Page:Weird Tales Volume 35 Issue 04 (1940-07).djvu/42

them, salute and bespeak them as apertly as it were a Christian Man, and not a silly Hare.

To this last, certain of our Company did take Exception, and notably Capt. Scadlock, that such Custom was Childish and Fond; but the Chief Person of the Savages, him they call King Mosh, did bide firm, saying that the Rabbit was the Ototemon of their People and sacred; and further that if we pledged not our Word to continue their Custom, they would never sell the Land, be the Price paid Ten Times Over. And finally the Rev. Mr. Horton, our Minister of God, did earnestly pray us to give over, shewing that we had Precedent in that the First Missionaries to Britain did respect and observe certain Festivals and Useages of the old Heathen; saying further that, right so as we took pity of these simple Indians their Beliefs, right so would they incline to stand our Friends. And so it was agreed upon both Sides, we all signing our Names, saving only Capt. Scadlock, and the Matter placed of Record and made a Rule whereby to Govern and guide the Town henceforth.

Pursuivant smiled in his mustache as he read, a smile of scholarly relish. He could see in his mind’s eye that meeting, the stark jack-booted colonists and the brown, insistent savages. King Mosh—he had spoken out well for his people and faith, even against Captain Scadlock, who undoubtedly was the chief of the colony’s armed forces; and the minister, Mr. Horton, had shown rare tact and liberality— perhaps, good man, he had hoped for converts among those Indians on whose behalf he spoke.

But that hope had been in vain, Pursuivant saw as he read further in the records. Less than a year later there had been a fight, and it had gone against the Indians. The same clerk wrote:

. . . and a Searching Party, following the tracks of Captain Scadlock upon the Second Day after his Vanishment, did trace him to that Hill which the Indians do call Gontolah (that is, the Hungry Hill). .. .

“Hello!” muttered Pursuivant, half aloud. “That’s the hill back of Pitt’s place!”

. . . and did find him, at the Mouth of the Cave near the Summit; and he had perished miserably, of many small Wounds, so thick upon him that no Inch of his Skin remained whole, nor did any Jot of his Blood remain unto him. And the Indians swore by their false gods that he came to his Death for failing to greet the Hare, rather pursuing and slaying Hares upon the Hill; which we took as meaning to say, that they themselves had slain the Captain. Wherefore, falling to our Arms. . . .

The remainder of the account was unsavory, and dealt with a one-sided conflict. The dead Indians were scalped, it seems, and the prisoners taken all hanged. A few survived and escaped the carnage. That had finished the savages in the vicinity. Only the name of the hill, and the rabbit-greeting, remained to memorialize them.

At this moment, the clerk came in and tapped his shoulder.

“Judge,” he said, “here’s Morgan Pitts come to find you.”

Pursuivant looked up, his big forefinger marking the place on the old sheet of paper. Pitts came in, his eyes wide with serious wonder. “Judge Pursuivant,” he said, “Mr. Ransome hasn’t come back.”

“Hasn’t come back from where?”

“He went hunting for a rabbit—”

Simmons made a choking sound of protest, and Pursuivant sprang to his feet, quick as a cat for all his bulk. “Hunting for a rabbit? He promised me—”

Pitts nodded glumly. “Yes, sir, I know he did. But when you left, Mr. Ransome, he took his gun and went out. Said he’d be back in fifteen minutes. But”—the man’s lips were quivering—“but he ain’t. I think. Judge, you better come.”

The old records of Crispinville, telling of superstition and pioneering and grim battle, had cracked and crumbled in Pursuivant’s clenching hands. He laid down the remains.

“Have you brought your car, Mr. Pitts? All right, we’ll drive back together.”