THE PURSUERS DESTROYED. 



267 



water I have ever beheld. I never admire 

 its present beauty without wondering what 

 its grandeur must have been before the 

 white man, with his commercial instincts, 

 denuded the 'hills of the forests which were 

 their birthright and which had beheld their 

 shadows reflected from the great mirror 

 below since the dawn of creation. The 

 white man came, and with ax and -aw he 

 sacrificed them for a few paltry dollars, 

 the same as with spear and net he ravished 

 the waters of the lake below and robbed 

 them of their fishes. 



When the combined tribes of the Sagi- 

 naw valley Indians discovered the passage 

 of the Osakis across to the Intermediate 

 lakes, they became more persistent than 

 ever in the chase. No sooner had they em- 

 barked on Intermediate lake than the Otta- 

 was, learning of their movements, con- 

 cluded their own plan of attack. The 

 Hurons and Chippewas pushed rapidly on, 

 their hope being to overtake the Osakis be- 

 fore night. Their whole attention was 

 given to carefully .scanning each span and 

 bend of the river ahead, and they all 

 thirsted for the blood of the Osakis. Had 

 they been less eager for their prey and 

 more guarded as to their own safety, some 

 lynx-eyed Huron might have discovered an 

 occasional careful parting of the boughs 

 along the sides of the stream behind them 

 and an instant's appearance of the bright 

 eyes and nodding plumes of an Ottawa 

 brave, decorated, like themselves, in the 

 paints and colors of savage warfare. They 

 might have discovered also, that soon after 

 their last canoe had hid itself within the 

 brakes and rice at the head of Grass river, 

 the prow of an Ottawa canoe shot out from 

 the mouth of Intermediate river, 2 miles 

 away, and was followed by another, an- 

 other and another, until the East end of 

 Grass lake seemed a moving panorama of 

 swiftly flying canoes, dipping paddles and 

 waving plumes. 



Silently the great processions wended their 

 way down the windings of Grass river. Out 

 upon the placid waters of the wider river, 

 known as Clam lake, sped the crafts of the 

 hunted hunters, the pursued pursuers, the 

 Hurons and Chippewas. Close behind 

 them, keeping within the cover of the 

 rushes and hidden in the tall grasses along 

 the banks, came the barques of the pursu- 

 ing Ottawas, waiting for the others to 

 round a bend that they might start on a 

 swift run down Clam lake, unobserved by 

 those they followed, and whom they must 

 overtake at the end of that same lake, only 

 4 miles ahead. 



The great red sun had sunk behind a 

 cloudless horizon, but his departing rays 

 were still showing their long lines across 

 Torch lake and up into the lower basin of 

 Clam, when the leading boat of the com- 

 bined tribes of Chippewas and Hurons shot 



around the point at the Western narrows 

 of Clam lake and from the lips of the chief 

 in its bow burst a terrifying whoop as he 

 beheld before him what he supposed was the 

 fleet of canoes of the flying Osakis. That 

 mighty whoop was his dying prayer. With 

 it came the sharp twang of a bow cord 

 from the bushes on the point and the chief 

 toppled over with an Ottawa arrow guiding 

 his heart's blood out upon its slender shaft 

 until he sank beneath the darkening waters. 

 The echoes of that cry were drowned by 

 the awful roar of the Ottawa war cry 

 which poured in from front and rear, from 

 right and left, while a hail of Ottawa ar- 

 rows swept the lake like raindrops from a 

 bursting cloud. 



Then the valor of those untaught chil- 

 dren of the forest was put to its strongest 

 test. There was no West Point polish, no 

 drill book tactics, no hope of Congressional 

 eulogies, no epaulets or shoulder straps, no 

 jealous rivalry among officers who cared 

 not for the lives of their followers so long 

 as their own promotion followed or some 

 hated rival could be pulled from the high 

 pinnacle of fame. Wolf had met wolf and 

 no quarter was asked. Each warrior knew 

 that none would be granted. Canoe crashed 

 against canoe while the soprano of the fly- 

 ing arrow joined with the tenor of the 

 whirling tomahawk as they cleaved their 

 way through breast and skull. The waters 

 lost their emerald hue in crimson stain 

 while they swarmed with dead and dying 

 who were ruthlessly pushed beneath the 

 surface by the strong arms of myriads of 

 swimming braves whose canoes had foun- 

 dered and who were anxiously striving to 

 reach the shores, and there, on an equal 

 footing, meet their enemy. 



The pale moon peeps above the Eastern 

 horizon and sends her glimmering rays 

 like phosphorescent fingers of shame down 

 the stretch of Clam lake, but no one heeds 

 her nor cares for her appearance except as 

 she may aid in directing more truly the 

 stinging arrow or guiding more accurately 

 the sinewy arm that wields the bloody tom- 

 ahawk. The great sun follows the retreat- 

 ing moon, and looking down upon the 

 Western portion of Clam lake views a 

 scene fit only to decorate the weird and 

 awful walls of some infernal chasm such as 

 Dante dreamed of. Ottawa, Huron and 

 Chippewa blood commingle to stain the 

 sodden soil and the waters of the lakes for 

 miles below. 



A thousand warriors of the Chippewas 

 and Hurons went forth to wipe the Osakis 

 from the earth, but never one returned. 



Many an Ottawa tepee mourned the loss 

 of its departed braves who went to meet 

 the invaders of their land but nevermore 

 came back. 



While they fought, the swiftly-fleeing 

 Osakis made their escape to Lake Michi 



