CHAPTER XIX

THE INDIANS PASS BY

But Susan was soon to hear the war-whoop which she so much dreaded. A week went by after the visit of the barkeater, and she watched daily for sign of the Indians, or for a visit from Little Metacomet.

"He will come some day, sassafrassing along the trail," she would remark to keep up her courage. But the Indian boy never came again after this message. The hawks in the air had caused all the Indians to keep close to Philip and his black horse.

The terror grew. War with the Indians became every day more certain. The pioneers barred their doors, and the wood-chopper ceased going abroad into the forest.

One day as Susan was returning from the old haystack meadow to her cabin, a sound rose in the air--it rasped; it almost caused her heart to stand still.

It came from the old Indian mill.

It was a fair day. The woods were full of bird song, and the bright air hummed with insects.

She caught off her slat bonnet.

It came again. There was hate, intensest hate in the sound.

It was like a war wind.

"That is the war-whoop," she said. "Oh, that my ears should ever have heard the sound!"

The war-whoop was the death-knell of the Indian race. Revenge is consuming, and they who conquer by it are conquered; "they who take the sword shall perish by the sword."

When the war-whoop first arose we do not know--it was an air-rasping, heart-withering sound; it was formed in the throat--like the Greek aspirate it rolled out in gutteral r, r, r's and seemed to smite the sky. It made the ear shrink; and the heart wither; it shut the doors of mercy; it was followed by the swift use of the tommyhawk and scalping knife.

A writer has tried to express it in the sound of a simulated word--Shar-r-r-gar, but no word can express it; it was born of hate, and only a heart of hate can roll it forth.

In the war dances of Philip at Mt. Hope it arose in the night for a summons to the tribes for the last time. In the wild war that followed it startled Swansea, Taunton, Dearfield, Hatfield and Lancaster. It died at Mt. Hope, when the sagamores were silenced, and where silence was forced upon the last great forest king.

Susan listened again to make sure of its direction, but meanwhile sped to the cabin door, where stood Roger and his father.

The sound pierced the air. It was repeated--it seemed to saw the air.

"Oh, husband, they are coming! You say that I am timid--always fearing something. But I am going out to meet them."

The sound broke again on the air. It caused the birds to fly.

"Oh, husband, that is the war-whoop!"

She went boldly to the front of the cabin, and Roger and she looked out.

An hundred or more Indians were in sight. They stopped when they saw her.

Their leader, who was plumed and painted, turned and faced the others, and said something to them, in a deep low tone.

Then he pointed to the cabin, and to Roger.

Next he began to run down the road that passed the cabin, leaping, and singing some wild refrains. The braves ran after him, repeating his words. When they came near to the cabin, they ran faster than before. Opposite the cabin, they leaped higher, and cried out more loudly,

"Netop! netop!"

[Illustration: THEY PASSED THE CABIN, LEAPING AND SINGING.]

They passed the cabin, and were soon out of sight.

They had passed by.

"Netop!" It had a friendly, joyous sound. It passed the family by pleasantly like the west wind.

Roger remembered that Little Metacomet had used the word--that he had pointed to him one day when he had met a sagamore, and said to the latter "Netop."

"It means friend," said he, "and King Philip has told his braves to pass us by."

They felt safe now, and went abroad at will, seeking tidings of Little Metacomet.

Roger finally went to the Indian mill to inquire for him, while his mother hid in the bushes near the place.

He received only one answer.

"He is following his mother."

"Oh, Roger," Susan would say, "think of it. Suppose it was you following me--and I was fleeing, fleeing. I never knew how much store I set by that little boy. Our people had to take up arms or perish. But, oh, how I wish that Father Eliot could have won over the tribes to God, and changed the hearts of all, as he did of many."

"If Philip should be killed," asked Roger, "and the princess should be thrown into prison, what would become of Little Metacomet?"

"I would give him a home with us," she replied. "I would share my all with him. I ought to--he has the heart of Massasoit."