When Wilderness was King: A Tale of the Illinois CountryParrish, Randall
General
When Wilderness was King: A Tale of the Illinois Country
Parrish, Randall
Illinois -- Fiction
To remain longer cooped in that foul hole was indeed madness; and
as soon as I could I followed him, rolling out of the entrance to
the water's edge, fairly sick with the pressure upon my lungs, and
caring so little what the end might be, provided I might first attain
one breath of pure air, that before I gained strength to resist I
was prisoner to as ill-looking a crew of savages as ever my eyes
encountered. The villains triced us firmly with thongs of skin, and
sat us up against the bank like so many puppets, dancing about before
us, snapping their dirty fingers in our faces, and treating us to all
manner of taunts and insults. 'Twas done so quickly as to seem a dream,
had I not smarted so sorely from the blows dealt me, and my limbs
chafed where the tight cords were drawn.
I recall glancing aside at Burns; but his seamed and puckered face
remained emotionless, as the red devils rolled him over till he stared
straight up at the sky, now gray with coming dawn. The sight of De
Croix almost set me laughing, which won for me a kick from the brute
who had me in special charge. The Frenchman was surely no court dandy
now; his fancy clothing clung to him in rags, while the powder-flash
within the cellar had blackened his face and made sad havoc with his
gay mustache. He endeavored to smile at me as our eyes met, but the
effort produced only what seemed like a demoniac grin.
"'Tis a hard life, Monsieur," I could not forbear remarking, "and will
hardly remind you of Versailles."
His form stiffened in its bonds, as if the words spurred his memory of
other days.
"A French soldier smiles at fate, wherever it overtakes him," he
answered, a touch of pride in his voice. "Besides, the game is not
played out,--I may yet prove the first one in. But see! if I mistake
not, here comes the chief of all these devils."
The new-comer strode down the high bank alone, and was greeted noisily
by our captors. It was the same Indian that had halted Captain Wells
the day previous; and he looked us over with a contemptuous sneer that
curled his lips and transformed the whole expression of his hideously
painted face. I noted that he paid but small heed to either De Croix
or myself, contenting his vengeance with sharp kicks at our prostrate
bodies; but as he came to Burns, he paused, bending down till he could
peer into the old borderer's upturned face.
"Bah! I know you," he said, brokenly. "You Ol' Burns. Stake down in
village for you."
The old man neither moved his head nor gave the slightest sign that he
had heard.
"Squaw eat heart," went on the Indian, prodding him with his stick;
"feed bones to dog. All white men go that way now,--Ol' Burns first."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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