wiped the old woman’s eyes.

“Eh, was I crying? I didn’t know. Well, the time come when Dan’l really was gone, for good and all. I couldn’t believe it at first, though since he’d lost his scalp he was always off hunting for it, had got sort of queer-like. Two, three years I waited, the men pestering me nigh out of my wits, for I was a comely wench then, and a good cook, too. And at last I married the poor soul I’d had to disappoint before. After his death—he died in his bed, for a wonder—I took me another, and come on over the mountains with him; hunting for Dan’l, I do believe, though I wouldn’t have told it to myself. And when the Indians got that one, I wedded my fourth—all good men and true, they were, who gave me their love, and my children, and something to do for, you know. But still”—the old voice sank to a whisper—“many’s the night I lay awake beside the man I was married to at the time, with his baby asleep in the crook of my arm, listening, listening for the sound of Dan’l’s Betsey-gun—”

“And if you had heard it?” demanded the girl, with strange eagerness.

“Ah!” The old woman made a wide gesture of surrender. “If I had heard it, I should have risen up out of that bed, mother to many that I was—ay, and grandmother, too—and I should have gone to him, gone to the love of my youth, my Dan’l. For I knew by then that he was my man—he and no other. A woman belongs to the one mate only, no matter how many take her after⸺”

“Yes!” Polly had risen to her feet, her face alight. “‘A woman belongs to the one mate only,’” she repeated. “Now I will tell you, now you will understand. Grandmother! They took me from my mate. Only one moon we had together—and they took me away. I tried to tell them, but they would not listen; they thought me crazed. I tried to hide from them, but they found me. I tried to slip away and go to him, but they brought me back. And now they have given me to another, and tell me I must forget. How can I forget? What right have I to forget? You think that my man forgets? No! It would not be hard to love this other one, he is young, kind, handsome—but Indians do not mate often, like palefaces. To them that is shame. The moon looks at me sternly, so that I cannot sleep; the forest calls to me and I cannot go; when there is rain on this strange roof I close my eyes and think it is beating upon our tepee beyond the water. But I have not known where I shall find him again, nor how.”

Granny was gasping. “My girl, my girl! Light the candle, quick! I cannot see you. What are you telling me? A red man, a savage, the murderer of your own people? You would bring such disgrace as this on decent folk? But no, no, you are mad, my poor lamb! Ezra was right—the horror has turned your wits. There, there, my pretty! We will protect you. Ezra will not let them take you again. And the baby will comfort and heal⸺”

A sudden cry of terror from without drowned her speech, a savage yell, the negro’s voice panting as he neared the cabin:

“Injuns! Injuns! Lemme in, miss, open de do’! Fo’ Gawd’s sake, lemme in! Aie-e-e!” A shriek died into silence.

Again the savage yell, much closer.

Granny was already out of her chair, stick and rheumatism forgotten, and across the cabin with the agility of a cat.

“The bars—quick!” she panted, as she ran. “Get those bars across the door. I’ll take care of the window.” She slammed the shutter as she spoke. “Now the door to the lean-to—come, help me push the table against it. Now the settle—so!” She was everywhere at once, cap off, gray hair flying. “Don’t stand there, gaping! Here, take a shot through the shutter chink, even if you hit nothing. It’ll bring help.”

She herself was sighting carefully at one of the door portholes. There was a loud report, a choking grunt.

“There!” she said grimly. “I got him. They’re in the lean-to, they’ll be on the roof next. Um, I thought so!” She listened a moment, her eyes lifted, then darted to the bed, seized a pillow, slashed it open with the bread knife, and dumped the contents on the flames. A burst of smoke set them coughing. “Aha!” she muttered. “You would, would you? I’m onto your tricks, nasty devils! You’ll not get in the chimney way, so long as the feathers last. Shoot, girl, shoot, I tell you! Let ’em think we’ve men in here. We’ll stand them off till the neighbors come.”

She was reloading her flintlock with deft and steady hands. The girl, who had hitherto obeyed instructions like one dazed, stood irresolute in the center of the room, gazing from door to cradle, and back again. A tomahawk struck the door, came halfway through, and stuck, quivering.

“They’re too many of ’em, they’ll get in,” groaned Granny, shaking her fist at it. “But don’t give up, whatever happens to me—you hear? I can delay them awhile, maybe. You take the bread knife and fight for your life, Polly Todd—for more than your life, remember! Laugh, scream like one crazed—they spare mad folk sometimes. Fight ’em off tooth and nail, till help comes. Remember why! Your husband, the child⸺”

Step by step, Polly had moved toward the door. Over her shoulder she watched the old woman, who was at the window, her back turned, sighting for another shot. Her lip was drawn up so that the teeth showed. She shivered, slid the bars, and opened the door. Indians slipped past her and leaped upon the old woman. Polly screamed:

“No! Grandmother, look out! No!”

The last of the Indians to enter was a tall young chieftain, wearing a bonnet of gray eagle’s feathers. He lifted his hand with a gesture of quiet dignity, and spoke slowly and gravely:

“We know of old this white woman—her years and courage. Do not fear for her.”

He faced Polly in silence, a stately, splendid young creature in blanket and loin cloth, painted as to face and body, but not for war. His was the regalia of a bridegroom. The girl sat by the cradle in an attitude of complete submission, hands folded, head bowed.

Meanwhile Granny battled desperately with the Indians who held her, grinning. They bound her hands behind her, forced her down upon a stool, tying her feet to its legs, but never hurting her.

She did not cease for a moment her maledictions. “You vile devils! You thieves, you murderers! Wait til’ my grandson catches you! Steal what you can find—there’s food, gear, money—but let you lay so much as a finger on that girl or her child, and he’ll get you if he has to go to hell for you. Ezra!” she screamed suddenly. “Help! Help! Take your dirty hand out of my mouth, you fiend! You’ll not stop me yelling until you kill me. Ezra-ah-h!”

They gagged her with her own knitting, but still she strained at her thongs, spluttering, glaring, cursing them with her fierce eyes. The Indians laughed among themselves. One said: “Old Long-knife squaw heap big fighting brave—ugh!”

They began to run about rapidly, picking up everything in sight, always with a cautious eye on Gray Eagle, however. One tied an apron around his waist, so that it hung down behind; one spied the moccasins Polly had sewed for Ezra, and appropriated them with a grunt of satisfaction; another seized the bread knife, and made a pass with it at the old woman, who did not wince.

The chieftain spoke at last, gravely:

“The Moon-maid has waited for me?”

“Ah, too long,” whispered Polly.

He smiled. “That is well. The Eagle bides his time. He has no desire to strike, only to take in peace what is his. Come, then.”

He turned to the door, and the girl followed. Granny strained forward, glaring terribly, struggling to be heard; but the girl did not look at her. Then from the cradle came a faint, thin wail.

Polly started, like one waking from a trance, and rushed back to the cradle. The Indian followed. Hearing him, she turned at bay, both arms stretched backward over the cradle as if in protection. He put her aside, and leaned over to look, frowning.

“Ho!” he muttered. “A man-child. The Moonmaid’s son?”

She nodded, fearfully.

“A white child,” he said, still gazing. “And too young. It is not mine. The Moon-maid has lied!”

His hand went to the tomahawk at his belt.

Polly cried out, sank to her knees, her arms embracing his legs.

“No, no! Listen! The baby is mine, mine! But you did not come, they were my people, what was I to do? I but one and they so many! In my heart I waited. Granny! Granny, tell him⸺”

The Indian looked down at her, his face slowly relaxing. He turned to the door again, saying, “Come!”

Polly, with a gasp of relief, bent quickly to pick up the child, but he stopped her with a stern gesture.

“No. It is not my son. Gray Eagle is no thief.”

She moaned. “You mean, I am to leave him? But how can I, how can I? Not yet! He will be hungry.” Her two hands went with a piteous gesture to her breasts.

Gray Eagle said: “Choose.”

He stalked to the door and out. The other Indians followed. Polly stared after them, wringing her hands, whimpering like an animal. She met the intent gaze of her grandmother fixed upon her.

“What shall I do? What shall I do! You tell me! I knew it would be so. He will not come again—unless—to kill! And how shall I find him? How shall I ever go to him? Yet my baby, my little son—”

Slowly, stiffly, the old woman’s head turned until her eyes indicated the door through which the Indian had gone. Polly covered her face with her arms. “You mean, I am to go? You tell me that?” She went to the old woman, stroking the wrinkled cheeks, the hands, desperately. “It is good-by, then! Ezra—you will make him understand, remind him of what he said about the prior claim? Tell him—tell him I would have stayed, perhaps—if I could⸺”

Without another glance at the cradle, she ran out. The old woman’s eyes closed, as if in unbearable pain. Then they opened again, suddenly, for Polly was back.

“I cannot. I cannot!” she whimpered, running to the cradle. She lifted the baby, rolled it close in a blanket as if to hide it, and ran out, holding it close.

Granny strained forward, listening intently. Then after a moment came a wild wail:

“No, no, you shall not! Give him to me, give him. He is mine! I beg, I beg you not⸺ Nenemoosha, Nenemoosha⸺”

The old woman’s eyes almost started out of their sockets, two great tears burst from them—and then the door opened and Gray Eagle re-entered, carrying the rolled blanket. He laid it in the cradle without comment, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Presently there came a distant sound that made Mistress Estill shrink and quiver—the triumphant scalp-halloo of the Iroquois, receding.

Then silence reigned. There was no sound from the cradle. Granny had long ceased to struggle. The candle guttered and went out; the embers on the hearth died into blackness. Night passed.

With the first faint gray of dawn, galloping hoofs approached, then the voice of Ezra Todd was to be heard calling strongly: “Polly, Polly, my wife! I am here, coming.” A short, sharp cry, and Ezra appeared in the doorway, grasping at the sides of it like one spent.

Ezra appeared in the doorway, grasping the side as if spent. “Dark in here, dark,” he muttered. “Polly, are you here?”

“Dark in here, dark,” he muttered. “I must make a light—oh, my God, I dare not! Polly, Polly, are you here?” His voice rose to a cry, then steadied itself. “What chance, with the negro dead, and an Indian body in the yard! They were in haste, to have left that. Oh, damn them!” He was moving about like a drunken man, feeling for the candle. Granny made a slight sound. He started violently. “What’s that? Not all dead? Oh, quick, quick!” His shaking hand managed at last to strike a spark from the tinder box. The candle flared. He leaped toward the old woman.

“Ah-h! Only you! What have they done with her? Where is my wife? But you can’t speak yet, of course not! Patience, man, patience.” Thus exhorting himself, he removed the gag, loosened her, brought water, liquor, all in a terrible, clumsy haste, muttering as he worked.

“They told me at Cook’s that Indian canoes had been seen. I turned back, rode all night—the mare’s foundered. But too late. Ben killed, Polly gone—where, where? Ah! Now you can speak. Quick, woman!”

Granny struggled for her voice. Perhaps she was also struggling for time to collect her wits.

“Come, come, in mercy’s name!” groaned Ezra. “Tell me at least if they got Polly!”

Granny nodded, gulping.

“And the child—they took the baby, too?”

Granny shook her head, pointing a tremulous hand toward the cradle at which she did not look.

“So! They separated my poor lass from her child? The hell hounds! And now, which way? Answer me!” In hysterical impatience he shook her. “Tell me which way they went, up or down stream?”

The old woman gulped and gurgled unintelligibly, and he sprang away as if he could bear no more.

“If you won’t help me, I must go. I’m sorry for you, I will send neighbors—but I must go!”

Granny made a hoarse effort: “Go—where?”

“Where? In God’s name! To find my wife.”

“No use,” croaked Granny.

Ezra cried out. “No use? Don’t, don’t say it, woman! I’ve not lost my wits, or my woodcraft. See, I’m quite steady!” He held out a hand that trembled like a leaf. “There’ll be some trace, we’ll find her. The neighbors are out. We found her before, we shall again—-”

“No use,” Granny croaked once more. The tears streamed unheeded down her cheeks.

It was the tears that made him understand—Mistress Estill was no weeping female. He backed from her until he reached a table, and leaned on it heavily, as if he could no longer stand erect.

“You are trying to tell me—that they did not take Polly—alive?”

Granny had found her voice at last. She told her lie with pride.

“Take Polly alive? How should they take her alive—my granddaughter! You think she would not hold herself too dear for that? Your wife, the mother of your son? She might well have gone with them unharmed; some women do, more shame to them! But not her. She fought them off, fought them like any wildcat. ‘Take your foul hands from me,’ she said, ‘for I belong to the one man only—my husband! Dead you may take me if you can, but living no other man shall have me—never!’”

The man’s head slowly lifted. A strange look came over his ravaged face, a look almost of relief.

“She said that, did she? My Polly! My brave, loving, loyal little mate! I might have known⸺”

The old woman, closely watching him, lied with growing confidence.

“And so, seeing they could not get her otherwise, they killed her, son; killed her clean and swift as a body would want to die, not lingering on after the heart has gone out of her, beyond her time—but fighting to the last, like any man, for the things she holds dearer than life, her home, her child, her—her love⸺”

Ezra burst into a terrible sobbing, and the old woman, rising with infinite difficulty, managed to hobble over to him by the aid of stools and table, and held his head against her breast. She was whispering under her breath, “God forgive me, God forgive me!”

At last he stirred, saying dully, “Her body—perhaps they will have left me that—-”

“No, no,” said Granny in startled haste, “not even that. You see”—she had need to think rapidly—“they—they dragged Polly down to the river, she struggling every step of the way, calling on your name, cursing them—no, no, not cursing!—what am I thinking of? That was another child of mine, her father.” She passed a distracted hand over her brow. “But, anyway, ’twas there they had killed her, Ezra, because she—she wouldn’t get into the canoe, you see, they could not force her away from you. Ah, a grand fight she made of it! And so they—they did the thing, and cast her body into the river. ’Tis a swift water, son. She’ll be far from this by now, drifting who knows where—who knows where?”

The man’s head fell upon his breast. It did not occur to him to ask further questions, to wonder how the woman could have seen so much, bound as she was, and through a closed door.

In the silence that followed, the baby awoke and cried.

“God be praised!” gasped Granny. “He is alive then, alive! I have not dared to ask, or to look. So still he was—-”

“Like his mother,” said Ezra. He went to the cradle and stood gazing, his face a-quiver. Suddenly he stooped and took something out of the baby’s clenched fist; a long, gray feather. “What is this?” he asked, dully.

Granny started. The Indian, then had left his sign, his warning! But she managed to answer, carelessly:

“Oh, that? Why, he must have pulled it out of his mother’s feather duster, strong little man that he is! Come, Ezra, make up the fire, son. ’Tis time for the child’s nursing bottle.”

For Mistress Estill, builder of empire, had little energy left to waste on grief.