A Little Girl in Old Detroit Part 34

Ah, what a day it was to Jeanne Angelot! They had gone early in the morning and taken some food with them in a pretty basket made of birch bark. How good it was to be alive, to be free! The sunshine had never been so golden, she thought, nor danced so among the branches nor shook out such dainty sprites. How they skipped over the turf, now hold of hands, now singly, now running away and disappearing, others coming in their places!

"The very woods are alive," she declared in glee.

Alive they were with the song of birds, the chirp of insects, the murmuring wind. Back of her was a rivulet fretting its way over pebbles down a hillside, making an irregular music. She kept time to it, then she changed to the bird song, and the rustle among the pines.

"It is so lovely, Pani. I seem to be drinking in a strange draught that goes to my very finger tips. Oh, I wonder how anyone can bear to die!"

"When they are old it is like falling asleep. And sometimes they are so tired it makes them glad."

"I should only be tired of staying in the house. But I suppose one cannot help death. One can refuse to go into a little cell and shut out the sunlight and all the beauty that G.o.d has made. It is wicked I think. For one can pray out of doors and sing hymns. I am sure G.o.d will hear."

They ate their lunch with a relish; Jeanne had found some berries and some ripe wild plums. There was a hollow tree full of honey, she could tell by the odorous, pungent smell. She would tell Wenonah and have some of the boys go at night and--oh, how hard to rob the poor bees, to murder and rob them! No, she would keep their secret.

She laid her head down in Pani's lap and went fast asleep; and the Indian woman's eyes were touched with the same poppy juice. Once Pani started, she thought she heard a step. In an instant her eyes were bent inquiringly around. There was no one in sight.

"It was the patter of squirrels," she thought.

The movement roused Jeanne. She opened her eyes and smiled with infantine joy.

"We have both been asleep," said the woman. "And now is it not time to go home?"

"Oh, look at the long shadows. They are purple now, and soft dark green.

The spirits of the wood have trooped home, tired of their dancing."

She rose and gave herself a little shake.

"Pani," she exclaimed, "I saw some beautiful flowers before noon, over on the other side of the stream. I think they were something strange. I can easily jump across. I will not be gone long, and you may stay here.

Poor Pani! I tired you out."

"No, Mam'selle, you were asleep first."

"Was I? It was such a lovely sleep. Oh, you dear woods;" and she clasped her hands in adoration.

Long, flute-like notes quivered through the branches--birds calling to their mates. Pani 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 woodp.e.c.k.e.r 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 pa.s.sively 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.