The Prairie Flower; Or, Adventures in the Far West

Front matter

THE

PRAIRIE FLOWER;

OR,

Introductory

As almost every one who takes any interest in a book, has some desire or curiosity to know how or why it came to be written, and as there are some things of which he desires to speak particularly, the author, compiler, or editor of Prairie Flower, (whichever you please, reader,) has, after due consideration, decided on giving the information alluded to, in an introductory note to the present volume. While engaged in writing for the press, a tall, dark-visaged, keen-eyed individual entered his sanctum, early one morning, bearing in his hand a bundle of no inferior size. Having stared around the apartment, as if to assure himself there was no mistake, he coolly took the only remaining seat, when the following conversation occurred.

Stranger.—Mr. Scribblepen, I presume?

Author.—My name, sir!

Stranger.—He-e-m! (A pause.) Write novels, presume, Mr. Scribblepen?

Author.—When I have nothing better to do.

Stranger.—(After a little reflection.) Found them on fact, eh?

Author.—Sometimes, and sometimes draw rather freely on the imagination, as the case may be.

Stranger.—How would you like the idea of writing one that should contain nothing but fact?

Author.—(Becoming interested and laying down his pen.) Have no objections, provided there is fact enough, and of a nature sufficiently exciting to make the story interesting to the general reader.

Stranger.—(Smiling complacently, and tapping his bundle.) Got the documents here, and no mistake. Every word true, I pledge you my honor. Promise to work them up faithfully, and they are at your service.

Author.—(In doubt.) But how am I to know they contain facts?

Stranger.—You have my word, sir!

Author.—Did you write them? Do they comprise a journal of your own adventures?

Stranger.—(A little testily.) No matter about either! They contain nothing but facts, and that is enough for any reasonable man to know.

Author.—But how am I to know this? You must remember you are a stranger to me, sir!

Stranger.—(Coloring, and carelessly placing his hand upon the breech of a pistol, barely seen protruding from beneath his waistcoat.) I allow no one to doubt my word, sir!

Author.—(A little nervous, and not caring to doubt such testimony.) O! ah! I see it is all right, of course.

Stranger.—(Again smiling pleasantly.) So you will undertake the job, Mr. Scribblepen, and give facts in everything but the most important names?

Author.—I will try.

Stranger.—(Placing the package upon the table and rising as if to go.) You can have them, then. All I ask is that you will be a faithful chronicler. The names I wish changed, you will find marked. I have a desire to see the whole in print, and you may take all the profit and whatever credit you please, so you keep fact in view. The incidents are romantic, and sufficiently exciting for your purpose, with out embellishment. I shall keep an eye upon the publication, and you see me again, or you may not: I make no promises. Good morning, sir!

Author.—(Rising to bow him out.) But your name, stranger, if you please?

Stranger.—(Hesitating.) I am called the Wanderer. Good morning, Mr. Scribblepen!

Author.—Good morning Mr. Wanderer! (Returns to the mysterious package, opens, examines it, begins to read, gets interested, and goes to bed the night following minus dinner and supper.)

Having shown you how he became possessed of the of the story, the author would say a few words more as regards the characters set forth in the following pages, he would state, that, , some represent a class, and some an individual only. Prairie Flower is of the latter, . That the proceedings of herself and tribe may appear mysterious, and, to some, at first thought, (her locality and everything considered) out of place, the author does not doubt; but he believes that no one who is conversant with Indian history, and especially with that relating to the Northwestern Tribes and the Moravian Missions, during the early settlement of Ohio, will find in this character or her tribe anything that may be termed overstrained or unnatural. That she is a marked character, distinct and peculiar, and liable to be misconstrued by those who do not take every thing into consideration, but allow a first fancy to have full sway—he admits; but at the same time would desire such to withhold an expression of opinion, until they shall have read to the end, when he trusts they will find the explanation satisfactory.

With these remarks, and the simple statement that the reader may look upon the scenes described as , the author would take his respectful leave for the present, hoping the reader may find, if nothing else of interest, information regarding life in the Far West, sufficient to repay a perusal.

Cincinnati.

The foregoing was affixed to the first edition of "Prairie Flower," which appeared in 1849, and which, though a large one, was exhausted in a little over three months. And the Author would here take occasion to say, that the success this work has met with from the reading community—the high mark of popular favor which has been bestowed upon it by an intelligent and discriminating public—together with the friendly notices it has received from the Press, and the eulogistic remarks of correspondents, both known and unknown to the Author, from all parts of the country—have been the green oases in the desert of life of one who toils only to please, and who herewith returns his humble thanks to each and all, coupled with his regrets that the work in question is not more worthy of the eulogiums that greeted its first appearance.

To those unknown friends at a distance who have made kindly inquiries by letter, concerning the strange individual from whom the author obtained the manuscripts referred to in the foregoing note—as also in reference to the present whereabouts of "Prairie Flower" herself, and others—but which a press of business has prevented him from answering as he otherwise would have done—the author takes reason to say, to one and all, that as respects the "Wanderer," having never heard from him since, he congratulates himself on having given no offense, in working up the materials he furnished; and that, with regard to Prairie Flower and the rest, he knows nothing additional to the facts recorded in the following pages.

Cincinnati, Oh.

Chapter 1

The proposition—The resolve—Ho: for Oregon.

"Ho! for Oregon—what say you, Frank Leighton?" exclaimed my college chum, Charles Huntly, rushing into my room, nearly out of breath, where I was cosily seated, with my sheep-skin diploma spread before me, engaged in tracing out my legal right to subjoin the magical initials, M. D., to my name. "Come, what say you, Frank?" queried my companion again, as I looked up in some surprise.

"Why, Charley," returned I, "what new notion has taken possession of your brain?"

"Oregon and adventure," he quickly rejoined, with flashing eyes. "You know, Frank, our collegiate course is finished, and we must do something for the remainder of our lives. Now, for myself, I cannot bear the idea of settling down to the dry practice of law, without at least having seen something more of the world; and by all means I would not settle here in the east, where lawyers are as plenty as stubble in a harvested rye-field, and, for the matter of that, to make the comparison good, just about as much needed. You know, Frank, we have often planned together, where we would go, and what we would do, when we should get our liberty; and now the western fever has seized me, and I am ready to exclaim—ho! for Oregon."

"But, Charley," returned I, "consider; here we are now, snug in old Cambridge, and Oregon is thousands of miles away. It is much easier saying, ho! for Oregon, than it is getting to Oregon. Besides, what should we do when there?"

"Hunt, fish, trap, shoot Indians, anything, everything," cried my comrade, enthusiastically, "so we manage to escape ennui, and have plenty of adventure!"

"I must confess," said I, "that I like the idea wonderfully well—but2"

"But me no buts!" exclaimed Huntley; "you will like it—I shall like it—and we will both have such glorious times. College—law—pah! I am heartily sick of hearing of either, and long for those magnificent wilds, where a man may throw about his arms without fear of punching anybody in the ribs. So come, Frank, set about matters—settle up your affairs, if you have any, either in money or love—and then follow me. Faith! man, I'll guide you to a real El Dorado, and no mistake."

The words of my companion produced a strong effect upon my naturally restless mind. Nothing that he could have proposed, at that moment, would have suited my inclination better than such a journey of adventure; and no companion would I have chosen in preference to himself. We had been playmates together in infancy, we had studied together in youth, and, for the last four years, had been chums at old Harvard University—he studying law and I medicine. True, by the strict discipline of the University, we were not entitled to occupy the same apartment, on account of our different studies; but the influence of our connections made us privileged personages; and the professors winked at many things in us, that in others would have been grave offences. The substance of the matter is, we began our studies together, roomed together, and each completed his course at the same time.

From childhood up, I had loved Charles Huntly—or Charley, as I more familiarly termed him—as a brother; and this fraternal feeling I knew he as warmly returned. We walked together, played together, sung together—ever took each other's part on all occasions, whether right or wrong—and, in fact, for our close intimacy, were dubbed the Siamese twins. We were both only sons of wealthy parents. My father was a wholesale merchant in Boston; so was his; the only difference in their occupations being, that the former dealt in dry goods, the latter in groceries. Now there was another strong tie between young Huntly and myself. He had an only sister—a sweet, modest, affectionate creature, some three years his junior—whom I loved with all the ardent passion of a fiery, impetuous youth; and was, I fancied, loved in return. Be this as it might, my passion for his sister he knew and encouraged; and this, as I said before, only added a stronger link to the chain of our friendship.

In age, Charles Huntly was my senior by nearly a year, and was now a little turned of twenty-one. In stature we were much alike—both being about five feet and ten inches, with regular proportions. In complexion we differed materially—he being light, with light curly hair; and I dark, with hair black and straight. In personal appearance my friend was remarkably handsome and prepossessing. His beauty did not consist in the mere perfection of features—though these were, in general, very fine—so much as in the play and expression of the whole countenance, where every thought seemed to make an instant and passing impression. His forehead was high and broad, and stamped with intellect, beneath which shone a bright, blue eye, that could sparkle with mirth, or flash with anger, as the case might be. The contour of his face was a something between the Grecian and Anglo-Saxon, though the nose was decidedly of the former cast. His skin fine, smooth, and almost beardless—gave him an appearance so boyish that I was often mistaken for his senior by many years—a matter which generally irritated him not a little, as he had a strong repugnance to being thought effeminate. His temperament was strongly nervous. At heart he was truly noble and generous; but this, by those who did not know him intimately, was very frequently overlooked in his hot and hasty temper. None was more ready to resent an insult, or redress a wrong; and as he was very tenacious of his own honor, so was he of another's. If you insulted him, you must take the consequences, and they would not be slow to follow, unless ample apology were made, in which case his hand was ever open for friendship. If he did you a wrong, and became convinced of it, he could not rest until he had sued for pardon. He was wild at times in his notions, headstrong, hot-brained, and, in general, a great enthusiast. Whenever anything new took possession of his mind, it was the great all-in-all for the time being; but was very apt to pass away soon, and be supplied by something equally as great, and equally as evanescent.

Such, as I have just enumerated, were the striking points in the appearance and character of Charles Huntly; and though in the latter we were much alike, yet we seldom quarreled, and then only to make it up the next time we met.

Now, as Charles remarked, in language which I have already quoted, we had often, during our leisure moments, laid out plans of adventure for the future, when our collegiate course should be finished. But the plan of to-day had been always superseded by the one of to-morrow, so that, unless we resolved on something steadily, it was more than probable that the whole would result, simply, in speculating visions of the brain. The last proposition was, of course, the one which opens this chapter; and which had, perhaps, less weight with me at the moment, from my remembering the failure of all the others. Still, there was one thing in its its favor which none of the others had Lad. We had completed our studies now, and were at liberty, if we resolved on it, to carry our project into immediate execution, before it should become trite; and besides, nothing before had seemed so fully to meet the views of both in every particular. Adventure was our delight in every shape we could find it; as several powerful admonitions and premonitory warnings from our tutors, for various little pecadilloes—such as tying a calf to the bell rope, playing the ghost to old women, upsetting beehives, and robbing hen-roosts—might well attest. But there was, notwithstanding, a darwback, which made me hesitate when my friend interrupted me. He was of age, but I was not; and my father might not be willing to give his consent, without which I certainly would not venture. Another: I loved Lilian Huntly; and should I go and leave her, she might get married in my absence—a result which I felt was not to be endured.

While I sat, with my head upon my hand, buried in thought, rapidly running these things over in my mind, my companion stood watching me, as if to gather my decision from the expression of my countenance.

"Well, Frank," said he, at length, "it seems you have become very studious all at once. How long is it going to take you to decide on accepting so glorious a proposition?"

"How long since the idea of it entered your head?" I inquired.

"Ten, fifteen, ay, (looking at his watch) twenty minutes. I was down for the purpose of getting a hack, to take us over to the city, when the thought came across me like a flash of lightning, and I turned and hurried back, to2"

"See me before you altered your mind," interrupted I, completing his sentence.

"Confound you, Frank—wait till I have done, I hurried back, I say, to let you share the bright prospect with me."

"Humph! prospect indeed!" said I, with a laugh, merely for the purpose of annoying him; for I saw, by his whole demeanor, that he was decidedly in earnest. "And a prospect it will ever remain, I am thinking, a long way ahead. You are joking, Charley, are you not?"

"No, by all the bright cupids of fairy realms, I swear to you, Frank, my dear fellow, I never was so serious about any thing in my life, since the time when I played the ghostly tin-pan drummer to the edification of old Aunt Nabby."

"But allowing you are in earnest, you have overlooked two important points in asking me to accompany you."

"Ha! what are they?"

"My father, and Lilian."

"Tut, tut, tut, Frank—don't be a fool!"

"That is exactly what I am trying to guard against, Charley. Shall I assist you a little?"

"Pshaw! stuff! nonsence!—what have your father and my sister to do with it?"

"Why, the first might refuse his consent to my going: and the last might consent to have my place filled in my absence."

"Well," answered Charley, "as to your father, I will pledge you my word that he will give his consent; and for Lilian, that she will await your return, if it be six years hence."

"You will?" cried I, jumping up so suddenly as to upset the table on to the toes of my companion; "you will pledge your word to this, Charley?"

"A plague on that table and your great haste!" muttered Huntly, hobbling about the room, and holding his bruised foot in his hand. "Yes, I will pledge you my honor to both, if you will say the word."

"Enough! here is my hand on it," I cried.

Down went the bruised foot, and the next moment I felt the bones of my fingers crack under the powerful pressure of those of my enthusiastic friend.

"Now, Frank," he almost shouted, capering about the room for joy, "you are pledged beyond a back-out."

"On condition you make your pledge good."

"I will do it or die."

"Then enough is said."

"Hurrah, then, for a hack!" cried Charles Huntly, darting out of my room and down a flight of stairs, to the imminent danger of his neck: "Hurrah for a hack! and hoi for the Rocky Mountains, Oregon, and the far, Far West!"

Chapter 2

Preparation—Love—Jealousy—Separation and departure.

It was a clear, starlight evening in the month of May, that I found myself slowly nearing the fine mansion of Benjamin Huntly, to behold my sweet and dearly loved Lilian, perhaps for the last time. I felt strangely, as I had never felt before. A week had elapsed, and all had been arranged for my departure, at an early hour on the following morning. The consent of my parents had been reluctantly yielded to the powerful eloquence and soft persuasion of my enthusiastic friend. Already had my trunks been packed, and my purse filled, for the long separation. Already had I listened to the parental advice of my father, and seen the tears of sorrow in my beloved mother's eyes. The struggle of consent, but not of parting, was now over; and I was wending my way to the house of my friend, to take leave of one, at the thought of whom my heart ever beat rapidly. As I said before, I felt strangely. I was about to bid adieu—a long, perchance a last, adieu—to all the bright scenes of my childhood—to friends near and dear to me—to father and mother—and, last, though not least, to the idol of my purer thoughts.

It is hard, very hard, to leave the scenes of our youth for the first time—to venture forth, we scarce know whither, like a feather borne unconsciously upon the strongest current of air. However much we may plan in secret—however strikingly we may draw the pictures of adventure in the rosy colors of anticipation—however great may be our inclination to go and see the world for ourselves; yet when the time of separation comes—when we are about to cut the cord that binds us to all we have ever seen and loved—the heart grows sad, and soft, and we feel as if staggering under the weight of some impending calamity.

Thus I felt, and a great deal more which I cannot describe, as I paused for a moment upon the steps of Lilian Huntly's dwelling, to compose my agitated nerves and appear calm and collected. Why was it that my agitation should now only increase? Why could I never appear before her as before any other I had ever seen—cool and collected? Why must my heart always flutter so, and my usually free-coming words stick chokingly in my throat, or congeal upon my lips? Was it because I loved her? I would have given half my expected inheritance to talk to her freely as I could to others. I had often tried it, but in vain. I always made a fool of myself, and I knew it. I fancied Lilian knew it too; and this only added to my embarrassment. My heart and my self-esteem whispered me I was loved; but my bashful fears told me the contrary. I had never tested her, and now I was about to do it. If she loved me, she would plainly show it the moment of separation. I was shortly to be made happy or miserable, or miserably happy; for if she loved me, I should be happy in knowing it—unhappy in the thought of a long parting. I trembled as I thought, until my knees smote each other as did Belshazzer's.

At last, desperate effort, I assumed a courage I did not possess, and, ascending the steps, rang the bell. In another minute I was ushered into the parlor, and the servant who admitted me was already gone to summon my fair judge. I gazed around upon the beautiful paintings which adorned the walls, but without seeing them. I felt like a guilty culprit about to hear his doom. Could money, at that moment, have purchased me easy assurance, I would have had it at any price. I remained in suspense some five minutes, when the door opened and Lilian entered—entered like a fairy being into her golden realms.

Heavens! how lovely! I had never seen her, or ought else, look so enchantingly sweet before. In complexion and features, Lilian strongly resembled her brother—save that everything was more soft, more effeminate, more exquisitely beautiful, Her skin was fair, and clear as alabaster, with a slight tint of crimson upon each cheek. Her features were all of the finest mold. Her large, soft, clear blue eyes, were rendered extremely fascinating by long, drooping, delicately fringed lashes. In their depths was a soul of tender thought, feeling, and love; and, most joyful discovery! they were now swimming in tears. She loved me then, and had been weeping at the thought of my leaving her! The expression of her sweet countenance, too, was sad. Her plump, cherry lips were just parted, as if about to speak, displaying two rows of beautiful pearls. Her light hair was arranged a la mode, and a bright, glowing diamond sparkled on her forehead. Her exquisitely faultless form was arrayed in the emblem of purity, a snow-white dress, which almost made me fancy her an etherial, a spiritual visitor.

She advanced with a timid step, and held out her snowy, dimple hand. She tried to speak, but language failed her. I tried to do the same, with a like success. I made a step toward her, and her hand touched mine. Heavens! what emotions thrilled me! I was beside myself with the deepest joy I had ever felt. I forgot formality, caution, prudence, everything—and before I knew what I was about, or how I did it, my lips were pressed to hers. The pressure was returned, one moment, and then she sprang away, blushing and confused. Think what you may of it, reader, that was one of the happiest moments of my life.

I was the first to break the silence, and trembled as I did so.

"I have come, Miss Lilian," I stammered, "to—to2"

"I understand," she murmured, faintly, sinking into a seat; while slowly the tears, that could not be suppressed, stole down her now pale cheeks: "I understand: I am about to lose a—a—brother, and a—a—friend."

Friend! heavens! how cold that word! It should be clipped by every lexicographer and sent out of existence! Friend! Why it chilled my blood, and for the moment made me an enemy of the language which harbored it. Was there, then, no other term—one a little more endearing? and if so, why did she select one so cold!—Perhaps she meant it! Perhaps her grief was only for the loss of a brother, and—if I must use the hateful term— In that case she could not love me. I had once more made a fool of myself. But I would not do so again. I would let her see that I could be as indifferent as herself. She should not have cause to boast in after times—perhaps when wedded to another—how much I loved her, and how she pitied me. No! I would be cold as marble—ay! as a Lapland iceberg. These thoughts went through my mind rapidly; and scarcely a minute's pause succeeded, before I said, coolly enough, heaven knows:

"Yes, Miss Huntly, I have come to bid you a last farewell, and have but a few spare moments to do it in."

I looked at her indifferently as I spoke, and oh! what would I not have given to recall those words! Her soft, blue eyes turned full upon me, with a mingled expression of surprise and reproach, which I shall never forget. Her cheeks grew more deadly pale than ever; and her lips quivered, as she sighed, almost inaudibly, my name. There was no withstanding this; and on the impulse of the moment, I threw myself at her feet, and exclaimed:

"O, Lilian! sweet Lilian! I have wronged you. You love me, Lilian—you love me!"

She did not answer, but her look spoke volumes, as her eyes modestly sought the ground, and a slight flush beautifully tinted her cheeks. I seized her hand rapturously, and pressed it warmly. She did not return the pressure, neither did she seek to avoid it. I was in raptures, and I felt a soul of eloquence on my lips.

"I wronged you, Lilian," I said, passionately. "I thought you were cold-hearted, because you called me friend. But I was mistaken, I see! I was expecting a warmer term; but I had forgotten it was not your place to use it first. Lilian, dear Lilian—permit me so to call you—I am about to go far away; and God only knows when, if ever, I shall return. Pardon me, then, if I improve the present moments, and speak the sentiments of my heart. I have known you. Lilian, from a child; but I have known you only to love and adore. You have been the ideal of my boyish dreams, either sleeping or waking. The perfection of divine beauty, with me, has had but one standard—your own sweet, faultless face and form. Every happy thought of my existence, has some how had a connection with yourself. I could not picture happiness, without drawing you in glowing colors, the foremost and principal figure. I have thought of you by day, dreamed of you by night, for many years—have longed to be near you, have worshiped you in secret, and yet have never dared to tell you so till now. Whenever tempted to do wrong, your lovely face has been my Mentor, to chide and restrain me. I have loved you, Lilian—deeply, passionately, devotedly loved you, with the first, undefiled love of an ardent temperament—as I never can love another. I am about to leave, and I tell you this, and only ask if I am loved in return. Speak! let your sweet lips confirm what your looks have spoken, and I am the happiest of human beings!"

I ceased, and paused for an answer. While speaking, the head of the fair being at whose feet I kneeled, gradually, unconsciously as it were, sunk upon my shoulder, where it now reposed in all its loveliness. She raised her face, crimson with blushes and wet with tears. Her hand, still held in mine, trembled—and her lips, as she essayed to speak.

"O, Francis!" she at length articulated—then there came a silence.

"Say on, Lilian, and make me happy!"

"No, no!" she said, quickly, looking hurriedly around her, as if fearful of the presence of another. "No, no, Francis—not now—some other time."

"But you forget, dear Lilian, that I am about to leave you—that there may may never be a time like the present! Only say you love me, fair one, and it is all I ask."

"But—but2" she stammered, and then paused.

"Ha! then I have after all mistaken friendship for love!" I returned, quickly, starting abruptly to my feet, and feeling some slight symptoms of indignation.

Again her soft, reproachful eye met mine, and every angry impulse vanished before its heavenly ray.

"You mistake me, Francis," she said. "I—I2" another pause.

Again was I at her feet, ashamed of my hasty display of jealous temper.

"The word is trembling upon your lips, Lilian," I exclaimed; "speak it, and2"

At this moment, to my astonishment and chagrin, the door suddenly opened, and an elegantly dressed gentleman, some five or six years my senior, highly perfumed with the oil of roses and musk, took one step over the threshhold, and then, perceiving me, drew quickly back, evidently as much surprised and embarrassed as myself. Meantime, I had sprung to my feet, with a whirlpool of feelings in my breast, impossible to be described—the predominant of which were anger, mortification and jealousy. Lilian, too, had started up, and turned toward the stranger (stranger to me) with an embarrassed air.

"I crave pardon," said the intruder, coloring, "for my seeming rudeness in appearing thus unannounced. I found the outer door ajar, and made bold to step within, without ringing, not thinking to meet with any here save the regular members of the family."

"Then you must either be a constant visiter, or no gentleman, to take even that liberty," I rejoined in a sarcastic tone of some warmth.

The face of the intruder became all scarlet at my words, and his eyes flashed indignantly, as he replied, in a sharp, pointed tone: