Sketches in Duneland. Earl H. Reed

      “MT. TOM” (From the Author’s Etching)

II

       A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM

       Table of Contents

      Before strangers came into the land, bringing with them a prosaic nomenclature, there was no Mt. Tom. When the early white explorers crossed the southern end of Lake Michigan in their frail canoes, they saw, from far out on the water, dim irregular filaments of yellow that stretched along the horizon. There was a bold accent in the far-flung line of distant coast, an ancient landmark of a primitive race. The noble promontory that lifted its royal brow from among the contours of the sand hills—the monarch of the range—was called Wud-ju-na-gow, or Sand Mountain, by the red men.

      Its top was the highest point along the great sweep of shore that bordered the country of the dunes. In past centuries its sand had been slowly piled by the shifting winds. Eventually the sand grasses rooted themselves, and, in succeeding years, the trees grew. Wud-ju-na-gow became a “fixed dune,” no longer subject to the caprices of the winds.

      The slopes were robed with vegetation. Stately pines, spruces, and cedars flourished among the dense forest growth that reached almost to the summit. Here the trees were smaller, and bare patches of yellow were visible against the sky-line, from which wispy wreaths of sand would spiral up in the air currents on windy days.

      In the autumn the groups of green conifers made dark accents in the expanse of red and gold that draped Wud-ju-na-gow’s massive form. Flowers grew lavishly along the steep slopes. The wild life sought refuge in the impassable thickets and tall timber. Hawks and eagles soared above the woods with watchful eyes and dropped down into them for furtive prey. Hordes of noisy crows circled over the tree-tops and around the wind-swept summit. Wolves and other marauders crept stealthily through the undergrowth at night. Startled deer leaped from quiet hiding places and fled from suspicious sounds and odors. Partridges thrived in the patches of brush and tangled grape-vines, in spite of many enemies. Beady eyes peered out from under fallen trunks. The hunters and the hunted followed their destinies among the shadows.

      A Pottawattomie village had flourished for many years on a low ridge back of the hills, near Wud-ju-na-gow. Just below the village a small creek, fed by springs, wound through the open woods and reached the lake through a deep ravine. The high hills protected the lodges from the north winds and violent storms from the lake. About sixty bark wigwams were strung along the ridge.

      The young men hunted through the hills and usually had no difficulty in keeping the village supplied with meat. They carried their birch-bark canoes through the ravine to the lake and varied the food supplies with sturgeon and other fish. In times of plenty the game and fish not needed for immediate use were smoked and stored for winter consumption. Small patches of corn were scattered through the fertile open spaces away from the creek. The women gossiped over their domestic concerns, the men loitered along the hillside, and the little community lived in peace, with no troubles but those that nature has laid upon all her children. In their uncivilized state they were spared the miseries of temperament, and the refined tortures, as well as the joys, of more highly developed mentality. Their primitive needs were provided for. Food was abundant and the red men were contented—if there be real contentment in the world.

      After a long period of prosperity there came a summer of drought. Pitiless heat and breathless skies shrivelled the leaves, dried up the streams and ponds, and brought suffering to the live things. In the autumn the parched land had yielded up its vibrant life. Instead of the mellow golds and crimsons, there were grays and neutral browns. The voices of the forest were hushed. The fall flowers did not come. The willows and tall grasses drooped in sorrow, for a blight had come upon the land. Day after day the blood-red sun went below the sharp rim of the horizon without promise to the faded hills.

      Smoke appeared far in the southwest and a black pall crept into the sky overhead. Before many hours there was a vague unrest in the woods. There were strange noises among the withered trees and dried marshes. The wild life was fleeing eastward. At night a baleful glare tinged the crests of the dunes and reflected from swiftly moving wings above them.

      With the coming of the wind stifling smoke crept through the woods. Soon the crackling lines of flame came, writhing and roaring through the dry timber. There were muffled cries from tiny furred fugitives in the matted grasses in the low places. Noble landscapes were being scourged by demons. Nature’s cool cloisters and her dream cathedrals were on fire.

      There is a heart-felt grief that comes with the burning of the trees. The sacrilege of their destruction touches us more deeply if we have lived among them, and learned that with them have been builded the real kingdoms of the earth. In them we may find reflection of all human emotion, and for the subtly attuned soul, they have emotion of their own.

      The terrified dwellers along the creek fled to the beach, and, with awe-stricken faces watched the march of the flames through the country. They saw the flashes from the cedars, pines, and spruces shoot high into clouds of smoke and flying sparks, and heard the crackling of countless trunks and branches that quivered in torment on the blazing hills.

      By some fortuitous chance—perhaps a temporary veering of the air currents—the ravine, through which the little creek found its way, was spared. A portion of the timber on the slopes of Wud-ju-na-gow was also untouched, but everywhere else was desolation. The blackened and smouldering expanse carried dismay into the hearts of the horror-stricken groups huddled near the mouth of the stream. Most of their primitive belongings had been rescued, but their future looked as dark as the grim landscapes around them.

      It was late in the season. The fishing in the lake had been unusually poor, and there was no living thing among the forest ruins that could be used for food. The stores that had been saved would last but a short time and there was an appalling fear of famine.

      Many anxious hours were spent in deliberation. Believing that Omnipotent wrath had destroyed everything except the sands and the waters of the lake, the bewildered Indians saw no ray of hope. The calamity had fallen with crushing force. The vengeance of evil gods was upon them. Their few frail canoes could not carry all of them on the lake. The range of smoking hills that swept away along the curving beach-lines seemed to offer no path of refuge.

      Young Wa-be-no-je had listened intently to all of the discussions, and had pondered deeply over the desperate straits of his people. He bore the Indian name of the white marsh hawk. He was nearly nineteen. His proud father, a shrewd old hunter and trapper, had taught him the craft and lore of the woods. He sat near little Taheta, the playmate of his childhood. With ripening years love had come into their lives. Before the great fire they had begun to talk of a wigwam of their own, but now that dark hours had come