THE PRAIRIE. CHAPTER I.
“My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house
is Jove.”
Shakspeare.
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The trapper, who had meditated no violence,
dropped his rifle again, and laughing at the success
of his experiment, with great seeming self-complacency,
he drew the astounded gaze of the naturalist
from the person of the savage to himself, by saying—
“The imps will lie for hours, like sleeping alligators,
brooding their deviltries in dreams and other
craftiness, until such time as they see some real danger
is at hand, and then they look to themselves the
same as other mortals. But this is a scouter in his
war-paint! There should be more of his tribe at
no great distance. Let us draw the truth out of him;
for an unlucky war-party may prove more dangerous
to us than a visit from the whole family of the squatter.”
“It is truly a desperate and a dangerous species!”
said the Doctor, relieving his amazement by a breath
that seemed to exhaust his lungs of air; “a violent
race, and one that it is difficult to define or class
within the usual boundaries of definitions. Speak
to him, therefore; but let thy words be strong in
amity.”
The old man cast a keen eye on every side of
him, to ascertain the important particular whether
the stranger was supported by any associates, and
then making the usual signs of peace, by exhibiting
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the palm of his naked hand, he boldly advanced. In
the mean time, the Indian had betrayed no evidence
of uneasiness. He suffered the trapper to draw nigh,
maintaining by his own mien and attitude a striking
air of dignity and fearlessness. Perhaps the wary
warrior also knew that, owing to the difference in
their weapons, he should be placed more on an
equality, by being brought nearer to the strangers.
As a description of this individual may furnish
some idea of the personal appearance of a whole
race, it may be well to detain the narrative, in order
to present it to the reader, in our hasty and imperfect
manner. Would the truant eyes of Alston or Leslie
turn, but for a time, from their gaze at the models of
antiquity, to contemplate this wronged and humbled
people, little would be left for such inferior artists as
ourselves to delineate.
The Indian in question was in every particular a
warrior of fine stature and admirable proportions.
As he cast aside his mask, composed of such party-coloured
leaves, as he had hurriedly collected, his
countenance appeared in all the gravity, the dignity,
and, it may be added, in the terror of his profession.
The outlines of his lineaments were strikingly noble
and nearly approaching to Roman, though the
secondary features of his face were slightly marked
with the well-known traces of his Asiatic origin.
The peculiar tint of the skin, which in itself is so
well designed to aid the effect of a martial expression,
had received an additional aspect of wild ferocity
from the colours of the war-paint. But, as though
he disdained the usual artifices of his people, he
bore none of those strange and horrid devices, with
which the children of the forest are accustomed, like
the more civilized heroes of the mustache, to back
their reputation for courage, contenting himself with
a broad and deep shadowing of black, that served as
a sufficient and an admirable foil to the brighter
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gleamings of his native swarthiness. His head was
as usual shaved to the crown, where a large and gallant
scalp-lock seemed fearlessly to challenge the
grasp of his enemies. The ornaments that were ordinarily
pendant from the cartilages of his ears had
been removed, on account of his present pursuit.
His body, notwithstanding the lateness of the season,
was nearly naked, and the portion which was clad
bore a vestment no warmer than a light robe of
the finest dressed deer-skin, beautifully stained with
the rude design of some daring exploit, and which
was carelessly worn, as if more in pride than from
any unmanly regard to comfort. His leggings were
of bright scarlet cloth, the only evidence about his
person that he had held communion with the traders
of the Pale-faces. But as if to furnish some offset
to this solitary submission to a womanish vanity, they
were fearfully fringed, from the gartered knee to the
bottom of the moccasin, with the hair of human
scalps. He leaned lightly with one hand on a short
hickory bow, while the other rather touched than
sought support from the long, delicate handle of an
ashen lance. A quiver made of the cougar skin,
from which the tail of the animal depended, as a
characteristic ornament, was slung at his back, and a
shield of hides, quaintly emblazoned with another of
his warlike deeds, was suspended from his neck by a
thong of sinews.
As the trapper approached, this warrior maintained
his calm upright attitude, discovering neither an
eagerness to ascertain the character of those who advanced
upon him, nor the smallest wish to avoid a
scrutiny in his own person. An eye, that was darker
and more shining than that of the stag, was incessantly
glancing, however, from one to another of the
stranger party, seemingly never knowing rest for an
instant.
“Is my brother far from his village?” demanded
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the old man, in the Pawnee language, after examining
the paint, and those other little signs by which a
practised eye knows the tribe of the warrior he encounters
in the American deserts, with the same readiness,
and by the same sort of mysterious observation,
as that by which the seaman knows the distant
sail.
“It is farther to the towns of the Big-knives,” was
the laconic reply.
“Why is a Pawnee-Loup so far from the fork of
his own river, without a horse to journey on, and in
a spot so empty as this?”
“Can the women and children of a Pale-face live
without the meat of the bison? There was hunger
in my lodge.”
“My brother is very young to be already the master
of a lodge,” returned the trapper, looking steadily
into the unmoved countenance of the youthful
warrior; “but I dare say he is brave, and that many
a chief has offered him his daughters for wives. But
he has been mistaken,” pointing to the arrow, which
was dangling from the hand that held the bow, “in
bringing a loose and barbed arrow-head to kill the
buffaloe. Do the Pawness wish the wounds they
give their game to rankle?”
“It is good to be ready for the Sioux. Though
not in sight, a bush may hide him.”
“The man is a living proof of the truth of his
words,” muttered the trapper in English, “and a
close-jointed and gallant looking lad he is; but far
too young for a chief of any importance. It is wise,
however, to speak him fair, for a single arm thrown
into either party, if we come to blows with the squatter
and his brood, may turn the day.—You see my
children are weary,” he continued in the dialect of
the prairies, pointing, as he spoke, to the rest of the
party, who, by this time, were also approaching.
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“We wish to 'camp and eat. Does my brother claim
this spot?”
“The runners, from the people on the Big-river,
tell us that your nation have traded with the Tawney-faces
who live beyond the salt-lake, and that
the prairies are now the hunting grounds of the Big-knives!”
“It is true, as I hear, also, from the hunters and
trappers on La Platte. Though it is with the Frenchers,
and not with the men who claim to own the
Mexicos, that my people have bargained.”
“And warriors are going up the Long-river, to see
that they have not been cheated in what they have
bought?”
“Ay, that is partly true, too, I fear; and it will
not be long before an accursed band of choppers
and loggers will be following on their heels, to humble
the wilderness which lies so broad and rich on
the western banks of the Mississippi, and then the
land will be a peopled desert, from the shores of the
main sea to the foot of the Rocky Mountains; fill'd
with all the abominations and craft of man, and
stript of the comforts and loveliness it received from
the hands of the Lord!”
“And where were the chiefs of the Pawnee-Loups,
when this bargain was made?” suddenly demanded
the youthful warrior, a look of startling fierceness
gleaming, at the same instant, athwart his dark visage.
“Is a nation to be sold like the skin of a beaver?”
“Right enough—right enough, and where were
truth and honesty, also? But might is right, according
to the fashions of the 'arth; and what the strong
choose to do, the weak must call justice. If the
law of the Wahcondah was as much hearkened to,
Pawnee, as the laws of the Long-knives, your right
to the prairies would be as good as that of the greatest
chief in the settlements to the house which covers
his head.”
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“The skin of the traveller is white,” said the
young native, laying a finger impressively on the
hard and wrinkled hand of the trapper. “Does his
heart say one thing and his tongue another?”
“The Wahcondah of a white man has ears and he
shuts them to a lie. Look at my head; it is like a
frosted pine, and must soon be laid in the ground.
Why then should I wish to meet the Great Spirit,
face to face, while his countenance is dark upon me.”
The Pawnee gracefully threw his shield over one
shoulder, and placing a hand on his chest, he bent
his head, in deference to the gray locks exhibited by
the trapper; after which his eye became more steady,
and his countenance less fierce. Still he maintained
every appearance of a distrust and watchfulness
that were rather tempered and subdued, than
forgotten. When this equivocal species of amity
was established between the warrior of the prairies
and the experienced old trapper, the latter proceeded
to give his directions to Paul, concerning the arrangements
of the contemplated halt. While Inez
and Ellen were dismounting, and Middleton and the
bee-hunter were attending to their comforts, the discourse
was continued, sometimes in the language of
the natives, but often as Paul and the Doctor mingled
their opinions with the two principal speakers,
in the English tongue. There was a keen and subtle
trial of skill between the Pawnee and the trapper, in
which each endeavoured to discover the objects of
the other, without betraying his interest in the investigation.
As might be expected, when the struggle
was between adversaries so equal, the result of the
encounter answered the expectations of neither.
The latter had put all the interrogatories his ingenuity
and practice could suggest, concerning the state
of the tribe of the Loups, their crops, their store of
provisions for the ensuing winter, and their relations
with their different warlike neighbours, without
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extorting any answer which in the slightest degree elucidated
the cause of his finding a solitary warrior so
far from his people. On the other hand, while the
questions of the Indian were far more dignified and
delicate, they were equally ingenious. He commented
on the state of the trade in peltries, spoke of the
good or ill success of many white hunters, whom he
had either encountered or heard named, and even
alluded to the steady march, which the nation of his
great father, as he cautiously termed the government
of the States, was making towards the hunting-grounds
of his tribe. It was apparent, however, by the singular
mixture of interest, contempt, and indignation,
that were occasionally gleaming through the reserved
manners of this warrior, that he knew the strange
people who were thus trespassing on his native rights
much more by report than by any actual intercourse.
This personal ignorance of the whites was as much
betrayed by the manner in which he regarded the
females, as by any of the brief but energetic expressions
which occasionally escaped him.
While speaking to the trapper he suffered his
wandering glances to stray towards the intellectual
and nearly infantile beauty of Inez, as one might be
supposed to gaze upon the loveliness of an ethereal
being. It was very evident that he now saw, for the
first time, one of those females, of whom the fathers
of his tribe so often spoke, and who were considered
of such rare excellence as to equal all that savage
ingenuity could imagine in the way of loveliness.
His observation of Ellen was less marked, but notwithstanding
the warlike and chastened expression
of his eye, there was much of the homage, which
man is made to pay to woman, even in the more cursory
look he sometimes turned on her maturer and
perhaps more animated beauty. This admiration,
however, was so tempered by his habits, and so
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smothered in the pride of a warrior, as completely
to elude every eye but that of the trapper, who was
too well skilled in Indian customs, and was too well
instructed in the importance of rightly conceiving
the character of the stranger, to let the smallest trait
or the most trifling of his movements escape him. In
the mean time the unconscious Ellen herself moved
about the feeble and less resolute Inez with her accustomed
assiduity and tenderness, exhibiting in her
frank features those changing emotions of joy and regret
which occasionally beset her, as her active mind
dwelt on the decided step she had just taken, with
the contending doubts and hopes, and possibly with
some of the mental vacillation that was natural to
her situation and sex.
Not so Paul; conceiving himself to have obtained
the two things dearest to his heart, the possession of
Ellen and a triumph over the sons of Ishmael, he
now enacted his part, in the business of the moment,
with as much coolness as though he was already
leading his willing bride, from solemnizing their nuptials
before a border magistrate, to the security of
his own dwelling. He had hovered around the moving
family, during the tedious period of their weary
march, concealing himself by day, and seeking interviews
with his betrothed as opportunities offered, in
the manner already described, until fortune and his
own intrepidity had united to render him successful
at the very moment when he was beginning to despair,
and he now cared neither for distance, nor violence,
nor hardships. To his sanguine fancy and determined
resolution all the rest was easily to be
achieved. Such were his feelings, and such in truth
they seemed to be. With his cap cast on one side
and whistling a low air, he thrashed among the bushes,
in order to make a place suitable for the females
to repose on, while, from time to time, he cast an
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approving glance at the agile and rounded form of
Ellen, as she tripped past him in the pursuit of her
own share of the duty.
“And so the Wolf-tribe of the Pawnees have
buried the hatchet with their neighbours the Konzas,”
said the trapper, pursuing a discourse which
he had scarcely permitted to flag, though it had been
occasionally interrupted by the different directions
with which he occasionally saw fit to interrupt it.
(The reader will remember that, while he spoke to
the native warrior in his own tongue, he necessarily
addressed his white companions in English.) “The
Loups and the light-fac'd Red-skins are again friends.
Doctor, that is a tribe of which I'll engage you've
often read, and of which many a round lie has been
whispered in the ears of the ignorant people, who
live in the settlements. There was a story of a nation
of Welshers, that liv'd hereaway in the prairies,
and how they came into the land afore the uneasy
minded man, who first let in the Christians to rob the
heathens of their inheritance, had ever dreamt that
the sun set on a country as big as that it rose from.
And how they knew the white ways, and spoke with
white tongues, and a thousand other follies and idle
conceits.”
“Have I not heard of them!” exclaimed the naturalist,
dropping a piece of jerked bison's meat, which
he was rather roughly discussing at the moment. “I
should be greatly ignorant not to have often dwelt
with delight on so beautiful a theory, and one which
so triumphantly establishes two positions, which I
have often maintained are unanswerable, even without
such living testimony in their favour—viz. that
this continent can claim a more remote affinity with
civilization than the time of Columbus, and that colour
is the fruit of climate and condition, and not a
regulation of nature. Propound the latter question
to this Indian gentleman, venerable hunter; he is of
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a reddish tint himself, and his opinion may be said to
make us masters of the two sides of the disputed
point.”
“Do you think a Pawnee is a reader of books
and a believer of printed lies, like the idlers in the
towns?” retorted the old man, laughing. “But it may
be as well to humour the likings of the man, which
after all it is quite possible are neither more nor less
than his natural gift, and therefore to be followed, although
they may be pitied. What does my brother
think? all whom he sees here have pale skins, but
the Pawnee warriors are red; does he believe that
man changes with the season, and that the son is not
like his father?”
The young warrior regarded his interrogator for a
moment with a steady and scornful eye, and then
raising his finger upward, with a proud gesture, he
answered with dignity—
“The Wahcondah pours the rain from his clouds;
when he speaks, he shakes the hills; and the fire,
which scorches the trees, is the anger of his eye;
but he fashioned his children with care and thought.
What he has thus made, never alters!”
“Ay, 'tis in the reason of natur' that it should be
so, Doctor,” continued the trapper, when he had interpreted
this answer to the disappointed naturalist.
“The Pawnees are a wise and a great people, and
I'll engage they abound in many a wholesome and
honest tradition. The hunters and trappers, that I
sometimes see, speak of a great warrior of your
race!”
“My tribe are not women. A brave is no stranger
in my village.”
“Ay; but he, they speak of most, is a chief far
beyond the renown of common warriors, and one
that might have done credit to that once mighty but
now fallen people, the Delawares of the hills.”
“Such a warrior should have a name?”
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“They call him Hard-Heart, from the stoutness
of his resolution; and well is he named, if all I have
heard of his deeds be true.”
The stranger cast a glance, which seemed to read
the guileless soul of the old man, as he demanded—
“Has the Pale-face seen the partisan of my people?”
“Never. It is not with me now, as it used to be
some forty years ago, when warfare and bloodshed
were my calling and my gifts!”
A loud shout from the reckless Paul interrupted
his speech, and at the next moment the bee-hunter
appeared, leading an Indian war-horse from the side
of the thicket opposite to the one occupied by the
party.
“Here is a beast for a Red-skin to straddle!” he
cried as he made the animal go through some of its
wild paces. “There's not a brigadier in all Kentucky
that can call himself master of so sleek and
well-jointed a nag! A Spanish saddle too, like a
grandee of the Mexicos! and look at the mane and
tail, braided and platted down with little silver balls,
as if it were Ellen herself getting her shining hair
ready for a dance or a husking frolic! Isn't this a
real trotter, old trapper, to eat out of the manger of
a savage?”
“Softly, lad, softly. The Loups are famous for
their horses, and it is often that you see a warrior on
the prairies far better mounted than a congress-man
in the settlements. But this, indeed, is a beast that
none but a powerful chief should ride. The saddle,
as you rightly think, has been sit upon in its day by
a great Spanish captain, who has lost it and his life
together, in some of the battles which this people
often fight against the southern provinces. I warrant
me, I warrant me, the youngster is the son of a great
chief; may be of the mighty Hard-Heart himself!”
During this rude interruption to the discourse, the
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young Pawnee manifested neither impatience nor
displeasure; but when he thought his beast had been
the subject of sufficient comment, he very coolly,
and with the air of one accustomed to have his will
respected, relieved Paul of the bridle, and throwing
the reins on the neck of the animal, he sprang upon
his back, with the activity of a professor of the
equestrian art. Nothing could be finer or firmer than
the seat of the savage. The highly wrought and cumbrous
saddle was evidently more for show than use.
Indeed it impeded rather than aided the action of
limbs, which disdained to seek assistance or admit of
restraint from such womanish inventions as stirrups.
The horse, which immediately began to prance, was,
like its rider, wild and untutored in all his motions,
but while there was so little of art, there was all the
freedom and grace of nature in the movements of
both. The animal was probably indebted to the
blood of Araby for its excellence, through a long
pedigree, that embraced the steed of Mexico, the
Spanish barb and the Moorish charger. The rider,
in obtaining his steed from the provinces of Central-America
had also obtained that spirit and grace in
controlling him, which unite to form the most intrepid
and perhaps the most skilful horseman in the
world.
Notwithstanding this sudden occupation of his animal,
the Pawnee discovered no hasty wish to depart.
More at his ease, and possibly more independent,
now he found himself secure of the means of retreat,
he rode back and forth, eying the different individuals
of the party with far greater freedom than
before. But at each extremity of his ride, just as
the sagacious trapper expected to see him profit by
his advantage and fly, he would turn his horse and
pass over the same ground, sometimes with the
rapidity of the flying deer, and at others more slowly
and with greater dignity of mien and attitude.
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Anxious to ascertain such facts as might have an influence
on his future movements, the old man determined
to invite him to a renewal of their conference.
He therefore made a gesture expressive at the same
time of his wish to resume the interrupted discourse
and of his own pacific intentions. The quick eye
of the stranger was not slow to note the action, but
it was not until a sufficient time had passed to allow
him to debate the prudence of the measure in his
own mind, that he seemed willing to trust himself
again so near a party that was so much superior to
himself in physical power, and consequently one
that was able at any instant to command his life or
control his personal liberty. When he did approach
nigh enough to converse with facility, it was with a
singular mixture of haughtiness and of distrust.
“It is far to the village of the Loups,” he said,
stretching his arm in a direction contrary to that, in
which the trapper well knew, that the tribe dwelt,
“and the road is crooked. What has the Big-knife
to say?”
“Ay, crooked enough!” muttered the old man in
English, if you are to set out on your journey by
that path, but not half so winding as the cunning of
an Indian's mind. Say, my brother; do the chiefs
of the Pawnees love to see strange faces in their
lodges?”
The young warrior bent his body gracefully,
though but slightly over his saddle-bow, as he replied
with grave dignity—
“When have my people forgotten to give food to
the stranger?”
“If I lead my daughters to the doors of the
Loups, will the women take them by the hand; and
will the warriors smoke with my young men?”
“The country of the Pale-faces is behind them.
Why do they journey so far towards the setting sun?
Have they lost the path, or are these the women of
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the white warriors, that I hear are wading up the
river `with the troubled waters?”'
“Neither. They, who wade the Missouri, are the
warriors of my great father, who has sent them on
his message, but we are peace-runners. The white
men and the red are neighbours, and they wish to be
friends.—Do not the Omahaws visit the Loups, when
the tomahawk is buried in the path between the two
nations?”
“The Omahaws are welcome.”
“And the Yanktons and the burnt-wood Tetons,
who live in the elbow of the river `with muddy
water,' do they not come into the lodges of the
Loups and smoke?”
“The Tetons are liars,” exclaimed the other.
“They dare not shut their eyes in the night. No;
they sleep in the sun. See,” he added pointing with
fierce triumph to the frightful ornaments of his leggings,
“their scalps are so plenty, that the Pawnees
tread on them! Go; let a Sioux live in banks of
snow; the plains and buffaloes are for men!”
“Ah! the secret is out,” said the trapper to
Middleton, who was an attentive, because a deeply
interested observer of what was passing. “This
good looking young Indian is scouting on the track
of the Siouxes—you may see it by his arrow-heads,
and his paint; ay, and by his eye, too; for a Red-skin
lets his natur' follow the business he is on, be it
for peace or be it for war,—quiet, Hector, quiet.
Have you never scented a Pawnee afore, pup—keep
down, dog—keep down—my brother is right. The
Siouxes are thieves. Men of all colours and nations
say it of them, and say it truly. But the people from
the rising sun are not Siouxes, and they wish to visit
the lodges of the Loups.”
“The head of my brother is white,” returned the
Pawnee, throwing one of those glances at the trapper,
which were so remarkably expressive of distrust,
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intelligence, and pride, and then pointing, as he continued,
towards the eastern horizon, “and his eyes
have looked on many things—can he tell me the
name of what he sees yonder—is it a buffaloe?”
“It looks more like a cloud, peeping above the
skirt of the plain with the sunshine lighting its edges.
It is the smoke of the heavens.”
“It is a hill of the earth, and on its top are the
lodges of the Pale-faces! Let the women of my
brother wash their feet among the people of their
own colour.”
“The eyes of a Pawnee are good, if he can see
a white-skin so far.”
The Indian turned slowly towards the speaker,
and after a pause of a moment he sternly demanded—
“Can my brother hunt?”
“Alas! I claim to be no better than a miserable
trapper.”
“When the plain is covered with the buffaloes,
can he see them?”
“No doubt, no doubt—it is far easier to see than
to take a scampering bull.”
“And when the birds are flying from the cold, and
the clouds are black with their feathers, can he see
them too?”
“Ay, ay, it is not hard to find a duck or a goose
when millions are darkening the heavens.”
“When the snow falls, and covers the lodges of
the Long-knives, can the stranger see flakes in the
air?”
“My eyes are none of the best, now,” returned
the old man a little resentfully, “but the time has
been when I had a name for my sight!”
“The Red-skins find the Big-knives as easily as the
strangers see the buffaloe, or the travelling birds, or
the falling snow. Your warriors think the Master of
Life has made the whole earth white. They are
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mistaken. They are pale, and it is their own faces
that they see. Go! a Pawnee is not blind, that he
need look long for your people!”
The warrior suddenly paused, and bent his face
aside, like one who listened with all his faculties absorbed
in the act. Then turning the head of his
horse, he rode to the nearest angle of the thicket,
and looked intently across the bleak prairie, in a
direction opposite to the side on which the party
stood. Returning slowly from this unaccountable,
and to his observers, startling procedure, he riveted
his eyes on Inez and paced back and forth several
times, with the air of one who maintained a warm
struggle on some difficult point, in the secret recesses
of his own thoughts. He had drawn the reins of
his impatient steed, and was seemingly about to
speak, when his head again sunk on his chest and he
resumed his former attitude of attention. Galloping
like a deer, to the place of his former observations,
he rode for a moment swiftly, in short and rapid circles,
as if still uncertain of his course, and then darted
away, like a bird that had been fluttering around
its nest before it takes a distant flight. After scouring
the plain for a minute, he was lost to the eye behind
a swell of the land.
The hounds, who had also manifested great uneasiness
for some time, followed him for a little distance,
and then terminated their chase by seating themselves
on the ground and raising their usual low,
whining, and alarming howls.
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CHAPTER II.
“How if he will not stand?”
Shakspeare.
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The several movements related in the close of the
preceding chapter, had passed in so short a space of
time, that the old man, while he neglected not to
note the smallest incident, had no opportunity of expressing
his opinion concerning the stranger's motives.
After the Pawnee had disappeared, however,
he shook his head and muttered, while he walked
slowly to the angle of the thicket that the Indian
had just quitted—
“There are both scents and sounds in the air,
though my miserable senses are not good enough to
hear the one, or to catch the taint of the other.”
“There is nothing to be seen,” cried Middleton,
who kept close at his side. “My eyes and my ears
are good, and yet I can assure you that I neither
hear nor see any thing.”
“Your eyes are good! and you are not deaf!” returned
the other with a slight air of contempt; “no,
lad, no; they may be good to see across a church, or
to hear a town-bell, but afore you had passed a year
in these prairies you would find yourself taking a
turkey for a buffaloe, or conceiting, full fifty times,
that the roar of a buffaloe bull was the thunder of
the Lord! There is a deception of natur' in these
naked plains, in which the air throws up the images
like water, and then it is hard to tell the prairies from
a sea. But yonder is a sign that a hunter never fails
to know!”
The trapper pointed to a flight of vultures, that
were sailing over the plain at no great distance, and
apparently in the direction in which the Pawnee had
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riveted his eye. At first Middleton could not distinguish
the small dark objects, that were dotting the
dusky clouds, but as they came swiftly onward, first
their forms, and then their heavy waving wings became
distinctly visible.
“Listen,” said the trapper, when he had succeeded
in making Middleton see the moving column of
birds. “Now you hear the buffaloes, or bisons, as
your knowing Doctor sees fit to call them, though
buffaloes is their name among all the hunters of these
regions. And, I conclude, that a hunter is a better
judge of a beast and of its name,” he added, winking
to the young soldier, “than any man who has
turned over the leaves of a book, instead of travelling
over the face of the 'arth, in order to find out
the name and the natur's of its inhabitants.”
“Of their habits, I will grant you;” cried the
naturalist, who rarely missed an opportunity to agitate
any disputed point in his favourite studies.
“That is, provided always deference is had to the
proper use of definitions, and that they are contemplated
with scientific eyes.”
“Eyes of a mole! as if man's eyes were not as
good for names as the eyes of any other creatur'!
Who named the works of His hand? can you tell
me that, with your books and college wisdom? Was
it not the first man in the Garden, and is it not a
plain consequence that his children inherit his gifts?”
“That is certainly the Mosaic account of the
event,” said the Doctor; “though your reading is
by far too literal.”
“My reading! nay, if you suppose, that I have
wasted my time in schools, you do such a wrong to
my knowledge as one mortal should never lay to the
door of another without sufficient reason. If I have
ever craved the art of reading, it has been that I
might better know the sayings of the book you name,
for it is a book which speaks, in every line,
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according to human feelings, and therein according to reason.”
“And do you then believe,” said the Doctor a little
provoked by the dogmatism of his stubborn adversary,
and perhaps, secretly, too confident in his
own more liberal, though scarcely as profitable attainments—
“Do you then believe that all these
beasts were literally collected in a garden, to be enrolled
in the nomenclature of the first man?”
“Why not? I understand your meaning; for it
is not needful to live in towns to hear all the devilish
devices, that the conceit of man can invent to upset
his own happiness. What does it prove, except indeed
it may be said to prove that the garden He
made was not after the miserable fashions of our
times, thereby directly giving the lie to what the
world calls its civilizing. No, no, the garden of the
Lord was the forest then, and is the forest now,
where the fruits do grow, and the birds do sing, according
to his own wise ordering. Now, lady, you
may see the mystery of the vultures! There come
the buffaloes themselves, and a noble herd it is! I
warrant me, that Pawnee has a troop of his people
in some of the hollows, nigh by; and as he has gone
scampering after them, you are about to see a glorious
chace. It will serve to keep the squatter and
his brood under cover, and for ourselves there is
little reason to fear. A Pawnee is not apt to be a
malicious savage.”
Every eye was now drawn to the striking spectacle
that succeeded. Even the timid Inez hastened
to the side of Middleton to gaze at the sight, and
Paul summoned Ellen from her culinary labours, to
become a witness of the lively scene.
Throughout the whole of those moving events,
which it has been our duty to record, the prairies
had lain in all the majesty of perfect solitude. The
heavens had been blackened with the passage of the
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migratory birds, it is true, but the dogs of the party,
and the ass of the Doctor, were the only quadrupeds
that had enlivened the broad surface of the waste
beneath. There was now a sudden exhibition of
animal life, which changed the scene, as it were, by
magic, to the very opposite extreme.
A few enormous bison bulls were first observed,
scouring along the most distant roll of the prairie,
and then succeeded long files of single beasts, which,
in their turns, were followed by a dark mass of
bodies, until the dun-coloured herbage of the plain
was entirely lost in the deeper hue of their shaggy
coats. The herd, as the column spread and thickened,
was like the endless flocks of the smaller birds,
whose extended flanks are so often seen to heave up
out of the abyss of the heavens, until they appear
as countless as the leaves in those forests, over which
they wing their endless flight. Clouds of dust shot
up in little columns from the centre of the mass, as
some animal, more furious than the rest, ploughed the
plain with his horns, and, from time to time, a deep
hollow bellowing was borne along on the wind, as
though a thousand throats vented their plaints in a
discordant murmuring.
A long and musing silence reigned in the party, as
they gazed on this spectacle of wild and peculiar
grandeur. It was at length broken by the trapper,
who, having been long accustomed to similar sights,
felt less of its influence, or, rather felt it in a less
thrilling and absorbing manner, than those to whom
the scene was more novel.
“There go ten thousand oxen in one drove, without
keeper or master, except Him who made them,
and gave them these open plains for their pasture!
Ay, it is here that man may see the proofs of his
wantonness and folly! Can the proudest governor
in all the States go into his fields, and slaughter a
nobler bullock than is here offered to the meanest
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hands; and when he has gotten his surloin or his
steak, can he eat it with as good a relish as he who
has sweetened his food with wholesome toil, and
earned it according to the law of natur', by honestly
mastering that which the Lord hath put before him?”
“If the prairie platter is smoking with a buffaloe's
hump I answer, no,” interrupted the luxurious beehunter.
“Ay, boy, you have tasted, and you feel the genuine
reasoning of the thing. But the herd is heading
a little this-a-way, and it behoves us to make ready
for their visit. If we hide ourselves, altogether, the
horned brutes will break through the place and trample
us beneath their feet, like so many creeping
worms; so we will just put the weak ones apart, and
take post, as becomes men and hunters, in the van.”
As there was but little time to make the necessary
arrangements, the whole party set about them in
good earnest. Inez and Ellen were placed in the
edge of the thicket on the side farthest from the approaching
herd. Asinus was posted in the centre,
in consideration of his nerves, and then the old man,
with his three male companions, divided themselves
in such a manner as they thought would enable them
to turn the head of the rushing column should it
chance to approach too nigh their position. By the
vacillating movements of some fifty or a hundred
bulls, that led the advance, it remained questionable,
for many moments, what course they intended to
pursue. But a tremendous and painful roar, which
came from behind the cloud of dust that rose in the
centre of the herd, and which was horridly answered
by the screams of the carrion birds, that were greedily
sailing directly above the flying drove, appeared
to give a new impulse to their flight, and at once to
remove every symptom of indecision. As if glad to
seek the smallest signs of the forest, the whole of the
affrighted herd became steady in its direction,
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rushing in a straight line toward the little cover of bushes,
which has already been so often named.
The appearance of danger was now, in reality, of
a character to try the stoutest nerves. The flanks
of the dark, moving mass, were advanced in such a
manner as to make a concave line of the front, and
every fierce eye, that was glaring from the shaggy
wilderness of hair in which the entire heads of the
males were enveloped, was riveted with mad anxiety
on the thicket. It seemed as if each beast strove to
outstrip his neighbour in gaining this desired cover,
and as thousands in the rear pressed blindly on those
in front, there was the appearance of an imminent
risk that the leaders of the herd would be precipitated
on the concealed party, in which case the destruction
of every one of them was certain. Each
of our adventurers felt the danger of his situation in
a manner peculiar to his individual character and
circumstances.
Middleton wavered. At times he felt inclined to
rush through the bushes, and, seizing Inez, attempt
to fly. Then recollecting the impossibility of outstripping
the furious speed of an alarmed bison, he
felt for his arms as if determined to make head
against the countless multitude of the drove. The
faculties of Dr. Battius were quickly wrought up to
the very summit of mental delusion. The dark
forms of the herd lost their distinctness, and then the
naturalist began to fancy he beheld a wild collection
of all the creatures of the world, rushing upon him
in a body, as if to revenge the various injuries, which
in the course of a life of indefatigable labour in behalf
of the natural sciences, he had inflicted on their
several genera. The paralysis it occasioned in his
system, was like the effect of the incubus. Equally
unable to fly or to advance, he stood riveted to the
spot, until the infatuation became so complete, that
the worthy naturalist was beginning, by a desperate
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effort of scientific resolution, even to class the different
specimens. On the other hand, Paul shouted,
and called on Ellen to come and assist him in shouting,
but his voice was lost in the bellowings and
trampling of the herd. Furious, and yet strangely
excited by the obstinacy of the brutes and the wildness
of the sight, and nearly maddened by sympathy
and a species of unconscious apprehension, in which
the claims of nature were singularly mingled with
concern for his mistress, he nearly split his throat in
exhorting his aged friend to interfere.
“Come forth, old trapper,” he shouted, “with
your prairie inventions! or we shall be all smothered
under a mountain of buffaloe humps!”
The old man, who had stood all this while leaning
on his rifle, and regarding the movements of the
herd with a steady eye, now deemed it time to strike
his blow. Levelling his piece at the foremost bull,
with an agility that would have done credit to his
youth, he fired. The animal received the bullet on
the matted hair between his horns, and fell to his
knees: but shaking his head he instantly arose, the
very shock seeming to increase his exertions. There
was now no longer time to hesitate. Throwing down
his rifle, the trapper stretched forth his arms, and
advanced from the cover with naked hands, directly
towards the rushing column of the beasts.
The figure of a man, when sustained by the firmness
and steadiness that intellect can only impart,
rarely fails of commanding respect from all the inferior
animals of the creation. The leading bulls recoiled,
and for a single instant there was a sudden
stop to their speed, a dense mass of bodies rolling
up in front, until hundreds were seen floundering and
tumbling on the plain. Then came another of those
hollow bellowings from the rear and set the herd
again in motion. The head of the column, however,
divided. The immoveable form of the
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
trapper, cutting it, as it were, into two gliding streams of
life. Middleton and Paul instantly profited by his
example, and extended the feeble barrier by a similar
exhibition of their own persons.
For a few moments, the new impulse, given to the
animals in front, served to protect the thicket. But,
as the body of the herd pressed more and more upon
the open line of its defenders, and the dust thickened
so as to obscure their persons, there was, at each
instant, a renewed danger of the beasts breaking
through. It became necessary for the trapper and
his companions to become still more and more alert;
and they were gradually yielding before the headlong
multitude, when a furious bull darted by Middleton,
so near as to brush his person, and, at the next instant,
swept through the thicket with the velocity of
the wind.
“Close, and die for the ground,” shouted the old
man, “or a thousand of the devils will be at his
heels!”
All their efforts would have proved fruitless, however,
against the living torrent, had not Asinus, whose
domains had just been so rudely entered, lifted his
voice, in the midst of the uproar. The most sturdy
and furious of the bulls trembled at the alarming and
unknown cry, and then each individual brute was
seen madly pressing from that very thicket, which,
the moment before, he had endeavoured to reach
with the same sort of eagerness as that with which
the murderer seeks the sanctuary.
As the stream divided, the place became clear;
the two dark columns moving obliquely from the
copse to unite again at the distance of a mile, on its
opposite side. The instant the old man saw the sudden
effect which the voice of Asinus had produced,
he coolly commenced reloading his rifle, indulging at
the same time in a most heartfelt fit of his silent and
peculiar merriment.
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“There they go, like dogs with so many half-filled
shot-pouches dangling at their tails, and no fear of
their breaking their order; for what the brutes in
the rear didn't hear with their own ears, they'll conceit
they did: besides, if they change their minds it
may be no hard matter to get the Jack to sing the
rest of his tune!”
“The ass has spoken, but Balaam is silent!” cried
the bee-hunter, catching his breath after a repeated
burst of noisy mirth, that might possibly have added
to the panic of the buffaloes by its vociferation!
“The man is as completely dumb-foundered, as
though a swarm of young bees had settled on the
end of his tongue, and he not willing to speak, for
fear of their answer.”
“How now, friend,” continued the trapper, addressing
the still motionless and entranced naturalist;
“How now, friend; are you, who make your livelihood
by booking the names and natur's of the beasts
of the fields and the fowls of the air, frightened at a
herd of scampering buffaloes! Though, perhaps,
you are ready to dispute my right to call them by a
word that is in the mouth of every hunter and
trader on the frontier!”
The old man was however mistaken, in supposing
he could excite the benumbed faculties of the Doctor,
by provoking a discussion on this momentous
topic. From that time, henceforth, he was never
known, except on one occasion, to utter a word that
indicated either the species or the genus of the animal.
He obstinately refused the nutritious food of
the whole ox family, and even to the present hour,
now that he is established in all the scientific dignity
and security of a savant in one of the maritime
towns, he turns his back with a shudder on those
delicious and unrivalled viands, that are so often
seen at the suppers of the craft, and which are
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unequalled by any thing, that is served under the same
name, at the boasted chop-houses of London or at
the most renowned of the Parisian restaurans. In
short, the distaste of the worthy naturalist for beef
was not unlike that which the shepherd sometimes
produces, by first muzzling and fettering his delinquent
dog, and then leaving him as a stepping stone
for the whole flock to use in its transit over a wall
or through the opening of a sheep-fold; a process
which is said to produce in the culprit a species of
surfeit, on the subject of mutton, for ever after. By
the time Paul and the trapper saw fit to terminate
the fresh bursts of merriment, which the continued
abstraction of their learned companion did not fail
to excite, he commenced breathing again, as though
the suspended action of his lungs had been renewed
by the application of a pair of artificial bellows, and
was heard to make use of the ever afterwards proscribed
term, on that solitary occasion, to which we
have just alluded.
“Boves Americani horridi!” exclaimed the Doctor,
laying great stress on the latter word; after
which he continued mute, like one who pondered on
strange and unaccountable events.
“Ay, horrid eyes enough, I will willingly allow,”
returned the trapper; “and altogether the creatur'
has a frightful look, to one unused to the sights and
bustle of a natural life; but then the courage of the
beast is in no way equal to its countenance. Lord,
man, if you should once get fairly beset by a brood
of grizzly bears, as happened to Hector and I, at the
great falls of the Miss—Ah, here comes the tail
of the herd, and yonder goes a pack of hungry
wolves, ready to pick up the sick, or such as get a
disjointed neck by a tumble. Ha! there are mounted
men on their trail, or I'm no sinner! here, lad;
you may see them here-away, just where the dust is
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scattering afore the wind. They are hovering around
a wounded buffaloe, making an end of the surly
devil with their arrows!”
Middleton and Paul soon caught a glimpse of the
dark groupe that the quick eye of the old man had
so readily detected. Some fifteen or twenty horsemen
were, in truth, to be seen riding, in quick circuits,
about a noble bull, which stood at bay, too
grievously hurt to fly, and yet seeming to disdain to
fall, notwithstanding his hardy body had already been
the target for a hundred arrows. A thrust from the
lance of a powerful Indian, however, completed his
conquest, and the brute gave up his obstinate hold of
life with a roar, that passed bellowing over the place
where our adventurers stood, and, reaching the ears
of the affrighted herd, added a new impulse to their
flight.
“How well the Pawnee knew the philosophy of a
buffaloe hunt,” said the old man, after he had stood
regarding the animated scene for a few moments,
with very evident satisfaction. “You saw how he
went off like the wind before the drove. It was in
order that he might not taint the air, and that he
might turn the flank, and join—Ha! how is this!
yonder Red-skins are no Pawnees! The feathers in
their heads are from the wings and tails of owls—
Ah! as I am but a miserable half-sighted trapper, it
is a band of the accursed Siouxes! To cover, lads,
to cover. A single cast of an eye this-a-way, would
strip us of every rag of clothes, as surely as the
lightning scorches the bush, and it might be that our
very lives would be far from safe.
Middleton had already turned from the spectacle,
to seek that which pleased him better; the sight of
his young and beautiful bride. Paul seized the Doctor
by the arm, and, as the trapper followed with the
smallest possible delay, the whole party was quickly
collected within the cover of the thicket. After a
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few short explanations concerning the character of
this new danger, the old man, on whom the whole
duty of directing their movements was devolved, in
deference to his great experience, continued his discourse
as follows—
“This is a region, as you must all know, where a
strong arm is far better than the right, and where the
white law is as little known as needed. Therefore
does every thing, now, depend on judgment and
power. If,” he continued, laying his finger on his
cheek like one who considered deeply all sides of
the embarrassing situation in which he found himself,
“if an invention could be framed, which would
set these Siouxes and the brood of the squatter by the
ears, then might we come in, like the buzzards after
a fight atween the beasts, and pick up the gleanings
of the ground—there are Pawnees nigh us, too! It
is a certain matter, for yonder lad is not so far from
his village without an errand. Here are therefore
four parties within sound of a cannon, not one of
whom can trust the other. All which makes movement
a little difficult, in a district where covers are
far from plenty. But we are three well-armed, and
I think I may say three stout-hearted men—”
“Four,” interrupted Paul.
“Anan,” said the old man, looking up for the first
time at his companions.
“Four,” repeated the bee-hunter, pointing to the
naturalist.
“Every army has its hangers-on and idlers,” rejoined
the blunt border-man. “Friend, it will be
necessary to slaughter this ass.”
“To slay Asinus! such a deed would be an act
of supererogatory cruelty.”
“I know nothing of your words, which hide their
meaning in sound; but that is cruel which sacrifices
a Christian to a brute. This is what I call the reason
of mercy. It would be just as safe to blow a
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trumpet, as to let the animal raise his voice again,
inasmuch as it would prove a manifest challenge to
the Siouxes.”
“I will answer for the discretion of Asinus, who
seldom speaks without a reason.”
“They say a man can be known by the company
he keeps,” retorted the old man, “and why not a
brute! I once made a forced march, and went
through a great deal of jeopardy, with a companion
who never opened his mouth but to sing; and trouble
enough and great concern of mind did the fellow
give me. It was in that very business with your
grand'ther, captain. But then he had a human throat,
and well did he know how to use it, on occasion,
though he didn't always stop to regard the time and
seasons fit for such outcries. Ah's me! if I was now,
as I was then, it wouldn't be a band of thieving
Siouxes that should easily drive me from such a
lodgment as this! But what signifies boasting, when
sight and strength are both failing. The warrior, that
the Delawares once saw fit to call after the Hawk,
for the goodness of his eyes, would now be better
termed the Mole. In my judgment, therefore, it will
be well to slay the brute.”
“There's argument and good logic in it,” said
Paul; “music is music, and it's always noisy, whether
it comes from a fiddle or a jackass. Therefore I
agree with the old man, and say, kill the beast.”
“Friends,” said the naturalist, looking with a sorrowful
eye from one to another of his bloodily disposed
companions; “slay not Asinus; he is a specimen
of his kind, of whom much good and little evil
can be said. Hardy and docile, for his genus; abstemious
and patient, even for his humble species.
We have journeyed much together, and his death
would grieve me. How would it trouble thy spirit,
venerable venator, to separate, in such an untimely
manner, from your faithful hound?”
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“The animal shall not die;” said the old man, suddenly
clearing his throat, in a manner that proved
he felt the fullest force of the appeal. “But his
voice must be smothered. Bind his jaws with the
halter, and then I think we may trust the rest to
Providence.”
With this double security for the discretion of
Asinus, for Paul instantly bound the muzzle of the
ass in the manner required, the trapper seemed content.
After which he proceeded to the margin of the
thicket to reconnoitre.
The uproar, which attended the passage of the
herd, was now gone, or rather it was heard rolling
along the prairie, at the distance of a mile. The
clouds of dust were already blown away by the
wind, and a clear range was left to the eye, in that
place where ten minutes before there existed such a
strange scene of wildness and confusion.
The Siouxes had completed their conquest, and,
apparently satisfied with this addition to the numerous
previous captures they had made, they now
seemed content to let the remainder of the herd escape.
A dozen remained around the carcass, over
which a few buzzards were balancing themselves,
with steady wings and greedy eyes, while the rest
were riding about, as if in quest of such further
booty as might come in their way, on the trail of so
vast a drove. The trapper measured the proportions,
and scanned the equipments of such individuals as
drew nearer to the side of the thicket, with careful
eyes. At length he pointed out one among them, to
Middleton, as Weucha.
“Now, know we not only who they are, but their
errand,” the old man continued, deliberately shaking
his head. “They have lost the trail of the squatter
and are on its hunt. These buffaloes have crossed
their path, and in chasing the animals, bad luck has
led them in open sight of the hill on which the brood
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of Ishmael have harboured. Do you see you birds
watching for the offals of the beast they have killed?
Therein is a moral, which teaches the manner of a
prairie life. A band of Pawnees are outlying for
these very Siouxes, as you see the buzzards looking
down for their food, and it behoves us, as Christian
men who have so much at stake, to look down upon
them both. Ha! what brings yonder two skirting
reptiles to a stand! As you live, they have found
the place where the miserable son of the squatter
met his death!”
The old man was not mistaken. Weucha, and a
savage who accompanied him, had reached that spot,
which has already been mentioned as furnishing such
frightful evidences of violence and bloodshed. There
they sat on their horses, examining the well-known
signs with all the intelligence that distinguishes the
habits of Indians. Their scrutiny was long, and apparently
not without distrust. At length they both
raised a cry at the same instant, that was scarcely
less piteous and startling than that which the hounds
had before made over the same fatal signs, and which
did not fail to draw the whole band immediately
around them, as the fell bark of the jackal is said to
gather his comrades to the chase.
CHAPTER III.
“Welcome, ancient Pistol.”
—Shakspeare.
It was not long, before the trapper pointed out
the commanding person of Mahtoree, as the leader
of the Siouxes. This chief, who had been among
the last to obey the vociferous summons of Weucha,
no sooner reached the spot, where his whole party
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was now gathered, than he threw himself from his
horse, and proceeded to examine the marks of the
extraordinary trail, with that degree of dignity and
attention which became his high and responsible station.
The warriors, for it was but too evident that
they were to a man of that fearless and ruthless
class, awaited the result of his investigation with patient
reserve; none but a few of the principal braves
presuming even to speak, while their leader was thus
gravely occupied. It was several minutes before
Mahtoree seemed satisfied. He then directed his
eyes along the ground to those several places where
Ishmael had found the same revolting evidences of
the passage of some bloody struggle, and motioned
to his people to follow.”
The whole band advanced in a body towards the
thicket, until they came to a halt within a few yards
of the precise spot where Esther had stimulated her
sluggish sons to break into the cover. The reader
will readily imagine that the trapper and his companions
were not indifferent observers of such a
threatening movement. The old man summoned all
who were capable of bearing arms to his side, and
demanded, in very unequivocal terms, though in a
voice that was suitably lowered, in order to escape
the ears of their dangerous neighbours, whether they
were disposed to make battle for their liberty, or
whether they should try the milder expedient of conciliation.
As it was a subject, in which all had an
equal interest, he put the question as to a council of
war, and not without some slight exhibition of the
lingering vestiges of a nearly extinct military pride.
Paul and the Doctor were diametrically opposed to
each other in opinion; the former advocating an immediate
appeal to arms, and the latter as warmly espousing
the policy of pacific measures. Middleton,
who saw that there was great danger of a hot verbal
dispute between two men, who were governed by
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
feelings so entirely different, saw fit to assume the
office of arbiter; or rather to decide the question, in
virtue of his situation making him a sort of umpire.
He also leaned to the side of peace, for he evidently
saw that, in consequence of the vast superiority of
their enemies, violence would irretrievably lead to
their destruction.
The trapper listened to the reasons of the young
soldier with great attention; and, as they were given
with the steadiness of one who did not suffer apprehension
to blind his judgment, they did not fail to
produce a suitable impression.
“It is rational,” rejoined the trapper, when the
other had delivered his reasons; “It is very rational,
for what man cannot move with his strength he must
circumvent with his wits. It is reason that makes
him stronger than the buffaloe and swifter than the
moose. Now stay you here, and keep yourselves
close. My life and my traps are but of little value,
when the welfare of so many human souls are concerned,
and, moreover, I may say that I know the
windings of Indian cunning. Therefore will I go
alone upon the prairie. It may so happen, that I can
yet draw the eyes of a Sioux from this spot and give
you time and room to fly.”
As if resolved to listen to no remonstrance, the
old man quietly shouldered his rifle, and moving leisurely
through the thicket, he issued on the plain, at
a point whence he might first appear before the eyes
of the Siouxes, without exciting their suspicions that
he came from its cover.
The instant that the figure of a man dressed in the
garb of a hunter, and bearing the well known and
much dreaded rifle, appeared before the eyes of the
Siouxes, there was a sensible, though a suppressed
sensation in the band. The artifice of the trapper
had so far succeeded as to render it extremely doubtful
whether he came from some point on the open
-- 036 --
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prairie, or from the thicket, though the Indians still
continued to cast frequent and suspicious glances at
the cover. They had made their halt at the distance of
an arrow-flight from the bushes, but when the stranger
came sufficiently nigh to show that the deep coating
of red and brown, which time and exposure had
given to his features, was laid upon the original colour
of a Pale-face, they slowly receded from the
spot, until they reached a distance that might render
the aim of fire-arms less fatal.
In the mean time the old man continued to advance,
until he had got nigh enough to make himself
heard without difficulty. Here he stopped, and
dropping his rifle to the earth, he raised his hand
with the palm outward, in token of peace. After uttering
a few words of reproach to his hound, who
watched the savage groupe with eyes that seemed to
recognise them, as the former captors of his master,
he spoke in the Sioux tongue—
“My brothers are welcome,” he said, cunningly
constituting himself the master of the region in
which they had met, and assuming the offices of hospitality.
“They are far from their villages, and are
hungry. Will they follow to my lodge, to eat and
sleep?”
No sooner was his voice heard, than the yell of
pleasure, which burst from a dozen mouths, convinced
the sagacious trapper, that he also was recognized.
Feeling that it was too late to retreat, he profited
by the confusion which prevailed among them,
while Weucha was explaining his character, to advance,
until he was again face to face with the redoubtable
Mahtoree himself. The second interview
between these two men, each of whom was extraordinary
in his way, was marked by the usual caution
of the frontiers. They stood, for nearly a minute,
examining each other without speaking.
“Where are your young men?” sternly
-- 037 --
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demanded the Teton chieftain, after he found that the immoveable
features of the trapper refused to betray
any of their master's secrets under his intimidating
look.
“The Long-knives do not come in bands to trap
the beaver? I am alone.”
“Your head is white, but you have a forked
tongue. Mahtoree has been in your camp. He
knows that you are not alone. Where is your young
wife, and the warrior that I found upon the prairie?”
“I have no wife. I have told my brother that the
woman and her friend were strangers. The words
of a gray head should be heard, and not forgotten.
The Dahcotahs found travellers asleep, and they
thought they had no need of horses. The women
and children of a Pale-face are not used to go far on
foot. Let them be sought where you left them.”
The eyes of the Teton flashed fire as he answered—
“They are gone: but Mahtoree is a wise chief,
and his eyes can see a great distance!”
“Does the partisan of the Tetons see men on
these naked fields?” retorted the trapper, with great
steadiness of mien. “I am very old, and my eyes
grow dim. Where do they stand?”
The chief remained silent a moment, as if he disdained
to contest any further the truth of a fact,
concerning which he was already satisfied. Then
pointing to the traces on the earth, he said, with a
sudden transition to mildness, in his eye and manner—
“My father has learnt wisdom, in many winters;
can he tell me whose moccasin has left this trail?”
“There have been wolves and buffaloes on the
prairies; and there may have been cougars too.”
Mahtoree glanced his eye at the thicket, as if he
thought the latter suggestion not impossible.
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Pointing to the place, he ordered his young men to reconnoitre
it more closely, cautioning them, at the same
time, with a stern look at the trapper, to beware of
treachery from the Big-knives. Three or four half-naked,
eager-looking youths lashed their horses at
the word, and darted away to obey the mandate.
The old man trembled a little for the discretion of
Paul, when he saw this demonstration. The Tetons
encircled the place two or three times, approaching
nigher and nigher at each circuit, and then gallopped
back to their leader to report that the copse
seemed empty. Notwithstanding the trapper watched
the eye of Mahtoree, to detect the inward movements
of his mind, and if possible to anticipate, in
order to direct his suspicions, the utmost sagacity of
one so long accustomed to study the cold habits of
the Indian race, could however detect no symptom
or expression that denoted how far he credited or
distrusted this intelligence. Instead of replying to
the information of his scouts, he spoke kindly to his
horse, and motioning to a youth to receive the bridle,
or rather halter, by which he governed the animal,
he took the trapper by the arm, and led him a
little apart from the rest of the band.
“Has my brother been a warrior?” said the wily
Teton, in a tone that he intended should be conciliating.
“Do the leaves cover the trees in the season of
fruits? Go. The Dahcotahs have not seen as many
warriors living as I have looked on in their blood!
But what signifies idle remembrancing,” he added
in English, “when limbs grow stiff, and sight is failing!”
The chief regarded him a moment with a severe
look, as if he would lay bare the falsehood he had
heard, but meeting in the calm eye and steady mien
of the trapper a confirmation of the truth of what
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he said, he took the hand of the old man and laid it
gently on his head, in token of the respect that was
due to the other's years and experience.
“Why then do the Big-knives tell their red brethren
to bury the tomahawk,” he said, “when their
own young men never forget that they are braves,
and meet each other so often with bloody hands?”
“My nation is more numerous than the buffaloes
on the prairies, or the pigeons in the air. Their
quarrels are frequent; yet their warriors are few.
None go out on the war-path but they who are gifted
with the qualities of a brave, and therefore such see
many battles.”
“It is not so—my father is mistaken,” returned
Mahtoree, indulging in a smile of exulting penetration,
at the very instant he corrected the force of his
denial, in deference to the years and services of one
so aged. “The Big-knives are very wise, and they
are men; all of them would be warriors. They
would leave the Red-skins to dig roots and hoe the
corn. But a Dahcotah is not born to live like a woman;
he must strike the Pawnee and the Omahaw,
or he will lose the name of his fathers.”
“The Master of Life looks with an open eye on
his children, who die in a battle that is fought for the
right; but he is blind, and his ears are shut to the
cries of an Indian, who is killed when plundering or
doing evil to his neighbour.”
“My father is old;” said Mahtoree, looking at his
aged companion, with an expression of irony, that
sufficiently denoted he was one of those who overstep
the trammels of education, and who are perhaps
a little given to abuse the mental liberty they thus
obtain. “He is very old: Has he made a journey
to the far country; and has he been at the trouble
to come back, to tell the young men what he has
seen?”
“Teton,” returned the trapper, throwing the
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breech of his rifle to the earth with startling vehemence,
and regarding his companion with steady serenity,
“I have heard that there are men, among my
people, who study their great medicines until they
believe themselves to be gods, and who laugh at all
faith except in their own vanities. It may be true.
It is true; for I have seen them. When man is shut
up in towns and schools, with his own follies, it may
be easy to believe himself greater than the Master
of Life; but a warrior, who lives in a house with
the clouds for its roof, where he can at any moment
look both at the heavens and at the earth, and who
daily sees the power of the Great Spirit, should be
more humble. A Dahcotah chieftain ought to be too
wise to laugh at justice.”
The crafty Mahtoree, who saw that his free-thinking
was not likely to produce a favourable impression
on the old man, instantly changed his ground, by alluding
to the more immediate subject of their interview.
Laying his hand gently on the shoulder of
the trapper, he led him forward, until they both
stood within fifty feet of the margin of the thicket.
Here he fastened his penetrating eyes on the other's
honest countenance, and continued the discourse—
“If my father has hid his young men in the bush,
let him tell them to come forth. You see that a
Dahcotah is not afraid. Mahtoree is a great chief!
A warrior, whose head is white, and who is about to
go to the Land of Spirits, cannot have a tongue with
two ends, like a serpent.”
“Dahcotah, I have told no lie. Since the Great
Spirit made me a man, I have lived in the wilderness,
or on these naked plains, without lodge or family.
I am a hunter and go on my path alone.”
“My father has a good carabine. Let him point
it in the bush and fire.”
The old man hesitated a moment, and then slowly
prepared himself to give this delicate assurance of
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
the truth of what he said, without which he plainly
perceived the suspicions of his crafty companion
could not be lulled. As he lowered his rifle, his
eye, although greatly dimmed and weakened by age,
ran over the confused collection of objects, that lay
embedded amid the party-coloured foliage of the
thicket, until it succeeded in catching a glimpse of
the brown covering of the stem of a small tree.
With this object in view, he raised the piece to a
level and fired. The bullet had no sooner glided
from the barrel than a tremor seized the hands of
the trapper, which, had it occurred a moment sooner,
would have utterly disqualified him for such a
hazardous experiment. A frightful silence for an instant
succeeded the report, during which he expected
to hear the shrieks of the females, and then, as
the smoke whirled away in the wind, he caught a
view of the fluttering bark, and felt assured that all
his former skill was not entirely departed from him.
Dropping the piece to the earth, he turned again to
his companion with an air of the utmost composure,
and demanded—
“Is my brother satisfied?”
“Mahtoree is a chief of the Dahcotahs;” returned
the cunning Teton, laying his hand on his chest;
in acknowledgement of the other's sincerity. “He
knows that a warrior, who has smoked at so many
council-fires, until his head has grown white, would
not be found in wicked company. But did not my
father once ride on a horse, like a rich chief of the
Pale-faces, instead of travelling on foot like a hungry
Konza?”
“Never! The Wahcondah has given me legs and
he has given me resolution to use them. For sixty
summers and winters did I journey in the woods of
America, and ten tiresome years have I dwelt on
these open fields, without finding need to call often
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
upon the gifts of the other creatur's of the Lord to
carry me from place to place.”
“If my father has so long lived in the shade, why
has he come upon the prairies? The sun will scorch
him.”
The old man looked sorrowfully about for a moment,
and then turning with a sort of confidential air
to the other, he replied—
“I passed the spring, summer, and autumn of life
among the trees. The winter of my days had come,
and found me where I loved to be, in the quiet—ay,
and in the honesty of the woods! Teton, then I
slept happily where my eyes could look up through
the branches of the pines and the beeches, to the
very dwelling of the Good Spirit of my people. If
I had need to open my heart to him, while his fires
were burning above my head, the door was open and
before my eyes. But the axes of the choppers awoke
me. For a long time my ears heard nothing, but the
uproar of clearings. I bore it like a warrior and a
man; there was a reason that I should bear it: but
when that reason was ended, I bethought me to get
beyond the accursed sounds. It was trying to the
courage and to the habits, but I had heard of these
vast and naked fields, and I came hither to escape
the wasteful temper of my people. Tell me, Dahcotah,
have I not done well?”
The trapper laid his long lean finger on the naked
shoulder of the Indian as he ended, and seemed to
demand his felicitations on his ingenuity and success,
with a ghastly smile, in which triumph was singularly
blended with regret. His companion listened intently,
and replied to the question by saying, in the sententious
manner of his race—
“The head of my father is very gray; he has always
lived with men, and he has seen every thing.
What he does is good; what he speaks is wise. Now
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
let him say, is he sure that he is a stranger to the
Big-knives, who are looking for their beasts on every
side of the prairies and cannot find them?”
“Dahcotah, what I have said is true. I live alone,
and never do I mingle with men whose skins are
white, if—”
His mouth was suddenly closed by an interruption
that was as mortifying as it was unexpected. The
words were still on his tongue, when the bushes on
the side of the thicket where they stood, opened, and
the whole of the party whom he had just left, and
in whose behalf he was endeavouring to reconcile
his love of truth to the necessity of prevaricating,
came openly into view. A pause of mute astonishment
succeeded this unlooked-for spectacle. Then
Mahtoree, who did not suffer a muscle or a joint to
betray the wonder and surprise he actually experienced,
motioned towards the advancing friends of the
trapper with an air of assumed civility and a smile,
that lighted his fierce, dark visage, as the glare of the
setting sun reveals the vast volumes and portentous
load of the cloud that is seen charged to bursting
with the electric fluid. He however disdained to
speak, or to give any other evidence of his intentions
than by calling to his side the distant band,
who sprang forward at his beck with the alacrity of
willing subordinates.
In the mean time the friends of the old man continued
to advance. Middleton himself was foremost,
supporting the light and aerial looking figure of Inez,
on whose anxious and speaking countenance he cast
such occasional glances of tender interest as, in similar
circumstances, a father would have given to his
child. Paul led Ellen close in their rear. But while
the eye of the bee-hunter did not neglect his blooming
companion, it scowled angrily, resembling more
the aspect of the sullen and retreating bear than the
soft intelligence of a favoured suitor. Obed and
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
Asinus came last, the former leading his companion
with a degree of fondness that could hardly be said
to be exceeded by any other of the party. The approach
of the naturalist was far less rapid than that
of those who preceded him. His feet seemed equally
reluctant to advance or to remain stationary; his
position bearing a great analogy to that of Mahomet's
coffin, with the exception that the quality of
repulsion rather than that of attraction held him in
a state of rest. The repulsive power in his rear
however appeared to predominate, and by a singular
exception, as he would have said himself, to all philosophical
principles, it rather increased than diminished
by distance. As the eyes of the naturalist
steadily maintained a position that was the opposite
of his route, they served to give a direction to those
of the observers of all these movements, and at once
furnished a sufficient clue by which to unravel the
mystery of so sudden a debouchement from the
cover.
Another cluster of stout and armed men was seen
at no great distance, just rounding a point of the
thicket, and moving directly though cautiously towards
the place where the band of the Siouxes was
posted, as a squadron of cruisers is often seen to
steer across the waste of waters, towards the rich
but well-protected convoy. In short, the family of
the squatter, or at least such among them as were
capable of bearing arms, appeared in view, on the
broad prairie, evidently bent on revenging their
wrongs.
Mahtoree and his party slowly retired from the
thicket, the moment they caught a view of the strangers,
until they halted on a swell that commanded a
wide and unobstructed view of the naked fields on
which they stood. Here the Dahcotah appeared disposed
to make his stand, and to bring matters to an
issue. Notwithstanding this retreat, in which he
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
compelled the trapper to accompany him, Middleton
still advanced, until he too halted on the same elevation
and within speaking distance of the warlike
Siouxes. The borderers in their turn took a favourable
position, though at a much greater distance.
The three groups now resembled so many fleets at
sea, lying with their topsails to the masts, with the
commendable precaution of reconnoitring before
each could ascertain who among the strangers might
be considered as friends and who as foes.
During this moment of suspense, the dark, threatening
eye of Mahtoree rolled from one of the strange
parties to the other, in keen and hasty examination,
and then it turned its withering look on the old man,
as the chief said, in a tone of high and bitter scorn—
“The Big-knives are fools! It is easier to catch
the cougar asleep than to find a blind Dahcotah.
Did the white head think to ride on the horse of a
Sioux?”
The trapper, who had found time to collect his
perplexed faculties, saw at once that Middleton, having
perceived Ishmael on the trail by which they had
fled, preferred trusting to the hospitality of the savages,
than to the treatment he would be likely to receive
from the hands of the squatter. He therefore
disposed himself to clear the way for the favourable
reception of his friends, since he found that the unnatural
coalition became necessary to secure the liberty
if not the lives of the party.
“Did my brother ever go on a war-path to strike
my people?” he calmly demanded of the indignant
chief, who still awaited his reply.
The lowering aspect of the Teton warrior so far
lost its severity, as to suffer a gleam of pleasure and
triumph to lighten its ferocity, as sweeping his arm
in an entire circle around his person he answered—
“What tribe or nation has not felt the blows of
the Dahcotahs? Mahtoree is their partisan.”
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
“And has he found the Big-knives women, or has
he found them men?”
A multitude of fierce passions seemed struggling
together in the tawny countenance of the Indian, as
he heard this interrogatory. For a moment inextinguishable
hatred seemed to hold the mastery, and
then a nobler expression, and one that better became
the character of a brave warrior, got possession of his
features, and maintained itself until, first throwing
aside his light robe of pictured deer-skin and pointing
to the scar of a bayonet in his breast, he replied—
“It was given as it was taken, face to face.”
“It is enough. My brother is a brave chief, and
he should be a wise one. Let him look; is that a
warrior of the Pale-faces? Was it one such as that
who gave the great Dahcotah his hurt?”
The eyes of Mahtoree followed the direction of the
old man's extended arm, until they rested on the
drooping form of Inez. The look of the Teton was
long, riveted and admiring. Like that of the young
Pawnee, it resembled more the gaze of a mortal on
some heavenly image, than the admiration with which
man is wont to contemplate even the loveliness of
woman. Starting as if suddenly self-convicted of forgetfulness,
the chief next turned his eyes on Ellen,
where they lingered an instant with a much more intelligible
expression of admiration, and then pursued
their course until they had taken another glance at
each individual of the party.
“My brother sees that my tongue is not forked,”
continued the trapper, watching the emotions the
other betrayed with a readiness of comprehension
little inferior to that of the Teton himself. “The
Big-knives do not send their women to war. I know
that the Dahcotahs will smoke with the strangers.”
“Mahtoree is a great chief. The Big-knives are
welcome,” said the Teton, laying his hand on his
breast, with an air of lofty politeness that would have
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
done credit to any state of society. “The arrows of
my young men are in their quivers.”
The trapper motioned to Middleton to approach,
and in a few moments the two parties were blended
in one, each of the males having exchanged friendly
greetings after the fashions of the prairie warriors.
But, even while engaged in this hospitable manner,
the Dahcotah did not fail to keep a strict watch on
the more distant party of white men, as though he
still distrusted an artifice or sought a further explanation.
The old man in his turn perceived the necessity
of being more explicit, and of securing the slight and
equivocal advantage he had already obtained. While
affecting to examine the groupe, which still lingered
at the spot where it had first halted, as if to discover
the characters of those who composed it, he plainly
saw that Ishmael contemplated immediate hostilities.
The result of a conflict on the open prairie, between
a dozen resolute border-men, and the half-armed natives,
even though seconded by their white allies, was
in his experienced judgment a point of great uncertainty,
and though far from reluctant to engage in the
struggle on account of himself, the aged trapper
thought it far more worthy of his years and his character
to avoid than to court the contest. His feelings
were for obvious reasons in accordance with
those of Paul and Middleton, who had lives still more
precious than their own to watch over and protect.
In this dilemma the three consulted on the means of
escaping the frightful consequences, which might immediately
follow a single act of hostility on the part
of the borderers, the old man taking care that their
communication should, in the eyes of those who noted
the expression of their countenances with jealous
watchfulness, bear the appearance of explanations as
to the reason, why such a party of travellers was met
so far in the deserts.
“I know that the Dahcotahs are a wise and great
-- 048 --
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people,” at length the trapper commenced, again addressing
himself to the chief; “but does not their
partisan know a single brother who is base?”
The eye of Mahtoree wandered proudly around
his band, but rested a moment reluctantly on Weucha,
as he answered—
“The Master of Life has made chiefs, and warriors,
and women;” conceiving that he thus embraced all
the gradations of human excellence from the highest
to the lowest.
“And he has also made Pale-faces, who are wicked.
Such are they whom my brother sees yonder.”
“Do they go on foot to do wrong?” demanded the
Teton, with a wild gleam from his eyes, that sufficiently
betrayed how well he knew the reason why they were
reduced to so humble an expedient.
“Their beasts are gone. But their powder, and
their lead, and their blankets still remain.”
“Do they carry their riches in their hands like
miserable Konzas? or are they brave, and leave
them with the women, as men should do, who know
where to find what they lose.”
“My brother sees the spot of blue across the prairie;
look, the sun has touched it for the last time to
day.”
“Mahtoree is not a mole.”
“It is a rock, and on it are the goods of the Big-knives.”
An expression of savage joy shot into the dark
countenance of the Teton as he listened; turning to
the old man he seemed to read his soul for an instant,
as if to assure himself he was not deceived. Then he
bent his look on the party of Ishmael and counted its
number.
“One warrior is wanting,” he said.
“Does my brother see the buzzards? there is his
grave. Did he find blood on the prairie? it was his.”
“Enough! Mahtoree is a wise chief. Put your
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
women on the horses of the Dahcotahs; we shall
see, for our eyes are open very wide.”
The trapper wasted no unnecessary words in further
explanations. Familiar with the brevity and
promptitude of the natives, he immediately communicated
the result to his companions. Paul was
mounted in an instant, with Ellen at his back. A
few more moments were necessary to assure Middleton
of the security and ease of Inez. While he was
thus engaged Mahtoree advanced to the side of the
beast he had allotted to this service, which was his
own, and manifested an intention to occupy his customary
place on its back. The young soldier seized
the reins of the animal, and glances of sudden anger
and lofty pride were exchanged between them.
“No man takes this seat but myself,” said Middleton,
sternly, in English.
“Mahtoree is a great chief!” retorted the savage;
neither comprehending the meaning of the other's
words.
“The Dahcotah will be too late,” whispered the
old man at his elbow, “see; the Big-knives are afraid
and they will soon run.”
The Teton chief instantly abandoned his claim,
and threw himself on another horse, directing one of
his young men to furnish a similar accommodation
for the trapper. The warriors, who were dismounted,
got up behind as many of their companions.
Doctor Battius bestrode Asinus, and notwithstanding
the brief interruption, in half the time we have taken
to relate it the whole party was prepared to move.
When he saw that all were ready, Mahtoree gave
the signal to advance. A few of the best mounted
of the warriors, the chief himself included, moved a
little in front, and made a threatening demonstration,
as if they intended to attack the strangers. The
squatter, who was in truth slowly retiring, instantly
halted his party, and showed a willing front. Instead
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
however of coming within reach of the dangerous
aim of the western rifle, the subtle savages kept
wheeling about the strangers, until they had made a
half circuit, keeping the latter in constant expectation
of an assault. Then perfectly secure of their
object, the Tetons raised a loud shout and darted
across the prairie in a line for the distant rock, with
the directness and nearly with the velocity of the arrow
that has just been shot from its bow.
CHAPTER IV.
“Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.
Signor Baptista, shall I lead the way?”
Shakspeare.
Mahtoree had scarcely given the first intimation
of his real design, before a general discharge from the
borderers proved how well they understood it. The
distance, and the rapidity of the flight however, rendered
their fire perfectly harmless. As a proof how
little he regarded the hostility of their party, the Dahcotah
chieftain answered the report with a yell, and,
flourishing his carabine above his head, he made a circuit
on the plain, followed by his chosen warriors, as
if in very scorn of the impotent attempt of his enemies.
As the main body continued the direct course,
this little band of the elite in returning from its wild
exhibition of savage contempt, took its place in the
rear, with a dexterity and a concert of action that
showed the manœuvre had been contemplated.
Volley swiftly succeeded volley, until the enraged
squatter was reluctantly compelled to abandon the
idea of injuring his enemies by means so feeble. Relinquishing
his fruitless attempt, he commenced a
rapid pursuit, occasionally discharging a rifle, in
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
order to give the alarm to the garrison, which he had
prudently left under the command of the redoubtable
Esther herself. In this manner the chace was continued
for many minutes, the horsemen gradually
gaining on their pursuers, who maintained the race,
however, with an incredible power of foot.
As the little speck of blue rose against the heavens,
like an island issuing from the deep, the savages
occasionally raised a yell of triumph. But the mists
of evening were already gathering along the whole
of the eastern margin of the prairie, and before the
band had made half of the necessary distance, the
dim outline of the rock had melted into the haze of
the back-ground. Indifferent to this circumstance,
which rather favoured than disconcerted his plans,
Mahtoree, who had again ridden in front, held on his
course with the accuracy of a hound of the truest
scent, merely slackening his steed a little, as the
horses of his party were by this time thoroughly
blown. It was at this stage of the enterprise that the
old man rode up to the side of Middleton, and addressed
him as follows in English—
“Here is likely to be a thieving business, and one
in which I must say I have but a small relish to be a
partner.”
“What would you do? It would be fatal to trust
ourselves in the hands of the miscreants in our rear.”
“Tut, for miscreants, be they red or be they white.
Look ahead, lad, as if ye were talking of our medicines,
or perhaps praising the Teton beasts. For the
knaves love to hear their horses commended, the
same as a foolish mother in the settlements is fond
of hearing the praises of her wilful child. So; pat
the animal and lay your hand on the gew-gaws, with
which the Red-skins have ornamented his mane,
giving your eye as it were to one thing, and your
mind to another. Listen; if matters are managed
-- 052 --
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with judgment we may leave these Tetons, as the
night sets in.”
“A blessed thought!” exclaimed Middleton, who
retained a painful remembrance of the look of admiration,
with which Mahtoree had contemplated the
loveliness of Inez, as well as of his subsequent presumption
in daring to wish to take the office of her
protector on himself.
“Lord, Lord! what a weak creatur' is man, when
the gifts of natur' are smothered in bookish knowledge
and womanly manners. Such another start would
tell these imps at our elbows that we were plotting
against them, just as plainly as if it were whispered
in their ears by a Sioux tongue. Ay, ay, I know the
devils; they look as innocent as so many frisky fawns,
but there is not one among them all that has not an
eye on our smallest motions. Therefore, what is to
be done is to be do in wisdom, in order to circumvent
their cunning. That is right, pat his neck and
smile, as if you praised the horse, and keep the ear
on my side open to my words. Be careful not to
worry your beast, for though but little skilled in horses,
reason teaches that breath is needful in a hard
push, and that a weary leg makes a dull race. Be
ready to mind the signal, when you hear a whine
from old Hector. The first will be to make ready;
the second, to edge out of the crowd, and the third,
to go—am I understood.”
“Perfectly, perfectly,” said Middleton, trembling
in his excessive eagerness to put the plan in instant
execution, and pressing the little arm, which encircled
his body, to his heart. “Perfectly. Hasten,
hasten.”
“Ay, the beast is no sloth,” continued the trapper
in the Teton language, as if he continued the discourse,
edging cautiously through the dusky throng
at the same time, until he found himself riding at the
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
side of Paul. He communicated his intentions in
the same guarded manner as before. The high-spirited
and fearless bee-hunter received the intelligence
with delight, declaring his readiness to engage the
whole of the savage band, should it become necessary
to effect their object. When the old man drew
off from the side of this pair also, he cast his eyes
about him to discover the situation occupied by the
naturalist.
The Doctor, with infinite labour to himself and
Asinus, had maintained a position in the very centre
of the Siouxes, so long as there existed the smallest
reason for believing that any of the missiles of Ishmael
might arrive in contact with his person. After
this danger had diminished, or rather disappeared
entirely, his own courage revived while that of his
steed began to droop. To this mutual but very material
change was owing the fact, that the rider and
the ass were now to be sought among that portion of
the band who formed a sort of rear-guard. Hither
then the trapper contrived to turn his steed, without
exciting the suspicions of any of his subtle companions.
“Friend,” commenced the old man, when he
found himself in a situation favourable to discourse—
“Should you like to pass a dozen years among the
savages with a shaved head, and a painted countenance,
with perhaps a couple of wives and five or
six children of the half-breed, to call you father?”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the startled naturalist.
“I am indisposed to matrimony in general, and more
especially to all admixture of the varieties of species,
which only tend to tarnish the beauty and to interrupt
the harmony of nature. Moreover it is a painful
innovation on the order of all nomenclatures.”
“Ay, ay, you have reason enough for your distaste
to such a life, but should these Siouxes get you fairly
into their village, such would be your luck, as certain
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
as that the sun rises and sets at the pleasure of the
Lord.”
“Marry me to a woman who is not adorned with
the comeliness of the species!” responded the Doctor.
“Of what crime have I been guilty, that so grievous
a punishment should await the offence? To marry a
man against the movements of his will is to do a violence
to human nature!”
“Now, that you speak of natur', I have hopes that
the gift of reason has not altogether deserted your
brain,” returned the old man, with a covert expression
playing about the angles of his deep-set eyes,
which betrayed he was not entirely destitute of humour.
“Nay, they may conceive you a remarkable
subject for their kindness, and for that matter marry
you to five or six. I have known, in my days,
favoured chiefs, who had numberless wives.”
“But why should they meditate this vengeance?”
demanded the Doctor, whose hair began to rise, as if
each fibre was possessed of sensibility; “what evil
have I done?”
“It is the fashion of their kindness. When they
come to learn that you are a great medicine, they
will adopt you in the tribe, and some mighty chief
will give you his name, and perhaps his daughter, or
it may be a wife or two of his own, who have dwelt
long in his lodge, and of whose value he is a judge
by experience.”
“The Governor and Founder of natural harmony
protect me!” ejaculated the Doctor. “I have no
affinity to a single consort; much less to duplicates
and triplicates of the class! I shall certainly essay a
flight from their abodes before I mingle in so violent
a conjunction.”
“There is reason in your words; but why not attempt
the race, you speak of, now?”
The naturalist looked fearfully around him, as if
he had an inclination to make an instant exhibition
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
of his desperate intention, but the dusky figures, who
were riding on every side of him seemed suddenly
tripled in number, and the darkness, that was already
thickening on the prairie, appeared in his eyes to
possess the glare of high noon.
“It would be premature, and reason forbids it,”
he answered. “Leave me, venerable venator, to
the council of my own thoughts, and when my plans
are properly classed, I will advise you of my resolutions.”
“Resolutions!” repeated the old man, shaking his
head a little contemptuously as he gave the rein to
his horse, and allowed him to mingle with the steeds
of the savages. “Resolution is a word that is talked
of in the settlements and felt on the borders.
Does my brother know the beast on which the Paleface
rides?” he continued, addressing a gloomy looking
warrior in his own tongue, and making a motion
with his arm that at the same time directed his attention
to the naturalist and the meek Asinus.
The Teton turned his eyes for a minute on the
animal, but disdained to manifest the smallest portion
of that wonder he had felt, in common with all
his companions, on first viewing so rare a quadruped.
The trapper was not ignorant, that while asses and
mules were beginning to be known to those tribes
who dwelt nearest the Mexicos, they were not usually
encountered so far north as the waters of La
Platte. He therefore managed to read the mute astonishment
that lay so deeply concealed in the tawny
visage of the savage, and took his measures accordingly.
“Does my brother think that the rider is a warrior
of the Pale-faces?” he demanded, when he believed
that sufficient time had elapsed for a full examination
of the pacific mien of the naturalist.
The flash of scorn, which shot across the features
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
of the Teton was visible even by the dim light of
the stars.
“Is a Dahcotah a fool!” was the answer.
“They are a wise nation, whose eyes are never
shut; much do I wonder, that they have not seen the
great medicine of the Big-knives!”
“Wagh!” exclaimed his companion, suffering the
whole of his amazement to burst out of his dark
rigid countenance at the surprise, like a flash of lightning
illuminating the gloom of midnight.
“The Dahcotah knows that my tongue is not
forked. Let him open his eyes wider. Does he not
see a very great medicine?”
The light was not necessary to recall to the savage
each feature in the really remarkable costume
and equipage of Dr. Battius. In common with the
rest of the band, and in conformity with the universal
practice of the Indians, this warrior, while he
had suffered no gaze of idle curiosity to disgrace his
manhood, had not permitted a single distinctive
mark, which might characterize any one of the strangers
to escape his vigilance. He knew the air, the
stature, the dress and the features, even to the colour
of the eyes and of the hair, of every one of the
Big-knives, whom he had thus strangely encountered,
and deeply had he ruminated on the causes, which
could have led a party, so singularly constituted, into
the haunts of the rude inhabitants of his native
wastes. He had already considered the several physical
powers of the whole party, and had duly compared
their abilities with what he supposed might
have been their intentions. Warriors they were not,
for the Big-knives, like the Siouxes, left their women
in their villages when they went out on the bloody
path. The same objections applied to them as hunters,
and even as traders, the two characters under
which the white men commonly appeared in their
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
villages. He had heard of a great council, at which
the Menahashah, or Long-knives, and the Washsheomantiqua,
or Spaniards, had smoked together, when
the latter had sold to the former their incomprehensible
rights over those vast regions through which his
nation had roamed, in freedom, for so many ages.
His simple mind had not been able to embrace the
reasons why one people should thus assume a superiority
over the possessions of another, and it will
readily be perceived, that at the hint just received
from the trapper, he was not indisposed to fancy that
some of the hidden subtilty of that magical influence,
of which he was so firm a believer, was about
to be practised by the unsuspecting subject of their
conversation, in furtherance of these mysterious
claims. Abandoning, therefore, all the reserve and
dignity of his manner under the conscious helplessness
of ignorance, he turned to the old man, and
stretching forth his arms, as if to denote how much
he lay at his mercy, he said—
“Let my father look at me. I am a wild man of
the prairies; my body is naked; my hands empty;
my skin red. I have struck the Pawnees, the Konzas,
the Omahaws, the Osages, and even the Longknives.
I am a man amid warriors, but a woman
among the conjurors. Let my father speak: the
ears of the Teton are open. He listens like a deer
to the step of the cougar.”
“Such are the wise and uns'archable ways of one
who alone knows good from evil!” exclaimed the
trapper, in English. “To some he grants cunning,
and on others he bestows the gift of manhood! It is
humbling, and it is afflicting to see so noble a creatur'
as this, who has fou't in many a bloody fray,
truckling before his superstition like a beggar asking
for the bones you would throw to the dogs. The Lord
will forgive me for playing with the ignorance of the
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
savage, for he knows I do it in no mockery of his
state, or in idle vaunting of my own; but in order
to save mortal life, and to give justice to the wronged,
while I defeat the deviltries of the wicked! Teton,”
speaking again in the language of the listener,
“I ask you, is not that a wonderful medicine? If
the Dahcotahs are wise they will not breathe the air
he breathes, nor touch his robes. They know, that
the Wahconshecheh (bad spirit) loves his own children,
and will not turn his back on him that does
them harm.”
The old man delivered this opinion in an ominous
and sententious manner, and then rode apart as if he
had said enough. The result justified his expectations.
The warrior, to whom he had addressed himself,
was not slow to communicate his important
knowledge to the rest of the rear-guard, and, in a
very few moments the naturalist was the object of
general observation and reverence. The trapper,
who understood that the natives often worshipped,
with a view to propitiate the evil spirit, awaited the
workings of his artifice, with the coolness of one
who had not the smallest interest in its effects. It
was not long before he saw one dark figure after
another, lashing his horse and gallopping ahead into
the centre of the band, until Weucha alone remained
nigh the persons of himself and Obed. The very
dulness of this grovelling-minded savage, who continued
gazing at the supposed conjuror with a sort
of stupid admiration, opposed now the only obstacle
to the complete success of his artifice.
Thoroughly understanding the character of this
Indian, the old man lost no time in getting rid of
him also. Riding to his side he said, in an affected
whisper—
“Has Weucha drunk of the milk of the Big-knives
to-day?”
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
“Hugh!” exclaimed the surprised savage, every
dull thought being instantly recalled from heaven to
earth by the question—
“Because the great captain of my people, who
rides in front, has a cow that is never empty. I
know it will not be long before he will say, are any
of my red brethren dry?”
The words were scarcely uttered, before Weucha,
in his turn, quickened the gait of his beast, and was
soon blended with the rest of the dark groupe, who
were riding, at a more moderate pace, a few rods in
advance. The trapper, who knew how fickle and
sudden were the changes of a savage mind, did not
lose a moment in profiting by this advantage. He
loosened the reins of his own impatient steed, and in
an instant he was again at the side of Obed.
“Do you see the twinkling star, that is, may be,
the length of four rifles above the prairie; hereaway,
to the North I mean.”
“Ay, it is of the constellation—”
“A tut for your constellations, man; do you see
the star I mean? Tell me in the English of the
land, yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“The moment my back is turned, pull upon the
rein of your ass, until you lose sight of the savages.
Then take the Lord for your dependance, and yonder
star for your guide. Turn neither to the right
hand nor to the left, but make diligent use of your
time, for your beast is not quick of foot, and every
inch of prairie you gain, is a day added to your liberty
or to your life.”
Without waiting to listen to the queries, which
the naturalist was about to put, the old man again
loosened the reins of his horse, and presently he too
was blended with the groupe in front.
Obed was now alone. Asinus willingly obeyed the
hint which his master soon gave, rather in desperation
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
than with any very collected understanding of the
orders he had received, and checked his pace accordingly.
As the Tetons however rode at a hand-gallop,
but a moment of time was necessary, after the ass began
to walk, to remove them effectually from before
the vision of his rider. Without plan, expectation,
or hope of any sort, except that of escaping from his
dangerous neighbours, the Doctor first feeling, to assure
himself that the package, which contained the
miserable remnants of his specimens and notes was
safe at his crupper, turned the head of the beast in
the required direction, and kicking him with a species
of fury, he soon succeeded in exciting the speed
of the patient animal into a smart run. He had barely
time to descend into a hollow and ascend the adjoining
swell of the prairie, before he heard, or fancied
he heard, his name shouted in good English from
the throats of twenty Tetons. The delusion gave a
new impulse to his ardour, and no professor of the
saltant art ever applied himself with greater industry
than the naturalist now used his heels on the ribs of
Asinus. The conflict endured for several minutes
without interruption, and to all appearances it might
have continued to the present moment, had not the
meek temper of the beast also become unduly excited.
Borrowing an idea from the manner in which
his master exhibited his agitation, Asinus so far changed
the application of his own heels, as to raise them
simultaneously with a certain indignant flourish into
the air, a measure that instantly decided the controversy
in his favour. Obed took leave of his seat, as
of a position no longer tenable, continuing however
the direction of his flight, while the ass like a conqueror
took possession of the field of battle, beginning
to crop the dry herbage, as the fruits of his
victory.
When Doctor Battius had recovered his feet and
rallied his faculties, which were in a good deal of
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
disorder from the hurried manner in which he had abandoned
his former situation, he returned in quest of
his specimens and of his ass. Asinus displayed
enough of magnanimity to render the interview amicable,
and thenceforth the naturalist continued the
required route with very commendable industry, but
with a much more tempered discretion.
In the mean time, the old trapper had not lost
sight of the important movements that he had undertaken
to control. Obed had not been mistaken in
supposing that he was already missed and sought,
though his imagination had corrupted certain savage
cries into the well-known sounds that composed his
own latinized name. The truth was simply this.
The warriors of the rear-guard had not failed to apprise
those in front of the mysterious character, with
which it had pleased the trapper to invest the unsuspecting
naturalist. The same untutored admiration,
which on the receipt of this intelligence had driven
those in the rear to the front, now drove many of the
front to the rear. The Doctor was of course absent,
and the outcry was no more than the wild yells,
which were raised in the first burst of savage disappointment.
But the authority of Mahtoree was prompt to aid
the ingenuity of the trapper in suppressing these dangerous
sounds. When order was restored, and the
former was made acquainted with the reason why his
young men had betrayed so strong a mark of indiscretion,
the old man, who had taken a post at his
elbow, saw, with alarm, the gleam of keen distrust
that flashed into his swarthy visage.
“Where is your conjuror?” demanded the chief,
turning suddenly to the trapper, as if he meant to
make him responsible for the re-appearance of Obed.
“Can I tell my brother the number of the stars?
the ways of a great medicine are not like the ways
of other men.”
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
“Listen to me, gray-head, and count my words,”
continued the other, bending on his rude saddle-bow,
like some chevalier of a more civilized race, and
speaking in the haughty tones of absolute power;
“the Dahcotahs have not chosen a woman for their
chief; when Mahtoree feels the power of a great
medicine, he will tremble, until then he will look with
his own eyes without borrowing sight from a Pale-face.
If your conjuror is not with his friends in the
morning, my young men shall look for him. Your
ears are open. Enough.”
The trapper was not sorry to find that so long a
respite was granted. He had before found reason to
believe, that the Teton partisan was one of those
bold spirits, who overstep the limits which use and
education fix to the opinions of man in every state of
society, and he now saw plainly that he must adopt
some artifice to deceive him, different from that which
had succeeded so well with his followers. The sudden
appearance of the rock, however, which hove
up a bleak and ragged mass out of the darkness ahead,
put an end for the present to the discourse, Mahtoree
giving all his thoughts to the execution of his designs
on the rest of the squatter's moveables. A murmur
ran through the band, as each dark warrior caught a
glimpse of the desired haven, after which the nicest
ear might have listened in vain to catch a sound louder
than the rustling of feet among the tall grass of
the prairie.
But the vigilance of Esther was not easily deceived.
She had long listened anxiously to the suspicious
sounds, which approached the rock across the naked
waste, nor had the sudden outcry been unheard by
the unwearied sentinels of the rock. The savages,
who had dismounted at some little distance, had not
time to draw around the base of the hill, in their customary
silent and insidious manner, before the voice
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
of the Amazon was raised in the stillness of the place,
fearlessly demanding—
“Who is beneath? answer, for your lives? Siouxes
or devils, I fear ye not!”
No answer was given to this challenge, every warrior
halting where he stood, confident that his dusky
form was blended with the shadows of the plain. It
was at this moment that the trapper determined to
escape. He had been left with the rest of his friends,
under the surveillance of those who were assigned
to the duty of watching the horses, and as they all
continued mounted, the moment appeared favourable
to his project. The attention of the guards was
drawn to the rock, and a heavy cloud driving above
them at that instant, obscured even the feeble light
which fell from the stars. Leaning on the neck of
his horse, the old man muttered—
“Where is my pup? Where is it—Hector—where
is it dog?”
The hound caught the well-known sounds, and
answered by a whine of friendship, which threatened
to break out into one of his piercing howls. The
trapper was in the act of raising himself from this
successful exploit, when he felt the hand of Weucha
grasping his throat, as if determined to suppress his
voice by the very unequivocal process of strangulation.
Profiting, by the circumstance, he raised another
low sound, as in the natural effort of breathing,
which drew a second responsive cry from the faithful
hound. Weucha instantly abandoned his hold of
the master in order to wreak his vengeance on the
dog. But the voice of Esther was again heard, and
every other design was abandoned in order to listen.
“Ay, whine and deform your throats as you may,
ye imps of darkness,” she said, with a cracked but
scornful laugh; “I know ye; tarry, and ye shall have
light for your misdeeds. Put in the coal, Phœbe;
put in the coal; your father and the boys shall see
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
that they are wanted at home to welcome their
guests.”
Even as she spoke, a strong light, like that of a
brilliant star was seen on the very pinnacle of the
rock; and then followed a forked flame, which curled
for a moment amid the windings of an enormous
pile of brush, and flashing upward in an united sheet,
it wavered to and fro, in the passing air, shedding a
bright glare on every object within its influence. A
taunting laugh was heard from the height, in which
the voices of all ages mingled, as though they triumphed
at having so successfully exposed the treacherous
intentions of the Tetons.
The trapper looked about him to ascertain in what
situations he might find his friends. True to the signals,
Middleton and Paul had drawn a little apart,
and now stood ready, by every appearance, to commence
their flight at the third repetition of the cry.
Hector had escaped his savage pursuer and was again
crouching at the heels of his master's horse. But
the broad circle of light was gradually increasing in
extent and power, and the old man, whose eye and
judgment so rarely failed him, patiently awaited a
more propitious moment for his enterprise.
“Now Ishmael, my man, if sight and hand ar' true
as ever, now is the time to work upon these Red-skins,
who claim to own all your property, even to
wife and children! Now, my good man, prove both
breed and character!”
A distant shout was heard in the direction of the
approaching party of the squatter, assuring the female
garrison that succour was not far distant. Esther
answered to the grateful sounds by a cracked cry of
her own, lifting her form, in the first burst of exultation,
above the rock in a manner to be visible to all
below. Not content with this dangerous exposure of
her person, she was in the act of tossing her arms in
triumph, when the dark figure of Mahtoree shot into
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
the light and pinioned them to her side. The forms
of three other warriors glided across the top of the
rock, looking like naked demons flitting among the
clouds. The air was filled with the brands of the
beacon, and then a heavy darkness succeeded, not
unlike that of the appalling instant, when the last rays
of the sun are excluded by the intervening mass of
the moon. A yell of triumph burst from the savages
in their turn, and was rather accompanied than followed
by a long, loud whine from Hector.
In an instant the old man was between the horses
of Middleton and Paul, extending a hand to the bridle
of each, in order to check the impatience of
their riders.
“Softly, softly,” he whispered, “their eyes are as
marvellously shut for the minute, as though the Lord
had stricken them blind; but their ears are open.
Softly, softly; for fifty rods, at least, we must move
no faster than a walk.”
The five minutes of doubt that succeeded appeared
like an age to all but the trapper. As their sight was
gradually restored, it seemed to each as if the momentary
gloom, which followed the extinction of the
beacon, was to be replaced by as broad a light as that
of noon-day. Gradually the old man, however, suffered
the animals to quicken their steps, until they
had gained the centre of one of the prairie bottoms.
Then laughing in his quiet manner he released the
reins and said—
“Now, let them give play to their legs; but keep
on the old fog to deaden the sounds.”
It is needless to say how cheerfully he was obeyed.
In a few more minutes they ascended and crossed a
swell of the land, after which the flight was continued
at the top of their horses' speed, keeping the indicated
star in view, as the labouring bark steers for the
light which points the way to a haven and security.
-- 066 --
CHAPTER V.
“The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye,
That once their shades and glories threw,
Have left, in yonder silent sky,
No vestige where they flew.”
Montgomery.
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
A stillness, as deep as that which marked the
gloomy wastes in their front, was observed by the
fugitives to distinguish the spot they had just abandoned.
Even the trapper lent his practised faculties, in
vain, to detect any of the well-known signs, which
might establish the important fact that hostilities had
actually commenced between the parties of Mahtoree
and Ishmael; but their horses carried them out of
the reach of sounds without the occurrence of the
smallest evidence of the sort. The old man, from
time to time, muttered his discontent, but manifested
the uneasiness he actually entertained in no other
manner, unless it might be in exhibiting a growing
anxiety to urge the animals to increase their speed.
He had pointed out in passing, that deserted swale
where the family of the squatter had encamped, the
night they were introduced to the reader, and afterwards
he maintained an ominous silence; ominous,
because his companions had already seen enough of
his character, to be convinced that the circumstances
must be critical indeed, which possessed the power
to disturb the well regulated tranquillity of the old
man's mind.
“Have we not done enough,” Middleton demanded,
in tenderness to the inability of Inez and
Ellen to endure so much fatigue, at the end of some
hours; “we have ridden hard, and have crossed a
wide tract of plain. It is time to seek a place of
rest.”
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
“You must seek it then in Heaven, if you find
yourselves unequal to a longer march,” murmured
the old trapper. “Had the Tetons and the squatter
come to blows, as any one might see in the natur' of
things they were bound to do, there would be time
to look about us, and to calculate not only the
chances but the comforts of the journey; but as the
case actually is, I should consider it certain death, or
endless captivity, to trust our eyes with sleep, until
our heads are fairly hid in some uncommon cover.”
“I know not,” returned the impatient youth, who
reflected more on the sufferings of the fragile being
he supported, than on the experience of his companion.
“I know not; we have ridden leagues, and
I can see no extraordinary signs of danger—if you
fear for yourself my good friend, believe me you are
wrong, for—”
“Your gran'ther, were he living and here,” interrupted
the old man, stretching forth a hand, and laying
a finger impressively on the arm of Middleton,
“would have spared those words. He had some
reason to think that, in the prime of my days, when
my eye was quicker than the hawk's, and my limbs
were as active as the legs of the fallow-deer, I never
clung too eagerly and fondly to life: then why should
I now feel such a childish affection for a thing that I
know to be vain, and the companion of pain and sorrow.
Let the Tetons do their worst; they will not
find a miserable and worn out trapper the loudest in
his complaints or his prayers.”
“Pardon me, my worthy, my inestimable friend,”
exclaimed the repentant young man, warmly grasping
the hand, which the other was in the act of withdrawing;
“I knew not what I said—or rather I
thought only of those whose tenderness we are most
bound to consider.”
“Enough. It is natur', and it is right. Therein
your grand'ther would have done the very same.
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Ah's me! what a number of seasons, hot and cold,
wet and dry, have rolled over my poor head, since
the time we worried it out together, among the Red
Hurons of the Lakes, back in those rugged mountains
of old York! and many a noble buck has since that
day fallen by my hand; ay, and many a thieving
Mingo, too! Tell me, lad, did the general, for general
I know he got to be, did he ever tell you of the
deer we took, that night the outlyers of the accursed
tribe drove us to the caves, on the island, and how
we feasted and drunk in security?”
“I have often heard him mention the smallest circumstance
of the night you mean; but—”
“And the singer; and his open throat; and his
shoutings in the fights!” continued the old man, laughing
most joyously at the strength of his own recollections.
“All—all—he forgot nothing, even to the most
trifling incident. Do you not—”
“What, did he tell you of the imp behind the log—
and of the miserable devil who went over the fall—or
of the wretch in the tree?”
“Of each and all, with every thing that concerned
them. I should think—”
“Ay,” continued the old man, in a voice, which
betrayed how powerfully his own faculties retained
the impression of the spectacle, “I have been a
dweller in forests and in the wilderness for threescore
and ten years, and if any can pretend to know the
world, or to have seen scary sights, it is myself! But
never, before nor since, have I seen human man in
such a state of mortal despair as that very savage;
and yet he scorned to speak, or to cry out, or to own
his forlorn condition! It is their gift, and nobly did he
maintain it!”
“Harkee, old trapper,” interrupted Paul, who,
content with the knowledge that his waist was grasped
by one of the pretty arms of Ellen, had hitherto
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ridden in unusual silence; “my eyes are as true and
as delicate as a humming-bird's in the day; but they
are nothing worth boasting of by star-light. Is that
a sick buffaloe, crawling along in the bottom, there,
or is it one of the stray cattle of the savages?”
The whole party drew up, in order to examine the
object, which Paul had pointed out. During most
of the time, they had ridden in the little vales in
order to seek the protection of the shadows, but just
at that moment, they had ascended a roll of the prairie
in order to cross into the very bottom where this
unknown animal was now seen.
“Let us descend,” said Middleton; “be it a beast
or a man we are too strong to have any cause of
fear.”
“Now if the thing was not morally impossible,”
cried the trapper, who the reader must have already
discovered was not always exact in the use of qualifying
words, “if the thing was not morally impossible,
I should say, that was the man, who journeys in
search of reptiles and insects: our fellow traveller,
the Doctor.”
“Why impossible? did you not direct him to pursue
this course, in order to rejoin us?”
“Ay, but I did not tell him to make an ass outdo
the speed of a horse—you are right—you are right,”
said the trapper, interrupting himself, as by gradually
lessening the distance between them, his eyes assured
him it was Obed and Asinus, whom he saw; “you
are right, as certainly as the thing is a miracle.
Lord, what a thing is fear! How now, friend, you
have been industrious to have got so far ahead in so
short a time. I marvel at the speed of the ass!”
“Asinus is overcome,” returned the naturalist,
mournfully. “The animal has certainly not been
idle since we separated, but he declines all my admonitions
and invitations to proceed. I hope there
is no instant fear from the savages?”
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“I cannot say that; I cannot say that; matters are
not as they should be atween the squatter and the
Tetons, nor will I answer as yet for the safety of
any scalp among us. The beast is broken down!
you have urged him beyond his natural gifts, and he
is like a worried hound. There is pity and discretion
in all things, even though a man be riding for
his life.”
“You indicated the star,” returned the Doctor,
“and I deemed it expedient to use great diligence in
pursuing the direction.”
“Did you expect to reach it by such haste! Go,
go; you talk boldly of the creatur's of the Lord,
though I plainly see you are but a child in matters
that concern their gifts and instincts. What a plight
would you now be in, if there was need for a long
and a quick push with our heels.”
“The fault exists in the formation of the quadruped,”
said Obed, whose placid temper began to revolt
under so many scandalous imputations. “Had there
been rotary levers for two of the members, a moiety
of the fatigue would have been saved, for one item—”
“That, for your moiety's and rotaries, and items,
man; a jaded ass is a jaded ass, and he who denies it
is but a brother of the beast itself. Now, captain,
are we driven to choose one of two evils. We must
either abandon this man, who has been too much
with us through good and bad to be easily cast away,
or we must seek a cover to let the animal rest.”
“Venerable venator!” exclaimed the alarmed
Obed; “I conjure you by all the secret sympathies
of our common nature, by all the hidden—”
“Ah, fear has brought him to talk a little rational
sense! It is not natur', truly, to abandon a brother in
distress; and the Lord he knows that I have never
yet done the shameful deed. You are right, friend,
you are right; we must all be hidden, and that
speedily. But what to do with the ass! Friend
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Doctor, do you truly value the life of the creatur'.”
“He is an ancient and faithful servant,” returned
the disconsolate Obed, “and with pain should I see
him come to any harm. Fetter his lower limbs, and
leave him to repose in this bed of herbage. I will
engage he shall be found where he is left, in the
morning.”
“And the Siouxes? What would become of the
beast should any of the red imps catch a peep at his
ears, growing up out of the grass like two mulleintops!”
cried the bee-hunter. “They would stick
him as full of arrows, as a woman's cushion is full of
pins, and then believe they had done the job for the
father of all rabbits! My word for it but they would
find out their blunder at the first mouthful!”
Middleton, who began to grow impatient under the
protracted discussion, now interposed, and, as a good
deal of deference was paid to his superior rank, he
quickly prevailed in his efforts to effect a sort of
compromise. The humble Asinus, too meek and
too weary to make any resistance, was soon tethered
and deposited in his bed of dying grass, where he
was left with a perfect confidence on the part of his
master of finding him, again, at the expiration of a
few hours. The old man strongly remonstrated
against this arrangement, and more than once hinted
that the knife was much more certain than the tether,
but the petitions of Obed, aided perhaps by the secret
reluctance of the trapper to destroy the beast, were
the means of saving its life. When Asinus was thus
secured, and as his master believed secreted, the whole
party proceeded to find some place where they might
rest themselves during the time required for the repose
of the animal.
According to the calculations of the trapper they
had ridden twenty miles since the commencement of
their flight. The delicate frame of Inez began to
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droop under the excessive fatigue, nor was the more
robust, but still feminine person of Ellen, insensible
to the extraordinary effort she had made. Middleton
himself was not sorry to repose, nor did the vigorous
and high spirited Paul hesitate to confess that he
should be all the better for a little rest. The old
man alone seemed indifferent to the usual claims of
nature. Although but little accustomed to the unusual
description of exercise he had just been taking, he
appeared to bid defiance to all the usual attacks of
human infirmities. Though evidently so near its
dissolution, his attenuated frame still stood like the
shaft of seasoned oak, dry, naked, and tempest-riven,
but unbending and apparently indurated to the consistency
of stone. On the present occasion he conducted
the search for a resting-place, which was
immediately commenced, with all the energy of
youth, tempered by the discretion and experience of
his great age.
The bed of grass, in which the Doctor had been
met, and in which his ass had just been left, was followed
a little distance until it was found that the
rolling swells of the prairie were melting away into
one vast level plain, that was covered, for miles on
miles, with the same species of herbage.
“Ah, this may do, this may do,” said the old man,
when they arrived on the borders of this sea of withered
grass; “I know the spot, and often have I lain
in its secret holes, for days at a time, while the savages
have been hunting the buffaloes on the open
ground. We must enter it with great care, for a
broad trail might be seen, and Indian curiosity is a
dangerous neighbour.”
Leading the way himself, he selected a spot where
the tall coarse herbage stood most erect, growing not
unlike a bed of reeds both in height and density.
Here he entered, singly, directing the others to follow
as nearly as possible in his own footsteps. When
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they had passed for some hundred or two feet into
the wilderness of weeds, he gave his directions to
Paul and Middleton, who continued a direct route
deeper into the place, while he dismounted and returned
on his tracks to the margin of the meadow.
Here he passed many minutes in replacing the trodden
grass, and in effacing, as far as possible, every
evidence of their passage.
In the mean time the rest of the party continued
their progress, not without toil, and consequently at
a very moderate gait, until they had penetrated a
mile into the place. Here they found a spot suited
to their circumstances, and dismounting, they began
to make their dispositions to pass the remainder of
the night. By this time the trapper had rejoined the
party, and again resumed the direction of their proceedings.
The weeds and grass were soon plucked and cut
from an area of sufficient extent, and a bed for Inez
and Ellen was speedily made, a little apart, which
for sweetness and case might have rivalled one of
down. The exhausted females, after receiving some
light refreshments from the provident stores of Paul
and the old man, now sought their repose, leaving
their more stout companions at liberty to provide for
their own necessities. Middleton and Paul were not
long in following the example of their betrothed,
leaving the trapper and the naturalist still seated
around a savoury dish of bison's meat, which had
been cooked at a previous halt, and which was, as
usual, eaten cold.
A certain lingering sensation, which had so long
been uppermost in the mind of Obed, temporarily
banished sleep; and as for the old man, his wants
were rendered, by habit and necessity, as seemingly
subject to his will as though they altogether depended
on the pleasure of the moment. Like his companion
he chose therefore to watch, instead of sleeping.
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“If the children of ease and security knew the
hardships and dangers the students of nature encounter
in their behalf,” said Obed, after a moment of silence,
when Middleton took his leave for the night,
“pillars of silver, and statues of brass would be reared
as the everlasting monuments of their glory!”
“I know not, I know not,” returned his companion;
“silver is far from plenty, at least in the wilderness,
and your brazen idols are forbidden in the commandments
of the Lord.”
“Such indeed was the opinion of the great lawgiver
of the Jews, but the Egyptians and the Chaldeans,
the Greeks and the Romans, were wont to
manifest their gratitude in these types of the human
form. Indeed many of the illustrious masters of antiquity,
have by the aid of science and skill, even outdone
the works of nature, and exhibited a beauty and
perfection in the human form that are difficult to be
found in the rarest living specimens of any of the
species; genus, homo.”
“Can your idols walk or speak, or have they the
glorious gift of reason?” demanded the trapper with
some indignation in his voice; “though but little
given to run into the noise and chatter of the settlements,
yet have I been into the towns in my day, to
barter the peltry for lead and powder, and often have
I seen your waxen dolls, with their tawdry clothes
and glass eyes.”
“Waxen dolls!” interrupted Obed; “it is profanation,
in the view of the arts, to liken the miserable
handy-work of the dealers in wax to the pure models
of antiquity!”
“It is profanation in the eyes of the Lord,” retorted
the old man, “to liken the works of his creatur's
to the power of his own hand.”
“Venerable venator,” resumed the naturalist,
clearing his throat, like one who was much in earnest,
“let us discuss understandingly and in amity. You
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speak of the dross of ignorance, whereas my memory
dwells on those precious jewels, which it was my
happy fortune formerly to witness among the treasured
glories of the Old World.”
“Old World!” retorted the trapper, “that is the
miserable cry of all the half-starved miscreants that
have come into this blessed land, since the days of
my boyhood! They tell you of the Old World; as
if the Lord had not the power and the will to create
the universe in a day, or as if he had not bestowed
his gifts with an equal hand, though not with an equal
mind or equal wisdom have they been received and
used. Were they to say a worn out, and an abused,
and a sacrilegious world, they might not be so far
from the truth!”
Doctor Battius, who found it quite as arduous a
task to maintain any of his favourite positions with
so irregular an antagonist, as he would have found it
difficult to keep his feet within the hug of a western
wrestler, hemmed aloud, and profited by the new
opening the trapper had made, to shift the grounds of
the discussion—
“By Old and New World, my excellent associate,”
he said, “it is not to be understood that the hills, and
the vallies, the rocks and the rivers of our own moiety
of the earth do not, physically speaking, bear a
date as ancient as the spot on which the bricks of
Babylon are found; it merely signifies that its moral
existence is not co-equal with its physical or geological
formation.”
“Anan!” said the old man, looking up inquiringly
into the face of the philosopher.
“Merely that it has not been so long known in
morals as the other countries of Christendom.”
“So much the better, so much the better. I am
no great admirator of your old morals, as you call
them, for I have ever found, and I have liv'd long as
it were in the very heart of natur', that your old
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morals are none of the best. Mankind twist and turn
the rules of the Lord, to suit their own wickedness,
when their devilish cunning has had too much time
to trifle with his commands.”
“Nay, venerable hunter, still am I not comprehended.
By morals I do not mean the limited and
literal signification of the term, such as is conveyed
in its synonyme, morality, but the practices of men
as connected with their daily intercourse, their institutions,
and their laws.”
“And such I call barefaced and downright wantonness
and waste,” interrupted his sturdy disputant.
“Well, be it so,” returned the Doctor, abandoning
the explanation in despair. “Perhaps I have conceded
too much,” he then instantly added, fancying that
he still saw the glimmerings of an argument through
another chink in the discourse. “Perhaps I have
conceded too much in saying that this hemisphere is
literally as old, in its formation, as that which embraces
the venerable quarters of Europe, Asia, and
Africa.”
“It is easy to say an alder is not so tall as a pine,
but it would be hard to prove. Can you give a reason
for such a wicked belief.”
“The reasons are numerous and powerful,” returned
the Doctor, delighted by this encouraging
opening. “Look into the plains of Egypt and Arabia;
their sandy deserts teem with the monuments of
their antiquity; and then we have also recorded documents
of their glory, doubling the proofs of their
former greatness, now that they lie stripped of their
fertility; while we look in vain for similar evidences
that man has ever reached the summit of civilization
on this continent, or search, without our reward, for
the path by which he has made the downward journey
to his present condition of second childhood.”
“And what see you in all this?” demanded the
trapper, who, though a little confused by the terms
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[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
of his companion, had seized the thread of his ideas.
“A demonstration of my problem, that nature did
not make such a vast region to lie an uninhabited
waste so many ages. This is merely the moral view
of the subject; as to the more exact and geological—”
“Your morals are exact enough for me,” returned
the grave old man, “for I think I see in them the very
pride of folly. I am but little gifted in the fables of
what you call the Old World, seeing that my time has
been mainly passed looking natur' steadily in the
face, and in reasoning on what I've seen, rather than
on what I've heard in traditions. But I have never
shut my ears to the words of the good book, and
many is the long winter evening that I have passed
in the wigwams of the Delawares, listening to the
good Moravians, as they dealt forth the history and
doctrines of the elder times, to the people of the
Lenape! It was pleasant to hearken to such wisdom
after a weary hunt! Right pleasant did I find it, and
often have I talked the matter over with the Great
Serpent of the Delawares in the more peaceful hours
of our out-lyings, whether it might be on the trail of
a war-party of the Mingoes, or on the watch for a
York deer. I remember to have heard it, then and
there, said, that the Blessed Land was once fertile as
the bottoms of the Mississippi, and groaning with its
stores of grain and fruits; but that the judgment has
since fallen upon it, and that it is now more remarkable
for its barrenness than any qualities to boast of.”
“It is true; but Egypt—nay much of Africa furnishes
still more striking proofs of this exhaustion of
nature.”
“Tell me,” interrupted the old man, “is it a certain
truth that buildings are still standing in that land
of Pharoah, which may be likened in their stature,
to the hills of the 'arth?”
“It is as true as that nature never refuses to
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bestow her incisores on the animals, mammalia; genus,
homo;—”
“It is very marvellous! and it proves how great
He must be, when his miserable creatur's can accomplish
such wonders! Many men must have been
needed to finish such an edifice; ay, and men gifted
with strength and skill too! Does the land abound
with such a race to this hour?”
“Far from it. Most of the country is a desert, and
but for a mighty river all would be so.”
“Yes; rivers are rare gifts to such as till the
ground, as any one may see who journeys far atween
the Rocky Mountains and the Mississippi. But how
do you account for these changes on the face of the
'arth itself, and for this dowfall of nations, you men
of the schools?”
“It is to be ascribed to moral cau—”
“You're right—it is their morals! their wickedness
and their pride, and chiefly their waste that has
done it all! Now listen to what the experience of
an old man teaches him. I have lived long, as these
gray hairs and wrinkled hands will show, even though
my tongue should fail in the wisdom of my years. And
I have seen much of the folly of man; for his natur'
is the same, be he born in the wilderness, or be he
born in the towns. To my weak judgment it hath
ever seemed as though his gifts are not equal to his
wishes. That he would mount into the heavens, with
all his deformities about him, if he only knew the
road, no one will gainsay, that witnesses his bitter
strivings upon 'arth. If his power is not equal to his
will, it is because the wisdom of the Lord hath set
bounds to his evil workings.”
“It is much too certain that certain facts will warrant
a theory, which teaches the natural depravity of
the genus; but if science could be fairly brought to
bear on a whole species at once, for instance, education
might eradicate the evil principle.”
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“That, for your education! The time has been
when I have thought it possible to make a companion
of a beast. Many are the cubs, and many are the
speckled fawns that I have reared with these old
hands, until I have even fancied them rational and
altered beings—but what did it amount to! the bear
would bite, and the deer would run, notwithstanding
my wicked conceit in fancying I could change a temper
that the Lord himself had seen fit to bestow.
Now if man is so blinded in his folly as to go on, ages
on ages, doing harm chiefly to himself, there is the
same reason to think that he was wrought his evil
here as in the countries you call so old. Look about
you, man; where are the multitudes that once peopled
these prairies; the kings and the palaces; the
riches and the mightinesses of this desert?”
“Where are the monuments that would prove the
truth of so vague a theory?”
“I know not what you call a monument?”
“The works of man! The glories of Thebes and
Balbec—columns, catacombs, and pyramids! standing
amid the sands of the East, like wrecks on a
rocky shore, to testify to the storms of ages!”
“They are gone. Time has lasted too long for them.
For why? time was made by the Lord, and they were
made by man. This very spot of reeds and grass,
on which you now sit, may once have been the garden
of some mighty king. It is the fate of all things
to ripen, and then to decay. The tree blossoms, and
bears its fruit, which falls, rots, withers, and even the
seed is lost! Go, count the rings of the oak and of
the sycamore; they lie in circles, one about another,
until the eye is blinded in striving to make out their
numbers; and yet a full change of the seasons comes
round while the stem is winding one of these little
lines about itself, like the buffaloe changing his coat
or the buck his horns; and what does it all amount
to! There does the noble tree fill its place in the
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forest, far loftier and grander, and richer, and more
difficult to imitate than any of your pitiful pillars, for
a thousand years, until the time which the Lord hath
given it is full. Then come the winds, that you cannot
see, to rive its bark; and the waters from the
heavens, to soften its pores; and the rot, which all
can feel and none can understand, to humble its pride
and bring it to the ground. From that moment its
beauty begins to perish. It lies another hundred
years, a mouldering log, and then a mound of moss
and 'arth; a sad effigy of a human grave. This is
one of your genuine monuments, though made by a
very different power than such as belongs to your
chiselling masonry! and after all, the cunningest scout
of the whole Dahcotah nation might pass his life in
searching for the spot where it fell, and be no wiser
when his eyes grew dim than when they were first
opened. As if that was not enough to convince man
of his ignorance; and as though it were put there in
mockery of his conceit, a pine shoots up from the
roots of the oak, just as barrenness comes after fertility,
or as these wastes have been spread where a garden
may have been created. Tell me not of your
worlds that are old! it is blasphemous to set bounds
and seasons, in this manner, to the works of the Almighty,
like a woman counting the ages of her young.”
“Friend hunter, or trapper,” returned the naturalist,
clearing his throat in some intellectual confusion
at the vigorous attack of his companion, “your deductions,
if admitted by the world, would sadly circumscribe
the efforts of reason and abridge the
boundaries of knowledge.”
“So much the better—so much the better; for I
have always found that a conceited man never knows
content. All things prove it. Why have we not the
wings of the pigeon, the eyes of the eagle, and the
legs of the moose, if it had been intended that man
should be equal to all his wishes?”
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“There are certain physical defects, venerable
trapper, in which I am always ready to admit great
and happy alterations might be suggested. For example,
in my own order of Phalangacru—”
“Cruel enough would be the order, that should
come from miserable hands like thine! A touch from
such a finger would destroy the mocking deformity of
a monkey! Go, go; human folly is not needed to
fill up the great design of God. There is no stature,
no beauty, no proportions, nor any colours in which
man himself can well be fashioned, that is not already
done to his hands.”
“That is touching another great and much disputed
question,” exclaimed the Doctor, who seized upon
every distinct idea that the ardent and somewhat
dogmatic old man left exposed to his mental grasp,
with the vain hope of inducing a logical discussion,
in which he might bring his battery of syllogisms to
annihilate the unscientific defences of his antagonist.
It is however unnecessary to our narrative to relate
the erratic discourse that ensued. The old man
eluded the annihilating blows of his adversary as the
light armed soldier is wont to escape the efforts of
the more regular warrior, even while he annoys him
most, and an hour passed away without bringing any
of the numerous subjects, on which they touched, to
a satisfactory conclusion. The arguments acted however
on the nervous system of the Doctor, like so
many soothing soporifics, and by the time his aged
companion was disposed to lay his head on his pack,
Obed, vastly refreshed by his recent mental joust,
was in a condition to seek his natural rest, without
enduring the torments of the incubus, in the shapes
of Teton warriors and bloody tomahawks.
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CHAPTER VI.
“—Save you, sir.”
Shakspeare.
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The sleep of the fugitives lasted for several hours.
The trapper was the first to shake off its influence,
as he had been the last to court its refreshment.
Rising, just as the gray light of day began to brighten
that portion of the studded vault which rested on the
eastern margin of the plain, he summoned his companions
from their warm lairs, and pointed out the
necessity of their being once more on the alert.
While Middleton attended to the arrangements necessary
to the comforts of Inez and Ellen, in the long
and painful journey which lay before them, the old
man and Paul prepared the meal, which the former
had advised them to take before they proceeded to
horse. These several dispositions were not long in
making, and the little groupe was soon seated about
a repast which, though it might want the elegancies
to which the bride of Middleton had been accustomed,
was not deficient in the more important requisites
of savour and nutriment.
“When we get lower into the hunting-grounds of
the Pawnees,” said the trapper, laying a morsel of
of delicate venison before Inez, on a little trencher
neatly made of horn, and expressly for his own use,
“we shall find the buffaloes fatter and sweeter, the
deer in more abundance, and all the gifts of the Lord
abounding to satisfy our wants. Perhaps we may even
strike a beaver, and get a morsel from his tail by way
of a rare mouthful.”
“What course do you mean to pursue, when you
have once thrown these bloodhounds from the
chase?” demanded Middleton.
“If I might advise,” cried Paul, “it would be to
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strike a water-course, and get upon its downward
current as soon as may be. Give me a cotton-wood,
and I will turn you out a canoe that shall carry us
all, the jackass excepted, in perhaps the work of a
day and a night. Ellen, here, is a lively girl enough,
but then she is no great race-rider; and it would be
far more comfortable to boat six or eight hundred
miles, than to go loping along like so many elks measuring
the prairies; besides, water leaves no trail.”
“I will not swear to that,” returned the trapper;
“I have often thought the eyes of a Red-skin would
find a trail in air.”
“See, Middleton,” exclaimed Inez, in a sudden
burst of youthful pleasure, that caused her for a moment
to forget her situation. “How lovely is that
sky; surely it contains a promise of happier times!”
“It is glorious!” returned her husband. “Glorious
and heavenly is that streak of vivid red, and here
is a still brighter crimson—rarely have I seen a richer
rising of the sun.”
“Rising of the sun!” slowly repeated the old man,
lifting his tall person from its seat, with a deliberate
and abstracted air, while he kept his eye riveted on
the changing, and certainly beautiful tints, that were
garnishing the vault of Heaven. “Rising of the sun!
I like not such risings of the sun. Ah's me! the imps
have circumvented us with a vengeance. The prairie
is on fire!”
“God in Heaven protect us!” cried Middleton,
catching Inez to his bosom under the instant impression
of the imminence of their danger. “There is
no time to lose, old man; each instant is a day; let
us fly.”
“Whither?” demanded the trapper, motioning him
with calmness and dignity, to arrest his steps. “In
this wilderness of grass and reeds, you are like a vessel
in the broad lakes without a compass. A single
step on the wrong course might prove the destruction
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of us all. It is seldom danger is so pressing that
there is not time enough for reason to do its work;
young officer, therefore let us await its biddings.”
“For my own part,” said Paul Hover, looking
about him with no unequivocal expression of concern,
“I acknowledge, that should this dry bed of
weeds get fairly in a flame, a bee would have to make
a flight higher than common to prevent his wings
from scorching. Therefore, old trapper, I agree with
the captain, and say mount and run.”
“Ye are wrong—ye are wrong—man is not a beast
to follow the gift of instinct, and to snuff up his knowledge
by a taint in the air, or a rumbling in the sound;
but he must see and reason, and then conclude. So
follow me a little to the left, where there is a rise in
the ground, whence we may make our reconnoitrings.”
The old man waved his hand with authority, and
led the way without further parlance to the spot he
had indicated, followed by the whole of his alarmed
companions. An eye less practised than that of the
trapper might have failed in discovering the gentle
elevation to which he alluded, and which looked on
the surface of the meadow like a growth a little taller
than common. When they reached the place,
however, the stinted grass, itself, announced the absence
of that moisture, which had fed the rank weeds
of most of the plain, and furnished a clue to the evidence,
by which he had judged of the formation of
the ground hidden beneath. Here a few minutes
were lost in breaking down the tops of the surrounding
herbage, which, notwithstanding the advantage of
their position, rose even above the heads of Middleton
and Paul, and in obtaining a look-out that might
command a view of the surrounding sea of fire.
The frightful prospect added nothing to the hopes
of those who had such a fearful stake in the result.
Although the day was beginning to dawn, the vivid
-- 085 --
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colours of the sky continued to deepen, as if the
fierce element were bent on an impious rivalry of the
light of the sun. Bright flashes of flame shot up here
and there, along the margin of the waste, like the
nimble corruscations of the North, but far more angry
and threatening in their colour and changes.
The anxiety on the rigid features of the trapper sensibly
deepened as he leisurely traced these evidences
of a conflagration, which spread in a broad belt about
their place of refuge, until he had encircled the whole
horizon.
Shaking his head, as he again turned his face to the
point, where the danger seemed nighest and most
rapidly approaching, the old man said—
“Now have we been cheating ourselves with the
belief that we had thrown these Tetons from our
trail, while here is proof enough that they not only
know where we lie, but that they intend to smoke us
out, like so many skulking beasts of prey. See; they
have lighted the fire around the whole bottom at the
same moment, and we are as completely hemmed in
by the devils as an island by its waters.”
“Let us mount and ride,” cried Middleton; “is
life not worth a stuggle?”
“Whither would ye go? Is a Teton horse a salamander
that can walk amid fiery flames unhurt, or
do you think the Lord will show his might in your
behalf, as in the days of old, and carry you harmless
through such a furnace as you may see glowing beneath
yonder red sky! There are Siouxes too, hemming
the fire with their arrows and knives, on every
side of us, or I am no judge of their murderous deviltries.”
“We will ride into the centre of the whole tribe,”
returned the youth fiercely, “and put their manhood
to the test.”
“Ay, it's well in words, but what would it prove
-- 086 --
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in deeds? Here is a dealer in bees, who can teach
you wisdom in a matter like this.”
“Now for that matter, old trapper,” said Paul,
stretching his athletic form like a mastiff conscious of
his strength, “I am on the side of the captain, and
am clearly for a race against the fire, though it line
me into a Teton wigwam. Here is Ellen, who
will—”
“Of what use, of what use are your stout hearts,
when the element of the Lord is to be conquered as
well as human men. Look about you, friends; the
wreath of smoke, that is rising from the bottoms,
plainly says that there is no outlet from the spot,
without crossing a belt of fire. Look for yourselves,
my men; look for yourselves; and if you can find a
single opening I will engage to follow.”
The examination, which his companions so instantly
and so intently made, rather served to assure them
of their desperate situation than to appease their
fears. Huge columns of smoke were rolling up from
the plain, and thickening in gloomy masses around
the horizon. The red glow, which gleamed upon
their enormous folds, now lighting their volumes
with the glare of the conflagration, and now flashed
to another point, as the flame beneath glided ahead,
leaving all behind enveloped in awful darkness, and
proclaiming louder than words the character of the
imminent and rapidly approaching danger.
“This is terrible!” exclaimed Middleton, folding
the trembling Inez to his heart. “At such a time as
this, and in such a manner!”
“The gates of Heaven are open to all who truly
believe,” murmured the pious devotee in his bosom.
“This resignation is maddening! But we are men,
and will make a struggle for our lives! How now,
my brave and spirited friend, shall we yet mount and
push across the flames, or shall we stand here, and
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see those we most love perish, in this frightful manner,
without an effort.”
“I am for a swarming time, and a flight before the
hive is too hot to hold us,” said the bee-hunter, to
whom it will be at once seen that the half distracted
Middleton addressed himself. “Come, old trapper,
you must acknowledge this is but a slow way of getting
out of danger. If we tarry here much longer,
it will be in the fashion that the bees lie around the
straw after the hive has been smoked for its honey.
You may hear the fire begin to roar already, and I
know by experience, that when the flame once gets
fairly into the prairie grass, it is no sloth that can
outrun it.”
“Think you,” returned the old man, pointing
scornfully at the mazes of the dry and matted grass,
which environed them, “that mortal feet can outstrip
the speed of fire, on such a path! If I only knew
now on which side these miscreants lay!—”
“What say you, friend Doctor,” cried the bewildered
Paul, turning to the naturalist, with that sort
of helplessness with which the strong are often apt
to seek aid of the weak, when human power is baffled
by the hand of a mightier being, “what say you;
have you no advice to give away, in a case of life and
death?”
The naturalist stood, tablets in hand, looking at
the awful spectacle, with as much composure as
though the conflagration had been lighted in order to
solve the difficulties of some scientific problem.
Aroused by the question of his companion, he turned
to his equally calm though differently occupied associate
the trapper, demanding, with the most provoking
insensibility to the urgent nature of their situation—
“Venerable hunter, you have often witnessed similar
prismatic experiments—”
He was rudely interrupted by Paul, who struck
the tablets from his hands, with a violence that
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betrayed the utter intellectual confusion which had
overset the equanimity of his mind. Before time
was allowed for remonstrance, the old man, who had
continued during the whole scene like one much at
a loss how to proceed, though also like one who was
rather perplexed than alarmed, suddenly assumed a
decided air, as if he no longer doubted on the course
it was most adviseable to pursue.
“It is time to be doing,” he said, interrupting the
controversy that was about to ensue between the
naturalist and the bee-hunter; “it is time to leave
off books and moanings, and to be doing.”
“You have come to your recollections too late,
miserable old man,” cried Middleton; “the flames
are within a quarter of a mile of us, and the wind is
bringing them down in this quarter, with dreadful
rapidity.”
“Anan! the flames! I care but little for the flames.
If I only knew how to circumvent the cunning of the
Tetons, as I know how to cheat the fire of its prey,
there would be nothing needed but thanks to the
Lord for our deliverance. Do you call this a fire!
If you had seen, what I have witnessed in the Eastern
hills, when mighty mountains were like the furnace
of a smith, you would have known what it was to
fear the flames and to be thankful that you were
spared! Come, lads, come; 'tis time to be doing
now, and to cease talking; for yonder curling flame
is truly coming on like a trotting moose. Put hands
upon this short and withered grass where we stand,
and lay bare the 'arth.”
“Would you think to deprive the fire of its victims
in this childish manner!” exclaimed Middleton.
A faint but solemn smile passed over the features
of the old man as he answered—
“Your gran'ther would have said, that when the
enemy was nigh, a soldier could do no better than to
obey.”
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The captain felt the reproof, and instantly began
to imitate the industry of Paul, who was tearing the
decayed herbage from the ground in a sort of desperate
compliance with the trapper's direction. Even
Ellen lent her hands to the labour, nor was it long before
Inez was seen similarly employed, though none
amongst them knew why or wherefore. When life
is thought to be the reward of labour, men are wont
to be industrious. A very few moments sufficed to
lay bare a spot of some twenty feet in diameter.
Into one edge of this little area the trapper brought
the females, directing Middleton and Paul to cover
their light and inflammable dresses with the blankets
of the party. So soon as this precaution was observed,
the old man approached the opposite margin
of the grass, which still environed them in a tall and
dangerous circle, and selecting a handful of the driest
of the herbage he placed it over the pan of his rifle.
The light combustible kindled at the flash. Then he
placed the little flame into a bed of the standing fog,
and withdrawing from the spot to the centre of the
ring, he patiently awaited the result.
The subtle element seized with avidity upon its
new fuel, and in a moment forked flames were gliding
among the grass, as the tongues of ruminating animals
are seen rolling among their food, apparently in quest
of its sweetest portions.
“Now,” said the old man, holding up a finger, and
laughing in his peculiarly silent manner, “you shall
see fire fight fire! Ah's me! many is the time I have
burnt a smootly path, from wanton laziness to pick
my way across a tangled bottom.”
“But is this not fatal!” cried the amazed Middleton;
“are you not bringing the enemy nigher to us
instead of avoiding it?”
“Do you scorch so easily? your gran'ther had a
tougher skin. But we shall live to see; we shall all
live to see.”
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The experience of the trapper was in the right.
As the fire gained strength and heat it began to spread
on three sides, dying of itself on the fourth, for want
of aliment. As it increased, and the sullen roaring
announced its power, it cleared every thing before it,
leaving the black and smoking soil far more naked
than if the scythe had swept the place. The situation
of the fugitives would have still been hazardous
had not the area enlarged as the flame encircled
them. But by advancing to the spot where the trapper
had kindled the grass, they avoided the heat, and
in a very few moments the flames began to recede in
every quarter, leaving them enveloped in a cloud of
smoke, but perfectly safe from the torrent of fire that
was still furiously rolling onward.
The spectators regarded the simple expedient of
the trapper with that species of wonder, with which
the courtiers of Ferdinand are said to have viewed
the manner in which Columbus made his egg to stand
on its end, though with feelings that were filled with
gratitude instead of envy.
“Most wonderful!” said Middleton, when he saw
the complete success of the means by which they
had been rescued from a danger that he had conceived
to be unavoidable. “The thought was a gift
from heaven, and the hand that executed it should be
immortal.”
“Old trapper,” cried Paul, thrusting his fingers
through his shaggy locks, “I have lined many a loaded
bee into his hole, and know something of the nature
of the woods, but this is robbing a hornet of his
sting without touching the insect!”
“It will do—it will do,” returned the old man,
who after the first moment of his success seemed to
think no more of the exploit; “now get the horses
in readiness. Let the flames do their work for a
short half hour, and then we will mount. That
time is needed to cool the meadow, for these unshod
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Teton beasts are as tender on the hoof as a barefooted
girl.”
Middleton and Paul, who considered this unlooked-for
escape as a species of resurrection, patiently
awaited the time the trapper mentioned with renewed
confidence in the infallibility of his judgment.
The Doctor regained his tablets, a little the worse
from having fallen among the grass which had been
subject to the action of the flames, and was consoling
himself for this slight misfortune by recording uninterruptedly
such different vaccillations in light and
shadow as he chose to consider as phenomena.
In the mean time the veteran, on whose experience
they all so implicitly relied for protection, employed
himself in reconnoitring objects in the distance,
through the openings which the air occasionally
made in the immense bodies of smoke, that by this
time lay in enormous piles on every part of the plain.
“Look you here, lads,” the trapper said, after a
long and anxious examination, “your eyes are young
and may prove better than my worthless sight—
though the time has been, when a wise and brave
people saw reason to think me quick on a look-out;
but those times are gone, and many a true and tried
friend has passed away with them. Ah's me! if I
could choose a change in the orderings of Providence—
which I cannot and which it would be blasphemy
to attempt, seeing that all things are governed
by a wiser mind than belongs to mortal weakness—
but if I were to choose a change, it would be to say,
that such as they who have lived long together in
friendship and kindness, and who have proved their
fitness to go in company, by many acts of suffering
and daring in each other's behalf, should be permitted
to give up life at such times, as when the death
of one leaves the other but little reason to wish to
live.”
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“Is it an Indian, that you see?” demanded the
impatient Middleton.
“Red skin or White skin it is much the same.
Friendship and use can tie men as strongly together
in the woods as in the towns—ay, and for that matter,
stronger. Here are the young warriors of the
prairies—Often do they sort themselves in pairs, and
set apart their lives for deeds of friendship; and well
and truly do they act up to their promises. The
death-blow to one is commonly mortal to the other!
I have been a solitary man much of my time, if he
can be called solitary, who has lived for seventy
years in the very bosom of natur', and where he
could at any instant open his heart to God without
having to strip it of the cares and wickednesses of the
settlements—but making that allowance, have I been
a solitary man; and yet have I always found that intercourse
with my kind was pleasant, and painful to
break off, provided that the companion was but brave
and honest. Brave, because a skeary comrade in the
woods,” suffering his eyes inadvertently to rest a
moment on the person of the abstracted naturalist,
“is apt to make a short path long; and honest, in as
much as craftiness is rather an instinct of the brutes,
than a gift becoming the reason of a human man.”
“But the object, that you saw—was it a Sioux?”
“What the world of America is coming to, and
where the machinations and inventions of its people
are to have an end, the Lord, he only knows. I have
seen, in my day, the chief who, in his time, had beheld
the first Christian that placed his wicked foot in
the regions of York! How much has the beauty of
the wilderness been deformed in two short lives!
My own eyes were first opened on the shores of the
Eastern sea, and well do I remember, that I tried
the virtues of the first rifle I ever bore, after such a
march, from the door of my father to the forest, as a
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
stripling could make between sun and sun; and that
without offence to the rights or prejudices of any man
who set himself up to be the owner of the beasts of
the fields. Natur' then lay in its glory along the
whole coast, giving a narrow stripe, between the
woods and the Ocean, to the greediness of the settlers.
And where am I now? Had I the wings of an
eagle they would tire before a tenth of the distance
which separates me from that sea could be passed;
and towns and villages, farms, and highways, churches
and schools, in short, all the inventions and deviltries
of man, are spread across the region. I have known
the time when a few, Red-skins, shouting along the
borders, could set the provinces in a fever; and men
were to be armed; and troops were to be called to
aid from a distant land; and prayers were said, and
the women frighted, and few slept in quiet because
the Iroquois were on the war path, and the accursed
Mingo had the tomahawk in his hand. How is it
now? The country sends out her ships to foreign
lands, to wage their battles; cannon are plentier than
the rifle used to be, and trained soldiers are never
wanting, in tens of thousands, when need calls for
their services. Such is the difference atween a province
and a state, my men; and I, miserable and worn
out as I seem, have lived to see it all!”
“That you must have seen many a chopper skimming
the cream from the face of the earth, and many
a settler getting the very honey of nature, old trapper,”
said Paul, “no reasonable man can, or, for that
matter, shall doubt. But here is Ellen getting uneasy
about the Siouxes, and now you have given
your mind so freely concerning these matters, if you
will just put us on the line of our flight, the swarm
will make another move.”
“Anan!”
“I say that Ellen is getting uneasy, and as the
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[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
smoke is lifting from the plain, it may be prudent to
take another flight.”
“The boy is reasonable. I had forgotten we were
in the midst of a raging fire, and that Siouxes were
round about us like hungry wolves watching a drove
of buffaloes. But when memory is at work in my
old brain, on times long past, it is apt to overlook
the matters of the day. You say right, my children,
it is time to be moving, and now comes the real
nicety of our case. It is easy to outwit a furnace,
for it is nothing but a raging element; and it is not
always difficult to throw a grizzly bear from his
scent, for the creatur' is both enlightened and blinded
by his instinct; but to shut the eyes of a waking Teton
is a matter of greater judgment, inasmuch as his
deviltry is backed by the cunning of reason.”
Notwithstanding the old man appeared thus conscious
of the difficulty of the undertaking, he set
about its achievement with great steadiness and alacrity.
After completing the examination, which had
been interrupted by the melancholy wanderings of
his mind, he gave the signal to his companions to
mount. The horses, which had continued passive
and trembling amid the raging of the fire, received
their burthens with a satisfaction so very evident, as
to furnish a favourable augury of their future industry.
The trapper invited the Doctor to take his own steed,
declaring his intention to proceed on foot.
“I am but little used to journeying with the feet
of others,” he added, as a reason for the measure,
“and my legs are a-weary of doing nothing. Besides,
should we light suddenly on an ambushment, which
is a thing far from impossible, the horse will be in a
better condition for a hard run with one man on his
back than with two. As for me, what matters it
whether my time is to be a day shorter or longer.
Let the Tetons take my scalp, if it be God's
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
pleasure; they will find it covered with gray hairs, and
it is beyond the craft of man to cheat me of the
knowledge and experience by which they have been
whitened.”
As no one among the impatient listeners seemed
disposed to dispute the arrangement, it was acceded
to in silence. The Doctor, though he muttered a
few mourning exclamations on behalf of the lost
Asinus, was by far too well pleased in finding that his
speed was likely to be sustained by four legs instead
of two, to be long in complying, and, consequently,
in a very few moments the bee-hunter, who was never
last to speak on such occasions, vociferously announced
that they were ready to proceed.
“Now look off yonder to the East,” said the old
man, as he began to lead the way across the murky
and still smoking plain; “little fear of cold feet in
journeying such a path as this—but look you off to
the East, and if you see a sheet of shining white,
glistening like a plate of beaten silver through the
openings of the smoke, why that is water. A noble
stream is running thereaway, and I thought I got a
glimpse of it a while since; but other thoughts came
and I lost it. It is a broad and swift river, such as
the Lord has made many of its fellows in this desert.
For here may natur' be seen in all its richness, trees
alone excepted. Trees, which are to the 'arth, as
fruits to a garden; without them nothing can be pleasant
or thoroughly useful. Now watch all of you,
with open eyes, for that stripe of glittering water, for
we shall not be safe until it is flowing between our
trail and these sharp sighted Tetons.”
The latter declaration was enough to insure a vigilant
look-out for the desired stream on the part of
all the trapper's followers. With this object in view,
the party proceeded in profound silence, the old man
having admonished them of the necessity of caution
as they entered the clouds of smoke, which were
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[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
rolling like masses of fog along the plain, more particularly
over those spots where the fire had encountered
occasional pools of stagnant water.
They had travelled near a league in this manner,
without obtaining the desired glimpse of the river.
The fire was still raging in the distance, and as the
air swept away the first vapour of the conflagration,
fresh volumes rolled along the place, limiting the
view. At length the old man, who had begun to betray
some little uneasiness, which caused his followers
to apprehend that even his acute faculties were beginning
to be confused in the mazes of the smoke,
made a sudden pause, and dropping his rifle to the
ground, he stood, apparently musing over some object
at his feet. Middleton and the rest rode up to his
side and demanded the reason of the halt.
“Look ye, here,” returned the trapper, pointing
to the mutilated carcass of a horse, that lay more
than half consumed in a little hollow of the ground;
“here may you see the power of a prairie conflagration.
The 'arth is moist, hereaway, and the grass
has been taller than usual. This miserable beast has
been caught in his bed. You see the bones; the
crackling and scorched hide, and the grinning teeth.
A thousand winters could not wither an animal so
thoroughly as the element has done it in a minute.”
“And this might have been our fate,” said Middleton,
“had the flames come upon us in our sleep!”
“Nay, I do not say that. I do not say that. Not
but that man will burn as well as tinder; but, that
being more reasoning than a horse, he would better
know how to avoid the danger.”
“Perhaps this then has been but the carcass of an
animal, or he too would have fled.”
“See you these marks in the damp soil? Here
have been his hoofs,—and there is a moccasin print
as I'm a sinner! The owner of the beast has tried
hard to move him from the place, but it is in the
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[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
instinct of the of the creatur' to be faint-hearted and
obstinate in a fire.”
“It is a well-known fact. But if the animal has
had a rider, where is he?”
“Ay, therein lies the mystery,” returned the trapper,
stooping to examine the signs in the ground with
a closer eye. “Yes, yes, it is plain there has been a
long struggle atween the two. The master has tried
hard to save his beast, and the flames must have been
very greedy or he would have had better success.”
“Harkee, old trapper,” interrupted Paul, pointing
to a little distance, where the ground was drier and
the herbage had, in consequence, been less luxuriant;
“just call them two horses. Yonder lies another.”
“The boy is right! can it be, that the Tetons have
been caught in their own snares? Such things do happen;
and here is an example to all evil-doers. Ay,
look you here, this is iron; there have been some
white inventions about the trappings of the beast—
it must be so—it must be so—a party of the knaves
have been skirting in the grass after us, while their
friends have fired the prairie, and look you at the
consequences; they have lost their beasts, and happy
have they been if their own souls are not now skirting
along the path which leads to the Indian heaven.”
“They had the same expedient at command as
yourself,” rejoined Middleton, as the party slowly
proceeded, approaching the other carcass, which lay
directly on their route.
“I know not that. It is not every savage that carries
his steel and flint, or as good a rifle-pan as this
old friend of mine. It is slow making a fire with two
sticks, and little time was given to consider or invent
just at this spot, as you may see by yon streak of
flame, which is flashing along afore the wind as if it
were on a trail of powder. It is not many minutes
since the fire has passed hereaway, and it may be
well to look at our primings, not that I would
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[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
willingly combat the Tetons, God forbid! but if a fight
needs be, it is always wise to get the first shot.”
“This has been a strange beast, old man,” said
Paul, who had pulled the bridle, or rather halter of
his steed over the second carcass, while the rest of
the party were already passing in their eagerness to
proceed; “a strange horse do I call it; it had neither
head nor hoofs!”
“The fire has not been idle,” returned the trapper,
keeping his eye vigilantly employed in profiting
by those glimpses of the horizon, which the whirling
smoke offered to his examination. “It would soon
bake you a buffaloe whole, or for that matter powder
his hoofs and horns into white ashes. Shame, shame,
old Hector; as for the captain's pup, it is to be expected
that he would show his want of years, and I
may say, I hope without offence, his want of education
too; but for a hound, like you, who has lived so
long in the forest afore he came into these plains, it
is very disgraceful, Hector, to be showing his teeth
and growling at the carcass of a roasted horse, the
same as if he was telling his master, that he had
found the trail of a grizzly bear.”
“I tell you, old trapper, this is no horse; neither
in hoofs, head nor hide.”
“Anan! Not a horse? your eyes are good for the
bees and for the hollow trees, my lad, but—bless me,
the boy is right! That I should mistake the hide of
a buffaloe, scorched and crimpled as it is, for the carcass
of a horse! Ah's me! The time has been, my
men, when I would tell you the name of a beast as
far as eye could reach, and that too with most of the
particulars of colour, age and sex.”
“An inestimable advantage have you then enjoyed,
venerable venator!” observed the attentive naturalist.
“The man, who can make these distinctions in
a desert, is saved the pain of many a weary walk,
and often of an inquiry that in its result proves
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[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
useless. Pray tell me, did your exceeding excellence
of vision extend so far as to enable you to decide on
their order or genus?”
“I know not what you mean by your orders of
genius.”
“No!” interrupted the bee-hunter, a little disdainfully
for him, when speaking to his aged friend;
“now, old trapper, that is admitting your ignorance
of the English language in a way I should not expect
from a man of your experience and understanding.
By order, our comrade means whether they go in
promiscuous droves, like a swarm that is following
its queen-bee, or in single file, as you often see the
buffaloes trailing each other through a prairie. And
as for genius, I'm sure that is a word well understood,
and in every body's mouth. There is the congressman
in our district, and that tonguey little fellow,
who puts out the paper in our county, they are both
so called, for their smartness; which is what the
Doctor means as I take it, seeing that he seldom
speaks without some considerable meaning.”
When Paul finished this very clever explanation
he looked behind him with an expression, which,
rightly interpreted, would have said—“You see,
though I don't often trouble myself in these matters,
I am no fool.”
Ellen admired Paul for any thing but his learning.
There was enough in his frank, fearless, and manly
character, backed as it was by great personal attraction,
to awaken her sympathies, without the necessity
of prying into his mental attainments. The poor girl
reddened like a rose, her pretty fingers played with
the belt, by which she sustained herself on the horse,
and she hurriedly observed, as if anxious to direct
the attentions of the other listeners from a weakness,
on which her own thoughts could not bear to
dwell—
“And then this is not a horse, after all?”
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“It is nothing more nor less than the hide of a
buffaloe,” continued the trapper, who had been no
less puzzled by the explanation of Paul, than by the
language of the Doctor; “the hair is beneath; the
fire has run over it as you see, for being fresh, the
flames could take no hold. The beast has not been
long killed, and it may be that some of the beef is
still hereaway.”
“Lift the corner of the skin, old trapper,” said
Paul, with the tone of one, who felt, as if he had
now proved his right to mingle his voice in any
council; “if there is a morsel of the hump left, it
must be well cooked, and it shall be welcome.”
The old man laughed heartily at the conceit of his
companion. Thrusting his foot beneath the skin, it
moved. Then it was suddenly cast aside, and an Indian
warrior sprang from its cover, to his feet, with
an agility, that bespoke how urgent he deemed the
occasion.
CHAPTER VII.
“I would it were bed-time, Hal, and all well.”
Shakspeare.
A second glance sufficed to convince the whole
of the startled party, that the young Pawnee, whom
they had already encountered, again stood before
them. Surprise kept both sides mute, and more than
a minute was passed in surveying each other with
eyes of astonishment, if not of distrust. The wonder
of the young warrior was, however, much more
tempered and dignified than that of his Christian acquaintances.
While Middleton and Paul felt the tremor,
which shook the persons of their dependant
companions, thrilling through their own quickened
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blood, the glowing eye of the Indian rolled from one
to another, as if it could never quail before the rudest
assaults. His gaze, after making the circuit of
every wondering countenance, finally settled in a
proud and steady look on the equally immoveable
features of the trapper. The silence was first broken
by Dr. Battius, in the ejaculation of,—
“Order, primates; genus, homo; species, prairie!”
“Ay—ay—the secret is out,” said the old trapper,
shaking his head, like one who congratulated himself
on having mastered the mystery of some knotty difficulty.
“The lad has been in the grass for a cover;
the fire has come upon him in his sleep, and having
lost his horse, he has been driven to save himself under
that fresh hide of a buffaloe. No bad invention,
when powder and flint were wanting to kindle a ring.
I warrant me, now, this is a clever youth, and one
that it would be safe to journey with. I will speak to
him kindly, for anger can at least serve no turn of
ours. My brother is welcome again,” using the language,
which the other understood; “the Tetons have
been smoking him as they would a raccoon.”
The young Pawnee rolled his eye over the place,
as if he were examining the terrific danger from
which he had just escaped, but he disdained to betray
the smallest emotion at its imminency. His brow
contracted, as he answered to the remark of the trapper
by saying—
“A Teton is a dog. When the Pawnee war whoop
is in their ears, the whole nation howls.”
“It is true. The imps are on our trail, and I am
glad to meet a warrior, with the tomahawk in his
hand, who does not love them. Will my brother lead
my children to his village? If the Siouxes follow
on our path, my young men shall help him to strike
them.”
The young Pawnee warrior turned his eyes from
one to another of the strangers, in a keen scrutiny,
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before he saw fit to answer so important an interrogatory.
His examination of the males was short, and
apparently satisfactory. But his gaze was fastened
long and admiringly, as in their former interview, on
the surpassing and unwonted beauty of a being so
fair and so unknown as Inez. Though his glance
wandered for moments from her countenance to the
more intelligible and yet extraordinary charms of
Ellen, it did not fail to return promptly to the study
of a creature who, in the view of his unpractised eye
and untutored imagination, was formed with all that
perfection, with which the youthful poet is apt to endow
the glowing images of his heated brain. Nothing
so fair, so ideal, so every way worthy to reward the
courage and self-devotion of a warrior, had ever before
been encountered on the prairies, and the young
brave appeared to be deeply and intuitively sensible
to the influence of so rare a model of the loveliness
of the sex. Perceiving, however, that his gaze gave
uneasiness to the subject of his admiration, he withdrew
his eyes, and laying his hand impressively on
his chest, he, modestly, answered—
“My father shall be welcome. The young men
of my nation shall hunt with his sons; the chiefs
shall smoke with the gray-head. The Pawnee girls
will sing in the ears of his daughters.”
“And if we meet the Tetons?” demanded the
trapper, who wished to understand, thoroughly, the
more important conditions of this new alliance.
“The enemy of the Big-knives shall feel the blow
of the Pawnee.”
“It is well. Now let my brother and I meet in
council, that we may not go on a crooked path, but
that our road to his village may be like the flight of
the pigeons.”
The young Pawnee made a significant gesture of
assent, and followed the other a little apart, in order
to be removed from all danger of interruption from
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the reckless Paul or the abstracted naturalist. Their
conference was short, but as it was conducted in the
sententious manner of the natives, it served to make
each of the parties acquainted with all the necessary
information of the other. When they rejoined their
associates, the old man saw fit to explain a portion
of what had passed between them, as follows—
“Ay, I was not mistaken,” he said; “this goodlooking
young warrior—for good-looking and noblelooking
he is, though a little horrified perhaps with
paint—this good-looking youth, then, tells me he is
out on the scout for these very Tetons. His party
was not strong enough to strike the devils, who are
down from their towns in great numbers to hunt the
buffaloe, and runners have gone to the Pawnee villages
for aid. It would seem that this lad is a fearless
boy, for he has been hanging on their skirts alone,
until, like ourselves, he was driven to the grass for a
cover. But he tells me more, my men, and what I
am mainly sorry to hear, which is, that the cunning
Mahtoree instead of going to blows with the squatter,
has become his friend, and that both broods, red and
white, are on our heels, and outlying around this very
burning plain to circumvent us to our destruction.”
“How knows he all this to be true?” demanded
Middleton.
“Anan?”
“In what manner does he know, that these things
are so?”
“In what manner! Do you think news-papers and
town criers are needed to tell a scout what is doing
on the prairies, as they are in the bosom of the States?
No gossipping woman, who hurries from house to
house to spread evil of her neighbour, can carry
tidings with her tongue so fast as these people will
spread their meaning by signs and warnings, that they
alone understand. 'Tis their l'arning, and what is
better, it is got in the open air, and not within the
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walls of a school. I tell you, captain, that what he
says is true.”
“For that matter,” said Paul, “I'm ready to swear
to it. It is reasonable, and therefore it must be true.”
“And well you might, lad; well you might. He
furthermore declares, that my old eyes for once were
true to me, and that the river lies, hereaway, at about
the distance of half a league. You see the fire has
done most of its work in that quarter, and our path
is clouded in smoke. He also agrees that it is needful
to wash our trail in water. Yes, we must put
that river atween us and the Sioux eyes, and then,
by the favour of the Lord, not forgetting our own
industry, we may gain the village of the Loups.”
“Words will not forward us a foot,” said Middle
ton, “let us move.”
The old man assented, and the party once more
prepared to renew its route. The Pawnee threw the
skin of the buffaloe over his shoulder and led the advance,
casting many a stolen glance behind him as he
proceeded, in order to fix his gaze on the extraordinary
and to him unaccountable loveliness of the unconscious
Inez.
An hour sufficed to bring the fugitives to the banks
of the stream, which was one of the hundred rivers
that serve to conduct, through the mighty arteries of
the Missouri and Mississippi, the waters of that vast
and still uninhabited region to the Ocean. The river
was not deep, but its current was troubled and rapid.
The flames had scorched the earth to its very margin,
and as the warm streams of the fluid mingled, in
the cooler air of the morning, with the smoke of the
still raging conflagration, most of its surface was
wrapped in a mantle of moving vapour. The trapper
pointed out the circumstance with pleasure, saying,
as he assisted Inez to dismount on the margin of
the water-course—
“The knaves have outwitted themselves! I am
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far from certain that I should not have fired the prairie,
to have got the benefit of this very smoke to hide
our movements, had not the heartless imps saved us
the trouble. I've known such things done in my day,
and done with success. Come, lady, put your tender
foot upon the ground—for a fearful time has it been
to one of your breeding and skeary qualities. Ah's
me! what have I not known the young, and the delicate,
and the virtuous, and the modest, to undergo,
in my time, among the horrifications and circumventions
of Indian warfare! Come, it is a short quarter
of a mile to the other bank, and then our trail, at
least, will be broken.”
Paul had by this time assisted Ellen to dismount,
and he now stood looking, with rueful eyes, at the
naked banks of the river. Neither tree nor shrub
grew along its borders, with the exception of here
and there a solitary thicket of low bushes, from
among which it would not have been an easy matter
to have found a dozen stems of a size sufficient to
make an ordinary walking-stick.
“Harkee, old trapper,” the moody-looking beehunter
exclaimed; “it is very well to talk of the
other side of this ripple of a river, or brook, or whatever
you may call it, but in my judgment it would be
a smart rifle that would throw its lead across it—that
is to any detriment to Indian or deer.”
“That it would—that it would; though I carry a
piece, here, that has done its work in time of need,
at as great a distance.”
“And do you mean to shoot Ellen and the captain's
lady across; or do you intend them to go, trout
fashion, with their mouths under water?”
“Is this river too deep to be forded?” asked Middleton,
who, like Paul, began to consider the impossibility
of transporting her, whose safety he valued
more than his own, to the opposite shore.
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“When the mountains above feed it with their
torrents it is, as you see, a swift and powerful stream.
Yet have I crossed its sandy bed, in my time, without
wetting a knee. But we have the Sioux horses;
I warrant me, that the kicking imps will swim like
so many deer.”
“Old trapper,” said Paul, thrusting his fingers into
his mop of a head, as was usual with him, when any
difficulty confounded his philosophy, “I have swam
like a fish in my day, and I can do it again, when
there is need; nor do I much regard the weather;
but I question if you get Nelly to sit a horse, with
this water whirling like a mill-race before her eyes;
besides, it is manifest the thing is not to be done dryshod.”
“Ah, the lad is right. We must to our inventions,
therefore, or the river cannot be crossed.” Then
cutting the discourse short, he turned to the Pawnee,
and explained to him the difficulty which existed in
relation to the women. The young warrior listened
gravely, and throwing the buffaloe-skin from his
shoulder he immediately commenced, assisted by the
occasional aid of the understanding old man, the preparations
necessary to effect this desirable object.
The hide was soon drawn into the shape of an
umbrella top, or an inverted parachute, by thongs of
deer-skin, with which both the labourers were well
provided. A few light sticks served to keep the parts
from collapsing, or falling in. When this simple and
natural expedient was arranged, it was placed on the
water, the Indian making a sign that it was ready to
receive its freight. Both Inez and Ellen hesitated to
trust themselves in a bark of so frail a construction,
nor would Middleton or Paul consent that they should
do so, until each had assured himself, by actual experiment,
that the vessel was capable of sustaining
a load much heavier than it was destined to receive.
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Then, indeed, their scruples were reluctantly overcome,
and the skin was made to receive its precious
burthen.
“Now leave the Pawnee to be the pilot,” said the
trapper; “my hand is not so steady as it used to be;
but he has limbs like toughened hickory. Leave all
to the wisdom of the Pawnee.”
The husband and lover could not well do otherwise,
and they were fain to become deeply interested,
it is true, but passive spectators of this primitive species
of ferrying. The Pawnee selected the beast of
Mahtoree, from among the three horses, with a readiness
that proved he was far from being ignorant of
the properties of that noble animal, and throwing
himself upon its back, he rode into the margin of the
river. Thrusting an end of his lance into the hide,
he bore the light vessel up against the stream, and
giving his steed the rein, they pushed boldly into the
current. Middleton and Paul followed, pressing as
nigh the bark as prudence would at all warrant. In
this manner the young warrior bore his precious cargo
to the opposite bank in perfect safety, without the
slightest inconvenience to the passengers, and with a
steadiness and celerity which proved that both horse
and rider were not unused to the operation. When
the shore was gained, the young Indian undid his
work, threw the skin over his shoulder, placed the
sticks under his arm, and returned, without speaking,
to transfer the remainder of the party, in a similar
manner, to what was very justly considered the safer
side of the river.
“Now, friend Doctor,” said the old man, when he
saw the Indian plunging into the river a second time,
“do I know there is faith in yonder Red-skin. He is
a good-looking, ay, and an honest looking youth, but
the winds of Heaven are not more deceitful than
these savages, when the devil has fairly beset them.
Had the Pawnee been a Teton, or one of them
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heartless Mingoes, that used to be prowling through the
woods of York, a time back, that is some sixty years
agone, we should have seen his back and not his face
turned towards us. My heart had its misgivings
when I saw the lad choose the better horse, for it
would be as easy to leave us with that beast, as it
would for a nimble pigeon to part company from a
flock of noisy and heavy winged crows. But you see
that truth is in the boy, and make a Red-skin once
your friend, he is yours so long as you deal honestly
by him.”
“What may be the distance to the sources of this
stream?” demanded Doctor Battius, whose eyes were
rolling over the whirling eddies of the current with a
very portentous expression of doubt. “At what
distance may its secret springs be found?”
“That may be as the weather proves. I warrant
me your legs would be a-weary before you had followed
its bed into the Rocky Mountains; but then
there are seasons when it might be done without
wetting a foot.”
“And in what particular divisions of the year do
these periodical seasons occur?”
“He that passes this spot a few months from this
time, will find that foaming water-course a desert of
drifting sand.”
The naturalist pondered deeply. Like most others,
who are not endowed with a superfluity of physical
fortitude, the worthy man had found the danger of
passing the river, in so simple a manner, magnifying
itself in his eyes so rapidly, as the moment of adventure
approached, that he actually contemplated
the desperate effort of going round the river, in order
to escape the hazard of crossing it. It may not be
necessary to dwell on the incredible ingenuity, with
which terror will at any time prop a tottering argument.
The worthy Obed had gone over the whole
subject, with commendable diligence, and had just
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arrived at the consoling conclusion, that there was
nearly as much glory in discerning the hidden sources
of so considerable a stream, as in adding a plant or
an insect to the lists of the learned, when the Pawnee
reached the shore for the second time. The old man
took his seat, with the utmost deliberation, in the
vessel of skin (so soon as it had been duly arranged
for his reception,) and having carefully disposed of
Hector between his legs, he beckoned to his companion
to occupy the third place.
The naturalist placed a foot in the frail vessel, as
an elephant will try a bridge, or a horse is often seen
to make a similar experiment, before he will trust the
whole of his corporeal treasure on the dreaded flat,
and then withdrew just as the old man believed he
was about to seat himself.
“Venerable venator,” he said, mournfully, “this
is a most unscientific bark. There is an inward
monitor which bids me distrust its security!”
“Anan?” said the old man, who was pinching the
ears of the hound, as a father would play with the
same member in a favourite child.
“I incline not to this irregular mode of experimenting
on fluids. The vessel has neither form nor
proportions.”
“It is not as handsomely turned as I have seen a
canoe in birchen bark, but comfort may be taken in
a wigwam as well as in a palace.”
“It is impossible that any vessel constructed on
principles so repugnant to science can be safe. This
tub, venerable hunter, will never reach the opposite
shore in safety.”
“You are a witness of what it has done.”
“Ay; but it was an anomaly in prosperity. If exceptions
were to be taken as rules, in the government
of things, the human race would speedily be plunged
in the abysses of ignorance. Venerable trapper, this
expedient, in which you would repose your safety, is,
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in the annals of regular inventions, what a Iusus natur
æ may be termed in the lists of natural history—
a monster!”
How much longer Doctor Battius might have felt
disposed to prolong the discourse, it is difficult to say,
for in addition to the powerful personal considerations,
which induced him to procrastinate an experiment,
which was certainly not without its dangers,
the pride of reason was beginning to sustain him in
the discussion. But, fortunately for the credit of the
old man's forbearance, when the naturalist reached
the word, with which he terminated his last speech,
a sound arose in the air that seemed a sort of supernatural
echo to the idea itself. The young Pawnee,
who had awaited the termination of the incomprehensible
discussion, with grave and characteristic
patience, raised his head and listened to the unknown
cry, like a stag, whose mysterious faculties had detected
the footsteps of the distant hounds in the gale.
The trapper and the Doctor were not, however, entirely
so uninstructed as to the nature of the extraordinary
sounds. The latter recognised in them the
well-known voice of his own beast, and he was about
to rush up the little bank, which confined the current,
with all the longings of a strong affection, when
Asinus himself gallopped into view, at no great distance,
urged to the unnatural gait by the impatient
and brutal Weucha, who bestrode him.
The eyes of the Teton, and those of the fugitives
met. The former raised a long, loud, and piercing
yell, in which the notes of exultation were fearfully
blended with those of warning. The signal served
for a finishing blow to the discussion on the merits of
the bark, the Doctor stepping as promptly to the side
of the old man, as though a mental mist had been
miraculously removed from his eyes. In another instant
the steed of the young Pawnee was struggling
powerfully with the torrent.
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The utmost strength of the horse was needed to
urge the fugitives beyond the flight of arrows that
came sailing through the air, at the next moment.
The cry of Weucha had brought fifty of his comrades
to the shore, but fortunately among them all was not
one of a rank sufficient to entitle him to the privilege
of bearing a fusee. One half the stream, however,
was not passed, before the form of Mahtoree
himself was seen on its bank, and an ineffectual discharge
of fire-arms announced the rage and disappointment
of the chief. More than once the trapper
had raised his rifle, as if about to try its power on
his enemies, but he as often lowered it, without firing.
The eyes of the Pawnee warrior glared like those of
the cougar at the sight of so many of the hostile
tribe, and he answered to the impotent effort of their
chief, by tossing a hand into the air in contempt, and
raising the war-cry of his nation. The challenge was
too taunting to be endured. The Tetons dashed into
the stream in a body, and the river became dotted
with the dark forms of beasts and riders.
There was now a fearful struggle for the friendly
bank. As the Dahcotahs advanced with beasts, which
had not, like that of the Pawnee, expended their
strength in former efforts, and as they now moved unincumbered
by any thing but their riders, the speed of
the pursuers greatly outstripped that of the fugitives.
The trapper, who clearly comprehended the whole
danger of their situation, calmly turned his eyes from
the Tetons to his young Indian associate, in order to
examine whether the resolution of the latter began
to falter, as the former lessened the distance between
them. Instead of betraying fear, however, or any of
that concern which might so readily have been excited
by the peculiarity of his risk, the brow of the
young warrior contracted to a look which indicated
high and deadly hostility.
“Do you greatly value life, friend Doctor?”
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demanded the old man, with a sort of philosophical
calmness, which made the question doubly appalling
to his companion.
“Not for itself,” returned the naturalist, sipping
some of the water of the river from the hollow of
his hand, in order to clear his husky throat. “Not
for itself, but exceedingly, inasmuch as natural history
has so deep a stake in my existence. Therefore—”
“Ay!” resumed the other, who mused too deeply
to dissect the ideas of the Doctor with his usual sagacity,
“'Tis in truth the history of natur', and a base
and craven feeling it is! Now is life as precious to
this young Pawnee, as to any governor in the States,
and he might save it, or at least stand some chance
of saving it, by letting us go down the stream; and
yet you see he keeps his faith manfully, and like an
Indian warrior. For myself, I am old, and willing
to take the fortune that the Lord may see fit to give,
nor do I conceit that you are of much benefit to mankind;
and it is a crying shame, if not a sin, that so
fine a youth as this should lose his scalp for two beings
so worthless as ourselves. I am therefore disposed,
provided that it shall prove agreeable to you,
to tell the lad to make the best of his way, and to
leave us to the mercy of the Tetons.”
“I repel the proposition, as repugnant to nature
and as treason to science!” exclaimed the alarmed
naturalist. “Our progress is miraculous, and as this
admirable invention moves with so wonderful a facility,
a few more minutes will serve to bring us to land.”
The old man regarded him intently for an instant,
and shaking his head he said—
“Lord what a thing is fear! it transforms the creatur's
of the world and the craft of man, making that
which is ugly, seemly in our eyes, and that which
is beautiful, unsightly! Lord, Lord, what a thing is
fear!”
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A termination was, however, put to the discussion,
by the increasing interest of the chase. The horses
of the Dahcotahs had, by this time, gained the middle
of the current, and their riders were already filling
the air with yells of triumph. At this moment
Middleton and Paul, who had led the females to a
little thicket, appeared again on the margin of the
stream, menacing their enemies with the rifle.
“Mount, mount,” shouted the trapper, the instant
he beheld them; “mount and fly, if you value those
who lean on you for help. Mount, and leave us in
the hands of the Lord.”
“Stoop your head, old trapper,” returned the
voice of Paul, “down with ye both into your nest.
The Teton devil is in your line; down with your
heads and make way for a Kentucky bullet.”
The old man turned his head, and saw that the
eager Mahtoree, who preceded his party some distance,
had brought himself nearly in a line with the
bark and the bee-hunter, who stood perfectly ready
to execute his hostile threat. Bending his body low,
the rifle was discharged, and the swift lead whizzed
harmlessly past him on its more distant errand. But
the eye of the Teton chief was not less quick and
certain than that of his enemy. He threw himself
from his horse the moment preceding the report, and
sunk into the water. The beast snorted with terror
and anguish, throwing half his form out of the river
in a desperate plunge. Then he was seen drifting
away in the torrent, and dying the turbid waters
deeply with his blood.
The Teton chief soon re-appeared on the surface,
and understanding the nature of his loss, he swam
with vigorous strokes to the nearest of the young
men, who relinquished his steed, as a matter of
course, to so renowned a warrior. The incident,
however, created a confusion in the whole of the
Dahcotah band, who appeared to await the intention
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of their leader, before they renewed their efforts to
reach the shore. In the mean time the vessel of skin
had reached the land, and the fugitives were once
more united on the margin of the river.
The savages were now swimming about in indecision,
as a flock of pigeons is often seen to hover in
confusion after receiving a heavy discharge into its
leading column, apparently hesitating on the risk of
storming a bank so formidably defended. The wellknown
precaution of Indian warfare prevailed, and
Mahtoree, admonished by his recent adventure, led
his warriors back to the shore from which they had
come, in order to relieve their beasts, which were
already becoming unruly.
“Now mount you, with the tender ones, and ride
for yonder hillock,” said the trapper; “beyond it,
you will find another stream, into which you must
enter, and turning to the sun, follow its bed for a
mile, until you reach a high and sandy plain; there
will I meet you. Go; mount; this Pawnee youth
and I, and my stout friend the physician, who is a
desperate warrior, are men enough to keep the bank,
seeing that show and not use is all that is needed.”
Middleton and Paul saw no use in wasting their
breath in remonstrances against this proposal. Glad
to know that their rear was to be covered, even in
this imperfect manner, they hastily got their horses
in motion, and soon disappeared on the required
route. Some twenty or thirty minutes succeeded
this movement, before the Tetons on the opposite
shore seemed inclined to enter on any new enterprise.
Mahtoree was distinctly visible, in the midst
of his warriors, issuing his mandates and betraying his
desire for vengeance, by occasionally shaking an arm
in the direction of the fugitives; but no step was
taken, which appeared to threaten any further act of
immediate hostility. At length a yell arose among
the savages, which announced the occurrence of
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some fresh event. Then Ishmael and his sluggish
sons were seen in the distance, and soon the whole
of the united force moved down to the very limits of
the stream. The squatter proceeded to examine the
position of his enemies with his usual coolness, and,
as if to try the power of his rifle, he sent a bullet
among them, with a force sufficient to do execution,
even at the distance at which he stood.
“Now let us depart!” exclaimed Obed, endeavouring
to catch a furtive glimpse of the lead, which he
fancied was whizzing at his very ear; “we have
maintained the bank in a gallant manner, for a sufficient
length of time; quite as much military skill is
to be displayed in a retreat, as in an advance.”
The old man cast a look behind him, and seeing
that the equestrains had reached the cover of the
hill, he made no objections to the proposal. The remaining
horse was given to the Doctor, with instructions
to pursue the course just taken by Middleton
and Paul. When the naturalist was mounted and in
full retreat, the trapper and the young Pawnee stole
from the spot in such a manner as to leave their enemies
some time in doubt as to their movements. Instead,
however, of proceeding across the plain towards
the hill, a route on which they must have been in
open view, they took a shorter path, covered by the
formation of the ground, and intersected the little
water-course at the point where Middleton had been
directed to leave it, and just in season to join his
party. The Doctor had used so much diligence in
the retreat, as to have already overtaken his friends,
and of course the fugitives were all again assembled.
The trapper now looked about him for some convenient
spot, where the whole party might halt, as he
expressed it, for some five or six hours.
“Halt!” exclaimed the Doctor, when the alarming
proposal reached his ears; “venerable hunter,
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it would seem, that on the contrary, many days should
be passed in industrious flight.”
Middleton and Paul were both of this opinion, and
each in his particular manner expressed as much.
The old man heard them with patience, but shook
his head like one who was unconvinced, and then
answered all their arguments, in one general and
positive reply.
“Why should we fly?” he asked. “Can the leg
of mortal men outstrip the speed of horses? Do you
think the Tetons will lie down and sleep; or will
they cross the water and nose for our trail? Thanks
be to the Lord, we have washed it well in this stream,
and if we leave the place with discretion and wisdom,
we may yet throw them off its track. But a prairie
is not a wood. There a man may journey long, caring
for nothing but the prints his moccasin leaves,
whereas, in these open plains a runner, placed on
yonder hill, for instance, could see far on every side
of him, like a hovering hawk looking down on his
prey. No, no; night must come, and darkness be
upon us, afore we leave this spot. But listen to the
words of the Pawnee; he is a lad of spirit, and!
warrant me many is the hard race that he has run
with the Sioux bands. Does my brother think our
trail is long enough?” he then demanded in the
Indian tongue.
“Is a Teton a fish, that he can see it in the river?”
“But my young men think we should stretch it,
until it reaches across the prairie.”
“Mahtoree has eyes; he will see it.”
“What does my brother counsel?”
The young warrior studied the heavens a moment,
and appeared to hesitate. He mused some time with
himself, and then he replied, like one whose opinion
was irrevocably fixed.
“The Dahcotahs are not asleep,” he said; “we
must lie in the grass.”
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“Ah! the lad is of my mind,” said the old man,
briefly explaining the opinion of his companion to
his white friends. Middleton was obliged to acquiesce,
and as it was confessedly dangerous to remain upon
their feet, each one set about assisting in the means
to be adopted for their security. Inez and Ellen
were quickly bestowed beneath the warm and not
uncomfortable shelter of the buffaloe skins, which
formed a thick covering, and tall grass was drawn
over the place, in such a manner as to evade any
examination from a common eye. Paul and the
Pawnee fettered the beasts and cast them to the
earth, where, after supplying them with food, they
were also left concealed in the fog of the prairie.
No time was lost when these several arrangements
were completed, before each of the others sought a
place of rest and concealment, and then the plain
appeared again deserted to its solitude.
The old man had advised his companions of the absolute
necessity of their continuing for hours in this
concealment. All their hopes of escape depended
on the success of the artifice. If they might elude
the cunning of their pursuers, by this simple and
therefore less suspected expedient, they could renew
their flight as the evening approached, and, by changing
their course, the chance of final success would be
greatly increased. Influenced by these momentous
considerations the whole party lay, musing on their
situation, until thoughts grew weary, and sleep finally
settled on them all, one after another.
The deepest silence had prevailed for hours when
the quick ears of the trapper and the Pawnee were
startled by a faint cry of surprise from Inez. Springing
to their feet, like men, who were about to struggle
for their lives, they found the vast plain, the rolling
swells, the little hillock, and the scattered thickets,
covered alike in one, white, dazzling sheet of snow.
“The Lord have mercy on ye all!” exclaimed the
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old man, regarding the prospect with a rueful eye,
“now Pawnee do I know the reason why you studied
the clouds so closely; but it is too late; it is now too
late! A squirrel would leave his trail on this light
coating of the 'arth. Ha! there come the imps to;
certainty. Down with ye all, down with ye; your
chance is but small, and yet it must not be wilfully
cast away.”
The whole party was instantly concealed, again,
though many an anxious and stolen glance was directed
through the tops of the grass, on the movements
of their enemies. At the distance of half,
mile, the Teton band was seen riding in a circuit,
which was gradually contracting itself, and evidents
closing upon the very spot where the fugitives lay.
There was but little difficulty in solving the mystery
of this movement. The snow had fallen in time to
assure them that those they sought were in their rear,
and they were now employed, with the unwearied
perseverance and patience of Indian warriors, in
circling the certain boundaries of their place of concealment.
Each minute added to the jeopardy of the fugitives
Paul and Middleton deliberately prepared their rifles
and as the earnestly occupied Mahtoree came, at
length, within fifty feet of them, keeping his eye
riveted on the grass through which he rode, they levelled
them together and pulled the triggers. The
effort was answered by the mere snapping of the
locks.
“Enough,” said the old man rising with dignity;
“I have cast away the priming; for certain death
would follow your rashness. Now let us meet our
fates like men. Cringing and complaining find no
favour in Indian eyes.”
His appearance was greeted by a yell, that spread
far and wide over the plain, and in a moment a hundred
savages were seen riding madly to the spot.
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Mahtoree received his prisoners with great self-restraint,
though a single gleam of fierce joy broke
through his clouded brow, and the heart of Middleton
grew cold as he caught the expression of that eye,
which the chief turned on the nearly insensible but
still lovely Inez.
The exultation of receiving the white captives was
so great, as for a time to throw the dark and immoveable
form of their young Indian companion entirely
out of view. He stood apart, disdaining to turn an
eye on his enemies, as motionless as though he were
frozen in that attitude of dignity and composure.
But when a little time had passed, even this secondary
object attracted the attention of the Tetons.
Then it was that the trapper first learned, by the
shout of triumph and the long drawn yell of delight,
which burst at once from a hundred throats, as well
as by the terrible name, which filled the air, that his
youthful friend was no other than that redoubtable
and hitherto invincible warrior, the mighty Hard-Heart.
CHAPTER VIII.
“What, are ancient pistol and
You friends, yet?”
Shakspeare.
The curtain of our imperfect drama must fall, to
rise upon another scene. The time is advanced
several days, during which very material changes had
occurred in the situation of the actors. The hour is
noon, and the place an elevated plain, that rose, at
no great distance from the water, somewhat abruptly
from the fertile bottom, which stretched along the
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margin of one of the numberless water-courses of
that region. The river took its rise near the base of
the Rocky Mountains, and, after washing a vast extent
of plain, it mingled its waters with a still larger
stream, to become finally lost in the turbid current
of the Missouri.
The landscape was changed materially for the better;
though the hand, which had impressed so much
of the desert on the surrounding region, had laid a
portion of its power on this spot. The appearance
of vegetation was, however, less discouraging than
in the more sterile wastes of the rolling prairies
Clusters of trees were scattered in greater profusion,
and a long outline of ragged forest marked the northern
boundary of the view. Here and there, on the
bottom, were to be seen the evidences of a hasty and
imperfect culture of such indigenous vegetables as
were of a quick growth, and which were known to
flourish, without the aid of art, in deep and alluvial
soils. On the very edge of what might be called the
table-land, were pitched the hundred lodges of a
horde of wandering Siouxes. Their light tenements
were arranged without the least attention to order.
Proximity to the water seemed to be the only consideration
which had been consulted in their disposition,
nor had even this important convenience been
always regarded. While most of the lodges stood
along the brow of the plain, many were to be seen
at greater distances, occupying such places as had
first pleased the capricious eyes of their untutored
owners. The encampment was not military, nor in
the slightest degree protected from surprise by its
position or defences. It was open on every side, and
on every side as accessible as any other point in those
wastes, if the imperfect and natural obstruction offered
by the river, be excepted. In short, the place
bore the appearance of having been tenanted longer
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than its occupants had originally intended, while it
was not wanting in the signs of readiness for a hasty,
or even a compelled departure.
This was the temporary encampment of that portion
of his people, who had long been hunting under
the direction of Mahtoree, on those grounds which
separated the stationary abodes of his nation, from
those of the warlike tribes of the Pawnees. The
lodges were tents of skin, high, conical, and of the
most simple and primitive construction. The shield,
the quiver, the lance and the bow of its master, were
to be seen suspended from a light post before the opening,
or door of each tenement. The different domestic
implements of his one, two, or three wives, as the
brave was of greater or lesser renown, were carelessly
thrown at its side, and here and there the round, full,
patient countenance of an infant might be found
peeping from its comfortless wrappers of bark, as,
suspended by a deer-skin thong from the same post,
it rocked in the passing air. Children of a larger
growth were tumbling over each other in piles, the
males, even at that early age, making themselves
distinguished for that species of domination which,
in after life, was to mark the vast distinction between
the sexes. Youths were in the bottom, essaying their
juvenile powers in curbing the wild steeds of their
fathers, while here and there a truant girl was to be
seen, stealing from her labours to admire their fierce
and impatient daring.
Thus far the picture was the daily exhibition of
an encampment confident in its security. But immediately
in front of the lodges was a gathering, that
seemed to forbode some movements of much more
than usual interest. A few of the withered and remorseless
crones of the band were clustering together,
in readiness to lend their fell voices, if
needed, to aid in exciting their descendants to an exhibition,
which their depraved tastes coveted, as
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beings of more humanized temperaments are known to
love to look upon the interest of scarcely less appaling
spectacles. The men were subdivided into
groupes, assorted according to the deeds and reputations
of the several individuals of whom they were
composed.
They, who were of that equivocal age which admitted
them to the hunts, while their discretion was
still too doubtful to permit them to be trusted on the
war-path, hung around the skirts of the whole, catching,
from the fierce models before them, that gravity
of demeanour and restraint of manner, which in time
was to become so deeply ingrafted in their own characters.
A few of a still older class, and who had
heard the whoop in anger, were a little more presuming,
pressing nigher to the chiefs, though far from
presuming to mingle in their councils, sufficiently
distinguished by being permitted to catch the wisdom
which fell from lips so venerated. The ordinary
warriors of the band were still less diffident, not hestating
to mingle among the chiefs of lesser note,
though far from assuming the right to dispute the
sentiments of any established brave, or to call in question
the prudence of measures, that were recommended
by the more gifted counsellors of the nation.
Among the chiefs themselves there was a singular
compound of exterior. They were to be divided
into two classes; those who were mainly indebted
for their influence to physical causes and to deeds in
arms, and those who had become distinguished rather
for their wisdom than for their services in the field.
The former was by far the most numerous and the
most important class. They were men of stature
and mien, whose stern countenances were often rendered
doubly imposing by those evidences of their
valour, which had been roughly traced on their
lineaments by the hands of their enemies, in the
shape of deep and indelible scars. That class, which
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had gained its influence by a moral ascendency was
extremely limited. They were uniformly to be distinguished
by the quick and lively expression of their
eyes, by the air of distrust that marked their movements,
and occasionally by the vehemence of their
utterance in those sudden outbreakings of the mind,
by which their present consultations were, from time
to time, distinguished.
In the very centre of a ring, formed by these chosen
counsellors, was to be seen the person of the disquieted
but seemingly calm Mahtoree. There was
a conjunction of all the several qualities of the others
in his person and character. Mind as well as matter
had contributed to establish his authority. His scars
were as numerous and deep as those of the whitest
head in his nation; his limbs were in their greatest
vigour, his courage at its fullest height. Endowed
with this rare combination of moral and physical influence,
the keenest eye in all that assembly was
wont to lower before his threatening glance. Courage
and cunning had established his ascendency, and
it had been rendered, in some degree, sacred by time.
He knew so well how to unite the powers of reason
and force, that in a state of society, which admitted
of a greater display of his energies, the Teton would
in all probability have been both a conqueror and a
despot.
A little apart from the gathering of the band, was
to be seen a set of beings of an entirely different
origin. Taller and far more muscular in their persons,
the lingering vestiges of their Saxon and Norman
ancestry were yet to be found beneath the
swarthy complexions, which had been bestowed by
an American sun. It would have been a curious
investigation, for one skilled in such an inquiry, to
have traced those points of difference, by which the
offspring of the most western European was still to
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be distinguished from the descendant of the most remote
Asiatic, now that the two, in the revolutions of
the world, were approximating in their habits, their
residence, and not a little in their characters. The
groupe, of whom we write, was composed of the
family of the squatter. They stood indolent, lounging
and inert, as usual, when no immediate demand
was made on their dormant energies, clustered in
front of some four or five habitations of skin, for
which they were indebted to the hospitality of their
Teton allies. The terms of their unexpected confederation
were sufficiently explained, by the presence
of the horses and domestic cattle that were
quietly grazing on the bottom beneath, under the
jealous eyes of the spirited Hetty. Their wagons
were drawn about the lodges, in a sort of irregular
barrier, which at once manifested that their confidence
was not entirely restored, while, on the other
hand, their policy or indolence prevented any very
positive exhibition of distrust. There was a singular
union of passive enjoyment and of dull curiosity
slumbering in every dull countenance, as each of the
party stood leaning on his rifle, regarding the movements
of the Sioux conference. Still no sign of expectation
or interest escaped from the youngest
among them, the whole appearing to emulate the
most phlegmatic of their savage allies, in an exhibition
of the commendable quality of patience. They
rarely spoke; and when they did it was in some short
and contemptuous remark, which served to put the
physical superiority of a white man and that of an
Indian in a sufficiently striking point of view. In
short, the family of Ishmael appeared now to be in
the plenitude of an enjoyment, which depended on
inactivity, but which was not entirely free from certain
confused glimmerings of a perspective, in which
their security stood in some little danger of a rude
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interruption from Teton treachery. Abiram, alone,
formed a solitary exception to this state of equivocal
repose.
After a life passed in the commission of a thousand
mean and insignificant villanies, the mind of the
kidnapper had become hardy enough to attempt the
desperate adventure, which has been laid before the
reader, in the course of our narrative. His influence
over the bolder, but less active, spirit of Ishmael was
far from great, and had not the latter been suddenly
expelled a fertile bottom, of which he had taken possession,
with intent to keep it, without much deference
to the forms of law, he would never have succeeded
in enlisting the husband of his sister in an enterprise
that required so much decision and forethought.
Their original success and subsequent disappointment
have been seen, and Abiram now sat
apart, plotting the means, by which he might secure
to himself the advantages of his undertaking, which
he perceived were each moment becoming more uncertain
through the open admiration of Mahtoree
for the innocent subject of his villany. We shall
leave him to his vacillating and confused expedients,
in order to pass to the description of certain other
personages in our drama.
There was still another corner of the picture that
was occupied. On a little bank, at the extreme right
of the encampment, lay the forms of Middleton and
Paul. Their limbs were painfully bound with thongs,
cut from that of a bison, while, by a sort of refinement
in cruelty, they were so placed, that each could
see a reflection of his own misery in the case of his
neighbour. Within a dozen yards of them a post was
set firmly in the ground, and against it was bound
the light and Apollo-like person of Hard-Heart. Between
the two stood the trapper, deprived of his
rifle, his pouch and his horn, but otherwise left in a
sort of contemptuous liberty. Some five or six young
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warriors, however, with quivers at their backs, and
long tough bows dangling from their shoulders, who
stood with grave watchfulness at no great distance
from the spot, sufficiently proclaimed how fruitless
any attempt to escape, on the part of one so aged and
so feeble, might prove. Unlike the other spectators
of the important conference these individuals were
engaged in a discourse that for them contained an
interest of its own.
“Captain,” said the bee-hunter with an expression
of comical concern, that no misfortune could depress
in one of his buoyant feelings, “do you really find
that accursed strap of untanned leather cutting into
your shoulder, or is it only the tickling in my own
arm that I feel?”
“When the spirit suffers so deeply, the body is insensible
to pain,” returned the more refined, though
scarcely so spirited Middleton; “would to Heaven
that some of my trusty artillerists might fall upon
this accursed encampment!”
“You might as well wish that these Teton lodges
were so many hives of hornets, and that the insects
would come forth and battle with yonder tribe of
half-naked savages.” Then chuckling, with his own
conceit, the bee-hunter turned away from his companion,
and sought a momentary relief from his misery,
by imagining that such a wild conceit might be realized,
and fancying the manner, in which the attack
would upset even the well-established patience of an
Indian.
Middleton was glad to be silent, but the old man,
who had listened to their words, drew a little nigher
and continued the discourse.
“Here is likely to be a merciless and a hellish
business!” he said, shaking his head in a manner to
prove that even his experience was at a loss for a
remedy in so trying a dilemma. “Our Pawnee friend
is already staked for the torture, and I well know, by
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the eye and the countenance of the great Sioux, that
he is leading on the temper of his people to further
enormities.”
“Harkee, old trapper,” said Paul, writhing in his
bonds to catch a glimpse of the other's melancholy
face; “you ar' skilled in Indian tongues and know
somewhat of Indian deviltries. Go you to the council,
and tell their chiefs in my name, that is to say in
the name of Paul Hover, of the state of Kentucky,
that provided they will guarantee the safe return of
one Ellen Wade into the States, they are welcome
to take his scalp when and in such manner as best
suits their amusements; or, if-so-be they will not
trade on these conditions, you may throw in an hour
or two of torture before hand, in order to sweeten
the bargain to their damnable appetites.”
“Ah! lad, it is little they would hearken to such
an offer, knowing, as they do, that you are already
like a bear in a trap, as little able to fight as to fly.
But be not down-hearted, for the colour of a white
man is sometimes his death-warrant among these far
tribes of savages, and sometimes his shield. Though
they love us not, cunning often ties their hands.
Could the red nations work their will, trees would
shortly be growing again on the ploughed fields of
America, and woods would be whitened with Christian
bones. No one can doubt that, who knows the
quality of the love which a Red-skin bears a Pale-face;
but they have counted our numbers until their
memories fail them, and they are not without their
policy. Therefore is our fate unsettled; but I fear
me there is small hope left for the Pawnee!”
As the old man concluded, he walked slowly towards
the subject of his latter observation, taking his
post at no great distance from his side. Here he
stood, observing such a silence and mien as became
him to manifest, to a chief so renowned and so situated
as his captive associate. But the eye of Hard-Heart
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was fastened on the distance, and his whole air was
that of one whose thoughts were entirely removed
from the present scene.
“The Siouxes are in council on my brother,” the
trapper at length observed, when he found he could
only attract the other's attention by speaking.
The young partizan turned his head with a calm
smile as he answered—
“They are counting the scalps over the lodge of
Hard-Heart!”
“No doubt, no doubt; their tempers begin to
mount, as they remember the number of Tetons you
have struck, and better would it be for you now, had
more of your days been spent in chasing the deer,
and fewer on the war-path. Then some childless
mother of this tribe might take you in the place of
her lost son, and your time would be filled in peace.”
“Does my father think that a warrior can ever
die? The Master of Life does not open his hand to
take away his gifts again. When he wants his young
men he calls them, and they go. But the Red-skin
he has once breathed on lives for ever.”
“Ay, this is a more comfortable and a more humble
faith than that which yonder heartless Teton
harbours! There is something in these Loups which
opens my inmost heart to them; they seem to have
the courage, ay, and the honesty, too, of the Delawares
of the hills. And this lad—it is wonderful, it
is very wonderful; but the age, and the eye, and the
limbs are as if they might have been brothers! Tell
me, Pawnee, have you ever in your traditions heard
of a mighty people who once lived on the shores of
the Salt-lake, hard by the rising sun?”
“The earth is white, by people of the colour of
my father.”
“Nay, nay, I speak not now of any strollers, who
have crept into the land to rob the lawful owners of
their birth-right, but of a people who are, or rather
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were, what with nature and what with paint, red as
the berry on the bush.”
“I have heard the old men say, that there were
bands, who hid themselves in the woods under the
rising sun, because they dared not come upon the
open prairies with men.”
“Do not your traditions tell you of the greatest,
the bravest, and the wisest nation of Red-skins that
the Wahcondah has ever breathed upon?”
Hard-Heart raised his head, with a loftiness and
dignity that even his bonds could not repress, as he
answered—
“Has age blinded my father; or does he see so
many Siouxes, that he believes there are no longer
any Pawnees?”
“Ah! such is mortal vanity and pride!” exclaimed
the disappointed old man, in English; “Natur' is
as strong in a Red-skin as in the bosom of a man of
white gifts. Now would a Delaware conceit himself
far mightier than a Pawnee, just as a Pawnee boasts
himself to be of the princes of the 'arth. And so it
was atween the Frenchers of the Canadas and the
red-coated English, that the king did use to send into
the States, when States they were not, but outcrying
and petitioning provinces, they fou't and they fou't,
and what marvellous boastings did they give forth to
the world of their own valour and victories, while
both parties forgot to name the humble soldier of the
land, who did the real service, but who, as he was
not privileged then to smoke at the great council fire
of his nation, seldom heard of his deeds, after they
were once bravely done.”
When the old man had thus given vent to the nearly
dormant, but far from extinct, military pride, that
had so unconsciously led him into the very error he
deprecated, his eye, which had begun to quicken and
and glimmer with some of the ardour of his youth,
softened and turned its anxious look on the devoted
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captive, whose countenance was also restored to its
former cold look of abstraction and thought.
“Young warrior,” he continued in a voice that
was growing tremulous, “I have never been father
or brother. The Wahcondah made me to live alone.
He never tied my heart to house or field, by the
cords with which the men of my race are bound to
their lodges; if he had, I should not have journeyed
so far, and seen so much. But I have tarried long
among a people, who lived in those woods you mention,
and much reason did I find to imitate their courage
and love their honesty. The Master of Life
has made us all, Pawnee, with a feeling for our kind.
I never was a father, but well do I know what is the
love of one. You are like a lad I valued, and I had
even begun to fancy that some of his blood might be
in your veins. But what matters that? You are a
true man, as I know by the way in which you keep
your faith; and honesty is a gift too rare to be forgotten.
My heart yearns to you, boy, and gladly
would I do you good.”
The youthful warrior listened to the words, which
came from the lips of the other with a force and simplicity
that established their truth, and he bowed his
head on his naked bosom, in testimony of the respect
with which he met the proffer. Then lifting his dark
eye to the level of the view, he seemed to be again
considering of things removed from every personal
consideration. The trapper, who well knew how
high the pride of a warrior would sustain him, in
those moments he believed to be his last, awaited the
pleasure of his young friend, with a meekness and
patience that he had acquired by his association with
that remarkable race. At length the gaze of the
Pawnee began to waver; and then quick, flashing
glances were turned from the countenance of the old
man to the air, and from the air to his deeply
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marked lineaments again, as if the spirit, which governed
their movements, was beginning to be troubled.
“Father,” the young brave finally answered in a
voice of confidence and kindness, “I have heard
your words. They have gone in at my ears, and are
now within me. The white-headed Long-knife has
no son; the Hard-Heart of the Pawnees is young, but
he is already the oldest of his family. He found the
bones of his father on the hunting-ground of the
Osages, and he has sent them to the prairies of the
Good Spirits. No doubt the great chief, his father,
has seen them, and knows what is part of himself.
But the Wahcondah will soon call to us both; you,
because you have seen all that is to be seen in this
country, and Hard-Heart, because he has need of a
warrior, who is young. There is no time for the
Pawnee to show the Pale-face the duty, that a son
owes to his father.”
“Old as I am, and miserable and helpless as I now
stand, to what I once was, I may live to see the sun
go down in the prairie. Does my son expect ever
to see darkness come again?”
“The Tetons are counting the scalps on my
lodge!” returned the young chief, with a smile whose
melancholy was singularly illuminated by a gleam of
triumph.
“And they find them many. Too many for the
safety of its owner, while he is in their revengeful
hands. My son is not a woman, and he looks on the
path he is about to travel with a steady eye. Has
he nothing to whisper in the ears of his people before
he starts? These legs are old, but they may yet
carry me to the forks of the Loup-river.”
“Tell them that Hard-Heart has tied a knot in his
wampum for every Teton!” burst from the lips of
the captive, with that vehemence with which sudden
passion is known to break through the barriers of artificial
restraint; “if he meets one of them all, in
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the prairies of the Master of Life, his heart will become
Sioux!”
“Ah! that feeling would be a dangerous companion
for a man with white gifts to start with on such a
solemn journey,” muttered the old man in English.
“This is not what the good Moravians said to the
councils of the Delawares, nor what is so often
preached, to the White-skins in the settlements,
though to the shame of the colour be it said, it is so
little heeded. Pawnee, I love you; but being a
Christian man I cannot be the runner to bear such a
message.”
“If my father is afraid the Tetons will hear him,
let him whisper it softly to our old men.”
“As for fear, young warrior, it is no more the
shame of a Pale-face than of a Red-skin. The
Wahcondah teaches us to love the life he gives; but
it is as men love their hunts, and their dogs, and their
carabines, and not with the doting that a mother looks
upon her infant. The Master of Life will not have
to speak aloud twice when he calls my name. I am
as ready to answer to it now, as I shall be to-morrow,
or at any time it may please his mighty will. But
what is a warrior without his traditions? Mine forbid
me to carry your words.”
The chief made a dignified motion of assent, and
here there was great danger that those feelings of
confidence, which had been so singularly awakened,
would as suddenly subside. But the heart of the old
man had been too sensibly touched, through long dormant
but still living recollections, to break off the
communication so rudely. He pondered for a minute,
and then bending his look wistfully on his young
associate, again continued—
“Each warrior must be judged by his gifts. I
have told my son what I cannot, but let him open his
ears to what I can do. An elk shall not measure
the prairie much swifter than these old legs, if the
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Pawnee will give me a message that a white man
may bear.”
“Let the Pale-face listen;” returned the other,
after hesitating a single instant longer, under a lingering
sensation of his former disappointment. “He
will stay here till the Siouxes have done counting the
scalps of their dead warriors. He will wait until
they have tried to cover the heads of eighteen Tetons
with the skin of one Pawnee; he will open his
eyes wide, that he may see the place where they
bury the bones of a warrior.”
“All this will I and may I, do, noble boy.”
“He will mark the spot that he may know it.”
“No fear, no fear that I shall forget the place,”
interrupted the other, whose fortitude began to give
way under so trying an exhibition of calmness and
resignation.
“Then I know that my father will go to my people.
His head is grey and his words will not be
blown away with the smoke. Let him get on my
lodge, and call the name of Hard-Heart aloud. No
Pawnee will be deaf. Then let my father ask for
the colt, that has never been ridden, but which is
sleeker than the buck, and swifter than the elk.”
“I understand you, boy, I understand you,” interrupted
the attentive old man; “and what you say
shall be done, ay, and well done too, or I'm but little
skilled in the wishes of a dying Indian.”
“And when my young men have given my father
the halter of that colt, he will lead him by a crooked
path to the grave of Hard-Heart?”
“Will I! ay, that I will, my brave youth, though
the winter covers these plains in banks of snow, and
the sun is hidden as much by day as by night. To
the head of the holy spot will I lead the beast, and
place him with his eyes looking towards the setting
sun.”
“And my father will speak to him, and tell him,
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that the master, who has fed him since he was foaled,
has now need of him.”
“That, too, will I do; though the Lord he know;
that I shall hold discourse with a horse, not with any
vain conceit that my words will be understood, but
only to satisfy the cravings of Indian superstition.
Hector, my pup, what think you, dog, of talking to a
horse?”
“Let the grey-beard speak to him with the tongue
of a Pawnee,” interrupted the young victim, perceiving
that his companion had used an unknown language
for the preceding speech.
“My son's will shall be done—And with these old
hands, which I had hoped had nearly done with
blood-shed, whether it be of man or beast, will I slay
the animal on your grave!”
“It is good;” returned the other, a gleam of satisfaction
flitting across his grave and composed features.
“Hard-Heart will ride his horse to the blessed
prairies, and he will come before the Master of Life
like a chief!”
The sudden and striking change, which instantly
occurred in the countenance of the Indian, caused the
trapper to look aside, when he perceived that the
conference of the Siouxes had ended, and that Mahtoree,
attended by one or two of the principal warriors,
was deliberately approaching his intended victim.
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CHAPTER IX.
“I am not prone to weeping, as our sex
Commonly are.—”
“—But I have that honourable
Grief lodged here, which burns worse than
Tears drown.”
Shakspeare.
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
When within twenty feet of the prisoners, the
Tetons stopped, and their leader made a sign to the
old man to draw nigh. The trapper obeyed, quitting
the young Pawnee with a significant look, which was
received, as it was meant, for an additional pledge
that he would never forget his promise. So soon as
Mahtoree found that the other had stopped within
reach of him, he stretched forth his arm, and laying
a hand upon the shoulder of the attentive old man,
he stood regarding him, a minute, with eyes that
seemed willing to penetrate the recesses of his most
secret thoughts.
“Is a Pale-face made with two tongues?” he demanded,
when he found that, as usual, with the subject
of this examination, he was as little intimidated
by his present frown as moved by any apprehensions
of the future.
“Honesty lies deeper than the skin.”
“It is so. Now let my father hear me. Mahtoree
has but one tongue, the grey-head has many. They
may be all straight, and none of them forked. A
Sioux is no more than a Sioux, but a Pale-face is
every thing! He can talk to the Pawnee, and the
Konza, and the Omawhaw, and he can talk to his
own people.”
“Ay, there are linguisters in the settlements that
can do still more. But what profits it all? The Master
of Life has an ear for every language!”
“The grey-head has done wrong. He has said one
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thing when he meant another. He has looked before
him with his eyes, and behind him with his mind.
He has ridden the horse of a Sioux too hard; he has
been the friend of a Pawnee and the enemy of my
people.”
“Teton, I am your prisoner. Though my words
are white, they will not complain. Act your will.”
“No. Mahtoree will not make a white hair red.
My father is free. The prairie is open on every side
of him. But before the gray-head turns his back on
the Siouxes, let him look well at them, that he may
tell his own chief, how great is a Dahcotah!”
“I am not in a hurry to go on my path. You see
a man with a white head, and no woman, Teton;
therefore shall I not run myself out of breath, to tell
the nations of the prairies what the Siouxes are
doing.”
“It is good. My father has smoked with the chiefs
at many councils,” returned Mahtoree, who now
thought himself sufficiently sure of the other's favour
to go more directly to his object. “Mahtoree will
speak with the tongue, of his very dear friend and
father. A young Pale-face will listen when an old
man of that nation opens his mouth. Go, my father
will make what a poor Indian says fit for a white
ear.”
“Speak aloud!” said the trapper, who readily understood
the metaphorical manner, in which the Teton
expressed a desire that he should become an interpreter
of his words into the English language;
“speak, my young men listen. Now, captain, and
you too, friend bee-hunter, prepare yourselves to
meet the deviltries of this savage with the stout
hearts of white warriors. If you find yourselves giving
way under his threats, just turn your eyes on that
noble looking Pawnee, whose time is measured with
a hand as niggardly, as that with which a trader in
the towns gives forth the fruits of the Lord, inch by
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inch, in order to satisfy his covetousness. A single
look at the boy will set you both up in resolution.”
“My brother has turned his eyes on the wrong
path;” interrupted Mahtoree, with a complacency
that betrayed how unwilling he was to offend his intended
interpreter.
“The Dahcotah will speak to my young men?”
“After he has sung in the ear of the flower of the
Pale-faces.”
“The Lord forgive the desperate villian!” exclaimed
the old man in English. “There are none so tender,
or so young, or so innocent, as to escape his ravenous
wishes. But hard words and cold looks will
profit nothing; therefore it will be wise to speak him
fair. Let Mahtoree open his mouth.”
“Would my father cry out, that the women and
children should hear the wisdom of chiefs. We will
go into the lodge and whisper.”
As the Teton ended, he pointed significantly towards
a tent, vividly emblazoned with the history of
one of his own boldest and most commended exploits,
and which stood a little apart from the rest, as
if to denote it was the residence of some privileged
individual of the band. The shield and quiver at its
entrance were richer than common, and the high distinction
of a fusee, unequivocally attested the importance
of its proprietor. In every other particular it
was rather distinguished by signs of poverty than of
wealth. The domestic utensils were fewer in number
and simpler in their forms, than those to be
seen about the openings of the meanest lodges, nor
was there a single one of those high-prized articles
of civilized life, which were occasionally bought of
the traders, in bargains that bore so hard on the ignorant
natives. All these had been bestowed, as they
had been acquired, by the generous chief, on his subordinates,
to purchase an influence that might render
him the master of their lives and persons; a species
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of wealth that was certainly more noble in itself, and
far dearer to his ambition.
The old man well knew this to be the lodge of
Mahtoree, and, in obedience to the sign of the chief,
he held his way towards it with slow and reluctant
steps. But there were others present, who were
equally interested in the approaching conference,
whose apprehensions were not to be so easily suppressed.
The watchful eyes and jealous ears of Middleton
had taught him enough to fill his soul with the
most horrible forebodings. With an incredible effort
he succeeded in gaining his feet, and called aloud to
the retiring trapper—
“I conjure you, old man, if the love you bore my
parents was more than words, or if the love you bear
your God is that of a Christian man, utter not a
syllable that may wound the ear of that innocent—”
Exhausted in spirit and fettered in limbs, he then
fell, like an inanimate log, to the earth, where he lay
as if perfectly dead.
Paul had however caught the clue and completed
the exhortation, in his peculiar manner.
“Harkee, old trapper,” he shouted, vainly endeavouring
at the same time to make a gesture of defiance
with his hand; “if you ar' about to play the interpreter,
speak such words to the ears of that damnable
savage, as becomes a white man to use and a heathen
to hearken to. Tell him, from me, that if he does
or says the thing that is uncivil to the girl, called
Nelly Wade, that I'll curse him with my dying breath;
that I'll pray for all good Christians in Kentucky to
curse him; sitting and standing; eating and drinking;
fighting, praying, or at horse-races; in-doors and out-doors;
in summer or winter, or in the month of March;
in short I'll—ay, it ar' a fact, morally true—I'll haunt
him, if the ghost of a Pale-face can contrive to lift
itself from a grave made by the hands of a Red-skin!”
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Having thus vented the most terrible denunciation
he could devise, and the one which, in the eyes of
the honest bee-hunter, there seemed the greatest
likelihood of his being able to put in execution, he
was obliged to await the fruits of his threat, with all
that calm resignation which would be apt to govern
a western border-man who, in addition to the prospects
just named, had the advantage of contemplating
them in fetters and bondage. We shall not detain
the narrative, to relate the quaint morals with which
he next endeavoured to cheer the drooping spirits of
his more sensitive companion, or the occasional pithy
and peculiar benedictions that he pronounced, on all
the bands of the Dahcotahs, commencing with those
whom he accused of stealing or murdering, on the
banks of the distant Mississippi, and concluding, in
terms of suitable energy, with the Teton tribe. The
latter more than once received from his lips curses
as sententious and as complicated as that celebrated
anathema of the church, for a knowledge of which
most unlettered Protestants are indebted to the pious
researches of the worthy Tristram Shandy. But as
Middleton recovered from his exhaustion he was fain
to appease the boisterous temper of his associate, by
admonishing him of the uselessness of such denunciations,
and of the possibility of their hastening the
very evil he deprecated, by irritating the resentments
of a race, who were sufficiently fierce and lawless,
even in their most pacific moods.
In the mean time the trapper and the Sioux chief
had pursued their way to the lodge. The former
had watched with painful interest the expression of
Mahtoree's eye, while the words of Middleton and
Paul were pursuing their foot-steps, but the mien of
the Indian was far too much restrained and self-guarded,
to permit the smallest of his emotions to
escape through any of those ordinary outlets, by
which the condition of the human volcano is
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commonly betrayed. His look was fastened on the little
tenement they approached; and, for the moment, his
thoughts appeared to brood alone on the purposes of
this extraordinary visit.
The appearance of the interior of the lodge corresponded
with its exterior. It was larger than most
of the others, more finished in its form, and finer in
its materials; but there its superiority ceased. Nothing
could be more simple and republican than the
form of living that the ambitious and powerful Teton
chose to exhibit to the eyes of his people. A choice
collection of weapons for the chase, some three or
four medals, bestowed by the traders and political
agents of the Canadas as a homage to, or rather as
an acknowledgment of his rank, with a few of the
most indispensable articles of personal accommodation,
composed its furniture. It abounded in neither
venison nor the wild-beef of the prairies; its crafty
owner having well understood that the liberality of a
single individual would be abundantly rewarded by
the daily contributions of a band. Although as preeminent
in the chase as in war, a deer or a buffaloe
was never seen to enter whole into his lodge. In return
an animal was rarely brought into the encampment,
that did not contribute to support the family
of Mahtoree. But the policy of the chief seldom
permitted more to remain than sufficed for the wants
of the day, perfectly assured that all must suffer before
hunger, the bane of savage life, could lay its fell
fangs on so important a victim.
Immediately beneath the favourite bow of the
chief, and encircled in a sort of magical ring of
spears, shields, lances and arrows, all of which had
in their time done good service, was suspended the
mysterious and sacred medicine-bag. It was highly
wrought in wampum, and profusely ornamented with
beads and porcupine's quills, after the most cunning
devices of Indian ingenuity. The peculiar freedom
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of Mahtoree's religious creed has been more than
once intimated, and by a singular species of contradiction,
he appeared to have lavished his attentions
on this emblem of a supernatural agency, in a degree
that was precisely inverse to his faith. It was merely
the manner, in which the Sioux imitated the wellknown
expedient of the Pharisees, “in order that
they might be seen of men.”
The tent had not, however, been entered by its
owner since his return from the recent expedition.
As the reader has already anticipated it had been
made the prison of Inez and Ellen. The bride of
Middleton was seated on a simple couch of sweetscented
herbs covered with skins. She had already
suffered so much, and witnessed so many wild and
unlooked-for events within the short space of her
captivity, that every additional misfortune fell with a
diminished force on her seemingly devoted head.
Her cheeks were bloodless, her dark and usually animated
eye was contracted in an expression of settled
concern, and her form appeared shrinking and sensitive,
nearly to extinction. But in the midst of these
evidences of natural weakness, there were at times
such an air of pious resignation, such gleams of meek
but holy hope lighting her countenance, as might well
have rendered it a question whether the hapless captive
was most a subject of pity or of admiration.
All the precepts of father Ignatius were riveted in
her faithful memory, and not a few of his pious visions
were floating before her heated imagination.
Sustained by such sacred resolutions the mild, the
patient and the confiding girl was bowing her head to
this new stroke of Providence, with the same sort of
meekness as she would have submitted to any other
prescribed penitence for her sins, though nature, at
moments, warred powerfully, with so compelled a
humility.
On the other hand, Ellen had exhibited far more
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of the woman, and consequently of the passions of
the world. She had wept until her eyes were swollen
and red. Her cheeks were flushed and angry
and her whole mien was distinguished by an air of
spirit and resentment, that was not a little, however,
qualified by apprehensions for the future. In short,
there was that about the eye and step of the betrothed
of Paul, which gave a warranty that should happier
times arrive, and the constancy of the bee-hunter
finally meet with its reward, he would possess a partner
every way worthy to cope with his own thoughtless
and buoyant temperament.
There was still another and a third figure in that
little knot of females. It was the youngest, the most
highly gifted, and, until now, the most favoured of
the wives of the Teton. Her charms had not been
without the most powerful attraction in the eyes of
her husband, until they had so unexpectedly opened
on the surpassing loveliness of a woman of the Pale-faces.
From that hapless moment the graces, the attachment,
the fidelity of the young Indian, had lost
their power to please. Still the complexion of Tachechana,
though less dazzling than that of her rival,
was, for her race, clear and healthy. Her hazel eye
had the sweetness and playfulness of the antelope's;
her voice was soft and joyous as the song of the wren,
and her happy laugh was the very melody of the
forest. Of all the Sioux girls, Tachechana (the
Fawn) was the lightest-hearted and the most envied.
Her father had been a distinguished brave, and her
brothers had already left their bones on a distant and
dreary war-path. Numberless were the warriors,
who had sent presents to the lodge of her parents,
but none of them were listened to until a messenger
from the great Mahtoree had come. She was his
third wife, it is true, but she was confessedly the most
favoured of them all. Their union had existed but
two short seasons, and its fruits now lay sleeping at
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her feet, wrapped in the customary ligatures of skin
and bark, which form the swaddlings of an Indian
infant.
At the moment, when Mahtoree and the trapper
arrived at the opening of the lodge, the young Sioux
wife was seated on a simple stool, turning her soft
eyes, with looks that varied like her emotions with
love and wonder, from the unconscious child to those
rare beings, who had filled her youthful and uninstructed
mind with so much admiration and astonishment.
Though Inez and Ellen had passed an entire
day in her sight, it seemed as if the longings of her
curiosity were increasing with each new gaze. She
regarded them as beings of an entirely different nature
and condition from the females of the prairie.
Even the mystery of their complicated attire had its
secret influence on her simple mind, though it was
the grace and charms of sex, to which nature has
made every people so sensible, that most attracted
her admiration. But while her ingenuous disposition
freely admitted the superiority of the strangers over
the less brilliant attractions of the Dahcotah maidens,
she had seen no reason to deprecate their advantages.
The visit that she was now about to receive,
was the first which her husband had made to the tent
since his return from the recent inroad, and he was
ever present to her thoughts, as a successful warrior,
who was not ashamed, in the moments of inaction,
to admit the softer feelings of a father and a husband.
We have every where endeavoured to show that
while Mahtoree was in all essentials a warrior of the
prairies, he was much in advance of his people in
those acquirements which announce the dawnings of
civilization. He had held frequent communion with
the traders and troops of the Canadas, and the inter-course
had unsettled many of those wild opinions
which were his birth-right, without perhaps
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substituting any others of a nature sufficiently definite to
be profitable. His reasoning was rather subtle than
true, and his philosophy far more audacious than
profound. Like thousands of more enlightened beings,
who fancy they are able to go through the trials
of human existence without any other support than
their own resolutions, his morals were accommodating
and his motives selfishness. These several characteristics
will be understood always with reference
to the situation of the Indian, though little apology
is needed for finding resemblances between men, who
essentially possess the same nature, however it may
be modified by circumstances.
Notwithstanding the presence of Inez and Ellen,
the entrance of the Teton warrior, into the lodge of
his favourite wife, was made with the tread and mien
of a master. The step of his moccasin was noiseless,
but the rattling of his bracelets, and of the silver
ornaments of his leggings, sufficed to announce his
approach as he pushed aside the skin covering of the
opening of the tent, and stood in the presence of its
inmates. A faint cry of pleasure burst from the lips
of Tachechana in the suddenness of her surprise,
but the emotion was instantly suppressed in that subdued
demeanour which should characterize a matron
of her tribe. Instead of returning the stolen glance
of his youthful and secretly rejoicing wife, Mahtoree
moved to the couch, occupied by his prisoners, and
placed himself in the haughty, upright attitude of an
Indian chief, before their eyes. The old man had
glided past him, and already taken a position suited
to the office he had been commanded to fill.
Surprise kept the females for a moment silent and
nearly breathless. Though accustomed to the sight
of savage warriors, in all the horrid panoply of their
terrible profession, there was something so startling
in the entrance, and so audacious in the inexplicable
look of their conqueror, that the eyes of both sunk
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to the earth under a feeling of terror and perhaps
of embarrassment. Then Inez recovered herself,
and addressing the trapper she demanded, with the
dignity of an offended gentlewoman, though with her
accustomed grace of, to what circumstance they
owed this extraordinary and unexpected visit. The
old man hesitated; but clearing his throat, like one
who was about to make an effort to which he was
little used, he ventured on the following reply—
“Lady,” he said, “a savage is a savage, and you
are not to look for the uses and formalities of the
settlements on a bleak and windy prairie. As these
Indians would say, fashions and courtesies are things
so light, that they would blow away. As for myself,
though a man of the forest, I have seen the ways of
the great, in my time, and I am not to learn that they
differ from the ways of the lowly. I was long a serving-man
in my youth, not one of your beck-and-nod
runners about a household, but a man that went
through the servitude of the forest with his officer,
and well do I know in what manner to approach the
wife of a captain. Now, had I the ordering of this
visit, I would first have hemmed aloud at the door,
in order that you might hear that strangers were coming,
and then I—”
“The manner is indifferent,” interrupted Inez, too
anxious to await the prolix explanations of the old
man; “why is the visit made?”
“Therein shall the savage speak for himself.—The
daughters of the Pale-faces wish to know why the
Great Teton has come into his lodge?”
Mahtoree regarded his interrogator with a surprise,
which showed how extraordinary he deemed the
question. Then placing himself in a posture of condescension,
after a moment's delay, he answered—
“Sing in the ears of the dark-eye. Tell her the
lodge of Mahtoree is very large, and that it is not
full. She shall find room in it, and none shall be
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greater than she. Tell the light-hair, that she too
may stay in the lodge of a brave, and eat of his venison.
Mahtoree is a great chief. His hand is never
shut.”
“Teton,” returned the trapper, shaking his head in
evidence of the strong disapprobation with which he
heard this language, “the tongue of a Red-skin must
be coloured white before it can make music in the ears
of a Pale-face. Should your words be spoken, my
daughters would shut their ears, and Mahtoree would
seem a trader to their eyes. Now listen to what
comes from a gray-head, and then speak accordingly.
My people is a mighty people. The sun rises on
their eastern and sets on their western border. The
land is filled with bright-eyed and laughing girls, like
these you see—ay, Teton I tell no lie,” observing his
auditor to start with an air of distrust—“bright-eyed
and pleasant to behold, as these before you.”
“Has my father a hundred wives?” interrupted
the savage, laying his finger on the shoulder of the
trapper, with a look of curious interest in the reply.
“No, Dahcotah. The Master of Life has said to
me, live alone; your lodge shall be the forest; the
roof of your wigwam, the clouds. But, though never
bound in the secret faith which, in my nation, ties
one man to one woman, often have I seen the workings
of that kindness which brings the two together.
Go into the regions of my people; you will see the
daughters of the land, fluttering through the towns
like many coloured and joyful birds in the season
of blossoms. You will meet them, singing and rejoicing,
along the great paths of the country, and you
will hear the woods ringing with their laughter. They
are very excellent to behold, and the young men find
pleasure in looking at them.”
“Hugh!” ejaculated the attentive Mahtoree.
“Ay, well may you put faith in what you hear, for
it is no lie. But when a youth has found a maiden
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to please him, he speaks to her in a voice so soft,
that none else can hear. He does not say, my lodge
is empty and there is room for another; but shall
I build, and will the virgin show me near what
spring she would dwell? His voice is sweeter than
honey from the locust, and goes into the ear thrilling
like the song of a wren. Therefore, if my brother
wishes his words to be heard, he must speak with a
white tongue.”
Mahtoree pondered deeply, and in a wonder that
he did not attempt to conceal. It was reversing all
the order of society, and, according to his established
opinions, endangering the dignity of a chief, for a
warrior thus to humble himself before a woman. But
as Inez sat before him, reserved and imposing in air,
utterly unconscious of his object, and least of all suspecting
the true purport of so extraordinary a visit,
the savage felt the influence of a manner to which
he was unaccustomed. Bowing his head, as if in acknowledgment
of his error, he stepped a little back,
and placing himself in an attitude of easy dignity, he
began to speak with the confidence of one who had
been no less distinguished for his eloquence than for
his deeds in arms. Keeping his eyes riveted on the
unconscious bride of Middleton he proceeded in the
following words.
“I am a man with a red skin, but my eyes are dark.
They have been open since many snows. They have
seen many things—they know a brave from a coward.
When a boy, I saw nothing but the bison and the
deer. I went to the hunts, and I saw the cougar and
the bear. This made Mahtoree a man. He talked
with his mother no more. His ears were open to the
wisdom of the old men. They told him every thing—
they told him of the Big-knives. He went on the
war-path. He was then the last; now, he is the first.
What Dahcotah dare say he will go before Mahtoree
into the hunting-grounds of the Pawnees? The chiefs
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met him at their doors, and they said, my son is without
a home. They gave him their lodges, they gave
him their riches, and they gave him their daughters.
Then Mahtoree became a chief, as his fathers had
been. He struck the warriors of all the nations, and
he could have chosen wives from the Pawnees, the
Omawhaws, and the Konzas; but he looked at the
hunting-grounds, and not at his village. He thought
a horse was pleasanter than a Dahcotah girl. But
he found a flower on the prairies, and he plucked it
and brought it into his lodge. He forgets that he is
the master of a single horse. He gives them all to
the stranger, for Mahtoree is not a thief; he will only
keep the flower he found on the prairie. Her feet
are very tender. She cannot walk to the door of her
father; she will stay, in the lodge of a warrior for
ever.”
When he had finished this extraordinary address,
the Teton awaited to have it translated, with the air
of a suitor who entertained no very disheartening
doubts of his success. The trapper had not lost a
syllable of the speech, and he now prepared himself
to render it into English in such a manner as should
leave its principal idea even more obscure than in the
original. But as his reluctant lips were in the act of
parting, Ellen lifted a finger, and with a keen glance
from her quick eye, at the still attentive Inez, she interrupted
him.
“Spare your breath;” she said; “all that a savage
says is not to be repeated before a Christian
lady.”
Inez started, blushed, and bowed with an air of
reserve, as she coldly thanked the old man for his
intentions, and observed that she could now wish to
be alone.
“My daughters have no need of ears to understand
what a great Dahcotah says,” returned the trapper,
addressing himself to the expecting Mahtoree. “The
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look he has given, and the signs he has made, are
enough. They understand him; they wish to think of
his words; for the children of great braves, such as
their fathers are, do nothing without much thought.”
With this explanation, so flattering to the energy
of his eloquence, and so promising to his future
hopes, the Teton was every way content. He made
the customary ejaculation of assent, and prepared to
retire. Saluting the females, in the cold but dignified
manner of his people, he drew his robe about him,
and moved from the spot where he had stood with
an air of ill-concealed triumph.
But there had been a stricken, though a motionless
and unobserved auditor of the foregoing scene.
Not a syllable had fallen from the lips of the long
and anxiously expected husband, that had not gone
directly to the heart of his unoffending wife. In this
manner had he wooed her from the lodge of her father,
and it was to listen to similar pictures of the
renown and deeds of the greatest brave in her tribe,
that she had shut her ears to the tender tales of so
many of the Sioux youths.
As the Teton turned to leave his lodge, in the
manner just mentioned, he found this unexpected and
half forgotten object before him. She stood, in the
humble guise and with the shrinking air of an Indian
girl, holding the pledge of their former loves in her
arms, directly in his path. Starting for a single instant,
the chief regained the marble-like indifference
of countenance, which distinguished in so remarkable
a degree the restrained or more artificial expression
of his features, and signed to her, with an air of authority,
to give place.
“Is not Tachechana the daughter of a chief?”
demanded a subdued voice, in which pride struggled
fearfully with anguish; “were not her brothers
braves?”
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“Go; the men are calling their partisan. He has
no ears for a woman.”
“No,” replied the supplicant; “it is not the voice
of Tachechana that you hear, but this boy, speaking
with the tongue of his mother. He is the son of a
chief and his words will go up to his father's ears.
Listen to what he says. When was Mahtoree hungry
and Tachechana had not food for him? When
did he go on the path of the Pawnees and find it
empty, that my mother did not weep? When did
he come back with the marks of their blows, that
she did not sing? What Sioux girl has given a brave
a son like me? Look at me well, that you may know
me. My eyes are the eagle's. I look at the sun and
laugh. In a little time the Dahcotahs will follow me
to the hunts and on the war-path. Why does my father
turn his eyes from the woman that gives me
milk? Why has he so soon forgotten the daughter
of a mighty Sioux?”
There was a single instant, as the exulting father
suffered his cold eye to wander to the face of the
laughing boy, that the stern nature of the Teton
seemed touched. But shaking off the grateful sentiment,
like one who would gladly be rid of any painful,
because reproachful, emotion, he laid his hand
calmly on the arm of his wife, and led her directly
in front of Inez. Pointing to the sweet countenance
that was beaming on her own, with a look of tenderness
and commiseration, he paused, to allow his wife
to contemplate a loveliness, which was quite as excellent
to her ingenuous mind as it had proved dangerous
to the character of her faithless husband.
When he thought abundant time had passed to make
the contrast sufficiently striking, he suddenly raised
a small mirror, that dangled at her breast, an ornament
he had himself bestowed in an hour of fondness
as a compliment to her beauty, and placed her own
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dark image in its place. Wrapping his robe again
about him, the Teton motioned to the trapper to follow,
and stalked haughtily from the lodge, muttering,
as he went—
“Mahtoree is very wise! What nation has so great
a chief as the Dahcotahs?”
Tachechana stood for a minute, as if frozen into
a statue of humility. Her mild and usually joyous
countenance worked, as though the struggle within
was about to dissolve the connexion between her
soul and that more material part whose deformity
was becoming so loathsome. Inez and Ellen were
utterly ignorant of the nature of her interview with
her husband, though the quick and sharpened wits of
the latter led her to suspect a truth, to which the entire
innocence of the former furnished no clue.
They were both, however, about to tender those
sympathies, which are so natural to, and so graceful
in the sex, when their necessity seemed suddenly to
cease. The convulsions in the features of the young
Sioux disappeared, and her countenance became cold
and rigid, like chiselled stone. A single expression
of subdued anguish, which had made its impression
on a brow that had rarely before contracted with sorrow,
alone remained. It was never removed, in all
the changes of seasons, fortunes, and years, which,
in the vicissitudes of a suffering, female, savage life,
she was subsequently doomed to endure. As in the
case of a premature blight, let the plant quicken and
revive as it may, the effects of that withering touch
were always present.
Tachechana first stripped her person of every
vestige of those rude but highly prized ornaments,
which the liberality of her husband had been wont
to lavish on her, and she tendered them meekly, and
without a murmur, as an offering to the superiority
of Inez. The bracelets were forced from her wrists,
the complicated mazes of beads from her leggings,
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and the broad silver band from her brow. Then she
paused, long and painfully. But it would seem, that
the resolution, she had once adopted, was not to be
conquered by the lingering emotions of any affection,
however natural. The boy himself was next laid at
the feet of her supposed rival, and well might the
self abased wife of the Teton believe that the burden
of her sacrifice was now full.
While Inez and Ellen stood regarding these several
strange movements with eyes of wonder, a low soft
musical voice was heard saying in a language, that to
them was unintelligible—
“A strange tongue will tell my boy the manner to
become a man. He will hear sounds that are new,
but he will learn them, and forget the voice of his
mother. It is the will of the Wahcondah, and a
Sioux girl should not complain. Speak to him softly,
for his ears are very little; when he is big, your
words may be louder. Let him not be a girl, for
very sad is the life of a woman. Teach him to keep
his eyes on the men. Show him how to strike them
that do him wrong, and let him never forget to return
blow for blow. When he goes to hunt, the flower of
the Pale-faces,” she concluded, using in bitterness the
metaphor which had been supplied by the imagination
of her truant husband, “will whisper softly in
his ears that the skin of his mother was red, and that
she was once the Fawn of the Dahcotahs.”
Tachechana pressed a kiss on the lips of her son,
and then withdrew to the farther side of the lodge.
Here she drew her light calico robe over her head,
and took her seat, in token of her humility, on the
naked earth. All the efforts of her companions, to
attract her attention, were fruitless. She neither
heard their remonstrances, nor felt their gentle touch.
Once or twice her voice rose, in a sort of wailing
song, from beneath her quivering mantle, but it never
mounted into the full wildness of savage music. In
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this manner she remained unseen for hours, while
events were occurring without the lodge, which not
only materially changed the complexion of her own
fortunes, but left a lasting and deep impression on
the future movements of the wandering Sioux tribe.
CHAPTER X.
“I'll no swaggerers: I am in good name and fame with the very
best:—Shut the door;—There come no swaggerers here: I have not
lived all this while, to have swaggering now:—shut the door I pray you.”
Shakspeare.
Mahtoree encountered, at the door of his lodge,
the persons of Ishmael, Abiram, and Esther. The
first glance of his eye, at the earnest and threatening
countenance of the heavy-moulded squatter,
served to tell the cunning Teton, that the treacherous
truce he had made, with these dupes of his superior
sagacity, was in some danger of a violent
termination.
“Look you here, old gray-beard,” said Ishmael,
seizing the trapper, and whirling him round as though
he had been a toy; “that I'm tired of carrying on a
discourse with fingers and thumbs, instead of a tongue,
ar' a natural fact; so you'll play linguister and put
my words into up-and-down Indian, without much
caring whether they suit the stomach of a Red-skin
or not.”
“Say on, friend,” calmly returned the trapper;
“they shall be given as plainly as you send them.”
“Friend!” repeated the squatter, eyeing the other
for an instant, with an expression of an indefinable
meaning. “But it is no more than a word, and
sounds break no bones and survey no farms. Tell
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this thieving Sioux, then, that I come to claim the
conditions of our solemn bargain, made at the foot
of the rock.”
When the trapper had rendered his meaning into
the Sioux language, Mahtoree demanded, with an air
of surprise—
“Is my brother cold? buffaloe skins are plenty. Is
he hungry? Let my young men carry venison into
his lodges.”
The squatter elevated his clenched fist in a menacing
manner, and struck it with violence on the palm
of his open hand, by way of confirming his determination
as he answered—
“Tell the deceitful liar, I have not come like a
beggar to pick his bones, but like a freeman asking
for his own; and have it I will. And, moreover, tell
him I claim that you, too, miserable sinner as you
ar', should be given up to justice. There's no mistake.
My prisoner, my niece, and you. I demand
the three at his hands, according to a sworn agreement.”
The immoveable old man smiled, with an expression
of singular intelligence, as he answered—
“Friend squatter, you ask what few men would be
willing to grant. You would first cut the tongue
from the mouth of the Teton, and then the heart
from his bosom.”
“It is little that Ishmael Bush regards who or what
is damaged in claiming his own. But put you the
questions in straight-going Indian, and when you
speak of yourself, make such a sign as a white man
will understand, in order that I may know there is no
foul play.”
The trapper laughed in his silent fashion, and
muttered a few words to himself before he addressed
the chief—
“Let the Dahcotah open his ears very wide,” he
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then said, “that big words may have room to enter.
His friend the Big-knife comes with an empty hand,
and he says that the Teton must fill it.”
“Wagh! Mahtoree is a rich chief. He is master
of the prairies.”
“He must give the dark-hair.”
The brow of the chief contracted in an ominous
frown, that threatened instant destruction to the audacious
squatter, but as suddenly recollecting his
policy, he craftily replied with a treacherous smile—
“A girl is too light for the hand of such a brave.
I will fill it with buffaloes.”
“He says he has need of the light-hair too; who
has his blood in her veins.”
“She shall be the wife of Mahtoree; then the
Long-knife will be the father of a chief.”
“And me,” continued the trapper making one of
those expressive signs, by which the natives communicate
with nearly the same facility as with their tongues,
and turning to the squatter at the same time, in
order that the latter might see he dealt fairly by him;
“he asks for a miserable and worn out trapper.”
The Dahcotah threw his arm over the shoulder
of the old man, with an air of great affection, before
he replied to this third and last demand.
“My friend is old,” he said, “and cannot travel
far. He will stay with the Tetons, that they may
learn wisdom from his words. What Sioux has a
tongue like my father! No, let his words be very
soft, but let them be very clear. Mahtoree will give
skins and buffaloes. He will give the young men of
the Pale-faces wives, but he cannot give away any
who live in his own lodge.”
Perfectly satisfied, himself, with this laconic reply,
the chief was moving towards his expecting counsellors,
when suddenly returning he interrupted the
translation of the trapper by adding—
“Tell the Great Buffaloe” (a name by which the
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Tetons had already christened Ishmael,) “that Mahtoree
has a hand which is always open. See,” he
added, pointing to the hard and wrinkled visage of
the attentive Esther, “his wife is too old, for so great
a chief. Let him put her out of his lodge. Mahtoree
loves him as a brother. He is his brother. He
shall have the youngest wife of the Teton. Tachechana,
the pride of the Sioux girls, shall cook his
venison, and many braves will look at him with longing
minds. Go, a Dahcotah is generous.”
The singular coolness, with which the Teton concluded
this audacious proposal, confounded even the
practised trapper. He stared after the retiring form
of the Indian, with an astonishment he did not care
to conceal, nor did he renew his attempt at interpretation,
until the person of Mahtoree was blended
with the cluster of warriors who had so long, and
with so characteristic a patience, awaited his return.
“The Teton chief has spoken very plainly,” the
old man then continued; “he will not give you the
lady, to whom the Lord in Heaven knows you have
no claim, unless it be such as the wolf has to the
lamb. He will not give you the child, you call your
niece; and therein I acknowledge that I am far from
certain he has the same justice on his side. Moreover,
neighbour squatter, he flatly denies your demand
for me, miserable and worthless as I am; nor
do I think he has been unwise in so doing seeing that
I should have many particular reasons against journeying
far in your company. But he makes you an
offer, which it is right and convenient you should
know. The Teton says through me, who am no
more than a mouth-piece, and therein not answerable
for the sin of his words, but he says, as this
good woman is getting past the comely age, it is reasonable
for you to tire of such a wife. He therefore
tells you to turn her out of your lodge, and when it
is empty he will send his own favourite, or rather
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she that was his favourite, the “Skipping Fawn,” as
the Siouxes call her, to fill her place. You see,
neighbour, though the Red-skin is so minded as to
keep your property, he is willing to give you wherewithal
to make yourself some return!”
Ishmael listened to these replies to his several demands
with that species of gathering indignation, with
which the dullest tempers mount into the most violent
paroxysms of rage. He even affected to laugh
at the conceit of exchanging his long-tried Esther for
the more flexible support of the youthful Tachechana,
though his voice was hollow and unnatural in
the effort. But Esther was far from giving the proposal
so facetious a reception. Lifting her voice to
its peculiarly audible key, she broke forth, after
catching her breath like one who had been in some
imminent danger of strangulation, as follows—
“Hoity-toity; who set an Indian up for a maker
and breaker of the rights of wedded wives! Does he
think a woman is a beast of the prairie, that she is
to be chased from a village by dog and gun. Let the
bravest squaw of them all come forth and boast of
her doings; can she show such a brood as mine. A
wicked tyrant is that thieving Red-skin, and a bold
rogue I warrant me. He would be captain in-doors
as well as out! An honest woman is no better in his
eyes than one of your broomstick jumpers. And
you, Ishmael Bush, the father of seven sons and so
many comely daughters, to open your sinful mouth,
except to curse him! Would ye disgrace colour, and
family, and nation, by mixing white blood with red,
and would ye be the parent of a race of mules! The
devil has often tempted you, my man, but never before
has he set so cunning a snare as this. Go back
among your children, friend; go, and remember that
you are not a prowling bear, but a Christian man,
and thank God that you ar' a lawful husband!”
The clamour of Esther was anticipated by the
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judicious trapper. He had easily foreseen that her
meek temper would overflow at so scandalous a proposal
as repudiation, and he now profited by the
tempest, to retire to a place where he was at least
safe from any immediate violence on the part of her
less excited, but certainly more dangerous husband.
Ishmael, who had made his demands with a stout determination
to enforce them, was diverted by the
windy torrent, like many a more obstinate husband,
from his purpose, and in order to appease a jealousy,
that resembled the fury with which the bear defends
her cubs, was fain to retire to a distance from the
lodge, that was known to contain the unoffending
object of the sudden uproar.
“Let your copper-coloured minx come forth, and
shew her tawney beauty before the face of a woman
who has heard more than one church bell, and seen
a power of real quality,” cried Esther, flourishing her
hand in triumph, as she drove Ishmael and Abiram
before her, like two truant boys, towards their own
encampment. “I warrant me, I warrant me, here is
one who would shortly talk her down! Never think
to tarry here, my men; never think to shut an eye in
a camp, through which the devil walks as openly as
if he were a gentleman, and was sure of his welcome.
Here, you Abner, Enoch, Jesse, where ar' ye gotten
to. Put to, put to; if that weak-minded, soft-feeling
man, your father, eats or drinks again in this neighbourhood,
we shall see him poisoned with the craft
of the Red-skins. Not that I care, I, who comes into
my place, when it is once lawfully empty, but, Ishmael,
I never thought that you, who have had one
woman with a white skin, would find pleasure in
looking on a brazen—ay, that she is copper ar' a
fact; you can't deny it, and I warrant me, brazen
enough is she too!”
Against this ebullition of wounded female pride,
the experienced husband made no other head, than
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by an occasional exclamation, which he intended to
be the precursor of a simple asseveration of his own
innocence. The fury of the woman would not be
appeased. She listened to nothing but her own voice,
and consequently nothing was heard but her mandates
to depart.
The squatter had collected his beasts and loaded
his wagons, as a measure of precaution, before proceeding
to the extremity he had contemplated. Esther
consequently found every thing favourable to her
wishes. The young men stared at each other, as
they witnessed the extraordinary excitement of their
mother, but took little interest in an event which,
in the course of their experience, had found so many
parallels. By command of their father, the tents also
were quickly thrown into the vehicles, as a sort of
reprisal for the want of faith in their late ally, and
then the train left the spot, in its usual listless and
sluggish order.
As a formidable division of well armed borderers
protected the rear of the retiring party, the Siouxes
saw it depart without manifesting the smallest evidence
of surprise or resentment. The savage, like
the tiger, rarely makes his attack on an enemy who
expects him; and if the warriors of the Tetons meditated
any hostility, it was in the still and patient
manner with which the feline beasts watch for the
incautious moment in their victims, in order to ensure
the blow. The councils of Mahtoree, however, on
whom so much of the policy of his people depended,
lay deep in the depository of his own thoughts. Perhaps
he rejoiced in so easy a manner of getting rid
of claims so troublesome; perhaps he awaited a fitting
time to exhibit his power; or it even might be, that
matters of so much greater importance were pressing
on his mind, that it had not leisure to devote any of
its faculties to an event of so much indifference.
But it would seem that while Ishmael made such
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a concession to the awakened feelings of Esther, he
was far from so easily abandoning his original intentions.
His train followed the course of the river for
a mile, and then it came to a halt on the brow of the
elevated land, and in a place which afforded the necessary
facilities. Here he again pitched his tents,
unharnessed his teams, sent his cattle on the bottom,
and, in short, made all the customary preparations
to pass the night, with the same coolness and deliberation
as though he had not just hurled an irritating
defiance into the very teeth of his dangerous neighbours.
In the mean time the Tetons proceeded to the
more regular business of the hour. A fierce and
savage joy had existed in the camp, from the instant
when it had been announced that their own chief
was returning with the long-dreaded and hated partisan
of their enemies. For many hours the crones of
the tribe had been going from lodge to lodge, in order
to stimulate the tempers of the warriors to such a pass
as might leave but little room for the considerations
of mercy. To one they spoke of a son, whose scalp
was drying in the smoke of a Pawnee lodge. To
another, they enumerated his own scars, his disgraces,
and defeats; with a third, they dwelt on his losses of
skins and horses, and a fourth was reminded of vengeance,
by a significant question, concerning some
flagrant adventure, in which he was known to have
been a sufferer.
By these means the men had been so far excited
as to have assembled, in the manner already related,
though it still remained a matter of doubt how far
they intended to carry their revenge. A variety of
opinions prevailed on the policy of executing their
prisoners, and Mahtoree had suspended the discussions,
in order to ascertain how far the measure might
propitiate or retard his own particular views. Hitherto
the consultations had merely been preliminary,
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with a view that each chief might discover the number
of supporters his view of the agitated question
would be likely to obtain, when the important subject
should come before a more solemn council of
the tribe. The moment for the latter had now arrived,
and the preparations, to assemble it, were made
with a dignity and solemnity suited to the momentous
interests of the occasion.
With a refinement in cruelty, that none but an
Indian would have imagined, the place, selected for
this grave deliberation, was immediately about the
post to which the most important of its subjects was
attached. Middleton and Paul were brought in their
bonds, and laid at the feet of the Pawnee; and then
the men began to take their places, according to their
several claims to distinction. As warrior after warrior
approached, he seated himself in the wide circle,
with a mien as composed and thoughtful, as though
his mind were actually in a condition to deal out
justice, tempered, as it should be, with the heavenly
quality of mercy. A place was reserved for three or
four of the principal chiefs, and a few of the oldest
of the women, as withered as age, exposure, hardships,
and lives of savage passions could make them,
thrust themselves into the foremost circle, with a
temerity, to which they were impelled by their insatiable
desire for cruelty, and which nothing, but
their years and their long tried fidelity to the nation,
would have excused.
All, but the chiefs already named, were now in
their places. These had delayed their appearance,
in the vain hope that their own unanimity might
smooth the way to that of their respective factions;
for, notwithstanding the superior influence of Mahtoree,
his power was to be maintained only by constant
appeals to the opinions of his inferiors. As
these important personages at length entered the circle
in a body, their sullen looks and clouded brows,
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notwithstanding the time given to consultation, sufficiently
proclaimed the discontent which reigned
among them. The eye of Mahtoree was varying in
its expression, from sudden gleams, that seemed to
kindle with the burning impulses of his soul, to that
cold and guarded steadiness, which was thought more
peculiarly to become a chief in council. He took
his seat, with the studied simplicity of a demagogue;
though the keen and flashing glance, that he immediately
threw around the silent assembly, betrayed
the more predominant temper of a tyrant.
When all were present, an aged warrior lighted the
great pipe of his people, and blew the smoke towards
the four quarters of the heavens. So soon as this
propitiatory offering was made, he tendered it to
Mahtoree, who, in affected humility, passed it to a
gray-headed chief by his side. After the influence
of the soothing weed had been courted by all, a grave
silence succeeded, as if each was not only qualified
to, but actually did, think more deeply on the matters
before them. Then an old Indian arose, and spoke
as follows—
“The eagle, at the falls of the endless river, was
in its egg, many snows after my hand had struck a
Pawnee. What my tongue says, my eyes have seen.
Bohrecheena is very old. The hills have stood longer
in their places, than he has been in his tribe, and the
rivers were full and empty, before he was born; but
where is the Sioux that knows it besides himself?
What he says, they will hear. If any of his words
fall to the ground, they will pick them up and hold
them to their ears. If any blow away in the wind,
my young men, who are very nimble, will catch
them. Now listen. Since water ran and trees grew,
the Sioux has found the Pawnee on his war-path. As
the cougar loves the antelope, the Dahcotah loves his
enemy. When the wolf finds the fawn, does he lie
down and sleep? When the panther sees the doe at
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the spring, does he shut his eyes? You know that he
does not. He drinks, too, but it is of blood! A
Sioux is a leaping, panther, a Pawnee is a trembling
deer. Let my children hear me. They will find my
words good. I have spoken.”
A deep guttural exclamation of assent broke from
the lips of all the partisans of Mahtoree, as they listened
to the sanguinary advice from one, who was
certainly among the most aged men of the nation.
That deeply seated love of vengeance, which formed
so prominent a feature in their characters, was gratified
by his metaphorical allusions, and the chief himself
augured favourably of the success of his own
schemes, by the number of supporters, who manifested
themselves to be in favour of the counsels of his
friend. But still unanimity was far from prevailing.
A long and decorous pause was suffered to succeed
the words of the first speaker, in order that all might
duly deliberate on their wisdom, before another chief
took on himself the office of refutation. The second
orator, though past the prime of his days, was far
less aged than the one who had preceded him. He
felt the disadvantage of this circumstance, and endeavoured
to counteract it, as far as possible, by the
excess of his humility.
“I am but an infant,” he commenced, looking furtively
around him, in order to detect how far his
well-established character for prudence and courage
contradicted his assertion. “I have lived with the
woman, since my father has been a man. If my head
is getting gray, it is not because I am old. Some of
the snow, which fell on it while I have been sleeping
on the war-paths, has frozen there, and the hot sun,
near the Osage villages, has not been strong enough
to melt it.” A low murmur was heard, expressive
of admiration for those services to which he thus artfully
alluded. The orator modestly awaited for the
feeling to subside a little, and then he continued, with
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increasing energy, as though secretly encouraged by
their commendations. “But the eyes of a young
brave are good. He can see very far. He is a lynx.
Look at me well. I will turn my back, that you may
see both sides of me. Now do you know I am your
friend, for you look on a part that a Pawnee never
yet saw. Now look at my face; not in this seam,
for there your eyes can never see into my spirit. It
is only a hole cut by a Konza. But here is an
opening made by the Wahcondah, through which
you may look into the soul. What am I? A Dahcotah
within and without. You know it. Therefore
hear me. The blood of every creature on the
prairie is red. Who can tell the spot where a Pawnee
was struck, from the place where my young
men took a bison? It is of the same colour. The
Master of Life made them for each other. He
made them alike. But will the grass grow green
where a Pale-face is killed? My young men must
not think that nation is so numerous, it will not miss
a warrior. They call them over often, and say, where
are my sons? If they miss one, they will send into
the prairies to look for him. If they cannot find him,
they will tell their runners to ask for him among the
Siouxes. My brethren, the Big-knives are not fools.
There is a mighty medicine of their nation now
among us; who can tell how loud is his voice, or how
long is his arm?—”
The speech of the orator, who was beginning to
enter into his subject with a suitable degree of
warmth, was cut short by the impatient Mahtoree,
who suddenly arose and exclaimed, in a voice in
which authority was mingled with contempt, and at
the close with a keen tone of irony, also—
“Let my young men lead the evil spirit of the
Pale-faces to the council. My brother shall see his
medicine face to face!”
A death-like and solemn stillness succeeded this
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extraordinary interruption. It not only involved a
deep offence against the sacred courtesy of debate,
but the mandate was likely to brave the unknown
power of one of those incomprehensible beings,
whom few Indians were enlightened enough at that
day to regard without reverence, or few hardy enough
to oppose. The subordinates, however, obeyed, and
Obed was led forth from a lodge, mounted on Asinus,
with a ceremony and state which was certainly intended
for derision, but which nevertheless was greatly
enhanced by fear. As they entered the ring, Mahtoree,
who had foreseen and had endeavoured to
anticipate the influence of the Doctor, by bringing
him into contempt, cast an eye around the assembly,
in order to gather his success in the various dark
visages by which he was encircled.
Truly, nature and art had combined to produce
such an effect from the air and appointments of the
naturalist, as might have made him the subject of
wonder in any place. His head had been industriously
shaved after the most approved fashion of
Sioux taste. A gallant scalp-lock, which would probably
have been spared, had the Doctor himself been
consulted in the matter, was all that remained of an
exuberant, and at that particular season of the year,
far from uncomfortable head of hair. Thick coats
of paint had been laid on the naked poll, and certain
fanciful designs, in the same material, had even been
extended into the neighbourhood of the eyes and
mouth, lending to the naturally keen expression of
the former a look of twinkling cunning, and to the
dogmatism of the latter not a little of the grimness
of necromancy. He had been despoiled of his upper
garments, and, in their stead, his body was sufficiently
protected from the cold by a fantastically
painted robe of dressed deer-skin. As if in mockery
of his pursuit, sundry toads, frogs, lizards, butterflies,
etc., all duly prepared to take their places at
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some future day, in his own private cabinet, were attached
to the solitary lock on his head, to his ears,
and to various other conspicuous parts of his person.
If, in addition to the effect produced by these quaint
auxiliaries to his costume, we add the portentous and
troubled gleamings of doubt, which rendered his
visage doubly austere, and proclaimed the misgivings
of the worthy Obed's mind, as he beheld his personal
dignity thus prostrated, and what was of far greater
moment in his eyes, himself led forth, as he firmly
believed, to be the victim of some heathenish sacrifice,
the reader will find no difficulty in giving credit
to the sensation of awe, that was excited by his appearance
in a band already more than half-prepared
to worship him as a powerful agent of the evil spirit.
Weucha led Asinus directly into the centre of the
circle, and leaving them together (for the legs of the
naturalist were attached to the beast in such a manner,
that the two animals might be said to be incorporated,
and to form a new order,) he withdrew to
his proper place, gazing at the conjuror, as he retired,
with a wonder and admiration, that was natural to
the groveling dulness of his mind.
The astonishment seemed mutual between the
spectators and the subject of this strange exhibition.
If the Tetons contemplated the mysterious attributes
of the medicine, with awe and fear, the Doctor gazed
on every side of him, with a mixture of quite as many
extraordinary emotions, in which the latter sensation,
however, formed no inconsiderable ingredient. Every
where his eyes, which just at that moment possessed
a secret magnifying quality, seemed to rest on several
dark, savage, and obdurate countenances at once,
from none of which could he extract a solitary gleam
of sympathy or commiseration. At length his wandering
gaze fell on the grave and decent features of
the trapper, who, with Hector at his feet, stood in the
edge of the circle, leaning on that rifle which he had
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been permitted, as an acknowledged friend, to resume,
and apparently musing on the events that were likely
to succeed a council that was marked by so many and
such striking ceremonies.
“Venerable venator, or hunter, or trapper,” said
the utterly disconsolate Obed, “I rejoice greatly in
meeting thee again. I fear that the precious time,
which had been allotted me, in order to complete a
mighty labour, is drawing to a premature close, and
I would gladly unburden my mind to one who, if not
a pupil of science, has at least some of the knowledge
which civilization imparts to its meanest subjects.
Doubtless many and earnest enquiries will be made
after my fate, by the learned societies of the world,
and perhaps expeditions will be sent into these regions
to remove any doubts, which may arise on so
important a subject. I esteem myself happy that a
man, who speaks the vernacular, is present, to preserve
the record of my end. You will say that after
a well-spent and glorious life, I died a martyr to
science and a victim to mental darkness. As I expect
to be particularly calm and abstracted in my last
moments, if you add a few details, concerning the
fortitude and scholastic dignity with which I met my
death, it may serve to encourage the future aspirants
for similar honours, and assuredly give offence to no
one. And now, friend trapper, as a duty I owe to
human nature, I will conclude by demanding if all
hope has deserted me, or if any means still exist by
which so much valuable information may be rescued
from the grasp of ignorance, and preserved to the
pages of natural history.”
The old man lent an attentive ear to this melancholy
appeal, and apparently he reflected on every
side of the important question, before he would presume
to answer.
“I take it, friend physicianer,” he at length gravely
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replied, “that the chances of life and death, in your
particular case, depend altogether on the will of
Providence, as it may be pleased to manifest it,
through the accursed windings of Indian cunning.
For my own part, I see no great difference in the
main end to be gained, inasmuch as it can matter no
one greatly, yourself excepted, whether you live or
die.”
“Would you account the fall of a corner-stone,
from the foundations of the edifice of learning, a
matter of indifference to contemporaries or to posterity?”
eagerly interrupted the indignant Obed.
“Besides, my aged associate,” he reproachfully
added, “the interest, that a man has in his own existence,
is by no means trifling, however it may be
eclipsed by his devotion to more general and philanthropic
feelings.”
“What I would say is this,” resumed the trapper,
who was far from understanding all the subtle distinctions,
with which his more learned companion so
often saw fit to embellish his discourse; “there is but
one birth and one death to all things, be it hound, or
be it deer; be it red skin, or be it white. Both are
in the hands of the Lord, it being as unlawful for man
to strive to hasten the one, as impossible to prevent
the other. But I will not say that something may
not be done to put the last moment aside, for a while
at least, and therefore it is a question, that any one
has a right to put to his own wisdom, how far he will
go, and how much pain he will suffer, to lengthen
out a time that may have been too long already.
Many a dreary winter and scorching summer has
gone by since I have turned, to the right hand or to
the left, to add an hour to a life that has already
stretched beyond fourscore years. I keep myself as
ready to answer to my name as a soldier at evening
roll-call. In my judgment, if your cases, are left to
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Indian tempers, the policy of the Great Sioux will
lead his people to sacrifice you all; nor do I put
much dependence on his seeming love for me; therefore
it becomes a question whether you are ready for
such a journey; and if, being ready, whether this is
not as good a time to start as another. Should my
opinion be asked, thus far will I give it in your favour;
that is to say, it is my belief your life has
been innocent enough, touching any great offences
that you may have committed, though honesty compels
me to add, that I think all you can lay claim
to, on the score of activity in deeds, will not amount
to any thing worth naming in the great account.”
Obed turned a rueful eye on the calm, philosophic
countenance of the other, as he answered with so
discouraging a statement of his case, clearing his
throat, as he did so, in order to conceal the desperate
concern which began to beset his faculties, with
a vestige of that pride, which rarely deserts poor human
nature, even in the greatest emergencies.
“I believe, venerable hunter,” he replied, “considering
the question in all its several hearings, and
assuming that your theory is just, it will be the safest
to conclude that I am not prepared to make so hasty
a departure, and that measures of precaution should
be, forthwith, resorted to.”
“Being in that mind,” returned the deliberate
trapper, “I will act for you as I would for myself;
though as time has begun to roll down the hill with
you, I will just advise that you look to your case
speedily, for it may so happen that your name will
be heard, when quite as little prepared to answer to
it as now.”
With this amicable understanding, the old man
drew back again into the ring, where he stood musing
on the course he should now adopt, with the
singular mixture of decision and resignation that
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proceeded from his habits and his humility, and which
united to form a character, in which excessive energy,
and the most meek submission to the will of
Providence, were oddly enough combined.
CHAPTER XI.
“The witch, in Smithfield, shall be burned to ashes,
And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.”
Shakspeare
The Siouxes had awaited the issue of the foregoing
dialogue with commendable patience. Most of
the band were restrained, by the secret awe with
which they regarded the mysterious character of
Obed; while a few of the more intelligent chiefs
gladly profited by the opportunity, to arrange their
thoughts for the struggle that was now too plainly
foreseen. Mahtoree, influenced by neither of these
feelings, was content to show the trapper how much
he conceded to his pleasure; and when the old man
discontinued the discourse, he received from the
chief a glance, that was intended to remind him of
the patience, with which he had awaited his movements.
A profound and motionles silence succeeded
the short interruption. Then Mahtoree arose, evidently
prepared to speak. First placing himself in
an attitude of dignity, he turned a steady and severe
look on the whole assembly. The expression of his
eye, however, changed as it glanced across the different
countenances of his supporters and of his opponents.
To the former the look, though stern, was
not threatening, while it seemed to tell the latter all
the hazards they incurred in daring to brave the resentment
of one so powerful.
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Still, in the midst of so much hauteur and confidence,
the sagacity and cunning of the Teton did not
desert him. When he had thus thrown the gauntlet,
as it were, to the whole tribe, and sufficiently asserted
his claim to superiority, his mien became more
affable and his eye less angry. Then it was that he
raised his voice, in the midst of a death-like stillness,
varying its tones to suit the changing character of
his images, and of his eloquence.
“What is a Sioux?” the chief sagaciously began;
“he is ruler of the prairies, and master of its beasts.
The fishes in the `river of troubled waters' know
him, and come at his call. He is a fox in counsel;
an eagle in sight; a grizzly bear in combat. A Dahcotah
is a man!” After waiting for the low murmur
of approbation, which followed this flattering portrait
of his people to subside, the Teton continued—
“What is a Pawnee? A thief who only steals from
women; a Red-skin who is not brave; a hunter that
begs for his venison. In counsel he is a squirrel,
hopping from place to place; he is an owl, that goes
on the prairies at night; in battle he is an elk, whose
legs are long. A Pawnee is a woman.” Another
pause succeeded, during which a yell of delight
broke from several mouths, and a demand was made,
that the taunting words should be translated to the
unconscious subject of their biting contempt. The
old man took his cue from the eyes of Mahtoree, and
complied. Hard-Heart listened gravely, and then,
as if apprized that his time to speak had not arrived,
he once more bent his look on the vacant air. The
orator watched his countenance, with an expression
that manifested how inextinguishable was the hatred
he felt for the only chief, far and near, whose fame
might advantageously be compared with his own.
Though disappointed in not having touched the pride
of one whom he regarded as a boy, he proceeded,
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what he considered as far more important, to quicken
the tempers of the men of his own tribe, in order
that they might be prepared to work his savage purposes.
“If the earth was covered with rats, which
are good for nothing,” he said, “there would be no
room for buffaloes, which give food and clothes to
an Indian. If the prairies were covered with Pawnees,
there would be no room for the foot of a Dahcotah.
A Loup is a rat, a Sioux a heavy buffaloe;
let the buffaloes tread upon the rats and make room
for themselves.
“My brothers, a little child has spoken to you.
He tells you, his hair is not gray, but frozen—that
the grass will not grow where a Pale-face has died!
Does he know the colour of the blood of a Big-knife?
No! I know he does not; he has never seen
it. What Dahcotah, besides Mahtoree, has ever
struck a Pale-face? Not one. But Mahtoree must
be silent. Every Teton will shut his ears when he
speaks. The scalps over his lodge were taken by
the women. They were taken by Mahtoree, and he
is a woman. His mouth is shut; he waits for the
feasts to sing among the girls!”
Notwithstanding the exclamations of regret and
resentment, which followed so abasing a declaration,
the chief took his seat, as if determined to speak no
more. But as the murmurs grew louder and more
general, and there were threatening symptoms that
the council would dissolve itself in confusion, he
arose and resumed his speech, by changing his manner
to the fierce and hurried enunciation of a warrior
bent on revenge.
“Let my young men go look for Tetao!” he
cried; “they will find his scalp, drying in Pawnee
smoke. Where is the son of Boreecheena? His
bones are whiter than the faces of his murderers. Is
Mahhah asleep in his lodge? You know it is many
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moons since he started for the blessed prairies;
would he were here, that he might say of what
colour was the hand that took his scalp!”
In this strain the artful chief continued for many
minutes, calling those warriors by name, who were
known to have met their deaths in battle with the
Pawnees, or in some of those lawless frays which so
often occurred between the Sioux bands and a class
of white men, who were but little removed from them
in the qualities of civilization. Time was not given
to reflect on the merits, or rather the demerits, of
most of the different individuals to whom he alluded,
in consequence of the rapid manner in which he run
over their names, but so cunningly did he time his
events, and so thrilling did he make his appeals, aided
as they were by the power of his deep-toned and
stirring voice, that each of them struck an answering
chord in the breast of some one of his auditors.
It was in the midst of one of his highest flights of
eloquence, that a man, so aged as to walk with the
greatest difficulty, entered the very centre of the circle,
and took his stand directly in front of the speaker.
An ear of great acuteness might possibly have detected
that the tones of the orator faltered a little, as
his flashing look first fell on this unexpected object,
though the change was so trifling, that none, but such
as thoroughly knew the parties, would have suspected
it. The stranger had once been as distinguished for
his beauty and proportions, as had been his eagle eye
for its irresistible and terrible glance. But his skin
was now wrinkled, and his features furrowed with so
many scars, as to have obtained for him, half a century
before, from the French of the Canadas, a title
which has been borne by so many of the heroes of
France, and which had now been adopted into the
language of the wild horde of whom we are writing,
as the one most expressive of the deeds of their own
brave. The murmur of Le Balafré, that ran through
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the assembly when he appeared, announced not only
his name and the high estimation of his character,
but how extraordinary his visit was considered. As
he neither spoke nor moved, however, the sensation
created by his appearance soon subsided, and then
every eye was again turned upon the speaker, and
every ear once more drunk in the intoxication of his
maddening appeals.
It would have been easy to have traced the triumph
of Mahtoree, in the reflecting countenances of
his auditors. It was not long before a look of ferocity
and of revenge was to be seen seated on the
grim visages of most of the warriors, and each new
and crafty allusion to the policy of extinguishing their
enemies, was followed by fresh and less restrained
bursts of approbation. In the height of this success
the Teton closed his speech by a rapid appeal to the
pride and hardihood of his native band, and suddenly
took his seat.
In the midst of the murmurs of applause, which
succeeded so remarkable an effort of eloquence, a
low, feeble, and hollow voice was heard rising on
the ear, as though it rolled from the inmost cavities
of the human chest, and gathered strength and energy
as it issued into the air. A solemn stillness followed
the sounds, and then the lips of the aged man were
first seen to move.
“The day of Le Balafré is near its end,” were
the first words that were distinctly audible. “He is
like a buffaloe, on whom the hair will grow no longer.
He will soon be ready to leave his lodge, to go in
search of another, that is far from the villages of the
Siouxes; therefore, what he has to say concerns not
him, but those he leaves behind him. His words are
like the fruit on the tree, ripe and fit to be given to
the chiefs.
“Many snows have fallen since Le Balafré has
been found on the war-path. His blood has been very
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hot, but it has had time to cool. The Wahcondah
gives him dreams of war no longer; he sees that it is
better to live in peace.
“My brothers, one foot is turned to the happy
hunting-grounds, the other will soon follow, and then
an old chief will be seen looking for the prints of
his father's moccasins, that he may make no mistake,
but be sure to come before the Master of Life,
by the same path, as so many good Indians have already
travelled. But who will follow? Le Balafré
has no son. His oldest has ridden too many Pawnee
horses; the bones of the youngest have been gnawed
by Konza dogs! Le Balafré has come to look for a
young arm, on which he may lean, and to find a son,
that when he is gone his lodge may not be empty.
Tachechana, the skipping fawn of the Tetons, is too
weak, to prop a warrior, who is old. She looks before
her and not backwards. Her mind is in the lodge
of her husband.”
The enunciation of the veteran warrior had been
calm, but distinct and decided. His declaration was
received in silence, and though several of the chiefs,
who were in the counsels of Mahtoree, turned their
eyes on their leader, none presumed to oppose so
aged and so venerated a brave in a resolution that
was strictly in conformity to the usages of the nation.
The Teton himself was content to await the result
with seeming composure, though the gleams of ferocity,
that played about his eye, occasionally betrayed
the nature of those feelings, with which he witnessed
a procedure, that was likely to rob him of that one
of all his intended victims whom he most hated.
In the mean time Le Balafré moved with a slow
and painful step towards the captives. He stopped
before the person of Hard-Heart, whose faultless
form, unchanging eye, and lofty mien, he contemplated
long, with high and evident satisfaction. Then
making a gesture of authority, he awaited, until his
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order had been obeyed, and the youth was released
from the post and his bonds, by the same blow of the
knife. When the young warrior was led nearer to
his dimmed and failing sight, the examination was
renewed, with all that strictness of scrutiny and admiration,
which physical excellence is so apt to excite
in the breast of a savage.
“It is good,” the wary veteran at length murmured,
when he found that all his skill in the requisites of a
brave could detect no blemish; “this is a leaping
panther! Does my son speak with the tongue of a
Teton?”
The intelligence, which lighted the eyes of the
captive, betrayed how well he understood the question,
but still he was far too haughty to communicate
his ideas through the medium of a language that belonged
to a hostile people. Some of the surrounding
warriors explained to the old chief, that the captive
was a Pawnee-Loup.
“My son opened his eyes on the `waters of the
wolves,' ” said Le Balafré, in the language of that
nation, “but he will shut them in the bend of the
`river with a troubled stream.' He was born a
Pawnee, but he will die a Dahcotah. Look at me.
I am a sycamore, that once covered many with my
shadow. The leaves are fallen, and the branches
begin to drop. But a single succour is springing
from my roots; it is a little vine, and it winds itself
about a tree that is green. I have long looked for
one fit to grow by my side. Now have I found it.
Le Balafré is no longer without a son; his name will
not be forgotten when he is gone! Men of the Tetons,
I take this youth into my lodge.”
No one was bold enough to dispute a right, that
had so often been exercised by warriors far inferior
to the present speaker, and the adoption was listened
to, in a grave and respectful silence. Le Balafré
took his intended son by the arm, and leading him
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into the very centre of the circle, he stepped aside
with an air of triumph, in order that the spectators
might approve of his choice. Mahtoree betrayed no
evidence of his intentions, but rather seemed to await
a moment better suited to the crafty policy of his
character. The more experienced and sagacious
chiefs distinctly foresaw the utter impossibility of two
partisans so renowned, so hostile, and who had so
long been rivals in fame as their prisoner and their
native leader, existing amicably in the same tribe.
Still the character of Le Balafré was so imposing,
and the custom to which he had resorted so sacred,
that none dared to lift a voice in opposition to the
measure. They watched the result with increasing
interest, but with a coldness of demeanour that concealed
the nature of their inquietude. From this
state of embarrassment, and as it might readily have
proved of disorganization, the tribe was unexpectedly
relieved by the decision of the one most interested in
the success of the aged chief's designs.
During the whole of the foregoing scene, it would
have been difficult to have traced a single distinct
emotion in the lineaments of the captive. He had
heard his release proclaimed, with the same indifference
as the order to bind him to the stake. But now,
that the moment had arrived when it became necessary
to make his election, he spoke in a way to prove
that the fortitude, which had bought him so distinguished
a name, had in no degree deserted him.
“My father is very old, but he has not yet looked
upon every thing,” said Hard-Heart, in a voice so
clear as to be heard by all in presence. “He has
never seen a buffaloe change to a bat. He will never
see a Pawnee become a Sioux!”
There was a suddenness, and yet a calmness in
the manner of delivering this decision, which assured
most of the auditors that it was unalterable. The
heart of Le Balafré, however, was yearning towards
the youth, and the fondness of age was not so readily
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repulsed. Reproving the burst of admiration and
triumph, which the boldness of the declaration, and
the freshened hopes of revenge had given rise to, by
turning his gleaming eye around the band, the veteran
again addressed his adopted child, as though his purpose
was not to be denied.
“It is well,” he said; “such are the words a brave
should use, that the warriors might see his heart.
The day has been when the voice of Le Balafré was
loudest among the lodges of the Konzas. But the
root of a white hair is wisdom. My child will show
the Tetons that he is brave, by striking their enemies.
Men of the Dahcotahs this is my son!”
The Pawnee hesitated a moment, and then stepping
in front of the chief, he took his hard and
wrinkled hand, and laid it with reverence on his head,
as if to acknowledge the extent of his obligation.
Then recoiling a step, he raised his person to its
greatest elevation, and looked upon the hostile band,
by whom he was environed, with an air of loftiness
and disdain, as he spoke aloud, in the language of
the Siouxes—
“Hard-Heart has looked at himself within and
without. He has thought of all he has done in the
hunts and in the wars. Every where he is the same.
There is no change. He is in all things a Pawnee.
He has struck so many Tetons that he could never
eat in their lodges. His arrows would fly backwards;
the point of his lance would be on the wrong end;
their friends would weep at every whoop he gave;
their enemies would laugh. Do the Tetons know a
Loup? Let them look at him again. His head is
painted, his arm is flesh, but his heart is rock. When
the Tetons see the sun come from the Rocky Mountains,
and move towards the land of the Pale-faces,
the mind of Hard-Heart will soften, and his spirit
will become Sioux. Until that day he will live and
die a Pawnee.”
A yell of delight, in which admiration and ferocity
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were fearfully mingled, interrupted the speaker, and
but too clearly announced the character of his fate.
The captive awaited a moment, for the commotion
to subside, and then turning again to Le Balafré he
continued, in tones far more conciliating and kind, as
if he felt the propriety of softening his refusal in a
manner not to wound the pride of one who would so
gladly be his benefactor.
“Let my father lean heavier on the fawn of the
Dahcotahs,” he said. “She is weak now, but as her
lodge fills with young, she will be stronger. See,”
he added, directing the eyes of the other to the earnest
countenance of the attentive trapper; “Hard-Heart
is not without a gray-head to show him the
path to the blessed prairies. If he ever has another
father, it shall be that just warrior.”
Le Balafré turned away in disappointment from
the youth, and approached the stranger, who had
thus anticipated his design. The examination between
these two aged men was long, mutual, and
curious. It was not easy to detect the real character
of the trapper through the mask which the hardships
of so many years had laid upon his features, especially
when aided by his wild and peculiar attire.
Some moments elapsed before the Teton spoke, and
then it was in doubt whether he addressed one like
himself or some wanderer of that race who, he had
heard, were spreading themselves, like hungry locusts,
throughout the land.
“The head of my brother is very white,” he said,
“but the eye of Le Balafré is no longer like the
eagle's. Of what colour is his skin?”
“The Wahconcah made me like these you see
waiting for a Dahcotah judgment; but fair and foul
has coloured me darker than the skin of a fox. What
of that! Though the bark is ragged and riven, the
heart of the tree is sound!”
“My brother is a Big-knife! Let him turn his
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face towards the setting sun, and open his eyes. Does
he see the salt lake beyond the mountains?”
“The time has been, Teton, when few could see
the white on the eagle's head farther than I; but the
glare of fourscore and seven winters has dimmed my
eyes, and but little can I boast of sight in my latter
days. Does the Sioux think a Pale-face is a god,
that he can look through the hills!”
“Then let my brother look at me. I am nigh him,
and he can see that I am but a foolish Red-man.
Why cannot his people see every thing, since they
crave all.”
“I understand you, chief; nor will I gainsay the
justice of your words, seeing that they are too much
founded in truth. But though born of the race you
love so little, my worst enemy, not even a lying
Mingo, would dare to say that I ever laid hands on
the goods of another, except such as were taken in
manful warfare, or that I ever coveted more ground
than the Lord has intended each man to fill.”
“And yet my brother has come among the Red-skins
to find a son?”
The trapper laid a finger on the naked shoulder
of Le Balafré, and looked into his scarred countenance
with a wistful and confidential expression, as
he answered—
“Ay; but it was only that I might do good to the
boy. If you think, Dahcotah, that I adopted the
youth in order to prop my age, you do as much injustice
to my good-will, as you seem to know little of
the marciless intentions of your own people. I have
made him my son, that he may know that one is left
behind him—Peace, Hector, peace! is this decent,
pup, when gray-heads are counselling together, to
break in upon their discourse with the whinings of a
hound! The dog is old, Teton, and though well
taught in respect of behaviour, he is getting, like ourselves,
I fancy, something forgetful of the fashions of
his youth.”
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Further discourse between these veterans was interrupted
by a discordant yell, which burst at that
moment from the lips of the dozen withered crones,
who have already been mentioned as having forced
themselves into a conspicuous part of the circle.
The outcry was excited by a sudden change in the
air of Hard-Heart. When the old men turned towards
the youth, they saw him standing in the very
centre of the ring, with his head erect, his eye fixed on
vacancy, one leg advanced and an arm a little raised,
as if all his faculties were absorbed in the act of
listening. A smile lighted his countenance for a
single moment, and then the whole man sunk again
into his former look of dignity and coldness, as
though suddenly recalled to self-possession. The
movement had been construed into contempt, and
even the tempers of the chiefs began to be excited.
Unable to restrain their fury, the women broke into
the circle in a body, and commenced their attack by
loading the captive with the most bitter revilings.
They boasted of the various exploits, which their
sons had achieved at the expense of the different
tribes of the Pawness. They undervalued his own
reputation, and told him to look at Mahtoree, if he
had never yet seen a warrior. They accused him
of having been suckled by a doe, and of having drunk
in cowardice with his mother's milk. In short, they
lavished upon their unmoved captive a torrent of that
vindictive abuse, in which the women of the savages
are so well known to excel, but which has been too
often described to need a repetition here.
The effect of this outbreaking was inevitable. Le
Balafré turned away disappointed, and hid himself in
the crowd, while the trapper, whose honest features
were working with his inward emotions, pressed
nigher to his young friend, as those who are linked
to the criminal, by ties so strong as to brave the
opinions of men, are often seen to stand about the
place of execution to support his dying moments.
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The excitement soon spread among the inferior warriors,
though the chiefs still forebore to make the signal,
which committed the victim to their mercy.
Mahtoree, who had awaited such a movement among
his fellows, with the wary design of concealing his
own jealous hatred, soon grew weary of delay, and,
by a glance of his eye, encouraged the tormentors to
proceed.
Weucha, who, eager for this sanction, had long
stood watching the countenance of the chief, bounded
forward at the signal like a blood-hound loosened
from the leash. Forcing his way into the centre of
the hags, who were already proceeding from abuse
to violence, he reproved their impatience and bade
them wait, until a warrior had begun to torment, and
then they should see their victim shed tears like a
woman.
The heartless savage commenced his efforts by
flourishing his tomahawk about the head of the captive,
in such a manner as to give reason to suppose,
that each blow would bury the weapon in the flesh,
while it was so governed as not to touch the skin. To
this customary expedient Hard-Heart was perfectly
insensible. His eye kept the same steady, riveted
look on the air, though the glittering axe described,
in its evolutions, a bright circle of light before his
countenance. Frustrated in this attempt, the callous
Sioux laid the cold edge on the naked head of his
victim, and began to describe the different manners,
in which a prisoner might be flayed. The women
kept time to his cruelties with their taunts, and endeavoured
to force some expression of the lingerings
of nature from the insensible features of the Pawnee.
But he evidently reserved himself for the chiefs, and
for those moments of extreme anguish, when the loftiness
of his spirit might evince itself in a manner better
becoming his high and untarnished reputation.
The eyes of the trapper followed every movement
of the tomahawk, with the interest of a real father,
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until at length, unable to command his indignation,
he exclaimed—
“My son has forgotten his cunning. This is a
low-minded Indian, and one easily hurried into folly.
I cannot do the thing myself, for my traditions forbid
a dying warrior to revile his persecutors, but the
gifts of a Red-skin are different. Let the Pawnee
say the bitter words and purchase an easy death. I
will answer for his success, provided he speaks before
the grave men set their wisdom to back the folly
of this fool.”
The savage Sioux, who heard his words without
comprehending their meaning, turned to the speaker,
and menaced him with instant death for his temerity.
“Ay, work your will,” said the unflinching old
man; “I am as ready now as I shall be to-morrow.
Though it would be a death that an honest man
might not wish to die. Look at that noble Pawnee,
Teton, and see what a Red-skin may become, who
fears the Master of Life and follows his laws. How
many of your people has he sent to the distant prairies,”
he continued, in a sort of pious fraud, thinking,
that while the danger menaced himself, there could
surely be no sin in extolling the merits of another;
“how many howling Siouxes has he struck, like a
warrior in open combat, while arrows were sailing
in the air plentier than flakes of falling snow. Go!
will Weucha speak the name of one enemy he has
ever struck?”
“Hard-Heart!” shouted the Sioux, turning in his
fury, and aiming a deadly blow at the head of his
victim. His arm fell into the hollow of the captive's
hand. For a single moment the two stood as though
entranced in that attitude, the one paralyzed by so
unexpected a resistance, and the other bending his
head, not to meet his death, but in the act of the
most intense attention. The women screamed with
triumph, for they thought the nerves of the captive
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had at length failed him. The trapper trembled for
the honour of his friend, and Hector, as if conscious
of what was passing, raised his nose into the air, and
uttered a piteous howl.
But the Pawnee hesitated only for that moment.
Raising the other hand, like lightning, the tomahawk
flashed in the air, and Weucha sunk to his feet,
brained to the eye. Then cutting a way with the
bloody weapon, he darted through the opening, left
by the frightened women, and seemed to descend the
declivity at a single bound.
Had a bolt from Heaven fallen in the midst of the
Teton band it would not have occasioned greater
consternation than this act of desperate hardihood.
A shrill plaintive cry burst from the lips of all the
women, and there was a moment, that even the oldest
warriors appeared to have lost their faculties.
This stupor endured only for the instant. It was
succeeded by a yell of revenge, that burst from a
hundred throats, while as many warriors started forward
at the cry, bent on the most bloody retribution.
But a powerful and authoritative call from Mahtoree
arrested every foot. The chief, in whose countenance
disappointment and rage were struggling with
the affected composure of his station, extended an
arm towards the river and the whole mystery was
explained.
Hard-Heart had already crossed near half the bottom,
which lay between the acclivity and the water.
At this precise moment a band of armed and mounted
Pawnees turned a swell, and galloped to the margin
of the stream, into which the plunge of the fugitive
was now distinctly heard. A few minutes sufficed
for his vigorous arm to conquer the passage, and
then the shout from the opposite shore told the humbled
Tetons the whole extent of the triumph of their
adversaries.
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CHAPTER XII.
“If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly; the curses he shall
have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart
of monster.”
Shakspeare.
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
It will readily be seen that the event just related
was attended by an extraordinary sensation among
the Siouxes. In leading the hunters of the band back
to the encampment, their chief had neglected none of
the customary precautions of Indian prudence, in
order that his trail might escape the eyes of his enemies.
It would seem, however, that the Pawnees
had not only made the dangerous discovery, but had
managed with great art to draw nigh the place by
the only side on which it was thought unnecessary to
guard the approaches with the usual line of sentinels.
The latter, who were scattered along the
different little eminences which lay in the rear of
the lodges, were among the last to be apprized of
the danger.
In such a crisis there was little time for deliberation.
It was by exhibiting the force of his character
in scenes of similar difficulty, that Mahtoree had obtained
and strengthened his ascendancy among his
people, nor did he seem likely to lose it by the manifestation
of any indecision on the present occasion.
In the midst of the screams of the young, the shrieks
of the women, and the wild howlings of the crones,
which were sufficient of themselves to have created
a chaos in the thoughts of one less accustomed to act
in emergencies, he promptly asserted his authority,
issuing his orders with the coolness of a veteran.
While the warriors were arming, the boys were
despatched to the bottom for the horses. The tents
were hastily struck by the women, and disposed of
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on such of the beasts as were not deemed fit to be
trusted in combat. The infants were cast upon the
backs of their mothers, and those children, who were
of a size to march, were driven to the rear, like a
herd of less reasoning animals. Though these several
movements were made amid outcries, and a clamour,
that likened the place to another Babel, they were
executed with incredible alacrity and intelligence.
In the mean time Mahtoree neglected no duty that
belonged to his responsible station. From the elevation,
on which he stood, he could command a perfect
view of the force and evolutions of the hostile
party. A grim smile lighted his visage, when he
found that, in point of numbers, his own band was
greatly the superior. Notwithstanding this advantage,
however, there were other points of inequality,
which would probably have a tendency to render his
success, in the approaching conflict, exceedingly
doubtful. His people were the inhabitants of a
more northern and less hospitable region than their
enemies, and were far from being rich in that species
of property, horses and arms, which constitutes
the most highly prized wealth of a western Indian.
The band in view was mounted to a man, and as it
had come so far to rescue, or to revenge, their greatest
partisan, he had no reason to doubt its being
composed entirely of braves. On the other hand,
many of his followers were far better in a hunt than
in a combat; men who might serve to divert the
attention of his foes, but from whom he could expect
little desperate service. Still his flashing eye glanced
over a body of warriors on whom he had often relied,
and who had never deceived him, and though, in the
precise position in which he found himself, he felt no
disposition to precipitate the conflict, he certainly
would have had no intention to avoid it, had not the
presence of his women and children placed the option
altogether in the power of his adversaries.
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On the other hand, the Pawnees, so unexpectedly
successful in their first and greatest object, manifested
no intention to drive matters to an issue. The river
was a dangerous barrier to pass in the face of a determined
foe, and it would now have been in perfect
accordance with their cautious policy, to have retired,
for a season, in order that their onset might be made
in the hours of darkness and of seeming security.
But there was a spirit in their chief that elevated
him, for the moment, high above the ordinary expedients
of savage warfare. His bosom burned with
the desire to wipe out that disgrace, of which he had
been the subject, and it is possible, that he believed
the retiring camp of the Siouxes contained a prize,
that begun to have a value in his eyes, far exceeding
any that could be found in fifty Teton scalps. Let
that be as it might, Hard-Heart had no sooner received
the brief congratulations of his band, and
communicated to the chiefs such facts as were important
to be known, than he prepared himself to
act such a part in the coming conflict, as would at
once maintain his well-earned reputation and gratify
his secret wishes. A led horse, one that had been
long trained in the hunts, had been brought to receive
his master, with but little hope that his services
would ever be needed again in this life. With a delicacy
and consideration, that proved how much the
generous qualities of the youth had touched the feelings
of his people, a bow, a lance, and a quiver, were
thrown across the animal, which it had been intended
to immolate on the grave of the young brave; a species
of care that would have superseded the necessity
for the pious duty that the trapper had pledged himself
to perform.
Though Hard-Heart was sensible of the kindness of
his warriors, and believed that a chief, furnished with
such appointments, might depart with credit for the
distant hunting-grounds of the Master of Life, he
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seemed equally disposed to think that they might be
rendered quite as useful in the actual state of things.
His countenance lighted with a gleam of stern pleasure,
as he tried the elasticity of the bow, and poised
the well-balanced spear. The glance he bestowed
on the shield was more cursory and indifferent, but
the exultation, with which he threw himself on the
back of his most favoured war-horse was so great, as
to break through all the forms of Indian reserve. He
rode to and fro among his scarcely less delighted warriors,
managing the animal with a grace and address
that no artificial rules can ever supply, at times flourishing
his lance, as if to assure himself of his seat,
and at others examining critically into the condition
of the fusee, with which he had also been furnished,
with the fondness of one, who was miraculously restored
to the possession of treasures that had ever
constituted his pride and his happiness.
It was at this particular moment that Mahtoree,
having completed the necessary arrangements, prepared
to make a more decisive movement. The
Teton had found no little embarrassment in disposing
of his captives. The tents of the squatter were still
in sight, and his wary cunning did not fail to apprize
him, that it was quite as necessary to guard against
an attack from that quarter, as to watch the motions
of his more open and more active foes. His first
impulse had been to make the tomahawk suffice for
the men, and to trust the females under the same
protection as the women of his band. But the manner,
in which many of his braves continued to regard
the imaginary medicine of the Long-knives, forewarned
him of the danger of so hazardous an experiment
on the eve of a battle. It might be deemed
the omen of defeat. In this dilemma he motioned
to a superannuated warrior, to whom he had confided
the charge of the non-combatants, and leading him
apart, he placed a finger significantly on his shoulder,
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as he said in a tone in which authority was tempered
by confidence—
“When my young men are striking the Pawnees,
give the women knives. Enough; my father is very
old; he does not want to hear wisdom from a boy.”
The grim old savage returned a look of ferocious
assent, and then the mind of the chief appeared to
be at rest on this important subject. From that moment
he bestowed all his care on the achievement
of his revenge and the maintenance of his martial
character. Throwing himself on his horse, he made
a sign, with the air of a prince to his followers, to
imitate his example, interrupting without ceremony
the war-songs and solemn rites, by which many
among them were stimulating their spirits to deeds
of daring. When all were in order, the whole moved
with great steadiness and silence towards the margin
of the river.
The hostile bands were now only separated by the
water. The width of the stream was too great to
admit of the use of the ordinary Indian missiles, but
a few useless shots were exchanged from the fusees
of the chiefs, more in bravado than with any expectation
of doing execution. As some time was suffered
to elapse, in demonstrations and abortive efforts,
we shall leave them, for that period, to return to such
of our characters as remained in the hands of the
savages.
We have shed much ink in vain, and wasted quires,
that might possibly have been better employed, if
it be necessary now to tell the reader that few of
the foregoing movements escaped the observation of
the experienced trapper. He had been, in common
with the rest, astonished at the sudden act of Hard-Heart,
and there was a single moment, when a feeling
of regret and mortification got the better of his
longings to save the life of the youth. The simple
and well-intentioned old man would have felt, at
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witnessing any failure of firmness on the part of:
warrior, who had so strongly excited his sympathies,
the same species of sorrow that a Christian parent
would suffer in hanging over the dying moments of
an impious child. But when, instead of an impotent
and unmanly struggle for existence, he found that his
friend had forborne, with the customary and dignified
submission of an Indian warrior, until an opportunity
had offered to escape, and that he had then manifested
the spirit and decision of the most gifted brave,
his gratification became nearly too powerful to be
concealed. In the midst of the wailing and commotion,
which succeeded the death of Weucha and the
escape of the captive, he placed himself nigh the persons
of his white associates, with a determination of
interfering, at every hazard, should the fury of the
savages take that direction. The appearance of the
hostile band spared him however so desperate and
probably so fruitless an effort, and left him to pursue
his observations and to mature his plans more at
leisure.
He particularly remarked that, while by far the
greater part of the women and all the children, together
with the effects of the party were hurried to
the rear, probably with an order to secrete themselves
in some of the adjacent woods, the tent of
Mahtoree himself was left standing, and its contents
undisturbed. Two chosen horses, however, stood
near by, held by a couple of youths, who were too
young to go into the conflict, and yet of an age to
understand the management of the beasts. The
trapper perceived in this arrangement the reluctance
of Mahtoree to trust his newly found “flowers” beyond
the reach of his eye, and, at the same time, his
forethought in providing against any reverse of fortune.
Neither had the manner of the Teton in
giving his commission to the old savage, nor the
fierce pleasure, with which the latter had received
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the bloody charge, escaped his observation. From
all these mysterious movements, the old man was
aware that the crisis was at hand, and he summoned
the utmost knowledge he had acquired in so long a
life, to aid him in the desperate conjuncture. It was
while musing on the means to be employed, that the
Doctor again attracted his attention to himself, by a
piteous appeal for assistance.
“Venerable trapper, or, as I may now say, liberator,”
commenced the dolorous Obed, “it would
seem, that a fitting time has at length arrived to dissever
the unnatural and altogether irregular connexion,
which exists between my inferior members and
the body of Asinus. Perhaps if such a portion of
my limbs were released as might leave me master of
the remainder, and this favourable opportunity were
suitably improved, by making a forced march towards
the settlements, all hopes of preserving the treasures
of knowledge, of which I am the unworthy receptacle,
would not be lost. The importance of the results
is surely worth the hazard of the experiment.”
“I know not, I know not,” returned the deliberate
old man; “the vermin and reptiles, which you bear
about you, were intended by the Lord for the prairies,
and I see no good in sending them into regions
that may not suit their natur's. And, moreover, you
may be of great and particular use as you now sit on
the ass, though it creates no wonder in my mind to
perceive that you are ignorant of it, seeing that usefulness
is altogether a new calling to so bookish a
man.”
“Of what service can I be in this painful thraldom,
in which the animal functions are in a manner suspended,
and the spiritual, or intellectual, blinded by
the secret sympathy that unites mind to matter.
There is likely to be blood spilt between yonder adverse
hosts of heathens, and, though but little desiring
the office, it would be better that I should employ
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myself in surgical experiments, than in thus wasting
the precious moments, mortifying both soul and
body.”
“It is little that a Red-skin would care to have a
physicianer at his hurts, while the whoop is ringing
in his ears. Patience is a virtue in an Indian, and
can be no shame to a Christian white man. Look
at these hags of squaws, friend Doctor; I have no
judgment in savage tempers, if they are not bloody
minded, and ready to work their accursed pleasures
on us all. Now so long as you keep upon the ass,
and maintain the fierce look which is far from being
your natural gift, fear of so great a medicine may
serve to keep down their courage. I am placed here,
like a general at the opening of the battle, and it has
become my duty to make such use of all my force
as, in my judgment, each is best fitted to perform. If
I know these niceties you will be more serviceable
for your countenance, just now, than in any more
stirring exploits.”
“Harkee, old trapper,” shouted Paul, whose patience
could no longer maintain itself under the calculating
and prolix explanations of the other, “suppose
you cut two things I can name, short off. That is to
say, your conversation, which is agreeable enough
over a well-baked buffaloe's hump, and these damnable
thongs of hide, which, according to my experience,
can be pleasant no where. A single stroke of
your knife would be of more service, just now, than
the longest speech that was ever made in a Kentucky
court-house.”
“Ay, court-houses are the `happy hunting-grounds,'
as a Red-skin would say, for them that are born with
gifts no better than such as lie in the tongue. I was
carried into one of the lawless holes myself, once,
and it was all about a thing of no more value than
the skin of a deer. The Lord forgive them! the
Lord forgive them! they knew no better, and they
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did according to their weak judgments, and therefore
the more are they to be pitied; and yet it was a
solemn sight to see an aged man, who had always
lived in the air, laid neck and heels by the law, and
held up as a spectacle for the women and boys of a
wasteful settlement to point their fingers at!”
“If such be your commendable opinions of confinement,
honest friend, you had better manifest the
same, by putting us at liberty with as little delay as
possible,” said Middleton, who, like his companion,
began to find the tardiness of his often-tried companion
quite as extraordinary as it was disagreeable.
“I should greatly like to do the same; especially
in your behalf, Captain, who, being a soldier, might
find not only pleasure but profit in examining, more
at your ease, into the circumventions and cunning of
an Indian fight. As to our friend here, it is of but
little matter, how much of this affair he examines, or
how little, seeing that a bee is not to be overcome in
the same manner as an Indian.”
“Old man, this trifling with our misery is inconsiderate,
to give it a name no harsher—”
“Ay, your gran'ther was of a hot and hurrying
mind, and one must not expect, that the young of a
panther will crawl the 'arth like the litter of a porcupine.
Now keep you both silent, and what I say
shall have the appearance of being spoken concerning
the movements that are going on in the bottom;
all of which will serve to put jealousy to sleep, and
to shut the eyes of such as rarely close them on wickedness
and cruelty. In the first place, then, you
must know that I have reason to think yonder treacherous
Teton has left an order to put us all to death,
so soon as he thinks the deed may be done secretly,
and without tumult.”
“Great Heaven! will you suffer us to be butchered
like unresisting sheep.”
“Hist, Captain, hist; a hot temper is none of the
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best, when cunning is more needed than blows. Ah,
the Pawnee is a noble boy! it would do your heart
good to see how he draws off from the river, in order
to invite his enemies to cross; and yet, according
to my failing sight, they count two warriors to his
one! But as I was saying, little good comes of haste
and thoughtlessness. The facts are so plain, that any
child may see into their wisdom. The savages are
of many minds as to the manner of our treatment.
Some fear us for our colour, and would gladly let us
go, and other some would show us the mercy that the
doe receives from the hungry wolf. When opposition
gets fairly into the councils of a tribe, it is rare
that humanity is the gainer. Now see you these
wrinkled and cruel-minded squaws—No, you cannot
see them as you lie, but nevertheless they are here,
ready and willing, like so many raging she-bears, to
work their will upon us so soon as the proper time
shall come.”
“Harkee, old gentleman trapper,” interrupted
Paul, with a little bitterness in his manner. “Do
you tell us these matters for our amusement or for
your own. If for ours, you may keep your breath
for the next race you run, as I am tickled nearly to
suffocation, already, with my part of the fun.”
“Hist”—said the trapper, cutting with great dexterity
and rapidity the thong, which bound one of the
arms of Paul to his body, and dropping his knife at
the same time within reach of the liberated hand.
“Hist, boy, hist; that was a lucky moment! The
yell from the bottom drew the eyes of these blood-suckers
in another quarter, and so far we are safe.
Now make a proper use of your advantages; but be
careful, that what you do, is done without being seen.”
“Thank you for this small favour, old deliberation,”
muttered the bee-hunter, “though it comes
like a snow in May, somewhat out of season.”
“Foolish boy!” reproachfully exclaimed the other,
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who had moved to a little distance from his friends,
and appeared to be attentively regarding the movements
of the hostile parties, “will you never learn
to know the wisdom of patience. And you, too,
Captain; though a man myself, that seldom ruffles
his temper by vain feelings, I see that you are silent,
because you scorn to ask favours any longer from one
you think too slow to grant them. No doubt, ye are
both young and filled with the pride of your strength
and manhood, and I dare say you thought it only
needful to cut the thongs, to leave you masters of the
ground. But he, that has seen much, is apt to think
much. Had I run like a bustling woman to have
given you freedom, these hags of the Siouxes would
have seen the same, and then where would you both
have found yourselves! Under the tomahawk and
the knife, like helpless and outcrying children, though
gifted with the size and beards of men. Ask our
friend, the bee-hunter, in what condition he finds himself
to struggle with a Teton boy, after so many hours
of bondage; much less with a dozen marciless and
blood-thirsty squaws!”
“Truly, old trapper,” returned Paul stretching his
limbs, which were by this time entirely released, and
endeavouring to restore the suspended circulation,
“you have some judgmatical notions in these matters.
Now here am I, Paul Hover, a man who will
give in to few at a wrestle or a race, nearly as helpless
as the day I paid my first visit to the house of
old Paul, who is dead and gone, the Lord forgive him
any little blunders he may have made while he tarried
in Kentucky! Now there is my foot on the
ground, so far as eye-sight has any virtue, and yet it
would take no great temptation to make me swear it
didn't touch the earth by six inches. I say, honest
friend, since you have done so much, have the goodness
to keep these damnable squaws, of whom you
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say so many interesting things, at a little distance, till
I have got the blood of this arm in motion and am
ready to receive them politely.”
The trapper made a sign that he perfectly understood
the emergency of the case, and he walked towards
the superannuated savage, who began to manifest
an intention of commencing his assigned task,
leaving the bee-hunter to recover the use of his limbs
as well as he could, and to put Middleton in a similar
situation to defend himself.
Mahtoree had not mistaken his man, in selecting
the one he did to execute his bloody purpose. He
had chosen one of those ruthless savages, more or
less of whom are to be found in every tribe, who had
purchased a certain share of military reputation, by
the exhibition of a hardihood that found its impulses
in an innate love of cruelty. Contrary to the high
and chivalrous sentiment, which among the Indians
of the prairies renders it a deed of even greater
merit to bear off the trophy of victory from a fallen
foe, than to slay him, he had been remarkable for
preferring the pleasure of destroying life, to the glory
of striking the dead. While the more self-devoted
and ambitious braves were intent on personal honour,
he had always been seen, established behind some
favourable cover, depriving the wounded of hope, by
finishing that which a more gallant warrior had begun.
In all the cruelties of the tribe he had ever been foremost,
and no Sioux was so uniformly found on the
side of merciless councils.
He had awaited, with an impatience which his
long-practised restraint could with difficulty subdue,
for the moment to arrive when he might proceed to
execute the wishes of the great chief, without whose
approbation and powerful protection he would not
have dared to undertake a step that had so many opposers
in the nation. But events had been hastening
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to an issue between the hostile parties, and the time
had now arrived, greatly to his secret and malignant
joy, when he was free to act his will.
The trapper found him distributing knives to the
ferocious hags, who received the presents chanting a
low monotonous song, that recalled the losses of their
people, in various conflicts with the whites, and
which extolled the pleasures and glory of revenge.
The appearance of such a groupe was enough of itself
to have deterred one, less accustomed to such
sights than the old man, from trusting himself within
the circle of their wild and repulsive rites.
Each of the crones, as she received the weapon,
commenced a slow and measured, but ungainly step,
around the savage, until the whole were circling him
in a sort of magic dance. The movements were
timed, in some degree, by the words of their songs,
as were their gestures by the ideas. When they
spoke of their own losses, they tossed their long
straight locks of gray into the air, or suffered them
to fall in confusion upon their withered necks, but as
the sweetness of returning blow for blow was touched
upon, by any one among them, it was answered
by a common howl, as well as by gestures, that were
sufficiently expressive of the manner in which they
were exciting themselves to the necessary state of
fury.
It was into the very centre of this ring of seeming
demons that the trapper now stalked, with the same
calmness and observation as he would have walked
into a village church. No other change was made
by his appearance, than a renewal of the threatening
gestures, with, if possible, a still less equivocal display
of their remorseless intentions. Making a sign
for them to cease, the old man demanded—
“Why do the mothers of the Tetons sing with bitter
tongues? The Pawnee prisoners are not yet in
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their village; their young men have not come back
loaded with scalps!”
He was answered by another general howl, and a
few of the boldest of the furies even ventured to approach
him, flourishing their knives within a dangerous
proximity to his own steady eye-balls.
“It is a warrior you see, and no runner of the
Long-knives, whose face grows paler at the sight of a
tomahawk,” returned the trapper, without moving a
muscle. “Let the Sioux women think; if one White-skin
dies a hundred spring up where he falls.”
Still the hags made no other answer than by increasing
their speed in the circle, and occasionally
raising the threatening expressions of their chaunt
into louder and more intelligible strains. Suddenly
one of the oldest, and most ferocious of them all
broke out of the ring, and skirred away in the direction
of her victims, like a rapacious bird, that having
wheeled on poised wings, for the time necessary to
insure its object, makes the final dart upon its prey.
The others followed, a disorderly and screaming
flock, fearful of being too late to reap their portion
of the sanguinary pleasure.
“Mighty medecine of my people!” shouted the
old man, in the Teton tongue; “lift your voice and
speak, that the Sioux nation may hear.”
Whether it was that Asinus had acquired so much
knowledge, by his recent experience, as to know the
value of his sonorous properties, or that the strange
spectacle of a dozen hags flitting past him, filling the
air with such sounds as were even grating to the ears
of an ass, most moved his temper, it is certain that
the animal did that which Obed was requested to do,
and probably with far greater effect than if the naturalist
had strove with his mightiest effort to be heard.
It was the first time the strange beast had spoken
since his arrival in the encampment. Admonished
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by so terrible a warning, the hags scattered themselves,
like vultures frightened from their prey, still
screaming and but half diverted from their purpose.
In the meantime the sudden appearance, and the
imminency of the danger, had quickened the blood
in the veins of Paul and Middleton, more than all
their laborious frictions and physical expedients.
The former had actually risen to his feet, and assumed
an attitude which perhaps threatened more than
the worthy bee-hunter was able to perform, and even
the latter had mounted to his knees, and shown a disposition
to do good service for his life. The unaccountable
release of the captives from their bonds
was attributed by the hags to the incantations of the
medecine, and the mistake was probably of as much
service as the miraculous and timely interposition of
Asinus in their favour.
“Now is the time to come out of our ambushment,”
exclaimed the old man, hastening to join his
friends, “and to make open and manful war. It
would have been policy to have kept back the struggle,
until the Captain was in better condition to join,
but as we have unmasked our battery, why, we must
maintain the ground—”
He was interrupted by feeling a gigantic hand on
his shoulder. Turning, under a sort of confused impression
that necromancy was actually abroad in the
place, he found that he was in the hands of a sorcerer
no less dangerous and powerful than Ishmael Bush.
The file of the squatter's well-armed sons, that was
seen issuing from behind the still standing tent of
Mahtoree, explained at once, not only the manner in
which their rear had been turned, while their attention
had been so earnestly bestowed on matters in
front, but the utter impossibility of resistance.
Neither Ishmael nor his sons deemed it necessary
to enter into prolix explanations. Middleton and
Paul were bound again, with extraordinary silence
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and despatch, and this time not even the aged trapper
was exempt from a similar fortune. The tent
was struck, the females placed upon the horses, and
the whole were on the way towards the squatter's
encampment, with a celerity that might well have
served to keep alive the idea of magic.
During this summary and brief disposition of
things, the disappointed agent of Mahtoree and his
callous associates were seen flying across the plain,
in the direction of the retiring families, and when
Ishmael left the spot with his prisoners and his booty,
the ground, which had so lately been alive with the
bustle and life of an extensive Indian encampment,
was as still and empty as any other spot in those extensive
wastes.
CHAPTER XIII.
“Is this proceeding just and honourable?”
Shakspeare.
During the occurrence of these events on the upland
plain, the warriors on the bottom had not been
idle. We left the adverse bands watching each other
on the opposite banks of the stream, each endeavouring
to excite its enemy to some act of indiscretion,
by the most reproachful taunts and revilings. But
the Pawnee chief was not slow to discover that his
crafty antagonist had no objection to waste the time
so idly, and, as they mutually proved, in expedients
that were so entirely useless. He changed his plans,
accordingly, and withdrew from the bank, as has been
already explained through the mouth of the trapper,
in order to invite the more numerous host of the
Siouxes to cross. The challenge was not accepted,
and the Loups were compelled to frame some other
method to attain their end.
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Instead of any longer throwing away the precious
moments, in fruitless endeavours to induce his foe to
cross the stream, the young partisan of the Pawnees
led his troops, at a swift gallop, along its margin, in
quest of some favourable spot, where by a sudden
push he might throw his own band without loss to
the opposite shore. The instant his object was discovered,
each mounted Teton received a footman
behind him, and Mahtoree was still enabled to concentrate
his whole force against the effort. Perceiving
that his design was anticipated, and unwilling to
blow his horses by a race that would disqualify them
for service even after they had succeeded in outstripping
the more heavily-burdened cattle of the Siouxes,
Hard-Heart drew up, and came to a dead halt on the
very margin of the water-course.
As the country was too open for any of the usual
devices of savage warfare, and time was so pressing,
the chivalrous Pawnee resolved to bring on the result
by one of those acts of personal daring, for
which the Indian braves are so remarkable, and by
which they so often purchase their highest and dearest
renown. The spot he had selected was favourable
to such a project. The river, which throughout
most of its course was deep and rapid, had expanded
there to more than twice its customary width, and
the rippling of its waters proved that it flowed over
a shallow bottom. In the centre of the current there
was an extensive and naked bed of sand, but a little
raised above the level of the stream, and of a colour
and consistency which warranted, to a practised eye,
that it afforded a firm and safe foundation for the
foot. To this spot the partisan now turned his wistful
gaze, nor was he long in making his decision.
First speaking to his warriors, and apprizing them of
his intentions, he dashed into the current, and partly
by swimming, and more by the use of his horse's feet,
he quickly reached the island in safety.
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The experience of Hard-Heart had not deceived
him. When his snorting steed issued from the water,
he found himself on a tremulous but damp and compact
bed of sand, that was admirably adapted to the
exhibition of the finest powers of the animal. The
horse seemed conscious of the advantage, and bore
his warlike rider, with an elasticity of step and a
loftiness of air, that would have done no discredit to
the highest trained and most generous charger. The
blood of the chief himself quickened with the excitement
of his striking situation. He sat the beast as
though he was conscious that the eyes of two tribes
were on his movements, and as nothing could be
more acceptable and grateful to his own band than
this display of native grace and courage, so nothing
could be more taunting and humiliating to their
enemies.
The sudden appearance of the Pawnee on the
sands was announced among the Tetons by a general
yell of savage anger. A rush was made to the shore,
followed by a discharge of fifty arrows and a few
fusees, and on the part of several braves there was a
plain manifestation of a desire to plunge into the
water, in order to punish the temerity of their insolent
foe. But a call and a mandate from Mahtoree
checked the rising, and nearly ungovernable, temper
of his band. So far from allowing a single foot to be
wet, or a repetition of the fruitless efforts of his people
to drive away their foe with missiles, the whole
of the party was commanded to retire from the shore,
while he himself communicated his intentions to one
or two of his most favoured followers.
When the Pawnees had observed the rush of their
enemies, twenty warriors rode into the stream; but
so soon as they perceived that the Tetons had withdrawn,
they fell back to a man, leaving the young
chief to the support of his own often-tried skill and
well-established courage. The instructions of
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Hard-Heart, on quitting his band, had been worthy of the
self-devotion and daring of his character. So long
as single warriors came against him, he was to be left
to the keeping of the Wahcondah and his own arm,
but should the Siouxes attack him in numbers, he
was to be sustained, man for man, even to the extent
of his whole force. These generous orders were
strictly obeyed; and though so many hearts in the
troop panted to share in the glory and danger of
their partisan, not a warrior was found, among them
all, who did not know how to conceal his impatience
under the usual mask of Indian self-restraint. They
watched the issue with quick and jealous eyes, nor
did a single exclamation of surprise escape them,
when they saw, as will soon be apparent, that the
experiment of their chief was as likely to conduce to
peace as to war.
Mahtoree was not long in communicating his plans
to his confidants, whom he as quickly dismissed to
join their fellows in the rear. The Teton entered a
short distance into the stream and halted. Here he
raised his hand several times, with the palm outwards,
and made several of those other signs, which
are construed into a pledge of amicable intentions
among the inhabitants of those regions. Then, as if
to confirm the sincerity of his faith, he cast his fusee
to the shore, and entered deeper into the water,
where he again came to a stand, in order to see in
what manner the Pawnee would receive his pledges
of peace.
The crafty Sioux had not made his calculations on
the noble and honest nature of his more youthful
rival in vain. Hard-Heart had continued galloping
across the sands, during the discharge of missiles and
the appearance of a general onset, with the same
proud and confident mien, as that with which he had
first braved the danger. When he saw the wellknown
person of the Teton partisan enter the river,
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he waved his hand in triumph, and flourishing his
lance, he raised the thrilling war-cry of his people,
as a challenge for him to come on. But when he
saw the signs of a truce, though deeply practised in
the treachery of savage combats, he disdained to
show a less manly reliance on himself, than that
which his enemy had seen fit to exhibit. Riding to
the farthest extremity of the sands, he cast his own
fusee from him, and returned to the point whence he
had started.
The two chiefs were now armed alike. Each had
his spear, his bow, his quiver, his little battle-axe and
his knife; and each had, also, a shield of hides, which
might serve as a means of defence against a surprise
from any of these weapons. The Sioux no longer
hesitated, but advanced deeper into the stream, and
soon landed on a point of the island which his courteous
adversary had left free for that purpose. Had
one been there to watch the countenance of Mahtoree,
as he crossed the water that separated him
from the most formidable and the most hated of all
his rivals, he might have fancied that he could trace
the gleamings of a secret joy, breaking through the
cloud which deep cunning and heartless treachery
had drawn before his swarthy visage; and yet there
would have been moments, when he might have believed
that the flashings of the Teton's eye and the
expansion of his nostrils, had their origin in a nobler
sentiment, and one far more worthy of an Indian
chief.
The Pawnee had withdrawn to his own side of the
sands, where he awaited the time of his enemy with
calmness and dignity. The Teton made a short turn
or two, to curb the impatience of his steed, and to
recover his seat after the effort of crossing, and then
he rode into the centre of the place, and invited the
other, by a courteous gesture, to approach. Hard-Heart
drew nigh, until he found himself at a distance
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equally suited to advance or to retreat, and, in his
turn, he came to a stand, keeping his glowing eye
riveted on that of his enemy. A long and grave
pause succeeded this movement, during which these
two distinguished braves, who were now, for the first
time, confronted, with arms in their hands, sat regarding
each other, like warriors who knew how to
value the merits of a gallant foe, however hated.
But the mien of Mahtoree was far less stern and
warlike than that of the partisan of the Loups.
Throwing his shield over his shoulder, as if to invite
the confidence of the other, he made a gesture of
salutation and was the first to speak.
“Let the Pawnees go upon the hills,” he said,
“and look from the morning to the evening sun,
from the country of snows to the land of many
flowers, and they will see that the earth is very large.
Why cannot the Red-men find room on it for all their
villages?”
“Has the Teton ever known a warrior of the Loups
come to his towns to beg a place for his lodge?” returned
the young brave, with a look in which pride
and contempt were not attempted to be concealed;
“when the Pawnees hunt, do they send runners to
ask Mahtoree if there are no Siouxes on the prairies?”
“When there is hunger in the lodge of a warrior,
he looks for the buffaloe, which is given him for
food,” the Teton continued, struggling to keep down
the ire which was excited by the other's scorn.
“The Wahcondah has made more of them than he
has made Indians. He has not said, this buffaloe
shall be for a Pawnee, and that for a Dahcotah; this
beaver for a Konza, and that for an Omahaw. No;
he said, there are enough. I love my red children,
and I have given them great riches. The swiftest
horse shall not go from the village of the Tetons to
the village of the Loups in many suns. It is far from
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the towns of the Pawnees to the river of the Osages.
There is room for all that I love. Why then should
a Red-man strike his brother?”
Hard-Heart dropped one end of his lance to the
earth, and having also cast his shield across his
shoulder, he sat leaning lightly on the weapon, as he
answered with a smile of no doubtful expression—
“Are the Tetons weary of the hunts and of the
war-path? do they wish to cook the venison, and
not to kill it? Do they intend to let the hair cover
their heads, that their enemies shall not know where
to find their scalps! Go; a Pawnee warrior will
never come among such Sioux squaws for a wife!”
A frightful gleam of ferocity broke out of the restraint
of the Dahcotah's countenance, as he listened
to this biting insult, but he was quick in subduing the
tell-tale sentiment, in an expression much better
suited to his present purpose.
“This is the way a young chief should talk of
war,” he answered with singular composure; “but
Mahtoree has seen the misery of more winters than
his brother. When the nights have been long, and
darkness has been in his lodge, while the young men
slept, he has thought of the hardships of his people.
He has said to himself: Teton, count the scalps in
your smoke. They are all red but two! Does the
wolf destroy the wolf, or the rattler strike his brother?
You know they do not; therefore, Teton, are you
wrong to go on a path that leads to the village of a
Red-skin, with the tomahawk in your hand.”
“The Sioux would rob the warrior of his fame?
He would say to his young men: go, dig roots in the
prairies, and find holes to bury your tomahawks in;
you are no longer braves!”
“If the tongue of Mahtoree ever says thus,” returned
the crafty chief, with an appearance of strong
indignation, “let his women cut it out, and burn it
with the offals of the buffaloe. No,” he added,
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advancing a few feet nigher to the immoveable Hard-Heart,
as if in the sincerity of his confidence; “the
Red-man can never want an enemy; they are plentier
than the leaves on the trees, the birds in the heavens,
or the buffaloes on the prairies. Let my brother
open his eyes wide; does he no where see an enemy
he would strike?”
“How long is it since the Teton counted the scalps
of his warriors, that were drying in the smoke of a
Pawnee lodge? The hand that took them is here,
and ready to make eighteen, twenty.”
“Now let not the mind of my brother go on a crooked
path. If a Red-skin strikes a Red-skin forever, who
will be masters of the prairies, when nk warriors are
left to say. `they are mine.' Hear the voices of the
old men. They tell us that in their days many Indians
have come out of the woods under the rising
sun, and that they have filled the prairies with their
complaints of the robberies of the Long-knives.
Where a Pale-face comes, a Red-man cannot stay.
The land is too small. They are always hungry.
See, they are here already!”
As the Teton spoke, he pointed towards the tents
of Ishmael, which were in plain sight, and then he
paused, to await the effect of his words on the mind
of his ingenuous foe. Hard-Heart listened, like one
in whom a train of novel ideas had been excited by
the reasoning of the other. He mused for near a
minute, before he demanded—
“What do the wise chiefs of the Sioux say must
be done?”
“They think that the moccasin of every Pale-face
should be followed, like the track of the bear. That
the Long-knife, who comes upon the prairie, should
never go back. That the path shall be open to those
who come, and shut to those who go. Yonder are
many. They have horses and guns. They are rich,
but we are poor. Will the Pawnees meet the
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Tetons in council; and when the sun is gone behind the
Rocky Mountains, they will say, this is for a Loup
and this for a Sioux.”
“Teton—no! Hard-Heart has never struck the
stranger. They come into his lodge and eat, and
they go out in safety. A mighty chief is their friend!
When my people call the young men to go on the
war-path, the moccasin of Hard-Heart is the last.
But his village is no sooner hid by the trees, than it
is the first. No, Teton; his arm will never be lifted
against the stranger.”
“Fool, then die, with empty hands!” Mahtoree
exclaimed, setting an arrow to his bow, and sending
it, with a sudden and deadly aim, full at the naked
bosom of his generous and confiding enemy.
The action of the treacherous Teton was too
quick, and too well matured to admit of any of the
ordinary means of defence, on the part of the Pawnee.
His shield was hanging from his shoulder, and
even the arrow had been suffered to fall from its
place, and lay in the hollow of the hand, which
grasped his bow. But the quick eye of the brave
had time to see the movement, and his ready thoughts
did not desert him. Pulling hard and with a jerk upon
the rein, his steed reared his forward legs into the
air, and, as the rider bent his body low, the horse itself
served for a shield against the danger. So true,
however, was the aim, and so powerful the force by
which it was sent, that the arrow entered the neck of
the animal and broke the skin on the opposite side.
Quicker than thought Hard-Heart sent back an
answering arrow. The shield of the Teton was transfixed,
but his person was untouched. For a few moments
the twang of the bow and the glancing of arrows
were incessant, notwithstanding the combatants
were compelled to give so large a portion of their
care to the means of defence. The quivers were
soon exhausted, and though blood had been drawn,
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it was not in sufficient quantities to impair the energy
of the combat.
A series of masterly and rapid evolutions with the
horses now commenced. The wheelings, the charges,
the advances, and the circuitous retreats, were like
the flights of circling swallows. Blows were struck
with the lance, the sand was scattered in the air, and
the shocks often seemed to be unavoidably fatal; but
still each party kept his seat, and still each rein was
managed with a steady hand. At length the Teton
was driven to the necessity of throwing himself from
his horse, to escape a thrust that would otherwise
have proved fatal. The Pawnee passed his lance
through the beast, uttering a shout of triumph as he
galloped by. Turning in his tracks he was about to
push the advantage, when his own mettled steed staggered
and fell, under a burden that he could no longer
sustain. Mahtoree answered his premature cry of
victory, and rushed upon the entangled youth, with
knife and tomahawk. The utmost agility of Hard-Heart
had not sufficed to extricate himself in season
from the fallen beast. He saw that his case was desperate.
Feeling for his knife, he took the blade between
a finger and thumb, and cast it with admirable
coolness at his advancing foe. The keen weapon
whirled a few times in the air and its point meeting
the naked breast of the impetuous Sioux, the blade
was buried to the buck-horn haft.
Mahtoree laid his hand on the weapon, and seemed
to hesitate whether to withdraw it or not. For a
moment his countenance darkened with the most inextinguishable
hatred and ferocity, and then, as if
inwardly admonished how little time he had to lose,
he staggered to the edge of the sands, and halted with
his feet in the water. The cunning and duplicity,
which had so long obscured the brighter and nobler
traits of his character, were lost in the never dying
sentiment of pride, which he had imbibed in youth.
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“Boy of the Loups!” he said with a smile of grim
satisfaction, “the scalp of a mighty Dahcotah shall
never dry in Pawnee smoke!”
Drawing the knife from the wound he hurled it
towards the enemy in disdain. Then shaking his
arm at his successful foe, his swarthy countenance
appearing to struggle with volumes of scorn and
hatred that he could not utter with the tongue, he
cast himself headlong into one of the most rapid
veins of the current, his hand still waving in triumph
above the fluid, even after his body had sunk into the
tide forever. Hard-Heart was by this time free. The
silence, which had hitherto reigned in the bands, was
suddenly broken by general and tumultuous shouts.
Fifty of the adverse warriors were already in the
river, hastening to destroy or to defend the conqueror,
and the combat was rather on the eve of its commencement
than near its termination. But to all
these signs of danger and need, the young victor was
insensible. He sprange for the knife, and bounded
with the foot of an antelope along the sands, looking
for the receding fluid, which concealed his prize. A
dark, bloody spot indicated the place, and, armed
with the knife, he plunged into the stream, resolute
to die in the flood, or to return with his trophy.
In the mean time the sands became a scene of
bloodshed and violence. Better mounted and perhaps
more ardent, the Pawnees had, however, reached
the spot in sufficient numbers to force their enemies
to retire. The victors pushed their success to
the opposite shore and gained the solid ground in the
mêlée of the fight. Here they were met by all the
unmounted Tetons and, in their turn, they were forced
to give way.
The combat now became more characteristic and
circumspect. As the hot impulses, which had driven
both parties to mingle in so deadly a struggle, began
to cool, the chiefs were enabled to exercise their
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influence and to temper the assaults with prudence. In
consequence of the admonitions of their leaders, the
Siouxes sought such covers as the grass afforded, or
here and there some bush or slight inequality of the
ground, and the charges of the Pawnee warriors
necessarily became more wary, and of course less
fatal.
In this manner the contest continued with a varied
success, and without much loss. The Siouxes had
succeeded in forcing themselves into a thick growth
of rank grass, where the horses of their enemies
could not enter, or where, when entered, they were
worse than useless. It became necessary to dislodge
the Tetons from this cover, or the object of the
combat must be abandoned. Several desperate efforts
had been repulsed, and the disheartened Pawnees
were beginning to think of a retreat, when the wellknown
war-cry of Hard-Heart was heard at hand, and
at the next instant the chief appeared in their centre,
flourishing the scalp of the Great Sioux, as a banner
that would lead to victory.
He was greeted by a shout of delight, and followed
into the cover, with an impetuosity that, for the moment,
drove all before it. But the bloody trophy in
the hand of the partisan served as an incentive to the
attacked as well as to the assailants. Mahtoree had
left many a daring brave behind him in his band, and
the orator, who in the debates of that day had manifested
such pacific thoughts, now exhibited the most
generous self-devotion, in order to wrest the memorial
of a man he had never loved, from the hands of
the avowed enemies of his people.
The result was in favour of numbers. After a
severe struggle, in which the finest displays of personal
intrepidity were exhibited by all the chiefs, the
Pawnees were compelled to retire upon the open
bottom, closely pressed by the Siouxes, who failed
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not to seize each foot of ground that was ceded by
their enemies. Had the Tetons stayed their efforts
on the margin of the grass, it is probable that the
honour of the day would have been theirs, notwithstanding
the irretrievable loss they had sustained in
the death of Mahtoree. But the more reckless braves
of the band were guilty of an indiscretion, that entirely
changed the fortunes of the fight, and suddenly
stripped them of all their hard-earned advantages.
A Pawnee chief had sunk under the numerous
wounds he had received, and he fell, a target for a
dozen arrows, in the very last groupe of his retiring
party. Regardless alike of inflicting further injury
on their foes, and of the temerity of the act, every
Sioux brave bounded forward with a whoop, each
man burning with the wish to reap the high renown
of striking the body of the dead. They were met
by Hard-Heart and a chosen knot of warriors, all of
whom were just as stoutly bent on saving the honour
of their nation from so foul a stain. The struggle
was now hand to hand, and blood began to flow more
freely. As the Pawnees retired with the body, the
Siouxes pressed upon their footsteps, and at length
the whole of the latter broke out of the cover with
a common yell, and threatened to bear down all opposition
by sheer physical superiority.
The fate of Hard-Heart and his companions, all of
whom would have died rather than relinquish their
object, would now have been quickly sealed, but for
a powerful and unlooked-for interposition in their
favour. A shout was heard from a little brake on
the left, and a volley from the fatal western rifle immediately
succeeded. Some five or six Siouxes leaped
forward and fell in the death agony at the reports, and
every arm among them was as suddenly suspended,
as though the lightning had flashed from the clouds to
aid the cause of the Loups. Then came Ishmael
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and his stout sons in open view, bearing down upon
their late treacherous allies, with looks and voices
that proclaimed the character of their succour.
The shock was too much for the fortitude of the
Tetons. Several of their bravest chiefs had already
fallen, and those that remained were instantly abandoned
by the whole of the inferior herd. A few of
the most desperate braves still lingered nigh the fatal
symbol of their honour, and there nobly met their
deaths under the blows of the re-encouraged Pawnees.
A second discharge from the rifles of the squatter
and his party, however, completed the victory.
The Siouxes were now to be seen flying to more
distant covers, with the same eagerness and desperation
as, a few moments before, they had been plunging
into the fight. The triumphant Pawnees bounded
forward in chase, like so many high-blooded and well-trained
hounds. On every side were heard the cries
of victory or the yell of revenge. A few of the fugitives
endeavoured to bear away the bodies of their
fallen warriors, but the hot pursuit quickly compelled
them to abandon the slain, in order to preserve the
living. Among all the struggles, which were made
on that occasion, to guard the honour of the Siouxes
from the stain which their peculiar opinions attached
to the possession of the scalp of a fallen brave, but
one solitary instance of success occurred.
The opposition of a particular chief to the hostile
proceedings in the councils of that morning has been
already seen. But, after having raised his voice in
vain, in support of peace, his arm was not backward in
doing its duty in the war. His prowess has been mentioned,
and it was chiefly by his courage and example,
that the Tetons sustained themselves in the heroic
manner they did, when the death of Mahtoree was
known. This warrior, who was called in the figurative
language of his people `the Swooping Eagle,' had
been the last to abandon the hopes of victory. When
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he found that the support of the dreaded rifle had
robbed his band of their hard-earned advantages, he
sullenly retired amid a shower of missiles, to the
secret spot where he had hid his horse in the mazes
of the highest grass. Here he found a new and an
entirely unexpected competitor, ready to dispute with
him for the possession of the beast. It was Boreecheena,
the aged friend of Mahtoree; he whose voice
had been given in opposition to his own wiser opinions,
transfixed with an arrow, and evidently suffering
under the pangs of approaching death.
“I have been on my last war-path,” said the grim
old warrior, when he found that the real owner of
the animal had come to claim his property; “shall
a Pawnee carry the white hairs of a Sioux into his
village, to be a scorn to his women and children?”
The other grasped his hand, answering to the appeal
with the stern look of inflexible resolution.
With this silent pledge, he assisted the wounded
man to mount. So soon as he had led the horse to
the margin of the cover, he threw himself also on its
back, and securing his companion to his belt, he issued
on the open plain, trusting entirely to the well-known
speed of the beast for their mutual safety.
The Pawnees were not long in catching a view of
these new objects, and several turned their steeds to
pursue. The race continued for a mile, without a
murmur from the sufferer, though in addition to the
agony of his body, he had the pain of seeing his enemies
approach at every leap of their horses.
“Stop,” he said, raising a feeble arm to check the
speed of his companion; “the Eagle of my tribe
must spread his wings wider. Let him carry the
white hairs of an old warrior into the burnt-wood
village!”
Few words were necessary between men who
were governed by the same feelings of glory, and
who were so well trained in the principles of their
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romantic honour. The Swooping Eagle threw himself
from the back of the horse and assisted the other
to alight. The old man raised his tottering frame to
its knees, and first casting a glance upward at the
countenance of his countryman, as if to bid him
adieu, he stretched out his neck to the blow he himself
invited. A few strokes of the tomahawk, with a
circling gash from the knife, sufficed to sever the
head from the less valued trunk. The Teton mounted
again, just in season to escape a flight of arrows
which came from his eager and disappointed pursuers.
Flourishing the grim and bloody visage, he
darted away from the spot with a shout of triumph,
and was seen scouring the plains, as though he were
actually borne along on the wings of the powerful
bird from whose qualities he had received his flattering
name. The Swooping Eagle reached his village
in safety. He was one of the few Siouxes who
escaped from the massacre of that fatal day, and for
a long time he alone of the saved was able to lift his
voice again, in the councils of his nation, with undiminished
confidence.
The knife and the lance cut short the retreat of
the larger portion of the vanquished. Even the retiring
party of the women and children were scattered
by the conquerors, and the sun had long sunk behind
the rolling outline of the western horizon before
the fell business of that disastrous defeat was
entirely ended.
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CHAPTER XIV.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew.
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The day dawned, the following morning, on a
more tranquil scene. The work of blood had entirely
ceased, and as the sun arose, its light was shed
on a broad expanse of quiet and solitude. The
tents of Ishmael were still standing, where they had
been last seen, but not another vestige of human existence
could be traced in any other part of the
waste. Here and there little flocks of ravenous
birds were sailing and screaming above those spots
where some heavy-footed Teton had met his death,
but every other sign of the recent combat had passed
away. The river was to be traced far through the
endless meadows, by its serpentine and smoking bed,
and the little silvery clouds of light vapour, which
hung above the pools and springs, were beginning to
melt in air, as they felt the quickening warmth,
which, pouring from the glowing sky, shed its bland
and subtle influence on every object of the vast and
unshadowed region. The prairie was like the heavens
after the dark passage of the gust, soft, calm,
and soothing.
It was in the midst of such a scene that the family
of the squatter assembled to make their final decision
concerning the several individuals who had been
thrown into their power by the fluctuating chances
of the incidents related. Every being possessing life
and liberty had been afoot since the first streak of
gray had lighted the east, and even the youngest of
the erratic brood seemed deeply conscious that the
moment had arrived, when circumstances were
about to transpire that might leave a lasting impression
on the wild fortunes of their semi-barbarous
condition.
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Ishmael moved through his little encampment,
with the seriousness of one who had been unexpectedly
charged with matters of a gravity far exceeding
any of the ordinary occurrences of his irregular existence.
His sons, however, who had so often found
occasions to prove the inexorable severity of their
father's character, saw, in his sullen mien and cold
eye, rather a determination to adhere to his resolutions,
which usually were as obstinately enforced as
they were harshly conceived, than any evidences of
wavering or doubt. Even Esther was sensibly affected
by the important matters that pressed so heavily
on the interests of her family. While she neglected
none of those domestic offices, which would
probably have proceeded under any conceivable circumstances,
just as the world turns round with earthquakes
rending its crust, and volcanoes consuming
its vitals, yet her voice was pitched to a lower and
more foreboding key than common, and the still frequent
chidings of her children were tempered by
something like the milder dignity of parental authority.
Abiram, as usual, seemed the one most given to
solicitude and doubt. There were certain misgivings,
in the frequent glances that he turned on the unyielding
countenance of Ishmael, which might have
betrayed how little of their former confidence and
good-understanding existed between them. His looks
appeared to be strangely vacillating between hope
and fear. At times his countenance lighted with the
gleamings of a sordid joy, as he bent his look on the
tent which contained his recovered prisoner, and
then, again, the impression seemed unaccountably
chased away by the shadows of intense apprehension.
When under the influence of the latter feeling
his eye never failed to seek the visage of his dull
and impenetrable kinsman. But there he rather
found reason for alarm than grounds of
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encouragement, for the whole character of the squatter's countenance
expressed the fearful truth, that he had redeemed
his dull faculties from the influence of the
kidnapper, and that his thoughts were now brooding
only on the achievement of his own stubborn intentions.
It was in this state of things that the sons of Ishmael,
in obedience to an order from their father, conducted
the several subjects of his contemplated decisions,
from their places of confinement into the
open air. No one was exempted from this arrangement.
Middleton and Inez, Paul and Ellen, Obed
and the trapper, were all brought forth and placed
in situations that were deemed suitable to receive
the sentence of their arbitrary judge. The younger
children gathered around the spot, in a sort of momentary
but engrossing curiosity, and even Esther
quitted her culinary labours, and drew nigh to listen.
Hard-Heart alone of all his band was present to
witness the novel and far from unimposing spectacle.
He stood leaning, gravely, on his lance, while the
smoking steed, that grazed nigh, showed that he had
ridden far and hard to be a spectator on the occasion.
Ishmael had received his new ally with a coldness
that showed his entire insensibility to that delicacy,
which had induced the young chief to come alone,
in order that the presence of his warriors might not
create uneasiness or distrust. He neither courted
their assistance nor dreaded their enmity, and he now
proceeded to the business of the hour with as much
composure, as though the species of patriarchal power,
he actually wielded, was universally recognized.
There is something elevating in the possession of
authority, however it may be abused. The mind is
apt to make some efforts to prove the fitness between
its qualities and the condition of its owner, though it
may often fail, and render that ridiculous which was
only hated before. But the effect on Ishmael Bush
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was not so disheartening. Grave in exterior, saturnine
by temperament, formidable by his physical means,
and dangerous from his lawless obstinacy, his selfconstituted
tribunal excited a degree of awe, to which
even the intelligent Middleton could not bring himself
to be entirely insensible. Little time, however,
was given to arrange his thoughts, for the squatter,
though unaccustomed to haste, having previously
made up his mind, was not disposed to waste the moments
in delay. When he saw that all were in their
places, he cast a dull look over his prisoners, and addressed
himself to the Captain, as the principal man
among the imaginary delinquents.
“I am called upon this day to fill the office which
in the settlements you give unto judges, who are set
apart to decide on matters that arise between man and
man. I have but little knowledge of the ways of the
courts, though there is a rule that is known unto all,
and which teaches, that an `eye must be returned
for an eye,' and `a tooth for a tooth.' I am no troubler
of county-houses, and least of all do I like living
on a plantation that the sheriff has surveyed, yet
there is a reason in such a law, that makes it a safe
rule to journey by, and therefore it ar' a solemn fact
that this day shall I abide by it, and give unto all and
each that which is his due and no more.”
When Ishmael had delivered his mind thus far, he
paused and looked about him, as if he would trace
the effects in the countenances of his hearers. When
his eye met that of Middleton, he was answered by
the latter—
“If the evil-doer is to be punished, and he that
has offended none to be left to go at large, you must
change situations with me, and become a prisoner
instead of a judge.”
“You mean to say that I have done you wrong, in
taking the lady from her father's house, and leading
her so far against her will into these wild districts,”
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returned the unmoved squatter, who manifested as
little resentment as he betrayed compunction at the
charge. “I shall not put the lie on the back of an
evil deed, and deny your words. Since things have
come to this pass between us, I have found time to
think the matter over at my leisure, and though none
of your swift thinkers, who can see, or who pretend
to see into the nature of all things by a turn of the
eye, yet am I a man open to reason, and give me my
time, one who is not given to deny the truth. Therefore
have I mainly concluded, that it was a mistake
to take a child from its parent, and the lady shall be
returned whence she has been brought as tenderly
and as safely as man can do it.”
“Ay, ay,” added Esther, “the man is right. Poverty
and labour bore hard upon him, especially as
county-officers were getting troublesome, and in a
weak moment he did the wicked act, but he has listened
to my words, and his mind has got round again
into its honest corner. An awful and a dangerous
thing it is to be bringing the daughters of other people
into a peaceable and well-governed family!”
“And who will thank you for the same, after what
has been already done?” muttered Abiram, with a
grin of disappointed cupidity, in which malignity and
terror were disgustingly united; “when the devil has
once made out his account, you may look for your
receipt in full only at his hands.”
“Peace!” said Ishmael, stretching his heavy hand
towards his kinsman, in a manner that instantly silenced
the speaker. “Your voice is like a raven's
in my ears. If you had never spoken I should have
been spared this shame.”
“Since then you are beginning to lose sight of your
errors, and to see the truth,” said Middleton, “do not
things by halves, but, by the generosity of your conduct,
purchase friends who may be of use in warding
off any future danger from the law—”
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“Young man,” interrupted the squatter with a
dark frown, “you, too, have said enough. If fear of
the law had come over me, you would not be here
to witness the manner in which Ishmael Bush deals
out justice.”
“Smother not your good intentions, and remember,
if you contemplate violence to any among us, that
the arm of that law you affect to despise, reaches far,
and that though its movements are sometimes slow,
they are not the less certain!”
“Yes, there is too much truth in his words, squatter;”
said the trapper, whose attentive ears rarely
suffered a syllable to be uttered unheeded in his presence.
“A busy and a troublesome arm it often
proves to be here, in this land of America; where, as
they say, man is left greatly to the following of his
own wishes, compared to other countries; and happier,
ay, and more manly and more honest, too, is he
for the privilege! Why do you know, my men, that
there are regions where the law is so busy as to say,
in this fashion shall you live, in that fashion shall you
die, and in such another fashion shall you take leave
of the world, to be sent before the judgment seat of
the Lord! A wicked and a troublesome meddling is
that, with the business of One who has not made his
creatures to be herded, like oxen, and driven from
field to field, as their stupid and selfish keepers may
judge of their need and wants. A miserable land
must that be, where they fetter the mind as well as
the body, and where the creatures of God, being
born children, are kept so by the wicked inventions
of men who would take upon themselves the office
of the great Governor of all!”
During the delivery of this very pertinent opinion,
Ishmael was content to be silent, though the look,
with which he regarded the speaker, manifested any
other feeling than that of amity. When the old man
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was done, he turned to Middleton, and continued the
subject which the other had interrupted.
“As to ourselves, young Captain, there has been
wrong on both sides. If I have borne hard upon
your feelings, in taking away your wife with an honest
intention of giving her back to you, when the
plans of that devil incarnate were answered, so have
you broken into my encampment, aiding and abetting,
as they have called many an honester bargain, in destroying
my property.”
“But what I did was to liberate—”
“The matter is settled between us,” interrupted
Ishmael, with the air of one who, having made up
his own opinion on the merits of the question, cared
very little for those of other people; “you and your
wife are free to go and come, when and how you
please. Abner, set the Captain at liberty; and now,
if you will tarry until I am ready to draw nigher to
the settlements, you shall both have the benefit of
carriage; if not, never say that you did not get a
friendly offer.”
“Now, may the strong oppress me, and my sins
be visited harshly on my own head, if I forget your
honesty, however slow it has been in showing itself,”
cried Middleton, hastening to the side of the weeping
Inez, the instant he was released; and friend, I offer
you the honour of a soldier, that your own part of
this transaction shall be forgotten, whatever I may
deem fit to have done, when I reach a place where
the arm of government can make itself felt.”
The dull smile, with which the squatter answered
to this assurance, proved how little he valued the
pledge that the youth, in the first revulsion of his
feeling, was so free to make.
“Neither fear nor favour, but what I call justice
has brought me to this judgment,” he said; “do you
that which may seem right in your eyes, and believe
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that the world is wide enough to hold us both, without
our crossing each other's path, again! If you ar'
content, well; if you ar' not content seek to ease
your feelings in your own fashion. I shall not ask
to be let up, when you once put me fairly down.
And now, Doctor, have I come to your leaf in my
accounts. It is time to foot up the small reckoning,
that has been running on for some time atwixt us.
With you, I entered into open and manly faith; in
what manner have you kept it?”
The singular felicity, with which Ishmael had contrived
to shift the responsibility of all that had passed,
from his own shoulders to those of his prisoners,
backed as it was by circumstances that hardly admitted
of a very philosophical examination of any
mooted point in ethics, was sufficiently embarrassing
to the several individuals, who were so unexpectedly
required to answer for a conduct which, in their simplicity
they had deemed so meritorious. The life of
Obed had been so purely theoretic, that his amazement
was not the least embarrassing at a state of
things, which might not have proved so very remarkable
had he been a little more practised in the ways
of the world. The worthy naturalist was not the
first by many, who found himself, at the precise moment
when he was expecting praise, suddenly arraigned,
to answer for the very conduct on which he rested
all his claims to commendation. Though not a little
scandalized, at the unexpected turn of the transaction,
he was fain to make the best of circumstances,
and to bring forth such matter in justification as first
presented itself to his somewhat disordered faculties.
“That there did exist a certain compactum or
agreement between Obed Batt, M. D., and Ishmael
Bush, viator, or erratic husbandman,” he said, endeavouring
to avoid all offence in the use of terms,
“I am not disposed to deny. I will admit that it
was therein conditioned, or stipulated that a certain
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journey should be performed conjointly, or in company,
until so many days had been numbered. But
as the said time has fully expired, I presume it fair
to infer that the bargain may now be said to be obsolete.”
“Ishmael!” interrupted the impatient Esther,
“make no words with a man who can break your
bones as easily as set them, and let the poisoning
devil go! He's a cheat from box to phial. Give
him half the prairie and take the other half yourself.
He an acclimator! I will engage to get the brats acclimated
to a fever-and-agy bottom in a week, and
not a word shall be uttered harder to pronounce than
the bark of a cherry-tree, with perhaps a drop or two
of western comfort. One thing ar' a fact, Ishmael;
I like no fellow travellers who can give a heavy feel
to an honest woman's tongue, I—and that without
caring whether her household is in order or out of
order.”
The air of settled gloom, which had taken possession
of the squatter's countenance, lighted for an instant
with a look of dull drollery as he answered—
“Different people might judge differently, Esther,
of the virtue of the man's art. But sin' it is your
wish to let him depart, I will not plough the prairie
to make the walking rough. Friend, you are at liberty
to go into the settlements, and there I would
advise you to tarry, as men like me who make but
few contracts do not relish the custom of breaking
them so easily.”
“And now, Ishmael,” resumed his conquering
wife, “in order to keep a quiet family and to smother
all heart-burnings between us, show yonder Red-skin
and his daughter,” pointing to the aged Le Balafré
and the widowed Tachechana, “the way to their
village, and let us say to them: God bless you and
farewell in the same breath!”
“They are the captives of the Pawnee, according
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to the rules of Indian warfare, and I cannot meddle
with his rights.”
“Beware the devil, my man! He's a cheat and a
tempter, and none can say they ar' safe with his awful
delusions before their eyes! Take the advice of
one who has the honour of your name at heart, and
send the tawny Jezebel away.”
The squatter laid his broad hand on her shoulder,
and looking her steadily in the eye he answered, in
tones that were both stern and solemn—
“Woman, we have that before us which calls our
thoughts to other matters than the follies you mean.
Remember what is to come and put your silly jealousy
to sleep.”
“It is true, it is true,” murmured his wife moving
back among her daughters; “God forgive me, that
I should forget it!”
“And, now, young man; you, who have so often
come into my clearing, under the pretence of lining
the bee into his hole,” resumed Ishmael, after a
momentary pause, as if to recover the equilibrium
of his mind, “with you there is a heavier account to
settle. Not satisfied with rummaging my camp, you
have stolen a girl who is akin to my wife, and who
I had calculated to make one day a daughter of my
own.”
A stronger sensation was produced by this than
by any of the preceding interrogations. All the
young men bent their curious eyes on Paul and Ellen,
the former of whom seemed in no small mental
confusion, while the latter bent her face on her
bosom in shame.
“Harkee, friend Ishmael Bush,” returned the bee-hunter,
who found that he was expected to answer to
the charge of burglary as well as to that of abduction;
“that I did not give the most civil treatment to
your pots and pails, I am not going to gainsay. If
you will name the price you put upon the articles, it
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is possible the damage may be quietly settled between
us, and all hard feelings forgotten. I was not in a
church-going humour when we got upon your rock,
and it is more than probable there was quite as much
kicking as preaching among your wares; but a hole
in the best man's coat can be mended by money. As
to the matter of Ellen Wade, here, it may not be got
over so easily. Different people have different opinions
on the subject of matrimony. Some think it is
enough to say yes and no, to the questions of the
magistrate, or of the parson if one happens to be
handy, in order to make a quiet house, but I think
that where a young woman's mind is fairly bent on
going in a certain direction, it will be quite as prudent
to let her body follow. Not that I mean to say
Ellen was not altogether forced to what she did, and
therefore she is just as innocent, in this matter, as
yonder jackass, who was made to carry her, and
greatly against his will, too, as I am ready to swear
he would say himself, if he could speak as loud as
he can bray.”
“Nelly,” resumed the squatter, who paid very little
attention to what Paul considered a highly creditable
and ingenious vindication, “Nelly, this is a wide
and a wicked world, on which you have been in such
a hurry to cast yourself. You have fed and you have
slept in my camp for a year, and I did hope that you
had found the free air of the borders enough to your
mind to wish to remain among us.”
“Let the girl have her will,” muttered Esther,
from the rear; “he, who might have persuaded her
to stay, is sleeping in the cold and naked prairie, and
little hope is left of changing her humour; besides a
woman's mind is a wilful thing, and not easily turned
from its way wardness, as you know yourself, my man,
or I should not be here the mother of your sons and
daughters.”
The squatter seemed reluctant to abandon his
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views on the abashed girl so easily, and before he
answered to the suggestion of his wife, he turned his
usual dull look along the line of the curious countenances
of his boys, as if to see whether there was
not one among them fit to fill the place of the deceased.
Paul was not slow to observe the expression,
and hitting nigher than usual on the secret
thoughts of the other, he believed he had fallen on
an expedient which might remove every difficulty.
“It is quite plain, friend Bush,” he said, “that
there are two opinions in this matter; yours for your
sons and mine for myself. I see but one amicable
way of settling this dispute, which is as follows:—do
you make a choice among your boys of any you will,
and let us walk off together for the matter of a few
miles into the prairies; the one who stays behind,
can never trouble any man's house or his fixen, and
the one who comes back may make the best of his
way he can, in the good wishes of the young woman.”
“Paul!” exclaimed the reproachful but smothered
voice of Ellen.
“Never fear, Nelly,” whispered the literal bee-hunter,
whose straight-going mind suggested no other
motive of uneasiness, on the part of his mistress,
than concern for himself; “I have taken the measure
of them all, and you may trust an eye that has
seen to line so many a bee into his hole!”
“I am not about to set myself up as a ruler of inclinations,”
observed the squatter. “If the heart of
the child is truly in the settlements let her declare it;
she shall have no let or hindrance from me. Speak,
Nelly, and let what you say come from your wishes,
without fear or favour. Would you leave us to go
with this young man into the settled countries, or will
you tarry and share the little we have to give, but
which to you we give so freely?”
Thus called upon to decide, Ellen could no longer
hesitate. The glance of her eye was at first timid
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and furtive. But as the colour flushed her features,
and her breathing became quick and excited, it was
apparent that the native spirit of the girl was gaining
the ascendancy over the bushfulness of sex.
“You took me a fatherless, impoverished and friendless
orphan,” she said, struggling to command her
voice, “when others, who live in what may be called
affluence compared to your state, chose to forget me;
and may Heaven in its goodness bless you for it!
The little I have done will never pay you for that
one act of kindness. I like not your manner of life;
it is different from the ways of my childhood, and it
is different from my wishes; still had you not led this
sweet and unoffending lady from her friends, I should
never have quitted you, until you yourself had said,
`go, and the blessing of God go with you!' ”
“The act was not wise, but it is repented of, and
so far as it can be done, in safety, it shall be repaired.
Now, speak freely; will you tarry, or will you go?”
“I have promised the lady,” said Ellen, dropping
her eyes again to the earth, “not to leave her; and
after she has received so much wrong from our hands,
she may have a right to claim that I keep my word.”
“Take the cords from the young man,” said Ishmael.
When the order was obeyed, he motioned for
all his sons to advance, and he placed them in a row
before the eyes of Ellen. “Now let there be no
trifling, but open your heart. Here ar' all I have to
offer, besides a hearty welcome.”
The distressed girl turned her abashed look from
the countenance of one of the young men to that of
another, until her eye met the troubled and working
features of Paul. Then nature got the better of
forms. She threw herself into the arms of the bee-hunter,
and sufficiently proclaimed her choice by
sobbing aloud. Ishmael signed to his sons to fall
back, and evidently mortified, though perhaps not
disappointed by the result, he no longer hesitated.
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“Take her,” he said, “and deal honestly and
kindly by her. The girl has that in her which should
make her welcome, in any man's house, and I should
be loth to hear she ever came to harm. And now I
have settled with you all on terms that I hope you
will not find hard, but on the contrary just and manly.
I have only another question to ask, and that is of
the Captain; do you choose to profit by my teams in
going into the settlements, or not?”
“I hear, that some soldiers of my party are looking
for me near the villages of the Pawness,” said Middleton,
“and I intend to accompany this chief, in
order to join my men.”
“Then the sooner we part the better. Horses are
plenty on the bottom. Go; make your choice and
leave us in peace.”
“That is impossible, while the old man, who has
been a friend of my family near half a century is
left a prisoner. What has he done, that he too is
not released?”
“Ask no questions that may lead to deceitful answers,”
sullenly returned the squatter; “I have dealings
of my own with that trapper that it may not befit
an officer of the States to meddle with. Go, while
your road is open.”
“The man may be giving you honest counsel, and
that which it concerns you all to hearken to,” observed
the old captive, who seemed in no uneasiness at
the extraordinary condition in which he found himself.
“The Siouxes are a numberless and bloody-minded
race, and no one can say how long it may be
afore they will be out again on the scent of revenge.
Therefore I say to you, go, also, and take especial
heed, in crossing the bottoms, that you get not entangled
again in the fires, for the honest hunters often
burn the grass at this season, in order that the buffaloes
may find a sweeter and a greener pasturage in
the spring.”
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“I should forget not only my gratitude, but my
duty to the laws, were I to leave this prisoner in your
hands, even by his own consent, without knowing the
nature of his crime, in which we may have all been
his innocent accessaries.”
“Will it satisfy you to know, that he merits all he
will receive?”
“It will at least change my opinion of his character.”
“Look then at this,” said Ishmael, placing before
the eyes of the Captain the bullet that had been
found about the person of the dead Asa; “with this
morsel of lead did he lay low as fine a boy as ever
gave joy to a parent's eyes!”
“I cannot believe that he has done this deed, unless
in self-defence, or on some justifiable provocation.
That he knew of the death of your son, I confess,
for he pointed out the brake in which the body lay,
but that he has wrongfully taken his life, nothing but
his own acknowledgment shall persuade me to believe.”
“I have lived long,” commenced the trapper, who
found, by the general pause, that he was expected to
vindicate himself from the heavy imputation, “and
much evil have I seen in my day. Many are the
prowling bears and leaping panthers that I have met,
fighting for the morsel which has been thrown in their
way, and many are the reasoning men, that I have
looked on striving against each other unto death, in
order that human madness might also have its hour.
For myself, I hope, there is no boasting in saying,
that though my hand has been needed in putting down
wickedness and oppression, it has never struck a
blow of which its owner will be ashamed to hear at
a reckoning that shall be far mightier than this.”
“If my father has taken life from one of his tribe,”
said the young Pawnee, whose quick eye had read
the meaning of what was passing, in the bullet and in
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the countenances of the others, “let him give himself
up to the friends of the dead, like a warrior. He is
too just to need thongs to lead him to judgment.”
“Boy, I hope you do me justice. If I had done
the foul deed, with which they charge me, I should
have manhood enough to come and offer my head to
the blow of punishment, as all good and honest Redmen
do the same.” Then giving his anxious Indian
friend a look, to reassure him of his innocence, he
turned to the rest of his attentive and interested listeners,
as he continued in English, “I have a short
story to tell, and he that believes it will believe the
truth, and he that disbelieves it will only lead himself
astray, and perhaps his neighbour too. We were all
outlying about your camp, friend squatter, as by this
time you may begin to suspect, when we found that it
contained a wronged and imprisoned lady, with intentions
neither more honest nor dishonest than to
set her free, as in nature and justice she had a right
to be. Seeing that I was more skilled in scouting than
the others, while they lay back in the cover, I was
sent upon the plain on the business of the reconnoitrings.
You little thought that one was so nigh,
who saw into all the circumventions of your hunt,
but there was I, sometimes flat behind a bush or a
tuft of grass, sometimes rolling down a hill into a
bottom, and little did you dream that your motions
were watched, as the panther watches the drinking
deer. Lord, squatter, when I was a man in the pride
and strength of my days, I have looked in at the tent
door of the enemy, and they sleeping, ay, and dreaming
too of being at home and in peace! I wish there
was time to give you the partic—”
“Proceed with your explanation,” interrupted the
impatient Middleton.
“Ah! and a bloody and wicked sight it was! There
I lay in a low bed of grass, as two of the hunters came
nigh each other. Their meeting was not cordial, nor
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such as men, who meet in a desert, should give each
other; but I thought they would have parted in
peace, until I saw one put his rifle to the other's
back and do what I call a treacherous and sinful
murder. It was a noble and a manly youth, that
boy!—Though the powder burnt his coat he stood
the shock for more than a minute before he fell.
Then was he brought to his knees and a desperate
and manful fight he made to the brake, like a wounded
bear seeking a cover!”
“And why, in the name of heavenly justice, did
you conceal this!” cried Middleton.
“What! think you, Captain, that a man, who has
spent more than threescore years in the wilderness,
has not learned the virtue of discretion. What red
warrior runs to tell the sights he has seen until a fitting
time? I took the Doctor to the place, in order to see
whether his skill might not come in use, and our
friend, the bee-hunter, being in company, was knowing
to the fact that the bushes held the body.”
“Ay; it ar' true,” said Paul; “but not knowing
what private reasons might make the old trapper
wish to hush the matter up, I said as little about the
thing as possible; which was just nothing at all.”
“And who was the perpetrator of this deed? demanded
Middleton.
“If by perpetrator you mean him who did the act,
1 stands the man; and a shame, and a disgrace
is it to our race, that he is of the blood and family of
the dead.”
“He lies! he lies!” shrieked Abiram. “I did no
murder; I gave but blow for blow.”
The voice of Ishmael was deep and even awful,
as he answered—
“It is enough. Let the old man go. Boys, put
the brother of your mother in his place.”
“Touch me not!” cried Abiram. “I'll call on
God to curse ye if you touch me!”
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The wild and disordered gleam of his eye at first
induced the young men to arrest their steps, but
when Abner, older and more resolute than the rest,
advanced full upon him, with a countenance that
bespoke the hostile state of his mind, the affrighted
criminal turned, and making an abortive effort to
fly, fell with his face to the earth, to all appearance
perfectly dead. Amid the low exclamations of horror,
which succeeded, Ishmael made a gesture which
commanded his sons to bear the body into a tent.
“Now,” he said, turning to those who were strangers
in his camp, “nothing is left to be done, but for
each to go his own road. I wish you all well; and
to you, Ellen, though you may not prize the gift, I
say, God bless you!”
Middleton, awe-struck by what he believed a manifest
judgment of Heaven, made no further resistance,
but prepared to depart. The arrangements
were brief and soon completed. When they were
all ready, they took a short and silent leave of the
squatter and his family, and then the whole of the
singularly constituted party was seen slowly and silently
following the victorious Pawnee, towards his
distant villages.
CHAPTER XV.
“And I beseech you,
Wrest once the law, to your authority:
To do a great right, do a little wrong.”
Shakspeare.
Ishmael awaited long and patiently for the motley
train of Hard-Heart to disappear. When his scout
reported that the last straggler of the Indians, who
had joined their chief so soon as he was at such a
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distance from the encampment as to excite no jealousy
by their numbers, had gone behind the most
distant swell of the prairie, he gave forth the order
to strike his tents. The cattle were already in the
gears, and the moveables were soon transferred to
their usual places in the different vehicles. When
all these arrangements were completed, the little
wagon, which had so long been the tenement of Inez,
was drawn before the tent, into which the insensible
body of the kidnapper had been borne, and preparations
were evidently made for the reception of
another prisoner. Then it was, as Abiram appeared,
pale, terrified, and tottering beneath a load of detected
guilt, that the younger members of the family
were first apprized that he still belonged to the class
of the living. A general and superstitious impression
had spread among them that his crime had been visited
by a terrible retribution from Heaven, and they
now gazed at him, as at a being who belonged rather
to another world, than as a mortal, who like themselves
had still to endure the last agony, before the
great link of human existence could be broken.
The criminal himself appeared to be in a state in
which the most sensitive and startling terror was
singularly combined with total physical apathy. The
truth was, that while his person had been numbed
by the shock, his susceptibility to apprehension kept
his agitated mind in unrelieved distress. When he
found himself in the open air, he looked about him,
in order to gather, if possible, some evidences of his
future fate from the countenances of those who were
gathered round. Seeing every where grave but
composed features, and meeting in no eye any expression
that threatened immediate violence, the
miserable man began to revive, and, by the time he
was seated in the wagon, his artful faculties were beginning
to plot the expedients of parrying the just
resentment of his kinsmen, or, if these should fail
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him, the means of escaping from a punishment that
his forebodings told him would be terrible.
Throughout the whole of these preparations Ishmael
had rarely spoken. A gesture, or a glance of
the eye, had served to indicate his pleasure to his
sons, and with these simple methods of communication,
all parties appeared perfectly content. When
the signal was made to proceed, the squatter threw
his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and his axe across
his shoulder, taking the lead as usual. Esther had
buried herself in the wagon which contained her
daughters; the young men took their customary
places among the cattle, or nigh the teams, and the
whole proceeded, at their ordinary, dull, but unremitted
gait.
For the first time in many a day, the squatter turned
his back towards the setting sun. The route he
held was in the direction of the settled country,
and the manner in which he moved sufficed to tell
his children, who had learned to read their father's
determinations in his mien, that their journey on the
prairie was shortly to have an end. Still nothing
else transpired for hours, that might denote the existence
of any sudden or violent revolution in the
purposes or feelings of Ishmael. During all that
time he marched alone, keeping a few hundred rods
in front of his teams, seldom giving any sign of extraordinary
excitement. Once or twice, indeed, his huge
figure was seen standing on the summit of some distant
swell, with the head bent towards the earth, as
he leaned on his rifle; but then these moments of
intense thought were rare and of short continuance.
The train had long thrown its shadows towards the
east before any material alteration was made in the
disposition of their march. Water-courses were
waded, plains were passed, and rolling ascents risen
and descended, without producing the smallest
change. Long practised in the difficulties of that
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peculiar species of travelling in which he was engaged,
the squatter avoided the more impracticable
obstacles of their route by a sort of instinct, invariably
inclining to the right or left in season, as the
formation of the land, the presence of trees, or the
signs of rivers forewarned him of the necessity of
such movements.
At length the hour arrived when charity to man
and beast required a temporary suspension of labour.
Ishmael chose the required spot with all his customary
sagacity. The regular formation of the country, such
as it has been described in the earlier pages of our
book, had long been interrupted by a more unequal
and broken surface. There were, it is true, in general,
the same wide and empty wastes, the same rich
and extensive bottoms, and that wild and singular
combination of swelling fields and of nakedness,
which gives that region the appearance of an ancient
country, incomprehensibly stripped of its people and
their dwellings. But these distinguishing features of
the rolling prairies had long been interrupted by
irregular hillocks, occasional masses of rock, and
broad belts of forest.
Ishmael chose a spring, that broke out of the base
of a rock some forty or fifty feet in elevation, as a
place well suited to the wants of his herds. The
water moistened a small swale that lay beneath the
spot, which yielded, in return for the fecund gift a
scanty growth of grass. A solitary willow had taken
root in the alluvion, and profiting by its exclusive
possession of the soil, the tree had sent up its stem
far above the crest of the adjacent rock, whose peaked
summit had once been shadowed by its branches.
But its loveliness had gone with the mysterious principle
of life. As if in mockery of the meagre show
of verdure that the spot exhibited, it remained a
noble and solemn monument of former fertility. The
larger, ragged and fantsatic branches still obtruded
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themselves abroad, while the white and hoary trunk
stood naked and tempest-riven. Not a leaf, nor a
sign of vegetation was to be seen about it. In all
things it proclaimed the frailty of existence and the
fulfilment of time.
Here Ishmael, after making the customary signal
for the train to approach, threw his vast frame upon
the earth, and seemed to muse on the deep responsibility
of his present situation. His sons were not
long in arriving, for the cattle no sooner scented the
food and water than they quickened their pace, and
then succeeded the usual bustle and avocations of a
halt.
The impression made by the scene of that morning
was not so deep or lasting on the children of Ishmael
and Esther, as to induce them to forget the wants of
nature. But while the sons were searching among
their stores, for something substantial to appease their
hunger, and the younger fry were wrangling about
their simple dishes, the parents of the unnurtured
family were far differently employed.
When the squatter saw that all, even to the reviving
Abiram, were busy in administering to their
appetites, he gave his downcast partner a glance of
his eye, and withdrew towards a distant roll of the
land, which bounded the view towards the east. The
meeting of the pair, in this naked spot, was like an
interview held above the grave of their murdered
son. Ishmael signed to his wife to take a seat beside
him on a fragment of rock, and then followed a space,
during which neither seemed disposed to speak.
“We have journeyed together long, through good
and bad,” Ishmael at length commenced; “much
have we had to try us, and some bitter cups have we
been made to swallow, my woman; but nothing like
this has ever before lain in my path.”
“It is a heavy cross for a poor, misguided, and
sinful woman to bear!” returned Esther, bowing her
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head to her knees, and partly concealing her face in
her dress. “A heavy and a burdensome weight is this
to be laid upon the shoulders of a sister and a
mother!”
“Ay; therein lies the hardship of the case. I had
brought my mind to the punishment of that houseless
trapper, with no great strivings, for the man had done
me few favours, and God forgive me if I suspected
him wrongfully of much evil! This is, however,
bringing shame in at one door of my cabin, in order
to drive it out at the other. But shall a son of mine
be murdered, and he who did it go at large?—the
boy would never rest!”
“Oh, Ishmael, we pushed the matter far! Had
little been said, who would have been the wiser?
Our consciences might then have been quiet.”
“Eest'er,” said the husband, turning on her a reproachful
but still a dull regard, “the hour has been,
my woman, when you thought another hand had done
this wickedness?”
“I did, I did! the Lord gave me the feeling, as a
punishment for my sins! but his mercy was not slow
in lifting the veil; I looked into the book, Ishmael,
and there I found the words of comfort.”
“Have you that book at hand, woman; it may
happen to advise in such a dreary business.”
Esther fumbled in her pocket and was not long in
producing the fragment of a bible, which had been
thumbed and smoke-dried till the print was nearly
illegible. It was the only article, in the nature of a
book, that was to be found among the chattels of the
squatter, and it had been preserved by his wife, as a
melancholy relic of more prosperous, and possibly
of more innocent days. She had long been in the
habit of resorting to it, under the pressure of such
circumstances as were palpably beyond human redress,
though her spirit and resolution rarely needed
support under those that admitted of reparation
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through any of the ordinary means of reprisal. In
this manner Esther had made a sort of convenient
ally of the word of God; rarely troubling it for counsel,
however, except when her own incompetency
to avert an evil was too apparent to be disputed. We
shall leave casuists to determine how far she resembled
any other believers in this particular, and proceed
directly with the matter before us.
“There are many awful passages in these pages,
Ishmael,” she said, when the volume was opened,
and the leaves were slowly turning under her finger,
“and some there ar' that teach the rules of punishment.”
Her husband made a gesture for her to find one of
those brief rules of conduct, which have been received
among all Christian nations as the direct mandates
of the Creator, and which have been found so just,
that even they, who deny their high authority, admit
their wisdom. Ishmael listened with grave attention,
as his companion read all those verses, which her
memory suggested, and which were thought applicable
to the situation in which they found themselves.
He made her show him the words, which he regarded
with a sort of strange reverence. A resolution
once taken was usually irrevocable, in one who was
moved with so much difficulty. He put his hand
upon the book, and closed the pages himself, as much
as to apprize his wife that he was satisfied. Esther,
who so well knew his character, trembled at the
action, and casting a glance at his steady but contracting
eye, she said—
“And yet, Ishmael, my blood, and the blood of my
children, is in his veins! cannot mercy be shown?”
“Woman,” he answered sternly, “when we believed,
that miserable old trapper had done this deed,
nothing was said of mercy!”
Esther made no reply, but folding her arms upon
her breast, she sat silent and thoughtful for many
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minutes. Then she once more turned her anxious gaze
upon the countenance, of her husband, where she
found all passion and care apparently buried in the
coldest apathy. Satisfied now, that the fate of her
brother was sealed, and possibly conscious how well
he merited the punishment that was meditated, she
no longer thought of mediation. No more words
passed between them. Their eyes met for an instant,
and then both arose and walked in profound silence
towards the encampment.
The squatter found his children expecting his return,
in the usual listless manner with which they
awaited all coming events. The cattle were already
herded, and the horses in their gears, in readiness to
proceed so soon as he should indicate that such was
his pleasure. The children were already in their
proper vehicle, and, in short, nothing delayed the departure
but the absence of the parents of the wild
brood.
“Abner,” said the father, with the deliberation
with which all his proceedings were characterized,
“take the brother of your mother from the wagon,
and let him stand on the 'arth.”
Abiram issued from his place of concealment,
trembling, it is true, but far from destitute of hopes,
as to his final success in appeasing the just resentment
of his kinsman. After throwing a glance around
him, with the vain wish of finding a single countenance
in which he might detect a solitary gleam of
sympathy, he endeavoured to smother those apprehensions,
that were by this time reviving in all their
original violence, by forcing a sort of friendly communication
between himself and the squatter—
“The beasts are getting jaded, brother,” he said;
“and as we have made so good a march already, is
it not time to 'camp. To my eye you may go far,
before a better place than this is found to pass the
night in.”
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“ 'Tis well you like it. Your tarry here ar' likely
to be long. My sons, draw nigh and listen. Abiram
White,” he added, lifting his cap, and speaking with
a solemnity and steadiness, that rendered even his
dull mien imposing, “you have slain my first-born,
and according to the laws of God and man must you
die!”
The kidnapper started at this terrible and sudden
sentence, with the terror that one would exhibit who
unexpectedly found himself in the grasp of a monster,
from whose power there was no retreat. Although
filled with the most serious forebodings of
what might be his lot, his courage had not been equal
to look his danger in the face, and with the deceitful
consolation, with which timid tempers are apt to
conceal their desperate condition from themselves, he
had rather courted a treacherous relief in his cunning,
than prepared himself for the worst.
“Die!” he repeated in a voice, that scarcely issued
from his chest; “a man is surely safe among his
friends!”
“So thought my boy,” returned the squatter, motioning
for the team, that contained his wife and the
girls, to proceed, as he very coolly examined the
priming of his piece. “By the rifle did you destroy
my son, and it is fit and just that you meet your end
by the same weapon.”
Abiram stared about him with a gaze that, for the
moment, bespoke an unsettled reason. He even
laughed, as if he would not only persuade himself
but others that what he heard was some pleasantry,
intended to try his nerves. But no where did his
frightful merriment meet with an answering echo.
All around was solemn and still. The visages of his
nephews were excited, but cold towards him, and
that of his former confederate frightfully determined.
This very steadiness of mien was a thousand times
more alarming and hopeless than any violence could
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have proved. The latter might possibly have touched
his spirit and awakened resistance, but the former
threw him entirely on the feeble resources of himself.
“Brother,” he said, in a hurried, unnatural whisper,
“did I hear you?”
“My words are plain, Abiram White; you have
done murder, and for the same must you die!”
“Where is Esther? sister, sister, will you leave
me! Oh! Sister! do you hear my call?”
“I hear one speak from the grave!” returned the
husky tones of Esther, as the wagon passed the spot
where the criminal stood. “It is the voice of my
first-born, calling aloud for justice! God have mercy,
God have mercy on your soul!”
The team slowly pursued its route, and the deserted
Abiram now found himself deprived of the
smallest vestige of hope. Still he could not summon
fortitude to meet his death, and had not his limbs refused
to aid him, he would yet have attempted to fly.
Then, by a sudden revolution from hope to utter
despair, he fell upon his knees, and commenced a
prayer, in which cries for mercy to God and to his
kinsman were wildly and blasphemously mingled.
The sons of Ishmael turned away in horror at the
disgusting spectacle, and even the stern nature of the
squatter began to bend before such abject misery.
“May that, which you ask of Him, be granted,”
he said; but a father can never forget a murdered
child.”
He was answered by the most humble appeals for
time. A week, a day, an hour, were each implored,
with an earnestness commensurate to the value they
receive, when a whole life is compressed into their
short duration. The squatter was troubled, and at
length he yielded in part to the petitions of the criminal.
His final purpose was not altered, though he
changed the means; “Abner,” he said, “mount the
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rock and look on every side, that we may be sure
none are nigh.”
While his nephew was obeying this order, gleams
of reviving hope were seen shooting across the quivering
features of the kidnapper. The report was
favourable, nothing having life, the retiring teams excepted,
was to be seen. A messenger was, however,
coming from the latter, in great apparent haste. Ishmael
awaited its arrival. He received from the hands
of one of his wondering and frighted girls a fragment
of that book, which Esther had preserved with so
much care. The squatter beckoned the child away,
and placed the leaves in the hands of the criminal.
“Eest'er has sent you this,” he said, “that, in your
last moments, you may remember God.”
“Bless her, bless her! a good and kind sister has
she been to me! But time must be given, that I may
read; time, my brother, time!”
“Time shall not be wanting. You shall be your
own executioner, and this miserable office shall pass
away from my hands.”
Ishmael proceeded to put his new resolution in
force. The immediate apprehensions of the kidnapper
were quieted, by an assurance that he might
yet live for days, though his punishment was inevitable.
A reprieve, to one as abject and wretched as
Abiram, temporarily produced the same effects as a
pardon. He was even foremost in assisting in the
appalling arrangements, and of all the actors, in that
solemn tragedy, his voice alone was facetious and
jocular.
A thin shelf of the rock projected beneath one of
the ragged arms of the willow. It was many feet
from the ground, and admirably adapted to the
purpose which, in fact, its appearance had suggested.
On this little platform was the criminal
placed, his arms bound at the elbows behind his
back, beyond the possibility of liberation, with a
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proper cord leading from his neck to the limb of the
tree. The latter was so placed, that when suspended
the body could find no foot-hold. The fragment of
the bible was placed in his hands, and he was there
left to seek his consolation as he might from its
pages.
“And now, Abiram White,” said the squatter,
when his sons had descended from completing this
arrangement, “I give you a last and solemn asking.
Death is before you in two shapes. With this rifle
can your misery be cut short, or by that cord, sooner
or later, must you meet your end.”
“Let me yet live! Oh, Ishmael, you know not
how sweet life is, when the last moment draws so
nigh!”
“ 'Tis done;” said the squatter motioning for his
assistants to follow the herds and teams. “And now,
miserable man, that it may prove a consolation to
your end, I forgive you my wrongs and leave you to
your God.”
Ishmael then turned and pursued his way across
the plain at his ordinary sluggish and ponderous gait.
Though his head was bent a little towards the earth,
his inactive mind did not prompt him to cast a
look behind. Once, indeed, he thought he heard his
name called, in tones that were a little smothered,
but they failed to make him pause.
At the spot where he and Esther had conferred
he reached the boundary of the visible horizon from
the rock. Here he stopped, and ventured a glance
in the direction of the place he had just quitted.
The sun was near dipping into the plains beyond,
and its last rays lighted the naked branches of the
willow. He saw the ragged outline of the whole
drawn against the glowing heavens, and he even
traced the still upright form of the being he had left
to his misery. Turning the roll of the swell he proceeded
with the feelings of one, who had been
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suddenly and violently separated from a recent confederate,
forever.
Within a mile the squatter overtook his teams.
His sons had found a place suited to the encampment
for the night, and merely awaited his approach
to confirm their choice. Few words were necessary
to express his acquiescence. Every thing passed in
a silence more general and remarkable than ever.
The chidings of Esther were not heard among her
young, or if heard, they were more in the tones of
softened admonition than in her usual upbraiding
key.
No questions nor explanations passed between the
husband and his wife. It was only as the latter was
about to withdraw among her children, for the night,
that the former saw her taking a furtive look at the
pan of his rifle. Ishmael bade his sons seek their
rest, announcing his intention to look to the safety of
the camp in person. When all was still, he walked
out upon the prairie, with a sort of sensation that he
found his breathing among the tents too straitened.
The night was well adapted to heighten the feelings,
which had been created by the events of the day.
The wind had risen with the moon, and it was
occasionally sweeping over the plain, in a manner
that made it not difficult for the sentinel to imagine
that strange and unearthly sounds were mingling in
the blast. Yielding to the extraordinary impulses of
which he was the subject, he cast a glance around to
see that all were slumbering in security, and then he
strayed towards the swell of land already mentioned.
Here the squatter found himself at a point that commanded
a view to the east and to the west. Light
fleecy clouds were driving before the moon, which
was cold and watery, though there were moments,
when its placid rays were shed from clear blue
fields, seeming to soften objects to its own mild
loveliness.
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For the first time, in a life of so much wild adventure,
Ishmael felt a keen sense of solitude. The
naked prairies began to assume the forms of illimitable
and dreary wastes, and the rushing of the wind
sounded like the whisperings of the dead. It was
not long before he thought a shriek was borne past
him on a blast. It did not sound like a call from
earth, but it swept frightfully through the upper air,
mingled with the hoarse accompaniment of the wind.
The teeth of the squatter were compressed, and his
huge hand grasped the rifle, as though it would
crush the metal like paper. Then came a lull, a
fresher blast, and a cry of horror that seemed to have
been uttered at the very portals of his ears. A sort
of echo burst involuntarily from his own lips, as men
will often shout under unnatural excitement, and
throwing his rifle across his shoulder, he proceeded
towards the rock with the strides of a giant.
It was not often that the blood of Ishmael moved
at the rate with which the fluid circulates in the veins
of ordinary men; but now he felt it ready to gush
from every pore in his body. The animal was aroused
in his most latent energies. Ever as he advanced
he heard those shrieks, which sometimes seemed ringing
among the clouds, and sometimes passed so nigh
as to appear to brush the earth. At length there
came a cry, in which there could be no delusion, or
to which the imagination could lend no horror. It
appeared to fill each cranny of the air, as the visible
horizon is often charged to fulness by one dazzling
flash of the electric fluid. The name of God was
distinctly audible, but it was awfully and blasphemously
blended with sounds that may not be repeated.
The squatter stopped, and for a moment he covered
his ears with his hands. When he withdrew the latter,
a low and husky voice at his elbow asked in
smothered tones—
“Ishmael, my man, heard ye nothing?”
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“Hist!” returned the husband, laying a powerful
arm on Esther, without manifesting the smallest surprise
at the unlooked-for presence of his wife. “Hist,
woman! if you have the fear of Heaven be still!”
A profound silence succeeded. Though the wind
rose and fell as before, its rushing was no longer mingled
with those fearful cries. The sounds were imposing
and solemn, but it was the solemnity and majesty
of nature in its solitude.
“Let us go on,” said Esther; “all is hushed.”
“Woman, what has brought you here?” demanded
her husband, whose blood had returned into its former
channels, and whose thoughts had already lost a
portion of their excitement.
“Ishmael, he murdered our first-born, but it is not
meet that the son of my mother should lie upon the
ground, like the carrion of a dog!”
“Follow;” returned the squatter again grasping
his rifle, and striding towards the rock. The distance
was still considerable, and their approach, as they
drew nigh the place of execution, was moderated by
awe. Many minutes had passed, before they reached
a spot where they might distinguish the outlines of
the dusky objects.
“Where have you put the body?” Whispered
Esther. “See, here are pick and spade, that a brother
of mine may sleep in the bosom of the earth!”
The moon broke from behind a mass of clouds,
and the eye of the woman was enabled to follow the
finger of Ishmael. It pointed to a human form swinging
in the wind, beneath the ragged and shining arm
of the willow. Esther bent her head and veiled her
eyes from the sight. But Ishmael drew nigher, and
long contemplated his work in awe, though not in
compunction. The leaves of the sacred book were
scattered on the ground, and even a fragment of the
shelf had been displaced by the kidnapper in his agony.
But all was now in the stillness of death. The
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grim and convulsed countenance of the victim was
at times brought full into the light of the moon, and
again as the wind lulled, the fatal rope drew a dark
line across its bright disk. The squatter raised his
rifle, with extreme care, and fired. The cord was
cut and the body came lumbering to the earth, a
heavy and insensible mass.
Until now Esther had not moved nor spoken. But
her hand was not slow to assist in the labour of the
hour. The grave was soon dug. It was instantly
made to receive its miserable tenant. As the lifeless
form descended, Esther, who sustained the head, looked
up into the face of her husband with an expression
of anguish, and said—
“Ishmael, my man, it is very terrible! I cannot
kiss the corpse of my father's child!”
The squatter laid his broad hand on the bosom of
the dead, and said—
“Abiram White, we all have need of mercy; from
my soul do I forgive you! may God in Heaven have
pity on your sins!”
The woman bowed her face, and imprinted her
lips long and fervently on the pallid forehead of her
brother. After this came the falling clods and all the
solemn sounds of filling a grave. Esther lingered on
her knees, and Ishmael stood uncovered while the
woman muttered a prayer. All was then finished.
On the following morning the teams and herds of
the squatter were seen pursuing their course towards
the settlements. As they approached the confines
of society, the train was blended among a thousand
others. Though some of the numerous descendants
of this peculiar pair, were reclaimed from their lawless
and semi-barbarous lives, the principals of the
family, themselves, were never heard of more.
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CHAPTER XVI.
—“No leave take I; for I will ride,
As far as land will let me, by your side.”
Shakspeare.
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The passage of the Pawnee to his village was interrupted
by no such scene of violence. His vengeance
had been as complete as it was summary. Not
even a solitary scout of the Siouxes was left on the
hunting-grounds he was obliged to traverse, and of
course the journey of Middleton's party was as
peaceful as though it were made in the bosom of the
States. The marches were timed to meet the weakness
of the females. In short the victors seemed to
have lost every trace of ferocity with their success,
and appeared disposed to consult the most trifling of
the wants of that engrossing people who were daily
encroaching on their rights, and reducing the Redmen
of the west from their state of proud independence
to the condition of fugitives and wanderers.
Our limits will not permit a detail of the triumphal
entry of the conquerors. The exultation of the
tribe was proportioned to its previous despondency.
Mothers boasted of the honourable deaths of their
sons; wives proclaimed the honour and pointed to
the scars of their husbands, and Indian girls rewarded
the young braves with their songs of triumph. The
trophies of their fallen enemies were exhibited, as
conquered standards are displayed in more civilized
regions. The deeds of former warriors were recounted
by the aged men, and declared to be eclipsed by
the glory of this victory. While Hard-Heart himself,
so distinguished for his exploits from boyhood to that
hour, was unanimously proclaimed and re-proclaimed
the worthiest chief and the stoutest brave that the
Wahcondah had ever bestowed on his most favoured
children, the Pawnees of the Loup.
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Notwithstanding the comparative security in which
Middleton found his recovered treasure, he was not
sorry to see his faithful and sturdy artillerists standing
among the throng as he entered in the wild train, and
lifting their voices in a martial shout to greet his return.
The presence of this force, small as it was,
removed every shadow of uneasiness from his mind.
It made him master of his movements, gave him
dignity and importance in the eyes of his new friends,
and would enable him to overcome the difficulties of
the wide region which still lay between the village
of the Pawnees and the nearest fortress of his countrymen.
A lodge was yielded to the exclusive possession
of Inez and Ellen; and even Paul, when he
saw an armed sentinel, in the uniform of the States,
pacing before its entrance, was content to stray among
the dwellings of the `Red-skins,' prying with but
little reserve into their domestic economy, commenting
sometimes jocularly, sometimes gravely, and always
freely, on their different expedients, or endeavouring
to make the wondering housewives comprehend
his quaint explanations of what he conceived
to be the better customs of the whites.
This inquiring and troublesome spirit found no
imitators among the Indians. The delicacy and reserve
of Hard-Heart were communicated to his people.
When every attention that could be suggested
by their simple manners and narrow wants had been
fulfilled, no intrusive foot presumed to approach the
cabins that had been devoted to the service of the
strangers. They were left to seek their repose in
that manner which most comported with their habits
and inclinations. The songs and rejoicings of the
tribe, however, ran far into the night, during the
deepest hours of which, the voice of more than one
warrior was heard, recounting, from the top of his
lodge, the deeds of his people and the glory of their
triumphs.
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Every thing having life, notwithstanding the excesses
of the night, was abroad with the appearance
of the sun. The expression of exultation, which had
so lately been seen on every countenance, was now
changed to one better suited to the feeling of the
moment. It was understood by all, that the Palefaces,
who had befriended their chief, were about to
take their final leave of the tribe. The soldiers of
Middleton, in anticipation of his arrival, had bargained
with an unsuccessful trader for the use of his
boat, which lay in the stream ready to receive its
cargo, and nothing remained to complete the arrangements
for the long journey.
Middleton did not see this moment arrive entirely
without distrust. The admiration, with which Hard-Heart
had regarded Inez, had not escaped his jealous
eye, any more than had the lawless wishes of Mahtoree.
He knew the consummate manner in which
a savage could conceal his designs, and he felt that
it would be a culpable weakness to be unprepared
for the worst. Secret instructions were therefore
given to his men, while the preparations they made
were properly masked behind the show of military
parade with which it was intended to signalize their
departure.
The conscience of the young soldier reproached
him, when he saw the whole tribe accompanying his
party to the margin of the stream, with unarmed
hands and sorrowful countenances. They gathered
in a circle around the strangers and their chief, and
became not only peaceful, but highly interested observers
of what was passing. As it was evident that
Hard-Heart intended to speak, the former stopped,
and manifested their readiness to listen, the trapper
performing the office of interpreter. Then the young
chief addressed his people, in the usual metaphorical
language of an Indian. He commenced by alluding
to the antiquity and renown of his own nation. He
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spoke of their successes in the hunts and on the warpath;
of the manner in which they had always known
how to defend their rights and to chastise their enemies.
After he had said enough to manifest his respect
for the greatness of the Loups, and to satisfy
the pride of the listeners, he made a sudden transition
to the race of whom the strangers were members.
He compared their countless numbers to the flights of
migratory birds in the season of blossoms or in the fall
of the year. With a delicacy, that none knew better
how to practise than an Indian warrior, he made no
direct mention of the rapacious temper, that so many
of them had betrayed in their dealings with the Redmen.
Feeling that the sentiment of distrust was
strongly engrafted in the tempers of his tribe, he
rather endeavoured to soothe any just resentment
they might entertain, by indirect excuses and apologies.
He reminded the listeners that even the
Pawnee Loups had been obliged to chase many unworthy
individuals from their villages. The Wahcondah
sometimes veiled his countenance from a Redman.
No doubt the Great Spirit of the Pale-faces
often looked darkly on his children. Such as were
abandoned to the worker of evil could never be
brave or virtuous, let the colour of the skin be what
it might. He bade his young men to look at the hands
of the Big-knives. They were not empty, like those
of hungry beggars. Neither were they filled with
goods, like those of knavish traders. They were,
like themselves, warriors, and they carried arms
which they knew well how to use—they were worthy
to be called brothers!
Then he directed the attention of all to the chief
of the strangers. He was a son of their great white
father. He had not come upon the prairies to frighten
the buffaloes from their pastures, or to seek the game
of the Indians. Wicked men had robbed him of one
of his wives; no doubt she was the most obedient,
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the meekest, the loveliest of them all. They had
only to open their eyes to see that his words must be
true. Now, that the white chief had found his wife,
he was about to return to his own people in peace.
He would tell them that the Pawnees were just, and
there would be a line of wampum between the two
nations. Let all his people wish the strangers a safe
return to their towns. The warriors of the Loups
knew both how to receive their enemies, and how to
clear the briars from the path of their friends.
The heart of Middleton had beat quick, as the
young partisan alluded to the charms of Inez, and
for an instant he cast an impatient glance at his little
line of artillerists; but the chief from that moment
appeared to forget he had ever seen so fair a being.
His feelings, if he had any on the subject, were veiled
behind the cold mask of Indian self-denial: He took
each warrior by the hand, not forgetting the meanest
soldier, but his cold and collected eye never wandered,
for an instant, towards either of the females.
Arrangements had been made for their comfort, with
a prodigality and care that had not failed to excite
some surprise in his young men, but in no other particular
did he shock their manly pride by betraying
any solicitude in behalf of the weaker sex.
The leave-taking was general and imposing. Each
male Pawnee was sedulous to omit no one of the
strange warriors in his attentions, and of course the
ceremony occupied some time. The only exception,
and that was not general, was in the case of Dr. Battius.
Not a few of the young men, it is true, were
indifferent about lavishing civilities on one of so
doubtful a profession, but the worthy naturalist found
some consolation in the more matured politeness of
the old men, who had inferred, that though not of
much use in war, the medicine of the Big-knives
might possibly be made serviceable in peace.
When all of Middleton's party had embarked, the
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trapper lifted a small bundle, which had lain at his
feet during the previous proceedings, and whistling
Hector to his side, he was the last to take his seat.
The artillerists gave the usual cheers, which were
answered by a shout from the tribe, and then the
boat was shoved into the current, and began to glide
swiftly down its stream.
A long and a musing, if not a melancholy silence
succeeded this departure. It was first broken by
the trapper, whose regret was not the least visible in
his dejected and sorrowful eye—
“They are a valiant and an honest tribe,” he said;
“that will I say boldly in their favour; and second
only do I take them to be to that once mighty but
now scattered people, the Delawares of the Hills.
Ah's me! Captain, if you had seen as much good and
evil as I have seen in these nations of Red-skins, you
would know of how much value was a brave and
simple-minded warrior. I know that some are to be
found, who both think and say that an Indian is but
a little better than the beasts of these naked plains.
But it is needful to be honest in one's self to be a
fitting judge of honesty in others. No doubt, no
doubt, they know their enemies, and little do they
care to show to such any great confidence or love.”
“It is the way of man,” returned the Captain,
“and it is probable they are not wanting in any of
his natural qualities.”
“No, no; it is little that they want, that natur' has
had to give. But as little does he know of the temper
of a Red-skin, who has seen but one Indian or one
tribe, as he knows of the colour of feathers who has
only looked upon a crow. Now, friend steersman,
just give the boat a sheer towards youder, low, sandy
point, and a favour will be granted at a short asking.”
“For what?” demanded Middleton; “we are now
in the swiftest of the current, and by drawing to the
shore we shall lose the force of the stream.”
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“Your tarry will not be long,” returned the old
man, applying his own hand to the execution of that
which he had requested. The oarsmen had seen
enough of his influence with their leader not to dispute
his wishes, and before time was given for further
discussion on the subject, the bows of the boat had
touched the land.
“Captain,” resumed the other untying his little
wallet with great deliberation, and even in a manner
to show he found satisfaction in the delay, “I wish to
offer you a small matter of trade. No great bargain,
mayhap; but still the best that one, of whose hand
the skill of the rifle has taken leave, and who has
become no better than a miserable trapper, can offer
before we part.”
“Part!” was echoed from every mouth among
those who had so recently shared his dangers and
profited by his care.
“What the devil, old trapper, do you mean to
foot it to the settlements, when here is a boat that will
float the distance in half the time, that the jackass,
the Doctor has given the Pawnee, could trot along
the same!”
“Settlements, boy! It is long sin' I took my leave
of the waste and wickedness of the settlements and
the villages. If I live in a clearing here, it is one of
the Lord's making, and I have no hard thoughts on
the matter; but never again shall I be seen running
wilfully into the danger of immoralities.”
“I had not thought of parting,” answered Middleton,
endeavouring to seek some relief from the uneasiness
he felt, by turning his eyes on the sympathizing
countenances of his friends; “on the contrary, I had
hoped and believed that you would have accompanied
us below, where I give you a sacred pledge,
nothing shall be wanting to make your days comfortable.”
“Yes, lad, yes; you would do your endeavours;
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but what are the strivings of man against the working
of the devil! Ay, if kind offers and good wishes
could have done the thing, I might have been a
congress-man, or perhaps a governor, years agone.
Your gran'ther wished the same, and there are
them still living in the Otsego mountains, as I hope,
who would gladly have given me a palace for my
dwelling. But what are riches without content!
My time must now be short, at any rate, and I hope
it's no mighty sin for one, who has acted his part
honestly near ninety winters and summers, to wish
to pass the few hours that remain in comfort. If you
think I have done wrong in coming thus far to quit
you again, Captain, I will own the reason of the act
without shame or backwardness. Though I have
seen so much of the wilderness, it is not to be gainsayed,
that my feelings, as well as my skin, are white.
Now it would not be a fitting spectacle, that yonder
Pawnee Loups should look upon the weakness of an
old warrior, if weakness he should happen to show
in parting for ever from those he has reason to love,
though he may not set his heart so strongly on them
as to wish to go into the settlements in their company.”
“Harkee, old trapper,” said Paul, clearing his
throat with a desperate effort, as if he was determined
to give his voice a clear exit; “I have just
one bargain to make, since you talk of trading,
which is neither more nor less than this. I offer
you, as my side of the business, one half of my
shanty, nor do I much care if it be the biggest half;
the sweetest and the purest honey that can be made
of the wild locust; always enough to eat, with now
and then a mouthful of venison, or, for that matter,
a morsel of buffaloe's hump, seeing that I intend to
push my acquaintance with the animal, and as good
and as tidy cooking as can come from the hands of
one like Ellen Wade, here, who will shortly be Nelly
somebody-else, and altogether such general
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treatment as a decent man might be supposed to pay to
his best friend, or, for that matter, to his own father;
in return for the same you ar' to give us at odd moments
some of your ancient traditions, perhaps a little
wholesome advice on occasions, in small quantities
at a time, and as much of your agreeable company
as you please.”
“It is well—it is well, boy,” returned the old man,
fumbling at his wallet; “honestly offered and not
unthankfully declined—but it cannot be; no, it can
never be.”
“Venerable venator,” said Dr. Battius; “there
are obligations, which every man owes to society and
to human nature. It is time that you should return
to your countrymen, to deliver up some of those
stores of experimental knowledge that you have
doubtless obtained by so long a sojourn in the wilds,
which, however they may be corrupted by preconceived
opinions, will prove acceptable bequests to those
whom, as you say, you must shortly leave forever.”
“Friend physicianer,” returned the trapper, looking
the other steadily in the face, “as it would be no
easy matter to judge of the temper of the rattler by
considering the fashions of the moose, so it would be
hard to speak of the usefulness of one man by thinking
too much of the deeds of another. You have
your gifts like others, I suppose, and little do I wish to
disturb them. But as to me, the Lord has made me
for a doer and not a talker, and therefore do I consider
it no harm to shut my ears to your invitation.”
“It is enough,” interrupted Middleton; “I have
seen and heard so much of this extraordinary man,
as to know that persuasions will not change his purpose.
First we will hear your request, my friend,
and then we will consider what may be best done for
your advantage.”
“It is a small matter, Captain,” returned the old
man, succeeding at length in opening his bundle. “A
small and trifling matter is it, to what I once
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used-to-could offer in the way of bargains; but then it is the
best I have, and therein not to be despised. Here
are the skins of four beavers, that I took, it might be
a month afore we met, and here is another from a
raccoon, that is of no great matter to be sure, but
which may serve to make weight atween us.”
“And what do you propose to do with them?”
“I offer them in lawful barter. Them knaves the
Siouxes, the Lord forgive me for ever believing it
was the Konzas, have stolen the best of my traps,
and driven me altogether to make-shift inventions,
which might foretel a dreary winter for me, should
my time stretch into another season. I wish you
therefore to take the skins, and to offer them to some
of the trappers you will not fail to meet below, and
to send the same into the Pawnee village in my name.
Be careful to have my mark painted on them; a letter
N, with a hound's ear and the lock of a rifle.
There is no Red-skin who will then dispute my right.
For all which trouble I have little more to offer than
my thanks, unless my friend, the bee-hunter here,
will accept of the raccoon, and take on himself the
special charge of the whole matter.”
“If I do, may I be—!” The mouth of Paul
was stopped by the pretty hand of Ellen, and he was
obliged to swallow the rest of the sentence, which he
did with a species of emotion that bore no slight resemblance
to the process of strangulation.
“Well, well,” returned the old man meekly, “I
hope there is no heavy offence in the offer. I know
that the skin of a raccoon is of small price, but then
it was no mighty labour that I asked in return.”
“You entirely mistake the meaning of our friend,”
interrupted Middleton, who observed, that the bee-hunter
was looking in every direction but the right
one, and that he was utterly unable to make his own
vindication. “He did not mean to say that he declined
the charge, but merely that he refused all compensation.
It is unnecessary, however, to say more
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of this; it shall be my office to see that the debt of
gratitude, we owe, is properly discharged, and that
all your necessities shall be anticipated.”
“Anan!” said the old man, looking up enquiringly
into the other's face, as if to ask an explanation.
“It shall all be as you wish. Lay the skins with my
baggage. We will bargain for you as for ourselves.”
“Thankee, thankee, Captain; you gran'ther was
of a free and generous mind. So much so, in truth,
that those just people, the Delawares, called him the
`Open-hand.' I wish, now, I was as I used to be, in
order that I might send in the lady a few delicate
martens for her tippets and overcoats, just to show
you that I know how to give courtesy for courtesy.
But do not expect the same, for I am too old to
give a promise. It will all be just as the Lord shall
see fit. I can offer you nothing else, for I haven't
liv'd so long in the wilderness, not to know the scrupulous
ways of a gentleman.”
Harkee, old trapper,” cried the bee-hunter, striking
his own hand into the open palm which the other
had extended, with a report but little below the
crack of a rifle, “I have just two things to say. Firstly,
that the captain has told you my meaning better
than I can myself; and secondly, if you want a skin,
either for your private use or to send abroad, I have
it at your service, and that is the skin of one Paul
Hover.”
The old man returned the grasp he received, and
opened his mouth to the utmost, in his extraordinary,
silent laugh.
“You couldn't have given such a squeeze, boy,
when the Teton squaws were about you with the
knives!” he said. “Ah! you are in your prime, and
in your vigour and happiness, if honesty lies in your
path.” Then the expression of his rugged features
suddenly changed to a look of seriousness and thought.
“Come hither, lad,” he said, leading the bee-hunter
by a button to the land, and speaking apart in a tone
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of admonition and confidence, “much has passed
atween us on the pleasures and respectableness of a
life in the woods or on the borders. I do not now
mean to say that all you have heard is not true; but
different tempers call for different employments. You
have taken to your bosom, there, a good and kind
child, and it has become your duty to consider her,
as well as yourself, in setting forth in life. You are
a little given to skirting the settlements, but, to my
poor judgment, the girl would be more like a flourishing
flower in the sun of a clearing, than in the
winds of a prairie. Therefore forget any thing you
may have heard from me, which is nevertheless true,
and turn your mind on the ways of the inner country.”
Paul could only answer with a squeeze, that would
have brought tears from the eyes of most men, but
which produced no other effect on the indurated
muscles of the other, than to make him laugh and
nod, as if he would say he received the same as a
pledge that the bee-hunter would remember his advice.
The trapper then turned away from his rough
but warm-hearted companion, and having called
Hector from the boat, he seemed anxious still to
utter a few words more—
“Captain,” he at length resumed, “I know when
a poor man talks of credit, he deals in a delicate word
according to the fashions of the world; and when an
old man talks of life, he speaks of that which he may
never see; nevertheless there is one thing I will say,
and that is not so much on my own behalf as on that
of another person. Here is Hector, a good and faithful
pup, that has long outlived the time of a dog, and
like his master he looks more to comfort now, than
to any deeds in running. But the creatur' has his
feelings as well as a Christian. He has consorted
latterly with his kinsman, there, in such a sort as to
find great pleasure in his company, and I will acknowledge
that it touches my feelings to part the pair so
soon. If you will set a value on your hound, I will
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endeavour to send it to you in the spring, more especially
should them same traps come safe to hand; or,
if you dislike parting with the animal altogether, I
will just ask you for his loan through the winter. I
think I can see my pup will not last beyond that time,
for I have judgment in these matters, since many is
the friend, both hound and Red-skin, that I have seen
depart in my day, though the Lord hath not yet seen
fit to order his angels to sound forth my name.”
“Take him, take him,” cried Middleton; “take
all or any thing!”
The old man whistled the younger dog to the land;
and then he proceeded to the final adieus. Little was
said on either side. The trapper took each person
solemnly by the hand, and uttered something friendly
and kind to all. Middleton was perfectly speechless,
and was driven to affect busying himself among the
baggage. Paul whistled with all his might, and even
Obed took his leave with an effort that bore the appearance
of a desperate philosophical resolution.
When he had made the circuit of the whole, the old
man with his own hands shoved the boat into the current,
wishing God to speed them. Not a word was
spoken, nor a stroke of the oar given, until the travellers
had floated past a knoll that hid the trapper
from their view. He was last seen standing on the
low point, leaning on his rifle, with Hector crouched
at his feet and the younger dog frisking along the sands
in the playfulness of youth and vigour.
CHAPTER XVII.
—“Methought, I heard a voice—”
Shakspeare.
The water-courses were at their height, and the
boat went down the swift current like a bird. The
passage proved prosperous and speedy. In less than
a third of the time, that would have been necessary
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for the same journey by land, it was accomplished
by the favour of those rapid rivers. Issuing from
one stream into another, as the veins of the human
body communicate with the larger channels of life,
they soon entered the grand artery of the western
waters, and landed safely at the very door of the
father of Inez.
The joy of Don Augustin, and the embarrassment
of the worthy father Ignatius, may easily be imagined.
The former wept and returned thanks to Heaven;
the latter returned thanks and did not weep. The
mild provincials were too happy to raise any questions
on the character of so joyful a restoration, and,
by a sort of general consent, it soon came to be an
admitted opinion that the bride of Middleton had
been kidnapped by a villain, and that she was restored
to her friends by human agency. There were,
as respects this belief, certainly a few sceptics, but
then they enjoyed their doubts in private, with that
species of sublimated and solitary gratification that a
miser finds in gazing at his growing but useless hoards.
In order to give the worthy priest something to
employ his mind, Middleton made him the instrument
of uniting Paul and Ellen. The former consented
to the ceremony, because he found that all his
friends laid great stress on the matter; but shortly
after he led his bride into the plains of Kentucky,
under the pretence of paying certain customary visits
to sundry members of the family of Hover. While
there he took occasion to have the marriage properly
solemnized by a justice of the peace of his acquaintance,
in whose ability to forge the nuptial chain he
had much more faith than in that of all the gownsmen
within the pale of Rome. Ellen, who appeared conscious
that some extraordinary preventives might prove
necessary to keep one of so erratic a temper as her
partner within the proper matrimonial boundaries,
raised no objections to these double knots, and therefore
all parties were content.
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The local importance Middleton had acquired, by
his union with the daughter of so affluent a proprietor
as Don Augustin, united to his personal merit, attracted
the attention of the government. He was soon
employed in various situations of responsibility and
confidence, which both served to elevate his character
in the public estimation, and to afford the means
of patronage. The bee-hunter was among the first
of those to whom he saw fit to extend his favour. It
was far from difficult to find situations suited to the
abilities of Paul, in the state of society that existed
three-and-twenty years ago in those regions. The
efforts of Middleton and Inez, in behalf of her husband,
were warmly and sagaciously seconded by Ellen,
and they succeeded, in process of time, in working a
great and beneficial change in his character. He soon
became a landholder, then a prosperous cultivator of
the soil, and shortly after a town-officer. By that
progressive change in fortune, which in the republic
is often seen to be so singularly accompanied by a
corresponding improvement in knowledge and self-respect,
he went on from step to step, until his wife
enjoyed the maternal delight of seeing her children
placed far beyond the danger of returning to that state
from which both their parents had issued. Paul is
actually at this moment a member of the lower
branch of the legislature of the State where he has
long resided; and he is even notorious for making
speeches that have a tendency to put that deliberative
body in a good humour, and which, as they are based
on great practical knowledge suited to the condition
of the country, possess a merit that is much wanted
in many more subtle and fine-spun theories, that are
daily heard in similar assemblies to issue from the
lips of certain instinctive politicians. But all these
happy fruits were the results of much care and of a
long period of time. Middleton, who fills, with a
credit better suited to the difference in their educations,
a seat in a far higher branch of legislative
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authority, is the source from which we have derived
most of the intelligence, necessary to compose our
legend. In addition to what he has related of Paul,
and of his own continued happiness, he has added a
short narrative of what took place in a subsequent
visit to the prairies, with which, as we conceive it a
suitable termination to what has gone before, we
shall judge it wise to conclude our present labours.
In the autumn of the year, that succeeded the season,
in which the preceding events occurred, the
young man, still in the military service of the country,
found himself on the waters of the Missouri, at a
point not far remote from the Pawnee towns. Released
from any immediate calls of duty, and strongly
urged to the measure by Paul, who was in his company,
he determined to take horse and cross the
country to visit the partisan, and to inquire into the
fate of his friend the trapper. As his train was suited to
his functions and rank, the journey was effected, with
the usual privations and hardships that are the accompaniments
of all travelling in a wild, but without
any of those dangers and alarms that marked his
former passage through the same regions. When
within a proper distance, he despatched an Indian
runner, belonging to a friendly tribe, to announce
the approach of himself and party, continuing his
route at a deliberate pace, in order that the intelligence
might, as was customary, precede his arrival.
To the surprise of the travellers their message was
unanswered. Hour succeeded hour, and mile after
mile was passed, without bringing either the signs of
an honourable reception, or of the more simple assurances
of a friendly welcome. At length the cavalcade,
at whose head rode Middleton and Paul, descended
from the elevated plain, on which they had
long been journeying, to a luxuriant bottom, that
brought them to the level of the village of the Loups.
The sun was beginning to fall, and a sheet of golden
light was spread over the placid plain, lending to its
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even surface those glorious tints and hues, that the
human imagination is apt to conceive, forms the embellishment
of still more imposing scenes. The verdure
of the year yet remained, and herds of horses
and mules were grazing peacefully in the vast natural
pasture, under the keeping of vigilant Pawnee boys.
Paul pointed out among them the well-known form
of Asinus, sleek, fat, and apparently luxuriating in
the fulness of content, as he stood with reclining ears
and closed eye-lids, seemingly musing on the exquisite
nature of his present indolent enjoyment.
The route of the party led them at no great distance
from one of those watchful youths, who was
charged with a trust so heavy as the principal wealth
of his tribe. He heard the trampling of the horses,
and cast his eye aside, but instead of manifesting
either curiosity or alarm, his look was instantly returned
whence it had been withdrawn, to the spot
where the village was known to stand.
“There is something remarkable in all this,” muttered
Middleton, half offended at what he conceived
to be not only a slight to his rank, but offensive to
himself, personally; “yonder boy has heard of our
approach, or he would not fail to notify his tribe, and
yet he scarcely deigns to favour us with a glance.
Look to your arms, men; it may be necessary to let
these savages feel our strength.”
“Therein, Captain, I think you're in an error,” returned
Paul; “if honesty is to be met on the prairies
at all, you will find it in our old friend Hard-Heart;
neither is an Indian to be judged of by the rules of
a white. See! we are not altogether slighted, for
here comes a party at last to meet us, though it is a
little pitiful as to show and numbers.”
Paul was right in both particulars. A groupe of
horsemen were at length seen wheeling round a little
copse and advancing across the plain directly towards
them. The advance of this party was slow
and dignified. As it drew nigh, the Partisan of the
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Loups was seen at its head followed by a dozen of
the younger warriors of his tribe. They were all
unarmed, nor did they even wear about their persons
any of those ornaments or feathers, which are considered
as much to be testimonials of respect to the
guest an Indian receives, as an evidence of his own
rank and importance.
The meeting was friendly, though a little restrained
on both sides. Middleton jealous of his own consideration
no less than of the authority of his government,
suspected some undue influence on the part
of the agents of the Canadas, and as he was determined
to maintain the authority, of which he was the representative,
he felt himself constrained to manifest a
hauteur, that he was actually far from feeling. It was
not so easy to penetrate the motives of the Pawnees.
Calm, dignified and yet far from repulsive, they set
an example of courtesy, blended with reserve, that
many a diplomatist of the most polished court might
have strove in vain to imitate.
In this manner the two parties continued their
course to the town. Middleton had time during the
remainder of the ride to revolve in his mind all the
probable reasons which his ingenuity could suggest,
for this strange reception. Although he was accompanied
by a regular interpreter, the chiefs made their
salutations in a manner that dispensed with his services.
Twenty times the captain turned his glance
on his former friend, endeavouring to read the expression
of his rigid features. But every effort and all
conjectures proved equally futile. The eye of Hard-Heart
was fixed, composed, and a little anxious; but
as to every other emotion impenetrable. He neither
spoke himself nor seemed willing to invite his visiters
to speak; it was therefore necessary for Middleton to
adopt the patient manners of his companions and to
await the issue for the explanation.
When they entered the town, its inhabitants were
seen collected in an open space, where they were
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arranged with the customary deference to age and
rank. The whole formed a large circle, in the centre
of which, were perhaps a dozen of the principal chiefs.
Hard-Heart waved his hand as he approached and as
the mass of bodies opened he rode through, followed
by all his companions. Here they dismounted, and
as the beasts were led apart, the strangers found
themselves environed by a thousand grave, composed,
but solicitous faces.
Middleton gazed about him in growing concern,
for no cry, no song, no shout welcomed him among
a people from whom he had so lately parted with
regret. His uneasiness, not to say apprehensions was
shared by all his followers. Determination and stern
resolution began to assume the place of anxiety in
every eye, as each man silently felt for his arms and
assured himself, that his several weapons were in a
state for instant and desperate service. But there
was no answering symptom of hostility on the part
of their hosts. Hard-Heart beckoned for Middleton
and Paul to follow, leading the way towards the cluster
of forms, that occupied the centre of the circle. Here
the visiters found a solution of all the movements,
which had given them so much reason for apprehension.
The trapper was placed on a rude seat, which had
been made with studied care, to support his frame in
an upright and easy attitude. The first glance of the
eye told his former friends, that the old man was at
length called upon to pay the last tribute of nature.
His eye was glazed and apparently as devoid of sight
as of expression. His features were a little more
sunken and strongly marked than formerly; but there,
all change, so far as exterior was concerned, might be
said to have ceased. His approaching end was not
to be ascribed to any positive disease, but had been
a gradual and mild decay of the physical powers.
Life, it is true, still lingered in his system, but it was
as though at times entirely ready to depart, and then
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it would appear to reanimate the sinking form, as if
reluctant to give up the possession of a tenement, that
had never been undermined by vice or corrupted by
disease. It would have been no violent fancy to have
imagined, that the spirit fluttered about the placid
lips of the old woodsman, reluctant to depart from
a shell, that had so long given it an honest and an
honourable shelter.
His body was so placed as to let the light of the
setting sun fall full upon the solemn features. His
head was bare, the long, thin locks of gray fluttering
lightly in the evening breeze. His rifle lay upon his
knee, and the other accoutrements of the chase were
placed at his side within reach of his hand. Between
his feet lay the figure of a hound, with its head crouching
to the earth as if it slumbered, and so perfectly
easy and natural was its position, that a second glance
was necessary to tell Middleton, he saw only the skin
of Hector, stuffed by Indian tenderness and ingenuity
in a manner to represent the living animal. His own
dog was playing at a distance with the child of Tachechana
and Mahtoree. The mother herself stood at
hand, holding in her arms a second offspring, that
might boast of a parentage no less honourable, than
that which belonged to the son of Hard-Heart. Le
Balafré, was seated nigh the dying trapper, with every
mark about his person, that the hour of his own departure
was not far distant. The rest of those immediately
in the centre were aged men, who had apparently
drawn near, in order to observe the manner,
in which a just and fearless warrior would depart on
the greatest of his journeys.
The old man was reaping the rewards of a life so
remarkable for its temperance and activity in a tranquil
and placid death. His vigour had in a manner
endured to the very last. Decay, when it did occur,
was rapid, but free from pain. He had hunted with
the tribe in the spring, and even throughout most of
the summer, when his limbs suddenly refused to
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perform their customary offices. A sympathizing weakness
took possession of all his faculties, and the Pawnees
believed, that they were going to lose, in this
unexpected manner, a sage and counsellor, whom they
had begun both to love and respect. But as we have
already said, the immortal occupant seemed unwilling
to desert its tenement. The lamp of life flickered
without becoming extinguished. On the morning of
the day, on which Middleton arrived, there was a
general reviving of the powers of the whole man.
His tongue was again heard in wholesome maxims,
and his eye from time to time recognized the persons
of his friends. It merely proved to be a brief and
final intercourse with the world on the part of one,
who had already been considered, as to mental communion,
to have taken his leave of it forever.
When he had placed his guests in front of the dying
man, Hard-Heart, after a pause, that proceeded as
much from sorrow as decorum, leaned a little forward
and demanded—
“Does my father hear the words of his son?”
“Speak,” returned the trapper, in tones that issued
from his inmost chest, but which were rendered awfully
distinct by the death-like stillness, that reigned
in the place. “I am about to depart from the village
of the Loups, and shortly shall be beyond the reach
of your voice.”
“Let the wise chief have no cares for his journey,”
continued Hard-Heart with an earnest solicitude, that
led him to forget, for the moment, that others were
waiting to address his adopted parent; “a hundred
Loups shall clear his path from briars.”
“Pawnee, I die as I have lived, a Christian man,”
resumed the trapper with a force of voice, that had
the same startling effect on his hearers, as is produced
by the trumpet, when its blast rises suddenly and
freely on the air after its obstructed sounds have long
been heard struggling in the distance; “as I came
into life, so will I leave it. Horses and arms are not
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needed to stand in the presence of the Great Spirit
of my people. He knows my colour and according
to my gifts will he judge my deeds.”
“My father will tell my young men, how many
Mingoes he has struck and what acts of valour and
justice he has done, that they may know how to imitate
him.”
“A boastful tongue is not heard in the heaven of a
white man!” solemnly returned the old man. “What
I have done He has seen. His eyes are always open.
That, which has been well done, will he remember;
wherein I have been wrong will he not forget to
chastise, though he will do the same in mercy. No,
my son; a Pale-face may not sing his own praises,
and hope to have them acceptable before his God!”
A little disappointed, the young partisan stepped
modestly back, making way for the recent comers to
approach. Middleton took one of the meagre hands
of the trapper and struggling to command his voice,
he succeeded in announcing his presence. The old
man listened like one whose thoughts were dwelling
on a very different subject, but when the other had
succeeded in making him understand, that he was
present, an expression of joyful recognition passed
over his faded features—
“I hope you have not so soon forgotten those,
whom you so materially served!” Middleton concluded.
“It would pain me to think my hold on
your memory was so light.”
“Little that I have ever seen is forgotten,” returned
the trapper; “I am at the close of many weary
days, but there is not one among them all, that I could
wish to overlook. I remember you with the whole of
your company; ay, and your gran'ther, that went before
you. I am glad, that you have come back upon
these plains, for I had need of one, who speaks the English,
since little faith can be put in the traders of these
regions. Will you do a favour, lad, to an old and
dying man?”
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“Name it,” said Middleton; “it shall be done.”
“It is a far journey to send such trifles,” resumed
the old man, who spoke at short intervals as strength
and breath permitted; “A far and weary journey is
the same; but kindnesses and friendships are things
not to be forgotten. There is a settlement among
the Otsego hills—”
“I know the place,” interrupted Middleton, observing
that he spoke with increasing difficulty; “proceed
to tell me, what you would have done.”
“Take then this rifle, and pouch and horn, and
send them to the person, whose name is graven on
the plates of the stock. A trader cut the letters with
his knife, for it is long, that I have intended to send
him such a token of my love!”
“It shall be so. Is there more that you could wish?”
“Little else have I to bestow. My traps I give to
my Indian son; for honestly and kindly has he kept
his faith. Let him stand before me.”
Middleton explained to the chief, what the trapper
had said, and relinquished his own place to the other.
“Pawnee,” continued the old man, always changing
his language to suit the person he addressed, and not
unfrequently according to the ideas he expressed, “it
is a custom of my people for the father to leave his
blessing with the son, before he shuts his eyes forever.
This blessing I give to you; take it, for the prayers
of a Christian man will never make the path of a just
warrior, to the blessed prairies, either longer or more
tangled. May the God of a white man look on your
deeds with friendly eyes, and may you never commit
an act, that shall cause him to darken his face. I know
not whether we shall ever meet again. There are
many traditions concerning the place of Good Spirits.
It is not for one like me, old and experienced though
I am, to set up my opinions against a nation's. You
believe in the blessed prairies, and I have faith in the
sayings of my fathers. If both are true, our parting
will be final; but if it should prove, that the same
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meaning is hid under different words, we shall yet
stand together, Pawnee, before the face of your Wahcondah,
who will then be no other than my God.
There is much to be said in favour of both religions,
for each seems suited to its own people, and no doubt
it was so intended. I fear, I have not altogether followed
the gifts of my colour, inasmuch as I find it a
little painful to give up for ever the use of the rifle
and the comforts of the chase. But then the fault
has been my own, seeing that it could not have been
His. Ay, Hector,” he continued, leaning forward a
little, and feeling for the ears of the hound, “our
parting has come at last, dog, and it will be a long
hunt. You have been an honest, and a bold, and a
faithful hound. Pawnee, you cannot slay the pup on
my grave, for where a Christian dog falls, there he
lies forever, but you can be kind to him, after I am
gone for the love you bear his master.”
“The words of my father, are in my ears,” returned
the young partisan, making a grave and respectful
gesture of assent.
“Do you hear, what the chief has promised, dog?”
demanded the trapper, making an effort to attract the
notice of the insensible effigy of his hound. Receiving
no answering look, nor hearing any friendly whine,
the old man felt for the mouth and endeavoured to
force his hand between the cold lips. The truth
then flashed upon him, although he was far from perceiving
the whole extent of the deception. Falling
back in his seat, he hung his head, like one who felt
a severe and unexpected shock. Profiting by this
momentary forgetfulness two young Indians removed
the skin with the same delicacy of feeling, that had
induced them to attempt the pious fraud.
“The dog is dead!” muttered the trapper, after a
pause of many minutes; “a hound has his time as
well as a man; and well has he filled his days! Captain,”
he added, making an effort to wave his hand
for Middleton, “I am glad you have come; for
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though kind, and well meaning according to the gifts
of their colour, these Indians are not the men, to lay
the head of a white man in his grave. I have been
thinking too, of this dog at my feet; it will not do to
set forth the opinion, that a Christian can expect to
meet his hound again; still there can be little harm
in placing what is left of so faithful a servant nigh
the bones of his master.”
“None in the least; it shall be as you desire.”
“I'm glad, you think with me in this matter. In order
then to save labour, lay the pup at my feet, or for
that matter put him side by side. A hunter need never
be ashamed to be found in company with his dog!”
“I charge myself with your wish.”
The old man then made a long, and apparently a
musing pause. At times he raised his eyes wistfully
as if he would again address Middleton, but some innate
feeling appeared always to suppress his words.
The other, who observed his hesitation, enquired in a
way most likely to encourage him to proceed, whether
there was aught else, that he could wish to have done.
“I am without kith or kin in the wide world!” the
trapper answered; “when I am gone, there will be
an end of my race. We have never been chiefs, but
honest and useful in our way, I hope it cannot be
denied, we have always proved ourselves. My father
lies buried near the sea, and the bones of his
son will whiten on the prairies—”
“Name the spot, and your remains shall be placed
by the side of your father,” interrupted Middleton.
“Not so, not so, Captain. Let me sleep, where
I have lived, beyond the din of the settlements. Still
I see no need, why the grave of an honest man should
be hid, like a Red-skin in his ambushment. I paid a
man in the settlements to make and put a graven
stone at the head of my father's resting place. It
was of the value of twelve beaver-skins, and cunningly
and curiously was it carved! Then it told to
all comers that the body of such a Christian lay
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beneath; and it spoke of his manner of life, of his
years, and of his honesty. When we had done with
the Frenchers in the old war, I made a journey to the
spot, in order to see that all was rightly performed,
and glad I am to say the workman had not forgotten
his faith.”
“And such a stone you would have at your grave?”
“I! no, no, I have no son, but Hard-Heart, and it
is little, that an Indian knows of White fashions and
usages. Besides I am his debtor, already, seeing it is
so little I have done, since I have lived in his tribe.
The rifle might bring the value of such a thing—but
then I know, it will give the boy pleasure to hang the
piece in his hall, for many is the deer and the bird
that he has seen it destroy. No, no, the gun must be
sent to him, whose name is graven on the lock!”
“But there is one, who would gladly prove his affection
in the way you wish; he, who owes you not
only his own deliverance from so many dangers, but
who inherits a heavy debt of gratitude from his ancestors.
The stone shall be put at the head of your grave.”
The old man extended his emaciated hand, and
gave the other a squeeze of thanks.
“I thought, you might be willing to do it, but I was
backward in asking the favour,” he said, “seeing that
you are not of my kin. Put no boastful words on
the same, but just the name, the age and the time of
the death, with something from the holy book; no
more, no more. My name will then not be altogether
lost on 'arth; I need no more.”
Middleton intimated his assent, and then followed
a pause, that was only broken by distant and broken
sentences from the dying man. He appeared now
to have closed his accounts with the world, and to
await merely for the final summons to quit it. Middleton
and Hard-Heart placed themselves on the
opposite sides of his seat and watched with melancholy
solicitude the variations of his countenance.
For two hours there was no very sensible alteration.
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The expression of his faded and time-worn features
was that of a calm and dignified repose. From time
to time he spoke, uttering some brief sentence in the
way of advice, or asking some simple questions concerning
those in whose fortunes he still took a friendly
interest. During the whole of that solemn and anxious
period each individual of the tribe kept his place
in the most self-restrained patience. When the old
man spoke, all bent their heads to listen; and when
his words were uttered, they seemed to ponder on
their wisdom and usefulness.
As the flame drew nigher to the socket, his voice
was hushed, and there were moments, when his attendants
doubted whether he still belonged to the
living. Middleton, who watched each wavering
expression of his weather-beaten visage, with the interest
of a keen observer of human nature, softened
by the tenderness of personal regard, fancied he could
read the workings of the old man's soul in the
strong lineaments of his countenance. Perhaps what
the enlightened soldier took for the delusion of mistaken
opinion did actually occur, for who has returned
from that unknown world to explain by what forms
and in what manner, he was introduced into its awful
precincts! Without pretending to explain what must
ever be a mystery to the quick, we shall simply relate
facts as they occurred.
The trapper had remained nearly motionless for an
hour. His eyes, alone, had occasionally opened and
shut. When opened, his gaze seemed fastened on the
clouds, which hung around the western horizon, reflecting
the bright colours, and giving form and loveliness
to the glorious tints of an American sunset.
The hour—the calm beauty of the season—the occasion,
all conspired to fill the spectators with solemn
awe. Suddenly, while musing on the remarkable position,
in which he was placed, Middleton felt the hand,
which he held, grasp his own with incredible power,
and the old man supported on either side by his friends,
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rose upright to his feet. For a single moment he looked
about him, as if to invite all in presence to listen,
(the lingering remnant of human frailty,) and then
with a fine military elevation of his head, and with a
voice, that might be heard in every part of that numerous
assembly, he pronounced the emphatic word—
“Here!”
A movement so entirely unexpected, and the air
of grandeur and humility, which were so remarkably
united in the mien of the trapper, together with the
clear and uncommon force of his utterance, produced
a short period of confusion in the faculties of all present.
When Middleton and Hard-Heart, who had
each involuntarily extended a hand to support the
form of the old man, turned to him again, they found,
that the subject of their interest was removed forever
beyond the necessity of their care. They mournfully
placed the body in its seat, and Le Balafré arose
to announce the termination of the scene to the tribe.
The voice of the old Indian seemed a sort of echo
from that invisible word, to which the meek spirit
of the trapper had just departed.
“A valiant, a just and a wise warrior has gone on
the path, which will lead him to the blessed grounds
of his people!” he said. “When the voice of the
Wahcondah called him, he was ready to answer. Go,
my children; remember the just chief of the Pale-faces
and clear your own tracks from briars!”
The grave was made beneath the shade of some
noble oaks. It has been carefully watched to the
present hour by the Pawnees of the Loup, and is
often shown to the traveller and the trader as a spot
where a just White-man sleeps. In due time the
stone was placed at its head, with the simple inscription,
which the trapper had himself requested. The
only liberty, taken by Middleton, was to add,—“May
no wanton hand ever disturb his remains!”
THE END.
Back matter
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Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1827], The prairie, volume 2 (Carey, Lea & Carey, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf057v2].
