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THE LAND LIES PRETTY 
 
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THE 
 
 LAND LIES 
 
 PRETTY 
 
 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 A Story of the Great Sauk Trail in 1882 with an 
 Introduction to the Northwest Territory 
 
 by 
 
 MERRITT GREENE 
 
 Chapter Head Drawings 
 
 by 
 
 Jane Penfold 
 
 HILLSDALE SCHOOL SUPPLY, INC., Publishers 
 
 Hillsdale, Michigan 
 
 1959 
 
With the exception of actual historical personages 
 identified as such, the characters are entirely the 
 product of the author's imagination and have nothing 
 but a coincidental resemblance to any person in 
 real life. 
 
 Copyright, 1959, by 
 
 Hillsdale School Supply, Inc. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 59-14503 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
*I3 
 
 
 To 
 
 Helen 
 
 with whom I have traveled many a mile 
 
 along the Great Sauk Trail 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction i 
 
 I Martin Langdon arrives in Northwest Territory 1 
 
 II Martin joins posse, takes wild ride in wilderness 8 
 
 III In which Martin meets a savage in the forest . 16 
 
 IV In the hands of the savages 24 
 
 V Martin bathes in Elk Lake and given ultimatum 32 
 
 VI Jake Durgy comes home 38 
 
 VII School opens in the wilderness 48 
 
 VIII In which Jake Durgy tries again 56 
 
 IX In which Durgy gets the upper hand .... 62 
 
 X Goon-pa-shee casts spell and Martin walks again 69 
 
 XI In the wake of the summer storm 77 
 
 XII Martin returns to Grannisville 86 
 
 XIII Martin sees Ellen again, meets Mrs. Van Duzer 95 
 
 XIV Nag-doche-shaw Ka-moche-kit 105 
 
 XV Justice without mercy Ill 
 
 XVI School opens in Grannisville 122 
 
 XVII Martin is delegated to keep the peace .... 129 
 
 XVIII Sound of the tom-tom 138 
 
 XIX Martin learns that any man is fair game . . . 149 
 
 XX Disappointing letter comes from Governor Mason 156 
 
 XXI Martin closes the school at maple syrup time . 162 
 
 XXII Martin gets his homestead and makes plans . . 167 
 
 XXIII Governor Mason demands audience with Martin 174 
 
 XXIV Op-jah-moh-mak-ya 184 
 
 Glossary 190 
 
 Bibliography 193 
 
 Acknowledgments 195 
 
THIS story is laid at the time when the pioneers and 
 Indians were living together in the wilderness of southern 
 Michigan. If, however, the reader wants to enjoy gruesome 
 tales of settlers being murdered and slaughtered by the 
 Indians he will be disappointed ; for this book sincerely 
 attempts to depict the conditions as they actually were. Many 
 of the incidents are historically true. 
 
 The Indian lore and information was obtained from Now- 
 qua-oum, a Potowatomi Indian who now lives near Athens, 
 and whose ancestors roamed the forests of southern Mich- 
 igan, northern Ohio and Indiana. 
 
 In 1787 the Northwest Territory was created by an 
 ordinance of Congress. Embraced in this area were the now- 
 constituted states of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wis- 
 consin and part of Minnesota. 
 
 The Great Sauk Trail was then, as now, the shortest route 
 between Detroit and Chicago. It became the Chicago Turn- 
 pike, and is now designated as U.S. Highway 112, named 
 the Pulaski Memorial Highway. 
 
 With these remarks we give you this tale of the days 
 when Michigan was not yet a state, and was part of the old 
 Northwest Territory that the emigrants were only beginning 
 to populate — to fell the trees of the forest — to plow the 
 land for food — and to build their towns and cities. 
 
 Merritt Greene 
 
 GREENBROOK, 
 HILLSDALE, MICH. 
 
1 
 
 In Which Martin Langdon Arrives In the 
 Northwest Territory 
 
 Jn Immw^* HlffllH^^'^ buckskin-clad Martin Lang- 
 (^JUf S|S|K don descended from the stagecoach 
 
 in the little hamlet of Grannisville on 
 that memorable afternoon of June 4, 1832, he knew that 
 the assembled crowd of Indian braves and squaws, inter- 
 mingled with white women and girls, was not a welcoming 
 committee for him. His eyes looked in the direction where 
 the people were watching a dust cloud on a high hill to the 
 west of the village. Now came faint strains of "The Girl I 
 Left Behind Me" from a fife and drum corps. Shouts and 
 cheers became intermingled with such phrases as "Old 
 Blackhawk's learned his lesson" and "They're coming home 
 at last." 
 
 Nobody gave the young six-footer with his long rifle a 
 curious glance. One thing and one thing only had brought 
 Martin Langdon into the Northwest territory. "It's new ter- 
 ritory," he had told his parents back in New York state. "I 
 can teach school here all my life and never get what I want — 
 cheap land and freedom in new country." But now he had a 
 feeling of frustration. 
 
 He had left his home with five hundred dollars, but he had 
 been careless. He had let himself become involved on the 
 steamer from Buffalo to Detroit in a little game with the 
 boys. He dropped fifty dollars to sharpsters, and somebody 
 on the boat had stolen most of the remainder. 
 
2 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 He did not become aware of the theft until he went to 
 the land office and found that in the leathern pouch where 
 his money had been there were only a few coins, some nails, 
 washers and horsechestnuts. 
 
 "Too bad," the land agent — a man named Derbyshire, 
 remarked. "It often happens on the lake boats, I fear. There 
 are, unfortunately some people now coming into Michigan 
 who are not, I am ashamed to say, of the best character." 
 
 Martin had walked out of the land office with the feeling 
 that Derbyshire had included him among those not of the 
 best character. But he had come too far to be thwarted now 
 in his determination to shake off the shackles of country school 
 teaching. So he had boarded the Great Western Stagecoach, 
 which had brought him over the Great Sauk Trail — also 
 called the Chicago Military road — and had dropped him in 
 Grannisville, with the total of eighteen cents in his pocket. 
 
 For a moment he stood in the crowded street, filled with 
 Indians and shouting women and children. He saw the sign, 
 Great Sauk Inn, on a whitewashed wood-block edifice, and 
 a woman, standing alone on the veranda. So intense was her 
 concentration as she watched the marching column now 
 coming into view from the west that she jumped as hard as 
 though a gun had been jabbed into her side, but it was only 
 Martin's mild "Good afternoon ! What's all the excitement 
 about?" 
 
 "Land sakes!" she said after regaining her breath. "Don't 
 you know? The militia's coming home! Don't tell me you 
 didn't know about the Blackhawk War. Here they are ! 
 There's George ! — Excuse me, Mister, but he's my husband !" 
 
 The woman was off the veranda leaving Martin to stare 
 as the crowd yelled. The fife and drum corps played louder 
 and louder as the militia, clad in nondescript buckskins and 
 homespuns, armed with hatchets, muskets and rifles, drew up 
 in front of the Great Sauk Inn. 
 
 "Company, halt!" It was a command from a man on horse- 
 back garbed in a blue uniform, who had been leading the 
 oddly-attired troop. 
 
 A voice in the crowd yelled out, "Hey, Major Grannis, did 
 you march the hull way home in formation like that?" 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 3 
 
 "Nope !" returned the Major, dismounting. "Just wanted 
 to bring it into Grannisville like a conquering army." Turning 
 to his troop he gave the final command, "Company, 
 dismissed!" 
 
 In the flurry of excitement that followed several Indians 
 mounted the veranda, as wives and children rushed into the 
 arms of husbands and fathers before the latter had more 
 than broken ranks. The Indians shouted too, adding an occa- 
 sional whoop, and one of them brushed against Martin, who 
 found himself involuntarily rubbing off the contamination of 
 contact with the red man's skin. 
 
 With his arm around his wife's waist Major Grannis made 
 his way to the steps of the inn. "Tell me, George," Martin 
 heard her ask, "did you see Blackhawk?" 
 
 "Bless you no, my dear," he answered. "We no sooner 
 got to Niles than we were told the war was over." 
 
 Martin followed them into the whitewashed edifice, leav- 
 ing the Indians on the veranda. The lobby, or tap room, was 
 spacious, with a huge stone fireplace at the north end facing 
 the entrance, a bar extended along the right, and several 
 nondescript chairs stood about on the puncheon floor. The loft, 
 undoubtedly designated as "the upstairs" was reached by a 
 flight of steps made of halves of logs. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," Martin said, clearing his throat. "Is 
 this where I find lodging in Grannisville?" 
 
 "My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Grannis. "You're the first 
 customer we've had since the militia marched off to the war." 
 
 "This is the place," said Major Grannis. "And your name?" 
 
 "Langdon, Martin Langdon, from Willink in Erie county, 
 New York. Come west to homestead !" 
 
 "See you're equipped for life in the wilderness !" the major 
 looked at Martin's new buckskins, taking quick cognizance of 
 his brown curly hair, smooth-shaven face and blue eyes. Mar- 
 tin withstood the close scrutiny self-consciously, pretending 
 a feeling of security as he rested the brass butt-plate of his 
 long rifle on the floor. He smiled in agreement with the 
 major. 
 
 "Well," continued Major Grannis, "I don't think you'll be 
 able to exactly homestead as yet in Hillsdale county." 
 
4 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "I know. They told me that in Detroit. But they said 
 there were lots of squatters here." 
 
 "Of course I have a special right because I bought the 
 site of Grannisville myself right off the Potowatomi woman 
 that had a deed by the treaty of 1821," Major Grannis ex- 
 plained, and added, "Me-Naw-Chee got a half section of land 
 and I bought it of her — fair and square. But I got no deed 
 from the United States, because the United States hasn't got 
 a title itself — not one that Chief Baw Beese has signed, 
 anyhow." 
 
 "Much Indian trouble?" Martin inquired. "I'm pretty good 
 with a rifle, if you need me." 
 
 "Oh, no, no !" Mrs. Grannis put in. "We don't want any 
 of that!" 
 
 "Not in this part of the Territory," Major Grannis warned. 
 "They're friendly — let settlers come in and all — but 
 won't sell. Baw Beese says Topinabee and others have signed 
 treaties on land they had no claim on themselves." 
 
 "Maybe the Indians out here are different, but that sounds 
 like the same old guff they hand out back home. Some In- 
 dian's the chief. He signs a treaty and all agree to it, then 
 some other redskin says he didn't know anything about it. 
 We figure they're just a bunch of crafty knaves who never 
 keep their word." 
 
 "If you're going to live here, Langdon, you'll have to 
 learn to get along with them. They're here. They were here 
 first, and Baw Beese lets us all know that we're here because 
 he likes us, and permits our stay in his domain. Same thing 
 holds over west, where there's a chief named Moquago. He 
 and Baw Beese are cousins." 
 
 While Major Grannis seemed friendly enough, Martin 
 realized that whatever his opinion on Indians, the major did 
 not want to hear it, and Mrs. Grannis brought him face to 
 face with the realization that he was soon going to have to 
 talk about his shortage of funds, when she said, "There's a 
 bed ready and waiting for you Mr. Langdon. George will show 
 you up." 
 
 Fortunately for Martin at the moment there came stream- 
 ing through the tavern door a sparkling-eyed crowd of young 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 5 
 
 people demanding a dance in honor of the return of the 
 militia. 
 
 "All right, all right!" the major shouted good-naturedly. 
 "You're entitled to a dance, but where do we find a fiddler?" 
 
 "I can fiddle!" Martin volunteered, stepping forward. "But 
 there's another hitch. I haven't any fiddle." 
 
 An explosion of laughter followed this remark ; and then 
 Martin found himself looking into the incredibly blue eyes 
 of a flaxen-haired girl with a dimple. "My papa has a fiddle. 
 I'll get it for you," she said. 
 
 "Miss Ellen Van Duzer's father has a fiddle," announced 
 the major. A wild cheer greeted his words, and the crowd 
 dispersed. 
 
 Ellen Van Duzer was the last to leave. She gave Martin 
 a flirtatious smile as she reached the door, and said, "I'll bring 
 the fiddle right after supper." 
 
 When she was gone Martin turned suddenly to the major. 
 "If I fiddle the dance will it pay for a night's lodging?" 
 
 The major looked at him narrowly, and after a moment's 
 pause demanded, "What's the matter — broke?" 
 
 "Not in spirit — just my pocketbook. I've got eighteen 
 cents." 
 
 "I'll take your word. Fiddle the dance, and I'll give you a 
 night's lodging, your supper and breakfast." 
 
 "Good ! I'll find work tomorrow if anybody'll hire me." 
 
 "If you can swing an axe you won't have any trouble. 
 Come on, I'll show you where you sleep." 
 
 At supper that evening Martin was so well received by 
 both the major and his wife that he forgot himself, and in- 
 advertently mentioned that he had been teaching school back 
 in New York state, and he had started west with five hun- 
 dred dollars. 
 
 "Mean to say you can teach school?" the major inquired, 
 suddenly interested. 
 
 "Well, you see Major Grannis — " 
 
 "We'll forget about the major now. I'm out of uniform 
 and I'm just plain George Grannis. You said you were a 
 school teacher." 
 
 "That's what I wanted to get away from Major, I mean 
 
6 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Mr. Grannis. That's why I came here. I can't stand being 
 cooped up like some setting hen with a brood of chickens." 
 
 "But if you can teach school, and you're broke — " Grannis 
 was saying. 
 
 "Why, George, he's almost an answer to prayer!" Mrs. 
 Grannis exclaimed. "Here's the very man we've been waiting 
 for." 
 
 "There's a job right here in Grannisville," George spoke 
 eagerly. "And the pay is a thousand dollars a year!" 
 
 "A thousand dollars!" Martin exclaimed. "Why that's more 
 than I got back east!" 
 
 "So far as homesteading is concerned you can pick out 
 your land, squat on it if you want to, and pay for it when 
 the government opens it up for sale." 
 
 "And with a thousand dollars," Mrs. Grannis broke in, 
 "you'd be able to buy anything you want in Vance township." 
 
 "I guess I could stand another year of school teaching for 
 that money," Martin began to weaken in his resolve. 
 
 "Of course you'll have to teach Indians," George explained. 
 
 "Indians?" The forkful of venison Martin was raising to 
 his mouth was suddenly lowered to his plate. 
 
 "It's like this, Martin. Despite all the fancy talk by the 
 Territorial Legislature that this is Hillsdale county, we don't 
 have enough settlers to have our own school district." 
 
 "And if we did have," Mrs. Grannis added, "we don't have 
 any land that's taxable because nobody owns any of it." 
 
 "That's right, no deeds yet," her husband explained. 
 
 "The idea's preposterous !" Martin exploded. "Savages ! 
 Why I might as well try to teach a herd of elk !" 
 
 "Oh, now, now, Martin, they aren't really like animals !" 
 
 "The government will pay you of course," Mrs. Grannis 
 put in. 
 
 "Yes, that's right, Lucy. Maybe he's afraid he won't get 
 his pay. Of course the United States government, Martin, is 
 a pretty reliable institution, even if the Indians don't seem 
 to be." 
 
 "And I could expect a tomahawk to be thrown at my head 
 whenever my pupils were displeased." 
 
 "That's a bit ridiculous, Martin. Actually, you know it is 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 7 
 
 a school for the Indians, provided by the treaty of 1821, and 
 the settler's children would benefit too." 
 
 "I left New York state because I couldn't stand teaching — 
 white children ! I wanted freedom to live my own life. I come 
 here and you ask me to teach Indians!" 
 
 Pushing his chair back from the table, Martin excused 
 himself, and walked into the tap room. The blond girl was 
 coming in from the street door, the violin in her hand. 
 
 Martin did not notice George at his elbow, as she came 
 towards him. "I brought you pa's fiddle," she smiled. "It's 
 all strung up and everything!" 
 
 "Let me present Miss Ellen Van Duzer," said George. 
 "Miss Ellen, this is Martin Langdon, your possible new school 
 master — if we can talk him into it." 
 
 "Oh!" cooed Ellen. "Not really! Oh, I'm so happy to meet 
 you, Mr. Langdon!" 
 
 Martin showed more than a passing interest as his hand 
 reached for the proffered violin. 
 
 "I'm happy to meet you, Miss Van Duzer!" 
 
 Ellen smiled coyly and walked away. George turned to 
 Lucy and winked. 
 
2 
 
 Martin Joins A Posse and Takes A Wild Ride 
 In the Wilderness 
 
 ARTIN'S first evening in the Ter- 
 ritory was made memorable chiefly 
 by the fact that Ellen Van Duzer had 
 assumed immediately that he was to be the school master ; 
 and before he could remonstrate he was being introduced 
 by the bold, blue-eyed but diminutive blonde as being in 
 Grannisville solely for the purpose of opening a school. 
 
 His objections to accepting such a position ceased to be 
 audible as Ellen presented him to one after another of the 
 settler's wives dressed in the short bell-shaped styles of the 
 period. The men, in contrast to the women, were clad princi- 
 pally in buckskins, although a few wore the stand-up collars, 
 the swallow-tailed coats and strapped pantaloons of 
 civilization. 
 
 Although not a concert-level violinist, Martin was a good 
 dance fiddler on tunes like "Money Musk" and "French Four." 
 He was feeling very lucky to earn a night's lodging so easily 
 when the Indians came in out of the night. They seemed 
 peaceful enough in their quill-embroidered deerskin jackets 
 and leggings, and both men and women were smiling as 
 Grannis signalled for the music to stop. 
 
 Martin would have felt easier with his long rifle in his 
 hand, than the violin. These were the Potowatomi — possibly 
 some of them the very men who had slaughtered the Amer- 
 ican prisoners on the River Raisin in the war of 1812. Perhaps 
 some of these very squaws were the same women who drank 
 the blood of the victims from cups made from the skulls 
 of the victims. Martin knew about the Potowatomi for his 
 father was a prisoner of war at Detroit when the massacre of 
 the Raisin took place. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 9 
 
 From the defeat of the troops under General Braddock 
 down to the war of 1812 the Potowatomi had been involved 
 in every bloody deed along the northern frontier. They had 
 been allies of Pontiac and later of Tecumseh. Sometimes they 
 fought with the French against the British and Americans, 
 and then with the British against the United States. There 
 were reports of no virtue whatever among the Potowatomi, 
 yet here they were — shaking hands and smiling. Involun- 
 tarily Martin's fingers clasped the hilt of the hunting knife in 
 his belt. A man about fifty years old was coming towards him. 
 
 "This is Chief Baw Beese," George Grannis said, and 
 turning to the chief he added, "Martin Langdon, Baw Beese!" 
 
 Chief Baw Beese extended the hand of friendship and 
 Martin, letting loose of his hunting knife, hesitated only an 
 instant before accepting it. 
 
 The Indian, turning to the assembled settlers, raised both 
 hands and a hush fell on the room, as he began an address in 
 halting English, interspersed with Potowatomi words. 
 
 "Baw Beese and tribe welcome back She-mauge-nich- 
 shuck! My friend George Grannis, say Martin Langdon here 
 big teacher. He hold school like promised long time ago. 
 School good! Injun must learn from book, like you. Must 
 know same as you, so we all live happy in pretty place like 
 we have here. Baw Beese not join Blackhawk in fight with 
 Ke-moke-mon ! Baw Beese help "Ke-moke-mon ! We move 
 village from Sauk-wa-seepe, so you put up sawmill to make 
 boards — much boards !" 
 
 Hesitating a moment the chief smiled magnanimously, and 
 his announcement was greeted with faint applause from the 
 settlers. He continued : "Time was when Injun made war 
 on Ke-moke-mon, for great Chief Tecumseh. But now long 
 bury hatchet. Injun's hatchets dull — stay dull! Now Injun 
 have school — we all go to school together here where Op- 
 jah-moh-mak-ya !" 
 
 Loud applause followed the brief address by Chief Baw 
 Beese, and Martin realized this illiterate savage must be highly 
 
10 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 esteemed by the settlers, as he fiddled late into the night 
 without further incident. 
 
 * * * 
 
 It was nearly six by the tall clock in the lobby when 
 Martin made his way downstairs after a few hours' rest. 
 
 "Glad you've changed your mind about the school," Gran- 
 nis said, following a morning greeting. 
 
 "There wasn't much I could do after that Van Duzer girl 
 introduced me to almost everybody as the school master. By 
 the way, this Chief Baw Beese, seems a friendly sort. He 
 said some things I don't know the meaning of. Did he mean 
 the settlers when he said 'Ke-moke-mon' ?" 
 
 "He meant the Americans. These Indians make sense and 
 then all at once they start talking in Potowatomi. I haven't 
 the remotest idea what he meant by that Op-jah stuff; and I 
 don't believe any of the rest of the white people did either." 
 
 As Martin was eating a hearty breakfast of salt pork and 
 flapjacks, Grannis remarked : "Get the syrup from the In- 
 dians every spring." 
 
 "Just where does Baw Beese live?" Martin inquired, 
 pouring maple syrup over his third contingent of flapjacks. 
 
 "Can't say exactly. But I can tell you this, that no more 
 than half a mile on either side of the Chicago military road 
 it's howling wilderness. Everything to the north and to 
 the south of it is Indian country — wild men, wild animals 
 and trees." 
 
 After breakfast it was with a feeling of well-being that 
 Martin shaved leisurely at the wash basin back of the inn, in 
 the open air. 
 
 The brisk June morning was abnormally cool for the sea- 
 son ; but the birds were singing merrily in the surrounding 
 forest. The fresh, clean fragrance of oaks, hickory and maple 
 trees, combined with the mists rising from the nearby river 
 made the near-frosty air invigorating. Martin was drying his 
 face contentedly when Grannis came out and announced with 
 a twinkle in his eye that Ellen Van Duzer was waiting for 
 him in the lobby. 
 
 "What does she want?" 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 11 
 
 "She says her father will hire you until it's time to open 
 school next fall if you can cut trees." 
 
 After quickly combing his hair before the cracked mirror 
 he followed Grannis into the lobby where Ellen awaited him. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Langdon !" She smiled flirtatiously, 
 and Martin observed that she was properly brushed, scrubbed 
 and attired in style despite the early hour. 
 
 "I'll accept your father's offer, Miss Van Duzer. I can 
 use an axe." 
 
 "Of course pa will expect you to stay at our cabin. So if 
 you'll hurry and get your things I'll show you the way." 
 
 "As to my things," he smiled. "I have only these buck- 
 skins, an extra shirt, this razor, and upstairs my rifle, pistol 
 and knife. I'll get them at once." 
 
 He hastily climbed the stairs. Then he heard several horses 
 pulling up in front of the Great Sauk Inn. The downstairs 
 door opened and a voice boomed out : "George ! We've been 
 robbed!" 
 
 "Robbed?" 
 
 "Sure as preachin'! Two horses stolen last night! We're 
 gettin' up a posse ! Will that school teacher fellow join us, you 
 suppose?" 
 
 Martin quickly procured his rifle, tucked his pistol and 
 hunting knife into his belt and was descending the log stairs 
 in time to hear Ellen objecting; "He's going to work for pa!" 
 
 "Guess going on a posse won't interfere with his working 
 for your father, Ellen," Grannis was saying as Martin put in 
 his appearance. "Dan Atkins wants to know if you'll join a 
 posse to help look for a couple of stolen horses. — Both of 
 them yours, Dan?" 
 
 "Nope! One's mine, t'other's Jim Smith's gray!" 
 
 "I was telling them, Mr. Langdon, that you're supposed 
 to come to work for pa, clearing land right away — " Ellen 
 began, but Atkins interrupted her. 
 
 "We need everybody we can get on this posse! Folks are 
 all behind with their spring work due to this Blackhawk 
 business." 
 
 "Glad to go with you," Martin volunteered, and noticed 
 the look of disappointment in Ellen's eyes. 
 
12 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "If you need an extra horse, let him take mine," Grannis 
 suggested. "That one I got of Jake Durgy last week." 
 
 "Prob'ly stole that one somewhere too," Atkins remarked 
 acidly, and turning to the door he called to his companions 
 in the street, "Go get that there pony of George's and saddle 
 him up for the school-teacher!" 
 
 "Better leave your rifle and your razor here," George 
 advised Martin. "You won't be needing them on the posse." 
 
 "I'll take them to our cabin for you, Mr. Langdon," Ellen 
 volunteered. 
 
 "No, I'll leave them here with Mr. Grannis. Guess I'm 
 ready Mr. Atkins." 
 
 "Name's Dan," corrected the other, leading Martin out- 
 side where several men were assembled on horseback. "This 
 here's Jim Smith," Dan continued. "He's headin' up the 
 posse. And here they come with your horse. Little spunky — 
 hope you can ride!" 
 
 "I can ride," Martin answered, eyeing the little chestnut 
 gelding being led towards him. It was a small animal — too 
 small for a man of Martin's height. Its color was set off by a 
 blond mane and tail, and the gait was ambling and easy. A 
 man handed the reins of the docile horse to Martin. 
 
 "Your shootin' iron loaded and in good shape?" inquired 
 the man Atkins had designated as Jim Smith. 
 
 "It's loaded. It'll need priming." 
 
 Throwing the reins over the gelding's head, and setting 
 foot in the stirrup, Martin jumped into the saddle. Immediate- 
 ly the little animal became a snorting demon, and tore down a 
 trail a hundred yards to the south before his rider could bring 
 him under control. 
 
 "Well, you can ride, anyhow," Atkins remarked as Martin 
 brought the animal alongside the others. But the gelding 
 pranced about like a stallion, frequently standing on his hind 
 legs as Martin held him in. 
 
 Ellen Van Duzer, standing on the veranda of the Great 
 Sauk Inn was waving the men good-bye with her handker- 
 chief, and Martin, doffing his hat in return, felt very much 
 the master of his mount as the posse pranced off on impatient 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 13 
 
 steeds down a trail to the south and east to unknown adven- 
 ture in the quest of a horse thief. 
 
 This was the life, Martin thought, as he took his position 
 in the cavalcade behind Dan Atkins. This was the sort of 
 thing he had read about in books — freedom from doldrums. 
 The spring air was exhilarating, with the damp smells from 
 the forest. But the gelding felt exhilarated too, as he snorted 
 and pitched and reared, pulling hard at the reins, the bit in his 
 teeth. 
 
 "This is the worst animal I ever rode !" Martin finally 
 expostulated. 
 
 "Prob'ly Indian broke !" observed Atkins. "George just 
 got him the other day off Jake Durgy — that's a half-breed 
 we're callin' on now." 
 
 "Is he a horse thief?" Martin inquired. 
 
 "Oh, he's always showin' up with horses he gets some- 
 where. Never been proved he steals 'em, but we've got our 
 ideas." 
 
 The trail, winding off in a general easterly direction, went 
 past a small lake shaped like a crescent, dubbed simply by 
 the members of the posse as "Half Moon lake." 
 
 "In fact," Dan Atkins said to Martin, "this is the lakiest 
 country I ever did see — lakes all over it!" 
 
 Soon they reached a broad expanse of land on which not 
 a tree was standing, and Martin's mount, sensing plenty of 
 room, dashed past the others and was soon beside the lead 
 horse ridden by Jim Smith. 
 
 "Mighty pretty here, " Martin observed. 
 
 "These oak openings aren't so good for farming though," 
 Smith explained. "They've all been farmed out by the In- 
 dians at one time or another." 
 
 "You mean Indians farm?" 
 
 "Of course they farm ! Starve if they didn't. Women do the 
 work, though." 
 
 Martin said he supposed all Indians did was hunt, fish and 
 fight ; and pulled behind Smith as the trail again led into the 
 thick forest growth. Presently they reached a clearing. 
 
 A log cabin nestled among some oak and hickory stumps, 
 
14 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 and a newly-planted corn field lay to the east of it. A bark- 
 covered barn stood fifty yards to the south. 
 
 "Well, here's Durgy's place," Smith remarked, pulling his 
 horse to a stop. The posse gathered around at the edge of the 
 clearing, and Jim continued. "Not a sign of life, except that 
 smoke coming out of the chimney. Dan, I'll go and knock on 
 the door while you keep us covered. I don't trust Durgy much, 
 and we know he's been getting horses from somewhere and 
 selling them to us. If he's a horse thief he may get nasty." 
 
 Dan, saying nothing, pulled his pistol from his belt. The 
 others followed his example, as Smith, after dismounting, and 
 leading his horse, went to the cabin door. He pounded on it 
 with the butt end of his pistol. 
 
 Finally the door opened and a squaw in a dingy-looking 
 calico dress faced Smith belligerently with the query, "What 
 you want?" 
 
 "We want Jake!" 
 
 "He not here !" 
 
 Smith was incredulous, and turning to the others said, 
 "She says he's not here!" 
 
 "Suppose we find out!" one of the men remarked. 
 
 "Dan, you and Langdon go down and look over the barn. 
 Maybe that's where our horses are. The rest of you fellows 
 come with me and we'll inspect the cabin. Maybe Durgy's 
 hiding under the bed." 
 
 Durgy's squaw was remonstrating loudly as the men began 
 forcing their way into the cabin, but Martin had no time to 
 listen to the argument. When he and Dan Atkins headed for 
 the barn, the chestnut gelding became unmanageable. When 
 he started to run to the south Dan yelled, "Hang on to him! 
 Don't let him r'ar like that!" 
 
 Martin let up on the reins and down went the gelding's 
 head and he began to buck. Yanking up on the reins the ani- 
 mal stood up. But Martin managed to stay on. "Get to his 
 head! Get to his head!" he yelled, as the animal bolted around 
 the barn, on a trail to the south. 
 
 It was too late, however. The gelding was off like light- 
 ning, and the last Martin heard was Dan's shouting to him, 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 15 
 
 "Ride him 'till he's winded ! He'll run out o' wind after 
 awhile !" 
 
 Down the trail to the south the gelding ran. Tree limbs 
 loomed up as though to brush Martin off. He had to lie down 
 on the horse's neck, the pommel pounding his belly, as the 
 beast ran. The reins he managed to hold, but he found him- 
 self also hanging onto the blond mane. Faster, faster and 
 faster, the sure-footed animal ran down a little-used trail. 
 Ahead a mighty oak trunk loomed, and when it seemed as 
 though he would hit it head-on he veered to the right, then a 
 maple, and so on for what seemed countless miles before 
 the pace began to slacken, and what had been a nightmare of 
 gray tree trunks and a maze of branches began to go past in 
 a more normal fashion. The pounding hoofs lost their rhyth- 
 mic beat. Gone was Martin's hat — many miles back. His 
 powder horn had been ripped off by a branch in passing — 
 possibly the same branch that had torn open the back of his 
 buckskin jacket and his red flannel shirt. 
 
 Cautiously he sat erect, and gathered up the reins. But 
 the horse, although breathing hard was not yet out of tricks, 
 and he stood up. Then he pitched forward to buck. But Martin 
 drew up the reins tight and held his head high. 
 
 Away off to the south it looked as though the trail ended 
 in an opening. A faint smell of hickory smoke was wafted on 
 the warm breeze coming into the forest. Perhaps it was a 
 settler's clearing, Martin thought. 
 
 Suddenly on the trail ahead a black bear appeared. 
 
 The gelding snorted. He veered wildly to one side. Com- 
 plete terror seized the animal. He took the bit in his teeth. He 
 bucked. He reared. He pitched, and Martin was catapulted 
 from the saddle. High into the air he went. He tried to land 
 on his feet, but suddenly he felt a blow on the back of his 
 skull. There was a flash of light — then darkness — un- 
 consciousness. 
 
3 
 
 In Which Martin Meets A Savage In the Forest 
 
 ARTIN became aware of two things 
 as he slowly regained conscious- 
 ness - - intense pain and oppressive heat. 
 The pain was at the back of his head, and in his left leg and 
 ankle. The heat was all around him. 
 
 Opening his eyes he beheld above him a canopy of branches. 
 The faint smell of hickory smoke assailed his nostrils. Sud- 
 denly remembering that he had been thrown from a horse in 
 an unknown forest, he sat erect, and looked around. There 
 was no sign of the fractious gelding, nor of the bear that had 
 frightened him. A thrush was singing and the melody of his 
 song brought Martin the realization that a clearing must be 
 nearby, for the thrush nests in shrubs and brush. 
 
 The heat brought beads of perspiration on his forehead — 
 or were they caused by the intense pain in his left leg? His 
 back too felt as though it had been scraped its entire length 
 by a pointed stick ; and his head throbbed. He must see if he 
 could find his way over the trail. But when he attempted to 
 rise he found his left ankle would not remain straight on the 
 ground. It bent over uselessly, and he tried to tell himself 
 it was not broken. A broken leg made a weakling of the 
 strong; and the forest had a place only for the strong. 
 
 He discerned the clearing he had noticed before his acci- 
 dent. A deer on four good legs was drinking from a pool 
 which must be formed by a spring. If there was a spring 
 then there should be a creek. 
 
 Martin too was thirsty ; but the spring seemed a great 
 way off. He could never hop so great a distance. There were 
 no stout sticks he could use for support, so he sat down on 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 17 
 
 the ground, hitching and crawling with his three sound limbs. 
 The deer bounded away on his approach. 
 
 Lying down on his belly to drink from the small pool, he 
 saw his pistol slither into the water with a faint splash. Its 
 shimmering brass mountings and brown barrel were plainly 
 visible on the sandy bottom. He realized in a kind of terror 
 that his only weapon except his knife would now be useless. 
 Even after he dried it out, he had no fresh powder. 
 
 He felt in his belt for his knife and was relieved to find it 
 still in its sheath. The knife would be of help in the event of 
 attack by some animal — or a savage Indian. It was fear of 
 the latter that deterred him from immediately calling for help. 
 
 Martin could not be certain as to when it had appeared, 
 but suddenly he observed, poking through some shrubs across 
 the pool, the barrel of a musket. It was levelled on him. 
 Looking closely he could see a tawny hand holding the gun 
 level, and above it was a head of straight black hair. Nothing 
 else was visible through the shrubbery. 
 
 Perhaps if he had rescued his pistol sooner he might have 
 used it as a bluff. But if he reached for it now the musket 
 might suddenly discharge, for it was aimed straight at his 
 head. 
 
 The pain in his leg was so excruciating that he could only 
 vaguely sense the danger of a loaded gun in the hands of a 
 savage. He was about as helpless as a man could possibly 
 be unless he could get aid. Possibly this savage could be 
 induced to assist him if he could make himself understood. 
 
 "Hello," he said in what he hoped was a matter-of-fact 
 manner. "I think I've broken my leg — I need help." 
 
 "How did you break your leg?" The barrel of the musket 
 was withdrawn, and there was a movement behind the shrub- 
 bery. 
 
 Martin thought the voice was either that of a boy or a 
 woman. 
 
 A twig snapped, and he saw a dusky girl come from behind 
 the bushes with an ancient musket held ready. 
 
 "I asked how you broke your leg?" The girl's tone was 
 querulous. 
 
 "I — was thrown from my horse." It was an effort to talk, 
 
18 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 but it was almost as much of an effort to keep from showing 
 pain. 
 
 "Your horse? It was my horse! You stole him!" 
 
 Martin could only protest feebly, and was in such severe 
 pain he was not surprised at the good English the girl was 
 using. 
 
 "I didn't steal the horse," he said. "But I need help 
 with this leg! Can you get me to Grannisville?" 
 
 "Get up !" The command was punctuated by another aim- 
 ing of the gun at his head. 
 
 He made an effort to rise, but fell back down. The girl 
 dropped the butt end of the musket on the ground and looked 
 down at him. His useless pistol still lay shimmering in the 
 the water of the pool. He reached for it. 
 
 "Drop it!" 
 
 Martin did as he was told. 
 
 "Now throw that knife of yours on the ground !" 
 
 His last weapon was tossed near the moccasined feet of 
 the girl. 
 
 "Can't you help me?" he inquired. 
 
 "I guess you're really hurt," the girl said. "You wouldn't 
 have thrown the knife down if you hadn't been." 
 
 With almost unbelievable athletic strength she jerked him 
 rudely up, pulling his left arm over her shoulder. She stag- 
 gered rather than walked with her heavy burden, down a 
 path around the shrubbery, and into an open place, where 
 there was a bark house, before which an open fire was emitting 
 the fragrance of hickory smoke. 
 
 Suddenly he was released and he found himself sprawling 
 awkwardly and miserably on the ground. 
 
 "You can stay here until my father gets back from Gran- 
 nisville. He'll know what to do with a horse thief." 
 
 Martin's suffering was so intense following the heartless 
 action of the savage girl, that he could only protest weakly 
 that he had not stolen the horse. Ignoring his statement she 
 went back to the spring, saying she must get her gun, his 
 knife and pistol. 
 
 As she swung lithely down the path Martin, seeing a 
 fallen log close by pulled himself onto it, and used it as a 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 19 
 
 seat. He felt of his swollen leg, and attempted to get off his 
 boot. It was an impossibility. The boot was too tight. He 
 could feel no response when he tried wiggling his toes. He 
 did not hear the girl when she returned. 
 
 "Here's your pistol." She threw it at his feet. "I'll keep 
 the knife. That's dangerous. But you can't use the pistol. 
 It's too wet." 
 
 What Martin could not undestand was that the girl kept 
 insisting he was a dangerous character. Neither could he 
 believe such a savage character should speak English with 
 such ease. 
 
 "I've been trying to get my boot off," he said. "I'd like 
 to find out whether my leg's broken, or my ankle's only 
 sprained." 
 
 Carefully leaning her musket against the log on which he 
 was sitting, but considerably beyond his reach, she began 
 to pull off the boot. He could not refrain from yelling in 
 pain: "Stop! My leg's so swollen it won't come off!" 
 
 "You're a qua, a woman ! Indians proud to bear pain !" 
 
 Drawing the knife she had refused to let Martin have, she 
 began slitting his boot from top to bottom. She smiled malici- 
 ously as she remarked : "This knife is sharp — like a scalping 
 knife." 
 
 "I believe in keeping weapons in condition." Martin braced 
 himself should she suddenly turn on him. The precaution was 
 needless, for when she had slit the leather she dropped both 
 the boot and the knife to the ground simultaneously. She 
 began feeling of his leg, and he winced. 
 
 "You leg's broken," she pronounced. "I can feel the bone 
 separating at your ankle. There's another break in the small 
 bone near your knee." 
 
 The situation could be worse. The girl evidently had no 
 intention of killing him. But how could he, with a broken leg 
 and no money survive in Michigan Territory? There was 
 nothing, absolutely nothing a semi-invalid could do in the 
 wilderness, except to run up a board bill could he find a friend 
 who would trust him. He would have to get back to Grannis- 
 ville somehow, but he could never make it alone. 
 
 "Can you get me to a doctor?" he inquired. 
 
20 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "You mean a medicine man?" 
 
 "I mean a doctor — a white doctor!" Martin shuddered 
 at the thought of a savage medicine man pronouncing incan- 
 tations over his leg. He had heard of such procedures. 
 
 The girl looked at him scornfully, and inquired: "What's 
 your name?" 
 
 "Langdon — Martin Langdon ! You didn't answer my 
 question." 
 
 "Listen, Martin Langdon. I don't have to answer ques- 
 tions by a paleface — a ka-moche-kit nag-doche-shaw !" 
 
 She looked as though she might spit on him. 
 
 "What's a ka-moche-kit nag-doche-shaw?" 
 
 "A horse thief! My nag-doche-shaw came home — disgraced 
 with a paleface saddle. He brought you. You stole him." 
 
 Her hand tightened on the knife, and for a fleeting instant 
 her expression indicated she might use it. He had protested 
 enough already that he had not stolen the horse. But he 
 must try again. 
 
 "Listen, you — what's your name?" 
 
 "Indians don't tell their names — not their real names — 
 especially to horse thieves." 
 
 "I did not steal that horse. He belongs to George Gran- 
 nis at Grannisville, and unless you return him you're going 
 to be in serious trouble my girl. A whole posse — " 
 
 Surely the posse would be after him if he waited long 
 enough ; but he felt uneasy in his helpless situation without 
 weapons, attended by this spiteful savage. He had not fin- 
 ished his sentence when she broke into a veritable tirade. 
 
 "Posses! Paleface posses stealing an Indian's own horse! 
 Must the paleface take everything the Indian owns? That 
 horse — that nag-doche-shaw was purchased with many beaver 
 pelts in the town called Tecumseh, east of here. He was stolen 
 ten sunrises ago ! If a posse comes, I'll shoot. I don't care 
 what Baw Beese says. He's my horse — mine and my father's !" 
 
 She turned and walked to the nag-doche-shaw, hobbled 
 close by, Martin noticed the saddle had been removed from 
 its back, and that it did not run away when she removed 
 the hobble. Instead it put its nuzzle on her shoulder and 
 followed her back to the log on which he was sitting. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 21 
 
 "If this nag-doche-shaw belonged to George Grannis 
 would he follow me like this?" she inquired triumphantly. 
 "He was stolen, I say — and I think you stole him !" 
 
 "You said ten days ago — but I've only been in Michigan 
 Territory one day — less, in fact at Grannisville." 
 
 She made no reply, and put a hobble on the horse again, 
 and spoke in endearing tones in a language Martin did not 
 know, and the animal began eating the June grass growing 
 near the log. The girl used English too fluently to be an 
 Indian, and yet her quill-embroidered jacket tucked into the 
 top of a deerskin skirt, her two braids of straight black hair, 
 and even her bronze complexion were all Indian. Her features 
 were fine, and her dark eyes sharp as those of an eagle. She 
 could not be a white captive. She was too savage in ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 The man of action he had imagined himself, was now a 
 weak and maimed person at the mercy of the girl, her savage 
 associates, or anything else the forest might provide in the 
 way of wild creatures. She came back to the log, and was 
 picking up her musket, when Martin decided to try again. 
 There must be something soft about her, or she could not 
 speak English so fluently. 
 
 "You speak English — like me." 
 
 "I speak English because I was taught." 
 
 "Who taught you?" 
 
 "My mother was a paleface. She is dead." 
 
 "She was a captive?" 
 
 "She was not a captive. She was married to my father, 
 Osseo. He found her in the woods near a burning cabin 
 where her father and mother, and her younger brother were 
 killed." 
 
 "Oh, after an Indian raid." 
 
 "It was not an Indian raid. Palefaces robbed her parents. 
 They had much money — shuniah — and the robbers made it 
 look as though Indians did it. My mother's paleface lover 
 had been killed in the war ; and she had been out gathering 
 berries when the bad palefaces came. She only saw them as 
 they were going away. My father found her, and brought 
 her here — where she'd be safe from bad palefaces." 
 
22 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Martin was not amused. Her story was incredible of 
 course — a series of concocted lies perpetrated by the Indians 
 to bring discredit on the white man. He had heard before 
 that the savages were such inveterate liars it was impossible 
 to know when they were telling the truth. A more likely 
 tale, he reasoned, would be that her father, with an Indian 
 raiding party, had assisted in butchering this girl's grand- 
 parents, and to have then run off in the woods with the 
 daughter. That would have been an act of Indians as he 
 knew them to be. This girl was deceived about it, or possibly 
 wanted to be deceived. The pain in his leg was less intense, 
 now that the boot was off, and his thoughts must have been 
 revealed in his countenance. 
 
 "That's why I hate white people!" the girl finally blurted. 
 "Palefaces are bad people. They lay their wickedness all on 
 us Indians." 
 
 "That's not true, and you know it!" Martin found himself 
 angered at this charge. It was more than absurd. It was 
 a slander against all that he knew of his race — an out and 
 out falsehood. 
 
 "Listen you, ka-moche-kit ! I speak the truth — and you — 
 the truth isn't in you. You're a paleface. You deserve the 
 hickory-sapling treatment for stealing my horse !" 
 
 So they were back to that again. It was futile to argue 
 with her. If only the posse would come and rescue him. He 
 felt relieved when the girl turned away from behind him and 
 carried her musket into the wigwam, which was made of 
 bark and shaped like a settler's cabin. 
 
 When she returned she took a hoe from the side of the 
 cabin. She approached him and said in a menacing tone : 
 "You'll stay here until my father returns from Grannisville. 
 If you move away I shall kill you. When he comes we'll 
 know how to deal with nag-doche-shaw kamoche-kit! If we 
 give you the hickory-sapling stretch, you'll never be heard 
 from again." 
 
 With this statement she shouldered the hoe and went to 
 a vegetable patch, watching him as she hoed. 
 
 The songs of robins, cardinals, thrushes and catbirds were 
 intermingled with the dank smells emanating from the sur- 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 23 
 
 rounding forest. Other fires to the south wafted hickory 
 smoke on the air, and Martin mused vaguely on the possi- 
 bility of this being the final day of his life. The hickory- 
 sapling stretch the girl referred to was undoubtedly a devilish 
 torture that would bring certain death. 
 
4 
 
 In the Hands of the Savages 
 
 Ijgftf^ m^^ SUN passed the meridian, and 
 
 ^^ 1 %^^i Martin, sitting on the log, felt the 
 
 hot rays beating on his back, where his 
 
 jacket and shirt were ripped. He made a movement to remove 
 
 the jacket, but the girl stopped her hoeing and started towards 
 
 him in a threatening manner. 
 
 It was like being in jail, or worse. There, he might be 
 permitted to remove his jacket at least without interference. 
 He was relieved to observe that he would soon be in the 
 shade of a large hickory tree. He conjectured this would be 
 about two o'clock. Like all country-born boys of the period, 
 Martin prided himself on his ability to tell time by the sun. 
 
 To think, that George Grannis would expect him to teach 
 school to pupils like this savage girl now hoeing vegetables, 
 and watching him like a guard. He was a prisoner — no ques- 
 tion about it. He was not being treated with kindness and 
 consideration. Her attitude was rather one of scorn. If the 
 posse would only come and rescue him. Did they find Jake 
 Durgy? And did Jake Durgy steal the horse, the nag-doche- 
 shaw from this girl and her father? 
 
 The malicious little gelding, the cause of his present 
 predicament, cropping grass close by the fallen log, hobbled 
 over to his recent rider and nuzzled him like an old friend. 
 "Nag-doche-shaw !" Martin repeated the unfamiliar word, 
 patting the horse. The animal, as though satisfied with his 
 pronunciation of the word resumed eating grass. 
 
 If he could only know where he was, or get a message 
 through to Grannisville, he could be sure of help. But he 
 had almost no money. Feeling in his pocket he was relieved 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 25 
 
 to find he still possessed the eighteen cents. Would an Indian 
 carry a message for him for eighteen cents? More than likely 
 they would rob him of his money if they knew he had it. 
 
 Such were his thoughts when the girl returned from her 
 hoeing and her distant vigilance, at what Martin figured was 
 about three o'clock. He had been in the cooling shade of the 
 hickory tree for about an hour, by the sun. His leg had long 
 ago settled into a numbing pain that he wished was not there, 
 but that continued, regardless of how much he had willed 
 it away. 
 
 "What's the name of this place?" he inquired when the 
 girl approached within earshot. 
 
 "Meshawa-od-dawn !" She threw some sticks on the fire, 
 which seemed not to get any hotter, but continued burning 
 under her ministration of fuel. 
 
 "Thanks — I suppose it means something in Indian." 
 
 "It means Elk Lake Village!" 
 
 Placing the hoe against the side of the wigwam she went 
 inside and emerged almost immediately with a wooden dish 
 filled with water in which were some quills. She also carried 
 a pair of partly embroidered moccasins. Draining the water 
 from the quills she sat on the ground near Martin. The quills 
 were colored yellow, red, blue, green and black. Some were 
 white. With a flat bone the girl would smooth out a quill, 
 and then apply it with some sort of fibrous thread to the 
 moccasin. 
 
 "Are those porcupine quills?" 
 
 "My father killed a porcupine over a moon ago." 
 
 The girl seemed almost pleasant as she continued decorat- 
 ing the moccasins, producing geometric designs without a 
 drawing of the outlines, as Martin had seen his mother and 
 his sister Sara use when they embroidered. 
 
 In his mind's eye the young man could see the rolling 
 hills, now wooded, denuded of the forest, and turned into the 
 rich farmland of his dreams. There would eventually be big 
 red barns, and board houses. The terrain was possibly a 
 little too hilly ; but in the main it was a pretty picture, and 
 since the girl seemed passably pleasant he remarked : "This 
 is beautiful country." 
 
26 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "Op-jah-moh-mak-ya !" 
 
 "I heard Baw Beese say that in Grannisville last night. 
 What does it mean?" 
 
 "The land lies pretty — op-jah-moh-mak-ya !" 
 
 "You speak as though you mean it." 
 
 "It is our land. We'll keep it always. Baw Beese hasn't 
 sold any land to the Ke-moke-mon. Nobody can take it away 
 from us unless we sell, and the tribe will never do that." 
 
 Martin realized the girl was naive indeed to imagine that 
 a little handful of Indians could halt the mighty tide of emi- 
 grants now coming into the Northwest Territory. He con- 
 tinued imagining the country as it would eventually be under 
 the plow of the white man, after the timber had been removed, 
 and even the stumps had been dug out and burned. The 
 girl continued her work with the quills. 
 
 It must have been about five o'clock when there was a 
 faint rustle in the leaves, and a middle-aged Indian emerged 
 from the nearby elder bushes. His torso was bare, untattooed 
 and unpainted. In his hair was a single feather. His leggings, 
 extending to his waist like trousers, were of finely-fringed 
 buckskin. A powder horn and a doeskin bag were suspended 
 by a strap swung from his shoulder. In one hand he carried 
 a musket, and in the other a rabbit. 
 
 "Posho !" called the girl, putting aside her embroidery 
 and running to take the rabbit from the man. A rapid inter- 
 change of words, in what to Martin was an unintelligible 
 language, ensued. The brave extracted a small, black leather- 
 bound book from the doeskin pouch and gave it to the girl. 
 She then led the man to Martin. 
 
 "Martin Langdon !" The girl addressed him curtly. "This 
 is Osseo, my father!" 
 
 Scooping up the moccasins she had been embroidering, and 
 carrying the rabbit and the small black book with her, she 
 vanished inside the lodge. 
 
 "Posho! Ah-nee-jah-na?" Osseo greeted, extending his 
 hand. 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't understand your language, Osseo." 
 
 Martin attempted a smile as he accepted the Indian's 
 hand, and brought himself erect on his right leg. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 27 
 
 "Osseo say 'Hello! How are you?' My girl, Owaysa, she 
 say you get broken leg in fall from nag-doche-shaw — stolen 
 from Owaysa and Osseo." 
 
 Martin felt helpless. He looked up the trail in the futile 
 hope some member of the posse would suddenly appear. Sit- 
 ting back down on the log he could only repeat what he had 
 told the girl, now designated as Owaysa. 
 
 "I know. I saw posse ! They say horse bought by George 
 Grannis run away with you. They say he take trail south 
 from Durgy's cabin. That nag-doche-shaw, he know where 
 he live. Jake Durgy stole horse, and sold to Grannis. Durgy 
 he steal anything. He ka-moche-kit !" 
 
 Martin felt relieved to learn the truth about the horse, 
 and also to know there was less likelihood now of the hickory- 
 sapling stretch Owaysa had mentioned. 
 
 "Will Durgy get the hickory-sapling treatment?" 
 
 "No ! We get nag-doche-shaw back. Grannis get shuniah 
 — that's money — back from Durgy." The Indian felt of 
 Martin's leg and remarked it must be set. Calling to Owaysa 
 he gave her some instructions in his native tongue. 
 
 She quickly brought some oak sticks which she split into 
 splints ; then, going into the wigwam, she returned with some 
 rawhide thongs. 
 
 "Come, lie down on the ground," she ordered Martin, 
 grasping him firmly by the shoulders, lifting him from the 
 log, and dropping him on the hard earth. Instantly she 
 pounced on him, pinioning his arms with her knees as she 
 sat on his chest. 
 
 Martin protested but the suddeness of the attack, taking 
 him by surprise had been wholly successful and he could 
 only squirm about ineffectually. 
 
 "You must lie still!" the girl commanded sharply. "You 
 must be held down while my father sets your leg." 
 
 He could feel Osseo working on his ankle. Next there 
 was a painful scrunching of the bone below his knee. He 
 winced and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead 
 as he both felt and heard the Indian applying the splints, 
 then tightening them with the rawhide thongs. He could only 
 hope for the best. He had seen men — even when treated by 
 
28 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 good white doctors — whose feet were out of line, dragging 
 them sideways forever, after they had broken their legs. Then 
 there was a rapid exchange of Potowatomi words. The girl 
 released him suddenly, procured a bark pail from the lodge, 
 and hurried off to the spring. Martin was looking down at 
 the oak splints when she returned with the pail full of water 
 and poured it on his leg. 
 
 "That makes splints tight." Osseo explained. 
 
 Martin had to writhe in anguish, and again Osseo spoke 
 a few words to his daughter. In a moment a bitter liquid 
 was being forced between his lips, and he lost consciousness. 
 
 A feeling of despair came over him when he opened his 
 eyes in the twilight ; and Osseo's voice said : "Your leg hurt 
 for moon and some more sunrises." 
 
 What would he do — what could he do in the hands of 
 savages? The splints on his leg were drawn taut by the 
 drying of the rawhide thongs. A steady ache reminded him 
 that he was a cripple, and the Indian had said it would be 
 more than a month. He raised himself by both elbows. 
 
 Owaysa came with a plate of food. She offered it to 
 him on a wooden spoon and commanded: "Eat!" 
 
 Martin looked with aversion at the victuals on the plate. 
 He had heard of Indian cookery and shook his head. 
 
 "You best wees-cin-non," Osseo said. "You be here long 
 time!" 
 
 So they intended keeping him here at their lodge. This 
 would be tantamount to a disagreeable imprisonment. Of 
 course there was the possibility that somebody would come 
 out from Grannisville looking for him. 
 
 "He says for you to eat," Owaysa was saying. "This will 
 be your emp-quan — spoon ; and your metig-wun-na-gon — 
 wooden plate. It'll be up to you to keep them clean." 
 
 Martin looked at the plate — his plate, the girl had said. 
 It was a large bark dish, bound with a coarser bark, laced 
 along the edge. On it was meat and some sort of vegetables. 
 The spoon, carved from wood, was enormous, shaped like a 
 clam shell, and the curved handle was topped with the effigy 
 of a turtle. A faint aroma of sassafras emanated from the dish 
 and Martin hesitated to accept the proffered plate. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 29 
 
 "I suppose you've heard Indian food is dirty," Owaysa 
 was impatient as she held the plate before him. 
 
 "No I - - I must be getting back to Grannisville, I — " 
 
 "You go no place, unless hop. Food come from Kash-am- 
 med-too!" Osseo said. 
 
 "Food is the gift of the Great Spirit," Owaysa translated. 
 "It insults your host if you refuse it." 
 
 Martin sat erect. The splints on his left leg prevented 
 his bending it, as he sat on the ground. He accepted the dish 
 with as good grace as possible. 
 
 The seasoning was utterly foreign to him. There was 
 not a trace of salt, but a combination of sassafras, wintergreen 
 and maple sugar gave the whole an exotic flavor. The large 
 unwieldy spoon caused him considerable embarrassment ; but 
 he concentrated on seeming to be a grateful guest. 
 
 "You read?" Osseo inquired when the meal was over. 
 
 "Yes, I read." 
 
 "Owaysa, she can read. My wife good qua. She taught 
 Owaysa to read. Indian must learn new things now. Too 
 many palefaces — Indians must learn make cloth — make gun- 
 powder. But always forest is Indian's home. Always smell 
 of hickory smoke before lodge in summer, in lodge in winter. 
 Always Indian love this !" Osseo indicated the surrounding 
 terrain with a reverent gesture of both hands. "Op-jah-mo- 
 mak-ya !" 
 
 "Op-jah-mo-mak-ya!" Martin found himself repeating. 
 
 Unobserved Owaysa had gone into the wigwam and was 
 returning with three small books ; one of which was the 
 little black volume Osseo had handed her when he returned 
 home. 
 
 "Here is the book my mother taught me to read from." 
 Owaysa handed a child's primer to Martin. "And here is 
 another book I read from." 
 
 He placed the primer on the ground, then looked at 
 a torn and tattered book, beautifully bound with leather and 
 decorated with quill-work embroidery. He read aloud from 
 the title page : "The Tragical Historie of Hamlet, Prince 
 of Denmark, by William Shakespeare." The date given 
 was 1604. 
 
30 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "I have read it many times," Owaysa explained. "But 
 it doesn't tell how to make things the Indians need — like 
 gunpowder." 
 
 "It's a play, meant to be presented on a stage." 
 
 "It's of no use; but we'll keep it because my mother gave 
 it to me. But here is the book my father got in Grannisville 
 today. My mother said the Bible would tell everything. 
 
 "Grannis say he not have Bible to trade," Osseo said. "He 
 say this book next to Bible." 
 
 Examining the book Martin read aloud from the title 
 page : "The Book of Common Prayer and Administration of 
 the Sacraments and other Rites and Ceremonies of the Protes- 
 tant Episcopal Church in the United States of America, 
 together with the Psalter and Psalms of David." 
 
 "Will it tell how to make gunpowder?" The girl's ques- 
 tion was eager, hopeful. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Her disappointment was keen. 
 
 It was with difficulty that Martin explained that the little 
 book was still much like the Bible in that it contained many 
 exerpts from it, and he concluded : "It tells about God, and 
 the church." 
 
 "I don't want to know about God or the church. Indians 
 need gunpowder, not church ! Those horrible missionaries 
 spend time talking only about how Indians dress! They say 
 we must wear more clothes like palefaces. Missionaries are 
 no good. They say that Indians live wrong, dress wrong — 
 Indian girls' dresses are too short they tell us." 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know what kind of missionaries you've 
 seen," Martin began, but the girl continued heatedly. 
 
 "A man came on horseback, back in the days of Sauk-wa- 
 seepe,nee-yok !" 
 
 "She means when we had village south Grannisville," 
 Osseo put in, and continued, "Man say Indian naked savage, 
 and 'son of Cain' — must wear shirt. He say Indian must 
 change ways — not kill enemy — let enemy kill him, mebbe. He 
 say me, Osseo, bad, because have white wife ! Owaysa's 
 mother bad, he say, because no preacher say words over us. 
 We live in sin, he say! God curse us unless we do as he say! 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 31 
 
 Then he say it bad for me marry Owaysa's mother anyhow. 
 She wrong color. God, he say, hate color-mix." 
 
 "Then one night," Owaysa said, "he went away from 
 Sauk-wa-seepe-nee-yok with many beaver pelts. We never 
 saw him again." 
 
 "Now we not have missionary," Osseo put in. "We not 
 want to know about God." 
 
 The twilight changed to darkness and only the glowing 
 embers of the fire lighted their faces. Owaysa asked for the 
 three books and said she needed sleep, adding, "Tomorrow 
 you can tell me how to get books that say things I want 
 to know." 
 
 When she had taken the books into the wigwam Osseo 
 extracted a pipe from a pouch, filled it with tobacco and 
 lighted it with a coal from the fire. He then sat, smoking 
 philosophically beside Martin. 
 
 "Owaysa big trouble ! Heap big trouble ! Her mother 
 white. Half paleface make um much trouble — sometimes !" 
 
 "She said her family was killed by white men pretending 
 to be Indians. That wasn't true was it?" 
 
 "Paleface ka-moche-kit do anything for shuniah. Her 
 people rich — had gold — silver — shuniah. Robbers they pre- 
 tend to be Indians. Indian get blame. Robbers get money. 
 Me, Osseo, I got wife. She have little book. She been school 
 she say. I get her other book at Fort Defiance for present. 
 We marry. Owaysa born sixteen summers ago. Wife die — 
 two summers ago." 
 
 Osseo knocked the ashes from his pipe, went into the wig- 
 wam and returned with a blanket. He gave it to Martin and 
 told him to get a good night's rest. 
 
 Martin lay staring at the stars a long time. He had come 
 to Michigan Territory for cheap land, freedom and adventure. 
 The land was not yet on sale here. The adventure during 
 his first twenty-four hours had made him a temporary cripple. 
 His money had been stolen. The pain in his leg was intensi- 
 fied by the hardness of his bed on the cold ground, and he 
 was engulfed by a wave of homesickness before he finally 
 slept. 
 
5 
 
 Martin Bathes In Elk Lake and Is Given An 
 Ultimatum 
 
 T THE peep of day Martin was 
 shaken awake by Owaysa, who 
 insisted that he arise immediately to bathe 
 in the lake. 
 
 "But I can't walk!" 
 
 "I brought you here after you fell from the horse. I can 
 take you to wash and be clean like Indians." 
 
 Martin sat erect on the ground. 
 
 "Clean like Indians? I always heard — " 
 
 "I know — that Indians are dirty. But you stink worse 
 than a skunk. I can't stand you around, stinking like you do." 
 
 She unceremoniously jerked him to his feet, and throwing 
 his left arm over her shoulder as she had done after his fall 
 yesterday, she was off towards the spring. She followed the 
 creek to a lake. She left him near the mouth of the rivulet 
 and went behind some sumac bushes. 
 
 Martin pulled off the remnants of his torn buckskin jacket 
 and red shirt. His back still ached where it had been 
 scratched by tree limbs, and the pain in his leg was a constant 
 reminder of his near helplessness. He was endeavoring to 
 wash the sweat and grime from his torso when from behind 
 the sumac bushes, Owaysa emerged, statuesque, bronze and 
 naked, and waded out into the lake. Martin gasped in as- 
 tonishment. Never in his life had he seen a naked girl before — 
 not even his sister, Sara. He pretended to be so busy he did 
 not notice her as she waded out into the deep water, and 
 was eventually completed submerged. But in the moments 
 that had intervened he had somehow pushed both his red 
 flannel shirt and his buckskin jacket into the creek. 
 
 Lying flat on his belly he was unable to reach them, and 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 33 
 
 jumped in surprise while fishing them out, when the voice of 
 Owaysa asked : "Are you ready to go back now ?" 
 
 He had not heard her coming. His slightly-bearded face 
 colored ; for never had he appeared before any female without 
 a shirt. Glancing over his shoulder he assured himself the 
 girl was now completely clothed, and he answered apologeti- 
 cally: "I've spoiled my shirt and jacket. I don't know what 
 to do about a jacket. The buckskin's ruined." 
 
 "Huh, paleface tanning! The jacket's no good anyhow. 
 Indians tan buckskins so they're soft, like cloth — and as to 
 a shirt. You don't need one. It's summer." 
 "But I'm so — so undressed without a shirt." 
 "You're with Indians now, and the same as an Indian." 
 "I'm a paleface, and I don't think like an Indian." 
 "But you're going to live like one for the next moon. 
 You're going to dress like an Indian and eat like an Indian. 
 If you don't you'll just have to die. Indians don't wear shirts. 
 You'd look funny in Elk Lake village wearing a shirt." 
 
 Putting her arm around his naked torso she pulled him 
 up and dragged him as before, back to the lodge. Martin 
 did not recoil from the solid flesh of the girl's dusky forearm ; 
 and marvelled that less than forty-eight hours ago, he had been 
 concerned about the copper color rubbing off on his pale skin. 
 As Owaysa dropped him unceremoniously on the log 
 where he had sat so long the day before, he realized nobody 
 would think it strange to see a shirtless man here. Inquiring 
 about Osseo, he was informed that he had left the wigwam 
 on pressing business with Baw Beese, and she added : "We 
 don't know what to do with you. It's up to the chief." 
 "Why not take me back to Grannisville?" 
 "It's too far away for you to get there alone, and you 
 can't travel with a broken leg." 
 "There were canoes at the lake." 
 
 "Canoes! And how could you get there in a canoe? The 
 lake has no outlet into the Sauk river. It empties in just 
 a little cre?k into the Miami."* 
 
 ♦NOTE: Miami, means the Maumee River. Elk Lake was situated on 
 the St. Joseph of the Maumee. The Sauk, Owaysa refers to, 
 is the St. Joseph of Lake Michigan. 
 
34 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "I could ride on a horse." 
 
 "Isn't it proved already that you can't ride with two good 
 legs, let alone with a broken one?" 
 
 There was a snapping of twigs on the path to the south, 
 and Owaysa exclaimed in disgust, "Keeg-ya-goo !" 
 
 An Indian girl was approaching the lodge. She was wear- 
 ing a heavily-embroidered white deerskin jacket and skirt, 
 her hair parted with a red line painted in the part, and she 
 was smiling when she reached them and greeted, "Posho!" 
 
 "Posho !" Owaysa answered. 
 
 "Ooh la, la!" exclaimed the girl in imitation of the French. 
 "Ze white man! He ees gorgeous!" 
 
 "No paleface is gorgeous, Pretty Feather." Owaysa was 
 annoyed, but added, "This is Martin Langdon." 
 
 The girl's brown eyes turned pityingly on Martin, as 
 Pretty Feather approached him. "You have ze leg broken?" 
 
 "Yes !" 
 
 Martin could not fail to observe the disdain in which 
 Owaysa held the newcomer who chattered on. 
 
 "Osseo, he say ze white man ees here ! He say to come 
 see ! He gone to see Baw Beese. Ooh he ees so nice !" 
 
 Pretty Feather sat on the log beside Martin, and began 
 running her dusky hand boldly over his white arm. "So 
 strong for paleface! Ooh, such muscles! Such white arms!" 
 
 Martin edged away uneasily. She sat closer to him and 
 smiled, "All ze white men like Pretty Feather !" 
 
 "This white man's a qua, Pretty Feather. He is a coward. 
 He groaned when my father set his leg." 
 
 "Where you come from, Marteen?" 
 
 "Willink, in Erie county, New York. I just came to 
 Michigan Territory day before yesterday." 
 
 "Pretty Feather never been to New York. But she been 
 to Toledo, Port Lawrence, and Defiance. She ees not Pota- 
 watomi. She is Miami maid."* 
 
 ♦MIAMI, a tribe driven south by the Potawatomi in 1702. 
 Wyandotte, a tribe living near the French settlements in eastern 
 Michigan. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 35 
 
 "Your father was a Wyandotte," Owaysa corrected her. 
 "Your mother was Miami, and your father's been adopted into 
 our tribe. You're a Potawatomi now." 
 
 "No, Pretty Feather is Miami. She no longer live in forest 
 all the time." 
 
 "And just why did you come back this time?" Owaysa 
 inquired suspiciously. 
 
 "Captain's wife at fort. Ooh, she hate Pretty Feather ! 
 She threatened shoot — and I like captain, ooh, so well — " 
 
 "Good Indian girls have nothing to do with white men !" 
 Owaysa emphatically disapproved of nearly everything Pretty 
 Feather said, and Martin wondered what had caused this 
 animosity. 
 
 "But Wauneeta, daughter of Chief Baw Beese, she like 
 white man !" Pretty Feather was childlike in her tones. "She 
 say she marry Francois when he come back." 
 
 "If Wauneeta thinks no more of herself than to marry 
 some French trader she shows poor judgment. I'd sooner 
 marry a rattlesnake. I hate white men !" 
 
 "Oh! but not Marteen?" 
 
 "Particularly Martin !" 
 
 "Ooh, ze poor Marteen ! Pretty Feather's arm was around 
 his shoulder. "You come to our lodge, Marteen — just mon 
 pere and Pretty Feather." 
 
 "You will not take him to your lodge !" 
 
 "Why should he stay where he ees ooh so lone-lee?" 
 
 "He owes us for setting his leg. He can't leave until he's 
 paid for the help we've given him." 
 
 "You talk like what ees it — Money Bags? No, miser! In- 
 dians not charge friends, Owaysa!" 
 
 "Palefaces are not friends!" 
 
 Then it was only greed and not kindness that had prompted 
 the actions of Osseo and his daughter. If he were to remain 
 here until he could pay, it might well be forever, he thought, 
 fingering the coins in his pocket. Some day, however, after 
 his leg was healed he would escape. To write home for money 
 would be unthinkable. He had heard of Indians who held 
 their captives for ransom. 
 
 Osseo suddenly appeared with Chief Baw Beese. He 
 
36 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 gestured toward Martin and the Chief walked over to him, 
 with extended hand. 
 
 "Posho! Martin Langdon !" He turned to Osseo, nodding. 
 "He is new teacher." 
 
 Owaysa's eyes opened in astonishment, as she turned to 
 Martin. 
 
 "You didn't tell me you were a school teacher." 
 
 "I didn't think it mattered — here." 
 
 "It matter," Baw Beese said. "Look! What you see 
 around you?" 
 
 "Trees — and Indians !" 
 
 "That right — trees — deep woods. Indian live in woods. 
 Woods love Indian ! He not cut down much tree. Paleface 
 cut down much tree — too much. Paleface try to drive Indian 
 to land of setting sun — land of Sioux." 
 
 "That's so that all the Indians can live together," Martin 
 tried to explain. "They'll be happier then." 
 
 "That not true !" Baw Beese contradicted. "We not like 
 Sioux. Sioux not like us. We sign treaty for teacher — here. 
 You been sent." 
 
 "Not quite in response to the treaty — it was Grannis who 
 said I'd teach. He said the government would pay." 
 
 "All same ! Grannis is good man ! He friend of Indian ! 
 He pay Baw Beese and tribe for rent on land. We Indians 
 die out west! Sioux kill us — we not know what to eat — we 
 starve. So, Indian must learn to live with Paleface on same 
 land. Indian go to school — learn all white man know — 
 mebbe more. So now you start teach school — here !" 
 
 "Here? But I have no books, I — " 
 
 "We have three books," Owaysa volunteered. 
 
 "When you teach all out of three books, get more," Baw 
 Beese stipulated. 
 
 Martin objected. To teach with only the primer, Shakes- 
 peare's Hamlet and the Book of Common Prayer was pre- 
 posterous. Baw Beese frowned. 
 
 "You owe Osseo and Owaysa for setting leg. You pay 
 them shuniah?" 
 
 Martin shook his head. "I have no money, or shuniah, as 
 you call it." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 37 
 
 There was, however, his fine long rifle. It was worth 
 a hundred dollars, but how could he replace it even if they 
 would accept the offer? 
 
 "Then you teach," the chief commanded. 
 
 It was ridiculous, of course, to attempt to teach mere 
 savages from the three books, totally incongruous for the 
 work of beginners. There was no alternative, and he nodded 
 agreement. 
 
 "My razor and rifle are at the Inn in Grannisville. If I'm 
 going to stay here I'll need them." 
 
 "Me and Osseo go Grannisville — tell Grannis you here — 
 tell about broken leg — get um razor — get um rifle. Osseo, 
 get um horse. We go." 
 
 "Ooh la, la, we have school!" Pretty Feather danced 
 cheerfully away in the direction of the other lodges ; and 
 Osseo and Baw Beese left down the trail to the west, where 
 they both mounted horses. 
 
 Martin surveyed the splints on his leg. He thought about 
 teaching in the log school in Willink, New York. It was 
 humdrum and confining, he had decided. Confinement, after 
 all, was not a matter of geography. He looked about him 
 at the dense forest, the smoke from the fire, the bark house, 
 and his seat on the log. The scenery was different, and his 
 pupils would be half naked and copper-colored. Some would 
 carry hatchets. 
 
 Well, he could at least whittle himself a pair of crutches. 
 
6 
 
 Jake Durgy Comes Home 
 
 N THE night of June 6th, 1832, 
 Jake Durgy returned to his cabin 
 in the forest seven miles east of the little 
 settlement of Grannisville. 
 
 He came home with a strange horse, and a jug of rotgut 
 whiskey, some of which he had imbibed along the way. On 
 opening his cabin door he lurched inside and slumped into 
 a chair. He was tired and in a half-drunken stupor, and he 
 put the whiskey jug beside him on the dirt floor. 
 
 Jake was a half-breed pretending to be more white than 
 Indian, and that night his Seneca squaw, who had accom- 
 panied him west from Niagara Falls, appeared disgustingly 
 dark-colored to him. 
 
 "You been gone long time," the woman remarked. 
 
 " 'Taint no business of yourn, so long as I keep ye." 
 
 "Jim Smith — big lot of men here from Grannisville — and 
 ask for Jake Durgy." 
 
 "Oh, so Jim Smith was here eh? Now what ye suppose 
 them fellers wanted — to buy horses?" 
 
 "They say two horses stole from Grannisville." 
 
 Durgy grunted, and laid his head wearily on his arm on 
 the table. The woman, seizing the opportunity, reached for 
 the whiskey jug; but Jake was too quick for her: "Oh, no 
 ye don't! I've earned this here whiskey!" 
 
 "You drunk now ! Men say you stole horses !" 
 
 Durgy burst out laughing. "Well, what do ye know? — 
 And they can't prove a damn thing! No sirree — not a 
 damn thing!" 
 
 "Why you steal all time?" 
 
 Anger smouldered in Durgy's bloodshot eyes, but he made 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 39 
 
 no answer as the woman rambled on. "You make love to 
 Owaysa. You not treat me right." 
 
 "Shut up! You don't know nothin' about it." 
 
 "Me know all right. Owaysa, she tell me. She say you 
 make love to her when me sick. She scratch you that day 
 you say you fell in berry bushes." 
 
 "Well, I'm still keepin' ye aint I?" 
 
 "You stole me from good Seneca brave — Stick-in-the-mud, 
 at Niagara Falls — but yes, you keep." 
 
 "Then what ye all the time findin' fault with me fer?" 
 
 Without answering the woman went to the fireplace and 
 began ladling soup from the kettle on the crane. 
 
 "Know where I been? I been clear to Ypsilanti with 
 those damn horses I got in Grannisville. Had to trade the 
 two nags for one good one and two jugs of whiskey — and 
 I got fifty dollars to boot. Think of that, will ye — fifty 
 dollars and a good horse for a night's work and two days of 
 hard ridin' — and it was hard I can tell ye." 
 
 She placed the bowl of soup on the table before him, and 
 Jake bellowed : "Soup ! Aint ye got anything better'n soup 
 fer a tired man?" Sweeping the soup onto the floor he looked 
 at her belligerently. 
 
 The earthen bowl had not broken and the woman bent 
 down to pick it up. She spoke in self-pitying tones as she 
 retrieved it. 
 
 "You tell you win me in dice game ! But you get my 
 brave drunk — then you steal me, like you steal horse. I 
 go back to Seneca tribe." 
 
 Durgy looked at her disdainfully and took another swig 
 from his whiskey jug. When he set it down again he was 
 momentarily off guard and the squaw got possession of it. 
 
 "Me go! You want um Owaysa! No Injun want her! 
 She half white — like you! Injuns all say she smell like 
 paleface — Injuns no want woman smell like paleface!" 
 
 "Shut up and hand me that jug!" 
 
 "No! Too much firewater now! Me go — back to Seneca 
 — know what happen when I go home?" 
 
 "Nothin's goin' to happen exceptin' I'll be marrying 
 Owaysa." 
 
40 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "One thing Seneca do. If they want enemy they just 
 want know where find him. Then — little band Seneca come 
 — Stick-in-the-mud, he come ! Mebbe there be stake in 
 yard — you tied to stake — big fire!" 
 
 "Will ye shut up and give me back my whiskey?" 
 
 Uncorking the jug, the squaw turned it upside down, 
 and the liquor was making a muddy pool on the floor before 
 Durgy sprang from his chair. He wrenched the jug from 
 her hands in a frenzy. 
 
 "You ignor'nt savage," he roared, drawing the jug up high 
 in both hands. 
 
 He forgot his precious whiskey in his rage, and he 
 brought the jug down on her head with the full force of both 
 his arms. She crumpled, but one blow was not enough. He 
 struck her again, and the jug shattered with the impact. 
 Blood spurted from her crushed skull, and he flung away the 
 piece of jug he held in his hand. 
 
 "Guess ye won't go bellyachin' to no Senecas now!" he 
 said triumphantly. The only sound in answer was a rustle 
 of the leaves in the forest, sighing on the night wind. 
 
 He sank down in his chair to think — but he was too 
 drunk. He slumped off the chair onto the dirt floor beside 
 his dead squaw — and his fuzzy brain was oblivious to his 
 surroundings. 
 
 The tallow candle on the table was burning low when he 
 was startled into consciousness by the eery voice of a screech 
 owl, and then he became aware of the congealed blood on 
 what had been the face of a woman. Shaking himself, he 
 sat up and stared at the lifeless body. 
 
 Events leading up to his present situation gradually per- 
 meated Durgy's befogged brain. He had hoped it was only 
 a bad dream. She had said something about telling the Seneca 
 back east. If there was one thing in the world Jake Durgy 
 feared, it was Indian revenge. He had seen evidence of it ; 
 and although slow, it was very sure. The one way to avoid it 
 in his case was to prevent old Stick-in-the-mud from ever 
 knowing what had become of his pretty squaw. And she had 
 been pretty — then. 
 
 Durgy squinted at the moon through the dirty cabin win- 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 41 
 
 dow. He must dispose of the body, together with all of her 
 Seneca belongings, before daylight. Prying Indian eyes saw 
 everything that went on in the forest. 
 
 His groggy brain needed a drop of the hair of the dog, 
 and he looked regretfully at the pieces of the broken whiskey 
 jug. At first he tried to think he had not meant to kill her. 
 But he shuddered when he pictured the stake that possibly 
 would be driven in his own yard — the careful and awful fire 
 built around him — and, as he cooked alive, chunks of his 
 flesh cut away and eaten before his eyes. 
 
 Durgy had never witnessed the sight; but had heard 
 tales that the Seneca had been known to do such things to 
 their enemies. It had been self-preservation, that was what, 
 for him to kill the squaw before she told them where to 
 find him. 
 
 The best thing to do was bury the body immediately — 
 and then — he smiled, for there would be Owaysa, the proud, 
 half-breed daughter of Osseo. 
 
 "I'll just tell anybody that asks, she took off," he said to 
 himself. He almost laughed as he thought of his cleverness 
 in handling the situation. What more likely story than that 
 a squaw — a Seneca in Potowatomi country, would go back 
 to her people? Taking a shovel he went out to the corn patch. 
 
 Durgy judged the corn patch would be the best place, 
 because the corn was only about four or five inches high. 
 Furthermore it was newly-scratched plowed ground, and dig- 
 ging it would not be conspicuous — especially after he had 
 cultivated through it afterwards. If he planted some new 
 corn in the missing hills by fall even he would not be able 
 to say exactly where the grave was. 
 
 As he dug, the eery voice of the screech owl was silent, 
 and only the sound of the spade turning over the sandy soil 
 and Durgy's breathing were audible. There were no night 
 sounds in the forest, until suddenly a hoot owl made its 
 presence known with a ghostly wail of "Who-o-o-o" ! 
 
 For a moment he paused in alarm. He could not be sure 
 the sound was not human. Indians emitted such imitations 
 
42 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 of birds and beasts as signals. Soon, however, he saw the 
 big owl outlined against the setting moon. It was perched 
 high on the limb of a hickory tree. He resumed digging. The 
 hole need not be too deep — just enough to miss the plow 
 would do. When he had finished he dragged the dead body 
 from his cabin and dropped it unceremoniously into the grave. 
 Then he went to the cabin, picked up the broken pieces of 
 whiskey jug, the squaw's charm bag, her few trinkets and 
 threw them onto the lifeless body. There was no need to 
 put the glass beads, nor the wampum belt around her — just 
 bury them with her. 
 
 Before the moon set he had covered his dead squaw and 
 her belongings with soft dirt, and returned to his cabin. Come 
 tomorrow he would pay a visit to Owaysa, and tell her his 
 Seneca woman had left him. 
 
 "The wench made me feel like a damn fool, the last time," 
 he thought. It had been the time his squaw had mentioned. 
 He recalled how he had caught Owaysa off guard as she was 
 leaving his cabin that afternoon. How she had struggled 
 when he had drawn her to him. 
 
 "Leave me alone! You've got a wife!" 
 
 "But she ain't you," Durgy remembered saying as he 
 placed lustful, wet lips over hers. 
 
 Owaysa had quickly jerked herself away. She had bitten 
 his cheek so hard she drew blood. Then she had nearly 
 clawed out his eyes, broken from his embrace, and run rapidly 
 down the trail to Elk Lake village. 
 
 He had pursued her hotly for a few yards, when he sud- 
 denly realized he had less chance of catching her than he 
 would a deer. She was fleet of foot, even in that buckskin 
 skirt she was wearing. 
 
 Everything would be different tomorrow, when dressed in 
 his best pantaloons and bright red shirt, and cleanly shaved 
 he presented himself, a suitor at the lodge of Osseo, asking 
 for the hand of Owaysa. 
 
 It was no fault of his that he was a half-breed and a 
 horse thief. His father, a renegade white, had been a friend 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 43 
 
 of Simon Girty's* in the old days when Girty's name was 
 the terror of the frontier. Durgy had been brought up to 
 steal, rob and plunder — and to kill if necessary. To his way 
 of thinking there was nothing wrong with such a way of life ; 
 and here in the wilderness of Michigan Territory was the 
 
 ideal place for his operations. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The sun was already high on the horizon when he was 
 prepared for his visit. He saddled the horse he had bought 
 in Ypsilanti — albeit with the money obtained from the horses 
 stolen in Grannisville. The animal would be a present to 
 Owaysa and Osseo. It would, in a measure, make up for 
 the horse Negnaska had stolen from Osseo. Negnaska was 
 the husband of Wenona, a daughter of Baw Beese, and 
 he frequently stole horses from various places for Durgy. 
 But never before had he stolen one from a member of his 
 own tribe. He smiled as he thought, should George Grannis 
 ever find out that he had sold him Osseo's horse, he could 
 explain that he had no idea the horse had been stolen. He 
 would say he had paid an Indian good money for him. 
 
 Mounting his new horse Durgy made off to Elk Lake Vil- 
 lage, and was surprised on his arrival to find a white man 
 sitting on a log whittling some oak sticks. 
 
 "Who be you?" Durgy wanted to know. 
 
 "Martin Langdon ! What's your name?" 
 
 "I'm Jake Durgy!" 
 
 "Oh! I've heard of you!" 
 
 "Bet ye aint heard nothin' good about me." The last 
 statement was half a query. 
 
 "I've heard you're a half-breed." 
 
 "'Taint easy — bein' a half-breed in a country like this — 
 nobody trusts me." 
 
 "Should they?" 
 
 "A half-breed's a human bein'." 
 
 Martin made no comment, but continued whittling. 
 
 "Seen anything of my squaw?" Durgy inquired. 
 
 *NOTE: Girty, a renegade white was a British agent during the 
 Revolution. 
 
44 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "The only Indian women I've seen here are Owaysa and 
 Pretty Feather." 
 
 Martin evaded a direct answer. No need to tell about 
 having seen her at Durgy's cabin. "I told you, I've seen 
 no women here except Osseo's daughter, and that Frenchy 
 girl." 
 
 "Well, my squaw's gone — just like the woods had swal- 
 lowed her up." 
 
 "When did she leave?" 
 
 "Oh, 'tother night. Some kind of posse, she said, come 
 to my cabin and told her they thought I stole some horses in 
 Grannisville. I pounded the livin' daylights out of her for 
 even thinkin' I'd do a thing like that. There I had been 
 away all day and no victuals fer me to eat but blasted soup. 
 I figger it aint up to a man's squaw to say when her man 
 wants supper, I told her. Then she ups and takes French 
 leave without sayin' good-bye, nor go to hell, nor nothin' 
 She's pure Seneca — won her in a dice game from old 
 'Stick-in-the-mud' down at Niagara Falls." 
 
 Martin had continued whittling during Durgy's discourse, 
 and one of his crutches was beginning to take shape. Durgy 
 was much better dressed than he had expected he would be. 
 For that matter, he was better dressed than he would suppose 
 a man should be who was searching for his squaw in the 
 wilderness. 
 
 " 'Taint as though I care a hell of a lot," Durgy continued. 
 His bloodshot eyes twinkled wisely. "Fact is, I got my eye 
 on somebody younger — and prettier — and she aint no 
 Seneca. Truth is, I'm goin' to offer Osseo a horse for her — 
 yep, this here horse right here, and the blanket. No need 
 to offer the saddle. Injuns don't use 'em." 
 
 "I know they haven't any use for saddles." Martin remem- 
 bered Owaysa saying that her nag-doche-shaw had been dis- 
 graced by having a saddle on him. 
 
 "This girl's worth it though," Durgy was saying. "No 
 Injun brave wants her. Nobody wants a half-breed — guess 
 I know about that. Injuns don't own us, and white men won't 
 trust us. You'd think we was to blame cuz our folks weren't 
 both the same color. This here old Osseo's havin' a hard 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 45 
 
 time with marryin' her off. But me — I'll take her off his 
 hands, now that my squaw's took off, I — " 
 
 He broke off quickly, then added : "I don't know what 
 I'm tellin' all this to ye fer. I don't know's I ever heard of 
 Martin Langdon ! How ye get here with that busted leg?" 
 
 Martin took a firm grasp on his knife and looked squarely 
 at Durgy. "The horse you stole from Osseo brought me 
 here. Then he threw me off." 
 
 "The horse I — " Durgy took cognizance of Martin's 
 sharp knife. "How ye talk, Langdon! So Osseo had his 
 horse stole?" 
 
 "I was with the posse that called at your place, Durgy." 
 Martin hefted his crutch as though it might be a club. The 
 movement was not lost on Durgy, and neither was the fact 
 that Owaysa had come down the path from the vegetable 
 patch. 
 
 "What do you want, Durgy — all decked out in paleface 
 pants and your face shaved?" Owaysa was belligerent in 
 her greeting. 
 
 "Well, well, hear the belle of the woods ! Speakin' right 
 up snappish like she was real folks !" 
 
 "We got back the horse you stole, Durgy!" 
 
 "That aint so, Owaysa. Jake Durgy never stole no horse 
 from an Injun. Why, here I be, bringin' another horse fer 
 yer paw. I'm the Injun's friend — givin' horses away today." 
 
 "Where'd you steal this one?" 
 
 "Bought him over at Jacksonburg!" Durgy did not believe 
 in telling the entire truth. Somebody might learn he had 
 traded the two stolen horses off in Ypsilanti. 
 
 Owaysa was suspicious. "Why do you want to be good 
 to my father?" 
 
 "Ye aint blind, be ye? Ye know what bringin' presents 
 means. I've took a shine to ye." 
 
 "You've got a woman !" 
 
 "She's left fer parts unknown. So unless ye've seen her, 
 and I hope ye ain't, I'm offerin' Osseo the chance of a life- 
 time. Never did go fer pure blood Injuns nohow. No, siree! 
 White men fer white women; Injun squaws fer Injun braves; 
 and Owaysa, half-breeds fer half-breeds." 
 
46 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Owaysa was scornful. "My father won't accept presents 
 from you." 
 
 "Oh, don't be too sure ! Every brave in the tribe's laughin'. 
 Just don't get hoity-toity with Jake Durgy, or he might 
 remember the Injuns won't have ye and we know danged 
 well the white men don't want ye. Then I could git ye without 
 a present." Durgy paused. He laughed as Owaysa, embar- 
 rassed, looked off into space. "I hear yer paw's offered three 
 beaver pelts and even a wampum belt to any brave that'll 
 take ye off his hands! But I'll even care fer him in his old 
 age, just like Injuns would." 
 
 "Your wife will be back," Owaysa darted an angry look 
 at Durgy. 
 
 "If she comes back she kin go apackin' — and if she don't 
 go apackin', she'll wish she had." 
 
 Owaysa had listened to every word Durgy had uttered. 
 Mixed emotion registered on her features, but finally losing 
 all control of her feelings she flung down the hoe she had 
 in her hands and let loose in an angry tirade. 
 
 "Get out of here ! Get out of Meshawa od-dawn ! Take 
 your horse with you ! I'll hang from a hickory tree before 
 I'll marry you! If my father makes a bargain with you, I'll 
 tie a stone to my feet, paddle to the middle of Elk lake and 
 tip it over!" 
 
 Durgy had been unprepared for the outburst, and stood 
 aghast for a moment before inquiring: "Ye aint smit with 
 this here cripple paleface be ye?" 
 
 "Get out!" The girl screamed. She picked up the hoe 
 and waved it threateningly at her would-be suitor. "Get out! 
 And if you never come back it will be too soon !" 
 
 Durgy withdrew a few steps. He was less sure of him- 
 self, but he finally managed to regain at least a portion of his 
 former cockiness. 
 
 "Well, well ! I like spirit in a woman. We'll see what 
 yer paw sez. I'll be back, little Owaysa, and it'll be after 
 I've had a talk with Osseo. I don't calc-'late he's no fool — 
 and as to you drowndin' yerself in the lake, I aint scared of 
 that none." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 47 
 
 Owaysa brandished the hoe and was starting towards 
 him when he swaggered over to this horse. He mounted it 
 and rode away to the north. 
 
7 
 
 School Opens In the Wilderness 
 
 HE FOLLOWING day was June 
 
 8th, 1832, and Martin Langdon 
 
 was prepared to hold the opening session 
 
 of his school at Meshawa-od-dawn ; with the child's primer, 
 
 Hamlet and The Book of Common Prayer for his textbooks. 
 
 To say that he had been greatly concerned about the 
 possible outcome of the love affair between Owaysa and Jake 
 Durgy would be an exaggeration. He was much more con- 
 cerned over the fact that Grannis had refused to let Osseo 
 and Baw Beese bring his long rifle to him. Osseo had said 
 that Grannis feared it might be stolen. But he had been 
 gratified to get his razor. Osseo had explained the Indians 
 had only muskets, and that genuine rifles with their longer 
 range were too costly for poor red men to buy. But Osseo 
 doubted that it would be stolen, especially since Martin was 
 to become the long-promised teacher. 
 
 "Teacher — teacher!" The term was a designation meant 
 for an honor. But it stood for the occupation that Martin 
 had already tried and found wanting. He was a man of 
 action — a pioneer who belonged outdoors, free and indepen- 
 dent. Then, some day when he was old, perhaps, and had 
 made his mark in the world — here in a new territory, he 
 might go into politics. Had not George Washington and 
 Andrew Jackson both been farmers — not teachers? Nobody 
 ever respected a teacher enough to elect him president of 
 the Republic. A teacher was regarded as an educated fool, 
 either too lazy or too incapable to make a living doing any- 
 thing else. Martin was grateful for his education — it would 
 be handy in facing life's problems. Some time in the distant 
 future all that he had learned could be useful no doubt, in 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 49 
 
 giving him a fuller life. Right now it must serve him to 
 make his first thousand dollars to get started as a settler and 
 homesteader. Only the thought that the present school was 
 a part of his work to earn the needed money made his situa- 
 tion at all bearable. 
 
 In his helpless condition there was nothing else he could 
 do but teach the school before Osseo's lodge with as good 
 grace as possible. He was at an age when the only real 
 problems were his own. The difficulties of Owaysa and 
 Osseo and Jake Durgy meant little or nothing to him. 
 
 It was with a feeling of uneasiness that he laid aside 
 the work on his crutches when he heard the prattle of voices 
 approaching, and he knew his savage pupils, led by Pretty 
 Feather, were at hand. 
 
 At sight of Martin, sitting on the log, the voices suddenly 
 ceased ; all emotion was concealed, and their faces were as 
 inscrutable as the trees of the forest. Martin counted fifteen, 
 ranging in age from a grown man in his twenties to a child 
 of four or five years. Pretty Feather introduced the grown 
 man as Pamasaw, son of Baw Beese. Wa-ha-stee, whom she 
 introduced next was a youth of thirteen or fourteen ; while 
 Peesotum and Mah-je, could not have been over four or five. 
 The other names, none of which had a familiar ring, Martin 
 could scarcely pronounce on that opening day. 
 
 Owaysa, appearing from the wigwam, addressed the group 
 in Potowatomi, and the younger girls all giggled, followed 
 by loud laughter from all assembled. 
 
 The children sat cross-legged on the ground in a semi- 
 circle in front of Martin ; and Owaysa, turning to him, said : 
 "I've told them you're teaching the school in English ; that in 
 order to live with the settlers as Chief Baw Beese wishes, it 
 will be necessary for them to learn to read and speak English. 
 The keeg-cob-ba, the boys ; and keeg-ya-goo, the girls, are 
 separated, as my mother told me they were in paleface 
 schools." 
 
 "Thank you, Owaysa. You'll have to help me. I don't un- 
 derstand but a few words in your language." 
 
 Pretty Feather smiled coquettishly, from where she sat on 
 
50 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 the ground with the others. "Will you teach Pretty Feather all 
 ze white man's ways?" 
 
 "What white man's ways you don't already know," 
 Owaysa said, "you'll be able to pick up without a teacher." 
 
 "Marteen," Pretty Feather's countenance darkened, "with 
 Owaysa so hateful; wouldn't l'ecole be better at my lodge?" 
 
 Owaysa turned to Pretty Feather. 
 
 "Martin Langdon may not leave the lodge of Osseo. He's 
 a hostage to teach this school to pay for curing his leg." 
 
 "But Marteen can visit our lodge when whippoorwill calls." 
 
 "He may particularly not visit you, Pretty Feather." 
 
 Deciding the argument between the two girls was lead- 
 ing nowhere, Martin began addressing the pupils, while 
 Owaysa translated rapidly. 
 
 "We have no slates, so we'll use bark and charcoal. You 
 will all go and get a piece of bark about this size." Martin held 
 his hands a distance of about a foot apart. 
 
 As soon as all but Owaysa and Pretty Feather had left to 
 procure the bark with great jubilation, Pretty Feather said ; 
 "I did not bring a knife." 
 
 "Don't pretend to be helpless!" Owaysa chided. "Here's 
 a knife." 
 
 "Must Pretty Feather?" The girl turned appealing eyes 
 on Martin. 
 
 "Unless Pretty Feather obeys the rules she can't come to 
 the school," Owaysa stipulated, as she drew her knife and 
 presented it to the girl. 
 
 Both pairs of eyes blazed intensely at each other; but 
 Pretty Feather grasped the handle of the knife. Then Owaysa 
 went to the fire and began extracting bits of charcoal from 
 the ashes. 
 
 Pretty Feather, ignoring Owaysa glided silently to Mar- 
 tin, and sat on the log beside him. Her dusky hand rubbed 
 his bare shoulder as she said : "Eet is much nicer talking to 
 you, Marteen." 
 
 "You go and get your bark!" Owaysa was making no at- 
 tempt to conceal her rage. 
 
 "You see, Marteen, Owaysa ees jealous! She won't even 
 let you come to see me. Oh, non, non ! She sends me away to 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 51 
 
 get bark. But Pretty Feather used to beaucoup de jalousie — 
 bientot you come see Pretty Feather, O, oui!" 
 
 Owaysa, returning with her hands full of charcoal, looked 
 disapprovingly at Pretty Feather. 
 
 "You're a bad keeg-ya-goo ! Go get your bark!" 
 
 Without answering, Pretty Feather, loosing her hold on 
 Martin's shoulder, arose and flounced off into the forest. 
 
 No sooner were Owaysa and Martin alone than Osseo 
 appeared, carrying his musket, but no game. He came over to 
 them gravely. 
 
 "Saw Durgy in woods. Say he offer horse and blanket for 
 you, Owaysa. He say qua left. Why you not tell me?" 
 
 "I hate Jake Durgy ! I won't marry him ! His woman may 
 be back." 
 
 "No! Durgy 's qua — she dead! I guess!" 
 
 With no further remark about his daughter failing to tell 
 him of Durgy's offer, the Indian walked away and began 
 putting his fishing tackle in order. Then, like a swarm of 
 locusts, the pupils descended upon their schoolmaster with 
 quantities of bark. 
 
 Owaysa, undisturbed by the words of her father, began 
 distributing the pieces of charcoal. The group again arranged 
 itself into a semi-circle and Martin began reading aloud from 
 the primer. 
 
 At his suggestion Owaysa went among the pupils, show- 
 ing each one how to make the letters of the alphabet. 
 Pamasaw, smiling in comprehension, exclaimed : "Oh, pic- 
 ture write !" 
 
 "Much the same," Martin said. 
 
 "What is 'A' picture of?" Pamasaw was mystified at the 
 strange symbol. 
 
 " 'A' is for alphabet," Martin smiled. 
 
 Then he had to answer such questions as what the alpha- 
 bet was — a matter made more difficult by the fact that most 
 of his pupils understood very little English, and he, no 
 Potowatomi. Owaysa frequently translated for him when 
 she considered it necessary. 
 
 Pretty Feather, returning tardily with her bark, demanded 
 a piece of charcoal, and began using it immediately, while 
 
52 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Owaysa assisted little Peesotum and his sister, Mah-je with 
 the difficulties of the lesson on the alphabet. 
 
 She went from pupil to pupil, eventually reaching Pretty 
 Feather and flew into a rage. "You don't draw pictures of 
 Martin Langdon !" she shrieked. "You put down the letters A 
 and then B — It's easy. My mother taught me years ago!" 
 
 "Pretty Feather use other side of bark for alphabet." She 
 smiled unperturbed by Owaysa's savage outburst. 
 
 Why the girl took exception to almost everything Pretty 
 Feather said or did could be only a matter of conjecture to 
 Martin. Pretty Feather had described her reaction as jealousy, 
 and yet there was no indication she considered him other 
 than the most hated member of a hated race. But she assisted 
 him more like a mature woman than like a girl of sixteen as 
 he continued the teaching of the alphabet. 
 
 Finally he concluded the day's lesson and inspected the 
 work of the pupils on the improvised bark slates. Little 
 Peesotum and his sister, Mah-je, had done by far the neatest 
 work. Wahastee's was about average, while Pamasaw, the 
 proud son of Baw Beese had been determined to make the 
 letters appear like animals, fish and plants. Pretty Feather, 
 smiling mischievously, stated she would make the alphabet 
 tomorrow, and urged on Martin the well-done picture she 
 had been drawing of him, while Owaysa fumed. 
 
 When all were gone, Martin, turning to Owaysa, sighed 
 hopelessly, and shook his head. "I'll never be able to teach 
 them from just that primer, Hamlet and The Book of Com- 
 mon Prayer. I'll have to tell them stories that are familiar. 
 
 Owaysa said nothing, as she busied herself with the fire 
 beneath the kettle. Why had she acted as she did towards 
 Pretty Feather? Could there be truth in the girl's accusation 
 that she was jealous? The thought made her more angry than 
 ever — jealous! Of this paleface! It was against everything 
 she believed. She hated herself for the feeling even more than 
 she did Pretty Feather for bringing up the matter. 
 
 Here was a paleface who had been at the lodge only three 
 days, and he stirred an odd sensation she had never felt to- 
 wards Pamasaw, nor any of the other young braves. She 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 53 
 
 poked the fire viciously, as though its crackling wood would 
 bring her emotions into line with her thinking. 
 
 While it was true, as Durgy had said she was a half- 
 breed, her mother had taught her meticulous English. It had 
 seemed to her, however, living as she did with her father's 
 people, that all the right was on the side of the Indian. The 
 broken treaties of the Ke-moke-non and the Saug— kee-nawshe 
 before them were constant reminders that the palefaces were 
 never to be trusted. 
 
 "Half-breeds for half-breeds," Durgy had said. Strong as 
 her desire to hate Martin Langdon was, she could not hate 
 him as much as she did Jake Durgy, who was half Indian. 
 
 She finally stopped poking the fire and inquired : "What 
 sort of stories?" 
 
 "Legends — I mean legends of the people — stories told 
 by your old men." 
 
 Owaysa hesitated. The missionary had said such stories 
 were wicked. The palefaces laughed at them. She answered 
 evasively. 
 
 "It's hard to tell Indian things in English." 
 
 "I'll be patient. Just tell me one of them, and I'll copy it 
 onto a piece of bark, with the charcoal." 
 
 "You'll make fun of our legends." 
 
 "What makes you think so?" 
 
 "The palefaces always make fun of Indian things ! They 
 make fun of our bark houses ; of our wooden dishes. I've 
 seen them laugh at bark containers of maple sugar we've 
 sold them. They always laugh at the Indian." 
 
 It was the ridicule of Indian things and Indian ways 
 Owaysa had heard in the settlements that made her hate the 
 palefaces almost as much as the tales of the broken treaties — 
 of trust betrayed. 
 
 "I promise you I won't laugh. Besides, I don't see how 
 I can teach school unless I have a story that my pupils all 
 know in their own language." 
 
 "But palefaces would laugh at our legends. The missionary 
 said they were lies, and never to be repeated. The palefaces 
 like to hear stories of Indians butchering settlers, and going on 
 the warpath." 
 
54 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "If white men laugh at your legends it's because they 
 don't know their value." 
 
 "Indians can learn more than just stories of their own, or 
 do you think they can't learn anything at all?" 
 
 "I didn't say that." 
 
 "But you've heard it, haven't you?" 
 
 "Yes, I've heard it." 
 
 "But have you heard about how the palefaces have paid 
 big bounties to have Indians killed? Have you heard that 
 both the Americans and the British have paid thirty dollars 
 for a little child, a hundred and thirty dollars for a woman 
 and a hundred and fifty dollars for a brave? 
 
 "No — and I don't believe such bounties were ever paid." 
 
 "They were paid — to men like Durgy and bad Indians. 
 There are plenty of bad Indians ; but they are not like the 
 palefaces living at great distances who have whole forests 
 cut down, putting entire nations of our people out of their 
 homes." 
 
 "The palefaces only want to make things better for every- 
 body — want to improve the land and — " 
 
 "Maybe they will only make things worse — like the 
 time that Hiawatha made his mistake," and Owaysa began 
 the tale in halting English, which Martin copied rapidly on 
 a piece of bark, as soon as he recognized the fact it was a 
 legend of the Potowatomi of Vance township. 
 
 Hiawatha's Mistake 
 
 After doing many wonderful things for his people, 
 Hiawatha was out walking when he met his uncle, the Skunk. 
 
 "Well, Hiawatha," the Skunk said to him. "If you had 
 some of my ammunition you could be even greater than you 
 are." 
 
 "Give me some," Hiawatha replied. "I should like to 
 try it.' 
 
 Then by magical means known only in those days, the 
 Skunk gave Hiawatha the vaunted ammunition. 
 
 At that time there were great hills here, almost solid 
 rock; so Hiawatha tried the ammunition on the hills and 
 mountains. There was a great trembling of the earth, and 
 land flattened out into gentle rolling hills and dales as we 
 know it today; but it remained hard and rocky, and was 
 strewn with great boulders. 
 
 Hiawatha tried the ammunition on the great rocks, and 
 

 THE LAND LIES PRETTY 55 
 
 again there was a trembling of the earth, and the rocks 
 became small stones and fine soil such as we have today. 
 
 All this was good, and Mondahmin, the corn; Koge-jess- 
 sug, the bean; Sama, the tobacco, all thrived. The people also 
 made sugar from the maple syrup. 
 
 At that time the maple trees gave forth sweet syrup, but 
 the quantity was small. So Hiawatha, thinking to improve 
 the flow of maple syrup, tried his ammunition on the sugar 
 bushes. Again there was a great trembling of the earth, and 
 this time it was followed by a terrific thunderstorm. 
 
 When everything cleared away the flow from the maple 
 trees was indeed increased — but it was sour sap instead of 
 syrup. 
 
 That is why the maple tree, which used to give forth 
 sweet syrup, now gives forth only sour sap that must be boiled 
 for many long hours before it can be made into sugar* 
 
 ♦NOTE: This regional story of Hiawatha, has been told for genera- 
 tions among the Indians of southern Michigan. If it has 
 ever before been told in English I have never heard of it. 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 Part of the story Martin had found necessary to have 
 Owaysa repeat, but when it was completed he was enthusi- 
 astic. Here was what he needed for teaching the school in 
 the wilderness. Owaysa had looked at him, waiting for him 
 to laugh ; but he did not, and she began busying herself pick- 
 ing up the books and teaching materials and carrying them 
 into the wigwam. 
 
 Martin looked after her and again began to whittle on his 
 crutches. He wondered why the white men always laughed 
 at Indian ways. What the girl had said was true. They did 
 laugh at the primitive childishness of the red man, but this 
 legend in its way, taught the lesson of leaving well enough 
 alone. 
 
 Perhaps the well-intentioned missionaries and the gov- 
 ernment would do better to let the Indian grow into civili- 
 zation rather than spurn him, and force him into the white 
 man's mold. By the materialistic white man's standard the 
 Indian was poor beyond belief. But there were thousands of 
 years of civilization forming an abyss between the red man 
 of the forest and the white man on the farm. Both might say 
 "The Land Lies Pretty," but how different was the meaning. 
 
8 
 
 In Which Jake Durgy Tries Again 
 
 EVERAL weeks elapsed during 
 which Martin learned to like In- 
 dian food with its flavoring of maple syrup, 
 sassafras or wintergreen, or combinations of them. He had 
 expressed surprise that Owaysa baked beans in the manner 
 he had always known as "New England style." She informed 
 him, however, that dry beans were always prepared with bear 
 meat, maple sugar, and a dash of sassafras. 
 
 His seat on the log had become sort of a throne from 
 which he conducted his classes, and he had been forced to 
 revise his opinion that Indians couldn't learn. They had been 
 attentive, and some of them had learned a great deal. The 
 story of Hiawatha as told by Owaysa had turned the trick, 
 and this was followed by other Indian stories and legends, 
 none of which had Martin heard previously. 
 
 Even Pamasaw, proud son of Chief Baw Beese, was using 
 better English than his father, and so did little Peesotum, his 
 sister, Mah-je, and all the others. 
 
 Martin's enforced inactivity had become a little more 
 bearable when he had finished his crutches ; but his surround- 
 ings in the forest, while totally different from his school in 
 Willink, were far from his idea of the happy, free life of the 
 pioneer. Despite this chafing at his inability to get away and 
 back to civilization, the smell of the smoke from the camp- 
 fire, the songs of the birds, the fresh smell of the woods 
 after a rain, the howling of wolves, baying to the full moon, all 
 served as an introduction into the land he had chosen for his 
 future home. From the Indians he learned what was edible 
 in the forest, and about the only venomous serpent, the 
 massasauga; the wily habits of the racoon, the fleet rabbit, 
 

 THE LAND LIES PRETTY 57 
 
 the lovely white-tailed deer, and even the occasional elk. 
 These, and other fauna formed the topics of most of the 
 conversation at Elk Lake village. 
 
 Owaysa still continued an attitude of studied indifference 
 towards him as she embroidered moccasins, jackets, and 
 cooked, hoed in the vegetable patch, or helped him with the 
 school. 
 
 Pretty Feather's interest, however seemed focused entirely 
 on Martin until one day, noticing the effect of the sun's rays 
 on his bare torso exclaimed ; "You, Marteen, are as dark as the 
 rest of us!" 
 
 Martin looked at his bare arms, and it was true — he 
 was as brown as an Indian. He smiled. "I wonder if it's the 
 climate or being a separate race that makes the Indian red. 
 Is the paleface only pale because he lives in houses and 
 wears clothes?" 
 
 Owaysa, overhearing the question looked up coldly from 
 her embroidery. "A paleface is pale because he has a pale 
 mind. Indians are Indians because they think like Indians. 
 Palefaces will always be palefaces. It's in their hearts that 
 they are different." 
 
 For a moment the profundity of Owaysa's statement sur- 
 prised them for even Pretty Feather, who was generally light 
 and frivolous was capable on occasion of deeper thoughts. 
 
 "How much longer will I be on crutches?" Martin broke 
 the silence. 
 
 "My father says seven more sunrises." 
 
 The forest became suddenly hushed, and only a locust 
 continued his solitary song of the saw. In the distance there 
 was the sound of a galloping horse which became increasingly 
 louder. 
 
 Owaysa caught the first glimpse of the horse and rider as 
 he approached the pool by the spring. 
 
 "It's Durgy again!" She hastily picked up her embroider- 
 ing materials. "Pretty Feather, get out of here. You, Martin, 
 tell Durgy I'm not here. I'll hide in the lodge." 
 
 Pretty Feather vanished silently behind some shrubbery 
 and Owaysa, for the first time, seemed to Martin a woman 
 
58 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 to protect. She entered the wigwam and dropped the bear- 
 skin rug over the doorway. 
 
 Durgy drew up on his horse, dismounted, and tied it to 
 a hickory sapling. Martin, picking up the Prayer Book, 
 opened it at random and pretended to be reading the twenty- 
 third psalm. 
 
 "Hello, Langdon !" Durgy had the same swaggering gait 
 as he approached. "See yer still hobblin' about on crutches." 
 
 "Takes quite a while for a broken leg to heal." Martin 
 laid aside the Prayer Book. 
 
 "Where's Owaysa?" 
 
 "Can't say, Durgy!" 
 
 "Now don't go gettin' flip with Jake Durgy, Langdon, cuz 
 just on general principles I'd like to let ye have it right on 
 the end of yer nose!" 
 
 "What are you talking about?" 
 
 "I come to see Owaysa! Where is she?" 
 
 "She isn't here." 
 
 Durgy looked belligerently at Martin, his hand moving 
 lightly across the butt of his flintlock pistol, before he spoke. 
 "I say, Langdon, yer a lyin' varmint! Now I'm askin' ye, 
 polite and nice like, where's Owaysa?" 
 
 Martin rose from his seat on the log. He leaned on his 
 crutches, and Durgy started for the entrance to the wigwam. 
 Martin reached the spot first and standing in the doorway, 
 he looked at the half-breed. 
 
 "You can't go into the lodge !" 
 
 "Who says Jake Durgy can't do nothin'? Think I'm 
 skeert of some cripple?" 
 
 Whipping his pistol from his belt, Durgy toyed with it a 
 moment. "See this pistol? It's sayin' right now fer ye to 
 stand one side." 
 
 Imperceptibly Martin shifted his entire weight to his good 
 right leg, and on his left crutch. He glowered in defiance at 
 his pistol-waving adversary. 
 
 "I mean it, Langdon. Get out o' my way before I drill ye !" 
 
 Not three feet from Martin, Durgy tensed and levelled 
 the pistol. The muzzle looked bigger than a cannon as Mar- 
 tin stared into it. He brought up his crutch as Durgy 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 59 
 
 squeezed the trigger. The shot went wild, and whistling 
 past, the bullet lodged in the side of the bark house. Luckily 
 the crutch had knocked the weapon from Durgy's hand. 
 
 "Consarn ye!" Durgy was yelling as he sprang on Martin, 
 and toppled him prostrate on the ground. But only for an in- 
 stand did the fall render him immobile. 
 
 "I'll learn ye!" Durgy roared, reaching for his fallen pis- 
 tol, as he held Martin's throat with his left hand, and raising 
 the pistol high with his right hand. Martin gripped Durgy's 
 wrist in time to prevent the butt end of the weapon from 
 descending on his skull. Durgy, freeing himself from Mar- 
 tin's grasp, began to twist at the splints on his ankle. Martin 
 reached for a crutch, but the crutches had fallen too far away. 
 He kicked his opponent with his free right leg. There was a 
 flash of something in the air over Durgy's head. Then Durgy, 
 after a grunt like a pig, fell over on his side. 
 
 Martin saw Owaysa standing over him, with a hoe in her 
 hand. He noticed a look of savage triumph in her face, as he 
 struggled to regain his crutches. 
 
 "Thanks for saving my life," he said. 
 
 "It was nothing. Here, I'll help you up." She pulled him 
 to his feet, and Martin urged her to procure Durgy's pistol. 
 "Now I'll get some thongs and tie him up." the girl deftly 
 whisked up Durgy's weapon, and after handing it to Martin, 
 vanished into the wigwam. 
 
 He stood there looking at the pistol that might have killed 
 him when Pretty Feather burst onto the scene. 
 
 "I hear shot!" Then seeing Martin holding the pistol and 
 Durgy's prostrate figure, exclaimed : "Oo — la, la ! Did you 
 keel him?" 
 
 "No, he shot at me. Owaysa hit him on the head with a 
 
 hoe." 
 
 "Come here, Pretty Feather. Help me tie him up." 
 
 "Oo-oui, oui ! What a beeg lump on head !" 
 
 Durgy groaned and began to breathe heavily, before the 
 
 two girls had much more than started with their work. 
 
 "Quickly, Owaysa," Martin said. "He's coming to! Get 
 
 me my pistol!" 
 
60 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "After zees Durgy he ees tied, zen what?" inquired Pretty 
 Feather. 
 
 "Pitch him on his horse, and start the beast home," Mar- 
 tin explained, as Owaysa emerged from the lodge with the 
 weapon. 
 
 "It's loaded, Martin. You'd better prime it again. Here's 
 a powder horn!" 
 
 He reached for the gun and the powder horn, primed the 
 pistol slowly, and pulled back the hammer. Then he hung the 
 horn on his shoulder. 
 
 The girls were halted in their work by the sudden regain- 
 ing of consciousness of the prostrate Durgy. He shook him- 
 self and opened his eyes. Pretty Feather watched over her 
 shoulder while Owaysa glided back into the lodge. Martin 
 quickly shoved Durgy's pistol in his belt, and leaned on his 
 crutches holding his own loaded weapon carelessly pointed at 
 the half-breed. 
 
 "Oh! So it's you, Langdon!" 
 
 Durgy fell back into a momentary swoon, but soon 
 threshed free from his rawhide fetters. He shook his head as 
 though coming out of a nightmare, and sat erect on the 
 ground. Pretty Feather gripped Martin's shoulder tightly. 
 
 "Never knowed ye was an Injun lover, Langdon! Nope, 
 never knowed it! Seems like George Grannis was sayin' ye 
 hated 'em so much you wasn't goin' to teach the school at 
 first." 
 
 "This pistol, Durgy, says for you to get on your horse 
 and get out!" Martin levelled the pistol. 
 
 Durgy began pawing the ground, dazedly. "Where's my 
 gun?" he bellowed. 
 
 "Right here in my belt!" 
 
 "Why, you — !" Durgy rose to his feet and looked male- 
 volently at Martin. 
 
 "Careful, Durgy! My finger might squeeze the trigger!" 
 
 Durgy advanced a step towards Martin who held the gun 
 aimed squarely at his head. 
 
 Durgy eyed his adversary and stopped dead still. "Yup! I 
 guess you'd do it, at that." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 61 
 
 Martin had never wanted to kill a man, but now he might 
 have to: "One more step, Durgy — " 
 
 "See we got company, aint we?" Durgy sought to divert 
 the conversation to Pretty Feather, who was still clinging to 
 Martin. "When did she git here? And don't try to tell me 
 she hit me, cuz I know a damn sight better!" 
 
 "Get moving, Durgy!" 
 
 "Oh, I aint goin' to bother ye, Langdon — not now, that 
 is." Durgy stepped back a pace, and continued querulously, 
 "Ye aint foolin' me none though. Owaysa's in that there 
 house ! I heard her voice talkin' 'fore I opened my eyes !" 
 
 Durgy took a few steps toward his horse, and then turned 
 again. Martin kept the pistol aimed at him. Durgy rambled on : 
 "I knowed Osseo was gone cuz I seen him — but I never did 
 figger an Injun gal would make a big hero out o' you — nope 
 — never figgered it!" 
 
 "My temper's getting short. Get on your horse!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm goin', Langdon. There aint no use arguin' right 
 now with that there loaded pistol of yourn! But I'm comin' 
 back, Langdon, sure as you're born. I always figgered Injun 
 squaws fer Injun braves, and white gals fer white men — " 
 
 "I know the rest of it, Durgy. You've said it before!" 
 
 Durgy lurched towards his horse as though still groggy 
 from the blow on his head. Untying his mount, he swung into 
 the saddle. The animal, instantly on his mettle, began prancing 
 but Durgy reined him in as he looked defiantly at Martin. 
 
 "I'm warnin' ye, Langdon, Owaysa's goin' to see it my 
 way! Yes sirree ! We're a pair of half-breeds, and Owaysa's 
 worth waitin' fer — And Langdon — she's worth killin' fer! 
 Just remember that!" 
 
 Heeling his horse he dashed away, and Martin had to 
 fight an impulse to pull the trigger. 
 
 Pretty Feather watched him stoically as she went to the 
 door of the lodge and called inside. 
 
 "He's gone, Owaysa." 
 
 Coming out of the wigwam the girl stood beside him, and 
 for the first time gave him a look of approbation, as she said 
 softly: "Thank you, Martin!" 
 
9 
 
 In Which Durgy Gets the Upper Hand 
 
 IRED with fury and indignation, 
 Durgy heeled his horse into a gal- 
 lop, at first towards his cabin, and then — 
 suddenly veering to the left, he chose the well-traveled 
 Maumee trail to Grannisville. It led off west of Elk Lake 
 Village, around a pleasant little round lake, thence west again, 
 skirting the south shore of a lake shaped like a boot. There 
 the trail turned north, passed some high hills on the left, 
 on which were still standing the rotting ruins of an old fort 
 of the Potowatomi, used in their wars with the Sioux and 
 Miami, or Maumee, as they were popularly-known. Next he 
 galloped past the former village of Baw Beese at the head- 
 waters of the Sauk river, which had been a stopping place 
 for the Chief's band, when it first went into hiding from 
 civilization after the founding of Grannisville. Eventually the 
 trail carried him through the original Potowatomi village of 
 Sauk-wa-seepe,-nee-yok — abandoned to make way for the 
 sawmill and the damming up of the Sauk river, called St. 
 Joseph by the whites. 
 
 Although Durgy's horse, which he had urged on for some 
 eleven miles, was spent, the man's rage was not. He could 
 not say at the moment whether his desire for revenge against 
 Martin Langdon, or to marry the half-breed girl was the 
 stronger. But Martin Langdon must go. Broad as the forests 
 were, there was not room for the two of them. All the way he 
 had been formulating a plan to bring this upstart from New 
 York state low. 
 
 The fellow had meant nothing but trouble, so far as 
 Durgy was concerned, since the day of his arrival in the 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 63 
 
 territory. There was the horse Negnaska had stolen from 
 Osseo. Had it not been for Langdon, Osseo might never have 
 known who bought the animal. Durgy, it is true, had not 
 known where Negnaska had procured it; but if he had only 
 found out in time he could have traded with Grannis and taken 
 the beast where nobody recognized it. 
 
 But this young whippersnapper, a tenderfoot in the wilder- 
 ness, and unable to control his mount, had ridden him straight 
 to the Indian village. True, Langdon had a broken leg and 
 was being nursed by Osseo and Owaysa, which brought up 
 still another complication. The fellow now stood between 
 Durgy and his heart's desire — the girl he had killed his squaw 
 to possess. 
 
 Having to refund Grannis the hundred dollars for the 
 stolen horse was bad enough, but the final humiliation of 
 having been knocked cold — losing his pistol, and being com- 
 pelled to skulk away like a dog — with Owaysa no doubt 
 laughing at him from the lodge, and with Pretty Feather 
 watching wide-eyed to tell the tribe — was too much. 
 
 "It's all the fault of the damn bastard !" Durgy shouted 
 at the silent trees along the trail, as his horse ambled into a 
 v/alk. "But if I'd kill him dead right now, all hell would break 
 loose !" 
 
 Langdon was a white man, and Durgy realized he should 
 have thought twice before pulling a gun on him. Those 
 damned Indians would have tattled if he had shot him. There 
 must be a way of getting rid of this greenhorn without 
 killing him — yet. And one thing was certain — the fellow 
 must be discredited, and he Durgy, must be the first to get 
 that little act across to the folks in Grannisville. 
 
 He was thinking hard on the best method of accomplish- 
 ing such a coup when he reached the Great Sauk Inn and tied 
 his horse to the hitching rail. Other horses were there, in- 
 cluding a tough-looking little span hitched to an emigrant's 
 covered wagon. Durgy gave the outfit only a cursory glance 
 and went inside the inn where George Grannis was tending bar. 
 
 "Give me some rotgut !" Durgy placed a coin on the 
 counter. 
 
64 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Obadiah Van Duzer was there, and Durgy knew that 
 "Obe" as he was called, had something to do with an unoffi- 
 cial school board. He had heard also that Obe had a daugh- 
 ter, Ellen, and that Martin Langdon was to have helped clear 
 land had he not broken his leg. Almost immediately the plan 
 to disgrace the young man from York state formed itself in 
 the half-breed's brain. 
 
 "What you doin' Durgy?" Obe sidled over to him. 
 
 "Oh, just ridin' around." 
 
 "All shaved and dressed up fit to kill at that. Fancy red 
 shirt, and shiny boots, but you look sort of beat-up like !" 
 
 "Horse throwed me !" Durgy tossed off his whiskey non- 
 chalantly. "Fact is, I been thinkin', no use goin' around all 
 the time like I was from the backwoods. Feller'ed oughta dress 
 up kinda, when he comes to town." 
 
 He looked over the great room of the tavern. A woman 
 and a baby occupied a comfortable chair, and the man, prob- 
 ably her husband, was talking with Grannis about settling in 
 Grannisville. 
 
 "Yes, there's plenty of land around here, just for the 
 clearing," Grannis was explaining. "Besides that we're going 
 to have a school here, come winter." 
 
 "School?" Durgy could not have hoped for a better chance. 
 "You aint aimin' to have no school with that there Injun 
 lovin' Martin Langdon as teacher, I hope." 
 
 "What do you mean?" Grannis was quick to inquire. All 
 eyes in the tavern were instantly focussed on Durgy. 
 
 "Well, Martin Langdon's out with the Injuns — " 
 
 "He has a broken leg." It was Obe who hastened to his 
 defense. 
 
 "His leg aint broke so bad but what he's made pretty 
 good time with an Injun girl." 
 
 "Isn't his leg broke?" inquired another customer at the bar. 
 
 "Oh, in a way, mebbe, but 'taint broke fer real. Reason he 
 aint back is 'cuz he's smit on that there Injun girl. Guess he's 
 got hisself a squaw." 
 
 Silence followed this announcement and Durgy, pushing 
 his glass toward Grannis, ordered another drink. 
 
 "He was supposed to help me clear land !" Obe was angry. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 65 
 
 "Clear land? Him? Don't calc'late that there feller's worth 
 a damn ! Hell, the only thing he's interested in is clearin' out 
 of sight where there's work. Just lazy — like the damn Injuns ! 
 Hell you can't git no work out of him Obe, leastwise not 
 as long as he's got that squaw on his mind !" 
 
 "We're not having a man like that teach school here, 
 George !" Obe was emphatic, and his anger was rising to a 
 high pitch, as he added, "To think of me having that fellow 
 right in my own cabin — me with a daughter sixteen 
 years old !" 
 
 "Of course, Jake," Grannis remarked, "seems to me you've 
 got a squaw of your own, and are part Indian — " 
 
 "Only part, George ! I admit I'm a half-breed, but then 
 again I aint settin' myself up fer a school teacher." 
 
 Durgy did not mention about his squaw being missing. 
 That could wait until later. He gulped down his second drink 
 and tossed a coin to Grannis. 
 
 "Well, got to be goin' — got a heap to do." 
 
 Durgy started for the door as he heard Grannis say : "Guess 
 that young fellow had better be moving on or going back to 
 York state." 
 
 "We got one too many of his kind here already." Obe 
 jerked his head in the direction of Durgy who hurried out. 
 
 Once outside he mounted his horse and headed southeast 
 over the trail to his cabin. He smiled as he thought of Mar- 
 tin's attempt to explain matters. Perhaps never again would 
 he be trusted in Grannisville. 
 
 On drawing near to the clearing where his cabin nestled 
 by the cornfield, he thought he saw a figure dart behind some 
 dogwood bushes. Circling them he found no sign of a human 
 being. 
 
 To make sure his eyes had played him false, he rode to 
 the edge of the corn patch. There were no footprints in the 
 loose earth. 
 
 Try as he had, the corn he had replanted over his squaw's 
 grave had grown up spindling, and withered. There had not 
 been sufficient top soil, and despite rains and the elements 
 the place was still marked by a reddish clay while the rest 
 of the ground was covered with gray, sandy loam. He put his 
 
66 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 horse in the barn, unsaddled him and started for his cabin. 
 
 He glanced again in the direction of the hidden grave. If 
 the Indians ever found out and told the Senecas — well, there 
 couldn't be anything worse that could happen. No amount of 
 palaver would save him. 
 
 Perhaps he ought to go down to the land office at Monroe 
 and prevail on his friend, Derbyshire, to give him some kind 
 of deed to the land, or get rid of the damned Indians, somehow. 
 Just moving away would not save him from the Senecas. They 
 would find him. Of course if Owaysa could be induced to 
 marry him, his secret would never be known. 
 
 But reason as he would, he continued to be apprehensive. 
 Something must be done to discourage any attempts to med- 
 dle in his cornfield. 
 
 His head ached as he reached his cabin. The two shots he 
 had had at Grannisville were inadequate. He picked up his 
 whiskey jug — his new whiskey jug — and the hot liquor 
 gurgled down his throat. Withdrawing the jug from his 
 mouth he corked it, and was just wiping his mouth with the 
 back of his hand, when the door opened and Negnaska glided 
 into the room. 
 
 "Damn it all, Negnaska, I want ye to knock before ye 
 come into my cabin." 
 
 "No get um horse." The young Indian ignored Durgy's 
 anger. 
 
 Negnaska was standing as proudly erect as though he 
 were bringing good news. His bare torso was painted with 
 the sign of the turtle. In his hair was a hawk feather. But his 
 moccasins were the worse for wear and his leggings bore 
 marks of much travel on his knees in dirt and dead leaves. 
 
 "Ye better find a horse then. I had to pay back a hundred 
 dollars to Grannis for that horse of Osseo's. What in hell 
 did ye steal a horse like that, fer?" 
 
 "You say must get um horse, or no more firewater." 
 
 "Then why in hell didn't ye get one from Injuns that 
 don't never go to Grannisville?" 
 
 "Why you sell um horse in Grannisville?" 
 
 "I had a helluva time makin' Grannis think I'd bought 
 him from a strange Injun I didn't know. What ye think yer 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 67 
 
 wife's paw, Baw Beese, would say if he knowed his daughter 
 was married to a horse thief?" 
 
 "You not tell though, Durgy ; because you nag-doche- 
 shaw ka-moche-kit, like me." 
 
 "Oh now Negnaska, you're the ka-moche-kit. Me, I'm big 
 feller! Jake Durgy's a horse trader! See? I sell the horses 
 you steal." 
 
 "Sometimes you get um horse by self." 
 
 "Ye can't prove nothin' of the kind! Wenona would kill 
 ye dead if she knowed ye was a horse thief! And her paw, 
 old Baw Beese, would say ye deserved it. But so long as yer 
 bringin' me horses, I ain't sayin' nothin' where ye git 'em — 
 only, just don't bring me no more horses from yer own 
 village." 
 
 "Negnaska make big mistake — no do again." 
 
 "Then don't be sneakin' in here tellin' me ye aint got no 
 horses — 'cuz I might — I aint sayin' I will, but I just might, 
 tell Baw Beese and yer wife, what yer up to. Now ye git me 
 a horse damn quick fer that one ye stole off'n Osseo and 
 Owaysa, that's all." 
 
 "Me get um horse." Negnaska started sullenly towards 
 the door, then inquired: "For why Osseo in corn?" 
 
 For a minute Durgy was speechless. "Osseo in my corn 
 patch?" 
 
 "He here when I come — he look in corn patch — he poke 
 ground. I hide and watch. Then you come. He cover up foot- 
 prints." 
 
 "So it was an Injun I seen !" 
 
 Durgy went to the grimy cabin window and looked out. 
 It couldn't be ! — But it was Osseo, himself, kneeling at the 
 very place where the corn grew spindling — where the squaw 
 lay buried. He must act quickly, or the Senecas might learn 
 what happened — or if, only Osseo knew and kept it to him- 
 self, events would still be very unsatisfactory and not as he 
 had planned. 
 
 Suddenly, he conceived a scheme whereby he could bring 
 Owaysa to his cabin, put an end to Osseo's prying into the 
 grave — and stop his tongue. 
 
68 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 After removing his heavy boots Durgy slipped his feet 
 into some dirty moccasins near the fireplace. 
 
 "What you do?" Negnaska inquired. 
 
 "We're a goin' to catch Osseo, and hold him for ransom." 
 Durgy smiled, but Negnaska did not look pleased. "Yeah! 
 We're holdin' him fer just one thing — so his daughter'll 
 come and take the place of my squaw what run away." 
 
 "Me no help! Get in trouble — heap big trouble!" 
 
 "Course I could tell Osseo you stole that horse and sold 
 him to me — " 
 
 "Me not help !" Negnaska interrupted. "But not see what 
 you do. Negnaska blind to what Durgy do." 
 
 "If yer so damn skeert, go hide then, and come back after 
 I git him. I'm goin' to need ye." 
 
 Durgy opened the door cautiously, and on the soft-soled 
 moccasins made his way stealthily behind the kneeling Osseo. 
 He did not see Negnaska glide from the cabin into the elder 
 bushes, for Durgy kept his eyes only on Osseo, who was 
 carefully picking up handfuls of the red clay and looking at 
 it. So intent was his scrutiny and conjecture in the matter, 
 that he was overpowered by Durgy and thrust to the ground 
 without a struggle. 
 
 The half-breed quickly yanked the tomahawk from Osseo's 
 belt and rendered him unconscious with a single blow on the 
 head. Only a little blood spurted from the wound, for Durgy 
 had no desire to kill his future father-in-law. 
 
 Throwing the unconscious form of the red man on his 
 shoulder like a sack of wheat, Durgy carried him into his 
 cabin. Quickly he bound his victim's hands behind him, and 
 was just completing the binding of his feet, when there was 
 a knock on the door. 
 
 Durgy paused only an instant before tying the final knot. 
 He went to make sure who his visitor might be. It was 
 Negnaska, and he was glad to see him. 
 
 "Now Negnaska, I'm takin' care ye don't get into no 
 trouble so you go along before Osseo comes to. Then no- 
 body'll know ye was here, nor seen nothin'. Just one thing, 
 first — I want ye to take a message to Owaysa." 
 
10 
 
 Goon-Pa-Shee Casts A Spell and Martin Walks 
 Again 
 
 ^^rl HI IIBr^^' sun was sm k m g" l° w on ^ e 
 ™ S!|J!K western horizon — the red sun of 
 
 a murky July evening — when Negnaska 
 
 delivered Durgy's message to Owaysa. 
 
 "Daughter of the Son of the Evening Star," Negnaska 
 addressed her in the Potowatomi tongue, "I have a message 
 for your ears alone." 
 
 Owaysa did not trust Negnaska ; and beneath his manner 
 of humility she detected a tone of irony. 
 
 "Speak without fear, Negnaska. The ears of the paleface 
 on the log are as stones. They hear not Potowatomi words." 
 
 "Then attend well, Owaysa, for the life or death of your 
 father depends on the duty of you, his daughter." 
 
 "My father — what has befallen him?" 
 
 "Alas, your father, even the noble Osseo, the Son of the 
 Evening Star, has permitted himself to be caught, as a rabbit 
 in a trap; and is held a prisoner at the cabin of Jake Durgy." 
 
 Owaysa momentarily forgot to control her features and 
 gasped, before she regained a stoical unemotional approach 
 to the matter. 
 
 "And what is your message, Negnaska — what is the 
 daughter of Osseo to do? 
 
 "Jake Durgy says that if you come and promise to be- 
 come his wife, to take the place of she who has run away, 
 your father will be released and he will forgive you all that 
 is past." 
 
 "And if I refuse?" 
 
 "Then, Owaysa, Jake Durgy says that before the rising 
 of the sun tomorrow, he will take him to Detroit. There, he 
 
70 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 says a friend of his, the land agent, Derbyshire, will help him 
 to have even your father, Osseo, the Son of the Evening 
 Star, arrested as a horse thief — yes, Owaysa, nag-doche- 
 shaw ka-moche-kit." 
 
 Negnaska stalked silently away towards his own lodge 
 to the south, and Owaysa watched him with a feeling of 
 distrust. She had never liked Negnaska. He was always 
 appearing in the village with items from strange places. But 
 this time she believed the message he had brought. To turn 
 to Baw Beese would be futile. He would have no use for a 
 brave who permitted himself to become a prisoner of Jake 
 Durgy. Then, too, it might not save her father. 
 
 Osseo, accused of horse stealing in the wicked city of 
 Detroit! They probably would kill him, and Jake Durgy had 
 only to go away after that, and never be seen again. 
 
 "Half-breeds fer half-breeds" Durgy's words re-echoed in 
 her ears. And now he left her no other choice. She looked at 
 Martin who had been watching the scene but without under- 
 standing, from his seat on the log. 
 
 She turned her face to the setting sun hovering above the 
 tree-covered western horizon. Its red rays filtering through 
 the leaves transformed even Martin, the paleface, into a 
 copper color. Should she confide in this man? Could he be- 
 friend her? The sun would be shining in Durgy's cabin 
 window too; where perhaps even now, her father was being 
 tortured. Was her life, then, to be sacrificed to Durgy's de- 
 sire, and must she become his woman to be murdered like 
 the Seneca before her when she was supplanted by another? 
 Involuntarily, as she stood there, gazing at the sun, tears 
 trickled down her cheeks, and self-pity engulfed her. She 
 hoped Martin would not observe this weakness. 
 
 "What's the matter, Owaysa?" 
 
 Then she did what she never had intended doing. His 
 tone was not unkind, and she ran to him, flung herself on the 
 ground and told him the whole story, with the words tum- 
 bling out with a rapidity that astonished her. 
 
 "What can I do — what can I do?" 
 
 She wailed and wept in a disgraceful manner for a girl 
 priding herself on her Indian blood. Martin placed a re- 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 71 
 
 assuring arm on her shoulder, and for some unaccountable 
 reason it was comforting. 
 
 "If Durgy killed his squaw, there are the Seneca," he said. 
 "Don't Indians avenge their next of kin?" 
 
 "But there isn't time, Martin. There isn't time ! Besides 
 that, perhaps Durgy didn't kill her!" 
 
 "If I could get of! these crutches and on my own two 
 feet—" 
 
 "You? Do you think you, without knowing the ways of 
 the woods, could be a match for Durgy? He'd kill you in a 
 minute. He's already warned you — or have you forgotten?" 
 
 Martin did not answer and for a few moments they sat in 
 silence. There was a way that the Indians had called bad — a 
 way prohibited by the tribal council, she thought. It was a 
 last resort, but she must try it. 
 
 "I'll have a spell cast on Durgy! I'm going to get a 
 witch !" 
 
 "There are no such things as witches !" Martin's tone was 
 derisive. 
 
 "Yes there are ! There are witches in the forest — plenty 
 of witches !" 
 
 Before he could protest she was off in the direction of the 
 other lodges. 
 
 Martin was moved by the girl's naivete, as she confidently 
 went in search of a witch. Children of the forest had faith in 
 such primitive beliefs. Martin did not. 
 
 He realized his inadequacy when she had turned to him 
 for the first time in all the weeks he had been there. He had 
 failed her, of course. It seemed as though all things conspired 
 to make him always show his weakest side before these 
 people who respected only the strong. 
 
 Notwithstanding the girl's arrogance, and her complete 
 self-assurance, once she had let loose the dam holding back 
 her emotions, Martin's own feelings of aloofness gave way 
 to sympathy, and she became the damsel in distress — some 
 one to protect. But in his present state he could make but a 
 poor showing. 
 
72 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 When Owaysa returned to the lodge, she brought with 
 her an old and withered woman — the oldest of any color 
 Martin had ever seen. But her step was like that of a maiden. 
 Only a few teeth remained in her mouth, a fact that became 
 obvious when she spoke. 
 
 "This is Martin Langdon, Goon-pa-shee," Owaysa indi- 
 cated Martin as he rose from his log to acknowledge the 
 introduction. 
 
 "Posho, Ke-moke-mon !" 
 
 "Posho, Goon-pa-shee !" Martin was pleased that he could 
 now give an Indian greeting. 
 
 "Goon-pa-shee is very wise and very old. She knows 
 witchcraft," Owaysa said. 
 
 "Goon-pa-shee see more than hundred winters ! But 
 witch — No !" She then mumbled that Baw Beese had pro- 
 hibited her from practicing witchcraft, interspersing much of 
 her talk with Potowatomi words Martin could not under- 
 stand. Owaysa remonstrated with her, concluding with the 
 statement that nobody would know about it but Martin, who 
 had a broken leg. 
 
 "No, him got no broken leg!" Goon-pa-shee was positive, 
 looking intently at the splints. "Can see through — Goon-pa- 
 shee see through wood. Bone healed. Let me show his leg 
 good." 
 
 Without waiting for the old woman to remove the splints, 
 Martin began to slit the rawhide thongs with his knife. 
 
 "Stop it!" Owaysa attempted to restrain him. "My father 
 said seven more sunrises!" 
 
 Martin continued obdurately, to Goon-pa-shee's delight, 
 and soon his leg was free. It was much shrunken, but his left 
 foot looked as straight as the other. He stood erect and tried 
 his weight upon it. Owaysa watched fearfully, as though she 
 would catch him if he fell. The leg bore his weight, but he 
 could not bend the ankle. 
 
 "Goon-pa-shee make um ankle work I" 
 
 The old woman bent over it, began a weird chant, and 
 pushed Martin back onto the log. She urged in her song that 
 all the spirits of good warriors and all the spirits of the forest 
 

 THE LAND LIES PRETTY 73 
 
 would come and heal the ankle of the Ke-moke-mon, and at 
 the same time she began a gentle massage. 
 
 "Shoo-da ha ! Schoo-da ha ! Kash-am-med-too ! Kash-am 
 med-too! An-nee-jah-nah ! An-nee-ja-nah !" 
 
 The chant continued monotonously for several minutes, 
 and finally the ankle began to bend by her massage. 
 
 "Get um bear grease and pitch!" Goon-pa-shee command- 
 ed Owaysa. "Rub um ankle — make strong!" 
 
 When Owaysa vanished into the wigwam the old woman 
 turned imploring eyes on Martin. "You not tell Goon-pa-shee 
 is witch?" 
 
 "No, Goon-pa-shee ; because I think you're a doctor !" If 
 he could only walk — the prospect thrilled him, and his grati- 
 tude to Goon-pa-shee was so great he was willing to grant 
 that she possessed marvelous powers of healing. It was a 
 week ahead of Osseo's prediction. 
 
 "Here's the bear grease !" Owaysa returned with the rem- 
 edy the old woman had called for. The pitch and bear grease 
 were rubbed well into the leg and ankle, and at last Goon-pa- 
 shee ordered Martin to try again to use his foot. 
 
 Rising, he attempted to walk, and this time his ankle did 
 bend, but he did not immediately throw away his crutches. 
 While he hobbled about delightedly, Owaysa was imploring 
 Goon-pa-shee to cast a spell on Durgy. 
 
 "Such a spell that he has no power to do evil !" 
 
 "Must have something Durgy owns, or no can do!" 
 
 "Here !" Martin produced Durgy's pistol and handed it 
 to her. 
 
 "Ugh ! Bash-sug-gon — not enough ! Mebbe stole some- 
 body else. Mebbe not Durgy's! Need um hair, tooth, or — " 
 
 "Wait!" Owaysa was excited. "I think I know where 
 some of his hair is!" 
 
 She hurriedly procured the hoe she had used to strike 
 Durgy on the head. Goon-pa-shee looked carefully at the hoe 
 and grunted She pulled a hair off the blade. "This Durgy's?" 
 
 "Must be. Nobody's been combing their hair with that 
 hoe." Martin remembered vividly when the implement had 
 last been used. 
 
74 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "It would be Durgy's hair!" Owaysa verified Martin's 
 statement. 
 
 "Good! I make um magic — strong magic!" 
 The old woman placed the hair in a doeskin pouch she 
 was carrying, made several passes over it with her hands, 
 and threw it on the ground. She spit on it several times. 
 
 Then she began dancing around the pouch singing a 
 weird chant. 
 
 "Durgy! Wun-na-moshe, nun-na! 
 
 Durgy, kamoche-kit! Wun-na-moshe — wun-na-moshe! 
 Durgy! Wun-na-moshe, nun-na!" 
 
 Goon-pa-shee's chant rose and fell in rhythm to her dance 
 steps — rose and fell — sometimes in a wailing tone — some- 
 times like the howling of a wolf — and then again like the 
 snarls of an ugly dog. The old woman had motioned Owaysa 
 to follow, and around and around the leathern pouch they 
 danced, their steps in rhythm, until Martin could hardly dis- 
 tinguish the old hag from the young girl. 
 
 It was not pretty — this witch dance of Goon-pa-shee — 
 it was ugly, and Martin wondered, as he noted the deepening 
 shadows of the forest if he was seeing the corporeal spectres 
 of evil and the devil. The dance made the beautiful setting of 
 Elk Lake village, one of menace, with ghosts and demons. In 
 broad daylight Martin would have laughed at the seeming 
 reality of such conjectures and dismissed them all as imagi- 
 nary. But here in the gloom of early twilight, a spirit world 
 was real and awesome. 
 
 Abruptly Goon-pa-shee and Owaysa stopped their weird 
 dance. The old woman, bending down with the agile move- 
 ment of youth, snatched up the doeskin bag. She emptied the 
 contents into her hand, and tossed the hair and powdery dust 
 into the fire. 
 
 "Go, Owaysa! Durgy let um Osseo free!" 
 
 It was then that Martin saw Chief Baw Beese approach- 
 ing. 
 
 "Goon-pa-shee !" The chief was very angry, and burst into 
 a tirade in Potowatomi. The old woman pointed to Martin. 
 
 "So, you walk now?" Baw Beese approached the young 
 man. "You walk through Goon-pa-shee's witchcraft!" 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 75 
 
 "Hardly that. I took off my splints, and she massaged my 
 leg with bear grease and pitch." 
 
 "Me hear witch chant ! Goon-pa-shee bewitch leg, mebbe." 
 
 Owaysa, who had been listening stoically to Baw Beese, 
 finally spoke. "Goon-pa-shee was only showing us the witch 
 dance I'll get some moccasins for Martin, now that he can 
 walk again." 
 
 When Owaysa had gone into the wigwam Goon-pa-shee 
 groveled at the feet of the chief, bursting into a volley of 
 Potowatomi words, of which Martin could only understand 
 the names of Durgy, Owaysa and Osseo. He knew the old 
 woman was confessing all. At the conclusion of her supplica- 
 tions Baw Beese only said "Ugh !" He shrugged and walked 
 away, and with him departed the mood the witch's dance 
 had invoked. 
 
 Owaysa returned with the moccasins, and kneeling beside 
 Martin she slipped one of them onto his left foot. He recog- 
 nized it as one he had seen her embroidering. 
 
 "Of course you'll have to wear a moccasin on your right 
 foot too. You can't walk very well in one boot and one 
 moccasin." 
 
 Martin thanked her, and when she said she was now going 
 for Osseo he remonstrated. "Not alone, I'll go too!" 
 
 "She go alone, then spell work ! She meet Osseo alone, or 
 spell not work !" Goon-pa-shee walked away and was lost to 
 sight in the gathering darkness. 
 
 The sound of distant thunder in the southwest was dis- 
 tinctly audible as Owaysa, mounting her horse, rode up the 
 trail to the north. Martin, with misgivings, watched after her 
 as she vanished in the deep shadows of the forest. 
 
 He walked over to the fire and looked at the designs of 
 the moccasins on his feet. Was such a thing possible as witch- 
 craft? He knew he had experienced a vague fear of the 
 unknown during the climax of the weird dance and its 
 accompanying chant. But now that it was over that momen- 
 tary belief in a spirit world was ended, and there was only 
 the distant rolling of thunder which was growing louder. 
 
 The flashes of lightning became more vivid, and the 
 thunder boomed ominously. A few pellets of raindrops struck 
 
76 "OP-JAH-MOMAK-YA" 
 
 Martin's bare back and shoulders. He sauntered into the 
 dark wigwam. 
 
 When the storm broke he thought of Owaysa riding 
 through the wild night so confident in the power of Goon-pa- 
 shee's spell on Jake Durgy. He feared for her safety as the 
 fury of the storm increased. 
 
 The torrential rain extinguished the fire outside and 
 plunged the bark house into darkness except for the lightning. 
 He peered out through the doorway. The trees in the sur- 
 rounding forest were swaying and bending in the heavy wind, 
 some of them seemed to touch the ground. More than once 
 he heard sounds of splintering wood as branches gave way 
 and crashed to the earth. 
 
 The storm was an enraged beast, determined to destroy 
 the forest the Indians loved — and Owaysa, child of the forest, 
 was out there somewhere alone. 
 
 Martin felt guilty about being so safe and dry in the 
 bark house. 
 
11 
 
 In the Wake of the Summer Storm 
 
 f ^W Tffl| jljrfHE wind roared in the forest 
 
 ^C 3|yPK around Jake Durgy's cabin, and 
 
 tore at the shakes on the roof. The tallow 
 
 candle flickered in the draft, and embers from the fireplace 
 
 were drawn up the chimney. 
 
 "Great God-a'-mighty, what a wind! Why in hell don't it 
 start to rain? Them sparks will set fire to the whole damn 
 woods, dry as it is!" 
 
 Durgy's remarks were addressed principally to himself. 
 He could hardly expect Osseo, lying on the floor, bound hand 
 and foot, to answer. 
 
 Lightning flashed, and thunder boomed simultaneously. 
 Osseo sat erect and tried to rise. Beads of perspiration stood 
 out on Durgy's forehead. He took a long draught on his jug, 
 put it down, and pondered on why the rain did not start. 
 Then, the whole stout cabin shook as though struck by an 
 earthquake, and with a sudden ripping away of rafters, the 
 shakes and the roof poles of one side tore loose and blew 
 away. The tallow candle was snuffed out by the force of the 
 draft; and the only light was the red glow from the embers 
 in the fireplace. 
 
 "Hell and damnation, I aint afeared of God, man or the 
 devil, but I sure don't like this here wind!" 
 
 Then, as abruptly as the roof had been torn away, rain in 
 a torrent drenched the opened side of the cabin until the dirt 
 floor was mud. It fell on the bound Indian. Thunder continued 
 to crash, and roll. Osseo, with a mighty effort, sprang from 
 the floor, bursting loose from the thongs that held his feet. 
 
 "Just what in hell do ye think yer doin'?" Durgy pushed 
 
78 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Osseo unceremoniously into one of the two wooden chairs. 
 
 "Me no like get wet!" 
 
 "Well, now, just 'cuz we got a little storm don't mean I 
 changed my mind, 'cuz I aint. Ye kin set there though, on 
 the dry side of the cabin." 
 
 "Osseo hate self for let you catch like bear in trap." 
 
 Durgy laughed uproariously. "Ye never heared Jake 
 Durgy comin' up behind ye when ye was lookin' in my corn 
 patch. Nope ! Ye was so all-fired interested you didn't hear 
 nothin' ! That's how I snuck up on ye! Tunked ye on the 
 head with yer own tomahawk, Osseo !" 
 
 Durgy roared with laughter as though the procedure had 
 been the most amusing incident of his life, and then added in 
 a mocking tone: "Osseo! Heap big Injun brave! Caught 
 snoopin' in my corn field !" 
 
 "You kill qua, Durgy! You kill Seneca qua!" 
 
 Durgy slapped Osseo across the mouth. His laughter 
 changed instantly to flashing anger. 'I'll do more'n slap ye, 
 if ye ever say anything like that again, Osseo ! Ever, d'ye 
 hear?" 
 
 Osseo only looked morosely at Durgy, who lurched to 
 the table, and picking up the jug, took another draught. 
 
 "That new jug?" the Indian asked. 
 
 "What's it to ye?" Durgy was immediately suspicious. 
 
 "Saw piece broken jug under table," Osseo answered. 
 
 "Just keep on, Osseo, and yer daughter aint goin' to see 
 her paw again — 'cuz her paw's gettin' too all-fired curious 
 fer his own good. Ye know, Osseo, that so far's the law goes, 
 you aint got no rights. Yer only an Injun! A filthy savage! 
 I could kill ye and there aint a white man in all Michigan 
 
 Territory would give a damn !" 
 
 * * * 
 
 MARTIN, peering from Osseo's lodge after the storm, 
 could see the lighted fires from other bark houses to the 
 south. He realized the fires must have been moved indoors at 
 the approach of the tempest, something he had lacked the 
 presence of mind to do. 
 
 The customary night sounds of the forest were stilled ; 
 and the stars rode silently overhead, occasionally obliterated 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 79 
 
 by passing clouds. Something should be done about Owaysa. 
 Martin wondered vaguely if he could find her in the darkness 
 of night, along a trail that to him was unfamiliar. 
 
 Deciding to alert the others, and to inform them as to 
 what had happened, he made his way in the direction of the 
 other lodges. The moccasins seemed strange indeed on his 
 feet and he needed the assistance of one of his crutches. 
 
 About twenty bark houses stretched along the shore of 
 the lake, silhouetted against the night sky. Some already had 
 fires before them, while the occupants of others were still 
 carrying embers into the open. 
 
 At the first lodge he found Pretty Feather, who was con- 
 veying hot coals from inside and depositing them in the 
 little mound of drenched ashes, where they sizzled and 
 steamed, finally springing into flame as she threw some dried 
 sweet grass on the coals. She gasped when the firelight re- 
 vealed Martin standing close to her. 
 
 "You — you walk again — oui?" 
 
 "Thanks to Goon-pa-shee, I walk again." 
 
 "Goon-pa-shee is witch! You are not witch too, Marteen?" 
 
 "Goon-pa-shee merely said I could walk, took off the 
 splints, and rubbed my ankle. I don't walk well — still have 
 an awful limp." 
 
 Pretty Feather seemed immersed in thought as she put 
 some wood into the fire. It began hissing as the red embers 
 and the sweet grass burned rapidly through the dampness of 
 the bark. 
 
 "Owaysa's gone to Durgy's cabin," Martin said. 
 
 "Oh! Then zat leave you for Pretty Feather! Owaysa 
 never good to Marteen! All time eet has been Durgy! Pretty 
 Feather see all, now !" She turned expressive eyes on him. 
 
 "No, it's not like that. Durgy's holding Osseo a hostage 
 unless Owaysa marries him. I want to go and get her." 
 
 "What can Pretty Feather do?" 
 
 "Get me a horse ! Show me the way to Durgy's cabin !" 
 
 "What Pretty Feather get for help?" 
 
 "I still have eighteen cents — that's all — " 
 
 "No, Marteen — when you go back to Grannisville, take 
 
80 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Pretty Feather with you. Tell Grannis she is good girl, and 
 wants work at tavern." 
 
 "That's easy, but can you get work at the Great Sauk Inn ?" 
 
 "Grannis tell Baw Beese today, he wants Injun girl come 
 help. Much travel now on Great Sauk Trail. He say he 
 need help." 
 
 "I should think he'd get white girls — " 
 
 "Palefaces busy, helping mamas. You tell Grannis zat 
 Pretty Feather ees good girl, get me job, and I help you." 
 
 "All right. But where's your horse?" 
 
 "Mon pere, Eagle Wing, has our nag-doche-shaw. He gone 
 on hunt. Pamasaw has horse. I get Pamasaw." 
 
 "Pamasaw will need two horses — one for you. I can't 
 find the way at night." 
 
 "Eet is not right keeg-ya-goo go! Must be man who go! 
 I tell Osseo is prisoner at Durgy's. You wait!" 
 
 "I'll get my saddle ready — can't ride without a saddle." 
 
 As Pretty Feather started off to the other lodges, Martin 
 returned to the abode of Osseo where he made ready, more 
 by the feel of things than by sight, both his own and Durgy's 
 pistols. As he was placing these in his belt the ominous beating 
 of an Indian drum began penetrating the stillness of the 
 forest. 
 
 Heedless of the monotonous rhythm, Martin next pro- 
 cured his wet saddle where it hung on a tree, and began 
 drying it off in the darkness with sweet grass from the 
 wigwam floor. Presently the beating drum stopped and he 
 heard loud voices in the distance. He waited for some time 
 in the silent darkness, lighted only by the distant stars and 
 the open fires of the villagers. 
 
 Then, Baw Beese, Pamasaw and Negnaska arrived with 
 three horses. Pamasaw and Negnaska were mounted ; and the 
 chief was leading a white filly. 
 
 "Here, Martin," Baw Beese said, "is only horse work with 
 saddle. She belong to daughter, Wenona. You, paleface rider, 
 can't ride horse without saddle. This nag-doche-shaw name 
 Shooting Star, very good — fast like rabbit — jump like 
 deer over fallen tree. My son, Pamasaw go with you, show 
 way Durgy's cabin. Wenona's husband, Negnaska, he also go." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 81 
 
 Baw Beese held the head of Shooting Star as Martin 
 placed the saddle on her back. Negnaska's mount, with only 
 a rope bridle, was docile, as was the horse of Pamasaw. Not- 
 withstanding Negnaska seemed impatient to be off. He turned 
 to the others, as Martin was securing the cinch, and said : 
 "Me go now! Me know way — get there fast! Watch Durgy's 
 cabin !" 
 
 Without waiting for an answer Negnaska rode away up 
 the path to the north ; and the clumping of unshod hoofs was 
 soon heard no more. 
 
 "We go slower," Pamasaw said. "We make much noise 
 mebbe — mebbe scare Durgy and he run. Paleface read from 
 book — Injun read from trail through woods." 
 
 Baw Beese still holding the head of the little white mare, 
 gave final instructions as Martin mounted : "You are pale- 
 face, Langdon ! what you do is paleface law. Indians have 
 Indian law. Indian help you find Durgy — mebbe keep 
 Durgy so can't kill you. But Indian not go to save Owaysa 
 from Durgy — Indian not care! Indian not get in trouble 
 with paleface law to save Owaysa. You watch what you do. 
 Don't want paleface trouble. This bad for Indian — ver' bad!" 
 
 Martin, although not entirely comprehending what the 
 chief meant, realized vaguely that whatever he did in the 
 matter of rescuing Owaysa was definitely not the concern of 
 the tribe. Making sure both pistols were tucked in his belt 
 he patted them with a feeling of well-being. "I understand you, 
 Baw Beese. If I have to kill Durgy I answer in the United 
 States courts. If Durgy kills Osseo he answers to you Indians." 
 
 The chief nodded in agreement, smiling, and Martin and 
 Pamasaw started north in the direction of Durgy's cabin. 
 Six weeks before, the young man from New York state would 
 have dismissed the matter of Owaysa and Osseo as merely 
 "Indian stuff." Now they were more than ignorant savages. 
 They had been friends. If he had been asked exactly why he 
 disagreed with Durgy's philosophy of "Half-breeds for half- 
 breeds," he could not, at the time he was riding with Pama- 
 saw to rescue the girl, have given a valid reason. But now 
 that he was able to walk again he felt his meeting with 
 Durgy would be on more of an equal footing. He had been 
 
82 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 told that Owaysa was worth fighting and killing for. Martin, 
 like the half-breed, felt that the woods weren't big enough 
 for both of them. 
 
 Negnaska was nowhere in sight, when Pamasaw and Mar- 
 tin pulled up their horses at Durgy's cabin. Fallen trees along 
 the trail had somewhat delayed their arrival, but from the 
 voices inside Martin knew they were not too late. 
 
 "Durgy, you're bewitched !" It was Owaysa's voice. "Do 
 you hear? You're bewitched. You can't touch me — you can't!" 
 
 "Can't touch ye, eh?" 
 
 Martin pounded on the door with the butt end of his pistol, 
 calling: "Open up, Durgy!" 
 
 "I warned ye to come alone! — Who the hell's out there?" 
 
 Martin stopped pounding on the door, grasped his pistol 
 by the butt, and held it at the ready pushing his way into the 
 cabin. 
 
 The storm had made the dirt floor a mass of mud, and the 
 only light came from the fireplace. Osseo was sitting on a 
 wooden chair with his hands bound behind his back. Durgy, 
 holding Owaysa in his arms as she tried to fight him off, 
 swung her to one side and faced Martin. 
 
 He stared into the muzzle of the pistol, and letting her 
 go, took a step forward. "What 'n hell you tryin' to do, 
 Langdon?" 
 
 "Put up your hands!" Martin kept his pistol aimed at 
 Durgy's head. 
 
 Durgy jerked his own pistol from his belt, and pulled 
 the trigger. The wet powder in the pan missed fire. 
 
 "Drop it, Durgy. This one never misses." 
 
 The half-breed dropped his weapon in the mud, and sullen- 
 ly put up his hands. Owaysa was busily engaged in untying 
 her father's bound wrists. 
 
 "Course, Langdon, ye'll answer to the law if ye kill me. 
 Ye know that, don't ye?" 
 
 "How about your squaw? You killed her didn't you?" 
 
 "'Taint so! — Nobody can prove it!" 
 
 "I prove !" Osseo, suddenly freed, rose from his chair. 
 "She buried in corn patch! I find grave there! Durgy drink 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 83 
 
 from new jug! Piece of jug under table, with blood on — 
 dried blood !" 
 
 Durgy's eyes gleamed malevolently as he looked be- 
 yond Martin to the open door. Martin thought it was 
 Pamasaw who was coming behind him, but suddenly his gun- 
 arm was thrust up. He accidentally squeezed the trigger and 
 the shot went wild. 
 
 Owaysa screamed ! Osseo threw himself on Durgy as the 
 half-breed prepared to spring on Martin, who turning back to 
 see who had struck his arm, and brought on this sudden 
 pandemonium, beheld Nagnaska and Pamasaw wrestling in 
 the mud. 
 
 Owaysa came forward and joined her father in overcoming 
 Durgy. The two Indians continued struggling on the floor. 
 Durgy, edging towards his whiskey jug, was reaching for it, 
 when Martin, flinging himself into the general melee, stepped 
 on his hand. 
 
 It was three against one so far as Durgy was concerned ; 
 but Martin was confused as to what the two Indians were 
 fighting over. Then Negnaska, muddy and breathless, rose 
 suddenly, and flung the unconscious form of Pamasaw out the 
 open cabin door. 
 
 Durgy was easily a match for both Osseo and Owaysa, 
 throwing off the attacks of first one and then the other. Mar- 
 tin was in no position to help them, since Negnaska now threw 
 himself furiously on him. Astonished, he gasped, fending off 
 the muddy Indian as best he could. 
 
 Martin saw the knife in Negnaska's hand in time to 
 clutch his wrist. But he was unable to keep his hold, for the 
 agile and slippery body squirmed from his grasp. The young 
 Indian again raised the knife with a whoop. He rushed on 
 Martin with such force that he pushed him across the 
 struggling trio on the floor. 
 
 For an interval the deerskin-clad arms of Owaysa, the 
 naked arms of Osseo, Negnaska and Martin were all mixed to- 
 gether with the red flannel sleeves of Durgy, in a wild tur- 
 moil — flailing out in the mud. Soon Negnaska had again 
 singled out Martin. Martin's second pistol, although loaded 
 was now lost in the mire on the floor, and he had no weapon. 
 
84 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 He was flat on his back and the Indian was holding the 
 knife over him. He exerted every ounce of his strength in 
 holding that knife-hand away. Breathlessly Martin waited 
 when the strength of his arms might yield and the knife 
 plunge into his heart. There was now no question in his mind, 
 but that Durgy and Negnaska were old friends. Otherwise he 
 would not be involved in this struggle. 
 
 A resounding smack nearby made Osseo grunt. He lay 
 motionless on the ground, and Durgy panted : "I guess that'll 
 learn ye!" 
 
 While the half-breed exulted in momentary triumph, 
 Owaysa pounced on Negnaska and bit the wrist of the hand 
 holding the knife. With a howl of pain the Indian dropped 
 his weapon inches from Martin's head, and sprang on the 
 girl. 
 
 He hurled her against the rough wooden table with such 
 violence the end of it was pushed into the open fireplace. The 
 flames began licking hungrily at the dry wood. 
 
 Regaining his feet and bearings, Martin fell upon Negnaska 
 as Owaysa lay unconscious in the mud. The Indian was 
 standing over her in triumph when Martin rapped him on 
 the head with the butt end of his pistol. He fell into an uncon- 
 scious heap. 
 
 It was now only Durgy and Martin who were standing 
 with both feet on the cabin floor glowering at each other. 
 They were too engrossed in conjecturing which way the 
 other would spring to notice the table in flames now leaping 
 into the mantle above the hearth and eating upwards into 
 what remained of the roof. 
 
 Durgy sprang for his musket at the fireplace. As he 
 snatched it into his hands, Martin too was grabbing for it 
 when the thongs holding the powder horn on the mantle 
 burned in two. There was a punky explosion accompanying 
 a blinding flash as the powder dropped onto the logs, and 
 showered the cabin with burning embers. 
 
 Both Martin and his opponent loosed their hold on the 
 gun in the violence of the blast and it fell into the fire where 
 flames enveloped it. 
 
 Choking and cursing from the acrid smoke Durgy stag- 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 85 
 
 gered outside. Martin picked up the semiconscious form of 
 Owaysa and limped to the door. Durgy was conscious but 
 the fight was taken out of him. He could only choke and 
 mutter in his drunken and dazed state some words about 
 curses and witches. 
 
 Martin went back into the now flaming cabin and pulled 
 Osseo out, while Durgy, as though half dazed, staggered in 
 and was yanking at Negnaska when the Indian, suddenly re- 
 gaining consciousness, and realizing his danger fled into the 
 night. 
 
 "Goon-pa-shee — ! Goon-pa-shee ! She curse !" he yelled 
 on reaching his horse in terror. 
 
 Durgy lurched towards Martin, repeating Negnaska's 
 words, and added : "That witch ! She's put a curse on me !" 
 
 Martin, quick to perceive the half-breed was impressed by 
 this superstition, pressed his advantage : "I was there when 
 she did it, Durgy! You're damned — eternally damned — ! 
 The fire ! Everything's part of it ! And at the last, there'll be 
 the Senecas !" 
 
 Durgy turned and began running to the barn, shouting: 
 "They'll never catch me! They'll never find me!" 
 
 A gentle hand was laid on Martin. Turning he looked into 
 the anxious eyes of Owaysa. 
 
 "Are you hurt, Martin?" 
 
 He ignored her question. "You, Owaysa. What about you? 
 
 "I'm all right." 
 
 Unconsciously he had put his arm around her. 
 
12 
 
 Martin Returns to Grannisville 
 
 HURSDAY, July 12, 1832, was an 
 important date in the life of Mar- 
 tin Langdon. It was the first time he had 
 been able to see a calendar in more than five weeks, for it was 
 the day he left Meshawa od-dawn and returned to Grannis- 
 ville. It was the second day following the great tornado 
 which had swept through the forests of Michigan Territory 
 almost simultaneously with the burning of Jake Durgy's cabin. 
 
 Pamasaw, who had been tossed aside unconscious during 
 the fight with Durgy, had revived when Durgy fled in super- 
 stitious terror for his horse and rode away. Negnaska had 
 smoothly explained that his part in the affair was only to 
 prevent Durgy from being killed, thus bringing trouble for 
 the entire tribe from the settlers. 
 
 Martin, on the following morning, had called the session 
 of his wilderness school as usual. He explained that as his 
 leg was now well he must return to Grannisville, and that in 
 the fall he would open a school where both Indian and white 
 pupils could attend. 
 
 Little Peesotum and Mah-je were sorrowful, Peesotum 
 saying: "Grannisville too far — like the moon. We never see 
 you again," to which Mah-je added: "Thank you for teaching 
 English. Now I talk back to Mama and she not know I call 
 her 'old fool'." 
 
 As a parting word, Martin, feeling almost like a priest, 
 read from the Book of Common Prayer as he concluded the 
 session : "The Lord bless us and keep us. The Lord make 
 his face to shine upon us, and be gracious unto us. The Lord 
 lift up his countenance upon us, and give us peace, this day 
 and evermore." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 87 
 
 His pupils had then all taken his hand, one by one and 
 stoically made off in the direction of their own lodges — the 
 older ones agreeing to attend the school in Grannisville. 
 
 Pamasaw, however, stated simply that he would come to 
 the new school provided, he had returned from taking a mes- 
 sage to the chief of the Senecas near Niagara Falls. 
 
 "You tell Durgy Senecas were coming. Word must be 
 kept! I make good your word! Senecas must come. Father, 
 Baw Beese, say Senecas must come." 
 
 It was early the next morning while he was shaving at 
 sun-up that Owaysa handed him his red shirt mended some- 
 what crudely with a fiber bast. 
 
 "You're going among the palefaces, Martin. You'd look 
 funny without a shirt." 
 
 He eagerly donned the once-familiar garment, but now 
 it felt uncomfortable and unnatural. Then she held up an 
 exquisitely soft and heavily-embroidered buckskin coat. The 
 fringe adorning the sleeves had each pendant twisted until it 
 was a round leather cord. 
 
 "For you !" Owaysa's eyes looked into his for a brief 
 moment, and then she looked away, embarrassed. "Your old 
 one was torn and spoiled." 
 
 Martin observed the beauty of the jacket, which but a 
 month before he would have dubbed "only the work of a 
 savage." He took the garment in his hands, feeling the pliable 
 softness of the leather, admiring the quill embroidery in de- 
 signs which had a meaning he did not understand. 
 
 "It's — it's lovely !" He found himself speaking in an un- 
 natural tone. 
 
 "It should fit. I copied it from your old one." 
 
 "You made this especially for me?" He was pretending 
 surprise, but now he realized that he had watched her making 
 this very garment. 
 
 "To repay you for the school. It's nothing!" 
 
 Owaysa looked into his eyes as though waiting for some- 
 thing he might say or do. He stood motionless and speechless, 
 looking at her as though seeing her for the first time. They 
 were mutely saying something to each other in their steady 
 gaze, but neither knew exactly what. Then Osseo came leading 
 
88 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 the horse Owaysa had once believed Martin had stolen. The 
 animal was saddled and bridled. 
 
 "You take nag-doche-shaw," the Indian explained. "The 
 saddle go back to Grannis — so does bridle. I come get. You 
 take Maumee Trail — no fallen tree to west. It best way to 
 Grannisville." 
 
 As Osseo was pointing out the route over the westerly 
 trail Pretty Feather appeared, not now dressed in deerskin, 
 but wearing the latest style of the period in blue cloth. On her 
 feet, however, were moccasins and she carried a leathern 
 bundle. 
 
 "I show you way, Marteen !" Pretty feather came towards 
 him with a smile. 
 
 "Then you ride the horse." He remembered his promise to 
 recommend her to Grannis. 
 
 "No, we both ride — what ees they say — peelion?" 
 
 Owaysa looked at Martin a moment, and then at Pretty 
 Feather. Her features were expressionless as she turned and 
 went into the lodge. She did not come out again for a final 
 farewell. 
 
 The horse carried them west along the Maumee Trail and 
 Martin kept his eyes open for some possible home site. The 
 rolling land through which their journey took them, dotted 
 with lakes and brooks, provided little that was unique in 
 appearance, due to the density of the forest through which 
 they traveled. At one point, however, after the trail had cir- 
 cled the south shore of a lake shaped like a boot, there was 
 an open place, and the trail turned sharply north. A spring 
 bubbled from a hillside, forming a brook that meandered 
 lazily in the direction of the lake. 
 
 "Ze water here is good! Does Marteen want drink?" 
 
 Pulling the horse to a stop, he dismounted and tied the 
 animal to a basswood tree. It was not necessary for him to 
 assist Pretty Feather to the ground. 
 
 "This is the nicest place I've seen in Michigan Territory!" 
 Martin drank in the sight of the land around him, while 
 Pretty Feather, without a cup and lying flat on the ground, 
 began drinking from the spring. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 89 
 
 It would be easy here to put the place under rough cultiva- 
 tion, he mused. Game of all kinds abounded, and the lake 
 and lazy brook were swarming with fish. A farm here could 
 soon be yielding his food and supporting livestock. The day 
 was clear but somewhat windy, a few light clouds were pas- 
 sing rapidly over the bright morning sun. The air was rich 
 with the aroma of northern mid-summer, and the stones — 
 the kind Hiawatha had left strewn on the earth according to 
 the legend Owaysa had told — were hidden by the long wild 
 grasses. To the south an almost treeless prairie extended for 
 a half mile or more ; to the northwest was a hill so high it 
 resembled a small mountain. On the hills in all directions 
 were dense hardwood forests. 
 
 "Right here the land lies the prettiest of all," he said only 
 half aloud. "It'll make a good farm some day." 
 
 The girl, rising from the ground, and brushing some twigs 
 from her skirt, shrugged "It is tres benne ! As to farm, Pretty 
 Feather not know !" 
 
 After resuming their way to Grannisville Martin was 
 aware that Pretty Feather clung needlessly close to him, and 
 was holding him more tightly in her arms than their slow 
 pace warranted, for the horse had to walk over much of the 
 trail. He pretended not to notice when he felt her lips pressing 
 against the nape of his neck. 
 
 On reaching the Chicago Turnpike eventually, he was im- 
 pressed with the ever-moving tide of emigrants going west- 
 ward. Covered wagons, drawn by oxen or horses plodded 
 through the tiny hamlet of Grannisville ; but when he and the 
 Indian girl arrived at the Great Sauk Inn, he observed some 
 teams tied to the hitching rail, while the drivers had gone 
 inside. It seemed at that time as though all the people in the 
 east must be moving westward. The wagons were all laden 
 with pots, pans, chairs, beds, women and children, while most 
 of the men were on foot to lighten the load for their tired 
 animals. 
 
 The people in the wagons gave only slight notice to 
 Martin and Pretty Feather, for such a sight as a couple riding 
 pillion was all too common, even though one of them was an 
 Indian girl. Martin, however, was in for a surprise when he 
 
90 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 met Grannis who was pouring whiskey for emigrants gathered 
 at the bar. 
 
 "Well, Langdon ! See you've brought her along with you I" 
 
 "Yes! This is Pretty Feather, Mr. Grannis! The girl you 
 asked Baw Beese to send to help your wife, now that busi- 
 ness is picking up." 
 
 "Oh !" Grannis looked at him suspiciously, finished waiting 
 on the trade, and came to the end of the bar where Martin 
 and Pretty Feather were standing. "You wouldn't be trying 
 to palm off your squaw as a single woman, would you 
 Langdon?" 
 
 "My squaw?" Martin was unable to comprehend the in- 
 ference. 
 
 "Don't pretend innocence, Langdon ! I'm calling a spade a 
 spade in mentioning this Indian girl you've been living with 
 the past five weeks." 
 
 "Ooh, no! Marteen not live with me! Non, non, non! He 
 live with Osseo and Owaysa ! His leg, it was broke ! It is 
 just now well ! Please Meester Grannis, Je tres bien! You want 
 Injun girl come help. Marteen tell you I am clean — I speak 
 French good! I brought up with French traders! I learn 
 French when little ! English is not so good — no? But I learn, 
 oui — I learn. Please Meester Grannis, you hire?" 
 
 Grannis deliberated a moment then continued addressing 
 Martin : "I heard you faked that broken leg." 
 
 "Marteen, he taught school to pay Osseo for setting leg!" 
 
 "Be quiet, you! I'm addressing Martin Langdon! Guess 
 he can answer for himself, unless the cat's got his tongue." 
 
 "I just got the leg out of splints day before yesterday, 
 Mr. Grannis." 
 
 Martin outlined his experiences at Meshawa od-dawn 
 from the time he had been thrown by the run-away horse 
 concluding with the statement that Jake Durgy had stolen 
 the animal. 
 
 "Jake Durgy took one of the horses from these Indians?" 
 Grannis was incredulous. "I'm not saying Jake Durgy's not 
 a horse thief, mind you, but he lives too close to risk stealing 
 a horse from these Indians here. I bought the animal from 
 him, and made him give me back my money. Somebody else 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 91 
 
 must have stolen it from Osseo and sold it to him. Sorry 
 about the saddle and bridle. I suppose the Indians traded 
 those off in a hurry." 
 
 "Osseo told me to bring the saddle and bridle to you — 
 even included the saddle blanket." 
 
 "Did you bring it?" 
 
 "The horse is tied to your hitching rail. I rode in the saddle. 
 I hope you didn't mind. You act as though I was some sort 
 of lying varmint." 
 
 "Now, now, Langdon, I'm only trying to justify my own 
 opinion of you, Don't get huffy because we've been hearing 
 things here in the settlement. You really mean it when you 
 say this girl isn't the one you were living with?" 
 
 "I stayed with Osseo and Owaysa. They didn't even let 
 me sleep inside their lodge." 
 
 "Owaysa, she not nice to Marteen! She very cross! She 
 hate paleface ! But Marteen — he very nice !" 
 
 "I haven't the slightest doubt of it — especially to pretty 
 young Indian girls !" 
 
 "But he could not walk! He sat like, what you say? Bump 
 on log all ze time !" 
 
 "Maybe it'll be easier to believe some of this when I see 
 my saddle and bridle." 
 
 Martin would have suggested that they go immediately to 
 look at them, but Grannis was called off to wait on more cus- 
 tomers who were entering the inn. Thereafter he vanished 
 momentarily into the dining room and returned with Mrs. 
 Grannis, to whom he introduced Pretty Feather. 
 
 "I'll give her a try," Mrs. Grannis said, "unless she's the 
 girl Jake Durgy was telling us about." 
 
 "Jake Durgy?" inquired Pretty Feather. "What Jake 
 Durgy say about me?" 
 
 "Nothing about you, perhaps. It was Martin Langdon." 
 
 "So that's where you people have been getting your infor- 
 mation about me — from Jake Durgy !" 
 
 "Don't get loud-mouthed about it, Langdon !" Grannis 
 commanded. 
 
 "But Jake Durgy's a thief, a liar and a murderer!" Mar- 
 tin's voice became loud and vindictive. 
 
92 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "A murderer? What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean, Mrs. Grannis, that Jake Durgy has murdered 
 his Seneca squaw!" 
 
 "That's not, rightly speaking, in the province of our law," 
 Grannis put in. "That's Indian business, and I always say, 
 leave Indian affairs to the Indians." 
 
 "The Indians are taking care of it now," Martin said coolly. 
 
 "We can't have anybody burned at the stake in Vance 
 township — even if he's only half white," Mrs. Grannis said. 
 
 "I shouldn't worry about that. Durgy's gone! His cabin 
 burned night before last. Guess he was a little bit afraid of 
 Indian witchcraft and one thing or another." 
 
 "Goon-pa-shee cast spell, and — " Pretty Feather began, 
 but stopped abruptly when Martin shook his head. 
 
 "What shall I do about the horse and saddle?" He turned 
 to Grannis. 
 
 "I'll go with you and see if it's really the same saddle." 
 Grannis turned to his wife. "My dear, I'm afraid I'll have to 
 ask you and this Indian girl to attend to matters here." 
 
 Mrs. Grannis stepped behind the bar, motioning Pretty 
 Feather to join her. Happily, eyes large and bright, she smiled 
 right back at the men who ogled her. Martin and Grannis 
 walked out the door and went over to Osseo's horse tied to 
 the hitching rail. 
 
 "The saddle and bridle are mine all right." Grannis ad- 
 mitted somewhat grudgingly. "Untie him and fetch him 
 around back to the stable." 
 
 Obadiah VanDuzer sauntered up to them as Martin was 
 untying the horse. 
 
 "I say, George, any of them emigrants comin' through with 
 extra men to help clear land?" 
 
 "I'm back now. I can help you, Mr. VanDuzer." 
 
 "I was addressin' George Grannis." 
 
 "I'd say, Obe, that we've been sort of imposed on. I'm 
 not so sure that fellow Durgy can be believed." 
 
 "But these here stories about — " 
 
 "Understand they're made up to gloss over a murder, Obe. 
 Guess maybe Martin Langdon here knows more than he's 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 93 
 
 telling. I hear Durgy's murdered his woman." 
 
 "Anybody found the body?" 
 
 "Not yet," Martin answered. "The Indians are taking care 
 of it." 
 
 Obadiah VanDuzer was apprehensive. "Not a scalpin' and 
 a burnin' I hope — ?" 
 
 "Can't rightly say. She was a Seneca you know. Seems 
 the Indians are notifying the Senecas — " 
 
 "They're way back in York state." 
 
 "That's right. But Durgy's left for parts unknown. 
 — Where's your stable, Mr. Grannis?" 
 
 "Oh, around back. Put the horse in an empty stall. No 
 stage horses due in yet. Hang up the saddle and I'll take 
 care of everything later." 
 
 Martin observed VanDuzer and Grannis in earnest conver- 
 sation as he was leading the animal behind the inn. The 
 stable was commodious, with room for twelve horses. Only 
 six of the stalls were occupied. These would constitute the 
 six-horse team to be hitched to the stagecoach when it 
 stopped. The empty stalls would be for the tired horses on 
 the coach. 
 
 After hanging up the saddle and bridle Martin sauntered 
 back to the front of the tavern. VanDuzer and Grannis were 
 gone, but Negnaska had ridden to Grannisville on Wenona's 
 mare, Shooting Star, which was now tied to the hitching rail. 
 
 Stepping into the principal room, where the people had 
 thinned out, Martin saw Negnaska and VanDuzer were in 
 serious conversation. 
 
 VanDuzer came towards him in a friendly manner. "I 
 guess we've been mistaken about you," he said. "Negnaska 
 here says you're wrong about Durgy's killin' his squaw, but 
 he's took off for parts unknown. Says you really broke your 
 leg and all that, and did teach school. Says he never heard any 
 talk about you and Osseo's daughter." 
 
 "Thanks, Negnaska," Martin said to the Indian. "Did you 
 happen to know your father-in-law Baw Beese has sent his 
 son, Pamasaw, to tell the Senecas Durgy killed his wife?" 
 
 "Durgy bad — ver' bad !" Negnaska shook his head sadly. 
 
94 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "He like massasauga, only he not rattle when strike! Yes, 
 Durgy ver' bad ! Steal horse from Osseo ! Bad !" 
 
 "Yes, Durgy's bad all right." Martin studied the red man's 
 features, as he added quickly, "But you seemed to be a friend 
 of his, Negnaska." 
 
 The Indian said nothing for a moment. Then repeated, 
 "Durgy bad — ver' bad !" 
 
 "His leaving's no great loss," Grannis was saying, "but he's 
 the only man who ever showed up here with horses to sell. 
 We can't clear land or farm without horses." 
 
 "I get um horse now!" Negnaska smiled. "How much you 
 pay?" 
 
 "A good horse is worth a hundred dollars !" Van Duzer 
 stated. "And I need one right now! An all-around tough and 
 lively one." 
 
 "Good! I get horse soon." The Indian walked away. 
 
 "Well, Langdon," VanDuzer addressed Martin. "Get your 
 things together, and if you want to help clear land, we'll 
 go straight to my house." 
 
 "How about my rifle, Mr. Grannis?" 
 
 "Right here !" Grannis reached under the bar and pulled 
 out the long hexagon-barreled rifle Martin had brought from 
 New York state. 
 
 "She's a beauty all right!" Obadiah admired the workman- 
 ship. "Real fancy — brass butt plate and trigger guard !" 
 
 "It shoots straight, too!" Martin took the rifle in his hands. 
 "It ought to. It cost me a hundred dollars!" 
 
13 
 
 Wherein Martin Sees Ellen Again and Meets 
 Mrs. Van Duzer 
 
 UPPOSE you'll want some victuals 
 before you start to work," Van- 
 Duzer remarked, leading Martin in a west- 
 erly direction from the Great Sauk Inn. 
 
 "Haven't had a white man's meal in nearly six weeks." 
 
 "We have to get started with the work this afternoon," 
 Obadiah continued as they walked along. "Tomorrow's Fri- 
 day, and it's bad luck to start work on Friday, sayin' nothin' 
 about Friday the thirteenth." 
 
 "I'd lost all track of the day of the month until now." 
 
 "Just to bring you up-to-date, today is Thursday, July 
 twelfth, 1832." 
 
 They were keeping pace with a team of horses as they 
 trudged along the turnpike. The team was drawing a cov- 
 ered wagon laden with household accoutrements, with a man 
 and woman riding together on the seat in front. The sweating 
 horses made Martin realize that he was very uncomfortable 
 in his flannel shirt and leather jacket, and he became acutely 
 aware of the heat. 
 
 "Take a gander at that there woman in the wagon," Van- 
 Duzer said. "She's an Injun! Imagine a man marryin' an 
 Injun!" 
 
 "I can imagine it. They don't seem so dark and strange 
 when — when — "Martin stopped abruptly, realizing that less 
 than six weeks ago he would have found such a state of 
 affairs difficult to understand. 
 
 "Yeah! I suppose it's all in gettin' used to them. I can't 
 see it myself — but there's a lot of it around here. There's 
 emigrants goin' through every day with Injun wives." 
 
96 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 VanDuzer turned to the left along a new and rutted turf 
 road, leading the way to a clearing in which stood a com- 
 modious cabin. 
 
 "Built my place bigger than most," Obadiah said proudly. 
 "Jim Smith was boasting he had the best log cabin in Grannis- 
 ville, but I went him one better — I put on a kitchen. That 
 gives us two rooms for the day time. Lots of logs, God knows 
 — too damn many ! I'll be glad when Sibley gets that sawmill 
 goin\ Maybe we'll be able to get rid of some of these cussed 
 trees for a profit." 
 
 As they entered the front door Martin observed a 
 puncheon floor in the big front room, at one end of which was 
 a fireplace, a good wooden table, chairs and three beds. The 
 beds could be curtained off when desired. Beyond this room 
 was the kitchen, from which echoed the sound of a meal being 
 prepared, and the murmur of female voices. 
 
 "Filena!" Obadiah bellowed. "Come in here and meet our 
 hired man !" 
 
 A dour, slatternly woman in plain, brown homespun ap- 
 peared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a white apron. 
 Her face wore the unmistakable stamp of a martyr whose 
 household duties weighed heavily on her soul. 
 
 "Landsake, Obadiah ! Don't tell me he's a — " The woman 
 stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Oh, no, Filena, he aint an Injun. This here's Martin 
 Langdon, the school-teacher feller. His jacket's what's fooling 
 you." 
 
 "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Langdon!" Filena greeted him 
 without smiling. Her lips were tightly compressed in dis- 
 approval. 
 
 "Just found out there was nothing to that talk Jake Durgy 
 was spreading around the other day." 
 
 "I'm mightly glad to hear it, Obadiah. I vum ! I was afraid 
 we wouldn't have any school again next winter — and with 
 Ellen going on seventeen she needs more book-learnin'." 
 
 "How about a bite to eat, Filena? Martin says he hasn't 
 had white folks' victuals in more than five weeks." 
 
 Filena's features lighted up momentarily, as she said : 
 "It so happens we're going to have a real New England din- 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 97 
 
 ner — beans! I got the receipt from Mrs. Wight over by 
 Allen's Prairie, and she said she got it from an emigrant 
 woman who had come straight from Boston." 
 
 Ellen, in a drab tight-waisted dress with a horizontal neck- 
 line partly concealed by a huge white apron, appeared in the 
 doorway. Her straight, taffy-colored hair, parted in the middle, 
 with braids on each side, was caught into loops over her ears 
 and tied with black ribbons. It framed well her pink and white 
 complexion, which to Martin now seemed exceedingly pale. 
 The total effect was not unlike that created by a certain bisque 
 doll his sister, Sara, once had. 
 
 "Hello, Martin !" Ellen smiled, displaying exactly the right 
 amount of dimple on her left cheek. 
 
 "Ellen!" Filena's disapproval was emphatic. "This is the 
 new school teacher. To you he's Mister Langdon!" 
 
 "But he's just our hired man now," Ellen was on the de- 
 fensive. 
 
 Stepping forward gallantly, Martin said : "I'm happy to 
 meet you again, Ellen. You're the first white girl I've seen in 
 weeks." 
 
 Obadiah frowned, looking suspiciously at Martin, and then 
 spoke sharply. "You better get back in the kitchen. We're 
 hungry." 
 
 When the girl and her mother left the room Obadiah gave 
 the impression something troubled him, as though he were 
 about to speak when Fiiena's high-pitched voice filtered in 
 from the kitchen. 
 
 "Why, I never was so humiliated in my life," Filena was 
 saying. "You acting like some — some hussy !" 
 
 "Oh, Ma! Don't be such an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy." 
 
 "Well, I do declare ! You want folks to think you're 
 common?" 
 
 Obadiah spoke suddenly as though to nullify the dialog 
 Martin had overheard. "The girl's a little froward, but she's 
 a good girl, and I don't want you gettin' any idees ! We might 
 as well understand each other first as last about her." 
 
 "I understand you. She's uncommonly pretty, but I'm not 
 looking for a wife — yet." 
 
 "I aint speakin' about her as a wife," Obadiah's meaning 
 
98 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 was unmistakable. "No offense meant — just want everything 
 friendly and out in the open. Come on out back, and we'll 
 wash up before dinner." 
 
 Martin followed VanDuzer through the kitchen. A steam- 
 ing pot of beans bubbled invitingly on the table as they made 
 their way to the back door. A wash basin and pail of water 
 were set on the flattened side of a log protruding from the 
 wall of the cabin. 
 
 Once more inside Martin was seated opposite Ellen, who 
 flirted whenever opportunity permitted, as audaciously as 
 though she had copied her art from Pretty Feather. 
 
 "I don't suppose you've had any Boston-baked beans since 
 you've been out there with the savages." Filena was passing 
 the dish to Martin. 
 
 "The Indians have beans, Mrs. VanDuzer — cooked much 
 the same, sometimes with a flavor of sassafras or wintergreen." 
 
 "My land ! how awful ! But then, of course they can't cook 
 anyhow. They're so dirty, I don't see how anybody could eat 
 a mouthful of their victuals." 
 
 Martin did not contradict Mrs. VanDuzer in her opinion 
 about Indian cookery, and neither could he truthfully say the 
 beans prepared by the white woman were better-tasting than 
 Owaysa's. 
 
 "I didn't have any molasses," Filena explained. "I did have 
 to substitute maple sugar for molasses. And we don't have 
 any pork, so I had to use some jerked bear meat." 
 
 "What's the difference, Filena? They're danged good and 
 I'll bet it seems pretty nice to be among white folks again, 
 doesn't it, Martin?" 
 
 Before he could answer Ellen was inquiring impishly : 
 "Did you meet any pretty Indian girls? — I bet you did!" 
 
 "Ellen !" Mrs. VanDuzer drew down the corners of her 
 mouth in disapproval. 
 
 "What have I said? I just asked Mart — I mean Mister 
 Langdon, if he'd met any pretty Indian girls." 
 
 "To a white man, Ellen," Obadiah reproved, "an Injun 
 girl is not pretty — too sour and too brown." 
 
 "There was the white fellow that settled over south of 
 here," Ellen persisted. "He had three boys and ten horses, and 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 99 
 
 an Indian wife. He must have thought she was pretty once." 
 
 "Lots of fellows marry homely women so nobody will try 
 to get them away from them, then they don't have to fight 
 over them," Obadiah said. 
 
 "That's why your father married me, I suppose." Filena 
 remarked dourly. 
 
 Despite the heat of the midday sun Obadiah proposed 
 that work should start as soon as the meal was over. 
 
 "I'd like to leave this leather jacket here at the house. It's 
 too hot to wear on a day like this," Martin said. 
 
 "Not in the house," Filena declared. "It's an Indian jacket." 
 
 "What of that, Mrs. VanDuzer?" 
 
 "I can't stand having things made by the savages in the 
 house." 
 
 "Now Filena, it's all hog-wash about things like that 
 bringing bad luck — it's just old womens' talk!" 
 
 "It's not old womens' talk!" Filena flared angrily. "Who 
 knows what kind of curses those red devils wove into the 
 heathen designs on that jacket?" 
 
 "I'd think, Mrs. VanDuzer, if you believe that, you'd be 
 afraid to have me wear it in the house." 
 
 "And I'd think, Ma, if Mr. Langdon's going to work for 
 us, he ought to be allowed to hang up his clothes, no matter 
 who made them." 
 
 "You hush, Ellen! All I can think of when I look at that 
 jacket is the way they've tomahawked settlers in other places. 
 I don't want a thing to do with them." 
 
 "And yet, Filena, you never shied clear of buyin' maple 
 sugar off of them." 
 
 "That's an entirely different matter, Obadiah ! There isn't 
 any other kind of sugar in Vance township and you know it !" 
 
 "The jacket was given to me to replace my own," Martin 
 said. "Mine was torn to pieces. I'm sure the designs, if they 
 mean anything at all, are meant to bring good luck." 
 
 "All I know is that it makes my blood run cold, Mr. Lang- 
 don, when I think of thousands of savages ready to tomahawk 
 us any old time they feel like it; and that jacket makes me 
 think of nothing else! Too many settlers back east had their 
 
100 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 cabins burned for me to trust one single Indian of any kind, 
 type or description — male or female!" 
 
 "You're bein' silly, Filena ! There's no sense in carryin' on 
 about Martin's jacket. If he aint afraid to wear it, then by the 
 sky above I aint afraid to have it in the same house with me ! 
 And it's goin' to stay in the house if he wants it here ! This 
 is my home, and I'm boss in it!" 
 
 Filena sniffed in defeat; but stated that since the young 
 man was to sleep in the room in the loft over the living room, 
 she would appreciate it if he would take it up there and leave 
 it. Then she would not be compelled to remind herself that she 
 was living in a land infested with men wilder than the animals 
 of the forest. 
 
 Martin was shown the ladder to the loft, and mounting it 
 he found his so-called room was equipped with a roped bed- 
 stead made of crude timber, beside which stood a single chair. 
 It was hot in the loft, and he was glad to leave the jacket as 
 quickly as possible. 
 
 After climbing down the ladder he picked up his rifle by 
 the fireplace, and asked: "Where do I take this?" 
 
 "Prob'ly better bring it right along with you. Never go 
 out to work without a gun in this country — too many bears ! 
 And if you see a bear, kill him! Bear meat's good eatin', and 
 I want every bear on my place added to the larder." 
 
 "Wish I had some boots instead of these moccasins," Mar- 
 tin said. 
 
 Obadiah informed him he would try to procure a pair for 
 him by having one of the stagecoach drivers bring some from 
 Detroit. "It'll be sort of pay in advance, after I've seen wheth- 
 er or not you can handle an axe," VanDuzer explained. 
 
 On reaching the field to be cleared, almost directly behind 
 the log barn, Martin began his afternoon's work ; but his red 
 shirt made him uncomfortable, and longing to have his torso 
 bare like the Indians, he peeled off his sweaty garment, hang- 
 ing it on the limb of a tree. 
 
 "Well I'll dogged!" Obadiah expostulated. "Where in tar- 
 nation d'you think you are anyhow — back in that Injun camp?" 
 
 "I just can't work like this in a shirt." 
 
 "You put that shirt right back on ! Suppose some woman 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 101 
 
 out berryin' would come along and see you. Why she'd be 
 shocked beyond all tellin' ! Folks out here sort of expect to 
 see savages run around half naked, but somehow or other 
 they'd have fits if a white man did." 
 
 Martin obediently donned the sweaty garment, and to- 
 gether with Obadiah, chopped and sawed that hot afternoon, 
 felling the monarchs of the oak openings, and blazing the way 
 for progress and the American farmer. 
 
 That night, for the first time since his arrival in the North- 
 west Territory, Martin was able to write a letter outlining his 
 adventures to his parents back in Willink, New York. 
 
 "I came west to escape teaching school and to seek my 
 fortune," he wrote after the usual opening salutations. "I 
 have seen nothing of the fortune, but have had the unusual 
 adventure of being marooned in the wilderness with the 
 savages of this area. I suffered a broken leg and was cared 
 for by them. But I was surprised at the pay they de- 
 manded. I had to do what I came out here to avoid — 
 teach school, in the wilderness. But as I had already 
 agreed to teach here in Grannisville this winter, in order 
 to earn money, it was probably good training to get used 
 to the Indians. 
 
 Today I saw, for the first time, an emigrant with an 
 Indian wife and family going west on the Chicago Turn- 
 pike. I hear several settlers have come here with Indian 
 wives, and not too much is said about it. However, my 
 employer's wife, Mrs. VanDuzer, is afraid of Indians. 
 She is so terrified that she thinks even my leather jacket 
 an Indian girl gave me to replace mine that had been torn 
 to pieces when I broke my leg, is covered with curses. 
 But I have been informed the designs on those jackets 
 are supposed to bring good luck to the wearer, if one 
 believes in such nonsense. 
 
 You, Mother, will be interested in knowing that one 
 of the textbooks I used in the wilderness school was the 
 Book of Common Prayer. It's odd how it got here, since 
 there are no churches. Everything is in a state of flux. 
 Pioneers are coming in swarms, but Baw Beese, the 
 
102 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Indian chief here, insists he has signed no treaty to sell 
 land, and right now there's a halt of land sales in Vance 
 township ; but so many squatters are coming it doesn't 
 make much difference. 
 
 I hope everything is going well at home, and tell Sara 
 that my employer's daughter, Ellen VanDuzer, looks like 
 that bisque doll she used to have. 
 
 With love to all, I am, 
 
 Martin. 
 
 After an interval of some three weeks, during which Martin 
 chopped and sawed down trees with Obadiah, and Ellen flirt- 
 ed and brushed against him by seeming accident whenever 
 opportunity provided, he received an answer to his letter. It 
 cost him postage amounting to eighteen and a half cents, as 
 nobody sent letters in those days prepaid. They might never 
 be delivered. 
 
 He opened it eagerly and recognized his mother's hand- 
 writing. 
 
 Willink, N.Y. 
 Tuesday, 31, July 1832 
 My dear, dear Son : 
 
 Your father, Sara and I have poured over your letter, 
 and we were sorry to hear about your broken leg. How- 
 ever, you did not tell us how you happened to break it, 
 nor why you were marooned among the savages. Did you 
 have a competent doctor? A great many people are 
 cripples because their legs have been set improperly. 
 
 We are both interested and amused that you are to 
 continue your career as a school teacher. Of course I 
 don't suppose you were able to teach the savages much. 
 I have always heard they are stupid and lazy. How 
 dreadful it must have been to live in the squalor and 
 filth of an Indian wigwam all that time. 
 
 If you are going back to the profession you left home 
 to avoid, you will need something more than those 
 hideous buckskins you procured for yourself before leav- 
 ing for the Northwest. The men in Buffalo, I noticed 
 when we went there to trade, are wearing their panta- 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 103 
 
 loons over their boots and strapped under the instep. 
 The waistcoats are generally of sprigged brocade, and 
 the coats have two rows of useless buttons and are 
 sharply cut away in front, to the tails behind. The favorite 
 colors seem to be plum or bottle green. 
 
 Is the school large and well-equipped and will you 
 make money enough to procure the homestead you left 
 home to get? 
 
 Sara says to be sure you don't fall in love with an 
 Indian girl. It's her idea of a joke. 
 
 Your father joins me in sending our love, 
 
 Mother. 
 It was shortly after the arrival of the letter from home that 
 Negnaska appeared at the VanDuzer place with the white 
 horse Martin recognized as Shooting Star. 
 
 "You say you want horse," the Indian began addressing 
 Obadiah. "Here is good horse. Me sell !" 
 
 Where'd you get it?" Van Duzer was suspicious. 
 "It is our horse — Wenona's and mine. We sell!" 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Money! Need much shuniah ! Wenona's father, Baw 
 Beese, must go Tippecanoe ! Need much money ! Great White 
 Father in Washington, he send for Baw Beese." 
 
 Obadiah looked over the spirited little animal for blem- 
 ishes, finally picking up each hoof. 
 
 "It's a good horse all right, Obadiah," Martin volunteered. 
 "I've ridden her, but I don't know whether or not she's 
 broken to harness." 
 
 "How much, Negnaska?" 
 "A hundred dollar!" 
 "Too much!" 
 
 Negnaska shrugged, and Obadiah walked away. Then 
 Negnaska called: "How much you give?" 
 "Fifty dollars!" 
 
 "Fifty dollars? You make um Injun laugh! Horse worth 
 more — much more !" 
 
 "Fifty dollars !" Obadiah repeated. 
 
 Negnaska began leading Shooting Star away. 
 
104 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "Wait! I'll give you sixty dollars and not a penny more." 
 
 Negnaska retraced his steps, and handing the reins to 
 Obadiah, took the money and departed. 
 
 "Now we can haul those logs with a three-horse team to 
 build that school house," Obadiah remarked, gloating over 
 his sharp transaction. 
 
 That night Martin went to the Great Sauk Inn to post 
 another letter home enumerating the details his mother had 
 asked for. 
 
 In front of the inn, lying by the hitching rail, was a 
 drunken Indian. It was Negnaska. 
 
14 
 
 Nag-Doche-Shaw Ka-Moche-Kit 
 
 I ll MMM'^'"^^ rea ^ ze< ^ ' lt was q u i te useless 
 
 -r /J 2||§p* to question Negnaska as to why 
 
 President Jackson had asked Baw Beese to 
 
 journey to Tippecanoe, for the Indian was beyond coherent 
 
 conversation, muttering only in a drunken stupor : "Pretty 
 
 Feather — Pretty Fea — " and his words ended in a groan. 
 
 Leaving Negnaska in the semi-darkness by the hitching 
 rail, lighted only dimly from the doorway, Martin stepped 
 inside the Great Sauk Inn. Several frontiersmen were sitting 
 about exchanging gossip and smoking their pipes, while at 
 the bar, dressed in tight pantaloons and a bottle-green tail 
 coat, stood Derbyshire, the land agent Martin had met when 
 he landed in Detroit. 
 
 George Grannis, standing back of the dual-purpose bar and 
 desk, behind which was also the Grannisville post office, was 
 in conversation with the gentleman. "I completely disagree 
 with you, Mr. Derbyshire," Grannis was saying. "You can't 
 sell land you haven't legal title to." 
 
 "I see no way of getting rid of them, however, unless one 
 does dispose of the land on which their village stands." 
 
 "It would mean trouble for us if the land office begins 
 selling land not belonging to the United States." 
 
 "I assure you, Mr. Grannis, it can be done, however." 
 
 "If you believed that, Mr. Derbyshire, you wouldn't be 
 going to Tippecanoe to see about the signing of these treaties." 
 
 "If I believed what, Mr. Grannis?" 
 
 "That the Indians have no rights here." 
 
 "It could be arranged, however," Derbyshire continued. 
 "Yes, I daresay it could be arranged if one used the proper 
 
106 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 influence in the right places. Just where is this Indian village 
 now ?" 
 
 "I can't rightly say," Grannis was evasive. "It was moved 
 when I suggested that a man named Sibley wanted to build 
 a sawmill on the site they were occupying called Sauk-wa- 
 seepe. But this young man here, can tell you right where it 
 is," and turning to Martin he continued : "Martin, this is Chris- 
 tian Derbyshire — Martin Langdon, Mr. Derbyshire — he 
 lived with the Indians for a month or so." 
 
 "How interesting, Mr. Langdon," Derbyshire extended a 
 limp hand to the young man. Martin, acknowledging the intro- 
 duction, turned to the innkeeper. 
 
 "When will this letter go to York state, Mr. Grannis? 
 
 "On the first stage, of course — it'll leave for the east early 
 tomorrow morning. Give it to me, and we'll post it right now." 
 
 "Where's Pretty Feather?" Martin inquired, as he handed 
 the letter to Grannis. 
 
 "Pretty Feather's in the kitchen, helping my wife. There's 
 a deal to do in preparing for breakfast, what with the early 
 arrival of two stage coaches tomorrow morning." 
 
 "I'd like to see her if you don't mind." 
 
 "Go right ahead." 
 
 "Just a minute, Mr. Langdon," Derbyshire called. "I 
 want to ask you exactly where the Indian village is located." 
 
 "I can't tell you the exact location Mr. Derbyshire. It's off 
 to the southeast of here. Did I understand you to say you 
 wanted to buy the land it's on?" 
 
 "Well, not for myself — oh dear no! I'm not settling in 
 this locality. A young gentleman of my acquaintance, by the 
 name of Jacob Dorique has asked me to look into the matter 
 for him. He expects to file a claim to it, but of course will need 
 its exact description." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm in no position to co-operate with you, Mr. 
 Derbyshire." 
 
 "It'll be worth your while, you know," and Derbyshire 
 pulled some Spanish doubloons from his pocket. "Yes, quite 
 worth your while." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 107 
 
 Martin felt suspicious of Derbyshire, made no reply and 
 went into the dining-room in search of Pretty Feather. 
 
 The girl, now dressed in a brown nondescript garment, 
 with a big white apron, not unlike that worn by Mrs. Van- 
 Duzer, was setting the table for breakfast as he entered, and 
 nearly dropped the plates she was carrying. 
 
 "Marteen!" she exclaimed. "Ze beautiful Marteen!" Plac- 
 ing the plates in a stack on the table she rushed over to him 
 joyfully. "Eet ees so long I do not see you !" 
 
 "But, Pretty Feather, how long since you've seen 
 Negnaska?" 
 
 "Negnaska?" The girl's eyes opened wide in assumed 
 innocence. "Should I see heem, when I can see you?" 
 
 "All I know is that he's lying drunk at the hitching rail 
 outside, mumbling your name. Why?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "Don't lie to me, Pretty Feather !" Martin gripped both 
 her arms in his hands and shook her. "I want to know why 
 he's mumbling your name ! And what about the sixty dollars 
 he got today for Shooting Star?" 
 
 "Ooh, Marteen ! You hurt Pretty Feather with your finger- 
 nails. Vous ne comprez — Negnaska, he ees misunderstand 
 by Wenona — He ees thirsty! Pretty Feather get jug from 
 bar. She not know he get drunk." 
 
 "Well, he's very drunk — and there's more than a jug 
 of whiskey involved, or he wouldn't be mumbling your name !" 
 
 "Please, Marteen ! You hurt — you are so big and strong ! 
 Negnaska, he promise Pretty Feather — well — he not love 
 Wenona now. He tired of Wenona." 
 
 "I see," Martin still held her arms in his grip. "So you 
 took his sixty dollars, gave him a jug of whiskey and told him 
 you loved him." 
 
 "Please, Marteen — let me go ! Me only poor girl — poor 
 Injun girl!" 
 
 "You're not going to keep that sixty dollars, do you hear?" 
 
 "But Marteen, Meester Grannis, he be mad unless he get 
 pay for whiskey." 
 
 "I'll take care of that! You give me that money — right 
 now!" 
 
108 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "All right, Marteen! All right! But you let Pretty Feather 
 go? You not say she stole whiskey?" 
 
 "Yes, yes! now where's the money?" 
 
 "Pretty Feather!" Mrs. Grannis called from the kitchen. 
 
 "Oui, Madame!" Pretty feather called back. 
 
 "Who are you talking to in there, Pretty Feather?" 
 
 "Eet ees Marteen!" the girl replied. Quickly she pulled 
 a leathern pouch from the bosom of her dress, opened it and 
 handed the shining silver pieces to Martin. It was the same 
 money Obadiah VanDuzer had given Negnaska for Shooting 
 Star. "You not tell, or make trouble for Pretty Feather?" the 
 girl whispered. 
 
 "I'll make no more trouble than I can help," Martin an- 
 swered, and taking the money went immediately to the door 
 into the front room of the inn. There he turned briefly and 
 added : "Now, Pretty Feather, you behave yourself or 
 Wenona will be scalping you." 
 
 On returning to the great room, he noticed that Derby- 
 shire had a large sheet of paper spread out on the bar. 
 
 "Here is a map of Vance township," Derbyshire stated. 
 "Now Mr. Langdon would you show me exactly where on 
 this map the village of Baw Beese is located?" 
 
 "Mr. Derbyshire," Martin answered coldly, "I have neither 
 the time, nor the inclination to give you any information that 
 will enable anybody to dispossess these Indians. They set 
 my leg, and I owe walking on two feet to their kindness. If 
 you or this man you mentioned find it a good idea to cheat 
 them, I have a long rifle that shoots very straight. Tell your 
 friend that, will you?" 
 
 "Well !" Derbyshire bristled. "Perhaps you think you can 
 stop the United States of America, Mr. Langdon ! Maybe you 
 don't realize that I am the land agent here, and whether you 
 like it or not, the Indians will be dispossessed in due course of 
 time. I shall tell my friend of your threat." 
 
 "What did you say his name is?" Martin inquired. 
 
 "Jacob Dorique !" 
 
 "If his real name happens to be Jake Durgy, Mr. Derby- 
 shire, he's heard my threats before." Martin turned away and 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 109 
 
 addressed the innkeeper. "Mr. Grannis, may I have a word 
 with you alone?" 
 
 At the mention of Jake Durgy the frontiersmen in the 
 room, suddenly ceasing their chatter, had almost simul- 
 taneously removed their pipes from their mouths, and looked 
 towards Martin. Grannis was also astonished at the implica- 
 tion and came quickly around the end of the bar and in- 
 quired quietly: "Yes, Martin, what is it?" 
 
 Carefully drawing Grannis out of earshot from the others, 
 Martin inquired the price of a jug of whiskey; and then, with- 
 out laying any of the blame on Pretty Feather, he told the 
 whole story, concluding with the statement that the girl did 
 not know the price of the whiskey but intended to pay for it. 
 
 "I don't like it, Martin! not one little bit! That Negnaska's 
 a pretty nasty Indian when he drinks." 
 
 "I don't like it either," Martin agreed. "He's lying out by 
 the hitching rail — dead drunk. But he sold Obe a horse today, 
 for sixty dollars ! It was Wenona's little white mare. I have 
 the money right here, and I'm giving it to you to take care 
 of until he sobers up." 
 
 "I can't have him lying out there at the hitching rail all 
 night, Martin. And I wonder — do you suppose he sold 
 Wenona's horse without her consent?" 
 
 "I've wondered about that too, and then there's the ques- 
 tion of Baw Beese being so hard up that he had to have 
 Wenona sell her horse to get money for his trip to Tippecanoe. 
 Negnaska said President Jackson had sent for Baw Beese, 
 and his father-in-law needed much 'shuniah' for the trip." 
 
 "I doubt it," Grannis replied. "It hardly seems likely that 
 Baw Beese is so hard up he'd have Negnaska sell his daugh- 
 ter's pony. Obadiah should be ashamed to only pay sixty dol- 
 lars for that little white mare. I've seen her, and she's easily 
 worth a hundred and a quarter." 
 
 While Martin was reaching in his pocket for the money 
 to give Grannis, there was a great commotion out by the 
 hitching rail. A woman's voice, shrill and loud, came through 
 the open door. She was repeating over and over again : "Nag- 
 doche-shaw, ka-moche-kit! Nag-doche-shaw ka-moche-kit !" 
 
 "Shuniah! Shuniah!" Negnaska's voice chimed in. 
 
110 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "What's this all about?" Derbyshire inquired. 
 
 "A woman's calling a man a horse thief," Martin returned. 
 
 "And a man is yelling for his money," a frontiersman put in. 
 
 "Negnaska — nag-doche-shaw ka-moche-kit!" the woman 
 repeated. 
 
 Martin was the first in the room to reach the porch of the 
 inn through the open door. The others followed. 
 
 In the dim light the unsteady figure of Negnaska was 
 leaning against the hitching rail for support. He was talking 
 querulously in unintelligible gibberish with a young Indian 
 woman, whom Martin knew to be Wenona. Closeby, stood 
 Wenona's father, Chief Baw Beese. 
 
 "I have the money — the shuniah !" Martin called from 
 the porch. "Here it is ! Sixty dollars that Negnaska got for 
 Shooting Star!" 
 
 For a moment the Indian trio were silent. Then Baw Beese 
 inquired: "Negnaska sell Shooting Star to you, Martin?" 
 
 "No, not to me — to Obadiah VanDuzer !" 
 
 "Ka-moche-kit!" screamed Wenona, and a knife flashed in 
 the semi-darkness. Wenona held the weapon high above her 
 head — and high over the stupified Negnaska. 
 
 "Wenona!" expostulated Baw Beese springing towards 
 her. 
 
 But Wenona was quicker than her father. Negnaska was 
 awkwardly reaching for his tomahawk, when the knife was 
 plunged into his naked chest, and found its way to his heart. 
 
 "Shuniah — Pretty Fea — " he gasped, and fell dead in 
 the dust beside the hitching rail. 
 
 Martin looked on in silence. He could only conjecture 
 about the outcome of the night's activities. 
 
15 
 
 Justice Without Mercy 
 
 /^S gfr> '' i- FRANCOIS Campau was the last of 
 ^r ^S^. the coureurs de bois to ply his 
 
 trade near the northern boundaries of Ohio 
 and Indiana in Michigan Territory. The settlers, he told Baw 
 Beese — his future father-in-law — were coming in such 
 numbers that furs were growing scarce. When he and 
 Wauneeta were married he would transfer his operations to 
 Mackinac where French traders still did a flourishing business. 
 
 It was true that Wauneeta would live three hundred of the 
 white man's miles away from the hardwood forests of south- 
 ern Michigan, but Baw Beese had the satisfaction of knowing 
 that this son-in-law would not be a horse thief. His daughter 
 would be in the land of the Chippewa, a tribe, which with 
 the Ottowa and Potowatomi formed what was known among 
 the Indians and even the United States government officials 
 as the United Nation. The power of the United Nation extend- 
 ed from Fort Defiance in Ohio, the Wabash and Kankakee 
 rivers of Indiana and Illinois, as far north as Lake Superior — 
 Gitchi Gammi. In the land of the Chippewa, Wauneeta would 
 be safe, but what now of Wenona? 
 
 Most of the palefaces did not understand Indian law and 
 Baw Beese shunned altercations regarding it whenever pos- 
 sible. He was grateful to George Grannis, when a stranger the 
 chief had never seen before called out : "That's murder ! Arrest 
 those savages !" 
 
 "It's best, Derbyshire," Grannis had said, "to leave Indian 
 matters to the Indians." 
 
 That had closed the affair in Grannisville, and Baw Beese 
 and his daughter were permitted to leave, taking with them 
 
1 12 "OP-JAH-MO-M AK-YA" 
 
 on the chief's horse the inert body of Negnaska, from which 
 the blood was still flowing. 
 
 "Ah, my daughter! my daughter!" Baw Beese shook his 
 head in sorrow as they wended their way back toward 
 Meshawa od-dawn. "Why did you not listen to me? What 
 will the wise men of our tribe say when you kill your own 
 husband?" 
 
 "You know, my father, that the wise men of the tribe will 
 say to send to Muskewawaseptiana* for Negnaska's next of 
 kin." 
 
 "And what will the wise men in Muskewawaseptiana do?" 
 
 His daughter did not answer, but she knew that if the men 
 were as truly wise as they pretended they would not lightly 
 pronounce the death sentence. Chief Baw Beese was respected 
 because he had refused to sign a treaty with the United 
 States, and his band still owned the hills and dales of Vance 
 township. They could collect rent because their domain lay 
 west of a line running straight north of the flagstaff at old 
 Fort Defiance, from which all the land north to Canada had 
 been surveyed.** 
 
 But if the men of Negnaska's home village were not as 
 wise as they pretended, Wenona knew what her fate would be. 
 As to Negnaska — she had caught him making love to Pretty 
 Feather while she was at Meshawa od-dawn. Pretty Feather, 
 it was true, had been temporarily intrigued by that paleface 
 teacher, Martin Langdon, but there were trinkets that Wenona 
 knew Negnaska had given her. Since she had been working 
 at the Great Sauk Inn, Negnaska had become more and more 
 a frequenter of the place. Other Indians had seen him. 
 
 All these things were evil, but even then Wenona could 
 have forgiven him. She could have forgiven his drunkeness and 
 the beatings ; but when it came to the stealing and selling of 
 Shooting Star — that she could not forgive. 
 
 Baw Beese looked sad despite his attempt to show no 
 emotion when they arrived in Meshawa od-dawn. When 
 they reached Wenona's lodge the body of Negnaska was laid 
 
 ♦NOTE: Musk-e-wa-na-sept-i-ana, was near Fort Wayne, Indiana. 
 **NOTE: The land was actually surveyed as described. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 113 
 
 before it, and at break of day, the chief caused the big drum 
 to summon the old men and the wise men to a council fire. 
 
 Wenona stood beside her father, while Wauneeta, other 
 women and girls, and the youths who had not come of age 
 watched from far off. 
 
 BawBeese in sonorous tones, addressed the assembly: 
 
 "My friends, it is with deep regret that I tell you my 
 daughter, Wenona, whom I deeply cherish, has killed her 
 husband. The body of Negnaska lies dead before her lodge. 
 She stands before you, not like the innocent turtle-dove given 
 to Negnaska in marriage, but as a woman who has committed 
 a crime. I ask you not to condemn her before you have heard 
 her story, nor to be lenient with her because she is the daugh- 
 ter of your chief." 
 
 Baw Beese nodded to Wenona, who proudly stepped be- 
 fore the council fire and told of the iniquitous actions of 
 Negnaska in stealing the beautiful Shooting Star, and selling 
 her to a settler named Obadiah VanDuzer. She did not men- 
 tion her humiliation in finding Pretty Feather in her hus- 
 band's arms, nor of the numerous beatings she had suffered 
 during his drunkeness, but only of the injustice of stealing 
 and selling her beautiful horse, and concluded : "My husband, 
 whom I once cherished, turned into a horse thief — and the 
 tribe of Baw Beese has no more need for horse thieves than 
 has a bear the need of a panther in his den. Our band shall be 
 honorable, and shall not be known among the settlers as a 
 group of thieves. If I have done wrong in ridding our forests 
 of the man who was besmirching the name of Meshawa od 
 dawn then you must condemn me to death. If it is right to 
 rid our tribe of such a one then you must set me free. I do 
 not ask for mercy. Let it never be said the daughter of so 
 great and honorable a chief is a coward." 
 
 For a moment only did Wenona stand looking at the old 
 men and the wise men. Then she stepped back as her father 
 again addressed the group. 
 
 "Have any here any words to say on behalf of my daughter, 
 or of Negnaska?" 
 
 It was Osseo who stood up and addressed the braves in 
 
114 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 tones only slightly less impressive than Baw Beese. 
 
 "Wenona, daughter of Baw Beese, has done well in riding 
 the forest of such as Negnaska. He was an aid of Jake Durgy 
 and we all know Jake Durgy was and still is, a horse thief, for 
 he still lives on. We know that my own horse was sold by 
 Durgy in Grannisville. George Grannis was told by Durgy he 
 had bought the horse from an Indian. If he did, my brothers, 
 then it follows as night the day, that the Indian was Negnaska. 
 
 "When I was taken prisoner by Durgy and held as ransom 
 for my daughter, Owaysa, it was Negnaska who was on hand 
 to carry the message of my disgrace to Meshawa od-dawn. 
 And Negnaska helped Durgy against Martin Langdon, 
 Pamasaw and Owaysa when they attempted to free me. 
 
 "Now my friends we know that Durgy murdered his 
 squaw, because we have found her grave. I have never ac- 
 cused Negnaska before the council fires, but did he also know 
 the woman had been murdered? We can never know, for 
 Negnaska is dead. 
 
 "Another fact not touched on by Wenona, concerns Pretty 
 Feather. You all know the old women's tales about Pretty 
 Feather and Negnaska. I need not repeat them to you. There- 
 fore, my brothers, I myself accuse Negnaska of faithlessness 
 to his wife, Wenona, of stealing other horses than Shooting 
 Star, and of aiding Jake Durgy in whatever crimes he com- 
 mitted. 
 
 "I ask you, brothers, to look kindly on our chief's daughter 
 and to consider her grievances. Deal justly with her for rid- 
 ding our tribe of such an evil being that had he lived we would 
 soon all be counted as but horse thieves and trouble makers, 
 and moved to the land of the setting sun — the land of our 
 eternal enemies, the Sioux." 
 
 Osseo's recital was greeted with prolonged silence as he 
 again sat down among the old men and the wise men. Then 
 others spoke. They asked that Wenona, be taken to her lodge 
 that they might talk more freely, before they voted on the 
 matter. 
 
 It was decided, however, to deal with Pretty Feather first, 
 and, for her part in the affair, banishment was to be her 
 penalty. She might never again set her foot, moccasined or in 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 115 
 
 paleface shoes, in Meshawa od-dawn or any other village the 
 Baw Beese clan might have. She was a bad woman and was so 
 condemned without a hearing. Pretty Feather's father, a half- 
 breed Wyandotte, was asked to deny that he had a daughter. 
 
 "My brothers !" Eagle Wing paused as he looked over the 
 assembly, and proceeded with gravity. "I have been adopted 
 into your tribe ; but if my daughter may never enter Meshawa 
 od-dawn again, then I shall myself be compelled to say T 
 have no daughter.' If that be your will, then I have no choice 
 but to abide by it ; for you gave me dignity when the Wyan- 
 dottes, the ancestors of my father, would have made of me a 
 woman — would have compelled me to wear a woman's cloth- 
 ing, and to work only with the women. You know the reason 
 for their actions, for I had refused to fight with the British 
 and follow the great chief, Tecumseh. So, my brothers, as you 
 have accepted me to be one with you, and forgave the warrior 
 who refused to raise his tomahawk against the Kemoke-mon, 
 I will say with you, that Pretty Feather is no longer my 
 daughter." 
 
 Eagle Wing sat down, mumbling to himself, and took no 
 part in the voting which followed to determine the fate of 
 Wenona. The council determined they would pronounce no 
 death sentence on the daughter of their chief, but rather 
 would send word of the affair to Muskewawaseptiana and let 
 the old men and the wise men there decide whether or not 
 Negnaska's next of kin should demand the death penalty. 
 
 No sooner had the message been dispatched concerning 
 Wenona than fresh news of another tragedy reached the 
 lodge of Baw Beese. 
 
 Francois, the lover of Wauneeta, had met death on the 
 trail to Detroit, whence he had started out to get a priest, or 
 "Black robe" as the Indians called them, to perform the mar- 
 riage ceremony. His body, badly mutilated, and much of it 
 devoured by some animal, most likely a bear, had been found 
 near the settlement at Tecumseh. 
 
 "My life is now worth nothing," said Wauneeta, and great 
 tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, and trickled down 
 her cheeks. "It is a punishment upon me for being unable to 
 
116 "OP-JAH-MO-M AK-YA" 
 
 control my heart. I am not an Indian girl! I am weak! I am 
 sad, like the palefaces ! I cry I" 
 
 All day and into the night Wauneeta wept. Baw Beese, 
 his wife, Ashe-te-wette, and his other daughter, Wenona, at- 
 tempted in vain to console her. 
 
 "Why should I live, Wenona? Life without Francois will 
 be nothing!" the girl wailed. "And you my sister will be as 
 surely killed as the swallow flies south in the moon of falling 
 leaves. Negnaska's next of kin will demand your death. I 
 know it — I know it — " and her voice would trail off into 
 incoherent sobs. 
 
 Days passed and Wauneeta's sobs were no longer heard 
 throughout the village of Meshawa od-dawn. She at first re- 
 fused all food and drink, but as time went on she ate sparingly 
 but never smiled. Word from Muskewawaseptiana did not 
 arrive until the swallows were planning their annual south- 
 ward pilgrimage. The maples, some of the dogwoods and oaks 
 were putting forth their scarlet colors, and other trees were 
 showing golden leaves, when a messenger arrived from 
 Negnaska's home village. 
 
 Wenona, the message said, must die at the hand of Jo- 
 nee-si, brother of Negnaska. It was the final decision of the 
 council after much grave deliberation. Jo-nee-si had been away 
 on a hunting expedition and had only recently returned. He 
 would soon come to Meshawa od-dawn. 
 
 Baw Beese was plunged into sorrow, but only swallowed 
 as though to keep back a sob. His wife, Ashe-te-wette, shed 
 only one tear and said : "It is the will of the old men and the 
 wise men that she die." 
 
 Wauneeta, on hearing this, began a plaintive wail. "It is 
 the will of the evil spirits of the forest that the daughters of 
 Baw Beese shall die !" Drying her eyes she went out of 
 Meshawa od-dawn west over the Maumee trail, now strewn 
 with golden and crimson leaves, west into the sunset — alone. 
 
 Baw Beese, following after her called her name, but she 
 continued on the trail until she reached the round, pleasant 
 lake, where Pamasaw had a canoe. She launched it putting a 
 large stone in it, before her father overtook her. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 117 
 
 "It is no use, my father, I have nothing to live for, and I 
 am going to die." 
 
 She paddled westward on the lake into the sunset, and 
 where the red rays of the sun made a shaft of light on the 
 waters, she turned over the canoe, and weighted by a stone 
 as she was, she sank into the depths. Her body did not rise to 
 the surface and Baw Beese shambled back to Meshawa od- 
 dawn to await the coming of Negnaska's brother, Jo-nee-si. 
 
 Sorrowful events were following one after another like 
 the sunrises followed the nights, for Baw Beese. His stoical 
 attitude was for show, but in his soul was the sadness of a 
 father whose daughter had just killed herself because of a 
 broken heart. Perhaps had the death sentence not been pro- 
 nounced on Wenona, Wauneeta could have withstood the loss 
 of Francois. 
 
 Baw Beese sought solace sitting in front of the fire of his 
 lodge, smoking his pipe. 
 
 The women of the village understood the action of 
 Wauneeta, and the old men and the wise men knew their 
 chief wished to be alone by his lodge fire ; for soon his second 
 daughter, even the beautiful Wenona, would be taken from 
 him. 
 
 The request of the great White Father, President Jackson, 
 that he go to Tippecanoe to sign a new treaty at this very 
 time, concerned Baw Beese not at all. He and his band had 
 a treaty which provided the same education for the children 
 as the palefaces enjoyed. That was sufficient. 
 
 Ashe-te-wette, in mourning, with black paint on her face, 
 sat beside her husband, and then Wenona came silently to the 
 lodge of her parents. There was no expression on her coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 She was dressed in her finest deerskin clothes and her lips 
 were painted crimson. She sat on the ground and looked into 
 the fire, in silence. Tears ran down Ash-te-wette's cheeks 
 and she was unashamed. Baw Beese drew hard on his pipe. 
 Wenona remained expressionless. 
 
 "It will be soon, my daughter!" Baw Beese looked into 
 her face. "Your sister has already gone to the spirit world. 
 You will follow in her footsteps on the beam of the moon 
 
1 18 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 tonight. Then there will be justice for you — and for Negnaska, 
 for whose death you pay — and your mother and I pay, as 
 well." 
 
 "I know I have caused my father and mother to suffer." 
 
 "No, Wenona," Ash-te-wette said. "It was the old men 
 and the wise men of Negnaska's village that have brought all 
 this about." 
 
 "I knew all along Negnaska was a horse thief! Would I 
 had never looked with favor on him, nor baked him the 
 twenty-four cakes." Wenona looked sadly into the fire. 
 
 From the distance came the sound of hoof-beats approach- 
 ing on the trail. 
 
 "Is that Jo-nee-si?" Wenona asked. 
 
 "It might be!" Baw Beese drew deeply on his pipe. But 
 soon the horseman had reached the village and it was plain 
 to see the rider was not an Indian — it was Martin Langdon. 
 
 "Posho!" Martin said, "Ah-nee-jah-na?" 
 
 "Posho !" Baw Beese rose to his feet and said in English, 
 "You come at bad time. What you want?" 
 
 "The school house! We need help to build the school 
 house in Grannisville!" 
 
 "When you want help?" The chief did not smile. 
 
 "Tomorrow!" 
 
 "Tell Osseo ! Say I want him to get help !" 
 
 Martin was taken aback by his cold welcome from Baw 
 Beese, but left for the lodge of Osseo, when the chief resumed 
 his seat by the fire, smoking stoically. 
 
 It was Owaysa who greeted Martin when he arrived at the 
 lodge. He was riding a bald-faced mare that George Grannis 
 had offered to lend him. 
 
 "Nice horse !" Owaysa seemed very beautiful to Martin. He 
 dismounted close to her, while she patted the horse on the 
 nose. 
 
 He told her that work was slack enough in the settlement 
 so that now they were ready to build the school, but wanted 
 the Indians to help, since it was to be largely for them. 
 She explained that Osseo was fishing on the lake, but would 
 soon return, and make arrangements. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 119 
 
 "But I don't understand why Baw Beese should push me 
 off on your father," Martin said. 
 
 "Wenona killed her husband. " 
 
 "I remember that night in Grannisville. A man named 
 Derbyshire wanted her arrested. Baw Beese reasoned he'd 
 take care of it according to Indian law." 
 
 "Paleface laws !" Owaysa was scornful. "What do the pale- 
 faces know of Indian matters? We have our own laws. For 
 a time we thought Wenona might be forgiven, but the old 
 men and the wise men of her husband's village have pro- 
 nounced that she must die." 
 
 "She's sitting beside Baw Beese and his wife — and is 
 not tied up." 
 
 "Wenona will not run away. Jo-nee-si will be here soon. 
 He will kill her in front of the entire tribe, just as Wenona 
 killed Negnaska." 
 
 Owaysa was more voluble than had been her custom, and 
 she told of how tragedy was following tragedy for Baw Beese 
 and Ash-te-wette, for Wauneeta had committed suicide that 
 same day. 
 
 She had just completed her recital when the big drum 
 began beating out its rhythm on the twilight air. 
 
 "Jo-nee-si and the braves from Muskewawaseptiana have 
 come. We must go, for the entire tribe will witness how In- 
 dians pay for their crimes. Of course if you'd rather not go, 
 you may wait here for my father. He'll come here after 
 Jo-nee-si has avenged his brother's death." 
 
 Martin tied his horse to a sapling. He went with Owaysa 
 and stood among the Indians assembled around a huge fire. 
 
 The red glow of sunset was displaced by purple shadows ; 
 but the mighty blaze lighted the village of Meshawa od-dawn, 
 and near the fire fully visible in its lurid glare, stood a warrior, 
 fiercely painted. He wore three hawk feathers in his hair. On 
 his torso was drawn the picture of a bear, and he stood tall 
 and commanding. Martin could understand only a few words 
 when the young Indian spoke in his native tongue. 
 
 "I and my cousins have come to avenge the death of my 
 brother, Negnaska. My brother, Negnaska, was cut off in his 
 
120 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 youth by his wife, Wenona, daughter of your honorable chief, 
 Baw Beese. 
 
 "The old men and the wise men of your band did not see 
 fit to pronounce the death sentence upon this woman. But the 
 old men and the wise men of Muskewawaseptiana did not hesi- 
 tate to pronounce condemnation upon even the daughter of 
 your noble chief, Baw Beese. 
 
 "We remember Negnaska when in the flower of youth in 
 our village. He stood high in the councils of our braves. 
 Negnaska was a mighty hunter. He was a cunning fisherman, 
 and he was skilled in the ways of horses, often handling horses 
 even the palefaces could not manage. 
 
 "Negnaska knew all the ways of the woods, and the trails. 
 He knew the habits of the mischievous raccoon and the wily 
 fox. He was not afraid of the she bear or the panther. His 
 courage was beyond that of all others. And yet, this mighty 
 hunter — this skillful horseman — was cut off in his youth : 
 slain like a dog, with the epithet nag-doche-shaw kamochekit, 
 ringing in his ears as he was struck down. He was slain I 
 have been told, before many palefaces, some of them travelers 
 on the Great Sauk Trail. 
 
 "For this our council fires were lighted, and it was decided 
 by wiser men than me — not by me — Negnaska's brother, 
 Jo-nee-si, but by the oldest and the wisest of our clan that 
 Wenona must die. She must die for the murder of her husband. 
 
 "Now my friends, you ask me how it happens that 
 Negnaska, who was wise and a mighty hunter, and withal a 
 promising youth, should die with the epithet of horse thief 
 attached to an honorable name. You ask that and I tell you 
 that many times men are known to become mean because of 
 nagging wives — because of never being able to please their 
 women, no matter what they do. 
 
 "Then too we are told that Negnaska, even my brother 
 Negnaska, was slain while under the influence of firewater. 
 Now I ask who is to know that his supposed deviations from 
 virtue were not all perpetrated under the influence of fire- 
 water? If that is true, then it is wrong to condemn him, for 
 we all know many spirits enter in and possess those who are 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 121 
 
 drunken ; and no Indian holds another accountable for his 
 acts while under the influence of firewater. 
 
 "Now she, who wielded the knife! Let her be led forth! 
 For this knife of mine shall strike her heart, as she struck 
 down my brother." 
 
 Wenona made her way forward. Her head was high and 
 her bearing was proud. 
 
 "Nobody needs to lead forth the daughter of Baw Beese." 
 
 "Are you prepared for your journey to the spirit world 
 and there face the husband you promised to love?" 
 
 "I am prepared for the fulfilment of the law. Be quick, 
 Jo-nee-si, and be sure!" 
 
 Wenona knelt on the ground, tore open her jacket and 
 bared her bosom. The knife of Jo-nee-si went deep into her 
 heart. 
 
 Baw Beese entered the circle of the fire light as Jo-Nee-si 
 was wiping the blood from his dagger. Ash-te-wette followed, 
 leading a horse. 
 
 Tenderly Baw Beese lifted his daughter in his arms, put 
 her lifeless body on the horse, and he and his wife left the 
 circle of the firelight, left the old men and the wise men — 
 the hunters and the women — all watching, as he led the 
 horse away into the depths of the forest. 
 
16 
 
 School Opens in Grannisville 
 
 HE leaves had fallen from the ma- 
 ples, and the red leaves of late 
 autumn on the oaks were turning brown 
 when the little log schoolhouse was completed in Grannisville. 
 
 It was only twelve by fourteen feet, smaller than the 
 ground dimensions of the bark houses of some of the Indians. 
 In one end was a fireplace, and pegs were set in the logs along 
 the wall across which slabs lay for seats and desks. Martin's 
 own desk near the end was better than those of the students. 
 The building had been built of timber drawn by Van Duzer's 
 team, with the Indians helping Martin in its construction. 
 It was about an eighth of a mile east of the Great Sauk Inn, 
 directly across from the square designated by Grannis for the 
 "county seat buildings," whenever Vance township could be 
 organized into a county. 
 
 It was Monday, November 5th, 1832, that the school 
 opened with seventeen pupils, nine of whom were Indians, 
 and Owaysa was not among them. Most of the Indians, in- 
 cluding Pamasaw, were almost adults, and even the white 
 pupils numbered several older students, among whom Ellen 
 Van Duzer, in a stylish blue dress, was the most conspicuous. 
 She selected the seat nearest to the teacher and looked at 
 Martin worshipfully. 
 
 Martin had called the school to order and was making up 
 the sets of records to be kept. 
 Ellen raised her hand. 
 
 "Yes, Ellen?" Martin asked with as much dignity as he 
 could well summon. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 123 
 
 "Will the white children study from the same books as 
 the Indians, or will we have separate books?" 
 
 "You will all study out of such books as are available. 
 Books, as you know, are not plentiful here, and many times 
 it will be necessary for pupils to study from the same books." 
 
 "Oh !" Ellen exclaimed in a disappointed tone, and she 
 drew the blue folds of her dress a little closer, looking 
 haughtily at Pamasaw, who sat next to her. 
 
 "In the last school I attended," Ellen stated, without ask- 
 ing permission to speak, "it was in Detroit, you know — the 
 boys and girls sat separately." 
 
 "And so they shall here," Martin assured her. 
 
 "Only here, it seems, Mart — I mean, Mr. Langdon — " 
 she pretended embarrassment at her intentional familiarity — 
 "that the problem is doubly increased because of two separate 
 races." 
 
 It appeared to Martin that Ellen was unnecessarily super- 
 cilious when she said : "two separate races," but blundered in 
 sanctioning her suggestion as a good one. 
 
 "It's quite right," he stated. "The boys and young men 
 will sit on my left in the room, and the girls on my right." 
 
 It was not necessary to ask the races to separate, for 
 Pamasaw, who was plainly offended by Ellen's remark, slipped 
 to the back of the room, with younger Indians. 
 
 Ellen smiled triumphantly, and shrugged with a smirk as 
 she watched him leave the seat near her, and his place taken 
 by a pallid youngster named Harley Smith. The only white 
 girls were Ellen, Lucy Wight a girl of thirteen, and Lois 
 Smith, aged seven. The white boys, Martin learned were : the 
 Smith boy, ten ; Frederick Fowler, seventeen ; Gideon Stod- 
 dard, fourteen ; William Lancaster, nineteen, and David 
 Baker, thirteen years old. 
 
 When Martin had completed the role of white, or half- 
 white students, for he realized at least some of them were 
 half-breeds — he copied down the names of the Indians, who 
 were not sure of their ages. 
 
 "And now," he stated, taking the large hickory stick he had 
 already prepared for his use as school master, and rapping 
 
124 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 the desk, "I want all who have attended school previously 
 to raise their hands." 
 
 Of course all of the Indians raised their hands, as did all 
 of the pupils except William Lancaster and David Baker. 
 
 Then the door opened and Owaysa entered, resplendent in 
 a white doeskin costume, from her elaborately-embroidered 
 jacket to her leggings and moccasins. Her black hair, hang- 
 ing in two braids, had one braid in front, and the other down 
 her back, in the tradition of the tribe, for single girls. She 
 stood for a moment staring at Martin. Then she became shy 
 as all eyes were turned on her, remaining in the doorway, as 
 though poised for a hasty retreat. 
 
 "Come in, Owaysa," Martin stated. 
 
 Silently, and with an expressionless face, Owaysa made 
 her way to the front seat, sitting beside Ellen Van Duzer. 
 
 Ellen drew her dress tightly around her, and giving 
 Owaysa a look of withering scorn, hitched along the seat 
 until she reached the rough log wall. 
 
 Martin wrote the name of Owaysa on the roll intended 
 for the Indians, and stated : "It may be some time before Mr. 
 Grannis will be able to get books for all of you. But as I 
 taught a school at Meshawa-od-dawn this summer without 
 many books there is no reason I cannot do the same here." 
 
 Ellen raised her hand, and Martin nodded permission for 
 her to speak. 
 
 "I understood you to say the Indians and the white pupils 
 were to sit separately," she remarked, looking disdainfully 
 at Owaysa. 
 
 "Well, it was implied, Ellen, although I don't remember 
 saying it." 
 
 Owaysa rose from her seat with a look of bewildered 
 embarrassment, turned deliberately, and started for the door. 
 She did not stop to sit with the other Indian girls ; but was 
 fumbling with the latch on the door when Martin, forgetting 
 his dignity as a school teacher, and in full view of the pupils 
 watching him in amazement, bounded to the door and held 
 the latch. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 125 
 
 "Owaysa!" he exclaimed. "You're not leaving the build- 
 ing!" 
 
 "This is Injun school!" Owaysa stated. "But the Injuns 
 are treated like dogs!" 
 
 The Indian students rose in a body, including Pamasaw, 
 as though to rush outside should Owaysa leave, and for a 
 moment Martin was non-plussed. 
 
 "Order!" he commanded. 
 
 The white pupils stood up, watching the drama at the 
 door. 
 
 Then, to Owaysa, Martin stated : "That's not true ! This 
 is the first day of school. Arrangements are only temporary." 
 
 "Why — if this is an Injun school, are white pupils in the 
 front of the room and Injuns at the back?" Owaysa queried. 
 
 "Be seated — all of you!" Martin commanded the students 
 in a loud voice, ignoring Owaysa's question ; and although 
 some of the pupils obeyed him, most of them did not. 
 
 "At Meshawa od-dawn you taught from this book !" 
 Owaysa held up the familiar Book of Common Prayer. "Here 
 is the book!" 
 
 Martin took the book in his hands mechanically, and 
 watched Owaysa unlatch the door and go outside in the 
 sharp November air. He heard the hoofbeats of a horse fade 
 into the distance, and he knew that she was gone. 
 
 For a moment he said nothing — only a strange feeling 
 of being all alone came over him, a feeling he could not 
 understand. Turning to his pupils, however, and clearing his 
 throat in the best tradition of one of his instructors at the 
 academy in Buffalo, he said : "Ahem ! You will all resume 
 your seats and we will proceed !" 
 
 When he reached his desk with the prayer book in his 
 hand, he noticed Ellen smirking as he sat down. 
 
 Placing Owaysa's book on the desk before him, he began 
 his class in arithmetic, for the three R's were of paramount 
 importance, and Martin decided to reserve the reading lesson 
 until the last, realizing as he did that he would be compelled, 
 on this first day, to use the prayer book. 
 
 For slates he had prepared some bark and charcoal such 
 as he had used in the wilderness school, but all of the white 
 
126 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 children except William Lancaster and David Baker had 
 brought slates, and all of the Indians had brought their own 
 bark and charcoal. 
 
 Martin's heart was not in teaching that first day; for his 
 thoughts were of Owaysa and her sudden departure. Further- 
 more, to the Indians it was all a review, and they made the 
 white pupils appear stupid. 
 
 When he called a recess the Indians disported themselves 
 gaily, but the white children only stood around and looked on. 
 The Indians thoroughly enjoyed running about outdoors, 
 giving wmoops and yells, and both boys and girls indulged in 
 wrestling matches, umpired by one of their number. 
 
 After recess, however, Martin realized that something was 
 wrong, for the Indians all sat stoically on their wooden 
 benches with little or no interest. They lacked the eagerness 
 to learn he had observed in them at Meshawa od-dawn. 
 
 At last he called an end to the day's activities, and re- 
 marked that since it was the first day of school they would 
 be dismissed early. He promised he would have Mr. Grannis 
 send for as many books as were needed, and trusted that the 
 settlers' children would be able to meet the expense of 
 theirs. The Indians' books should, of course, be furnished by 
 the government, Martin reasoned. 
 
 Except for Ellen all of the pupils left the building almost 
 immediately. Martin began scraping ashes over the open fire 
 so that it would not suddenly flare up and burn the place 
 down. He was only slightly aware that Ellen was standing 
 close behind him ; and when he straightened up and turned 
 around he found her so close to him that he inadvertently 
 touched her with his hand, which she immediately drew 
 around her waist and was instantly in his arms. Her volup- 
 tuous lips sought his as her arms encircled his neck. 
 
 "This is wonderful !" she purred, pulling her mouth away 
 from his, and brushing his hair back from his face with one 
 hand, while she still held him close to her. 
 
 "I knew I could make you do that some day, Martin !" 
 She laughed, and broke away from him. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 127 
 
 While she was putting on her poke bonnet, her pelisse and 
 mittens, Obadiah opened the door and came in. 
 
 "What's keepin' you, Ellen?" he asked peevishly. "She 
 been behavin', Martin?" 
 
 Ellen gave Martin an amused sidelong glance, and he 
 replied in a voice he hoped was steady and clear, "Perfectly, 
 Obadiah, perfectly!" 
 
 "Well, just thought I'd stop by and take a look at how 
 things was goin'. Didn't expect school to last so long the first 
 day. Then I saw some of the Injuns goin' home, and I thought 
 school must be out." 
 
 "There wasn't too much to do but I did give out some 
 assignments," Alartin remarked. 
 
 "We aint made a bargain 'bout you workin' fer me, now 
 that you've started teachin'. But Filena and me figured you'd 
 do chores night and mornin' fer yer keep." 
 
 "Well, of course I have to stay some place, Obadiah." 
 
 "You ready, Ellen?" 
 
 "Aren't you coming, Martin?" 
 
 "Martin?" Obadiah looked at Ellen mystified. "I hope, 
 Martin, you aint lettin' yer pupils call you by yer first name." 
 
 "Sorry, Pa — I meant Mister Langdon ! It's so hard to 
 think of our hired man, somehow, as also the school- 
 teacher," and Ellen, after casting a roguish look in Martin's 
 direction followed her father out the door. 
 
 "I'll be along soon," Martin called. "It's less than half a 
 mile, and I naturally don't mind the walk. I have to stop and 
 see George Grannis about ordering books." 
 
 The door closed after Obadiah and Ellen, and Martin 
 began doing some soul-searching and not a little self-con- 
 demnation. Ellen had not only dominated the school on the 
 first day, but she had inveigled an unorthodox kiss from him 
 in an unguarded moment. 
 
 Then too, there was Owaysa! Ellen had managed to create 
 a gulf between Owaysa and even the school itself. 
 
 "Damn it!" he expostulated to the bare walls of the 
 schoolhouse. 
 
128 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Things would be different tomorrow. He would be the 
 school master — and his own master. Martin did not need to 
 be told that although Ellen was sweet sixteen, she had cer- 
 tainly been kissed before. 
 
17 
 
 Martin Is Delegated to Keep the Peace 
 
 HAT night Martin lay on the 
 
 rope-strung bedstead in the loft, 
 
 listening to the cold November north wind 
 
 whistle against the shakes of the roof as though predicting 
 
 the winter to come. 
 
 But he was not concerned about the weather, as he lay 
 and tossed — he was thinking of the school he had started 
 and the complications he had created for himself in that 
 moment of weakness when Ellen's lips found his. He thought 
 of how much more successful the school had been in the 
 wilderness on the first day. But there he had Owaysa — good, 
 competent Owaysa. 
 
 Was he a weakling altogether that he had to have a girl — 
 a mere savage really — to keep him on the right road? That 
 was ridiculous — fantastic ! Of course he had not wanted to 
 teach school any way. But he must get the money. 
 
 He fell to comparing Owaysa's bronze — or golden — 
 beauty — he could not decide which term to use — with the 
 pink and white Ellen. . . . Owaysa, statuesque and perfect, as 
 she stood naked in the red rays of the rising sun, preparatory 
 to her morning dip in Elk Lake. He wondered if Ellen, naked 
 and poised for a swim, would have breasts as round and 
 shapely. 
 
 Ellen's eyes were blue, and they were provocative. Her 
 golden lashes always seemed to be concealing something. Her 
 body had been soft and yielding in that one moment. After 
 all she was the only white girl he had known since coming 
 to Michigan, he reasoned. But with or without any natural 
 charms, he concluded she must not be permitted to run things 
 on the morrow as she had on the first day. 
 
 Something had gone wrong with the school — something 
 
130 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 with the Indians. Tomorrow he would find out why they had 
 become so stoical. Other white men might think that was 
 their nature, but he had lived with them and knew better. 
 
 Sleep finally overtook him, but it was a sleep obsessed 
 with half-waking dreams of Owaysa leaving the school almost 
 immediately after her arrival, and of Ellen holding him close 
 to her, and laughing because she had made him kiss her. He 
 had tried for months to prevent or forestall this event; every 
 time, in fact, she had caught him alone behind the log barn, 
 or just outside the back door, or even in the living room. 
 
 At four o'clock the next morning when Obadiah called, 
 Martin felt he had hardly slept at all, and went about dressing 
 mechanically, to help with the chores. 
 
 Following the chores and a rapid change of clothes, he 
 announced at breakfast that he would leave early for the 
 school house to build a fire, and departed. 
 
 As he went out into the crisp and frosty morning air, the 
 entire picture of events to come unfolded before him. He 
 would go to George Grannis and see if he might get work as 
 a hostler, leaving the Van Duzer cabin. This, he determined 
 was imperative. If Grannis could not use him then somebody 
 else might. He meant to save the thousand dollars the govern- 
 ment paid him, towards his homestead. The money from his 
 summer work had gone into the wardrobe that his mother 
 had suggested, and he found himself feeling quite like the 
 gentleman in his plum-colored tail coat, flamboyant waistcoat, 
 high collar and pantaloons that were strapped under his boots. 
 He had topped off his garb with the high hat of the era, but 
 this gave no protection for his ears in the nipping cold, and 
 he doubted the wisdom of the hat. It would be too cold, of 
 course, to wear a tail coat alone, so he had also added a 
 redingote. 
 
 As he made his way the short distance from Van Duzer's 
 farm to the Great Sauk Inn he realized there was only one 
 possible thing for him to do, and that was to get out of the 
 mess he was getting into with Ellen. He was unaware of the 
 fact that "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," but the 
 intimacies of life in a log cabin that would be forced upon 
 him during the winter were too dangerous to contemplate. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 131 
 
 Almost before he knew it he would be committed to marry 
 the froward girl, and he could not think of marriage yet. 
 
 There was that homestead site where there were but few 
 trees on at least a three-hundred-acre tract of prairie land, 
 right where the Maumee trail turned east, that must be con- 
 quered before he could consider a wife. He thought of it 
 again, as he walked along — thought of the spring of clear 
 water that bubbled from a hillside. It was the prettiest spot 
 for a homestead he had ever seen, he told himself. There or 
 nowhere could he find the freedom for which he longed. 
 
 On Martin's entrance into the great room of the inn he 
 was greeted by Grannis in his shirt sleeves, in conversation 
 with Christian Derbyshire who had apparently just alighted 
 from the stagecoach from Chicago. 
 
 "Ah, Martin! Good morning!" Grannis greeted. 
 
 "Good morning, George !" Martin replied. "Would you, by 
 any chance have an opening here for a hostler who'd work 
 for his board and room?" 
 
 "If you mean yourself, aren't you staying with Obadiah?" 
 
 "Don't think it'll work out, George. You see Obadiah 
 really doesn't need a man this winter, and I'd a little rather 
 be here at the Inn, where people can get hold of me if they 
 need to. The Indians, you know, wouldn't want to look me 
 up at Obadiah's." 
 
 "Why, yes, I believe I could use you — getting the horses 
 in shape night and morning. When do you want to start?" 
 
 "Right away!" 
 
 Derbyshire came forward suavely, and extended his hand : 
 "I beg your pardon — Mr. Langdon, I believe !" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Derbyshire," Martin answered, taking the limp 
 hand of the government agent. "I see you're here again." 
 
 "Oh, yes, Mr. Langdon!" Derbyshire remarked, bringing 
 a seegar from his pocket and twirling it between his thumb 
 and fingers. "I'm just returning from Tippecanoe, where a 
 number of Indian treaties were arranged on the twenty-sixth 
 and twenty-seventh of October, to be exact." 
 
 "It hardly affects this part of the country, since Chief 
 Baw Beese was not there," Martin replied. 
 
 "Oh, but it does, Mr. Langdon," Derbyshire smiled. "It 
 
132 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 affects all of southern Michigan and northern Indiana. It 
 matters not one whit that Chief Baw Beese was not at 
 Tippecanoe." 
 
 "Mr. Derbyshire is trying to tell you, Martin, that Baw 
 Beese, being only the chief of a small band in Vance township, 
 hasn't much authority with the federal government, and other 
 chiefs have signed for him." 
 
 "But that's dishonest!" Martin ejaculated. "The people of 
 the tribe have to vote on the matter." 
 
 "Dishonest or not, Mr. Langdon, the United States is now 
 the owner of this land, and every redskin is going across the 
 Mississippi. That's an order from Washington. They go out 
 west with other Indians — it's better if all Indians live to- 
 gether anyhow." 
 
 Derbyshire lighted his seegar from a glowing ember he 
 held between a pair of tongs that were by the fireplace. 
 Martin did not like the man's complacent smirk. 
 
 "Those western Indians are mortal enemies of the Pota- 
 watomi !" Martin stated. "These Indians will all be killed if 
 they go across the Mississippi!" 
 
 "Well, they might as well be killed out there by other 
 Indians as killing each other here. When I was here in the 
 summer on my way to Tippecanoe I seem to recall there was 
 a murder right out in front of this tavern." 
 
 Martin explained that following this unusual occurrence 
 the woman who had stabbed her husband had been executed 
 in accordance with tribal law. 
 
 "There you have it, Mr. Langdon, in a nutshell. They 
 have no regard for law and order, for one savage kills another. 
 So it really will not matter what happens to them once they 
 cross the Mississippi. It will no longer be necessary to keep 
 them moving by selling their village sites to the settlers. The 
 land in the whole township of Vance will now be opened up 
 for sale." 
 
 Martin realized that the Indians must be told in a most 
 diplomatic manner of this unfortunate turn of events, or their 
 tempers would run so high as to jeopardize the lives of all 
 the settlers, and voiced his thoughts to George. 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes, Martin ! And since you're teaching the 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 133 
 
 Indian children, and know the Indians so well, you are the 
 very one to tell them." 
 
 "Why bother yourselves?" Derbyshire inquired. The 
 government will see that Baw Beese is notified." 
 
 "The people running the federal government, Mr. Derby- 
 shire, do not happen to live here," George said sharply. "They 
 don't realize that we are entirely surrounded by Indians ; and 
 we don't want our buildings burned, nor do we want to be 
 scalped." 
 
 "Let them scalp a few people — burn a few cabins," 
 Derbyshire urged. "It'll be that much easier to have the gov- 
 ernment remove them." 
 
 "You talk like a fool !" George retorted. "You don't know 
 how good these Indians have been to the settlers — kept most 
 of them from starving, that's what. And according to the only 
 treaties they've signed, they're entitled to reservations right 
 here in Vance township, and they're entitled to a school 
 teacher and a blacksmith. Martin Langdon here is their school 
 teacher." 
 
 "Oh! I was not aware, Mr. Grannis, that he was the 
 teacher of an Indian school. Sent here by President Jackson, 
 Mr. Langdon?" 
 
 "Not exactly," Martin answered. "I must be going. Pos- 
 sibly I can tell Pamasaw in school today." 
 
 "Well and good, Martin," George agreed. "But be sure 
 he's careful to get word to the chief himself!" 
 
 "Oh, he'll do that, George. And I'll also be along to take 
 advantage of that job you have for me." 
 
 Without saying adieu to Derbyshire, Martin started for 
 the schoolhouse in a troubled mood. On him revolved the 
 unpleasant business of informing the Indians that they were 
 to be illegally dispossessed. 
 
 As he was building up a crackling wood fire in the fire- 
 place at the schoolhouse he realized that less than a year ago 
 he would have believed the ideas expressed by Derbyshire 
 were absolutely all right. 
 
 He did not hear the opening of the door on its wooden 
 hinges, as he continued fixing the fire, but he became aware 
 of the presence of another person in the room, and turning 
 
134 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 suddenly he saw that it was Owaysa, who was standing 
 silently watching him. 
 
 "Owaysa!" he exclaimed, taking a step towards her. 
 
 "You are glad to see me, Martin, when she isn't here!" 
 
 Her emphasis on the word "she" left no doubt in his mind 
 that she meant Ellen. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you anyhow. You've no idea how glad !" 
 
 "I've come to tell you, Martin, that your school will be a 
 failure." 
 
 "It mustn't be a failure, Owaysa! It must be successful!" 
 
 "You shouldn't separate the Indians and the palefaces. If 
 we're to live together, we must study together ; but if this 
 school's for Indians, the Indians tolerate the palefaces, and 
 not the palefaces the Indians." 
 
 "I hadn't thought of it in quite that way. Was that what 
 was wrong yesterday?" 
 
 "That, and the terrible girl you called Ellen! I don't like 
 her." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "She smirks! The Indians all hate her." 
 
 "What Indians, Owaysa?" 
 
 "They all came to our lodge after they got back from 
 school yesterday. They are hurt — by you. They say because 
 you are now dressed in paleface clothes, you are not the same 
 as when you were at the lodge of Osseo with a broken leg." 
 
 "Thank you, Owaysa. The school won't be a failure, I can 
 promise you that." 
 
 "And will you keep the promise, Martin, even if the pale- 
 face girl objects?" 
 
 "You must think this girl, Ellen, has some power over 
 me." 
 
 "Hasn't she?" 
 
 "She's only a pupil here, like the others," Martin said, 
 feeling a slight flush come into his cheeks. 
 
 "I believe I'll stay today and see," Owaysa stated. 
 
 Martin was glad she would stay. The Indians would feel 
 easier with her here. But as to the other matter — the thing 
 Derbyshire had said. There was nobody he could discuss 
 such a calamity with as he could Owaysa. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 135 
 
 He then told her of Derbyshire's visit last August, and 
 how he had inquired about the purchase of the land on which 
 Meshawa od-dawn stood, in order to discourage the Indians 
 and make them move on. He told her that he surmised Derby- 
 shire was interested in buying the land for Jake Durgy under 
 the name of Jacob Dorique. 
 
 "The Seneca," Owaysa interrupted him, "have come to 
 the village. Stick-in-the-mud is with them. They only await 
 the return of Durgy. He did kill his wife, with some sort of 
 blow on the head. My father and the Seneca found the body 
 in Durgy's cornfield." 
 
 "But that's not the worst of it, Owaysa. Derbyshire's 
 back. He's at the tavern, and says he'll sell all of Vance 
 township to the white settlers." 
 
 "But he can't! Baw Beese has signed no new treaties!" 
 
 "I told him that, Owaysa, but he says it isn't necessary. 
 Other chiefs have signed, and Baw Beese is chief of only a 
 small band." 
 
 "What can we do, Martin — what can we do?" The girl 
 put her hands on his shoulders and looked searchingly into 
 his eyes. 
 
 "I thought of telling Pamasaw." 
 
 "No, Martin! Not the young men! No-no-no! There'd be 
 scalpings and burnings — then the she-mauge-nich-shuck, the 
 soldiers would come. No, it must be Baw Beese himself that 
 we tell. He is wise. He'll call the old men to a council fire. 
 We'll both go to him and tell him. I can tell him in Pota- 
 watomi and you in English." 
 
 "But I have to teach school today." 
 
 "As soon as school's out, Martin — please?" 
 
 Her eyes searched his appealingly, and to Martin she 
 seemed more beautiful than any other girl in the world. She 
 was as much a lady in distress as any white girl could pos- 
 sibly be — and she aroused a protective emotion in him he 
 had never felt before towards any girl. 
 
 "When school's over today, if I can get a horse, I'll go to 
 Meshawa od-dawn, and we'll see Baw Beese." He turned to 
 the fireplace, and was putting on another log when the In- 
 dians came in the door with a rush, ready for school. 
 
136 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Finally, the white pupils arrived and all resumed their 
 seats as on the day before, Owaysa seating herself with the 
 Indian girls. 
 
 "We will open school with prayer," Martin stated, and 
 taking the Book of Common Prayer from his desk, he offered 
 the prayer for all sorts and conditions of men. Then he said : 
 "There's an announcement I shall make at this time concern- 
 ing the seating. From now on you will sit in age groups." 
 
 Ellen raised her hand. 
 
 "Yes, Ellen?" 
 
 "Does that mean that people who are sixteen or over will 
 sit together, no matter who they are?" 
 
 "Yes, Ellen, that's just what it means ; and it doesn't 
 matter whether they are boys or girls." 
 
 "Oh, dear!" Ellen pouted. "I never heard of such a thing!" 
 
 "Well, you're hearing it now. So, Pamasaw, Fred Fowler, 
 Bill Lancaster, Ellen and Owaysa will all please take these 
 seats and be an example for the others." 
 
 Ellen tried to get as close as possible to the log wall when 
 Owaysa sat beside her. The others, both white and red, all 
 sat in their approximate age groups and were well-pleased 
 with the arrangement. 
 
 At recess, the Indians and the white children played to- 
 gether that day, while several Indian games were introduced 
 by Owaysa, who somehow supervised things outside. Ellen 
 remained indoors, however, and came close to Martin. 
 
 Pretending not to notice her he continued writing in his 
 school records the attendance of the day, which was perfect. 
 Ellen sighed, but Martin still did not look up. 
 
 "I don't like this seating arrangement at all, Martin." 
 
 "I am Mister Langdon, Ellen. You must not call me 
 Martin." 
 
 "Oh, don't be an old fogey, Martin. We're alone now." 
 She came as close to his desk as possible and Martin rose to 
 his feet. 
 
 "Ellen, this is an Indian school! The feelings of the In- 
 dians are more important than yours." 
 
 "How can you talk like that to me, Martin, after what's 
 happened between us?" 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 137 
 
 "Nothing's happened between us," Martin stated. 
 
 "Nothing?" Ellen's face flushed in anger. "Unless you treat 
 me differently, you'll be surprised at what's happened between 
 us, Martin Langdon — yes, you'll really be surprised. Who's 
 that girl, Owaysa, anyhow?" 
 
 Martin did not answer her. 
 
 "She's your Injun girl, isn't she? — Isn't she?" 
 
 Ellen was fairly shrieking her question when the door 
 opened and the pupils trooped in, led by Owaysa and Pama- 
 saw — all in high spirits, and all settling down with almost 
 abnormal calm after their brief romp in the brisk air of the 
 outdoors. Ellen resumed her seat silently. 
 
 Immediately after school Martin moved his things out of 
 the Van Duzer loft, and into the Great Sauk Inn. Obadiah 
 and Filena expressed regret and protested against his leaving, 
 but Martin was obdurate and told them he needed to be 
 nearer the schoolhouse. 
 
 At the tavern George Grannis was completely co-opera- 
 tive when Martin told him he wanted to contact Baw Beese 
 that night, and asked the loan of a horse to ride to Meshawa 
 od-dawn. 
 
 George gave his consent without urging, and Martin, 
 after changing to buckskins and donning gloves and a fur 
 cap, rode over the Maumee trail on the bald-faced mare that 
 was reserved for use under saddle. 
 
18 
 
 Sound of the Tom-Tom 
 
 m MHB^"^"'"^' was not aware °* being 
 
 w SttpS followed over the trail; for he 
 
 rode hard, anxious to arrive at Elk Lake 
 
 before dusk. The day was well gone when he started from 
 
 Grannisville, and the tall clock in the tavern had signalled 
 
 the time as half after four. 
 
 He paused in his ride when he arrived at the spring at 
 the foot of the hill where the trail turned east. There he 
 drank in the vision he had held since last summer, of a broad 
 farm on the almost treeless prairie to the south. The water 
 gurgled from the spring as happily in the fall as it had in 
 summer. The land still looked good with the leaves gone 
 from the maples and basswoods that stood closeby. The oaks 
 and a lonely sycamore on the bank of the brook were still 
 tenaciously clinging to their once green leaves. After watering 
 his horse and taking a last look at the site he headed east. 
 
 At his back the sun was dipping low in the west, making 
 exaggerated long shadows of himself and steed, indicating 
 twilight was about to descend upon the forest. A fallen tree 
 across the trail caused him to bring his mount to a walk, and 
 the sound of hoofbeats echoed on the still air. Turning, he 
 saw the rider was Christian Derbyshire on a horse he had 
 rented from Grannis. 
 
 "Where'd you think you're going, Derbyshire?" Martin 
 inquired as the horseman reached him. 
 
 "I'm going with you." 
 
 Martin stopped his horse, and turning to the government 
 agent inquired: "Are you crazy?" 
 
 "I intend telling those redskins that they're moving west, 
 Mr. Langdon. Since you and Mr. Grannis believe they should 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 139 
 
 be notified, I realize it should be by an official envoy of the 
 United States." 
 
 "There's no telling what these Indians may do when they 
 first find out the government's taking their land away from 
 them without their consent. If they're told just right, they'll 
 probably be peaceable; but if you go into their village and 
 make the sort of brazen announcement I imagine you might, 
 I have an idea you may not get back to Detroit." 
 
 "Why, they'd be punished. The government would look 
 into my disappearance, and — " 
 
 "And what do you suppose they'd find, Derbyshire? Well, 
 I'll tell you. They'd find you were missing. Perhaps some of 
 your clothes would be found somewhere — not anywhere near 
 the trail. All indications would point to the fact that you'd 
 lost your way in the wilderness, and eventually the search 
 would be given up. There are bears, wolves and panthers out 
 here that can kill a man, and you can be very sure the Indians 
 would know nothing about you." 
 
 "You're only trying to scare me, Mr. Langdon, because 
 you don't want me to find their village. You wouldn't tell me, 
 you know, so I have no alternative but to follow you there." 
 
 "Where do you come from, Derbyshire?" 
 
 "Why, New York City — I have very influential friends 
 in Washington." 
 
 "Where's your pistol?" 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Mr. Langdon. I find the pen a much 
 better weapon than a pistol." 
 
 "Derbyshire, every time you speak I'm convinced that 
 you know less and less." 
 
 "Of course I suppose a backwoods school teacher from 
 outstate New York would know more than a gentleman 
 educated in a great city," Derbyshire sneered. 
 
 "Maybe, Derbyshire. In fact, because you have influence, 
 don't think a bear, a wolf or even an Indian will give a 
 damned. No matter what you can do with your pen they'll be 
 unimpressed — remember that. Nobody with any sense at all 
 would venture into these forests without a weapon." Martin 
 patted his own pistol in his belt. 
 
140 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "You threatening me by any chance?" Derbyshire in- 
 quired with a look of momentary alarm amusing to Martin, 
 who observed the shadows deepening. Exasperated with the 
 land agent, he heeled his horse and cantered towards the 
 Indian village. Derbyshire followed for another mile or so, 
 and Martin reined in his mount again. 
 
 "Once and for all, Derbyshire, you can get out of here 
 and head back to Grannisville as fast as you can get there. 
 Try and make it before dark." 
 
 "You forget," Derbyshire smiled ironically. "I am un- 
 armed in a vast wilderness, I'm going with you. You can 
 protect me." 
 
 "You overestimate my powers, Derbyshire. If anything 
 happens to you, don't blame me." 
 
 Heeling his horse again, Martin headed for Meshawa od- 
 dawn, closely followed by the land agent. It was dusk when 
 they reached the valley of Elk lake and the lodge of Osseo 
 where Martin dismounted, told Derbyshire to wait until he 
 returned, and made his way to the entrance. 
 
 The bearskin curtain that hung over the doorway was 
 pulled aside, and Owaysa, who had been expecting him, was 
 about to speak when she saw Derbyshire following at 
 Martin's heels. 
 
 "Who's with you?" she demanded. 
 
 "I'm the government land agent, Christian Derbyshire — 
 I have come — " 
 
 "No new treaties have been signed," Owaysa interrupted 
 him. "Martin should not have brought you. The tribe will 
 decide what to do with you." 
 
 She vanished into the lodge which was lighted by an open 
 fire, from which the curling hickory smoke came through a 
 hole in the roof. 
 
 "What did that squaw mean, when she said the tribe 
 would decide what to do with me?" 
 
 "She's not a squaw, Derbyshire. She's a maiden — keeg- 
 ya-goo, is the Indian term ; and she meant exactly what 
 she said." 
 
 "But it isn't for them to decide matters about me. It's 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 141 
 
 for me to decide about them. This is the United States, no 
 matter how they argue it." 
 
 "If you don't like their ideas perhaps you'd better head 
 back for Grannisville." 
 
 "It's dark, Langdon, and I — I — " Derbyshire's breathing 
 became heavy with excitement. 
 
 "Naturally, Derbyshire! It gets dark every night. You're 
 now in that famous predicament, popularly known as between 
 the devil and the deep blue sea — there's the fear of the 
 Indians here and the fear of getting lost in the unknown." 
 
 Osseo and Owaysa appeared. They were carrying thongs, 
 and before Derbyshire realized what they were doing his 
 hands were being bound together. 
 
 In terror Derbyshire shrieked : "Langdon, you can't just 
 stand there and let them do this to me !" 
 
 "They're only making sure you're harmless when you ap- 
 pear before the tribal council, Derbyshire." 
 
 "He will stay here, at our lodge. My father will guard him 
 while you and I go and tell Baw Beese the bad news," 
 Owaysa said to Martin. 
 
 "Me take him in wigwam — watch good !" Osseo stated, 
 and conducted the reluctant Derbyshire into the bark house. 
 
 After tying the horse Derbyshire had ridden, to a nearby 
 sapling, Martin and Owaysa made their way to the center 
 of the village. The full moon, rising over the lake lent a 
 beauty to the row of bark houses that was lacking in the 
 bright sun. 
 
 At the door of the largest of the lodges in Meshawa od- 
 dawn they paused, and Owaysa called: "Po-sho! Baw Beese!" 
 
 The bearskin at the doorway was unfastened and held aside 
 by Ash-te-wette, who said only "Ugh !" in greeting. 
 
 Owaysa led Martin inside, where the chief was sitting 
 cross-legged on some blankets at the end of the room farthest 
 from the door. 
 
 "Po-sho, Owaysa ! Po-sho, Martin Langdon !" Baw Beese 
 greeted them. Owaysa, using the Potowatomi tongue, which 
 Martin could not understand, explained rapidly much that had 
 transpired, stressing only the possible sale of lands according 
 to the new treaties. 
 
142 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Baw Beese smoked a few moments, then said in his native 
 tongue: "Do the Long Knives take us for fools that we do 
 not know the agreements they made with our fathers at 
 Greenville and later at Detroit? Do they take us for women 
 because we have laid down our hatchets and let our weapons 
 get dull? There are as many ways to deal with this situation 
 as there are stars in the heavens during the moonless nights 
 of summer. More than one tree is felled for a beaver dam 
 and more than one stream may be used for the purpose." 
 
 "I have brought Martin with me to tell you all that he can 
 of the matter," Owaysa explained, still using the Indian 
 tongue. "His words are true. He does not lie. You say 
 there are as many ways to deal with this breach of faith as 
 there are stars in the heavens ; but there is only one right 
 way. Baw Beese is a great chief. I am sure he will call 
 in wise council." 
 
 "The daughter of Osseo is understanding. The elders of 
 the tribe shall be summoned at once. This is not a matter 
 for my hot-headed son, Pamasaw, nor other young braves. 
 They will too hastily sharpen their hatchets." 
 
 The chief spoke to Ash-te-wette, who vanished into the 
 night outside. 
 
 "I suppose, Baw Beese, Owaysa told you about Derby- 
 shire and how he followed me here?" Martin inquired. 
 
 "She not say he come here," Baw Beese replied. 
 
 "Osseo has him at his lodge. Derbyshire wants to tell 
 the tribe bluntly that they must move onto reservations in 
 the west." 
 
 Chief Baw Beese only grunted, and resumed smoking his 
 pipe. 
 
 "I don't think Grannis and the other settlers will approve 
 the removal of the Indians without a treaty signed by Baw 
 Beese," Martin continued. 
 
 "Me, Baw Beese, good to settlers ! It good to live here 
 with settler! Settler have things Injun needs. Injun have 
 saved settler from starve. He save Captain Allen, qua and 
 keeg-ya-goo when first come six summers ago. They starve 
 without Injun food — take um deer meat, take um bear meat ; 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 143 
 
 take um maple sugar — take um turkey — take um cranberry — 
 even corn for bread." 
 
 The bearskin at the door of the wigwam opened, letting 
 in a gust of the cold night air. Ash-te-wette had returned. 
 Almost at once the sound of the Indian drum started — the 
 tom-tom, monotonously beating out its rhythm of seventy- 
 two beats a minute. 
 
 "Drum — he beats with Injun pulse!" Baw Beese explained. 
 
 * * * 
 
 In the lodge of Osseo, Derbyshire heard the sounds of 
 the tom-tom. 
 
 "What's that?" he asked in alarm. 
 "Tom-tom ! Baw Beese call tribe ! Call you too ! We 
 go!" Osseo answered. 
 
 "No!" Derbyshire balked at the prospect. "I'll leave — 
 I'll go back to Grannisville !" 
 
 "No!" Osseo grunted. "You come see Baw Beese! You 
 want um Injun land! Say you sell land! See what Injun 
 answer." 
 
 "No, no!" Derbyshire whined, attempting to hold back as 
 Osseo rudely thrust him in front of him and began hurrying 
 him towards the sound of the tom-tom. 
 
 Derbyshire stumbled over the dark terrain, his great dig- 
 nity and poise completely gone. He was obviously terrified. 
 
 The sounds of the tom-tom brought vividly to his mind 
 the burning at the stake — the running of the gauntlet — and 
 all the sundry atrocities about which he had heard and read. 
 But he was pushed along relentlessly by the Indian. 
 
 A council fire was already built outside and was blazing 
 merrily. Indians wrapped in blankets were sitting in a semi- 
 circle. The old men, in a group, were watching the fire as 
 the young men and boys piled on more branches. Osseo 
 escorted Derbyshire to the outer edge of the assemblage 
 where he made him sit on the ground like an Indian. Martin 
 and Owaysa, coming from the chief's lodge, soon located 
 Osseo and Derbyshire and joined them. 
 
 "What will they do to me?" The land agent's terrified 
 whisper was barely audible above the crackling of the flames. 
 
144 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "The council will decide." Martin answered as though he 
 were hardly interested. 
 
 The tom-tom suddenly ceased its beating, and Baw Beese 
 emerged from his wigwam resplendant in his official garb 
 and eagle feathers. He was wearing a heavily-embroidered 
 jacket and a deerskin cloak. 
 
 There was a moment of silence while the chief walked in 
 front of the semi-circle. The young braves scurried to join 
 the old men, the women were watching from a distance with 
 the children beside them. The only female in the group 
 around the council fire was Owaysa. Baw Beese raised his 
 hand and began his talk in his native tongue. 
 
 "My Brothers !" he said. "Our tomahawks have long been 
 dull. Not since the great warrior, Tecumseh, stirred us into 
 action have our weapons been sharp and red. 
 
 "We have known the Long Knives were in control of our 
 forests, our lakes and our rivers. But the Long Knives 
 have promised by many treaties we have the right to hunt 
 and fish wherever and whenever we please. Our hunting has 
 been as free and unmolested as the hunting by the bear, the 
 panther and the wolf. 
 
 "We have been promised that we may live in our forests 
 as free men. We have been promised that we will be pro- 
 vided a school teacher for our children and a blacksmith for 
 our horses — all these matters are provided for by treaties 
 with the Great White Father in Washington. 
 
 "You all know of the sad bereavement that prevented me 
 from going to Tippecanoe as the Long Knives requested, to 
 sign further treaties made during the last moon. But you 
 had already instructed me not to sign away any more land. 
 
 "A messenger from our friend, Moquago at Nottawa Seepe, 
 however, has been sent to tell us that the new treaty offers 
 land to the Potawatomi west of the Father of Waters in the 
 lands of the Sioux, the Omaha, and others who are our most 
 hated enemies. Moquago refused to sign the treaty, and 
 reminds us that we already have a treaty which provides us 
 with what we want — an equal footing with the white settlers 
 who are coming in numbers like the birds in the springtime. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 145 
 
 "But a man named Derbyshire now has arrived — " (The 
 Chief looked at Osseo and his captive, the land agent.) "and 
 he tells use that our Great White Father in Washington has 
 taken the word of Topinabee, Meteay, Kongee and others 
 that they are chiefs over the Potawatomi ; and that the tribes 
 of Baw Beese and Moquago are only as specks of mud scat- 
 tered on the face of the moon, and of as much consequence. 
 Derbyshire says he will dispose of our land and move us out 
 of our forests and onto the great plains of the west, without 
 any agreement or treaty with us. He would cast us out of 
 our homes because Topinabee has signed a treaty at Tippe- 
 canoe." 
 
 There were mumblings of discontent among the younger 
 braves, and Pamasaw, giving a whoop, went to a tree and 
 buried his tomahawk in it. Soon, other young braves were 
 following his example. The tom-tom started to beat out the 
 war dance, and Martin sprang to the side of Baw Beese, filled 
 with apprehension. 
 
 Flinging his hand in the air the chief called out in a voice 
 that reverberated throughout the forest, even above the 
 whoops and the tom-tom : "Silence !" 
 
 The tom-tom ceased its rhythmic monotone abruptly. 
 Pamasaw, looking with apprehension at his father, held up 
 his hand silencing the young braves and stopping the dance. 
 
 "The Great White Father," Baw Beese stated in a loud 
 voice, and in the native tongue, "has already provided the 
 school teacher. You all know Martin Langdon ! Our children 
 are now going to school with the settler's children in Gran- 
 nisville. Removal to the land of our enemies will not be 
 necessary, for we will learn the paleface ways even though 
 they seem strange to us. We will live here where we have 
 always lived, with the treaties we have now. 
 
 "My son, Pamasaw, is young and hot-blooded. Our young 
 men will listen to the council of their elders. Our hatchets 
 are dull, and we will not sharpen them against the Long 
 Knives, who are more numerous than the blades of grass or 
 the prairie, or the leaves on the trees. 
 
146 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "If I do wrong in urging this, I stand condemned before 
 you. If I am right I ask for your approval." 
 
 Baw Beese, standing silent, was like a bronze statue, in 
 the flickering light of the huge council fire. There were 
 grunts of approval, and Pamasaw, pulling his hatchet from the 
 tree, retraced his steps reluctantly to the semi-circle. His 
 example was followed by the other young braves. 
 
 After all had resumed their seats, Baw Beese, turning to 
 Martin, said in broken English : "You, Langdon — now tell 
 about Derbyshire — and Jake Durgy." 
 
 Taking a step forward and focusing his gaze where Osseo 
 and his captive were sitting Martin commanded in a loud 
 voice that rang in the forest with almost as much resonance 
 as the tones of Baw Beese: "Christian Derbyshire, stand up, 
 and come forward that the tribe may see you." 
 
 Derbyshire, obviously terrified, was held erect with Osseo 
 on one side of him, and Owaysa on the other. They led him 
 to Martin, and his face had the pallor of death as he stood in 
 the light of the bright fire. 
 
 "Derbyshire," Martin stated in a forceful manner, "I want 
 from your own lips, before all these people, the truth about 
 Jacob Dorique, and who he is." 
 
 "He's a gentleman of my acquaintance," Derbyshire 
 parried. 
 
 "Isn't he really Jake Durgy?" Martin persisted. 
 
 Derbyshire looked around at the scowling faces of the 
 savages — some of whom had painted themselves hurriedly. 
 He hesitated, and gasped weakly : "Yes, he's Jake Durgy." 
 
 "Now, Derbyshire, do you know that Jake Durgy is a 
 murderer — that he killed his wife?" 
 
 "An Indian squaw!" Derbyshirie sneered, regaining some 
 of his composure. "That's hardly murder, Langdon !" 
 
 "Do you see those Indians over there at the farthest side 
 of the semi-circle, Derbyshire? They are Senecas, who have 
 come from Niagara Falls. They're the next of kin of that 
 unimportant squaw. One of them was her former husband. 
 They want to know where Jake Durgy is. They call her 
 death murder." 
 
 "But they'll kill my friend," Derbyshire began gasping 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 147 
 
 in terror. "Yes, that's all they want, Langdon, is to murder 
 the good man I" 
 
 "You know, Derbyshire, maybe they'd be satisfied just to 
 kill you instead." 
 
 "No, no!" Derbyshire whined. "I've done nothing, — I'll 
 tell you !" Derbyshire paused, looking about for some possible 
 exit. He could discover none, and continued, his voice gain- 
 ing confidence as he talked: "He's in Jacksonburg! He's 
 waiting for me to tell him that he can buy the land at the 
 site of this village, and as my friend, Jacob Dorique, has 
 already anticipated trouble, I've promised him a company of 
 United States troops to come here and protect him." 
 
 The Seneca rose from where they were sitting on the 
 ground, almost as a single unit, and retired to a lodge. Derby- 
 shire watched them leave. 
 
 "Are you the secretary of war for President Jackson that 
 you can promise troops for guard duty?" Martin inquired. 
 
 "I am Christian Derbyshire, and I'm within my rights to 
 promise protection for a citizen fearful for his life." 
 
 The Seneca came out of the lodge, carrying muskets, 
 blankets, and their belongings. 
 
 "What are those men going to do?" Derbyshire asked 
 furtively. 
 
 "They're going to Jacksonburg, Derbyshire. They're not 
 waiting for the soldiers to come." 
 
 "But he must be warned — you just can't let savages have 
 their own way with a white settler, Langdon." 
 
 "With a man like Durgy? Why not? Anyhow, he's only 
 half-white. He's a half-breed, Derbyshire. What are you?" 
 
 Derbyshire was beginning to perspire. He was no longer 
 defiant but half whining his answer. "I told you, I'm a native 
 New Yorker. I have great influence in Washington, I — " 
 his voice ended and he shook his head in utter hopelessness, 
 as though suddenly aware that Washington and his influence 
 there were a great way off. 
 
 "Suppose we let you go and warn your friend, Jake Durgy. 
 Would you still send the troops to protect him?" 
 
148 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "You mean let me go — free? " Derbyshire's features 
 lighted with sudden hope. 
 
 "It might be arranged." 
 
 "I promise you, Langdon, if you can get me off I'll never 
 do a thing to help Jacob Dorique come here nor send any 
 soldiers." 
 
 Martin spoke a few words to Baw Beese, who nodded 
 and addressed the seated braves in their own language. A 
 gesture of dismissal was given by all, and the chief, turning 
 to Martin, stated : "It is good — let him go now — into forest. 
 He leave us alone we let him go." 
 
 The horse belonging to George Grannis was found eleven 
 miles east of the Great Sauk Inn at the cabin of Silas Benson, 
 a few days later. Of Derbyshire they found no trace, for 
 he did not return to Grannisville. 
 
19 
 
 Martin Learns That Any Man Is Fair Game 
 
 HE SNOWS came early to Michi- 
 gan Territory that winter, and on 
 Christmas Day the Great Western stage- 
 coaches did not get through to Grannisville. It was the first 
 day the Indians had come to school on snowshoes for Martin 
 had been told that Christmas was not a holiday. 
 
 Obadiah VanDuzer, a self-appointed director of education, 
 along with George Grannis and Jim Smith, had settled the 
 matter one evening in the Great Sauk Inn. 
 
 "Christmas," Obadiah stated, "represents popery, and is 
 nothin' but a heathen holiday. We don't hold with stoppin' 
 work to observe it." 
 
 George and Jim nodded assent, to which Smith added : 
 "Now on New Year's day, though, you can let school out." 
 
 Martin had understood the meaning, and offered no protest 
 to holding school on Christmas Day. However, he decided 
 to honor it in his own way, without mentioning the matter 
 in advance. The last pair of snowshoes had been leaned 
 against the wall, with Harley Smith and Ellen Van Duzer 
 the only white pupils in attendance; and he opened school 
 with the Collect for Christmas Day from The Book of Com- 
 mon Prayer. He then assigned the Epistle from the first 
 chapter of Hebrews to Owaysa, for reading and discussion. 
 
 Ellen made her displeasure felt during Owaysa's assign- 
 ment, and the discussion that followed. Martin, however, 
 assigned to her the reading of the Gospel lesson according 
 to St. John. As soon as Ellen had completed her halting ren- 
 dition of the words she snapped shut the book and raised 
 her hand. 
 
 "Yes, Ellen?" Martin inquired. 
 
150 "OH-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "I should like to know why you are having us read from 
 the Book of Common Prayer today." 
 
 "It's Christmas Day, Ellen. We often read from the 
 same book on other days, and today of all days, our lesson 
 may well turn to the prayer book. Does that answer your 
 question?" 
 
 "Yes, it answers it — in a way." 
 
 Martin considered the matter settled ; as he had supposed 
 all other matters concerning Ellen had been settled when he 
 moved from the Van Duzer home over six weeks ago — 
 as he had hoped the matter of sale of Indian lands had been 
 settled the night Derbyshire had left Meshawa-od-dawn and 
 had not been seen since. 
 
 In all of these surmises, however, he was to learn that he 
 was wrong. 
 
 A stagecoach driver named Spofford, who was new on 
 the Chicago turnpike, told of picking up a ragged and vir- 
 tually starving man near Tecumseh. The man, he said, claimed 
 to be a government land agent; and, although his ragged and 
 dirty condition did not indicate it, he had plenty of money. 
 He told of being tortured by Indians in Vance township, 
 Spofford said, and added : "Said his name was Derbyshire !" 
 
 On New Year's day Martin accepted an invitation to the 
 Van Duzer home for dinner. After the meal he was con- 
 fronted by a pointed question from Obadiah. 
 
 "Didn't we agree that Christmas represented popery?" 
 
 "No," Martin answered. "I made no such agreement. It 
 was just understood that we were to hold school on Christmas 
 Day." 
 
 "Ellen said you had a Christmas service," Obadiah 
 remarked. 
 
 "Martin — I mean, Mister Langdon, called it a reading 
 lesson," Ellen interpolated. "He had that heathen Injun girl 
 read first." 
 
 "And that brings up the question as to how in tarnation 
 you expect to git along here by favorin' Injuns all the time?" 
 Obadiah continued. 
 
 "This is an Indian school, and the settlers' children are 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 151 
 
 attending it. I have to consider first what's good for the 
 Indians." 
 
 "Yeah, I suppose so." Obadiah puffed his pipe philosophi- 
 cally. "But it strikes me this Injun gal yer favorin' is sort o' 
 takin' over the school — " 
 
 "She just runs everything down there !" Ellen stated 
 indignantly. "You'd think it was her school!" 
 
 "She's a natural leader," Martin said. 
 
 "Well, I vum!" Filena put in. "Here it is the first day 
 of 1833 and we're already fightin' over Injuns!" 
 
 "You just ought to see the way that school is !" Ellen 
 spouted. "The games they play ! Injun games, every one 
 of them !" 
 
 "I've been wantin' to talk to you about that, Martin," 
 Obadiah said. "You see all that Ellen, in her hot-headed 
 way has been sayin', she's said before." 
 
 "That girl bosses everything!" Ellen burst out. "She 
 tells all of us what we can do, and what games we can play. 
 She had us playing Snow Snake yesterday — and Run the 
 Gauntlet ! Why, one day before the snow came she even 
 had us playing that awful heathen game of ball — the game 
 the Injuns were pretending to play when they murdered the 
 whole garrison at Mackinac!" 
 
 "All good, healthful sports," Martin stated coolly. 
 
 "From now on," Obadiah laid aside his pipe, and spoke 
 with an air of authority. "There'll be no more of them 
 heathen games played at the school !" 
 
 "Obadiah," Martin's temper was rising, "I have to teach 
 that school — most of the regular pupils are Indians — and 
 if I don't let them play — " 
 
 "It's all right to let the Injuns play," Filena put in. "But 
 why not let them play skip the rope or roll the hoop, or 
 some nice games?" 
 
 "Or checkers!" put in Ellen. "I'd like to learn to be a 
 good checker player." 
 
 "Land yes, seein' Ellen's seventeen years old now, checkers 
 is more suited to her than heathen games of romping!" Filena 
 agreed. 
 
 "I can imagine playing checkers outdoors," Martin 
 
152 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 remarked with a humorous smile. "It would be particularly 
 fine in the snow — lots better than Snow Snake." 
 
 "Well, it's high time somebody put them Injuns in their 
 places !" Obadiah stated. "Why you're treatin' 'em just 
 like white folks." 
 
 "Isn't the idea to educate them so they can know our way 
 of living?" inquired Martin. 
 
 " 'Taint no such thing as makin' equals of 'em though. No 
 siree ! Why, the first you know they'll expect to own farms, 
 and be votin' and all that sort o' thing. Now you know Injuns 
 aint nat'rally like that!" 
 
 "A human being's a human being!" Martin was becoming 
 annoyed. 
 
 "Well, I vum!" Filena ejaculated. 
 
 "Do you see? That's what I've been telling you folks 
 all the time ! He thinks Injuns are as good as we are — better, 
 I guess, when it comes to some of them!" 
 
 Realizing the bickering would continue indefinitely Martin 
 excused himself, thanked Obadiah and Filena for their kind- 
 ness in having him to New Year's dinner, and went into the 
 front room of the cabin to don his great coat. Neither Obadiah 
 nor Filena arose to bid him good-bye. Ellen, however, was 
 on her feet, and went in to assist him. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Martin," she said. "I've acted very badly. 
 Please forgive me." 
 
 "I understand, Ellen, how you feel about things, but — " 
 
 "No, you don't know how I feel, Martin." She made a 
 hasty movement to a sewing basket then returned with a pair 
 of socks. "For you," she said, holding them out. "I knitted 
 them for your New Year's gift." 
 
 "Thank you, Ellen." On reaching to take the socks he 
 found her arms around him. 
 
 "I love you so much," she whispered. "Don't be an old 
 fogey — kiss me !" 
 
 "You can't love me, it's—" 
 
 But Ellen, not accepting this objection as an answer, 
 kissed him full on the mouth. "You can't tell me that," she 
 said. "I know better!" Martin dropped the socks in confusion, 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 153 
 
 and as he was holding Ellen's wrists to dislodge them from 
 his shoulders, Obadiah appeared in the doorway. 
 
 "Well ! I might have knowed the gal would lose her heart 
 over you, Martin !" 
 
 Martin, embarrassed, and in a quandary for words, was 
 going to deny all guilt, when Obadiah added : "O' course her 
 ma was a bit younger than Ellen is now when I married her ; 
 but I don't know's I'll feel too bad about havin' you fer a 
 son-in-law — if'n o'course, you git them pesky idees of favorin' 
 Injuns out o' yer head." 
 
 "You don't understand !" Martin was saying when Filena 
 joined her husband in the doorway. 
 
 "Oh, we understand, all right," Filena stated. "I've known 
 all along what was goin' on. You aint fooled us none — and 
 her knittin' socks! I knew who they was for." 
 
 "I had no idea — " Martin began. 
 
 "I knowed how the wind blowed 'way along last summer," 
 Obadiah chortled. 
 
 "It's all a misunderstanding, I — " 
 
 " 'Twant no misunderstandin' when you kissed her in the 
 school house that day, was it, Martin?" Obadiah inquired 
 wisely. 
 
 "I didn't—" 
 
 "It's all right," Obadiah stated. "Don't need no apology. 
 After all, Ellen's our daughter, and we natch'ly are partic'ler 
 about who she marries." 
 
 "Yes indeedy ! I vum ! I never dreamed it would be so soon !" 
 
 Martin, aware that protestations were useless, realiz- 
 ing that Ellen must have told some fantastic falsehoods about 
 his relations with her, picked up his hat and bolted to the 
 door. He did not say good-bye, nor did he pick up the socks 
 he had dropped. 
 
 "Come to dinner Sunday, Martin," Ellen called. He did 
 not answer. 
 
 Despite the stinging northwest wind blowing powdery 
 snow in his face in the near-zero temperature, his cheeks 
 burned as he made his way to the Great Sauk Inn. He needed 
 the solace of a confidant, but there would be only George 
 Grannis and his wife at the tavern, for not a stagecoach had 
 
154 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 come through that day. Neither were there any emigrants 
 in covered wagons coming along at this time of year. He 
 comprehended the full extent of the plans of the Van Duzers. 
 Single and eligible young men were scarce in Vance township ; 
 for the emigrants were coming with wives, and usually small 
 children. Ellen, admittedly as beautiful as a china doll, was 
 afraid of becoming an old maid. But there was no real warmth 
 in her kiss. 
 
 Seven months ago when Martin had first struck Grannis- 
 ville and fiddled the dance, he would have counted himself 
 lucky to have so pretty a girl pretend she was in love with 
 him. His thoughts wandered to Owaysa — so different — so 
 real — but who laid no claim to him. In fact, she seemingly 
 looked down on him as inferior because he was a "paleface". 
 She was always challenging him in one way or another. At 
 first he needed to prove he was not a horse thief ; next that 
 he could teach Indians to read English ; then that he was able 
 to hold his own against Jake Durgy. 
 
 Whenever he met these challenges, however, there was 
 always an inner satisfaction when he received the look of 
 approval that shown in Owaysa's brown eyes. Her approval 
 always bolstered his ego, and a man needed that — especially 
 when he was alone in a strange country, where he had no 
 roots, and when his old friends were all back east. 
 
 On reaching the inn Martin asked for some ink and a quill 
 pen, and sitting at a table near the window, he sharpened the 
 pen. He would write a letter on this first day of the new year. 
 The bleak winter sunlight gleamed feebly through the 
 swirling eddies of snow outside while he composed a long 
 overdue letter in which he was careful to omit any reference 
 to involvement with Ellen, but which, it is true, did contain 
 a resume of nostalgic memories of home and of other New 
 Year's days. It concluded : 
 
 "I find school teaching here less irksome than at 
 Willink, but it is still too confining, and I long constantly 
 for the outdoor life of action I came to the Northwest 
 to have. 
 
 Respectfully, your loving son, 
 Martin." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 155 
 
 After sealing his epistle with wax, addressing it and hand- 
 ing it to George, he went upstairs to change his clothes before 
 taking care of the horses. 
 
 Early the next morning a stagecoach came through from 
 Chicago, and Martin left then with flint and tinder to build 
 a fire in the school house. 
 
 His breath vaporized as it struck the cold air, leaving 
 frost on the collar of his great coat as he walked the equiva- 
 lent of two city blocks. 
 
 No sooner had the fire been built than the door opened 
 and Ellen came in. She was heavily dressed in fur coat and 
 mittens and she carried a muff. 
 
 "Good morning, Martin. I've come early because there's 
 so much to talk about." 
 
 "I've told you before my name is 'Mister Langdon' !" 
 
 "But there's nobody else here. Anyhow, pa and ma think 
 we're engaged, and are already planning the wedding." 
 
 "The wedding?" Martin was aghast. "I haven't any money 
 you know, nor have I taken up land yet." 
 
 "Don't be an old fogey ! Here are your socks. You forgot 
 to take them with you yesterday." 
 
 She was approaching him with the socks she had drawn 
 from the muff, and Martin hastily retreated behind the desk, 
 taking the gift stiffly. 
 
 "Thank you!" He stuffed them into the pocket of his 
 coat tail. 
 
 "You're coming to dinner Sunday, aren't you?" 
 
 In the moment of Martin's hesitation, Ellen leaned across 
 the desk, pursing her lips for a kiss, when the door opened 
 and Bill Lancaster entered, taking in the situation at a glance. 
 
 Again Martin felt himself in a compromising situation, not 
 helped by the knowing smirk on young Lancaster's face, as 
 he removed his fur cap and mittens and shuffled to his cus- 
 tomary seat. Ellen, observing Bill's expression — shrugged and 
 gave him a sidelong look of triumph which he would be free 
 to interpret as he wished — and removed her coat and bonnet. 
 
 When Owaysa entered she walked straight to Martin, and 
 spoke in a low tone : "The Senecas have come back from 
 Jacksonburg. Jake Durgy is dead !" 
 
20 
 
 A Disappointing Letter Comes From 
 Governor Mason 
 
 ^^^ _ _ 
 
 ^^ ^ Hill IllfflT WAS on Friday, January 11th, 
 
 that Martin found Obadiah, Jim 
 Smith and George Grannis in a huddle when 
 he reached the tavern. 
 
 George who was holding an official-looking document in 
 his hand motioned Martin to join the group, and said in a 
 melancholy tone, "I'm sorry to say that I'm unable to get 
 the school approved by the government." 
 
 "I thought it was all arranged before I started." 
 "So did we," Smith stated. "We all assumed it would be — 
 until today when George got this letter from Governor Mason." 
 "What does it say?" 
 "Read it to him, George." 
 
 "Well — " George was dubious and paused a moment. 
 "After all—" 
 
 "I can stand it, George. What does it say?" 
 "It's bound to hurt your feelings, but following the official 
 greetings and salutations this is it," and George read aloud : 
 "The school you mention is not qualified to receive the 
 government funds for its maintenance. According to the 
 treaty of 1821 the school should be on the South side of 
 the St. Joseph River, and at Grannisville the river runs 
 north and south, and the school is on the east side. Former 
 Governor Cass, now in President Jackson's cabinet, points 
 out that additional treaties have been signed with these 
 Indians on October 26th and 27th last, making the earlier 
 provisions unnecessary. 
 
 "Therefore, I am compelled to deny your request. In 
 addition to the above official reason there is a report 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 157 
 
 being circulated and recently publicized in Detroit, by 
 Christian Derbyshire, a land agent. 
 
 "It is to the effect that the young man teaching the 
 school at Grannisville is not only thoroughly incompetent 
 as a teacher, but encouraged the Indians to treat the land 
 agent shabbily. Indeed, according to Mr. Derbyshire's 
 account, these very Indians had him tied to a stake and 
 were going to burn him alive 'at the teacher's instigation', 
 when his friend, Jacob Dorique, at great risk to his own 
 life, appeared on horseback and rescued him. However 
 Mr. Dorique was in turn pursued by the savages and Mr. 
 Derbyshire fled for his life through the wilderness — 
 eventually, after many hardships, climbing aboard a stage- 
 coach at Tecumseh, whence he returned to Detroit. 
 
 "In view of these circumstances, Mr. Grannis, I feel 
 it is an imposition to expect that this young man you 
 have engaged to teach the school, should receive recom- 
 pense, whether or not the treaty of 1821 is in effect. It 
 might be better, in fact, if the young man should be taken 
 deep into the wilderness, and quietly hanged. 
 
 Stevens T. Mason 
 
 "It's also signed and sealed that he is Territorial Governor 
 of Michigan," George concluded. 
 
 Martin's fury was uncontained and he burst out: "It's a 
 lie ! A complete fabrication about the land agent ! If the 
 Governor believes him he ought to be removed from office ! 
 Have me quietly hanged! What kind of fellow is he?" 
 
 "A young, hot-headed Virginian, I understand," George 
 answered. 
 
 "The idea of Jake Durgy saving Christian Derbyshire from 
 the Indians!" Martin scoffed. 
 
 "The letter said, 'Jacob Dorique'," Obadiah put in. 
 
 "Of course it did ! That's Jake's other name. Why, that 
 fellow was in Jacksonburg at the time! Derbyshire said so! 
 And later the Senecas went over there and killed him !" 
 
 "How do you know that?" Jim demanded. 
 
 "Owaysa told me !" 
 
158 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "It 'pears to me," Obadiah said, "You're pretty danged 
 well informed on Injun doin's." 
 
 "I guess, Obe, that brings up the question you were asking 
 in a real nice way," Smith remarked, between puffs on his pipe. 
 
 "Yeah!" Obadiah drawled. "We was thinkin' after George 
 got that there letter, that this here school ought to be run 
 by us settlers anyhow. These Injuns don't belong in school. — 
 In fact, Martin, you know's well as I do the best way to get 
 along with 'em is keep 'em ignorant. They don't need no 
 eddication out on the plains where they're goin', and where 
 they belong." 
 
 "You see, Martin," George explained in a friendly man- 
 ner, "this just about finishes the Indian school. No pay for 
 you, and the way the Indians treated that land agent — " 
 
 "You, George, of all people, can't believe that?" 
 
 "Well, Martin, I'd a little rather not." 
 
 " 'Taint nothin' differ'nt, that aint, than what we're always 
 hearin' about 'em," Obadiah observed. 
 
 "Now, Obe," Jim objected. "You know that's not so. 
 They've been mighty friendly to you and me and all the rest 
 of us settlers. They've helped keep us from starvation." 
 
 "I'm not talkin' 'bout exceptions to the rule, like us — " 
 Obadiah retorted. "I'm talkin' 'bout Injuns gen'rally — like 
 fer instance, way back when Gen'ral Braddock was massa- 
 kreed at Pittsburgh, way afore the revolution — and then 
 there was that devil, Tecumseh! Some o' these here very 
 Injuns that we 'low right here in the tavern was with Tecum- 
 seh. Yeah, mebbe even, prob'ly Baw Beese himself was 
 right there scalpin' and splittin' heads with the rest, down on 
 the Raisin. That there land agent's prob'ly tellin' the truth." 
 
 "He isn't!" Martin exclaimed. "Do you believe that I — the 
 fellow you said you'd accept as a son-in-law less than two 
 weeks ago, would be a party to that?" 
 
 "Oh, not you, Martin !" Obadiah hastened to say. "No, I 
 don't believe that part of the land agent's story. But I mean 
 about his bein' tied to the stake and — " 
 
 "Well, I'll say this ! If that happened to Derbyshire, he 
 had it coming to him ! So long as these Indians are willing 
 to learn to live with the white settlers, and send their children 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 159 
 
 to school for an education, I think our government's up to 
 great antics to violate treaties !" 
 
 "But Injuns aint real nations, like France and Spain! 
 They aint real human bein's," Obadiah argued. "They're sons 
 of Cain ! I heard a preacher say so once ! And just look how 
 sly old Baw Beese is. He puts up a reg'lar invite for settlers, 
 then tries to sock 'em rent like some damned landlord!" 
 
 "From information on the treaties signed by the tribe to 
 date, I'd say he's perfectly right," Martin stated. 
 
 "The fact is, gentlemen," George put in. "Martin is not 
 going to get any pay for teaching school, and it means some- 
 thing must be done about it." 
 
 "That's the crux of the whole thing, Martin," Smith agreed. 
 "Now we're too poor to have a real district school here, but 
 we've got a proposition to make." 
 
 "Yeah," Obadiah put in. "The first thing is to get those 
 damned Injuns out o' that school, and keep it fer the settlers' 
 young uns." 
 
 "What about the half-breeds?" ? 
 
 "There aint no half-breeds here! What you talkin' about?" 
 Obadiah flared. 
 
 "I've heard there are settlers here already with wives right 
 off the Seneca reservation in York state," Martin replied. 
 
 "Just talk, prob'bly," Obadiah shrugged. 
 
 "You men all know better than that," Martin was stub- 
 born. "Maybe their wives aren't Senecas, but they're Indians, 
 and that makes their children half-breeds." 
 
 "I figure if a settler's married to an Indian, it's a personal 
 matter," Jim said. "So long as the family acts white they 
 are white. We can't be grasping at straws." 
 
 "If the Injun women aint these Injuns here, it make it 
 all right," Obadiah conceded. "We don't need to know what 
 they are — nor care, neither. Fact is, they can be niggers 
 fer all of me — niggers is just as good as Injuns anyhow — 
 better, mebbe. They don't scalp settlers." 
 
 "These matters are beside the point," George explained. 
 "What we propose, Martin, is that you conduct a white school. 
 We'll raise the money by charging so much a pupil for tui- 
 tion, and — " 
 
160 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "If an Injun comes he pays double," Obadiah interrupted. 
 "And if that aint enough to scare him the price'll keep 
 goin' up." 
 
 Martin demurred, looking from one to the other of the trio. 
 
 George paused a moment, then asked, "Well, Martin, what 
 do you think of our proposition?" 
 
 "It's not so much what I think of it, — it's what the Indians 
 will think of it." 
 
 "What difference does it make?" Obadiah was plainly 
 irritated. "It 'pears to me you're more worried about what 
 Injuns think and do, than what the settlers do." 
 
 "If I was a settler, gentlemen, I'd be mighty concerned 
 about what the Indians think. Wasn't it you, George, who 
 said as much to me when I came here last June?" 
 
 "Of course that was when we just got back from that 
 Blackhawk business," George answered. "But Martin, you're 
 right. It is important what they think." 
 
 "Of course it's not only what they think, but what they 
 might do," Jim observed. "It might stir up some kind of 
 vengeance against us if we tell Baw Beese the truth about 
 the school." 
 
 "We'd have an excuse to git some soldiers down here — 
 mebbe have a fort built — fort's a great thing fer a town!" 
 
 "You want to be the one they kill first, Obadiah?" Jim 
 asked drolly. 
 
 "My solution's very simple," Martin said. "I'll continue 
 teaching school here without pay from the government — that 
 is, if George will let me continue working for my room and 
 board. It would be better than to tell Baw Beese right now 
 the government's violating another treaty. You've no idea 
 what goes on in an Indian village — unless you watch pro- 
 ceedings with your own eyes — when they hear a treaty's 
 being violated." 
 
 Martin narrated briefly what actually happened at Me- 
 shawa-od-dawn the night he had gone to warn the chief about 
 Christian Derbyshire. He did not neglect to remind them that 
 he had sought recourse to the law concerning Durgy's murder 
 of his wife ; but that this had been ignored. The Indians them- 
 selves, however, had meted out their own justice, by sending 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 161 
 
 for the woman's next of kin. He told of the tranquility that 
 had been partially restored through his own small efforts, 
 and of how Baw Beese had berated the young men for sharp- 
 ening their tomahawks. The school, Martin insisted, must 
 for the present be continued, even without funds, however 
 inconvenient it might be for him, or Baw Beese would not be 
 able to restrain the young men. 
 
 "You know, Martin, that's the only possible solution to 
 the problem," George concurred at the conclusion of Martin's 
 talk. 
 
 "Sure, it's the only thing to do," Jim Smith agreed. 
 
 "I'm aginst it!" Obadiah remarked, between vigorous puffs 
 on his pipe. " 'Taint right ! If they git to know as much as 
 us folks they'll be overbearin', and they're too danged proud 
 now !" 
 
 Obadiah, however, was entirely overruled and Martin 
 agreed to continue the school to the end of February. 
 
21 
 
 Martin Closes the School 
 at Maple Syrup Time 
 
 OWARDS the end of February the 
 settlers' children started coming 
 less frequently to school, and the Indians, 
 almost in a body, were putting in no appearance. 
 
 "It's getting maple syrup time," Owaysa explained. 
 
 Fred Fowler and Bill Lancaster said they had to drop 
 "book learning" and help clear land. 
 
 Martin felt his winter's work had been well done, however, 
 when Pamasaw, the slowest of his Indian pupils, began speak- 
 ing better English than some of the settlers — especially 
 Obadiah. Although still in rebellion, Martin gave up resisting 
 the advances made by Ellen. She now never called him by 
 other than his first name, and others followed her example. 
 Gone was the dignity with which he had been treated at 
 Willink, N.Y. ; and the hickory stick was never used. 
 
 "You never whip an Indian," Martin explained to a settler 
 who objected to the lack of beatings in the school. "Indians 
 don't whip their children. To be fair to all, I don't whip 
 anybody." 
 
 Obadiah was particularly insistent that without the fre- 
 quent use of the hickory stick there could be no "eddication" ; 
 and one could not help wondering how much of it Obadiah 
 absorbed with or without corporal punishment. 
 
 Thursday, February 28th, was to be the last day of school, 
 and Martin, planning some exercises he thought might be 
 fitting, suggested that they be held in the big room of the 
 Great Sauk Inn. George Grannis gave his consent and 
 consequently a motley crowd of Indians and settlers assembled. 
 
 The entertainment was simple, consisting of readings 
 which were excerpts from the copy of Shakespeare's "Hamlet" 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 163 
 
 owned by Owaysa and a copy of "The Merchant of Venice" 
 possessed by Jim Smith. 
 
 Most of the settler's children came well-dressed, and Ellen's 
 gown would have done credit for evening wear in a city like 
 Buffalo, displaying with its off-shoulder styling, a large 
 expanse of bare flesh. The muslin dress, matching the color 
 of her eyes, she told Martin proudly, was "celestial blue." 
 Her hair, topped by a high comb, was curled in little ringlets 
 around her ears and on her forehead. She seemed the best- 
 dressed female in the room, although some of the older women 
 wore much the same style, whereas the men for the most 
 part appeared in their buckskins. 
 
 After the announcement that Miss Ellen Van Duzer 
 would give Portia's mercy speech from "The Merchant of 
 Venice," she took her stance with assurance, forgetting in 
 four places and omitting the last part entirely. But bad as 
 the entertainment was, the pioneers applauded every number 
 with equal enthusiasm. 
 
 "Don't see how Obe kin dress her like that," one settler 
 remarked. 
 
 "Well !" snapped his companion. "No daughter of ours 
 would appear like that — half naked." 
 
 But Ellen, aware of admiring glances from the males, 
 realized she was currently the belle of the frontier, and stood 
 close to Martin after she had performed. 
 
 The Indians had wanted to do the maple sugar dance for 
 their part of the program and had brought a tom-tom, which 
 one of them played, while they danced around a maple sapling 
 they had set up in the middle of the floor. 
 
 The settlers did not care greatly for the Indian part of 
 the program, but the Indians themselves were very enthusias- 
 tic. Owaysa, taking part in the dance, was as unrestrained 
 as the others. 
 
 "You see, Martin," Ellen whispered to him behind a fan 
 which she was carrying. "That Injun girl's just a savage 
 like the others." 
 
 He made no reply. It now was a generally accepted fact 
 that he and Ellen were "going together." Bill Lancaster had 
 not been silent about what he saw when he came to school 
 
164 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 early the morning after New Year day; nor had Obadiah 
 and Filena said anything to allay the gossip. 
 
 Everybody in Grannisville — that is, all the white people — 
 knew about the government's refusal to pay Martin for run- 
 ning the school, but they dreaded the time when Baw Beese 
 should find it out. 
 
 At the conclusion of the sugar dance, Owaysa, after making 
 her way to Martin and Ellen inquired: "Is it true, Martin, 
 that the Kemoke-mon have again denied a treaty — the one 
 providing a school teacher?" 
 
 "I've said nothing about it," Martin answered. 
 
 "Then it's true!" Owaysa was disconsolate. 
 
 "Martin! The people are waiting for you to say some- 
 thing," Ellen said. 
 
 "The people?" For a moment Martin stood looking at 
 Owaysa, then turned and addressed the crowd. 
 
 "The Maple Sugar Dance concludes our program. I've 
 enjoyed teaching your school. I don't know when Grannisville 
 will have another teacher. I've sincerely tried to give you my 
 best effort. But as you all know, I did not come to Michigan 
 Territory to continue my career as a school master. But while 
 here I've endeavored to bring what understanding I could 
 among the pupils ; and I believe the school has demonstrated 
 that the problems of this community are not insurmountable. 
 I myself have learned more about people and living with 
 people than I ever knew before. I came here with certain con- 
 victions, and, shall I say — prejudices? I do not need to tell 
 you what they were. But they have all been dispelled, and I 
 want to thank one and all of you for the support you have 
 given me. If at times I've appeared to favor the Indian pupils, 
 as many of you have no doubt thought, it was not so much 
 favoritism as a desire to treat all exactly alike. I did this 
 with the sure knowledge that but for Baw Beese and his 
 tribe you would have had no school. However, for some time 
 it has been known the government will not support the enter- 
 prise and consequently, with tonight's closing exercises, I 
 am sorry to say, that the school, as it has been constituted 
 must necessarily end. 
 
 "I hope to have your continued friendship, for now I 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 165 
 
 expect to be a settler with you. As I have looked over quite 
 a little of Vance township, I want to say it appears very 
 good to me. I will close by repeating the words of Chief 
 Baw Beese on my first night here last June, and I was fid- 
 dling a dance : 'The Land Lies Pretty', or its Indian equiva- 
 lent 'Op-jah-moh-mak-ya' !" 
 
 Martin's speech drew heavy applause from the settlers, 
 but only sad looks from the Indians. 
 
 Stepping forward and raising his hand for silence George 
 Grannis announced that the festivities of the evening would 
 close with a dance. A fiddler, he said, was stopping over for 
 the night, and Dan Atkins came forward and began calling 
 for couples to line up for a quadrille. 
 
 Martin saw Chief Baw Beese coming towards him. He 
 dreaded hearing what the chief had to say. 
 
 "One more couple here !" the voice of Dan Atkins rang 
 out as the dancers started to take the floor, and the fiddler 
 squeaked on his instrument, tuning up. 
 
 Baw Beese continued on his way, but it was Ellen Van 
 Duzer who reached Martin first. Tucking his hand under 
 her arm in a proprietary way she started across the room, 
 but Martin resisted. 
 
 "Don't hold back. They're waiting to start the dance, 
 Martin." 
 
 He turned to Ellen in annoyance. Sooner or later he must 
 face Chief Baw Beese, and he must also face the fact that 
 Ellen was leading him around almost as though she had a 
 ring in his nose. She had forced him into an engagement that 
 his heart refused to sanction. 
 
 "One more couple here !" Again shouted Dan Atkins. 
 
 "Martin, what are you waiting for?" 
 
 Sudden rebellion swept over him. He could not go further 
 in deceiving Ellen into the belief that he would count his 
 enforced engagement valid. She and her parents stifled the 
 feeling of freedom within him. He could tolerate it no longer. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Ellen," he apologized. "I must speak to the 
 chief." 
 
 Indignantly she dropped his hand, and turning, smiled at 
 Bill Lancaster who was passing. She spoke a word to him, 
 
166 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 and Martin saw them joining the set of dancers, as the fiddler 
 started on "Money Musk." 
 
 "You, Langdon, I must talk!" Baw Beese spoke abruptly. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Baw Beese," Martin apologized. 
 
 "You not to blame for not keeping promise. You do right 
 by Indian, now I do right by you. Pick any land you want, 
 and Baw Beese and clan give to you. We own all Vance 
 township. We not like Ke-moke-mon ! Tribe keep promise. 
 Come see ! We give you place to live." 
 
 Martin thanked the chief, and said he would see him to- 
 morrow at Meshawa-od-dawn. The quadrille ended, and 
 Ellen, pretending to ignore him never looked in his direction. 
 Instead she seemed fascinated with Bill Lancaster, and they 
 danced the next one together. 
 
 Martin, who presumed this was to arouse jealousy in him, 
 only smiled to himself. After tonight it would no longer 
 matter what Ellen, nor Obadiah thought of him. He was 
 free to do as he wished. But if Ellen did not break off her 
 pretended engagement, how could he, as a gentleman, bring 
 it about? 
 
 She did not come near him again, pretending gaiety and 
 laughing loudly. Evidently she had taken deep offense when 
 he left her to speak to Chief Baw Beese. 
 
 With the dance still in progress he went upstairs to bed. 
 
22 
 
 Martin Gets His Homestead and Makes Plans 
 
 /■HfHE VISION of the lovely spring 
 Sl^R at the base of the hill where the 
 Maumee trail turned east was in his 
 thoughts as he lay on his bed awake. The lively tunes of the 
 violin playing the dance in the great room below floated into 
 the loft. But he was oblivious to the sounds of gaiety, for 
 he was busy with plans for the future. 
 
 He had almost found the freedom he had come west to 
 obtain. He would have no schoolboard to answer to — nobody 
 to tell him what he might or might not do. At last he would 
 be answerable only to Martin Langdon and to God. That is, 
 if he could free himself of an enforced obligation to marry 
 Ellen Van Duzer. The girl must be the one to break the 
 engagement. A gentleman could not. 
 
 Perhaps, when he was no longer the school master she 
 might turn her attentions elsewhere. There was Bill Lan- 
 caster, for one. But some means must be devised to render 
 himself less attractive to both the girl and to her family. 
 
 Suddenly he thought of the solution. At the present mo- 
 ment, with no money for his winter's teaching he had no 
 way to purchase even an axe. 
 
 In the morning he donned his buckskin outfit, picked up 
 his long rifle, his pistol and his new powder horn and went 
 below. 
 
 "Going hunting?" George asked. 
 
 "Hunting for a homestead." 
 
 "I wish you luck." 
 
 Martin sat down to the table and enjoyed a hearty 
 breakfast. 
 
168 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "I think I'll go out and look things over today. But I have 
 a problem." 
 
 "You mean how to keep Ellen happy while you build 
 your cabin?" George winked wisely. 
 
 Martin ignored the query and asked, "Know anybody 
 willing to trade an axe, a saw and a hatchet for my school- 
 master's outfit?" 
 
 Mrs. Grannis was aghast. "You don't mean, Martin Lang- 
 don, after spending all the money you earned last summer 
 on clothes, that you'll trade them for something like that!" 
 
 "Never heard of anybody cutting down a tree with a pair 
 of pantaloons." 
 
 George said that Dan Atkins needed more than buckskins 
 to call dances, and that as he was a blacksmith, he probably 
 had axes. 
 
 The choice was a happy one and Martin became the posses- 
 sor of an axe, a hatchet, and a crosscut saw with a single 
 one-man handle. Dan in turn was happily outfitted with the 
 plum-colored coat, the top hat and pantaloons of Martin, 
 who now had only his Indian-made buckskin jacket, leather 
 breeches, boots and a fur cap. 
 
 The transaction completed, Martin asked for and obtained 
 the loan of the bald-faced mare, from George, to make his 
 survey of the land he wanted. 
 
 Heading south on the Maumee trail, he reached in about 
 an hour, the place he had selected last summer the day he 
 had gone to Grannisville with Pretty Feather — Pretty Fea- 
 ther, who had been banished from the land occupied by the 
 Baw Beese clan. 
 
 Martin mused on the Indian laws which ignored the white 
 man's rules completely. It was as though each Indian band 
 was a separate country. Banishment seemed to him such an 
 odd solution of the matter. However, knowing Pretty Feather 
 as he did, he had no doubt whatever that she probably was 
 happily located in some settlement and was taking her punish- 
 ment lightly — provided of course there were plenty of men. 
 
 Arriving at the chosen spot he admired it again. It still 
 looked good, now that the treeless prairie to the south was 
 a frozen waste ; and in the southwest, curling smoke revealed 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 169 
 
 the location of a sugar bush. The brook running north from 
 the spring had ice along its edges but was too swift to freeze 
 entirely over. A dam stretched across it could provide water 
 power for a sawmill. 
 
 That, however, was in the future. On the rise of ground 
 to the west of the spring would be the ideal spot for the 
 cabin. Timber had never grown on part of it ; and surround- 
 ing what would become the yard were basswood and sugar 
 maple trees. 
 
 It was Friday, March first, and Martin knew it was such 
 a day in March as would be referred to as "coming in like a 
 lamb." Although winter was the official season, a warm 
 south wind was kissing the air with the promise of spring. 
 Many a cold wind would blow, he knew, before the promise 
 would be fulfilled. 
 
 Yes, this was indeed where the land lay the prettiest of 
 all. Martin smiled to himself about the superstition of start- 
 ing things on Friday and about the first of March. But it 
 would be a fine day for sightseeing anyhow. He headed the 
 horse towards Elk Lake village, and found himself whistling 
 "Yankee Doodle" as he rode. 
 
 On reaching the village he was greeted warmly by Chief 
 Baw Beese, who listened attentively to his request for a 
 homesite. 
 
 "It is good !" the chief said. "Take all land you want, 
 Langdon. Tribe not make you pay rent." 
 
 Martin was profuse in his thanks, and wondered if the 
 Indians would help him in building a log cabin. 
 
 "Build bark house! Man can do alone — easy to build." 
 Martin had often studied the structure of the Indian 
 
 houses in which bark was fastened in some manner to a 
 
 pole framing. 
 
 "When you start," Baw Beese continued. "Pamasaw 
 show you how." 
 
 "I can't pay him," Martin said. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you pay for land and help already — when you 
 help Injun keep land from Derbyshire." 
 
170 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Martin then inquired eagerly what the Indians had done 
 with Derbyshire. 
 
 "Derbyshire get lost," Chief Baw Beese told him. "He 
 leave horse then horse leave him. Pamasaw on hunt gave 
 him food. Then take him to Great Sauk Trail where he get 
 stagecoach. That's all." 
 
 Martin was surprised and pleased to hear of this treat- 
 ment of the land agent by the Indians. But he did not dare 
 tell Baw Beese the tale Derbyshire had related to Governor 
 Mason. It could well mean a fate for Derbyshire not unlike 
 that of his friend, Jake Durgy. 
 
 Bidding farewell to the chief and thanking him profusely 
 Martin returned to Grannisville, pausing only briefly to admire 
 his pretty homesite. 
 
 He hurriedly told George Grannis what he had learned 
 about Derbyshire. And they both decided to write letters 
 telling the truth to Governor Mason. 
 
 The next day Martin went to his homesite and cut saplings 
 for the framework of his bark house. The day following was 
 Sunday and that night Ellen came to see him at the Great 
 Sauk Inn. Frontiersmen, eager for news and gossip were 
 sitting in the big room smoking their pipes, or playing cards, 
 for as yet no clergymen had ventured this far into the wilder- 
 ness preaching the holy terror of hell fire and brimstone to 
 those who desecrated their particular precepts. 
 
 When Ellen greeted Martin, silence prevailed in the room 
 — such a silence that would have rendered even a whisper 
 audible, but Ellen was not speaking in a whisper. 
 
 "Martin !" she said imperiously. "What's this nonsense 
 about you trading off your clothes for an axe and a saw?" 
 
 He admitted he had done so, but denied that it was non- 
 sense. So far as he could see, he told her, the tools were 
 of far more use to him than the fancy clothes. 
 
 "But you'll need them next winter when school opens!" 
 
 "No, Ellen, I'm homesteading it. I'm free to seek my 
 fortune." 
 
 "But if you'd teach school next winter too, you — we — 
 would have all that money to make things easier for us at 
 the start." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 171 
 
 "I'm not going to teach school any more, Ellen." 
 
 Martin's face was expressionless, and Ellen must have 
 realized that she could not change his mind, for she inquired : 
 "Where is this homestead of yours — ours?" 
 
 He told her and she said she was going to visit him 
 and maybe help in the construction of the cabin. He at- 
 tempted to discourage her from doing so, but she said flatly 
 that she would be there on the morrow. She would ride out 
 on horseback and bring him his lunch. 
 
 The next day, however, was the day of a big ice storm, 
 and it was so slippery on the turnpike that when the driver 
 appeared very late from the west, that morning, he ordered 
 the horses stabled ; and said he himself would remain at 
 the tavern until all six horses could stand up at once. 
 
 That day was spent in the barn mending harness, polishing 
 the brass rosettes on the bridles, or having Dan Atkins sharpen 
 up the calks on the horses' shoes. The rest of the time was 
 spent in the great room of the tavern, sitting around smok- 
 ing, chewing, and playing cards, while the crashing of tree 
 limbs resounded outside as they fell under the weight of 
 ice. The warmth of the fireplace brought more cheer than 
 was usual, lending an air of well-being despite the elements. 
 
 Without any rise in temperature the following day, the 
 wind switched to the northwest, bringing with it a late winter 
 blizzard, with wet snow covering the ice, and Martin wondered 
 how the basswood and maple trees were standing all this 
 and whether or not the skeleton of his cabin had been crushed 
 by falling limbs. 
 
 It was on the second day of the storm that Martin wrote 
 a letter home telling his parents that he was starting out as 
 a homesteader. He advised them of the fact that he was 
 erecting a bark house on his property since that was the only 
 type of construction he could essay alone. He would put 
 some corn in after the Indian fashion, without plowing, since 
 he had neither plow nor the horses to draw one. He told them 
 he had learned enough of Indian-style agriculture to work 
 quite an area by hand, planting corn, beans, tobacco and pump- 
 kins all in a single hill, fertilized with two fish. He told them 
 
172 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 of the beauty of his proposed site, and of the possible erection 
 of a water-power sawmill there at some later date. 
 
 The following day a soft wind from the south, which had 
 started sometime during the night, with the bright sunlight 
 of late winter soon made the snow-covered ice mushy under 
 foot. 
 
 After the stagecoach had started off toward Detroit, Martin 
 left immediately for his homestead, worried lest the storm had 
 wrecked his efforts at framing his house ; but was happily 
 pleased, as well as surprised when he reached there, that 
 no damage had been done ; apparently the ice storm had been 
 much lighter there than at Grannisville. 
 
 Pamasaw was awaiting to help him gather some bark ; 
 and together, under the young Indian's direction, they girdled 
 a couple of elm trees and some red birches. 
 
 "Birch bark makes the best roof," Pamasaw explained. 
 
 On their return to the building site Martin saw a horse 
 coming down the trail from Grannisville. The rider was 
 Ellen. 
 
 "What are you doing?" she inquired as she rode up, look- 
 ing at Martin and Pamasaw in mystification. 
 
 "We're building a house — my house," Martin explained. 
 "I hope you didn't think it was to be a big red barn." 
 
 "It's a bark house !" she expostulated. 
 
 "Best kind!" Pamasaw explained. "Easiest to build!" 
 
 "Yes, Ellen, this will be finished tomorrow. A log cabin 
 takes a lot of help. But by tomorrow except for the log fire- 
 place I'm putting in one end of it, this'll be ready to live in." 
 
 "Martin Langdon ! Have you turned into an Injun?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "It's only an Injun wigwam! That's what I mean!" 
 
 Her statement plainly annoyed Pamasaw who, with 
 Martin, continued working, fastening the elm bark to the 
 lower part of the framework with a fiber bast made from the 
 inner bark of the birch. 
 
 "Well — isn't it just a wigwam?" Ellen persisted when 
 Martin had failed to answer. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 173 
 
 "It's a very easily-built house, it's going to be my home — 
 my first home, anyhow." 
 
 "I shall never live in it!" Ellen stated defiantly. 
 
 "Oh?" Martin queried. 
 
 "No! — I brought you some cakes I made. But I suppose 
 they're too civilized for you to enjoy!" 
 
 "Cakes, Ellen? Well, I'm always interested in cakes!" 
 Martin went over to where she was still sitting on the horse. 
 "Are you going to help with the building operations?" 
 
 "Here are the cakes !" She unfastened a small wooden box 
 from the back of the saddle, and handed it to him. 
 
 "Thank you Ellen ! Aren't you going to help with the 
 work?" 
 
 "With that Injun hut? — I hope, Martin, you don't expect 
 me to take such a place seriously." 
 
 "Whether you take it seriously or not, right here's my 
 future home." 
 
 Distaste marred the doll-like features. "I'll see you again 
 in Grannisville, and we'll have a definite understanding." 
 
 Without saying good-bye she rode back north on the 
 Maumee trail, with her horse going over the mushy snow 
 at full gallop. 
 
 Martin smiled. She had been easier to discourage than he 
 had feared. Then he and Pamasaw ate the cakes, if not with 
 relish, at least with satisfaction. 
 
 "You know," Pamasaw observed. "In our tribe if a girl 
 bakes cakes for a young man, and he eats them, they're 
 engaged." 
 
 Don't worry, Pamasaw! Ellen doesn't know about that 
 custom." 
 
23 
 
 Governor Mason Demands an Audience 
 With Martin Langdon 
 
 FEW days afterwards both Martin 
 and George Grannis received let- 
 ters from Governor Mason, Martin opened 
 his on receipt, and read : 
 "MY DEAR MR. LANGDON : 
 
 It is with astonishment that I have read your ac- 
 cusations against our esteemed land agent, Christian 
 Derbyshire. I believe the charges brought by you against 
 a man held in such high esteem in Washington are highly 
 reprehensible. 
 
 It is with the greatest difficulty I have been able to 
 restrain Mr. Derbyshire from writing President Jackson 
 for troops to suppress these dangerous Indians, and to 
 take action against you as a traitor to the United States. 
 
 Therefore, as Governor of the Territory of Michigan, 
 I request your immediate presence in Detroit to either 
 answer charges brought by Christian Derbyshire, or to 
 prove your case against him. 
 
 STEVENS T. MASON, 
 
 GOVERNOR OF THE TERRITORY OF MICHIGAN 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
 Non-plussed Martin handed his letter to George, saying: 
 "I can't afford to go to Detroit! It would cost ten or twelve 
 dollars !" 
 
 "My letter's similar. He says he'll demote me from major 
 in the militia." 
 
 For a few moments Martin and George stood silently 
 meditating, unconscious of other activities in the room. It 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 175 
 
 was George who spoke : "You'll have to go to Detroit, young 
 fellow! I'll furnish the money! You get two character wit- 
 nesses, a white man and a good reliable Indian." 
 
 "How about Dan Atkins? He ought to look impressive in 
 that suit of mine." 
 
 "Couldn't get a better man. He's in line for promotion in 
 the militia, and ought to impress that hot-head. Now on the 
 Indian question, I think you ought to select one who attended 
 the school — one that talks civilized." 
 
 "That would have to be Pamasaw." 
 
 "You make the arrangments, I'll have to foot the bill, 
 whatever it is. It'll be cheaper than for me to leave my busi- 
 ness and argue with that young whippersnapper — Andrew 
 Jackson's appointed governor. Ought to have been a mature 
 man like Lewis Cass." 
 
 When Martin saw Dan Atkins he was enthusiastic about 
 the proposed trip ; and George provided him with a horse to 
 visit the Indians. 
 
 It was deemed inadvisable to tell Chief Baw Beese of the 
 enormity of Derbyshire's charges, or the chief with his broken 
 English would have insisted on going to Detroit himself. 
 This would not be satisfactory, for however fine a chief he 
 might be and however good an orator in his native tongue, he 
 was unequivocally the "ignorant savage" when speaking Eng- 
 lish. The chief gladly consented to send Pamasaw to join 
 Martin and Dan at Grannisville the next day. 
 
 It was on Friday, March 15th — the "Ides of March" 
 Martin recalled from his study of the life of Julius Caesar — 
 that another phase of his destiny was decided before the trio 
 left for Detroit. Unless untoward weather conditions pre- 
 vailed, such as snow and ice storms, they should reach the 
 territory's only sizable town early Monday morning, stabling 
 their horses nights at the various taverns along the way. If 
 ideal conditions prevailed and they could keep up with the 
 stagecoaches, which switched teams every twenty-five miles, 
 they would reach the little city on Sunday. 
 
 Pamasaw and Dan Atkins were both in the great room of 
 the Inn and Dan was talking to George, while Martin was 
 loading his pistol. 
 
176 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 The door flew open, and Obadiah Van Duzer appeared. 
 
 "Morning, Obe!" Dan greeted. 
 
 "Morning!" Obadiah answered, but with his gaze focussed 
 on Martin. 
 
 "Hello, Obadiah !" Martin said, slipping his pistol into 
 his belt. 
 
 "Hear ye're goin' to Detroit to see Governor Mason!" 
 
 "He seems to want something of an understanding with 
 me," Martin replied. 
 
 "That's what I want too," Obadiah said in a perturbed 
 tone. "I want an understandin' with ye here and now." 
 
 Conversation among others in the room ceased and at- 
 tention was centered on Obadiah and Martin. 
 
 "What's wrong?" 
 
 "It's about that damned bark house!" Obadiah shouted. 
 
 "You've seen it?" 
 
 "No, I haven't seen it! And I'd better not see it, if my 
 daughter's expected to live in it!" 
 
 "Am I to understand Ellen doesn't like the home I am 
 able to provide?" 
 
 "That's exactly what you may understand !" 
 
 "I'm sorry!" 
 
 "That aint goin' to help none! Just bein' sorry! You got 
 to build a decent log cabin — a place fit fer a white girl !" 
 
 Martin studied Obadiah a moment. The way out was open 
 for him at last, and he walked into it with a rush when he 
 said: "No, Obadiah, I happen to like bark houses! If Ellen 
 doesn't, I'm sorry!" 
 
 "Then, Langdon, I'll put it this way — either build yer- 
 self a log cabin like a white settler, or ye don't marry Ellen !" 
 
 "Don't leave me much choice, do you, Obadiah?" 
 
 "Don't aim to leave no choice whatsoever, by cracky! — 
 Well?" 
 
 "As you say, it leaves no choice in the matter. I like bark 
 houses, and that settles it." 
 
 "Ye mean ye're goin' to live in that there Injun wigwam?" 
 
 "Guess you can put it that way, Obadiah ! So long as the 
 marriage is off unless I build a log cabin, then I guess there'll 
 be no wedding." 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 177 
 
 Obadiah's face was contorted with rage. He clenched his 
 fists, and unclenched them. From his throat a low growl 
 emanated as he paced heavily back and forth on the puncheon 
 floor. 
 
 "Give me a shot of rotgut !" he ordered George, as he went 
 to the bar. Taking the whiskey at a gulp he turned savagely 
 on Martin. 
 
 "Am I to understand ye care more for that danged Injun 
 hut than ye do fer my daughter?" 
 
 "My wife's going to live in the kind of house I can 
 provide !" 
 
 "Langdon, when ye come to my place last summer, I sez, 
 'There's a young feller what'U make good ! He's eddicated — 
 and I'll be danged proud to have him fer a son-in-law'. But 
 I've changed my mind, Langdon! Yer just a plain eddicated 
 fool — that's what ye be! Yes siree, an eddicated fool!" 
 
 Obadiah strode to the door, his boots clumping loudly as 
 he went. He lifted the latch, and yelled over his shoulder: 
 "Don't think yer the only chance she's got — and don't ever 
 come snivelin' around tryin' to marry her agin !" 
 
 The door was closed with as loud a slam as Obadiah 
 could manage, and although Dan Atkins and George looked 
 sympathetically at Martin, he only smiled. 
 
 "Well," he said with a shrug. "Guess that means Ellen 
 isn't going to marry me ! Come on let's get started for 
 Detroit." 
 
 Except for the fact that Dan Atkins, in his top hat, great 
 coat and pantaloons was accorded the highest honor and re- 
 spect at the various taverns along the route, the journey was 
 uneventful. 
 
 Arriving at the United States hotel where George had in- 
 structed them to stop, since the Territorial legislators always 
 put up there, the clerk was loath to permit Pamasaw to stay in 
 the guest rooms, hinting an appropriate spot would be the 
 stable. 
 
 "Isn't your hostelry good enough for the original holders 
 of title to the land in the territory?" Martin inquired causti- 
 cally, as he noticed the anger Pamasaw was unable to conceal. 
 
 "This hotel caters to the better class of traveler," the clerk 
 
178 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 answered loftily, giving a critical look at Martin's quill- 
 embroidered jacket. 
 
 "I'm very sure the three of us will measure up to the high 
 standard of conduct required of your guests," Martin said. 
 Then added forcefully : "Mister, we want rooms — for the 
 three of us!" 
 
 "But—" 
 
 "No buts ! There's nothing in the law that says there's one 
 place for Indians and another for palefaces!" 
 
 "Perhaps, except for Mr. Atkins, whom we're glad to 
 welcome, you do not belong here at all. We're used to cur- 
 tesy from our guests — those who do not know the rules of 
 hotel etiquette — " 
 
 But the clerk stopped abruptly as Martin, reaching across 
 the counter, grasped both lapels of the man's coat and shook 
 him. 
 
 "Do you want an Indian uprising? One in which this hotel 
 is burned, and all your guests tomahawked in their beds?" 
 
 For a moment the clerk paled, then stammered : "T-this is 
 the c-capital of the territory. Governor Mason would call out 
 the m-militia — " 
 
 "Listen !" Martin interrupted. "This Indian is the son of 
 a great chief — his father is very angry ! Thousands of red- 
 skins lurk west of Detroit — thousands — do you hear?" 
 
 "I understand you," the clerk acquiesced. "It may be 
 better under the circumstances to suspend a rule, and admit 
 this one Indian. However, some one must sign his name for 
 him, or does he understand English?" 
 
 "My name is Pamasaw," the Indian said, stepping for- 
 ward, as Martin released the clerk's coat lapels. "Where shall 
 I sign my name?" 
 
 The astonished hotel clerk, without further adieu assigned 
 them a room, but demanded pay in advance. 
 
 "Mind you, no tricks," he cautioned. "I've heard that 
 whiskey has a deleterious effect — " 
 
 "I'll take care of that matter," Martin said. "I want to send 
 a message to Governor Mason, and notify him of our arrival." 
 
 The clerk accommodated him with a quill pen, ink and 
 paper, and a note was accordingly dispatched to Governor 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 179 
 
 Mason, who returned word that he would interview them on 
 the morrow at nine o'clock. 
 
 Accordingly at the appointed time on Monday, March 18th, 
 Martin, Dan Atkins and Pamasaw went for their audience 
 with Stevens T. Mason, acting governor of the Territory of 
 Michigan. 
 
 Martin took an almost immediate liking to the young 
 Virginia gentleman who held in his hands the destiny of the 
 Territory. He was a man of Martin's own age, red-haired, 
 vigorous and alert. 
 
 "Which of you is Martin Langdon?" the governor in- 
 quired, looking at Dan Atkins. 
 
 "I'm Martin Langdon, and I represent not only myself 
 but George Grannis of Grannisville. These two men are my 
 character witnesses." 
 
 Governor Mason studied the letter which Martin had sent 
 him some time ago, and also the letter from George Grannis. 
 The Governor paused in his perusal, and looked up sharply 
 at the trio. 
 
 "These charges brought by Christian Derbyshire which 
 both you and Major Grannis deny, are the subject of this 
 interview/' he said. 
 
 "Yes sir. I'm aware of it." Martin returned the steady gaze 
 of the Governor. 
 
 "I suppose you're able to prove your statement that you 
 didn't set the Indians on an agent of the United States?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I believe I am." 
 
 "Good!" The Governor said something in an undertone 
 to a page boy whom he summoned, and turning to Martin said, 
 "Proceed !" 
 
 For answer Martin asked Pamasaw to narrate the parti- 
 culars of all that had befallen Derbyshire, and when he had 
 finished his tale, the Governor asked him where he learned 
 to speak English. 
 
 "In Martin's school," was the prompt answer. 
 
 "Didn't you speak English before the school started — 
 something you learned perhaps from a white mother?" 
 
 "I had no white mother!" Pamasaw answered loftily. 
 "Until I went to school I couldn't speak much English." 
 
180 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Governor Mason smiled and looked with admiration at 
 Martin. 
 
 "Speaks well for your teaching, Mr. Langdon," he said. 
 "And this other gentleman?" 
 
 Martin presented Daniel Atkins as a sergeant in the 
 Vance township militia, and as his character witness. Speak- 
 ing as though he had long rehearsed and memorized his 
 speech, Dan said : "I know Martin Langdon to be an honest 
 young man, who came to Grannisville last June. Until recently 
 he's been engaged to the daughter of one of our leading 
 citizens." 
 
 Martin wished that Dan had not added the bit about 
 Ellen VanDuzer, for Governor Mason's interest was aroused 
 immediately. 
 
 "Could it be, Mr. Langdon, the engagement was broken 
 because of some connection with Indian atrocities?" 
 
 "Please, sir, there have been no Indian atrocities, except 
 those in the mind of Mr. Derbyshire." 
 
 "But there must have been some reason that your engage- 
 ment to a respected citizen's daughter was broken off. Tell 
 me about it." 
 
 "The reason, Governor Mason, was purely personal." 
 
 "Oh !" The Governor seemed satisfied, almost apologetic, 
 as he inquired : "Are you by any chance one of the Virginia 
 Langdons?" 
 
 "My father has a cousin in Virginia. I'm from York 
 state." 
 
 "And my mother has a cousin named Langdon," Governor 
 Mason seemed satisfied. "Possibly we're related." 
 
 Christian Derbyshire, in his bottle-green coat, and carry- 
 ing his beaver hat, was ushered into the room by the page 
 boy, who stopped abruptly at the door, when he saw Martin 
 and his companions. 
 
 "Mr. Derbyshire, sir!" the page boy announced, and 
 Governor Mason's gaze fell on the land agent, who looked as 
 though he would like to turn and run. 
 
 "Come right down here, Mr. Derbyshire!" commanded 
 the Governor, indicating a place in front of his chair, and the 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 181 
 
 man came forward with downcast eyes. Then he straightened 
 up, and looked defiantly at Martin. 
 
 "Is this the man who waved the tomahawk over your 
 head?" Governor Mason inquired. 
 
 "Well, I — I — " Derbyshire fidgeted with his hat. 
 
 "This is Martin Langdon, Mr. Derbyshire." 
 
 "No!" Derbyshire was beginning to perspire. "This is not 
 the man !" 
 
 "Not the man?" Governor Mason's voice was so sharp the 
 page boy turned to look at him. "You distinctly said, Derby- 
 shire, that Martin Langdon brandished a tomahawk over 
 your head." 
 
 Derbyshire looked at Martin. 
 
 "I was mistaken !" he said. "It was very dark !" 
 
 "Dark! But you told me a big bonfire had been lighted!" 
 
 "I mean, it was dark at the time and I — I was terrified — " 
 
 Governor Mason settled back in his chair as the land 
 agent, suddenly recognizing Pamasaw, fell silent. 
 
 "I found you in the woods, Derbyshire." It was Pamasaw 
 who was smiling at the land agent's discomfiture. "I took you 
 to Tecumseh, so you could get the stagecoach. I, Pamasaw — 
 did that for you." 
 
 Governor Mason looked intently at the land agent and 
 demanded: "Well, did he or didn't he?" 
 
 "I — I can't say. It — it was so dark, I — " 
 
 "No, it was morning." Pamasaw smiled. 
 
 Derbyshire could find no words. He stood uneasily before 
 the Territorial Governor, his hat in his hand, twirling the 
 brim. 
 
 "I'm trying to arrive at the truth of your allegations 
 against Martin Langdon and those Indians," the Governor 
 stated. "How can I if you will not talk, Derbyshire?" 
 
 "I'm an appointee of President Jackson," the land agent 
 said suddenly. "You've no right to question me." 
 
 "I've a right to question any man in Michigan Territory — 
 whether appointed by President Jackson or a backwoods- 
 man!" 
 
 "You needn't raise your voice, Governor Mason ! I'm aware 
 I've made some mistake here — some trivial — " 
 
182 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 "Trivial? Do you call it trivial when you say a respectable 
 school teacher attempted to tomahawk you?" 
 
 "I admit I've made a mistake, I — " 
 
 "Mistake!" Governor Mason rose to his full height. 
 "You've told a wilful lie — made up out of whole cloth !" 
 
 "You say that to my face, Governor Mason?" 
 
 "To your face and behind your back, Mr. Derbyshire! 
 Count yourself lucky the people from the backwoods didn't 
 come to Detroit and murder you for it." 
 
 "And you'll take their word over mine, I assume — the 
 word of these — these people against a man with influence 
 in Washington, a man who is — " 
 
 "Save yourself the trouble, Derbyshire. Don't try to ex- 
 plain any more." 
 
 Governor Mason's eyes blazed fury as Derbyshire stepped 
 towards him angrily. 
 
 "I shall report this matter to President Jackson, Governor 
 Mason. I shall tell him — " 
 
 "Do, Derbyshire ! Tell him all about it. Tell him the boy 
 governor of Michigan Territory objects to land agents who 
 go about trying to promote Indian uprisings, so that the 
 simple-minded, gullible governor will order soldiers in to 
 make room for your friends, and to cause a general war. Tell 
 him all about it, Derbyshire !" 
 
 For a moment the land agent looked defiantly at the Gov- 
 ernor. Then he put on his hat insolently, turned and walked 
 to the door. There he said vehemently, "I shall tell him, sir, 
 the Governor of Michigan Territory is a spoiled brat !" 
 
 When the door had closed behind Derbyshire, Governor 
 Mason turned to Martin. 
 
 "The charge against you is dropped, Mr. Langdon." 
 
 "Thank you!" 
 
 "Sorry I caused you gentlemen this annoyance. Tell Major 
 Grannis he will not be replaced as an officer in the militia." 
 
 The interview ended, Martin and his companions had 
 barely reached the door when the page boy caught up with 
 them and said, "The Governor wishes to see you alone, Mr. 
 Langdon." 
 
 When Martin was again conducted before Governor Mason 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 183 
 
 he was told: "I wanted to talk to you alone a moment, Mr. 
 Langdon." 
 "Yes, sir!" 
 
 "We can't take seriously the objections of one chief, Mr. 
 Langdon, to settlement of the land. The United States feels 
 that the Potowatomi title to the land has been extinguished, 
 with or without the consent of Chief Baw Beese. It's prog- 
 ress, you understand." 
 
 "Yes, sir. I've often thought he could not halt civilization." 
 "So — " the governor hesitated, and then continued, "the 
 land in Vance township will go on sale early in June. This 
 does not mean the Indians will be moved out. But I shall 
 expect you, Mr. Langdon, to continue to do your best, 
 when you hear this announcement, to maintain peace and 
 good relations between the settlers and the Indians." 
 
 "I shall try to prevent they're going on the warpath." 
 "Thank you. That's all — and good luck !" 
 
 NOTE: In both Crisfield Johnson's "History of Hillsdale County," 
 page 170 and James J. Hogaboam's "History of the Bean 
 Creek Country" we are informed the land was not opened 
 for settlement until June 7, 1833; that while settlers had 
 come, until this date they were only squatters. 
 
24 
 
 Op-Jah-Moh-Mak-Ya 
 
 ARTIN soon completed the work 
 on his bark house and built a fire- 
 place and chimney which he lined with 
 marl from the bed of the brook. George had given him a 
 window, and his dwelling was finished. 
 
 With his cross-cut saw he had laboriously felled a wild 
 cherry tree and made some crude boards for a table top ; 
 with the aid of his hatchet and knife he had managed some 
 legs for it. When completed one could hardly describe it as a 
 thing of beauty, but it would certainly never fall down. 
 
 He was starting on a chair one day in early April. The 
 leaves were budding on the trees, but no tree was yet in leaf. 
 The air, smelling of spring, was blown in fragrant zephyrs 
 from the south. The ground had long since thawed and the 
 June grass was getting green. Robins, flickers, catbirds and 
 thrushes were singing their sweetest songs, for the wilder- 
 ness was alive with the joy of the season. Suddenly there was 
 the warning cry of a bluejay, which silenced the happy 
 singing. 
 
 Only the jay and the snorting, bald-faced mare tied to a 
 sapling, could be heard. Martin ceased his whittling, and 
 looked in the direction of the horse. Something unusual was 
 about, perhaps a massassauga — the rattlesnake so deadly to 
 the white settlers. Going to the sapling where the horse was 
 tied, he spoke soothing words and patted her. But still she 
 snorted, and looked fearfully in the direction of an elderberry 
 bush. 
 
 A rattlesnake could not easily be seen, but a horse could 
 smell it. Martin took a step in the direction of the bush when 
 he saw a patch of color of the same tawny hue as the white- 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 185 
 
 tailed native deer. But the horse would not be snorting in this 
 manner if the animal lying so still were a deer. Although he 
 could see no more than a broad expanse of reddish hair, 
 Martin knew it was not a deer but a panther — and he knew 
 from the tales he had heard that this was the meanest brute 
 of the wilderness. Fully twice or three times the size of 
 wild cats, the favorite diet of the panther was said to be 
 young and tender colts ; but they had been known to attack 
 a full grown horse. 
 
 Martin, leaving the horse, returned to the cabin for his 
 rifle. It was the one possession he faithfully brought with 
 him every day and took back with him every night. The 
 horse was again snorting and pulling hard at the reins which 
 held her to the sapling. 
 
 Cautiously he went where he could get a good view of 
 the elderberry bush ; carefully he pulled back the hammer, 
 and waited. Suddenly the bald-faced mare squealed, reared 
 high, tugged harder on the reins, and broke her bridle. Wheel- 
 ing she headed north on the trail at a run. Not until then did 
 the panther come from behind the elderberry bush oblivious 
 to everything but the rapidly vanishing horse. 
 
 With a sudden leap the big cat sprang after the mare, and 
 Martin, aiming at the tawny head, fired. The blast of his gun 
 reverberated through the surrounding forest, and the pungent 
 smell of black powder was intermingled with the fragrance 
 of the spring flowers. But the panther was only wounded. 
 Blood was streaming from its snarling mouth, as it turned 
 in Martin's direction, roaring mad. For only an instant did 
 he hesitate between clubbing the brute and using his pistol. 
 Dropping his rifle on the turf, he whipped out his pistol and 
 laid the ball square between the beast's eyes. The snarl ended 
 in a whimper and the biggest cat in Michigan Territory 
 dropped dead, less than six feet away. 
 
 He hoped the horse would return to Grannisville,, for the 
 panther must be skinned and the carcass disposed of before 
 it could be discovered by a pack of wolves. 
 
 The first thing he did, however, was to reload his rifle and 
 the pistol. Then he proceeded to strip the hide from the 
 animal, leaving the head on, with an idea of using it for a 
 
186 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 rug. The body was about six feet long, and Martin had no 
 shovel with which to dig a grave. 
 
 He dragged it to a swale along the edge of the brook, and 
 pushed it down with a pole into the murky water. He man- 
 aged to work a water-soaked small log on the carcass to hold 
 it beneath the surface. 
 
 The day was well-spent when he returned to the cabin to 
 procure the skin. Starting on foot on the trail, he heard the 
 sound of hoofs on turf, and soon Owaysa, riding her horse, 
 and leading the bald-faced mare with an improvised bark 
 halter, came into view. 
 
 "Horse get away from you, Martin?" 
 
 "Panther scared it," he answered, narrating his experience 
 and concluding by inviting her in to see the fireplace in his 
 bark house. They tied the horses close together, and went 
 inside. 
 
 Owaysa admired the workmanship on the fireplace and 
 remarked it should be quite an improvement over the open 
 fires of the Indians. 
 
 Then she asked him pointedly if he intended buying the 
 land here, for she understood the United States was opening 
 it up for sale. The tribe was indignant, she said, that this 
 should occur without a treaty signed by Chief Baw Beese. 
 
 Martin answered he hoped to settle there not only with 
 the blessing of Baw Beese, but perhaps later he could buy it 
 from the government. 
 
 Her dark eyes suddenly filled with tears, but none fell. 
 He had seen that look in her eyes only once before — in what 
 seemed years ago — the night she had learned her father was 
 a prisoner to Jake Durgy. 
 
 He found himself gathering her in his arms and kissing 
 her full on the mouth. She did not resist him. Her lips were 
 soft and yielding, and he knew she had never been kissed by 
 any other man. Then her arms went around him and for long 
 moments they clung to each other. Finally she pushed him 
 away. 
 
 "Why did you do that, Martin?" 
 
 "Because I wanted to — because — well, because I had to. 
 You belong here in my cabin. I guess I've been in love with 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 187 
 
 you since the day you pointed a musket at me, and called me 
 a horse thief." 
 
 She smiled. "That was when I thought there never was a 
 decent paleface. I thought then if you'd show our people how 
 to make gunpowder all our problems would be solved." 
 
 "There's no simple way like that to solve matters, 
 Owaysa." 
 
 "Not for the red man and the white man. Neither under- 
 stands the other, and neither seems to want to." 
 
 "But you and I understand each other!" 
 
 Martin again encircled her slender waist with his arm, 
 but she broke away and fled to the doorway. 
 
 "No, Martin ! Not again ! I'll choose the man I'm to 
 marry — in the tradition of the tribe." 
 
 Quickly he remembered another Indian custom in wooing 
 a girl. He picked up the panther skin and handed it to her. 
 
 "A present for Osseo ! Will you take it to him?" 
 
 Without a word Owaysa took the proffered gift, went out 
 the cabin door, mounted her horse and rode off to the east. 
 
 Martin's heart missed several beats as he watched her 
 until the forest had swallowed up even the hoof beats of her 
 horse. If need be, he would take care of Osseo in his old 
 age, he was thinking, as he went back to the Great Sauk Inn 
 for the night. 
 
 There he learned that Owaysa had traded some maple 
 sugar for some powder and shot that afternoon and was 
 pleased to hear also that she had been inquiring for him. 
 
 "She'd be kind of handy to have around, wouldn't she, 
 Martin?" George winked knowingly. 
 
 "I may as well admit, George, I've been thinking along 
 those lines." 
 
 "Of course she's only half Indian really," George said. 
 "Got white features, and is mighty pretty. Can't say I blame 
 you." 
 
 "It's a good thing she happened to show up today, George, 
 because she brought me back your horse. I nearly lost her." 
 
 "How did that happen?" George stopped abruptly in sort- 
 ing the mail, which he had been doing since the arrival of the 
 stage from Detroit. 
 
188 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 Martin narrated his experience with the panther. 
 "You skin him?" George inquired. 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Didn't leave the hide at your cabin, I hope, to draw 
 wolves." 
 
 "Nope! And I stuck the carcass in the creek, under a log." 
 "What did you do with the hide? I'd pay a good price for 
 it. Always wanted a panther skin." 
 
 "Sorry," Martin said. "I wanted it myself too, but it's — 
 well — I sent it to Osseo." 
 George smiled knowingly. 
 
 "And if he accepts it, you're as good at hitched. You 
 know that, don't you?" 
 
 "That's why I gave it to him." 
 
 "All right, Martin, then I'll tell you what I'm going to 
 give you for a wedding present." 
 
 "Not so fast, he hasn't accepted it yet." 
 "How'd you like that bald-faced mare?" 
 "But George, I — " 
 
 "You've done aplenty for folks since you've been here, 
 and probably kept a lot of Indian trouble from busting out. 
 And in case you're feeling bad about it, here's a letter from a 
 Rev. Lyster down at Tecumseh. It's addressed to your old 
 girl. Hear Ellen's marrying Bill Lancaster." 
 
 Then George counted out two hundred dollars in gold he 
 said the government had finally sent through in payment for 
 his four months of teaching. He handed him a letter from 
 Governor Mason, which Martin perused hastily. 
 MARTIN LANGDON, ESQ:, 
 GRANNISVILLE, MICHIGAN TERRITORY. 
 MY DEAR MR. LANGDON: 
 
 Having taken the matter of your teaching the scho.ol in 
 Grannisville under the old treaty terms under advise- 
 ment I have been able to secure for you the sum of 
 ($200) Two Hundred Dollars. 
 
 This would be remuneration for your four months of 
 teaching but is still short of what I should like to have 
 paid you. The money has been forwarded to George 
 Grannis. With it I trust you will be able to purchase the 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 189 
 
 homestead you so very much want, and that you and 
 
 your heirs may hold the deed forever. 
 
 STEVEN T. MASON, 
 
 ACTING GOVERNOR, &c. 
 
 Martin handed the letter to George, smiling. 
 * * * 
 
 The next morning when Martin returned to his cabin, he 
 found twenty-four cakes, freshly baked and deposited on his 
 table. 
 
 He knew what this meant. Owaysa had chosen her 
 husband. 
 
190 "OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA" 
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 BASH-SUG-GON, a gun. 
 
 EMP-QUAN, A spoon 
 
 GOON-PA-SHEE, snowbird, used as a proper name here. 
 
 KASH-AM-MED-TOO, God. 
 
 KA-MOCHE-KIT, a thief. 
 
 KOGE-JESS-SUG, beans. 
 
 KE-MOKE-MON, Americans. 
 
 KEEG-YA-GOO, a girl. 
 
 KEEG-COB-BA, a boy. 
 
 ME-TIG EN-NA-GON, wooden plate. 
 
 MAH-JE, a girl's name. 
 
 ME-SHA-WA OD-DAWN, Elk Lake Village. 
 
 NUN-NA, a man. 
 
 NAG-DOCHE-SHAW, a horse. 
 
 OP-JAH-MO-MAK-YA, "The Land Lies Pretty." 
 
 PO-SHO, Hello. 
 
 POTOWATOMI, a tribe of about 11,000 Indians occupying 
 southern Michigan, northern Ohio, most of Indiana, and 
 parts of Illinois and Wisconsin. Formerly called Pottwat- 
 tomie. The French said it meant "People from the Land of 
 Fire." But the tribe migrated from around Lake Winni- 
 peg in 1702, driving Iroquois, and Sioux from southern 
 Michigan, as well as the Miami. With the Chippewa and 
 Ottawa they formed a United Nation. 
 
 PAMASAW, son of Baw Beese, the meaning is lost. 
 
 PEE-SO-TUM, a boy's name. 
 
 QUA, a woman. 
 
 SAUG-KEE-NAWSHE, British. 
 
 SHE-MAUGE-NISH-SHUCK, soldiers or militia. 
 
 SHUN-I-AH, money or silver. 
 
 WUN-NA-MOSHE, a dog. 
 
 WAH-HA-STEE, a boy's name. 
 
 SAUK-WA-SEEPE, or (SEPPE), The Sauk River, also the 
 name of a village south of Jonesville, on what is now 
 called the St. Joseph River. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 191 
 
 TOPINABEE, a famous Indian chief claiming autonomy 
 over all of the Potowatomi, a position only accorded him 
 by the United States government agents. No such power- 
 ful chief existed in reality. 
 
 WENONA, daughter of Baw Beese, for whom the Hillsdale 
 Chapter of the Order of Eastern Star is named. 
 
 WAUNEETA, daughter of Baw Beese, for whom the Allen 
 chapter of the Order of Eastern Star is named. 
 
 BAW BEESE, An Indian chief, much loved and respected by 
 the early settlers of Hillsdale county, Michigan. Said to 
 have been one of the Huron Potawatomi. 
 
 MO-QUA-GO, neighbor of Baw Beese on the west in Branch 
 and part of Calhoun county. 
 
 OSSEO, a man's name borrowed from the Ojibway, and for 
 whom a Hillsdale county town is named. 
 
 O WAYS A, his daughter, a name borrowed from the Ojibway 
 meaning Bluebird. 
 
 AN-NEE-JAH-NA?, a sentence of greeting, meaning "How 
 are you?" 
 
 HIAWATHA, the same Hiawatha of Longfellow's legend, but 
 in a different mood. Critics who half know Indian lore to 
 the contrary, Hiawatha was a myth of most Algonquins, 
 including the Potawatomi. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 193 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 WEST AND WEST. "Our Country" Allyn and Bacon 
 LEWIS, FERRIS E., "Michigan Yesterday and Today." 
 
 Hillsdale School Supply Co., Inc. 
 HOGABOAM, James J., "History of the Bean Creek Coun- 
 try," Scarritt, 1876. 
 JOHNSON, CRISFIELD, "History of Hillsdale County, 
 
 Michigan." Everts and Abbott, 1879. 
 JOHNSON, CRISFIELD, "History of Erie County, New 
 
 York." 
 SCHLESINGER, ARTHUR M., JR., "The Age of Jackson." 
 
 Little Brown & Co. 
 BARTON, LUCY, "Historic Costume for the Stage," Baker 
 CARRUTH, THOMAS J., "400 Year Calendar" 
 DOLPH, "Book of Favorite American Folk Songs," Simon 
 
 and Schuster. 
 INDIAN TREATIES: July 4, 1805; Aug. 21, 1805; Nov. 17, 
 
 1807; August 20, 1821; Oct. 26, and 27, 1832. 
 OLD LETTERS OF PIONEERS AND NUMEROUS 
 
 BOOKS ON COSTUMES, FIREARMS, WEAPONS 
 
 AND CUSTOMS. 
 
THE LAND LIES PRETTY 195 
 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 It is impossible to enumerate the names of all who have 
 provided the author with bits of folk lore, of the language as 
 spoken by the "old settlers ;" of the colloquial phrases, or 
 other bits of background material. The Indian lore has been 
 provided by the Indians themselves and is not from any 
 former book. Special acknowledgment is made to Michigan 
 Congressman August E. Johansen for assistance in procuring 
 information from the U.S. Department of Indian Affairs, to 
 Vivian Lyon Moore, Hillsdale county historian, and to the 
 Mitchell Public Library in Hillsdale. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 813G8342L C001 
 
 THE LAND LIES PRETTY HILLSDALE 
 
 3 0112 025324291