Chapter IV…

Chapter IV

AN ELK–HUNT.—REGINALD MAKES HIS FIRST ESSAY IN SURGERY.—THE READER IS ADMITTED INTO PRAIRIE–BIRD’S TENT.

We left Reginald Brandon in the skirt of the forest bounding the Western Prairie, accompanied by Wingenund and War–Eagle. The latter, having taken the lead, conducted his companions through a considerable extent of ground, covered with bushes of alder and scrub–oak, until they reached an open forest glade, where the Indian pointed out to Reginald a large square building, composed of rough logs, and covered with the same material. In the centre of one side was a low aperture, or door, about fifteen inches in height, in front of which was a train of maize laid by Wingenund. On approaching this turkey–pen, or trap, they observed that there were already two prisoners, a large gobbler and a female bird, although not more than an hour had elapsed since the lad had taken out the four turkeys which have been before mentioned. When the captives became aware of the approach of the party, they ran about the pen from side to side, thrusting out their long necks, peering through the crevices in the logs, jumping and flying against the top, in their violent endeavours to escape.

“Do they never stoop their heads?” inquired Reginald, “and go out at the same door by which they entered?”

“Never,” replied Wingenund.

“That is singular,” said Reginald, “for the bird is in general very sagacious and difficult to be taken or killed;—how does it happen that they are so unaccountably stupid as not to go out where they came in?”

Before answering the question addressed to him, Wingenund cast a diffident look towards War–Eagle, and on receiving from the chief a sign to reply, he said,

“Netis knows that the Great Spirit distributes the gifts of wisdom and cunning like the sunshine and the storm; even the Black Father does not understand all his ways. How can Wingenund tell why the turkey’s eye is so quick, his ear so sharp, his legs so swift?—and yet he is sometimes a fool; when he picks up the maize, his head is low; he walks through the opening; he is in a strange place; he is frightened; and fear takes from him all the sense that the Great Spirit had given him. Wingenund knows no more.”

“My young brother speaks truly, and wisely, beyond his years,” said Reginald, kindly. “It is, as you say, fear makes him forget all the capacities of his nature: it is so with men, why should it be otherwise with birds? Does War–Eagle say nothing?”

“My brother’s words are true,” replied the chief, gravely; “he has picked out one arrow, but many remain in the quiver.”

“My brother speaks riddles,” said Reginald; “I do not understand him.”

“Fear is a bad spirit,” replied the chief, raising his arm, and speaking with energy. “It creeps round the heart of a woman, and crawls among the lodges of the Dahcotahs; it makes the deer leap into the river when he would be safer in the thicket; it makes the turkey a fool, and keeps him in the pen: but there are other bad spirits, that make the heart crooked and the eyes blind.”

“Tell me how so?” inquired Reginald, desirous of encouraging his Indian friend to continue his illustration.

“Does my brother know the antelope,” replied War–Eagle; “he is very cunning and swift; his eye is quick as the turkey’s; the hunter could not overtake him: but he lies down in a hollow and hides himself; he fastens a tuft of grass to his bow and holds it over his head; the Bad Spirit gets into the antelope; he becomes a fool; he comes nearer and nearer to look at the strange sight;—the hunter shoots and he dies. There are many had spirits. The Wyandot who struck at my white brother, he was a cunning snake; he had taken scalps, the ball of his rifle did not wander; if he had crept in the bushes on my brother’s path, Netis would now be in the happy hunting–fields of the white warriors. But a bad spirit took him; he offered food while his heart was false, and he thrust his head under the tomahawk of War–Eagle. There are many bad spirits.—I have spoken.”

Reginald listened with interest to these sentiments of his Indian friend, expressed, as they were, in broken sentences and in broken English, the purport of them being, however, exactly conveyed in the foregoing sentences; but he refrained from pursuing the subject further, observing that War–Eagle was slinging the turkeys over Wingenund’s shoulder, and preparing to pursue their course in search of the elk. Leaving the youth to return with his feathered burden to the encampment, the two friends continued their excursion, War–Eagle leading the way, and stopping every now and then to examine such tracks as appeared to him worthy of notice. They had not proceeded far, when they reached a spot where the path which they were following crossed a small rivulet, and, the soil being soft on its bank, there were numerous hoof–prints of deer and elk, but so confused by the trampling of the different animals, that Reginald could not distinguish the one from the other. It was not so, however, with the Indian; for, pointing downward to a track at his foot, he made a sign, by raising both his hands above his head, to indicate a pair of antlers, and whispered to Reginald “very big.”

“An elk?” inquired the latter; making a silent affirmative sign, War–Eagle pursued the trail which conducted them to the top of a small rising ground, where it appeared to branch in several directions, and became almost imperceptible from the shortness of the grass and the hardness of the soil. But these seemed to offer no impediment to the Indian’s pursuit of his quarry, for turning short at a right angle to their former course, he descended the hillock in a different direction, walking with a swift noiseless step, as if he saw his game before him.

Reginald’s surprise overcame even his eagerness for the sport, trained as he had been in the woods, and justly held one of the quickest and most skilful hunters in the territory. He had looked in vain on the ground which they were now traversing for the slightest point or footmark: touching, therefore, his friend lightly on his shoulder, he whispered, “Does my brother guess the elk’s path?—or can he smell it, like the Spaniard’s dog?”

A good–humoured smile played on the Delaware’s lip as he replied, “The trail of the elk is broad and easy; War–Eagle could follow it by the moon’s light! My white brother will see: he is an elk–chief; his squaws are with him.”

As he spoke he showed several marks, which Reginald could scarcely distinguish, on the short grass: a few yards further War–Eagle added, pointing to a low bush beside them, “If Netis does not see the elk’s foot, he can see his teeth.”

On examining the bush, Reginald perceived that a small fresh twig from the side of it had been recently cropped, and suppressing his astonishment at his friend’s sagacity, in following with such apparent ease a trail that to him was scarcely discernible, he allowed him to proceed without further interruption, closely watching his every movement, in the hope that he might be able to discover some of the indications by which the Indian was guided. Moving lightly forward, they soon had occasion again to cross the brook before mentioned; and on the soft edge of its banks War–Eagle pointed in silence to the track of the large hoof of the elk, and to the smaller print left by the feet of its female companions. Desiring Reginald to remain still, the Indian now crept stealthily forward to the top of a small hillock covered with brushwood, where he lay for a few seconds with his ear touching the ground. Having once raised his head to look through a low bush in front of him, he sunk again upon the ground, and made a signal for his friend to creep to the spot. Reginald obeyed, and peering cautiously through the leaves of the same bush, he saw the stately elk browsing at a distance of an hundred and fifty yards, the two hinds being beyond him. The intervening ground being barren and almost flat, offering no cover for a nearer approach, his first impulse was to raise his rifle for a distant shot; but War–Eagle, gently pressing down the barrel, motioned him to crouch behind the bush. When they were again concealed, the Delaware whispered to his friend, that he would go round and creep on the elk from the opposite quarter.

Reginald, in reply, pointed to the top branches of a young poplar gently waving in the breeze.

“War–Eagle knows it,” said the Indian, gravely, “the wind is from that quarter; it is not good; but he will try; if elk smell him, he comes this way, and Netis shoot him.” So saying, he crept down the little hillock by the same path which they had followed in the ascent, and then striking off in an oblique direction, was soon lost to view.

Reginald, still concealed behind the bush, silent and motionless, with his hand on the lock of his rifle, watched intently every movement of the antlered monarch of the woods: the latter, unconscious of danger, lazily picked the tenderest shoots from the surrounding bushes, or tossed his lofty head to and fro, as if to display the ease and grace with which it bore those enormous antlers. More than once, as he turned to brush off from his side some troublesome fly, Reginald thought he had become suddenly aware of the Indian’s approach; but it was not so, for in spite of the disadvantage of the wind, the practised Delaware moved towards his unsuspecting prey with the stealthy creep of a panther. Reginald’s impatience was such that minutes seemed to him hours; and his fingers played with the lock of his rifle, as if he could no longer control their movement: at length a sudden snort from one of the hinds announced that she smelt or heard some object of alarm as she came trotting to the side of her lordly protector.

Turning himself to windward, and throwing forward his ears, the elk listened for a moment, while his upturned and wide distended nostril snuffed the breeze, to discover the danger of which he had been warned by his mate. That moment was not lost by the Delaware, and the report of his rifle echoed through the forest. Tossing his head with a sudden start, the elk fled from his now discovered foe, and came bounding over the barren space in front of the bush where Reginald was concealed. With a coolness that did great credit to his nerves as a hunter, the latter remained motionless, with his eye on the game and his finger on the trigger, until the elk passed his station at full speed: then he fired, and with so true an aim, that ere it had gone fifty yards, the noble beast fell to the earth, and immediately Reginald’s hunting–knife put an end to its pain and to its life. The young man looked over the quarry with pride and pleasure, for it was the largest he had ever seen; and the shot (which had pierced the heart) was well calculated to raise War–Eagle’s opinion of his skill in wood–craft. Whilst he was still contemplating the animal’s bulk and fine proportions, the exclamation “good!” uttered in English, gave him the first notice that the Delaware was at his side.

“Ha! my friend,” said Reginald, grasping his hand cordially; “you sent him down towards me in fine style. Tell me War–Eagle, are there many elks as large in this country?”

“Not many,” replied the Indian; “War–Eagle told his white brother that the elk’s foot on the trail was big.”

“Was my brother very far when he shot?” inquired Reginald; “when his rifle speaks, the ball does not wander in the air.”

“War–Eagle was far,” replied the Indian, quietly, “but the elk carries the mark of his rifle—Netis shot better.” On examination, it appeared that the chief was right; his bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the animal’s neck; but not having cut the windpipe, the wound was not mortal, and but little blood had flowed from it.

While the Indian was busied in skinning and cutting up the elk, Reginald amused himself by reconnoitring the ground over which his friend had crept before he shot, and he was struck by the extraordinary sagacity with which the latter had made his approach; for on that side there were but few and scattered bushes, nor was there any rugged or broken ground favourable for concealment.

When the choicest portions of meat were duly separated and enveloped in the skin, War–Eagle hung them up on an adjacent tree, carefully rubbing damp powder over the covering, to protect the meat from the wolves and carrion birds; after which the friends proceeded on their excursion.

Having found fresh tracks of elk leading towards the open Prairie, they followed them, and succeeded in killing two more, after which they returned to the encampment, whence War–Eagle despatched a young Indian with a horse, and with directions as to the locality of the meat, which he was instructed to bring home.

As Reginald walked through the lodges of the Osage village, he observed a crowd of Indians collected before one of them, and curiosity prompted him to turn aside and observe what might be passing. Making his way without difficulty through the outer circle of spectators, he found himself before a lodge, in front of which a wounded boy of twelve or fourteen years of age was extended on a buffalo–robe. On inquiry, Reginald learnt from an Indian who could speak a few words of English, that the lad had been struck down and trampled on by a vicious horse: although no sounds escaped from his lips, the involuntary writhing of the youthful sufferer showed the acuteness of the pain which he endured; while a bulky Indian, in the garb of an Osage medicine–man, was displaying beside him the various absurd mummeries of his vocation.

This native quack was naked to the waist; his breast and back being painted over with representations of snakes and lizards. Instead of the usual breech–cloth, or middle garment, he wore a kind of apron of antelope skins, hemmed, or skirted with feathers of various colours: the borders of his leggings were also adorned with the wings of an owl; in one hand he held a tomahawk, the haft of which was painted white, and in the other a hollow gourd, containing a few hard beans, or stones of the wild cherry, which latter instrument he rattled incessantly round the head of his patient, accompanying this Æsculapian music with the most grotesque gesticulations, and a sort of moaning howl—all these being intended to exorcise and drive away the evil spirit of pain.

While Reginald was contemplating the strange spectacle with mingled curiosity and compassion he heard a confused murmur among those Indians nearest to the corner of the lodge, and thought he could distinguish the name of Olitipa: nor was he mistaken, for almost immediately afterwards the crowd divided, and Prairie–bird appeared before the lodge. Her dress was the same as that which Reginald had before seen, excepting that, in place of the chaplet of wild flowers, she wore on her head a turban of party–coloured silk, the picturesque effect of which blending with her dark hair and the oriental character of her beauty, reminded our hero of those Circassian enchantresses whom he had read of in eastern fable, as ruling satrap or sultan with a power more despotic than his own!

Prairie–bird, walking gently forward with modest self–possession, took her place by the side of the sufferer, as if unconscious of the numerous eyes that were observing all her movements: the medicine–man, whose exorcisms had been hitherto attended with no success, retreated into the lodge, whence he narrowly and silently observed the proceedings of his fair rival in the healing art.

It was not difficult for Prairie–bird to ascertain that the boy’s hurts were very serious; for the hot brow, the dry lip, the involuntary contortions of the frame, gave clear evidence of acute pain and fever. She deeply regretted that the missionary had been absent when she was summoned, as his assistance would have been most useful; nevertheless, she resolved to do all in her power towards the mitigation of sufferings, the cure of which seemed beyond the reach of her simple remedies. Opening a bag that hung at her girdle, she drew from it some linen bandage, and various salves and simples, together with a small case of instruments belonging to Paul Müller, and kneeling by her young patient’s side, she breathed a short but earnest prayer for the blessing of Heaven on her humble exertions. During this pause, the Indians observed a strict and attentive silence; and Reginald felt a kind of awe mingle itself with his impassioned admiration, as he contemplated the unaffected simplicity and loveliness of her kneeling figure.

A serious wound in the young patient’s temple claimed her first care, which having washed and closed, she covered with a healing plaster; but observing that the symptoms of fever had rather increased than diminished, she knew that the lancet should be immediately applied, and cast her anxious eyes around in the hope that the missionary might have heard of the accident, and be now on his way to the lodge. While looking thus around, she became for the first time aware of Reginald’s presence; and a slight blush accompanied her recognition of him; but her thoughts recurring immediately to the object of her present attention, she asked him in a clear low voice to come nearer, on which he moved forward from the circle of spectators, and stood before the lodge.

Prairie–bird, pointing to the form of the young Indian, said, in English, “The poor boy is much hurt, he will die if he is not bled; the Black Father is absent; can Reginald take blood from the arm?”

“I do not pretend to much skill in surgery, fair Prairie–bird,” replied the young man, smiling; “but I have learnt to bleed my horse and my dog, and if the necessity be urgent, methinks I can open a vein in this boy’s arm without much risk of danger.”

“It is indeed urgent,” said the maiden, earnestly; “here are Paul Müller’s instruments; I pray you take a lancet and proceed without delay.”

Thus urged, Reginald selected a lancet, and having proved its sharpness, he passed a bandage tightly round the sufferer’s arm, and set about his first surgical operation with becoming care and gravity, the Osages drawing near and looking on in attentive silence. Before applying the lancet, he said in a low voice to Prairie–bird, “Must I allow a considerable quantity of blood to flow ere I stanch it?” and on her making an affirmative sign, he added, “Let me entreat you to turn your eyes away, it is not a fitting sight for them, and they might affect the steadiness of my nerves.”

With a deep blush Prairie–bird cast down her eyes, and began to employ them busily in searching her little bag for some cordial drinks and healing ointment, to be administered after the bleeding should be over.

Reginald acquitted himself of his task with skill and with complete success, and found no difficulty in stanching the blood, and placing a proper bandage on the arm; after which the restoratives prepared by Prairie–bird were applied, and in a very short time they had the satisfaction of finding the symptoms of fever and pain subside, and were able to leave the youthful patient to repose, Prairie–bird promising to visit him again on the morrow.

An elderly brave of the Osages now stepped forward, and presented Prairie–bird with a girdle of cloth, ornamented with feathers, quills, and beads, of the gayest colours,—an offering which she received with that modest grace which was inseparable from her every movement; the same brave (who was, in fact, the father of the wounded boy,) presented Reginald with a painted buffalo robe, which, as soon as he had displayed its strange designs and devices, he desired a young Indian to convey to the white chief’s lodge. Our hero having, in return, given to the Osage a knife with an ornamented sheath, which he had worn, in addition to his own, in case of being suddenly called upon to make such a present, prepared to accompany Prairie–bird to her lodge.

As they left the circle, Reginald’s eye encountered that of Mahéga, fixed with a scowling expression on himself and his fair companion; but he passed on without noticing the sullen and haughty chief, being resolved not to involve himself in any quarrel in her presence. They walked slowly towards the lodge of Tamenund, and it must be confessed that they did not take exactly the shortest path to it, Reginald leading the way, and Prairie–bird following his occasional deviations with marvellous acquiescence.

The young man turned the conversation on the character of Paul Müller, knowing it to be a subject agreeable to Prairie–bird, and well calculated to give him an opportunity of listening to that voice which was already music to his ear; nor was he disappointed, for she spoke of him with all the warmth of the most affectionate regard; and the expression of her feelings imparted such eloquence to her tongue and to her beaming eyes, that Reginald looked and listened in enraptured silence. As they drew near her tent, she suddenly checked herself, and looking up in his face with an archness that was irresistible, said, “Pray pardon me, I have been talking all this time, when I ought to have been listening to you, who are so much wiser than myself.”

“Say not so,” replied Reginald, with an earnestness that he attempted not to conceal: “say not so, I only regret that we have already reached your tent, for I should never be weary of listening to your voice.”

Prairie–bird replied with that ingenuous simplicity peculiar to her:

“I am glad to hear you say so, for I know you speak the truth, and it makes me very happy to give you pleasure. Now I must go into my tent.”

So saying she held out her hand to him, and nothing but the presence of several Indians loitering near prevented his obeying the impulse which prompted him to press it to his lips. Checking it by an effort of prudence, he withdrew into the lodge of Tamenund, and mused on the qualities of this extraordinary child of the wilderness,—her beauty, her grace, her dignity, and, above all, that guileless simplicity that distinguished her beyond all that he had ever seen; in short, he mused so long on the subject that we will leave him to his meditations, as we fear it must be confessed that he was almost, if not quite, “in love;” and the reflections of parties so circumstanced, are rarely interesting to others.

What were the feelings of Prairie–bird when she once more found herself alone in her tent, and vainly endeavoured to still the unwonted tumult in her heart? Her thoughts, in spite of herself, would dwell on the companion who had escorted her from the Osage lodge: his words still rung in her ears; his image was before her eyes; she felt ashamed that one, almost a stranger, should thus absorb all her faculties; and was the more ashamed, from being conscious that she did not wish it were otherwise; her heart told her that it would not exchange its present state of tumult and subjection for its former condition of quiet and peace!

Lest the reader should be inclined to judge her as harshly as she judged herself, we will beg him to remember the circumstances and history of this singular girl. Brought up among a roving tribe of Indians, she had fortunately fallen into the hands of a family remarkable for the highest virtues exhibited by that people: the missionary, Paul Müller, had cultivated her understanding with the most affectionate and zealous care; and he was, with the exception of an occasional trader visiting the tribe, almost the only man of her own race whom she had seen; and though entertaining towards Tamenund the gratitude which his kindness to her deserved, and towards War–Eagle and Wingenund the affectionate regard of a sister, both the knowledge imparted by the missionary, and her own instinctive feeling, had taught her to consider herself among them as a separate and isolated being. These feelings she had of course nourished in secret, but they had not altogether escaped the penetration of Wingenund, who, it may be remembered, had told Reginald on their first meeting that the antelope was as likely to pair with the elk, as was his sister to choose a mate among the chiefs of the Osage or the Lenapé.

On the return of the two Delawares from their excursion to the Muskingum, Wingenund had related to Prairie–bird the heroic gallantry with which the young white chief had plunged into the river to save War–Eagle’s life: he had painted, with untutored but impassioned eloquence, the courage, the gentleness, the generosity, of his new friend. Prairie–bird’s own imagination had filled up the picture, and the unseen preserver of her Indian brother was therein associated with all the highest qualities that adorned the heroes of such tales as she had read or heard recounted by the missionary.

She had reached that age when the female heart, unsupported by maternal protection, and severed from the ties of kindred, naturally seeks for something on which to rest its affection. Are we then to wonder if, when Reginald Brandon first stood before her, when she saw in his noble form and expressive features all her secret imaginations more than realised, when he addressed her in her own tongue, and in a tone of voice gentle even to tenderness; are we to wonder, or to blame, this nursling of the wilderness, if the barriers of pride and reserve gave way beneath the flood which swept over them with fresh and irresistible force? Often had she, on various pretexts, made Wingenund repeat to her the adventures and occurrences of his excursion to the Ohio; and as the artless boy described, in language as clear as his memory was tenacious, the dwelling of Reginald’s father, the range of buildings, the strange furniture, the garden, the winding brook that bounded its enclosure, and above all the fair features and winning gentleness of the Lily of Mooshanne, Prairie–bird would cover her averted face with her hands, as if struggling to banish or to recall some wild delusive dream, and her lips would move in unconscious repetition of “Mooshanne.” Surprised at her agitation, Wingenund had once so far laid aside the strictness of Indian reserve as to inquire into its cause; and she replied, with a melancholy smile,

“Wingenund has painted the Lily of Mooshanne in colours so soft and sweet, that Olitipa longs to embrace and love her as a sister.”

The boy fixed his penetrating eye upon her countenance, in deep expressive silence, the innate delicacy of his feeling triumphed, and Prairie–bird’s secret meditations were thenceforward undisturbed.

To return from this retrospective digression. Prairie–bird’s tent was divided, by a partition of buffalo skins, into two compartments, in the outer of which was her guitar, the books lent her by the missionary, a small table and two chairs, or rather stools, the latter rudely but efficiently constructed by his own hands; in the corner also stood the chest, where his medicines, instruments, and other few valuables were deposited; in the inner compartment was a bed, composed of Mexican grass, stretched upon four wooden feet, and covered with dressed antelope skins and blankets of the finest quality. Here also was a chest, containing her quaint but not ungraceful apparel, and the other requisites for her simple toilet; at night a female slave, a captive taken from one of the southern tribes, slept in the outer compartment, and the ever watchful Wingenund stretched himself on a buffalo robe across the aperture, so that the slumbers of the fair Prairie–bird were securely guarded even during the absence of Paul Müller; and when he was with the tribe, his small tent was separated from hers only by a partition of skins, which in case of alarm might be cut open by a sharp knife in a moment. There was, in truth, little fear for the security of this extraordinary girl, who was looked upon, as we have before observed, by all the tribe with mingled awe and affection.

In the outer room of the two compartments above mentioned she was now sitting, with her eyes cast upon the ground, and her fingers straying unconsciously over the strings of her guitar, when she was aroused from her long reverie by the soft voice of the female slave who had entered unperceived, and who now said, in the Delaware tongue,

“Are Olitipa’s ears shut, and is the voice of Wingenund strange to them?”

“Is my brother there,” replied the maiden, ashamed at her fit of absence; “tell him, Lita, that he is welcome.”

The girl addressed by the name of Lita was about seventeen years of age, small, and delicately formed, exceedingly dark, her wild and changeful countenance being rather of a gipsy than of an Indian character. She had been taken, when a child, by a war–party which had penetrated into the country of the Comanches, a powerful and warlike tribe still inhabiting the extensive prairies on the Mexican and Texian frontier. She was devotedly attached to Prairie–bird, who treated her more like a friend than a slave, but towards all others she observed an habitual and somewhat haughty silence. Had her fate condemned her to any other lodge in the encampment, the poor girl’s life would have been a continued succession of blows, labour, and suffering; for her spirit was indomitable, and impracticable to every other control than kindness; but as the good–humoured Tamenund had appropriated her services to his favourite child, she passed most of her time in Olitipa’s tent, and thus avoided the ill–usage to which she might otherwise have been exposed.

Such was the girl who now went to the folding aperture of the tent, and desired Wingenund to come in. The youth entered, followed by a boy bearing a large covered dish or basket of wicker–work, which having placed on the table, he withdrew. Prairie–bird could not fail to observe in her young brother’s countenance and carriage an unusual stateliness and dignity, and she remarked at the same time the circumstance of his having brought with him the boy to carry her basket, a service which he had been accustomed to perform with his own hands. Making him a sign to sit down, she thus accosted him, in terms allusive to the customs of the tribe:—

“Has my young brother dreamt? Has the breath of the Great Spirit passed over his sleep?”

“It is so,” replied Wingenund. “The chiefs and the braves have sat at the council–fire; the name of Wingenund was on their tongues, the deeds of his fathers are not forgotten; he is not to do the work of squaws; his name will be heard among the warriors of the Lenapé.”

From this reply Prairie–bird knew that her young brother was about to undergo the fasting, and other superstitious ordeals, through which those youths were made to pass who wished to be enrolled among the warriors of the tribe at an earlier age than usual. These superstitious observances were repugnant to her good sense and enlightened understanding; and as she had hitherto acted in the capacity of monitress and instructress, she was perhaps not pleased at the prospect of his suddenly breaking loose from her gentle dominion: she said to him, therefore, in a tone more grave than usual,—

“Wingenund has heard the Black Father speak;—were his ears shut? Does he not know that there is one God above, who rules the world alone? The totems[29], and the symbols and the dreams of the medicine–men, are for those poor Indians whose minds are under a cloud. Wingenund cannot believe these things!”

“My sister speaks wisely,” replied the youth; “the wind cannot blow away her words: but Wingenund is of the Lenapé, the ancient people; he wishes to live and die among their braves; he must travel in the path that his fathers have trod, or the warriors will not call his name when the hatchet is dug up.”

“Let not the hatchet be dug up,” said the maiden, anxiously. “Have I not told my brother that God is the avenger of blood spilt by man? why should his foot be set on the war–path?”

“While the hatchet is below the earth,” replied the youth, in the low, musical accent of his tribe, “Wingenund will sit by his sister and listen to her wisdom; he will go out with War–Eagle and bring back the skin of the antelope or the doe for her apparel, the meat of the deer and the bison for her food; he will open his ears to the counsel of the Black Father, and will throw a thick blanket over thoughts of strife and blood. But if the Washashee (the Osage) bears a forked tongue (here the youth sank his voice to a whisper of deep meaning),—if he loosens the scalp–knife while his hand is on the poacan[30]—if the trail of the Dahcotah is found near our village, Wingenund must be awake: he is not a child: the young men will hear his voice, and the old men shall say, ‘He is the son of his father.’ It is enough. Let my sister eat the meat that War–Eagle has sent her: for three suns Wingenund tastes not food.”

So saying, the lad threw his robe over his shoulder and left the tent. Prairie–bird gazed long and thoughtfully on the spot where her brother’s retreating figure had disappeared; she felt grieved that all the lessons and truths of Christianity which she had endeavoured to instil into his mind were unable to change the current of his Indian blood: she had hoped to see him become a civilised man and a convert, and, through his amiable character, and the weight of his name, to win over many others of the Lenapé tribe. In addition to this disappointment, she was alarmed at the purport of his parting words: he had hinted at some treachery on the part of their Osage allies, and that a trail of the Dahcotahs had been seen near the encampment. These subjects of anxiety, added to the excitement which her feelings had lately undergone, so completely engrossed the maiden’s attention, that, although the corn–cakes were of the sweetest kind, and the venison of the most delicate flavour, the basket of provisions remained untouched on the table when Paul Müller entered the tent.

His brow was grave and thoughtful, but his countenance relaxed into its usual benevolent expression, as his affectionate pupil sprang forward to greet and welcome him.

“Dear father, I am so glad you are come!” she exclaimed; “I have been waiting for you most impatiently, and I have been in need of your aid.”

“I heard, my child, as I walked through the village, that you had been tending the wounds of a boy much hurt by a horse; was the hurt beyond your skill?”

“Not exactly,” she replied, hesitating. “It was needful that blood should flow from his arm; and, as you were not there, I was forced to ask the assistance of Netis—that is, of Reginald.”

“Well,” said the missionary, smiling, “I hope he proved a skilful leech?”

“He would not allow me to look on,” she replied: “but, though it was his first trial, he drew the blood, and stanched it, as skilfully as you could have done it yourself; and then he walked with me to the tent.”

“And you conversed much by the way?” inquired the missionary.

“Oh yes; and he made me tell him a great deal about you, and I was ashamed of talking so much; but then he told me that it gave him pleasure to hear me talk. How can it please him to hear me talk, dear father? I know nothing, and he has seen and read so much.”

Paul Müller averted his face for a moment to conceal from her the smile which he could scarcely repress, as he replied,

“My child, he has perhaps seen and read much; but the life and habits of the Indians are new to him, and of these you can tell him many things that he does not know.”

“Tell me, dear father,” she said, after a short silence, “are there others like him in my country? I mean, not exactly like him, but more like him than the traders whom I have seen; they are so rough, and they drink fire–water, and they never think of God or his mercies: but he is so noble, his countenance made me afraid at first, but now, when he speaks to me, his voice is as gentle as the fawn calling to its dam!”

Paul Müller saw very well how it fared with the heart of Prairie–bird. He remembered that Reginald was the son of a wealthy proprietor, who would probably have insuperable objections to his son’s marrying a foundling of the wilderness, and he hesitated whether he should not give her some warning caution on a subject which he foresaw would so soon affect her peace of mind. On the other hand, he was convinced that Reginald was a man of generous and decided character, and, while he resolved carefully to observe the intercourse between them, he would not mar the unsuspecting purity of her nature, nor throw any obstacle in the way of an attachment which he believed might lead to the happiness of both parties. In coming to this conclusion, it must not be forgotten that he was a Moravian missionary, long resident in the Far–west, and therefore not likely to trouble his head with the nice distinctions of European aristocracy. In the country which was now his home, he might be justified in deeming a match equal, if the man were honest and brave, and the bride young and virtuous, without reference to their birth, connections, or worldly possessions. Under the impression of considerations like these, the missionary replied to the maiden’s inquiry:

“My child, I will not say that among the cities and settlements of the white men, there are many who would gain by comparison with Reginald Brandon; for not only has he the accidental advantages of fine features, and a form singularly graceful and athletic, but he seems to me to possess the far higher and rarer qualities of a modest, generous mind, and an honest heart: nevertheless, my child, I will pray you, even in respect to him, not to forget what I have told you regarding the general infirmity and waywardness of our nature; keep a watch on your eyes and on your heart, and Providence will rule all for the best:—we will speak no more on this subject now; let us take some food from the basket on your table.” Prairie–bird spread the simple meal in thoughtful silence, and when the missionary had asked a blessing on it, they sat down together. After a pause of some minutes she communicated to him her anxiety on account of the hints dropped by Wingenund respecting the suspected treachery of some of their Osage allies, and the circumstance of a hostile trail having been discovered near the encampment. “It is too true,” replied the missionary gravely, “there are signs of approaching strife; and even that boy, whom I have so long endeavoured to instruct and lead aright, his blood is beginning to boil. I fear it is almost as hard for an Indian to change his nature as an Ethiopian his skin. He has told you the truth, and we must be prepared for approaching trouble.”

After musing for a few moments, Paul Müller, fixing his eye on Prairie–bird, continued: “Do you know any cause of quarrel between the Osage and Lenapé chiefs?”

“None,” replied the maiden in unaffected surprise. “How should I know? I go not near their council–fire.”

“True,” said the missionary; “but your eyes are not often shut in broad day. Have you spoken to Mahéga of late? have you observed him?”

“He has spoken to me more than once, and often meets me on my return from any far lodge in the village. I do not like him; he is fierce and bad, and he beats his young squaw, Wetopa.”

“You are right, my child; avoid him; there is evil in that man; but if you meet him, do not show any dislike or suspicion of him; you would only kindle strife: you are among faithful and watchful friends; and if they were all to slumber and sleep, you have a Friend above, whose eye is never closed, and whose faithfulness is everlasting. Farewell, my child. I must converse awhile with Tamenund. Do you solace an hour with your guitar; it will put your unquiet thoughts to rest.”

Prairie–bird was so accustomed to pay implicit obedience to the slightest wishes and suggestions of her beloved preceptor, that as he left the tent she mechanically took up the guitar, and passed her fingers through the strings. By degrees the soul of music within her was stirred, and ere long vented itself in the following hymn.

The words were in the Delaware tongue, and composed by herself—the melodies (for more than one were introduced into the irregular chaunt) were such as she had caught or mingled from Indian minstrelsy, and the whole owed its only attraction to the sweet and varied tones of her voice. The first measure was a low recitative, which might be thus rendered in English:—

“The sun sinks behind the western hills; Deep red are the curtains of his couch. One by one the stars appear; Many they are and lustrous. The pale moon is among them! They walk in their appointed path, Singing on their way, ‘God made us all!’ Machelenda sutch Ktelewunsoacan, or Hallowed be thy name.”

Here the measure changed, and sweeping the strings with a bolder hand, she continued her untutored hymn, blending her Christian creed with the figures and expressions of the people among whom she dwelt.

“The Great Spirit of the Lenapé is God. He has sent His word to gladden the heart of man. But clouds still darken the minds of the ancient people. The Great Spirit knows that they are blind and deaf, Yet His ear is open to hear, His hand is ready to guide. (ut suprà.) Hallowed be thy name!”

Again the measure changed, as in the richest tones of her melodious voice she pursued her theme.

“Sion and the everlasting mountains are thy footstool! Lightnings are about thy throne. Thunder is thy voice. And the evil spirit trembles before thee! The eagle cannot soar to thy habitation; His eye cannot look on thy brightness; Yet dost thou give life to the insect, And breath to the merry wren! Thou leadest the wild horse to the pasture, And the thirsty fawn to the stream. Hallowed be thy name.”

Here the measure resumed its low and plaintive melody, as she thus concluded her song.

“Who sings the praise of God? It is ‘Prairie–bird,’ the poor child of the wilderness. But God spurns not her prayer; She is a stray–leaf, that knows not the tree Whence the rude wind hath blown it; But God planted the parent stem. And not a branch or leaf thereof is hid from His sight. The young whip–poor–will flies to its mother’s nest, The calf bleats to the bison–cow: No mother’s voice says to Olitipa,’Come here!’ The wide prairie is her home! God is a Father to Olitipa! Hallowed be thy name!”

In singing the last few words, the tones of her voice were “most musical, most melancholy;” and though no human eye marked the teardrop that stole down her cheek, it would appear that her song had excited sympathy in some human bosom, for a deep sigh fell upon her ear: startled at the sound, Prairie–bird looked around her tent, but no one could be seen; she listened, but it was not repeated, and the maiden remained unconscious that at the very first touch of her guitar Reginald had crept out of the adjoining lodge, and, enveloped in a buffalo robe on the grass at the back of her tent, had heard from beginning to end her plaintive hymn, and had paid the unconscious tribute of a heavy sigh to the touching pathos of its closing strain.

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Chapter V

SYMPTOMS OF A RUPTURE BETWEEN THE DELAWARES AND OSAGES.—MAHÉGA COMES FORWARD IN THE CHARACTER OF A LOVER.—HIS COURTSHIP RECEIVES AN UNEXPECTED INTERRUPTION.

Paul Müller, having left the lodge of Prairie–bird, fulfilled his intention of entering that of Tamenund: he found the venerable chieftain seated upon a buffalo robe; his back leaned against a bale of cloth, a highly ornamented pipe–stem at his lips, while from its other extremity a thin column of smoke, rising in wavy folds, found its way out of the accidental rents and crevices in the skins which covered the lodge. War–Eagle was listening in an attitude of respectful attention to the words which fell from his father; but the subject of conversation was evidently of some importance, as the women and the youths were whispering together at a distance from the two principal persons. The entrance of the missionary was not unnoticed, for Tamenund made him a signal to draw near and sit down; several times the pipe was passed round in silence, when the old chief addressing his guest in the Delaware tongue, said, “The Black Father knows that there are dark clouds in the sky!”

“He does,” replied the missionary. A glance of intelligence passed between War–Eagle and Tamenund, as the latter proceeded.

“What says the Black Father? Is the storm to break, or will the sun shine again?”

“The Great Spirit only knows,” replied the missionary; “if the sun shines, we will be thankful; if the storm falls, we will wrap round us the cloak of patience.”

A fierce gleam shot from the young chief’s eye, but he spoke not a word until Tamenund addressed him thus:—“What says War–Eagle? let him speak.”

“The snows of many winters are on my father’s forehead; the Black Father has learnt wisdom from the Great Spirit: it is more fitting for War–Eagle to listen than to speak,” replied the young man, curbing the angry thoughts that glowed in his breast.

“Nay, my son,” said the missionary, “let War–Eagle speak, and his saying be afterwards weighed by the aged heads.”

War–Eagle then proceeded to explain how Wingenund, in returning from the turkey–pen, had caught a glimpse of a distant figure, whom he knew at a glance to belong to another tribe. Hastily concealing himself among the bushes, he waited till the strange Indian passed, and then resolving to watch him, crept stealthily on his trail.

Having made his way to a hollow in the thickest part of the forest, he sat down on the stump of an alder–tree, where he made and twice repeated a low signal whistle, which was soon answered by another Indian, who approached in an opposite direction, and in whom, to his great surprise, Wingenund recognised Mahéga. He was not near enough to overhear their conversation, neither was he aware whether they spoke in the Delaware tongue; but after conversing in a low tone for some minutes, they separated, and Wingenund again put himself on the trail of the stranger; the latter frequently stopped in his course, looked round and listened, but the youth was too practised and sagacious to be baffled by these precautions, and finally succeeded in tracking the object of his pursuit to an encampment containing ten or a dozen armed Indians, whom he knew at once to form a war–party, but could not decide to what tribe they belonged; he succeeded, however, in securing a mocassin which one of them had dropped, and returned unperceived to the Delaware village.

Such was the outline of the occurrences now rapidly sketched by War–Eagle; and in concluding his narrative, he held up the mocassin above mentioned, and presented it to the aged chief. The latter examined it for a moment in silence, and restoring it to the warrior, pronounced, in a low guttural tone, the word “Dahcotah.”

“Yes,” said the War–Eagle, in a deep whisper, indicative of the indignant passion that boiled within; “yes, the Dahcotah is in the woods; he prowls like a prairie–wolf. The Great Spirit has made him a dog, and if he sets his foot on the hunting–ground of the Lenapé, let not his wife complain if she looks along his path in vain, and strikes her breast, saying, ‘The wife of the Dahcotah is a widow!’ But the Evil Spirit has crept into the heart of the Washashee, a snake is in the council–chamber of the Lenapé, and lies are on the tongue of Mahéga! Is it enough, or must War–Eagle speak more?”

“The words of my son are hard,” replied Tamenund, shaking his head sorrowfully; “the Dahcotah are dogs, they are on a deer–hunt; their heart is not big enough to make them dig up the hatchet to fight with the Lenapé. Tamenund cannot believe that the tongue of Mahéga is so forked, or his heart so black, that two suns have not passed since he sat and smoked in this lodge, and spoke of Olitipa, the daughter of the Prairie. He said that her voice was music to him, that her form was in his dreams, and he asked Tamenund to give her to him as a wife.”

At these words the suppressed rage of the youthful warrior had well–nigh burst the iron bands of Indian self–control; he ground his teeth audibly together, his dilated form trembled through every nerve and muscle; but observing the keen eye of the missionary fixed upon his countenance, he subdued in a moment the rising tempest, and asked, in a voice the forced calmness of which was fearful, “What said my father?”

Tamenund replied that the maiden was Great Medicine in the tribe, that she was a gift of the Great Spirit, and that her dwelling could never be in the lodge of an Osage chief. “He went away without speaking,” added the old man seriously; “but his eye spoke bad words enough!”

“My father said well,” exclaimed the impetuous young man; “let Mahéga seek a wife among his dog–brothers the Dahcotahs! War–Eagle will smoke no more in his lodge.”

After a brief pause, Tamenund continued:

“My son has told half his thoughts, let him speak on.”

“Nay,” returned the young warrior, “let my father consult the Medicine, and the counsellors who have seen many winters: War–Eagle will whisper to his braves, and when the ancient men in council have spoken, he will be ready.”

With this ambiguous answer, he folded his buffalo robe over his shoulder and left the lodge.

The missionary saw that mischief was brewing, yet knew not how to prevent it. He had gained extraordinary influence among the Delawares by never interfering in their councils, unless when he felt assured that the result would justify the advice which he offered; but on the present occasion it was evident that his Indian friends had sufficient grounds for suspecting their Osage allies of treachery; he resolved, therefore, to wait and observe, before making those attempts at reconciliation which became his character and his mission. Influenced by this determination, he spoke a few words to the aged chief on indifferent matters, and shortly afterwards retired to his own lodge.

During the preceding conversation Baptiste had been seated at a little distance, his whole attention apparently engaged in mending a rent in his mocassins, but scarcely a word had escaped his watchful ear; and while he heard with secret delight that there was every chance of a fight with the Sioux, towards whom he cherished, as we have before observed, an unextinguished hatred, he could not view without much uneasiness the dangerous position in which Reginald’s party might be placed by a rupture between the Delawares and Osages, in a wild region where either party might so soon obtain the ready aid of the Pawnees, or some other warlike and marauding tribe; he resolved, however, for the present to content himself with putting his young leader on his guard, reserving a fuller explanation until he should have been able to ascertain the intentions of his Delaware friends: in this last endeavour he did not anticipate much difficulty, for the experienced woodsman had proved his steadiness to them in many a fray, and his courage and skill were no less proverbial among them than was his mortal enmity to the Dahcotahs.

Nothing occurred during the ensuing night to disturb the quiet of the encampment, if that may be denominated quiet which was constantly interrupted by the chattering of wakeful squaws, the barking of dogs, the occasional chaunt of a warrior, and the distant howling of hungry wolves. Our hero’s dreams were, like his waking thoughts, full only of Prairie–bird; and when he rose at daybreak he expressed no wish to roam or hunt, but lingered within view of that small circular lodge, which contained the treasure that he valued most on earth. To the cautious warning of Baptiste he answered, smiling, “You confess yourself that you only suspect; you know our friends and their language, their wiles, and their stratagems. I trust the safety of my party to your sagacity; if your suspicions are turned into certainty, tell me, and I am ready to act.”

As the young man left the lodge without even taking his cutlass or his rifle, Baptiste, looking after him, shrugged his shoulders, adding in an under tone, just loud enough to be heard by Monsieur Perrot, who sat at his side,—

“‘Suspicion,’ ‘certainty,’ ‘sagacity,’—why surely he is mad! He talks as if plots and plans were measured out by rule amongst the red–skins, as they may be ‘mongst lords and princes in Europe! This comes of his towering, as they call it, amongst the Dutch, and other outlandish tribes. Surely, he’s lived enough in the territory to know that with these Ingians, and special near a Sioux trail, the first suspicion a man is like to get is an arrow in his ribs or a tomahawk in his brain. Capote–bleu, Maître Perrot, what do you think of your master, is he mad?”

“Very much mad,” said the good–humoured valet, grinning, whilst he continued assiduously to pound some coffee–beans which he was preparing for breakfast; “very much mad, Monsieur Baptiste; he very mad to leave Paris to go to his fox–huntin’ oncle in England; he more mad to leave dat for the backwoods by de Muskingum; but he dam mad to leave Mooshanne to come here where dere is nothing but naked savages and naked prairies.”

“Ah! Maître Perrot,” replied the guide, “my father was a Canada Frenchman, and although he was, mayhap, never further east than Montreal, he was as fond of talking of Paris as a bear is of climbing a bee–tree!”[31]

“He very right, Monsieur Ba’tiste; de world without Paris is no more dan a woman widout a tongue; but as you know our language, I will speak it to you, for pronouncing English is no better dan breaking stones wid your teeth!” And the merry valet forthwith inflicted upon his graver companion a Parisian tirade, that very soon went beyond the latter’s stock of Canadian French.

The morning dawned with unusual splendour; the sun gradually rose over the wooded hills that bounded the eastern horizon, and the light breeze shook the dew–drops from the flowers, as Prairie–bird, fresh and lovely as the scene around her, tripped lightly over the grass to the sequestered spot which we have before mentioned as being her favourite resort: there, seated at the root of the aged tree where Reginald had first seen her, she opened the volume which was her constant companion, and poured forth the grateful feelings of her heart, in the words of the inspired Prophet–King; at her feet flowed the brawling stream which fed the valley below the encampment; the merry birds sang their matins among the leafy branches above her head, and around her sprang sweet–scented flowers and blossoms of a thousand varied hues. There are some spots, and some brief seasons, on earth, so redolent of freshness, beauty, and repose, as almost to revive the Paradise lost by our first parents; but soon, too soon, the effects of primeval sin and its punishment are felt, and the atmosphere of heavenly peace is tainted by the miasma of human passion!

Prairie–bird had enjoyed for some time her study and her meditations undisturbed, when her attention was caught by the sound of approaching footsteps: the conscious blood rushed to her cheek as she expected to see the same visitor who had so suddenly presented himself on the preceding day, when, to her surprise and annoyance, the gigantic figure of Mahéga stood before her, on the opposite side of the streamlet by which she was seated: although simple, unsuspecting, and fearless by nature, there was something in the countenance and bearing of this formidable chief that had always inspired her with mingled dislike and awe: remembering on the present occasion the hint lately given to her by the missionary, she returned the haughty greeting of the Indian by a gentle inclination of her head, and then summoned composure enough to continue her reading, as if desirous to avoid conversation: such, however, was not Mahéga’s intention, who, softening, as far he was able, the rough tones of his voice, addressed to her, in the Delaware tongue, a string of the finest Indian compliments on her beauty and attractions. To these the maiden coldly replied by telling him, that she thanked him for his good words, but that as she was studying the commands of the Great Spirit, she wished not to be disturbed.

Mahéga, nothing checked by this reply, continued to ply her with protestations and promises, and concluded by telling her that she must be his wife; that he was a warrior, and would fill her wigwam with spoils and trophies. As he proceeded, his countenance became more excited, and the tones of his voice had already more of threat than of entreaty. Prairie–bird replied, with forced calmness, that she knew he was a great warrior, but that she could not be his wife: their paths were different; his led to war, and spoils, and power in ruling his tribe; hers to tending the sick and fulfilling the commands of the Great Spirit given in the Medicine Book. Irritated by the firm though gentle tone of her reply, the violent passion of the chief broke out in a torrent of harsh and menacing words: he called her a foundling and a slave; adding, that in spite of the Delaware squaws and their white allies, she should sleep in his lodge, although the honour was greater than she deserved.

Fired with indignation at this brutal menace, the spirited girl rose from her seat, and, looking him full in the face, replied, “Prairie–bird is a foundling; if Mahéga knows his parents, he disgraces their name; she would rather be the slave of Tamenund than the wife of Mahéga.”

A demoniac grin stole over the features of the savage, as he replied: “The words of Olitipa are bitter. Mahéga laughs at her anger; she is alone and unprotected; will she walk to his lodge, or must the warrior carry her?”

So saying, he advanced to the very edge of the narrow stream! The maiden, although alarmed, retained sufficient presence of mind to know that to save herself by flight was impossible; but the courage of insulted virtue supported her, and she answered him in a tone that breathed more of indignation than of fear:

“Olitipa is not alone—is not unprotected! The Great Spirit is her protector, before whom the stature of Mahéga is as a blade of grass, and his strength like that of an infant. See,” she continued, drawing from her girdle a small, sharp–pointed dagger, “Olitipa is not unprotected: if Mahéga moves a foot to cross that stream, this knife shall reach her heart; and the great Mahéga will go to the hunting–fields of the dead, a coward, and a woman–slayer.”

As she spoke these words she held the dagger pointed to her bosom, now heaving with high emotion; her form seemed to dilate, and her dark eye kindled with a prouder lustre. The glow on her cheek, and the lofty dignity of her attitude, only heightened her beauty in the eyes of the savage, and confirmed him in carrying out his fell purpose, to ensure the success of which he saw that stratagem, not force, must be employed: assuming, therefore, a sarcastic tone of voice, he replied,—

“Olitipa trusts to the edge of her knife; Mahéga laughs at her.” Then he continued, in a louder key, as if addressing an Indian behind her, “Let Wânemi seize her arm and hold it.”

As the surprised maiden turned her head in the direction where she expected to see the Indian to whom Mahéga was speaking, that crafty chief cleared the brook at a bound, and seizing her waist, while a smile of triumph lit up his features, said, “The pretty one is Mahéga’s prisoner; there is no one here but himself; a cunning tale tickled the ears of Olitipa.”

The hapless girl saw how she had been outwitted by the savage: she struggled in vain to free herself from his grasp, and a faint scream of despair broke from her lips.

The spring of a famished tiger on a heifer is not more fiercely impetuous than was the bound with which Reginald Brandon rushed from the adjacent thicket upon Mahéga,—reckless of his opponent’s huge bulk and strength, forgetful that he was himself unarmed. The cry of Prairie–bird had strung with tenfold power every sinew in his athletic frame: seizing with both hands the throat of Mahéga, he grasped it with such deadly force that the Indian was compelled to release his hold of the maiden,—but he still retained her knife, and in the struggle plunged it into the arm and shoulder of Reginald, who relaxed not, however, his iron grasp, but still bore his opponent backwards, until the foot of the latter tripped over a projecting root, and he fell with tremendous force upon his head, the blood gushing in torrents from his nose and mouth. Reginald, who had been dragged down in his fall, seized the dagger, and, as he raised it above his head, felt a light touch upon his arm, and turning round saw Prairie–bird kneeling at his side, her face pale as monumental marble, and the sacred volume still clasped in her hand.

“Kill him not, Reginald,” she said, in a low impressive voice; “‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!’”

Breathless, and flushed with the late severe struggle, the young man replied: “I will spare the villain, dear Prairie–bird, at your bidding: he is stunned and senseless now, but he will soon recover, and his fury and thirst for revenge will know no bounds; he shall know, however, that I have spared him.” So saying, he cut off the dyed and ornamented scalp–lock from the top of Mahéga’s head, and, laying it beside the prostrate chieftain, arose, and retired with Prairie–bird from the spot.

They walked together some distance in silence, for her heart was overcharged with contending emotions; and as they went she unconsciously clung to his arm for support: at length she stopped, and looking up in his face, her eyes glistening with tears, she said,

“How am I ever to thank you?—my first debt of gratitude is due to Heaven; but you have been its brave, its blessed instrument of my deliverance from worse than death!” and a shudder passed over her frame as the rude grasp of Mahéga recurred to her remembrance.

“Dear Prairie–bird,” he replied; “as a man I would have done as much for the poorest and most indifferent of your sex—how then am I repaid a thousand, thousand fold by having been allowed to serve a being so precious!” The deep mellow tone in which he spoke these words, and the look by which they were accompanied, brought the truant colour again to the cheek of his companion, and as she cast her full dark eyes downwards, they rested on the arm that supported her, and she saw that his sleeve was stained and dropping with blood!

“Oh! you are wounded, badly hurt, I fear. Tell me, tell me, Reginald,” she continued, with an intensity of anxiety that her expressive countenance betrayed, “are you badly hurt?”

“Indeed, dear Prairie–bird, I cannot tell you: I felt the Indian strike me twice with the dagger before he fell; I do not think the wounds are serious, for you see I can walk and assist your steps too.”

While he thus spoke he was, however, growing faint from loss of blood, and the wound in his shoulder, having become cold and stiff, gave him exquisite pain. Prairie–bird was not deceived by the cheerfulness of his manner; she saw the paleness that was gradually stealing over his countenance, and, with ready presence of mind, insisted on his sitting down on the trunk of a fallen tree beside their path. The suffering condition of Reginald redoubled instead of paralysing her energies; she filled his cap with fresh water from the brook, urged him to taste a few drops, and sprinkled more over his face and temples; then ripping up the sleeve of his hunting–shirt, she found the blood still welling from two severe wounds between the elbow and shoulder in the left arm: these she bathed and carefully closed, applying to them a healing salve, which she drew from the small bag that she wore at her girdle, after which she bandaged the arm firmly with her kerchief; then, kneeling beside him, strove to read in his face the success of her simple surgery.

In the course of a few minutes the dizzy sensation of faintness that had been produced by loss of blood, passed away, and the delighted Prairie–bird, seeing on his countenance the beaming smile of returning consciousness and strength, murmured to herself, “Oh! God I thank thee!” then hiding her face in her hands, wept with mingled emotion and gratitude. Reginald heard the words, he marked the tears, and no longer able to suppress the feelings with which his heart overflowed, he drew her gently towards him with his yet unwounded arm, and whispered in her ear the outpourings of a first, fond, passionate love!

No reply came from her lips, her tears (tears of intense emotion) flowed yet faster; but a sensible pressure on the part of the little hand which he clasped within his own, gave him the blest assurance that his love was returned; and again and again did he repeat those sacred and impassioned vows by which the hopes, the fears, the fortunes, the affections, the very existence of two immortal beings, are inseparably blended together. Her unresisting hand remained clasped in his, and her head leaned upon his shoulder, that she might conceal the blushes that suffused her countenance: still he would not be satisfied without a verbal answer to his thrice urged prayer, that he might call her his own; and when at length she raised her beaming eyes to his, and audibly whispered, “For ever,” he sealed upon those sweet lips the contract of unchanged affection.

Bright, transitory moments of bliss! lightning flashes that illumine the dark and stormy path of life, though momentary in your duration, how mighty in your power, how lasting in your effects! Sometimes imparting a rapturous glow and kindling an unceasing heat that death itself cannot extinguish, and sometimes under a star of evil destiny searing and withering the heart rendered desolate by your scorching flame!

It is not necessary to inform the gentle reader how long the tête–à–tête on the fallen tree continued; suffice it to say, that Prairie–bird forgot her fright, and Reginald his wounds; and when they returned to the village, each sought to enjoy in solitude those delicious reveries which deserve certainly the second place in love’s catalogue of happiness.

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Chapter VI

ETHELSTON PREPARES TO LEAVE MOOSHANNE.—MAHÉGA APPEARS AS AN ORATOR, IN WHICH CHARACTER HE SUCCEEDS BETTER THAN IN THAT OF A LOVER.—A STORM SUCCEEDED BY A CALM.

While the events described in the last chapter were in progress, the hours sped smoothly onward at Mooshanne. Lucy and Ethelston thought themselves justly entitled to a liberal compensation for the trials of their long separation; and, as the spring advanced, morning and evening generally found them strolling together, in the enjoyment of its opening beauties. Sometimes Aunt Mary encountered them during the busy round of her visits to the poultry, the piggery, or to the cottage of some neighbour, whither sorrow or sickness called her. The mate frequently came over from Marietta to see his captain, and to inquire whether there was no early prospect of another voyage, for he already began to find that time travelled slowly ashore; and although he consoled himself, now and then, with a pipe and social glass in David Muir’s back parlour, he longed to be afloat again, and told the worthy merchant that he would rather have made the fresh–water trip in the canoe, than be laid up in dock, while he felt his old hull still stout and seaworthy. His son Henry continued to advance in the good graces of Jessie Muir; but unfortunately for the youth his father had discovered his attachment, and lost no opportunity of bantering him in the presence of the young lady, accompanying his jokes with sundry grins, and severe pokes in the ribs, which caused sometimes a disagreeable alternation of vexation and confusion: nevertheless David Muir remained habitually blind to the state of his daughter’s affections, and Dame Christie was a great deal too much occupied with the cares of domestic government (including the occasional lectures and reproofs administered to David) to admit of her troubling her head with what she would have termed their childish fancies.

Such was the general state of affairs on the banks of the Muskingum, when Colonel Brandon received letters from St. Louis, informing him that, since the departure of his son, various disputes had arisen between the agents of the different companies, and that unless a speedy and amicable arrangement could be effected, a heavy loss must necessarily fall upon the fur–proprietors and others interested in the speculation. By the same post a letter bearing a foreign post–mark was placed in the hands of Ethelston, during the perusal of which, an expression of sadness spread itself over his countenance, and he fell abstractedly into a reverie, the subject of which was evidently of a painful nature. Such indications were not likely to escape the anxious and observant eye of love; and Lucy, laying her hand lightly on his arm, said in a tone half joking, half serious, “Am I not entitled to know all your secrets now, Edward?”

“I think not,” he replied in the same tone; “and I am rather disposed to refuse gratifying your curiosity, until you consent to acquiring such a title as shall be indisputable.” Lucy coloured; but as she still held out her hand and threatened him with her displeasure, if he continued disobedient, he gave her the letter, saying, “I suppose I must submit; the contents are sad, but there is no reason why I should withhold them from yourself, or from your father.” With these words he left the room: after a short pause, Lucy, at the Colonel’s request, read him the letter, which proved to be from young Lieutenant L’Estrange, and which, being translated, ran as follows:—

“My Honoured Friend,

“I need not tell you of the grief that I experienced on revisiting my changed and desolate home. My father has told me all that passed during your stay in the island. He looks upon those days not in anger, but in sorrow; he is sensible that for a time he did you injustice, and fears that, in the first bitterness of his grief, he may have omitted to make you full reparation. These feelings he entreats me to convey to you, and desires me to add, that from the first day of your arrival, to that of your final departure, your conduct was like yourself,—noble, upright, and generous. The misfortune that we still bewail, we bow to, as being the infliction of a Providence whose ways are inscrutable. Accept the renewed assurance of the highest regard and esteem of your friend,

“EUGENE L’ESTRANGE.”

As Lucy read this letter, her eyes filled with tears, though, perhaps, she could scarcely have explained, whether she wept over the afflictions that had befallen the L’Estrange family, or the generous testimony which it bore to her lover’s conduct. The Colonel, too, was much affected, and gladly acquiesced in his daughter’s proposal, that they should for the future abstain from renewing a subject which must cause such painful recollections to Ethelston.

Ere many hours had elapsed, the latter was summoned to attend the Colonel, who informed him that the intelligence lately received from St. Louis was of a nature so important to his affairs, that it required immediate attention. “There is no one,” he continued, “to whom I can well entrust this investigation, except yourself, for none has deserved or received so much of my confidence.” There was an unusual embarrassment and hesitation observable in Ethelston’s countenance, on hearing these words, which did not escape his guardian’s quick eye, and the latter added, “I see, my dear fellow, that you are not disposed to leave Mooshanne again so soon; you are thinking about certain promises, and a certain young lady,—is it not so, Edward?”

“It is so, indeed, my best and kindest of friends,” said Ethelston. “Can you think or wish that it should be otherwise?”

“Nay,” said Colonel Brandon, smiling, “I will not deny that you are entitled to entertain such thoughts, but believe me, when I assure you seriously that this expedition is essential to your own interests and to mine. A great portion of the property left to you under my care by your father, is invested in these Fur companies; and ere you enter on the responsibilities of a married life, it is necessary that you put your affairs in such a posture, as to ensure some future provision for the lady of whom you are thinking. These arrangements will not detain you at St. Louis for more than six weeks or two months, by that time Reginald will have returned from his Indian excursion; you will come home together, and I will then listen patiently to whatever you may think fit to say, regarding the young lady in question;—shall it be so, Edward?”

“How can I be grateful enough!” replied Ethelston, taking the Colonel’s hand; “give me only leave to explain to Lucy the cause and probable duration of my absence, then I am ready to receive your instructions, and to set about it immediately.” We will not inquire too minutely how Lucy received this explanation from her lover’s lip, nor what means he took to reconcile her to the proposed arrangement; it is sufficient to state, that she finally acquiesced with her habitual gentleness, and that, in a few days after the above conversation, Ethelston had completed his preparations for his journey to St. Louis.

We will again take leave of him and of Mooshanne for a season, and return to Mahéga, whom we left bleeding and senseless, at no great distance from the Osage and Delaware encampment. Indeed, we should, ere this, have accused ourselves of inhumanity towards that chief, for leaving him so long in such sorry plight, had he not merited severe punishment, for his rough and brutal behaviour to Prairie–bird.

When Mahéga recovered his senses, he was still so much confused from the stunning effects of the severe blow that he had received on the head, as well as from loss of blood, that he could not recall to mind the events immediately preceding his swoon; nor did they present themselves distinctly to his memory, until his eye rested upon his stained scalp–lock, and beside it the knife that Reginald Brandon had driven firmly into the turf. Then he remembered clearly enough the struggle, his fall, and the maiden’s escape; and the rage engendered by this remembrance was rendered yet more violent, when he reflected on the insult that his scalp had sustained from an enemy who had scorned to take his life.

Fierce as were the passions that boiled within the breast of the Osage, his self–command was such that he was able to control all outward demonstration of them; and, rising slowly, he first effaced in the stream all the sanguinary marks of the late contest, and then took his way toward the camp, revolving in his mind various projects for securing the two principal objects that he was determined to accomplish,—the possession of Prairie–bird, and the death of Reginald Brandon!

Although a wild uninstructed savage, Mahéga was gifted with talents of no common order. Bold, and inflexible in carrying out his purposes, he had cunning sufficient to make unimportant concessions to the opinions of other chiefs and braves in council: unlike the great majority of his tribe and race, he was well aware of the power and strength resulting from union, and although all his ambition ultimately centred in himself, he had the art of persuading his countrymen that he sought only their interests and welfare; thus, while many hated, and more feared Mahéga, he was the most influential chief in the tribe, on account of his daring courage, his success in war, and the reckless liberality with which he distributed among others his share of booty, or of spoil. When the Delaware band had migrated to the banks of the Osage river, Mahéga’s first impulse had been to attack and destroy them; but finding that the new comers were better supplied with arms and ammunition, the issue of a conflict seemed doubtful. Moreover, as they were visited by many traders, he calculated that, by keeping on friendly terms with them, he should acquire for his tribe, and for himself, many advantages greater than they had before enjoyed.

Acting upon these motives, he had not only encouraged peace with the Delawares, but had effected through his own influence the league that had for some time united the two bands in our encampment; nor had he been mistaken in his expectations, for, since their union with the band of Delawares, the Osages had been enabled to beat off the Pawnees and other roving tribes, from whose inroads upon their hunting–ground they had before been exposed to frequent and severe disasters; the objects which he had contemplated, had thus been for the most part accomplished. The tribe was plentifully supplied with arms and ammunition by the traders; his own influence amongst them was higher than ever; but he could not brook a rival to his fame as a warrior in War–Eagle, nor bear to be checked and thwarted in his ambitious schemes, by the mild authority of Tamenund.

The mind of Mahéga being thus prepared for seizing the earliest opportunity of coming to a rupture with the Delawares it may well be imagined how his most violent and rancorous passions were excited by the scornful rejection of his suit on the part of Prairie–bird, and the disgrace he had incurred in his rencounter with her white protector. He resolved no longer to delay the meditated blow; he had already made a secret league with the warlike and powerful Dahcotahs; and the occasion seemed most favourable for wreaking his vengeance on the relatives of Prairie–bird, and the white men now resident in the Delaware camp.

Having once formed his determination, he set about carrying it into effect with the sagacity and profound dissimulation which had already obtained for him such an ascendancy in the Osage council. No sooner had he reached his lodge, than he dressed himself in his Medicine robe[32], adorned his face with corresponding streaks of paint, and concealing the loss of his scalp–lock by a Spanish kerchief, which he folded round his head, somewhat after the fashion of a turban, he sallied forth to visit the chiefs and braves, on whose co–operation he felt that success must mainly depend.

Some of these were already prepared to adopt his views, by their previous participation in the league with the Dahcotahs; others he bent and moulded to his purpose by arguments and inducements suited to their character or circumstances; and ere he returned to his lodge, he felt confident that his proposed plans would be supported by the most influential warriors in the tribe, and that he should easily bear down the opposition of the more cautious and scrupulous, who might be disposed to keep faith with their Delaware allies.

In the meanwhile War–Eagle was not idle, he visited the principal braves and warriors of his tribe, and found them unanimous in their resolution to break off all communication with the Osages, as soon as the latter should commit any overt act that should justify them in dissolving the league into which they had entered. He also resolved to watch closely the movements of Mahéga, of whose malice and influence he was fully aware; with this view he selected an intelligent Delaware boy, who knew the Osage language, and desired him to hover about the tent of the chief, and to bring a report of all that he should see or hear.

Towards the close of day, Mahéga sent runners about his village, after the usual Indian fashion, to summon the warriors and braves, most of whom were already prepared for the harangue which he was about to address to them; as soon as a sufficient number were collected, the wily chief came forth from his lodge, in the dress before described, and began by thanking them for so readily obeying his call.

“Why did Mahéga call together the warriors?” he continued; “Was it to tell them that a broad bison–trail is near the camp? The Medicine–men have not yet smoked the hunting–pipe to the Wahcondah.—Was it to tell them of the scalps taken by their fathers? The young men have not been called to the war–dance, their ears have not heard the Drum.[33]—Was it to tickle their ears with words like dried grass? Mahéga’s tongue is not spread with honey; he has called the Washashe to open their ears and eyes, to tell them that snakes have crept under their lodges, that the dogs in the village have become wolves!”

As he paused, the auditors looked each at the other; those who were not yet instructed in the speaker’s project being at a loss to catch the meaning of his words. Seeing that he had arrested their attention, he proceeded: “When Mahéga was young, when our fathers were warriors, who was so strong as the Washashe? Our hunters killed the deer and the bison from the Neska to the Topeo–kà.[34] The Konzas were our brothers, and we were afraid of none. But the Mahe–hunguh[35] came near, their tongues were smooth, their hands were full, and the Washashe listened to their talk:—is it not so?”

A deep murmur testified the attention of his auditors; but Mahéga knew that he was venturing on dangerous ground, and his present object was rather to incite them to vengeance against the band of Delawares and their guests, than against the white men in general. He resumed his harangue in a milder tone.

“The Long–knives smoked the pipe of peace with us, we gave them meat and skins, and they gave us paint and blankets, and fire–weapons with Medicine–powder and lead,—all that was well; but who came with the Long–knives,—the Lenapé!” He paused a moment, then looking fiercely round, he continued in a louder strain; “and who are these Lenapé? They were beggars when they came to us! Their skin is red, but their hearts are pale. Do we not know the tale of their fathers? Were they not slaves to the warriors of other nations?[36] Were they not women? Did they not leave the war–path to plant maize, and drink the fire–water of the Long–knives? They gave up their hunting–ground; they left the bones of their fathers; they crossed the Ne–o–hunge[37], and asked for the friendship of the Washashe. We lighted the pipe for them; we received them like brothers, and opened to them our hunting–ground; but their hearts are bad to us, Washashes. Mahéga tells you that the Lenapé are snakes!”

Another deep guttural sound, indicative of increased excitement, gratified the speaker’s ear, and he continued in a strain yet bolder: “Is Mahéga not a chief? Has he not struck the bodies of his enemies? Are there no scalps on his war–shirt? He was good to these Lenapé, he treated their warriors like brothers, he offered to make Olitipa his wife, they gave him bitter words and threw dirt upon his lodge. Shall the Washashe Chief be called a dog?” he exclaimed in a voice of thunder; “Shall he sit on the ground while a Lenapé spits in his face?”

A shout of anger and fury burst from the audience, as, waving his hand impatiently for silence, he went on: “The Lenapé knew that their hearts were false, their arms weak, their tongues forked, and they have brought in a band of Long–knives to defend them and to drive the Washashe from their hunting–grounds. Shall it be so? Shall we hold our backs to be scourged like children? Shall we whine like starved wolves? See how the pale faces can insult your chief!” As he spoke, Mahéga tore the turban with one hand from his head, and holding up his severed scalp–lock with the other, while every muscle of his countenance worked with fury, “See what the hand of a white–face boy has done. Mahéga slept under a tree, and he whom they call Netis, the stranger who has eaten our meat and smoked with our chiefs, stole upon Mahéga, struck him on the head, and cut off his hair.” As he uttered this audacious falsehood, which was, of course, believed by all who heard him, a terrific shout burst from the assembled Osages, and the wily chief, striking while the iron was hot, went on:—

“It is enough—the Washashes are not women; they will dig up the hatchet, and throw it into the council lodge of these white–faced and pale–hearted dogs. The great chief of the Dahcotahs has spoken to Mahéga; he seeks the friendship of the Washashes; the Dahcotahs are men; the bisons on their hunting–grounds are like the leaves in the forest. They wish to call the Washashes brothers, they wait for Mahéga’s words.—What shall he say?”

A tremendous shout was raised in reply, a shout that could be heard throughout the whole encampment. Mahéga saw that his triumph was complete, and folding his Medicine robe over his shoulder, he once more waved his hand for silence, and dismissed the assembly, saying, “Before the sun sinks again the chiefs and braves will meet in council. The Washashes will hear their words and they will be ready.” As he spoke he cast his dark eye expressively downwards to the tomahawk suspended at his belt, and slowly re–entered his lodge.

Meanwhile the youth who had been sent by War–Eagle to observe what was passing in the Osage encampment, executed his commission with fidelity and address. Although not sufficiently familiar with the language to catch all that fell from Mahéga, he yet learnt enough to satisfy his young chief that a rupture was at hand. It only remained now to be proved whether it would take place as the result of an open council, or whether the Osages would withdraw secretly to their new Dahcotah allies.

On the morning succeeding the events above related, War–Eagle left the encampment before daybreak, partly to see whether he could discover any unusual stir among the Osages, and partly to revolve in his mind the course of conduct that he should suggest if called upon to give his opinion before the Lenapé council. Many various emotions were struggling in his bosom, and in this respect the descendants of Adam, whether their skins be white or red, so far resemble each other, that on such occasions they seek to avoid the turmoil of their fellow–men, and to be for a season alone amid the works of inanimate nature.

It was with impressions and feelings far different that Reginald and Prairie–bird found themselves soon after sunrise together, as if by tacit appointment, by the great tree, under which he had first seen her. In order to guard against the treachery of which he believed Mahéga capable, he had communicated to Baptiste the events of the preceding morning, and had desired him to watch the movements of the latter, especially guarding Prairie–bird against any renewal of his violence.—The trusty forester, who had grown extremely taciturn since he had observed his young master’s attachment, shrugged his shoulders, and briefly promised to obey his instructions. He was too shrewd to oppose a torrent such as that by which Reginald was carried away; and, although it must be confessed, that he had many misgivings as to the reception that the tidings would meet with at the hands of Colonel Brandon, the beauty and gentleness of Prairie–bird had so far won upon his rough nature that he was well disposed to protect her from the machinations of the Osage. With these intentions he followed her when she left her lodge, and as soon as she entered the thicket before described, he ensconced himself in a shady corner whence he could observe the approach of any party from the encampment.

We will now follow the steps of War–Eagle, who, having satisfied himself by a careful observation of the out piquette that no immediate movement was on foot among the Osages, turned towards the undulating prairies to the westward of the village.

He was in an uneasy and excited mood, both from the treachery of the Osages towards his tribe, and various occurrences which had of late wounded his feelings in the quarter where they were most sensitive.

The victory over self is the greatest that can be achieved by man; it assumes, however, a different complexion in those who are guided by the light of nature, and in those who have been taught by revelation. In the heathen it is confined to the actions and to the outward man, whereas in the Christian it extends to the motives and feelings of the heart. The former may spare an enemy, the latter must learn to forgive and love him. But in both cases the struggle is severe in proportion to the strength of the passion which is to be combated. In War–Eagle were combined many of the noblest features of the Indian character; but his passions had all the fierce intensity common to his race; and although the instructions of Paul Müller, falling like good seed on a wild but fertile soil, had humanised and improved him, his views of Christianity were incipient and indistinct, while the courage, pride, and feelings of his race were in the full zenith of their power. He had long known that Prairie–bird was not his sister in blood, she had grown up from childhood under his eye, and, unconsciously perhaps at first, he had loved her, and still loved her with all the impassioned fervour of his nature. It may be remembered in the earlier portion of this tale, when he first became acquainted with Reginald, that he had abstained from all mention of her name, and had avoided the subject whenever young Wingenund brought it forward. He had never yet asked Olitipa to become his wife, but the sweet gentleness of her manner, and her open contempt for the addresses of the handsome and distinguished Osage, had led him to form expectations favourable to his own suit. At the same time there was something in the maiden’s behaviour that had frequently caused him to doubt whether she loved him, and sharing in the awe with which she inspired all the Indians around her, he had hitherto hesitated and feared to make a distinct avowal. Of late he had been so much occupied in observing the suspicious movements of the Osages that his attention had been somewhat withdrawn from Olitipa: he was aware of her having become acquainted with Reginald, and the adventure of the preceding day, which had been communicated to him, filled him with an uneasiness that he could not conceal from himself, although he had succeeded in concealing it from others.

In this frame of mind, he was returning to the camp, along the course of the streamlet passing through the grove where the rencounter of the preceding day had occurred. When he reached the opening before described, his eyes rested on a sight that transfixed him to the spot. Seated on one of the projecting roots of the ancient tree was Prairie–bird, her eye and cheek glowing with happiness, and her ear drinking in the whispered vows of her newly–betrothed lover; her hand was clasped in his, and more than once he pressed it tenderly to his lips. For several minutes the Indian stood silent and motionless as a statue; despair seemed to have checked the current of his blood, but by slow degrees consciousness returned; he saw her, the maiden whom he had served and loved for weary months and years, now interchanging with another tokens of affection not to be mistaken, and that other a stranger whom he had himself lately brought by his own invitation from a distant region.

The demon of jealousy took instant possession of his soul; every other thought, feeling, and passion was for the time annihilated, the nobler impulses of his nature were forgotten, and he was in a moment transformed to a merciless savage, bent on swift and deadly vengeance. He only paused as in doubt, how he should kill his rival—perhaps, whether he should kill them both; his eye dwelt upon them with a stern ferocity, as he loosened the unerring tomahawk from his belt; another moment he paused, for his hand trembled convulsively, and a cold sweat stood like dew upon his brow. At this terrible crisis of his passion, a low voice whispered in his ear, in the Delaware tongue,

“Would the Lenapé chief stain his Medicine with a brother’s blood?” War–Eagle, turning round, encountered the steady eye of Baptiste; he gave no answer, but directed his fiery glance towards the spot where the unconscious lovers were seated, and the half–raised weapon still vibrated under the impulse of the internal struggle that shook every muscle of the Indian’s frame. Profiting by the momentary pause, Baptiste continued, in the same tone, “Shall the tomahawk of the War–Eagle strike an adopted son of the Unâmi?[38] The Bad Spirit has entered my brother’s heart; let him hold a talk with himself, and remember that he is the son of Tamenund.”

By an effort of self–control, such as none but an Indian can exercise, War–Eagle subdued, instantaneously, all outward indication of the tempest that had been aroused in his breast. Replacing the tomahawk in his belt, he drew himself proudly to his full height, and, fixing on the woodsman an eye calm and steady as his own, he replied,

“Grande–Hâche speaks truth; War–Eagle is a chief; the angry spirit is strong; but he tramples it under his feet.” He then added, in a lower tone, “War–Eagle will speak to Netis; not now; if his white brother’s tongue has been forked, the medicine of the Unâmi shall not protect him. The sky is very black, and War–Eagle has no friend left.” So saying, the Indian threw his light blanket over his shoulder and stalked gloomily from the spot.

Baptiste followed with his eye the retreating figure of the Delaware, until it was lost in the dense foliage of the wood.

“He is a noble fellow,” said the rough hunter, half aloud, leaning on his long rifle, and pursuing the thread of his own reflections. “He is one of the old sort of Ingians, and there’s but few of ‘em left. I’ve been with him in several skrimages, and I’ve seen him strike and scalp more than one Dahcotah; but I never saw the glare of his eye so wild and bloodthirsty before; if he had kept his purpose, my old sinews would have had some trouble to save Master Reginald from that tomahawk. It’s well for him that I’ve lived long enough among the Delawares to know the ins and outs of their natur’, as well as John Skellup at the ferry knows the sand–bars and channels in Bearcreek Shallows. I thought the Unâmi Medicine whispered in his ear might do something; but I scarcely hoped it could smother such a fire in a minute. I remember, when I was young, I was in a hot passion, now and then, myself. Capote! I’m sometimes in a passion still, when I think of those cut–throat Sioux, and if my bristles are up, it takes some time to smooth ‘em down.” Here the woodsman’s hand unconsciously rested for a moment on the huge axe suspended at his belt; but his musings took another course, as he continued his muttered soliloquy:—

“Well, I sometimes think the bears and the deer have more reason than human critturs, ay, and I believe that shot isn’t overwide o’ the mark. Look at them two youngsters, Master Reginald and War–Eagle, two brave honest hearts as ever lived; one saves the other’s life; they become brothers and swear friendship; of a sudden, I am obliged to step in between ‘em, to prevent one from braining the other with a tomahawk. And what’s the cause of all this hate and fury? Why, love,—a pair of black eyes and red lips;—a strange kind of love, indeed, that makes a man hate and kill his best friend. Thank Heaven, I have nothing to do with such love; and I say, as I said before, that the dumb animals have more reason than human critturs. Well, I must do all I can to make ‘em friends again, for a blind man might see they’ll need each other’s help, ere many days are past!”

So saying, the woodsman threw his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and moved towards Reginald Brandon, who, unconscious of the danger that he had so narrowly escaped, was still engaged with Prairie–bird in that loving dialogue which finds no satiety in endless reiteration.

Baptiste drew near, and after the usual greetings, took an opportunity, as he thought unobserved by Prairie–bird, of making a sign to Reginald that he wished to speak with him in private; but the maiden, watchful of every movement directly or indirectly affecting her lover, and already aware of the intrigues and treachery of the Osages, said to him with her usual simplicity of manner, “Baptiste, if you have aught to say requiring my absence, I will go; but as there are dangers approaching that threaten us all alike, do not fear to speak before me. I know something of these people, and though only an unskilled maiden, my thoughts might be of some avail.”

The sturdy hunter, although possessed of a shrewd judgment, was somewhat confused by this direct appeal; but after smoothing down the hair of his fur cap for a few moments, as was his custom when engaged in reflection, he resolved to speak before her without concealment; and he proceeded accordingly, with the blunt honesty of his nature, to narrate to them all the particulars of his late interview with War–Eagle. During his recital, both the auditors changed colour more than once, with different yet sympathetic emotions; and when he concluded, Reginald suddenly arose, and, fixing his eye upon the maiden’s countenance, as if he would read her soul, he said,

“Prairie–bird, I conjure you by all you love on earth, and by all your hopes of Heaven! tell me truly, if you have known and encouraged these feelings in War–Eagle?”

The dark eyes that had been cast to the ground with various painful emotions were raised at this appeal, and met her lover’s searching look with the modest courage of conscious truth as she replied,—

“Reginald, is it possible that you can ask me such a question? Olitipa, the foundling of the Delawares, loved War–Eagle as she loved Wingenund; she was brought up in the same lodge with both; she called both, brother; she thought of them only as such. Had War–Eagle ever asked for other love, she would have told him she had none other to give. She knew of none other, until—until——” The presence of a third person checked the words that struggled for utterance; her deep eyes filled with tears, and she hid them on Reginald’s bosom.

“I were worse than an infidel, could I doubt thy purity and truth,” he exclaimed with fervour; “Baptiste, I will speak with my Indian brother—I pity him from my heart—I will strive all in my power to soothe his sorrow; for I, and I alone, can know what he must suffer, who has, in secret and in vain, loved such a being as this! Let us return.”

Slowly and sadly they wended their way to the encampment, the guide bringing up the rear. He was thoroughly convinced that Prairie–bird had spoken the truth: every look, every accent carried conviction with it; but he feared for the meeting between the young men, being fully aware of the impetuosity of Reginald’s character, and of the intense excitement that now affected the Indian’s mind. He determined, however, to leave them to themselves, for he had lived enough among men of stormy and ungoverned passions to know, that in a tête–à–tête between two high and generous spirits a concession will often be made, to which pride might, in the presence of others, never have submitted.

On reaching their quarters in the encampment, they found Paul Müller standing thoughtfully before Prairie–bird’s tent, into which, after exchanging a brief but cordial greeting, he and the maiden withdrew, leaving Reginald and the guide to retire into the adjoining lodge of Tamenund.

War–Eagle, who had posted himself in a spot whence, without being seen himself, he could observe their movements, now walked slowly forward to the entrance of the tent, into which he was immediately invited by the missionary; his manner was grave and composed, nor could the most observant eye have traced in the lines of his countenance the slightest shade of excitement or agitation.

After the usual salutation, he said, “War–Eagle will speak to the Black Father presently; he has now low words for the ear of Olitipa.”

Paul Müller, looking on him with a smile, benevolent though somewhat melancholy, said, “I shut my ears, my son, and go, for I know that War–Eagle will speak nothing that his sister should not hear;” and so saying, he retired into his adjacent compartment of the tent. Prairie–bird, conscious of the painful scene that awaited her, sat in embarrassed silence, and for upwards of a minute War–Eagle contemplated without speaking the sad but lovely expression of the maiden’s countenance; that long and piercing look told him all that he dreaded to know; he saw that Baptiste had spoken to her; he saw that his hopes were blasted; and still his riveted gaze was fixed upon her, as the eyes of one banished for life dwell upon the last receding tints of the home that he is leaving for ever. Collecting, at length, all the stoic firmness of his nature, he spoke to her in the Delaware tongue; the words that he used were few and simple, but in them, and in the tone of his voice, there was so much delicacy mingled with such depth of feeling, that Prairie–bird could not refrain from tears.

Answering him in the same language, she blended her accustomed sincerity of expression with gentle words of soothing kindness; and, in concluding her reply, she took his hand in hers, saying, “Olitipa has long loved her brothers, War–Eagle and Wingenund; let not a cloud come between them now; her heart is not changed to the great warrior of Lenapé; his sister trusts to his protection; she is proud of his fame; she has no other love to give him; her race, her religion, her heart forbid it! but he is her dear brother; he will not be angry, nor leave her.

“Mahéga and the Osages are become enemies; the Dahcotah trail is near; Tamenund is old and weak; where shall Olitipa find a brother’s love, and a brother’s aid, if War–Eagle turns away his face from her now?”

The noble heart to which she appealed had gone through its fiery ordeal of torture, and triumphed over it. After the manner of his tribe, the Delaware, before relinquishing her hand, pressed it for a moment to his chest, in token of affection, and said, “It is enough; my sister’s words are good, they are not spilt upon the ground; let Mahéga or the Dahcotahs come near the lodge of Olitipa, and they shall learn that War–Eagle is her brother!” The chieftain’s hand rested lightly on his tomahawk, and his countenance, as he withdrew from the tent, wore an expression of high and stern resolve.

How often in life is the observation forced upon us, that artlessness is the highest perfection of art! It is an axiom, the truth of which remains unchallenged under whatever aspect we view it, and is indisputable even in its converse; thus, as in writing, the apparent ease and simplicity of style is the result of frequent correction and laborious study; so in corporeal exercises, the most assiduous practice must be combined with the highest physical qualifications, ere the dancer or the posture–master can emulate the unconscious grace displayed in the movements of a sportive kitten, or a playful child.

Had Prairie–bird been familiar with all the learned treatises on rhetoric that have appeared from the time of Aristotle to the present day, she could not have selected topics better calculated to move and soften the heart of her Indian brother. And yet she had no other instructor in the heart than the natural delicacy of her sex and character. While the tribute to his warlike fame gratified his pride, the unstudied sisterly affection of her tone and manner soothed his wounded feelings; and while the brief picture of her unprotected state aroused all his nobler and more generous sentiments, no breath of allusion to his successful rival’s name kindled the embers of jealousy that slumbered beneath them.

As he walked from her tent, the young Indian’s heart dilated within him; he trod the earth with a proud and lordly step; he had grappled with his passion; and though it had been riveted “to his soul with hooks of steel,” he had plucked it forth with an unflinching hand, and he now met his deep–rooted grief with the same lofty brow and unconquerable will with which he would have braved the tortures of the Dahcotah stake.

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Chapter VII

IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A MORAL DISQUISITION SOMEWHAT TEDIOUS, A TRUE STORY SOMEWHAT INCREDIBLE, A CONFERENCE THAT ENDS IN PEACE, AND A COUNCIL THAT BETOKENS WAR.

It is not a feature in the character of Indians to do anything by halves; their love and their hate, their patience and impatience, their abstinence and self–indulgence, all are apt to run into extremes. Moderation is essentially a virtue of civilisation; it is the result of forethought, reasoning, and a careful calculation of consequences, whereas the qualities of the Indian are rather the children of impulse, and are less modified by conflicting motives; hence, the lights and shades of character are broader and more distinct; and though it may be perhaps impossible that Indian villany should assume a deeper dye than that which may unfortunately be met with among civilised nations, it is not asserting too much to say, that there are to be found among these savages instances of disinterested, self–devoted heroism, such as are rarely heard of beyond the world of chivalry and romance.

This assertion will be received by many readers with an incredulous smile, and still more will be disposed to believe that it can be true only in reference to such virtues or actions as are the immediate result of a generous impulse; but examples are not wanting to prove the argument to be defensible upon higher grounds. It will readily be admitted, that retributive justice, although consonant to the first principles of reason and natural law, cannot, when deliberately enforced, be considered in the light of a sudden impulse, much less can it be so considered when the party enforcing it is to be himself the sufferer by it; and those who are conversant with the history of the Indian nations can testify that parallel instances to that which follows have frequently occurred among them.

Some years ago, a young married Indian, residing on the western bank of the Mississippi, quarrelled with another of his tribe, and in the heat of passion killed him with a blow of his tomahawk. After a few moments’ reflection, he walked direct to the village, and presenting himself before the wigwam of the murdered man, called together his relations, and addressed them as follows:

“Your relative was my friend; we were together,—some angry words arose between us,—I killed him on the spot. My life is in your hands, and I have come to offer it to you; but the summer hunting–season has now begun. I have a wife and some young children; they have done you no wrong; I wish to go out into the woods to kill a plentiful supply of meat, such as may feed them during the winter; when I have done that, I will return and give myself to you.”

The stern assembly of mourners gave their assent, and the young man retired; for many weeks he toiled indefatigably in the chase, his wife jerked and dried the meat as he daily brought it in, until he saw that the supply was ample for the ensuing winter; he then bid farewell to her and to his little ones, and once more presenting himself before the wigwam of his late friend, he said, “I am come: my squaw has meat for the winter, my life is now yours!” To these words the eldest male relative of the deceased replied, “It is well:” and rising from the ground, executed on the unresisting offender the summary justice of Indian retribution, by cleaving his skull with a tomahawk. Neither the self–devotion of the one, nor the unrelenting severity of the other, excited any peculiar sensation, each having acted according to the strict, though barbarous usage of the tribe.

Amongst a people accustomed to look with stoic composure on scenes such as that just described, War–Eagle had already won a distinguished name, and he supported it on this trying occasion by resigning what was dearer to him than life, and crushing, as under a weight of iron, that passion which had been for years the hope and nourishment of his heart; whether, albeit crushed and smothered, it still lingered there, is a secret which it is neither our wish nor our province to betray, but regarding which the reader may form his own opinion from the subsequent conduct of the chief.

His first step was to seek Reginald Brandon, whom he desired, by a silent signal, to leave the lodge and follow him. Our hero mechanically obeyed, in a painful state of excitement and agitation, feeling that he had been the unconscious means of blasting all the dearest hopes of his Indian friend; and although he had intended no injury, he was sensible that he had done one, such as man can rarely forgive, and can never repair; for even had the romantic generosity of friendship prompted him to resign all pretensions to Prairie–bird, he felt that such a resignation, while he was secure of her affections, would be mere mockery and insult. He knew also how prominent a feature is revenge in the Indian character, and thought it not improbable that he might be now following his conductor to some secluded spot, where their rivalry should be decided by mortal strife, and the survivor return to claim the lovely prize. This last thought, which would, under any other circumstances, have nerved his arm and made his heart exult within him, now overwhelmed him with sadness, for he loved both Wingenund and War–Eagle, they were endeared to him by reciprocal benefits, and he shrunk from a quarrel with the latter as from a fratricide.

Meanwhile the Indian strode rapidly forward; neither could Reginald detect the feelings that lurked beneath the dignified and unmoved composure of his countenance.

After walking in silence for some minutes, they reached a small hollow, where a few scattered alder–bushes screened them from the observation of the stragglers round the skirts of the Delaware camp: here the chief suddenly halted, and turning towards Reginald, bent on him the full gaze of his dark and lustrous eyes; the latter observed with surprise that their expression, as well as that of his usually haughty features, was a deep composed melancholy.

At length the Delaware broke the long and painful silence, addressing his companion, after his imperfect notion of English, in the following words:—

“The Great Spirit sent a cloud between Netis and War–Eagle—a very black cloud; the lightning came from it and blinded the eyes of the Lenapé chief, so that he looked on his brother and thought he saw an enemy. The Bad Spirit whispered in his ear that the tongue of Netis was forked; that the heart of Olitipa was false; that she had listened to a mockingbird, and had mingled for War–Eagle a cup of poison.”

The Delaware paused for a moment; his eye retained its steady but sad expression, his lips were firmly compressed, and not a muscle betrayed the intensity of his feeling; but Reginald appreciated rightly the self–control that had conquered, in so severe a struggle, and grasping his friend’s hand, he said,—

“Noble and generous son of the Lenapé, the Bad Spirit has no power over a heart like yours! Are we not brothers? Have not the waters of the Muskingum, and the treacherous knife of the Huron, tied our hearts together, so that no fear, no suspicion, no falsehood, can come between them? Netis believed that War–Eagle loved Olitipa only as a sister, or he would rather have given his scalp to Mahéga than have spoken soft words in the maiden’s ear!”

“My brother’s words are true,” replied the Delaware, in the low and musical tone for which his voice was remarkable; “War–Eagle knows it; he has dreamt, and is now awake: Olitipa is his sister—the Great Spirit decrees that no child of an Indian warrior shall call her mother. It is enough.” The countenance of the Delaware assumed a sterner expression as he continued:—

“My brother must be ready; let his rifle be loaded and his eye open, for Tamenund has seen the snow of many winters; the Black Father is good and true, but his hand knows not the tomahawk: the Osage panther will crouch near the tent of Olitipa, and the feet of the Cut–throats[39] will not be far; before the sun goes down War–Eagle will see his brother again.”

Thus saying, and waiting no reply, he returned with hearty strides towards the village. Reginald gazed long and earnestly after the retreating figure of the Indian, forgetting awhile, in admiration of his heroic self–control, the dangers that beset his beloved and his party.

“Could I,” he asked himself, “could I, under the same circumstances, with all the light, and aid, and high motives of Christianity, have shown the forbearance, generosity, and self–command displayed by this noble heathen? Could I have seen all my long–cherished hopes, my warm and passionate love, blasted in a moment, and have so soon, so frankly, and so fully exculpated and forgiven the man to whom I owed my misery? I hope I might have done so, still I am afraid to ask my heart the question!”

Reginald’s cheek glowed under the influence of this self–scrutiny, and he gladly availed himself of the approach of Paul Müller, to whom he related what had passed, and expressed in the warmest terms his admiration of his Indian brother’s conduct. The good missionary felt inexpressibly relieved at hearing the amicable issue now announced to him, for although he had never been made a confidant of War–Eagle’s feelings towards Olitipa, his own observation had shown him of late that they were not exactly fraternal, and he had viewed with dread a rivalry between the two high–spirited young men, at a crisis when the aid of both might be so necessary to protect his fair pupil from the perils by which she was surrounded.

Meanwhile the machinations of Mahéga, which had been conducted with his accustomed secrecy and cunning, were almost ripe for execution; several runners had interchanged communication between him and the Dahcotah chief, the latter of whom was delighted at the prospect, thus unexpectedly offered, of taking vengeance on his ancient and hated Lenapé foes. A secret council of the Osages had been held, at which a treaty with the Sioux and a rupture with the Delawares were discussed, and almost unanimously carried, Mahéga appearing rather to have coincided in the general determination than to have caused it by his influence and intrigues. The result of this council was, that the Osage village immediately struck their lodges, the horses were driven in, skins, poultry, provisions, and all their utensils were packed upon them, and in a few hours the whole body moved in a north–easterly direction towards the upper fork of the river Konzas.

While they were departing, the Delaware council was summoned by a crier; Reginald and Baptiste were also invited to attend, the former in compliment to his station in the tribe as adopted brother of War–Eagle; the latter being recognised as a warrior of tried courage and experience. The Chiefs and Braves having seated themselves in a semicircle, the centre of which was occupied by Tamenund, the Great Medicine pipe was first passed round in silence, and with the accustomed solemnities, after which Tamenund arose, and in a voice feeble from age, but distinctly audible, proceeded to explain to the assembly the affairs respecting which they had met to consult: while he was speaking, one of the Indians appointed to guard the entrance of the council lodge, came in and announced a messenger from the Osage encampment. Tamenund paused, and desired the messenger to be introduced.

All eyes were bent sternly on the envoy, who advanced with a haughty and dignified step into the centre of the lodge, where he stood still, and resting on a long lance which he held in his right hand, awaited, according to Indian custom, a signal from the council–chief to deliver his errand. His dress, and the paint by which his body was adorned, had evidently been prepared with every attention to the niceties of Indian diplomacy, some portions of it being significant of peace or alliance, and others of hostile preparation; his right side was painted red, with streaks of black; on his left arm he wore a round shield of buffalo–hide, a quiver of arrows hung at his back, a tomahawk and knife were in his girdle, and in his left hand he carried a large string of wampum[40], adorned with sundry ribbons and thongs of party–coloured deer–skin.

The Delawares recognised in the messenger a young kinsman of Mahéga, one who had already distinguished himself by several feats of daring gallantry, and had been lately enrolled among the braves of his nation: he had hitherto been upon the most friendly terms with the Lenapé, was familiar with their language, and had volunteered on more than one occasion to follow War–Eagle on the war–path; but the lines of paint and his accoutrements were now, as has before been observed, so carefully selected, that their practised eyes were unable to decide whether peace or war was the object of his mission; neither was any inference to be drawn from his countenance or bearing, for after the first cold salutation on entering, he leaned on his lance in an attitude of haughty indifference. Under these circumstances he was not invited to sit, neither was the pipe handed to him, but Tamenund briefly addressed him as follows:

“The messenger of the Osage may speak. The ears of the Lenapé are open.”

“Flying–arrow,” replied the young man, in a modest and quiet tone, “knows that many winters have passed over the head of the Lenapé chief; he is sorry to speak hard words to Tamenund.”

“Let the young warrior speak freely; Tamenund knows that he is the mouth of the Osage council,” was the grave reply.

“The Washashe say that the Lenapé have walked in a crooked path. The council have assembled; and the words delivered to Flying–arrow are these: The Washashe allowed the Lenapé to kill meat on their hunting–ground, they smoked the pipe together, and gave each other the wampum–belt of peace; but the Lenapé hearts are white, though their skin is red; their tongues are smooth with telling many lies: they have brought the pale–faces here to aid them in driving the Washashe from the hunting–fields of their fathers! Is it not true?” continued the fearless envoy, in a louder strain; “they have done all they can to throw dirt upon the lodges of those whom they call brothers. When Mahéga offered to take the daughter of Tamenund as his wife, what was said to him? Does not the pale–face who crept upon him and defiled his medicine, still sit and smoke at the Lenapé fire? Mahéga says, let Tamenund give him Olitipa for a wife, and the pale–face, called Netis, as a prisoner, and let him send back the other white men to the Great River; then Mahéga will believe that the hearts of the Lenapé are true to the friendship pledged on this belt.”

Thus saying, he shook the wampum before the assembled Delawares with an air of proud defiance. A brief pause followed this daring speech; the heart of War–Eagle boiled within him, but a scornful smile sat upon his haughty countenance, as he waited composedly for the reply of his father, who seemed engaged in deep and serious meditation.

Reginald had, of course, been unable to follow the envoy’s discourse, but his quick ear had detected his own name; and a fierce look, which accompanied its pronunciation, told him that he was personally interested in the object of the Osage’s message. Having gathered from Baptiste, in a whisper, the nature of Mahéga’s charge and demand, a flush of indignation coloured his brow, but the examples of self–command that he had so lately seen, and that he still witnessed in the iron features by which he was surrounded, taught him to place a like restraint upon his own feelings, and to await the reply of the aged chief.

The latter, fixing his eye sternly upon the envoy, thus addressed him: “Mahéga has filled the young brave’s mouth with lies. The hearts of the Lenapé are true as the guiding–star.[41] They are faithful to their friends, they fear no enemies. Tamenund will not give Olitipa to Mahéga, nor his adopted son to be the Washashe’s prisoner. Tamenund is old, but he is not blind, Mahéga wishes to become a friend of the Dahcotahs. It is well; he will find among them hearts as bad and tongues as forked as his own! I have spoken.”

A deep murmur of approbation followed the aged chief’s brief but energetic harangue, and as soon as it was concluded, the fearless messenger drew a sharp knife from his girdle, and severing the wampum–belt, he cast the two halves on the ground, saying, “It is well! thus is the league between the Washashe and the Lenapé divided.”

Baptiste, to whom Reginald had again addressed a few words in a whisper, now rose, and having requested permission of Tamenund, said to the Osage messenger, “Netis desires you to tell Mahéga that he is a liar,—brave enough to frighten women, but nothing more. If he is a warrior, let him come to–morrow at sunrise to the open prairie, north of the camp; the friends of both shall stand back three arrow–flights apart; Netis will meet him with a rifle and a hunting–knife; Olitipa will not be there to save his life again!”

Another murmur of approbation went round the assembly, many of whom had already heard of the rough treatment that the gigantic Osage had received at Reginald’s hands, but hearing it now confirmed by the lips of a tried warrior, like Grande–Hâche, they looked with increased respect and esteem on the adopted brother of War–Eagle.

“Flying–arrow will tell Mahéga,” was the brief reply; and the messenger glancing his eye haughtily around the circle, left the lodge and returned to the encampment of his tribe. After his departure the council continued their deliberations for some time, and had not yet concluded them when a distant and repeated shouting attracted their attention, and a Delaware youth, of about fifteen years of age, rushed into the lodge, breathless, and bleeding from a wound inflicted by an arrow, which had pierced his shoulder. A few hurried sentences explained to the chiefs the news of which he was the bearer. It appeared that he had been tending, in a bottom not far distant, a herd of horses, chiefly belonging to Tamenund, War–Eagle, and the party of white men, when a band of mounted Sioux came sweeping down the valley at full speed; two or three young Delawares, who formed the out–picquet on that side, had been taken completely by surprise, and paid with their lives the penalty of their carelessness.

The wounded youth who brought the intelligence had only escaped by his extreme swiftness of foot, and by the unwillingness of the enemy to approach too near the camp. Thus had the Dahcotahs succeeded in carrying off, by a bold stroke, upwards of one hundred of the best horses from the Delaware village; and Reginald soon learnt, to his inexpressible annoyance and regret, that Nekimi was among the number of the captives. A hurried consultation followed, in which War–Eagle, throwing off the modest reserve that he had practised during the council, assumed his place as leader of the Lenapé braves, of whom he selected forty of the most active and daring, to accompany him on the difficult and dangerous expedition that was to be instantly undertaken for the recovery of the stolen horses.

Reginald and Baptiste eagerly volunteered, and were instantly accepted by War–Eagle; but it was not without some persuasion on the part of the guide, that the chief allowed Monsieur Perrot to be of the party; that faithful valet insisted, however, so obstinately upon his right to attend his master, that, on Baptiste enjoining that he should implicitly obey orders, he was permitted to form one of the selected band.

In less than half an hour, from the receipt of the above disastrous intelligence, the party left the camp well armed and equipped, each man carrying three pounds of dried buffalo meat; and Baptiste secured twice that quantity to his sturdy person, thinking it probable that Reginald’s endurance of hunger might not prove proportionate to his active qualities. The latter had, indeed, forgotten the meat altogether, for he passed the last few minutes of his stay within the camp, in bidding farewell to Prairie–bird, and in assuring her that he would not be long absent, but trusted soon to return with his favourite Nekimi. At his departure, Reginald left the strictest orders with Bearskin (who remained in charge of his party) to keep a faithful watch over the safety of Prairie–bird, and to follow the injunctions that he might receive from Tamenund and Paul Müller.

The small band, who, at the instigation of Mahéga, had stolen the Delaware horses, were chosen warriors, well mounted, thoroughly trained to the predatory warfare in which they were now engaged, and ready, either to defend their prize against an equal force, or to baffle the pursuit of a superior one. As War–Eagle had lost many of his best horses, he resolved to follow the enemy’s trail on foot, but he desired two or three of his most active and enterprising followers, whose horses had not been stolen, to hover on the rear of the retreating party, to watch their motions, and bring back any intelligence that might aid him in the pursuit.

The select band of Delawares moved swiftly forward under the guidance of their young leader; close upon his steps followed Reginald, burning with impatience to recover his favourite steed; next to him came Baptiste, then Perrot, and the remainder of the Lenapé warriors.

The prairie–grass trodden down by the hoofs of the galloping and affrighted steeds driven from their pasture, afforded a trail that could be traced without difficulty, and the trampled banks of several slow and lazy streams, which they passed in their course, marked the headlong course taken by their fugitive steeds and their fierce drivers.

We will leave the pursuers for a time, and follow the movements of Mahéga, who was now acting in concert with the Sioux, and who contrived by his superior address to direct their plans, as completely as if he had been himself the chief of their tribe. Having accompanied the Osage village, fourteen or fifteen miles on their route to the northward, he ordered a halt by the side of a stream, in a valley adjacent to the encampment of their new allies, the two bands forming a body so superior in number to the Delawares, that they had no cause to fear an attack, especially as they learnt from their scouts that War–Eagle and his followers had gone in an opposite direction in pursuit of the horse–stealing party.

The evening was dark, and favoured the execution of a plot which Mahéga had formed, and in furtherance of which all his preceding measures had been taken. As soon as the sun had set, he selected one hundred of the bravest and most experienced warriors in his tribe, whom he armed only with bow and arrows, knife, and tomahawk; strictly forbidding the use of any fire–arms; for he well knew that the latter were far from being effective weapons in the hands of his followers, especially in such an expedition as that in which he was engaged. Swiftly and silently they moved under their leader’s guidance, who, directing his course towards the south–east, brought them, after a few hours’ march, to the line of wood skirting the great Prairie. Aware that the warriors remaining in the Delaware encampment would be prepared against any surprise from the quarter in which the Sioux were posted, his present object was to make his attack from the opposite side, in order to effect which, undiscovered, the greatest skill and rapidity were necessary.

It was on occasions such as these that the qualities of the Osage chief were most conspicuously exhibited; with light and noiseless step, he led his party through the depths of the forest, and during a swift march of many hours not a word was spoken; now and then he paused as a startled deer rustled through the thicket, and once or twice, when a stray moonbeam, forcing its way through the foliage, silvered the bark of the sycamore, he cast his eye upwards, as if to learn from the leaves the direction of the wind, or to scan the heaven in search of one of those stars, which the imperfect, but sagacious astronomy of the Indians teaches them to recognise as guides.

Leave we them to pursue their dark and circuitous path and let us transport the reader to the interior of the Delaware encampment, where (as it may be remembered) Bearskin was left in command of that portion of the white men who had not accompanied their leader in pursuit of the Sioux.

Paul Müller sat late at night in the tent of the Prairie–bird; on the rude table lay the Bible from which he had been reading, and explaining some difficulties that had perplexed her strong, yet inquiring mind; afterwards they had turned the conversation to the scenes which had occurred within the last few days, and which were calculated to inspire serious anticipations of coming evil. Prairie–bird made no effort to conceal from her affectionate instructor how entirely her heart was given to Reginald; she knew his bold and fearless disposition; she knew too the wily cunning of the powerful tribe against whom his expedition was undertaken, and more than one heavy sigh escaped her when she thought of the risks that he must incur.

The good missionary employed every possible argument to allay her fears, but none so effectively as that which referred to the protection of that Being who had been from childhood her hope, her trust, and her shield, and, bidding her good night, he had the pleasure of seeing her agitated spirit resume its usual composure. He then wrapped his cloak round his shoulders, and went out to see what provision Bearskin had made for the security of the camp, during the absence of Reginald, War–Eagle, and their party. The rough old boatman was smoking his pipe over the embers of a fire in front of the lodge where he slept; beside him lay, half–asleep, the gigantic Mike Smith; and the other white men were within the lodge, each having his rifle within reach, and his knife and pistols in his belt. Bearskin returned the greeting of the missionary with blunt civility, and informed him that he had been to the lodge of Tamenund, where it had been agreed to throw forward an outpost of a dozen light, active, young Indians, half a mile beyond the camp, in the direction of the Sioux: runners had also been sent round to desire the warriors to be ready, and all the usual precautions taken, such as are observed by Indians in the neighbourhood of a dangerous enemy.

Satisfied with these arrangements, Paul Müller returned to his tent, and throwing himself on the pile of buffalo skins that formed his bed, was soon fast asleep. He knew not how long he had slept, when he was aroused by a cry such as none who has once heard it can mistake or forget. Scarcely had that shrill and savage whoop pierced the dull silence of the night, when every creature within the encampment sprang to their feet; the braves and warriors, seizing their weapons, rushed to the quarter whence the cry proceeded, while the women and children, crowding round the aged and defenceless men, waited in suspense the result of the sudden and fierce attack. The noise and the tumult came from the northern quarter, that most remote from the lodges of Tamenund and Prairie–bird. Sixty of the chosen Osage warriors had fallen upon the small outpost placed to give the alarm, and, driving them easily before them and killing some, entered the camp almost simultaneously with the survivors. This band was led by that daring young warrior before introduced to the reader under the name of Flying–arrow, who now burned with desire to render his name in the war annals of his tribe famous as that of his kinsman Mahéga. Nor were the Delaware warriors slow to meet the invaders, with a courage equal to their own; the conflict was fierce and confused, for the moon was no longer up, and the pale stars were contending, in a cloudy sky, with the dim grey hue that precedes the dawn of day, so that the dusky figures of the combatants were scarcely visible, and by their voices alone could they distinguish friends from foes.

At the first alarm, Bearskin, with his habitual coolness, ordered Mike Smith, with three of his men, to retire into the rear, to assist in protecting the lodge of Tamenund and the tent of Prairie–bird, while he led the remainder to check the advance of the Osages from the northward. For some time the latter seemed to be gaining ground, but the Delawares, still superior in number and hastening to the spot, aided by Bearskin and his followers, recovered their lost advantage, and the combat raged with renewed fury.

At this crisis Mahéga, who had succeeded in gaining, unperceived, the valley to the southward of the Delaware camp, fell upon their rear with his reserve of forty men; overthrowing all who opposed him, he forced his way towards the white tent, which the advancing light of dawn rendered now easily distinguishable from the dark–coloured lodges around it; shouting his battle–cry with a voice like a trumpet, he rushed onward, caring not, apparently, for scalps or trophies, but determined on securing the prize for which he had already broken his faith, and imbrued his hands in the blood of allies who had done him no injury. A gallant band of Delawares surrounded their aged chief, whose trembling hand now grasped a tomahawk that had for twenty years reposed idly in his belt. Prairie–bird had sprung from her couch, and already joined in the brief, but earnest prayer, which Paul Müller breathed at her side; he recognised the Osage war–cry, and divining the chief object of their terrible leader, he whispered solemnly to her,—

“My dear child, if I am soon taken from you, keep, nevertheless, your trust in God. I see that knife still in your girdle; I know what you have once dared; if it be the will of Heaven, you must be prepared patiently to endure pain, sorrow, confinement, or oppression; remember, it is only as the last resource against dishonour, that you may have recourse to it.”

The maiden replied not, but a glance from her dark eye assured him that he was understood, and would be obeyed; many emotions contended in her bosom, but, for the moment, reverence and attachment to her affectionate instructor prevailed over all others, and, dropping on her knees before him, she covered his hand with kisses, saying,

“Dear Father, if we must be separated, bless, bless your grateful child.”

The worthy missionary, albeit accustomed to resign himself entirely to the will of Heaven, could scarcely command himself sufficiently to utter aloud the blessing that he implored upon her head; but the shouts and cries of the combatants were every moment approaching nearer, and seizing his staff, he went to the aperture in front of the lodge, in order to ascertain how the tide of conflict was turning.

The first object that met his view was the aged Tamenund, who had fallen in his hurried endeavour to rush to the combat, but was now partly supported and partly detained by his wailing wives and daughters, while the tomahawk that had dropped from his nerveless arm lay upon the ground beside him. As soon as he saw Paul Müller, he called him, and said, in a low voice,

“The breath of Tamenund is going; he has lived long enough; the voices of his fathers are calling to him from the far hunting–fields; he will go, and pray the Great Spirit to give the scalps of these snake–tongued Washashe to the knife of War–Eagle.” After a moment’s pause, the old man continued: “I know that the heart of the Black Father is good to the Lenapé; he has been a friend of many days to the lodge of Tamenund; he must be a father to Olitipa; she is a sweet–scented flower; the Great Spirit has given rain and sunshine to nourish its growth, and its roots are deep in Tamenund’s heart; the Black Father will not allow it to be trodden under the feet of Mahéga.” While saying these words he drew from under his blanket a small leathern bag, the neck of which was carefully closed with ligaments of deer sinew that had been dipped in wax, or some similarly adhesive substance. “This,” he added, “is the medicine–bag of Olitipa; the Black Father must keep it when Tamenund is gone, and, while it is safe, the steps of the Bad Spirit will not draw near her.”

The missionary took the bag and concealed it immediately under his vest, but, before he had time to reply to his aged friend, a terrific cry announced that the Osages had succeeded in breaking through the Delaware ranks, and a fearful scene of confusion, plunder, and massacre ensued; the faithful missionary hastened to the side of his trembling pupil, resolved to die in defending her from injury, while the air was rent by the shouts of the victors, and the yells and shrieks of those suffering under their relentless fury.

Mike Smith and his men plied their weapons with determined courage and resolution, and several of the Osages paid with their lives the forfeit of their daring attack; still the survivors pressed forward, bearing back the white men by force of numbers, and allowing not a moment for the reloading of the fire–arms. The voice of Mahéga rose high above the surrounding din, and all seemed to shrink from the terrible weapon which he wielded as if it had been a light cane or small–sword; it was a short bludgeon, headed with a solid ball of iron, from which protruded several sharp iron spikes, already red with human blood. Mike Smith came boldly forward to meet him, holding in his left hand a discharged horse–pistol, and in his right a heavy cutlass, with which last he made a furious cut at the advancing Osage. The wary chief neither received nor parried it, but, springing lightly aside, seized the same moment for driving his heavy mace full on the unguarded forehead of his opponent, and the unfortunate woodsman dropped like an ox felled at the shambles; the fierce Indian, leaping forward, passed his knife twice through the prostrate body, and tearing off the scalp, waved the bloody trophy over his head.

Disheartened by the fall of their brave and powerful companion, the remaining white men offered but a feeble resistance, and the Osage chief rushed onwards to the spot where only some wounded Delawares and a few devoted and half–armed youths were gathered around the aged Tamenund, determined to die at his side. It is not necessary to pursue the sickening details of the narrative.

The old man received his death–blow with a composed dignity worthy of his race, and his faithful followers met their fate with equal heroism, neither expecting nor receiving mercy.

The victory was now complete, and both the scattered Delawares and the remaining white men fled for shelter and safety to the nearest points in the dense line of forest; few, if any, would have reached it, had not the war–pipe of Mahéga called his warriors around him. None dared to disobey the signal, and in a few minutes they stood before him in front of the tent within which the faithful missionary still cheered and supported his beloved pupil. The fierce Osage, counting over his followers, found that fifteen were killed or mortally wounded: but the loss on the part of their opponents was much heavier, without reckoning upwards of a score prisoners, whose hands and legs were tightly fastened with bands of withy and elm–bark.

Mahéga, putting his head into the aperture of the tent, ordered Paul Müller to come forth.

“Resistance is unavailing,” whispered the missionary to the weeping girl; “it will be harder with thee if I obey not this cruel man. Practise now, dear child, the lessons that we have so often read together, and leave the issue to Him who has promised never to leave nor forsake those who trust in Him.”

So saying, he kissed her forehead, and gently disengaging himself from the hand that still clung to his garment, he went forth from the tent, and stood before Mahéga.

That wily chief was well aware that both the missionary and his fair pupil had many warm friends among his own tribe; there was in fact scarcely a family among them that had not experienced from one, or both, some act of charity or kindness; he had resolved therefore to treat them without severity, and while he assured himself of the person of Olitipa, to send her instructor to some distant spot, where neither his advice nor his reproofs were to be feared; with this determination he addressed him briefly, as follows:—

“The Black Father will travel with my young men towards the east; he is no longer wanted here; he may seek the lodges of the Lenapé squaws beyond the Great River; he may advise them to remain where they are, to dig and grow corn, and not to come near the hunting fields of the Washashe. My young men will travel three days with him; they may meet strangers,—if he is silent, his life is safe; if he speaks, their tomahawk drinks his blood; when they have left him, his tongue and his feet are free. I have spoken.”

Mahéga added a few words in a lower tone to the young warrior who was to execute his orders, and who, with two others, now stood by his prisoner; there was a lowering frown on the brow of the chief, and a deep meaning in his tone, showing plainly that there would be danger in disobeying the letter of those commands.

Paul Müller, advancing a few steps, addressed the chief in the Delaware tongue, with which he knew him to be familiar. “Mahéga is a great chief, and the Black Father is weak, and must obey him; before he goes he will speak some words which the chief must lock up in his heart. He loves Olitipa; he wishes to make her his wife; it may be, after a season, that she may look kindly upon him; but she is not like other maidens, she is under the care of the Great Spirit. Mahéga is strong, but her medicine is stronger. She can hide the moon behind a cloud, and gather the fire of the sun as the daughters of the Washashe gather the river–waters in a vessel; let the chief remember the Black Father’s last words. If Mahéga protects Olitipa and what belongs to her in the tent, it may be better for him when the Great Spirit is angry; if he offers her harm or insult, he will die like a dog, and wolves will pick his bones.”

The missionary delivered this warning with a dignity and solemnity so earnest, that the eye of the fierce but superstitious savage quailed before him; and pleased to mark the effect of his words, Paul Müller turned and left the spot, muttering in his own tongue to himself, “God will doubtless forgive my endeavour to protect, through this artifice, a forlorn and friendless maiden, left in the hands of a man so cruel and unscrupulous.”

In a few minutes the good missionary had completed the slight preparation requisite for his journey, and, accompanied by his Indian escort, left the ruined and despoiled village with a heavy heart.

As soon as Mahéga was somewhat recovered from the startling effect of Paul Müller’s parting address, he made his dispositions for the further movements of his band with his usual rapidity and decision; he was well aware that his position was now one of great peril, that in a short time War–Eagle and his party would be informed of all that had passed, and would seek a bloody revenge; he knew also that some of the fugitive Whites or Delawares might speedily arm a body of the inhabitants of the frontier against him, and that he would be altogether unable to maintain himself in the region that he now occupied.

Under these circumstances he made up his own mind as to the course that he would pursue; and having first given all the necessary orders for the burial of the Osage dead and the care of the wounded, as well as for the security of the prisoners, he called together the heads of his party, and having laid before them his plans, asked their advice with a tone and manner probably resembling that with which, a few years later, Napoleon was in the habit of asking the counsel of his generals and captains; a tone indicating that his course being already determined, nothing was expected of them but compliance.

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Chapter VIII

WAR–EAGLE AND REGINALD, WITH THEIR PARTY, PURSUE THE DAHCOTAHS.

We left Reginald, and War–Eagle’s party, in pursuit of the marauding band of Sioux horse–stealers. They continued their toilsome march with unabated speed until nightfall, when the trail was no longer distinguishable: they then halted, and while they ate a scanty supper, the mounted Delawares, who had been sent forward, returned, bringing with them two wearied horses which had escaped, in the hurried flight, from their captors.

War–Eagle, summoning Baptiste to his side, questioned the young man closely as to the appearance and direction of the trail. From their answers he learnt that its course was northward, but that it bore gradually towards the east, especially after a brief halt, which the Sioux had made for refreshment; a gleam shot athwart the dusky features of the young chief at this intelligence, but he made no observation, and contented himself with asking the opinion of his more experienced companion.

The guide, taking off his hunting–cap, allowed the evening breeze to play through the grisly hairs which were scattered, not too plentifully, on his weather–beaten forehead, as if his reflective powers might thence derive refreshment; but, apparently, the expedient was not, at least on this occasion, rewarded with success; for, after meditating in silence for a few seconds, he shook his head and owned that he saw no clue to the intentions of the party whom they were pursuing. The young chief had his eye still bent upon the ground, seemingly employed in observing a large rent, which the day’s march had made in his mocassin; but the woodsman read in the lines of his intelligent countenance that the mind was busily engaged in following a connected train of thought.

After allowing a few minutes to pass in silence, the guide, addressing his companion, said, “Can War–Eagle see the Dahcotah path? It is hid from the eyes of Grande–Hàche.”

“The night is dark, and the eyes cannot see the trail; but the wolf finds his way to the wounded bison, and the blue dove keeps her course to her nest in the mountain. The Great Spirit has not made the Lenapé warrior more ignorant than the bird, or the brute; War–Eagle knows the path of the Dahcotah dogs.” He then bent down towards the ear of Baptiste, and whispered to him long and earnestly in the Delaware tongue.

“Capote–bleu! but the boy is right,” exclaimed the guide, in his own mixed dialect; “the dogs have only taken this northern start to mislead us; they are not making for the Missouri river, but intend to double back and join their village, now lying to the eastward of us. The boy is right; my brain must be getting as worn–out as my hunting–shirt, or I should have understood their drift. I see his plan is to be in cash[42] for them on their return. Well, if he can make sure of his game, I will say that he’s fit to be a war–chief, for these Sioux have a long start, and the village must be many miles to the right.”

As he made these reflections half aloud, Reginald caught their general bearing; and though he had great confidence in the sagacity of his Indian friend, still he felt a chill of disappointment at the idea that the pursuit was to be abandoned, for what appeared to him the hopeless chance of intercepting a small band of Sioux, of whose course they were ignorant, in a boundless extent of prairie like that around him. He had, however, good sense enough to conceal all traces of his disappointment, knowing that on such an expedition there can be but one leader, and that, without unanimity and discipline, failure must ensue.

War–Eagle now called one of the young Lenapé warriors to his side, and gave him brief instructions, to the effect, that he was to choose three others of the best runners of the party, and, accompanied by the mounted Indians, to start with the earliest dawn on the Dahcotah trail, which they were to follow as close as possible without discovering themselves. He then desired Reginald and Baptiste to divide the band into watches, and to sleep alternately, but not to move until he returned.

Having given these few directions, without allowing himself either food or rest after a march of so many hours, he drew his belt tighter around his loins, and started on his solitary excursion. Reginald watched the retreating figure of his friend, until it was lost in the deepening gloom, and turning to the guide, he said,—

“Baptiste, I cannot but envy War–Eagle the possession of sinews that seem unconscious of fatigue, and eyes that require no slumber! We have marched from daylight until this late hour without either rest or refreshment, and I confess I am very glad of this seat on my buffalo–robe, and this slice of dried venison, with a draught of water; War–Eagle, however, walks off into the prairie, as if he had just started fresh from repose, and Heaven only knows where or for what purpose he is going.”

“Master Reginald,” replied the guide, throwing himself lazily down by the side of his young leader; “I will not deny that War–Eagle’s sinews are strung like the bow of a Pawnee, for I have been on a trail with him before, and few could follow it so long or so true; but there has been a time,” he added, casting his eyes down on his worn and soiled leggins, “when these limbs of mine would have kept me for a week at the heels of the fleetest Dahcotah that ever crossed the country of the Stone–eaters.[43] Those days are gone, but when the game’s afoot, perhaps there may be younger men who might give out before old Baptiste yet.”

As he spoke, the eye of the guide rested with a comic grin on Monsieur Perrot, who, with a countenance somewhat rueful, was endeavouring to masticate a crude pomme de prairie[44] that one of the Delawares had given to him, with the assurance that it was “very good!”

“I believe you, Baptiste,” said Reginald, humouring the old hunter’s pardonable vanity; “I believe you, indeed, and if the Sioux offer us a long chase, as appears likely, the crack of your rifle will be heard before the foremost of our party has come to close quarters with them; but you have not answered my question relative to War–Eagle’s excursion during this dark night.”

“He is gone,” replied the guide, “to examine the ground carefully, perhaps even to approach the northern border of the Dahcotah encampment; he will then judge of the route by which these horse–stealing vagabonds are likely to return, and will choose a place for us to conceal ourselves for an attack.”

“I understand it all, Baptiste; it seems to be a bold, well–devised plan, if War–Eagle is only correct in his guess at their intentions: meanwhile let us post our sentries, and get what sleep we can, for to–morrow may be a busy day.”

They accordingly divided their party into watches, Baptiste and Perrot with one Indian taking the first, and Reginald undertaking the charge of the second. The night was gloomy, and few stars were visible through the thick clouds, by which the heavens were overspread; the men were partially sheltered by some stunted alder–bushes which grew by the side of the stream with whose waters they had cooled their thirst, and those who were not destined to the first watch soon fell asleep, lulled by the distant howling of a hungry pack of prairie–wolves.

Towards the close of Reginald’s watch, about an hour before daybreak, a dusky figure glided with noiseless step towards the encampment; the young man cocked his rifle, in order to be prepared against surprise, but in the next moment recognised the commanding form of his friend, and hailed him by name.

“Netis!” replied the chief, sitting down beside him, and wringing the water from his leggins, which had been saturated partly by the heavy dew on the long grass through which he had made his way, and partly by the streams which he had been obliged to ford.

“Has my brother found a path?” inquired Reginald in a whisper; “has he been near the Dahcotah village?”

“He has,” replied the chief; “he has seen their lodges.”

“Can my brother find the path by which the horse–stealers will return!”

“He can guess, he cannot be sure,” replied the young Indian, modestly.

Here the conversation closed, and in a few minutes the little party were aroused and afoot, their leader being resolved that not a moment should be lost, as soon as there was sufficient light for pursuing the trail.

When on the point of starting, Baptiste, taking War–Eagle aside, whispered in his ear a few words, on which the latter appeared to reflect seriously and somewhat in doubt: he nodded his head, however, and replied, “Well, it is good.”

The guide informed Reginald that at his own request he was to accompany the party on the trail.

“You see, Master Reginald,” he continued, “I am a true–scented old hound, and if these young ones run too fast, I may perhaps help ‘em at a pinch; then if we catch the scoundrels, you will be in their front, and we in their rear, and they will be as bad off as a Kentucky coon between two of old Dan Boone’s cur dogs. Remember the signals,” he added impressively, touching the bugle slung across his shoulder. “We have not practised them of late, but I have forgot none of them; they may do us a good turn here; stick close to War–Eagle, you are sworn brothers, and, according to Indian fashion, if he falls you must die with him or revenge him.”

“That will I, honest Baptiste,” replied our hero; “the Lenapé shall not say that their chief was deserted by his adopted brother; neither will I forget the signals—farewell!”

Here the two parties separated, that of Baptiste resuming their pursuit of the trail, and that of War–Eagle following in silence the rapid strides of their young chief across the prairie to the eastward. He marched for several hours in silence—his brow wore an expression of thoughtfulness, and he stopped several times as if to scan the bearing and the distance of every remarkable elevation or object in the undulating prairie which they were crossing. It was now about midday; they had walked since daybreak without halt or food; the rays of the sun were fiercely hot, and it required all the determined energy of Reginald’s character to enable him to endure in silence the heat and thirst by which he was oppressed; as for Monsieur Perrot, he had contrived to secrete a small flask of brandy about his person, more than one mouthful of which, mingled with the muddy water of the pools which they passed, had hitherto enabled him to keep pace with the rest of the party, but he was now beginning to lag behind, and some of the Indians were obliged to urge and assist him forward.

At this juncture War–Eagle suddenly stopped, and uttering a sound like a low hiss, crouched upon the ground, an attitude into which the whole party sunk in a moment. Laying a finger lightly on Reginald’s arm, he pointed to the upper range of a distant hill, saying, “There are men!” Our hero, shading his eyes with his hand, looked in the direction indicated, but, after a careful survey, he could see nothing but the faint green reposing in the sunny haze of noon: he shook his head; but War–Eagle replied with a quiet smile—

“My brother saw the rifles behind the log near the Muskingham; his eyes are very true, but they have not looked much at the prairie; let him use his medicine glass–pipe.”

When Reginald had adjusted his telescope, he looked again to the spot on which the bright clear eye of War–Eagle was still riveted like the gaze of a Highland deer–hound, who has caught sight of a hart browsing on the further side of some wide and rocky glen.

“By Heaven, it is true!” he exclaimed. “I see them—one, two, three, mounted Indians; they are at speed—and buffalo are galloping before them.”

“That is good,” said War–Eagle; “keep the glass–pipe before them, and say if they go out of sight, or if more appear.”

Reginald did so; and after a few minutes, reported that they had disappeared over a neighbouring height, and that no others had come in view.

Upon this, War–Eagle rose, saying, “My brother shall drink and rest—there are shade and water not far.” As he had said, half an hour’s march brought them to a clump of stunted alders, beside which flowed a stream, the waters of which were tolerably fresh and cool. Here they ate some dried buffalo–meat, and satisfied their thirst, after which they followed with renewed spirits their gay leader, whose iron and sinewy frame seemed (like that of Antæus of old) to gather fresh strength every time that his foot fell upon the earth. The prairie through which they now passed was extremely hilly and broken, intersected by many steep and narrow ravines; threading his way among these, the chief frequently stopped to examine the foot–marks which had been left by bison or other animals, and often bent his searching glance along the sides of the hills around him. The only living creatures seen during the whole march were a few bulls, lazily cropping the prairie grass, as if conscious that their tough carcase, and burnt, soiled hides, rendered them at this season worthless to the hunters, who had driven from them the cows and the younger bulls of the herd. Emerging from these defiles, the party came to a broader valley, the sides of which were very steep; along the bottom ran a stream of considerable magnitude, on the banks of which was a large tract of copse–wood, consisting apparently of alder, poplar, and birch, and affording ample space for concealing a body of several hundred men.

Towards this wood War–Eagle led the way; and when he reached a few bushes, distant from it some hundred yards, he desired the rest of the party to lie still, while he went forward alone to explore. During his absence Reginald occupied himself with examining through his glass the sides of the valley, but could see neither man nor any other living creature; and when War–Eagle returned and conducted them into the wood, Reginald could read on his friend’s countenance that he was in high spirits at having reached this point undiscovered.

When they came to the centre of the woodland, they found a broad trail, near which they were carefully posted by their chief, in such a manner that, themselves unseen, they could command a view of any one passing along it.

The party led by Baptiste was not less successful in carrying out the instructions given to them by War–Eagle. After a rapid and toilsome march of many hours upon the Dahcotah trail, they came at length in sight of their enemies; although at a distance of many miles, the prudence and caution of the experienced scout controlled the impetuous ardour of the young Delawares, who were burning to revenge the insult offered to their tribe. But Baptiste was aware that to attack with his present force would be hopeless, and he bent all his energies to creep as near to the Sioux as possible, so that he might be ready to dash in upon their rear, in case he should find that the ambuscade of War–Eagle was successfully laid; at the same time the hardy woodsman was determined not to allow them, under any circumstances, to gain the village without making by day or by night one bold effort for the recovery of the horses.

A habit of self–control was one of the distinguishing features of the guide’s character; and although his hatred of the Sioux was fierce and intense, as we have seen in the earlier part of this tale, he now conducted his operations with a cool deliberation that might almost have been mistaken for indifference: selecting the most intelligent warrior among the Lenapé, he sent him forward to creep on the trail; he himself followed at a short distance; then the other runners at short intervals, and the mounted Indians were desired to keep entirely out of sight in the rear. In this order they continued the pursuit; and by the skilful selection of ground, and taking advantage of every trifling hill or ravine over which they passed, he contrived at length to approach as near as he deemed it prudent to venture until he should see the result of the stratagem devised by War–Eagle.

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Chapter IX

A DESERTED VILLAGE IN THE WEST.—MAHÉGA CARRIES OFF PRAIRIE–BIRD, AND ENDEAVOURS TO BAFFLE PURSUIT.

We must now shift the scene to the spot where the Delaware village had been encamped. What a change had a few days produced! The lodges of the chiefs, with their triangular poles bearing their shields and trophies; the white tent of Prairie–bird; the busy crowds of women and children; the troops of horses, the songs and dances of the warriors—all were gone! and in their stead nothing was to be seen but a flock of buzzards, gorging themselves on a meal too revolting to be described, and a pack of wolves snarling and quarrelling over the remains of the unfortunate Lenapé victims.

On the very spot where the tent of Olitipa had been pitched, and where the marks of the tent–poles were still easily recognised, stood a solitary Indian, in an attitude of deep musing; his ornamented hunting–shirt and leggins proclaimed his chieftain rank; the rifle on which he leaned was of the newest and best workmanship, and his whole appearance was singularly striking; but the countenance was that which would have riveted the attention of a spectator, had any been there to look upon it, for it blended in its gentle yet proud lineaments a delicate beauty almost feminine, with a high heroic sternness, that one could scarcely have thought it possible to find in a youth only just emerging from boyhood: there was too a deep silent expression of grief, rendered yet more touching by the fortitude with which it was controlled and repressed. Drear and desolate as was the scene around, the desolation of that young heart was yet greater: father, brother, friend! the beloved sister, the affectionate instructor; worst of all, the tribe, the ancient people of whose chiefs he was the youngest and last surviving scion, all swept away at “one fell swoop!” And yet no tear fell from his eye, no murmur escaped his lip, and the energies of that heroic though youthful spirit rose above the tempest, whose fearful ravages he now contemplated with stern and gloomy resolution.

In this sketch the reader will recognise Wingenund, who had been absent, as was mentioned in a former chapter, on a course of watching and fasting, preparatory to his being enrolled among the band of warriors, according to the usages of his nation. Had he been in the camp when the attack of the Osages was made, there is little doubt that his last drop of blood would have there been shed before the lodge of Tamenund; but he had retired to a distance, whence the war–cry and the tumult of the fight never reached his ear, and had concluded his self–denying probation with a dream of happy omen—a dream that promised future glory, dear to every ambitious Indian spirit, and in which the triumphs of war were wildly and confusedly blended with the sisterly tones of Olitipa’s voice, and the sweet smile of the Lily of Mooshanne.

Inspired by his vision, the ardent boy returned in high hope and spirits towards the encampment; but when he gained the summit of a hill which overlooked it, a single glance sufficed to show him the destruction that had been wrought during his absence; he saw that the lodges were overthrown, the horses driven off, and that the inhabitants of the moving village were either dispersed or destroyed. Rooted to the spot, he looked on the scene in speechless horror, when all at once his attention was caught by a body of men moving over a distant height in the western horizon, their figures being rendered visible by the deep red background afforded by the setting sun: swift as thought the youth darted off in pursuit.

After the shades of night had fallen, the retreating party halted, posted their sentries, lit their camp–fires, and, knowing that nothing was to be feared from an enemy so lately and so totally overthrown, they cooked their meat and their maize, and smoked their pipes, with the lazy indifference habitual to Indian warriors when the excitement of the chase or the fight has subsided. In the centre of the camp rose a white tent, and beside it a kind of temporary arbour had been hastily constructed from reeds and alder–boughs; beneath the latter reclined the gigantic form of Mahéga, stretched at his length, and puffing out volumes of kinnekenik[45] smoke with the self–satisfied complacency of success.

Within the tent sat Prairie–bird, her eyes meekly raised to heaven, her hands crossed upon her bosom, and a small basket of corn–cakes being placed, untasted, upon the ground beside her. At a little distance, in the corner of the tent, sate her female Indian attendant, whom Mahéga had permitted, with a delicacy and consideration scarcely to be expected from him, to share her mistress’s captivity. He had also given orders that all the lighter articles belonging to her toilet, and to the furniture of her tent, should be conveyed with the latter, so that as yet both her privacy and her comfort had been faithfully secured.

Guided by the fires, Wingenund, who had followed with unabated speed, had no difficulty in finding the Osage encampment; neither was his intelligent mind at a loss to apprehend what had occurred: he had long known the views and plans entertained by Mahéga respecting Prairie–bird, and when, from a distant eminence he caught a sight of her white tent pitched in the centre of a retreating Indian band, he understood in a moment her present situation, and the disastrous events that had preceded it. Although he believed that both War–Eagle and Reginald must have fallen ere his sister had been made a captive, he resolved at all hazards to communicate with her, and either to rescue her, or die in the attempt.

Having been so long encamped with the Osages, he was tolerably well versed in their language; and he also knew so well the general disposition of their outposts, that he had no doubt of being able to steal into their camp. As soon as he had gained, undiscovered, the shelter of a clump of alders, only a few bow–shots distant from the nearest fire, he stripped off and concealed his hunting–shirt, cap, leggins, and other accoutrements, retaining only his belt, in which he hid a small pocket–pistol, lately given to him by Reginald, and his scalp–knife, sheathed in a case of bison–hide. Thus slightly armed, he threw himself upon the grass, and commenced creeping like a serpent towards the Osage encampment.

Unlike the sentries of civilised armies, those of the North American Indians frequently sit at their appointed station, and trust to their extraordinary quickness of sight and hearing to guard them against surprise. Ere he had crept many yards, Wingenund found himself near an Indian, seated with his back against the decayed stump of a tree, and whiling away his watch by humming a low and melancholy Osage air; fortunately, the night was dark, and the heavy dew had so softened the grass, that the boy’s pliant and elastic form wound its onward way without the slightest noise being made to alarm the lazy sentinel. Having passed this outpost in safety, he continued his snaky progress, occasionally raising his head to glance his quick eye around and observe the nature of the obstacles that he had yet to encounter: these were less than he expected, and he contrived at length to trail himself to the back of Olitipa’s tent, where he ensconced himself unperceived under cover of a large buffalo–skin, which was loosely thrown over her saddle, to protect it from the weather. His first object was to scoop out a few inches of the turf below the edge of the tent, in order that he might conveniently hear or be heard by her, without raising his voice above the lowest whisper.

After listening attentively for a few minutes, a gentle and regular breathing informed him that one sleeper was within; but Wingenund, whose sharp eyes had already observed that there were two saddles under the buffalo robe which covered him, conjectured that her attendant was now her companion in captivity, and that the grief and anxiety of Olitipa had probably banished slumber from her eyes. To resolve these doubts, and to effect the purpose of his dangerous attempt, he now applied his mouth to the small opening that he had made at the back of the tent, and gave a low and almost inaudible sound from his lips like the chirping of a cricket. Low as it was, the sound escaped not the quick ear of Olitipa, who turned and listened more intently: again it was repeated, and the maiden felt a sudden tremor of anxiety pervade her whole frame, as from an instinctive consciousness that the sound was a signal intended for her ear.

Immediately in front of the lodge were stretched the bulky forms of two half–slumbering Osages. She knew that the dreaded Mahéga was only a few paces distant, and that if some friend were indeed near, the least indiscretion on her part might draw down upon him certain destruction; but she was courageous by nature, and habit had given her presence of mind. Being aware that few, if any, of her captors spoke the English tongue, she said, in a low but distinct voice, “If a friend is near, let me hear the signal again?”

Immediately the cricket–chirrup was repeated. Convinced now beyond a doubt that friendly succour was nigh, the maiden’s heart throbbed with hope, fear, and many contending emotions; but she lost not her self–possession; and having now ascertained the spot whence the sound proceeded, she moved the skins which formed her couch to that part of the tent, and was thus enabled to rest her head within a few inches of the opening made by Wingenund below the canvass.

“Prairie–bird,” whispered a soft voice, close to her ear—a voice that she had a thousand times taught to pronounce her name, and every accent of which was familiar to her ear.

“My brother!” was the low–breathed reply.

“If the Washashee do not hear, let my sister tell all, in few words.”

As Prairie–bird briefly described the events above narrated, Wingenund found some comfort in the reflection that War–Eagle, Reginald, and their band had escaped the destruction which had overwhelmed the Lenapé village: when she concluded, he replied,

“It is enough; let my sister hope; let her speak fair words to Mahéga: Wingenund will find his brothers, they will follow the trail, my sister must not be afraid; many days and nights may pass, but the Lenapé will be near her, and Netis will be with them. Wingenund must go.”

How fain was Prairie–bird to ask him a thousand questions, to give him a thousand cautions, and to send as many messages by him to her lover! but, trained in the severe school of Indian discipline, she knew that every word spoken or whispered increased the danger already incurred by Wingenund, and in obedience to his hint she contented herself with silently invoking the blessing of Heaven on the promised attempt to be made by himself and his beloved coadjutors for her rescue.

“That pale–faced maiden speaks to herself all through the night,” said one of the Osage warriors to his comrade stretched beside him before the tent.

“I heard a sort of murmuring sound,” replied the other; “but I shut my ears. Mahéga says that her words are like the voices of spirits; it is not good to listen! Before this moon is older I will ask her to curse Pâketshu, that Pawnee wolf who killed my two brothers near the Nebraske.”[46]

Profiting by this brief dialogue, Wingenund crept from under the buffalo–skin; and looking carefully around to see whether any new change had taken place since his concealment, he found that several of the Osage warriors, who had been probably eating together, were now stretched around the tent, and it was hopeless to attempt passing so many cunning and vigilant foes undiscovered. While he was meditating on the best course to be pursued, his attention was called to a noise immediately in front of the tent, which was caused by the horse ridden by Olitipa having broken from its tether and entangled its legs in the halter. Springing on his feet, Wingenund seized the leather–thong, using at the same time the expressions common among the Osages for quieting a fractious horse.

“What is it?” exclaimed at once several of the warriors, half raising themselves from their recumbent posture.

“Nothing,” replied Wingenund, in their own tongue; “the pale–faced squaw’s horse has got loose.”

So saying, he stooped leisurely down, and fastened the laryette again to the iron pin from which it had been detached. Having secured the horse, he stood up again, and stepped coolly over several of the Osages stretched around the tent; and they, naturally mistaking him for one of their own party, composed themselves again to sleep. Thus he passed through the encampment, when he again threw himself upon the ground, and again succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the outposts, and in reaching safely the covert where he had left his rifle and his accoutrements.

The active spirit of Wingenund was not yet wearied of exertion. Seeing that the course taken by the Osages was westerly, he went forward in that direction, and having ascended an elevated height commanding a view of the adjoining valleys, he concealed himself with the intention of watching the enemy’s march.

On the following morning the Osages started at daybreak, and marched until noon, when Mahéga halted them, and put in execution the plan that he had formed for throwing off any pursuit that might be attempted. He had brought four horses from the Delaware encampment: of these he retained two for the use of Prairie–bird and her attendant, and ordered their hoofs to be covered with thick wrappers of bison–hide[47]; he selected also ten of the warriors, on whose courage and fidelity he could best depend; the remainder of the band he dismissed, under the conduct of Flying–arrow, with the remaining two horses laden with a portion of the Delaware spoils and trophies, desiring them to strike off to the northward, and, making a trail as distinct as possible, to return by a circuitous march to the Osage village. These orders were punctually obeyed, and Mahéga, having seen the larger moiety of his band start on their appointed route, led off his own small party in a southwesterly direction, through the hardest and roughest surface that the prairie afforded, where he rightly judged that their trail could with difficulty be followed, even by the lynx–eyed chief of the Delawares.

From his concealment in the distance, Wingenund observed the whole manœuvre: and having carefully noted the very spot where the two trails separated, he ran back to the deserted Lenapé village to carry out the plan that he had formed for the pursuit. On his way he gathered a score of pliant willow rods, and these lay at his feet when he stood in the attitude of deep meditation, described at the commencement of this chapter. He knew that if War–Eagle and his party returned in safety from their expedition, their steps would be directed at once to the spot on which he now stood, and his first care was to convey to them all the information necessary for their guidance. This he was enabled to do by marking with his knife on slips of elm–bark various figures and designs, which War–Eagle would easily understand. To describe these at length would be tedious, in a narrative such as the present; all readers who know anything of the history of the North American Indians being aware of their sagacity in the use of these rude hieroglyphics: it is sufficient here to state, that Wingenund was able to express, in a manner intelligible to his kinsman, that he himself marked the elm–bark, that Olitipa was prisoner to Mahéga, that the Osage trail was to the west; that it divided, the broad trail to the north being the wrong one; and that he would hang on the right one, and make more marks for War–Eagle to follow.

Having carefully noted these particulars, he stuck one of his rods into the ground, and fastened to the top of it his roll of elm–bark: then giving one more melancholy glance at the desolate scene around him, he gathered up his willow–twigs, and throwing himself again upon the Osage trail, never rested his weary limbs until the burnt grass, upon a spot where the party had cooked some bison–meat, assured him that he was on their track; then he laid himself under a neighbouring bush and slept soundly, trusting to his own sagacity for following the trail over the boundless prairie before him.

While these events were passing on the Missouri prairie, Paul Müller having been escorted to the settlements and set free by the Osages, pursued his way towards St. Louis, then the nucleus of Western trade, and the point whence all expeditions, whether of a warlike or commercial nature, were carried on in that region. He was walking slowly forward, revolving in his mind the melancholy changes that had taken place in the course of the last few weeks, the destruction of the Lenapé band, and the captivity of his beloved pupil, when he was overtaken by a sturdy and weather–beaten pedestrian, whose person and attire seemed to have been roughly handled of late, for his left arm was in a sling, various patches of plaster were on his face and forehead, his leggins were torn to rags, and the barrel of a rifle broken off from the stock was slung over his shoulder.

The missionary, turning round to greet his fellow–traveller with his accustomed courtesy, encountered a countenance which, notwithstanding its condition, he recognised as one that he had seen in the Delaware village.

“Bearskin, my good friend,” said he, holding out his hand, and grasping heartily the horny fist of the voyageur, “I am right glad to see you, although it seems that you have received some severe hurts; I feared you had fallen among the other victims of that terrible day.”

“I can’t deny that the day was rough enough,” replied Bearskin, looking down upon his wounded arm; “and the red–skin devils left only one other of my party besides myself alive: we contrived to beat off those who attacked our quarter, but when we found that Mahéga had broken in upon the rear, and had killed Mike Smith and his men, we made the best of our way to the woods: several were shot and scalped, two of us escaped: I received, as you see, a few ugly scratches, but my old carcase is accustomed to being battered, and a week will set it all to rights.”

“You know,” replied the missionary, “that I have some skill in curing wounds. When we reach St. Louis we will take up our lodging in the same house, and I will do what I can to relieve your hurts. Moreover, there are many things on which I wish to speak with you at leisure, and I have friends there who will supply us with all that is needful for our comfort.”

While they were thus conversing, the tall spires of the cathedral became visible over the forest, which then grew dense and unbroken to the very edge of the town, and in a few minutes Bearskin, conducted by the missionary, was snugly lodged in the dwelling of one of the wealthiest peltry–dealers in the famous frontier city of St. Louis.

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Chapter X

AN AMBUSCADE.—REGINALD BRANDON FINDS HIS HORSE, AND M. PERROT NEARLY LOSES HIS HEAD.—WHILE INDIAN PHILOSOPHY IS DISPLAYED IN ONE QUARTER, INDIAN CREDULITY IS EXHIBITED IN ANOTHER.

We left War–Eagle and his party posted in a thicket of considerable extent, in the centre of a valley through which he had calculated that the marauding band of Sioux would return with the captured horses to their village; long and anxiously did he wait in expectation of their appearance; and both himself and Reginald began to fear that they must have taken some other route, when they saw at a distance an Indian galloping down the valley towards them; as he drew near, the head–dress of eagle’s feathers, the scalp–locks on his leather hunting–shirt, and the fringes by which his leggins were adorned, announced him to the practised eye of the young Delaware chief, as a Dahcotah brave of some distinction; but what was the astonishment of Reginald, at recognising in the fiery steed that bore him, his own lost Nekimi. By an unconscious movement he threw forward his rifle over the log which concealed him, and was preparing to secure a certain aim, when War–Eagle, touching his arm, whispered, “Netis not shoot, more Dahcotahs are coming,—noise of gun not good here, Netis have enough fight soon,—leave this man to War–Eagle, he give Netis back his horse.”

Reginald, although disappointed at not being allowed to take vengeance on the approaching savage, saw the prudence of his friend’s counsel, and suffering himself to be guided by it, waited patiently to see how the Delaware proposed to act. The latter, laying aside his rifle, and armed only with his scalp–knife and tomahawk, crept to a thick bush on the edge of the broad trail passing through the centre of the thicket; in his hand he took a worn–out mocassin, which he threw carelessly upon the track, and then ensconced himself in the hiding–place which he had selected for his purpose. The Dahcotah warrior, who had been sent forward by his chief to reconnoitre, and to whom Nekimi had been lent on account of the extraordinary speed which that animal had been found to possess, slackened his speed as he entered the thicket, and cast his wary eyes to the right and to the left, glancing occasionally at the sides of the hills which overhung the valley.

The Delawares were too well concealed to be seen from the path, and he rode slowly forward until he came to the spot where lay the mocassin thrown down by War–Eagle.

“Ha!” said the Sioux, uttering a hasty ejaculation, and leaping from his horse to examine its fashion. As he stooped to pick it up, War–Eagle sprung like a tiger upon him, and with a single blow of his tomahawk laid the unfortunate warrior dead at his feet. Throwing Nekimi’s bridle over his arm, he drew the body into the adjacent thicket, and, having found in the waistband the small leathern bag in which the Indians of the Missouri usually carry the different coloured clays wherewith they paint themselves, he proceeded to transform himself into a Sioux. Putting on the Dahcotah head–dress and other apparel, aided by one of the most experienced of his band, he disguised himself in a few minutes so effectually that, unless upon a very close inspection, he might well be taken for the Indian whom he had just killed.

As soon as this operation was completed, he desired Reginald and the rest of the party to remain concealed, and if he succeeded in luring the enemy to the spot, on no account to fire until their main body had reached the bush from which he had sprung on the Sioux. Having given this instruction, he vaulted on Nekimi’s back, and returned at speed to the upper part of the valley, from which direction he knew that the Dahcotahs must be approaching. He had not ridden many miles ere he saw them advancing at a leisurely rate, partly driving before them, and partly leading, the horses stolen from the Delawares. This was an occasion on which War–Eagle required all his sagacity and presence of mind, for should he betray himself by a false movement or gesture, not only would the enemy escape the snare laid for them, but his life would pay the forfeit of his temerity. Wheeling his horse about, he returned towards the thicket, and, after riding to and fro, as if making a careful investigation of its paths and foot–marks, he went back to the broad trail, and as soon as the foremost of the Dahcotahs were within a couple of hundred yards, he made the signal “All right[48],” and rode gently forward through the wood. So well did his party observe the orders which he had given them, that, although he knew the exact spot where they were posted, and scanned it with the most searching glance of his keen eye, not a vestige of a human figure, nor of a weapon could he detect, and a smile of triumph curled his lip as he felt assured of the success of his plan. No sooner had he passed the bush where the Dahcotah had fallen, than he turned aside into the thicket, and, having fastened Nekimi securely to a tree, tore off his Sioux disguise, and resuming his own dress and rifle, concealed himself on the flank of his party.

The Dahcotahs, who had, as they thought, seen their scout make the sign of “All right,” after a careful examination of the wood, entered it without either order or suspicion; neither did they discover their mistake until the foremost reached the fatal bush, when a volley from the ambuscade told among them with terrible effect. Several of the Sioux fell at this first discharge, and the confusion caused by this unexpected attack was increased by the panic among the horses, some of which being frightened, and others wounded, they reared and plunged with ungovernable fury.

Although taken by surprise, the Dahcotah warriors behaved with determined courage; throwing themselves from their horses, they dashed into the thicket to dislodge their unseen foes, and the fight became general, as well as desultory, each man using a log or a tree for his own defence, and shooting, either with rifle or bow, at any adversary whom he could see for a moment exposed. The Sioux, though more numerous, were unprovided with efficient fire–arms; and sensible of the advantages thence arising to their opponents, they made desperate, and not unsuccessful efforts to bring the fight to close quarters. Reginald and War–Eagle were side by side, each endeavouring to outdo the other in feats of gallantry, and at the same time to watch over the safety of his friend.

Monsieur Perrot caught the general spirit of the affray, and, as he afterwards said of himself, “fought like a famished lion!” when, unluckily, his pistol snapped in the face of a Sioux warrior, who struck him a blow that felled him to the earth. Stepping lightly over the form of his prostrate foe, the savage, grasping a knife in his right hand, and seizing the luckless Frenchman’s hair with his left, was about to scalp him, when the knife dropped from his hand, and he stood for a moment petrified with astonishment and horror. The whole head of hair was in his left hand, and the white man sat grinning before him with a smooth and shaven crown.

Letting fall what he believed to be the scalp of some devil in human shape, the affrighted Sioux fled from the spot, while Perrot, replacing his wig, muttered half aloud, “Bravo! ma bonne perruque! je te dois mille remerçimens!”

At this crisis, while the issue of the general combat was still doubtful, the sound of a bugle was heard in the distance, and the signal immediately answered by Reginald, who shouted aloud to War–Eagle, that Grande–Hâche was at hand. Inspired by the knowledge of approaching reinforcement, the Delawares fought with renewed confidence, while the Dahcotahs, startled by the strange and unknown bugle calls, were proportionately confused and thrown into disorder. The panic among them was complete when the sharp crack of Baptiste’s rifle was heard in the rear, and one of their principal braves fell dead at the root of the tree which sheltered him from the fire of War–Eagle’s party. Hemmed in between the two hostile bands, the Sioux now gave up all hope of concealment, and fought with the courage of despair; but the resistance which they offered was neither effective nor of long duration. Baptiste, wielding his terrible axe, seemed resolved this day to wreak his fierce and long–delayed vengeance on the tribe at whose hands he had sustained such deadly injury; and regardless of several slight wounds which he received in the fray, continued to deal destruction among all who came within reach. Nor were Reginald and War–Eagle less active in the fight; the struggle was hand to hand; the Sioux seeming to expect no quarter, and being determined to fight while they could wield a knife or tomahawk.

Their chief, a man of stature almost as powerful as that of Mahéga, seemed gifted with a charmed life, for although he exposed himself freely to the boldest of his opponents, animating his men by shouting aloud the terrible war–cry of the Dahcotahs[49], and rushing to their aid wherever he found them giving way, he was hitherto unhurt, and bent every effort to destroy War–Eagle, whom he easily recognised as the leader, and most formidable of the Delawares. An opportunity soon offered itself, as War–Eagle was engaged with another of the Dahcotahs. The chief aimed at his unguarded head a blow that must have proved fatal, had not Reginald warded it off with his cutlass; the Indian turned furiously upon him, and a fierce combat ensued, but it was not of long duration, for after they had exchanged a few strokes, a successful thrust stretched the Dahcotah chief upon the ground. An exulting cry burst from the Delawares, and the panic–struck Sioux fled in every direction. The pursuit was conducted with the merciless eagerness common to Indian warfare, and as Reginald felt no inclination to join in it, he returned his cutlass to its sheath, and busied himself in securing all the horses that came within his reach.

One by one the Delawares came back to the place of rendezvous, some bearing with them the scalps which they had taken, others leading recaptured horses, and all in the highest excitement of triumph.

War–Eagle set free Nekimi, and led it towards its master. As soon as it was near enough to hear his voice, Reginald called to the noble animal, which, shaking its flowing mane, came bounding and snorting towards him. He caressed it for a short time, then vaulted upon its back, and was delighted to find that its spirit and strength had suffered no diminution since its capture. Again he dismounted, and Nekimi followed him unled, playing round him like a favourite dog. While he thus amused himself with his recovered steed, Baptiste sat by the side of a small streamlet, cleaning his axe and his rifle, and listening with a grim smile to Monsieur Perrot’s account of the danger from which he had been saved by his peruke. In the midst of his narrative, seeing some blood on the sleeve of his companion’s shirt, he said, “Baptiste, you are surely wounded?”

“Yes,” replied the other; “one of the red–skins gave me a smartish stroke with a knife in that skrimmage—however, I forgive him, as I paid him for it.”

“But would it not be better to attend to your wound first, and to your weapons afterwards?”

“Why, no, Monsieur Perrot, that isn’t our fashion in the woods; I like first to make the doctor ready for service, and then it will be time enough to put a little cold water and a bandage to the cut.”

The good–humoured Frenchman insisted upon his proposal, but had some difficulty in persuading the rough guide to let him dress the wound, which, though deep and painful, was not dangerous.

On the following day, War–Eagle returned with his triumphant party and with the rescued horses towards the Delaware village, every bosom, save one, beating high with exultation. Reginald could scarcely control his impatience to relate to Prairie–bird the events of the successful expedition. The young warriors anticipated with joy the beaming smiles with which they would be welcomed by the Lenapé maidens; while those of maturer age looked forward to the well–merited applause of their chiefs, and the fierce excitement of the war–dance with which their victory would be celebrated. Baptiste had satiated his long–cherished vengeance on the tribe which had destroyed his parents, and Monsieur Perrot prepared many jokes and gibes, which he proposed to inflict upon Mike Smith, and those who had not partaken in the glory which he and his party had gained.

War–Eagle alone shared not in the general joy! Whether it was that he could not prevent his thoughts from reverting to Prairie–bird, or that he was oppressed by a vague and mysterious presentiment of calamity, his demeanour was grave, even to sadness, and the trophies of victory hung neglected from the fringes of his dress.

Having taken the shortest route, they arrived, a few hours before nightfall, at a point where a broad trail led direct to the encampment; and War–Eagle, whose penetrating eye had marked his friend’s impatience, and who never lost an opportunity of proving to him the warmth of his attachment, said to him,

“Netis should go forward and tell Tamenund and the chiefs, that the Lenapé war–party are coming, and that the Dahcotah scalps are many. It will be a pleasant tale for the ancient chiefs, and it is good that they hear it from the mouth of the bravest warrior.”

This compliment was paid to him aloud, and in the hearing of the whole band, who signified their approbation by the usual quick and repeated exclamation.[50]

Reginald replied, “No one is bravest here; where War–Eagle leads, none but brave men are worthy to follow.”

The next minute Nekimi was in full speed towards the village; and the Delaware band, with Baptiste and Perrot, moved leisurely forward after him.

Scarcely two hours had elapsed when a single horseman was seen riding towards them, in whom, as he drew near, they had some difficulty in recognising Reginald, for his dress was soiled, his countenance haggard and horror–stricken, while the foaming sides and wide–dilated nostril of Nekimi showed that he had been riding with frantic and furious speed. All made way for him, and he spoke to none until he drew his bridle by the side of War–Eagle, and beckoned to him and to Baptiste to come aside. For a moment he looked at the former in silence with an eye so troubled, that the guide feared that some dreadful accident had unsettled his young master’s mind, but that fear was almost immediately relieved by Reginald, who, taking his friend’s hand, said to him, in a voice almost inarticulate from suppressed emotion,

“I bring you, War–Eagle, dreadful—dreadful news.”

“War–Eagle knows that the sun does not always shine,” was the calm reply.

“But this is darkness,” said Reginald, shuddering; “black darkness, where there is neither sun nor moon, not even a star!”

“My brother,” said the Indian, drawing himself proudly to his full height; “my brother speaks without thinking. The sun shines still, and the stars are bright in their place. The Great Spirit dwells always among them; a thick cloud may hide them from our eyes, but my brother knows they are shining as brightly as ever.”

The young man looked with wonder and awe upon the lofty countenance of this untaught philosopher of the wilderness; and he replied, “War–Eagle is right. The Great Spirit sees all, and whatever he does is good! But sometimes the cup of misfortune is so full and so bitter, that man can hardly drink it and live.”

“Let Netis speak all and conceal nothing,” said the chief: “what has he seen at the village?”

“There is no village!” said the young man in an agony of grief. “The lodges are overthrown; Tamenund, the Black Father, Olitipa, all are gone; wolves and vultures are quarrelling over the bones of unburied Lenapé!”

As Reginald concluded his tragic narrative, an attentive observer might have seen that the muscles and nerves in the powerful frame of the Indian contracted for an instant, but no change was visible on his haughty and commanding brow, as he stood before the bearer of this dreadful news a living impersonation of the stern and stoic philosophy of his race.

“War–Eagle,” said Reginald, “can you explain this calamity—do you see through it—how has it happened?”

“Mahéga,” was the brief and emphatic reply.

“Do you believe that the monster has murdered all, men, women, and children?” said Reginald, whose thoughts were fixed on Prairie–bird, but whose lips refused to pronounce her name.

“No,” replied the chief; “not all, the life of Olitipa is safe, if she becomes the wife of that wolf; for the others, War–Eagle cannot tell. The Washashe love to take scalps, woman, child, or warrior, it is all one to them; it is enough. War–Eagle must speak to his people.”

After a minute’s interval, the chief accordingly summoned his faithful band around him, and in brief but pathetic language informed them of the disaster that had befallen their tribe. Reginald could not listen unmoved to the piercing cries and groans with which the Delawares rent the air on receiving this intelligence, although his own heart was racked with anxiety concerning the fate of his beloved Prairie–bird. While the surrounding warriors thus gave unrestrained vent to their lamentations, War–Eagle stood like some antique statue of bronze, in an attitude of haughty repose, his broad chest thrown forward, and his erect front, bearing the impress of an unconquerable will, bidding defiance alike to the human weakness that might assail from within, and the storms of fate that might threaten from without. The stern and impressive silence of his grief produced, ere long, its effect upon his followers; by degrees the sounds of wailing died away, and as the short twilight of that climate was rapidly merging into darkness, the chief, taking Reginald’s arm, moved forward, whispering to him in a tone, the deep and gloomy meaning of which haunted his memory long afterwards,

“The spirit of Tamenund calls to War–Eagle and asks, ‘Where is Mahéga?’”

On the following morning War–Eagle rose an hour before daybreak, and led his party to the spot where the lodges of their kindred had so lately stood, and where they had anticipated a reception of honour and triumph. The chief strode forward across the desolate scene, seemingly insensible to its horrors; faithful to his determination, all the energies of his nature were concentrated in the burning thirst for revenge, which expelled, for the time, every other feeling from his breast. The Delaware warriors, observant of the stern demeanour of their leader, followed him in gloomy silence; and although each shuddered as he passed the well–known spot where, only a few days before, an anxious wife had prepared his food, and merry children had prattled round his knee, not a groan nor a complaint was uttered; but every bosom throbbed under the expectation of a vengeance so terrible, that it should be remembered by the Osages to the latest hour of their existence as a tribe.

War–Eagle moved directly forward to the place where the lodge of Tamenund and the tent of the Prairie–bird had been pitched. As they approached it Reginald felt his heart faint within him, and the colour fled from his cheek and lip.

Baptiste, taking his master’s hand, said to him, in a tone of voice the habitual roughness of which was softened by genuine sympathy, “Master Reginald, remember where you are; the eyes of the Lenapé are upon the adopted brother of their chief; they have lost fathers, brothers, wives, and children; see how they bear their loss; let them not think Netis less brave than themselves.”

“Thank you, thank you, honest Baptiste,” said the unhappy young man, wringing the woodman’s horny hand; “I will neither disgrace my own, nor my adopted name; but who among them can compare his loss with mine! so young, so fair, so gentle, my own affianced bride; pledged to me under the eye of Heaven, and now in the hands of that fierce and merciless villain.”

At this moment a cry of exultation burst from the lips of War–Eagle, as his eye fell upon the wand and slips of bark left by Wingenund. One by one the chief examined them, and deciphering their meaning with rapid and unerring sagacity, communicated to his friend that the youth was still alive and free; that Olitipa, though a prisoner, was well, and that a fine trail was open for them to follow.

“Let us start upon it this instant,” cried Reginald, with the re–awakened impetuosity of his nature.

“War–Eagle must take much counsel with himself,” replied the chief, gravely. “The ancient men of the Lenapé are asleep, their bones are uncovered; War–Eagle must not forget them; but,” he added, while a terrible fire shot from his dark eye, “if the Great Spirit grants him life, he will bring Netis within reach of Mahéga before this young moon’s horn becomes a circle.”

Having thus spoken, he resumed his scrutiny of the ciphers and figures drawn upon the bark; nor did he cease it until he fully understood their purport; he then called together his band, and explained to them his further plans, which were briefly these:—

He selected ten of the youngest and most active, who were to accompany him, with Reginald, Baptiste, and Perrot, on the trail of Mahéga; the remainder of the party, under the guidance of an experienced brave, were to follow the more numerous body of the Osages, to hang on their trail, and never to leave it while there remained a chance or a hope of an enemy’s scalp. Two of the Delawares were at the same time despatched, one to seek the aid and sympathy of the Konsas and other friendly, or neutral tribes, the other to prowl about the woods in the neighbourhood, to collect any fugitives who might have escaped, and guide any party that might be formed to aid in the meditated pursuit. He also ordered the larger party to gather the bones and relics of their kindred, and to perform the rites of sepulture, according to the custom of the tribe.

While the chief was giving these instructions to the several parties above designated, Reginald sat musing on the very grass over which the tent of his beloved had been spread; no blood had there been spilt; it had been spared the desecration of the vulture and the wolf; her spirit seemed to hover unseen over the spot; and shutting his eyes, the lover fancied he could still hear her sweet voice, attuned to the simple accompaniment of her Mexican guitar.

How long this waking dream possessed his senses he knew not, but he was awakened from it by War–Eagle, who whispered in his ear, “The trail of Mahéga waits for my brother.” Ashamed of his temporary weakness, Reginald sprung to his feet, and thence upon the back of Nekimi. The chief having chosen four of the strongest and best from the recaptured horses, one for the use of Perrot, the others for such emergencies as might occur, left the remainder with the main body of the Delawares, and, accompanied by his small party thoroughly well armed and equipped, started on the trail in pursuit of the Osages.

While these events were passing near the site of the Lenapé village, Mahéga pursued his westward course with unremitting activity, for although he felt little apprehension from the broken and dispirited band of Delawares, he knew that he was entering a region which was the hunting–ground of the Pawnees, Otoes, Ioways, and other tribes, all of whom would consider him a trespasser, and would be disposed to view his present expedition in the light of a hostile incursion; for this reason, although he was amply provided with presents for such Indians as he might fall in with, from the plunder of the Delaware lodges, he marched with the greatest rapidity and caution, and never relaxed his speed until he had passed that dangerous region, and had entered upon the higher, and, comparatively, less frequented plain, lying between the waters of the Nebraska, or Platte River, and the lower ridges, known by the name of the Spurs of the Rocky Mountains.

During the whole of this tedious march the attention paid to the comfort of Olitipa by her wild and wayward captor was constant and respectful; secure, as he thought, from pursuit, he had determined to gain her confidence and affection, and thus to share in that mysterious knowledge and power which he believed her to possess, and which he well knew that force or harshness would never induce her to impart. Thus she remained continually attended by her favourite Lita; when the band halted for refreshment, the choicest morsels were set apart for her use, and the young branches of the willow or poplar were gathered to shelter her from the sun. Mahéga rarely addressed her, but when he did so it was in language calculated to dispel all apprehension of present injury or insult; and Prairie–bird, remembering the parting counsel of the missionary, replied to the haughty chief’s inquiries with courtesy and gentleness; although she could not help shuddering when she remembered his former violence, and the dreadful massacre at the Delaware village, she felt deeply grateful to Heaven for having softened the tiger’s heart towards her, and for having led him, by means and motives unknown to herself, to consult her safety and her comfort.

On one occasion during the march, Mahéga availed himself of her mysterious acquirements, in a manner that reflected great credit upon his sagacity, at the same time that it increased, in a tenfold degree, the awe with which she had inspired him and his adherents. They had made their usual halt at noon, by the side of a small stream; Prairie–bird and her faithful Lita were sheltered from the burning rays of the sun by an arbour of alder–branches, which the Osages had hastily, but not inconveniently, constructed; Mahéga and his warriors being occupied in eating the dainty morsels of meat afforded by a young buffalo cow killed on the preceding day, when a large band of Indians appeared on the brow of a neighbouring hill, and came down at full speed towards the Osage encampment Mahéga, without manifesting any uneasiness, desired his men to pile a few of their most valuable packages within the arbour of Olitipa, and to form themselves in a semicircle around, for its protection, their bows and rifles being ready for immediate use. Having made these dispositions, he waited the approach of the strangers, quietly cutting his buffalo beef, and eating it, as if secure of their friendly intentions. Having come within a hundred yards, they drew in their bridles on a signal from their leader, who seemed disposed to take a more deliberate survey of the party. From their appearance Mahéga knew that they must belong to one of the wild roving tribes who hunt between the sources of the Platte and Arkansas rivers, but the name or designation of their tribe he was at first unable to make out. Their weapons were bows and arrows, short clubs, and knives; their dress, a hunting–shirt of half–dressed skin, a centre–cloth of the same material, and mocassins on their feet, leaving the legs entirely bare; the leader had long hair, clubbed at the back of his head, and fastened with sinew–strings round a wooden pin, to which were attached several stained feathers, which danced in the wind, and heightened the picturesque effect of his costume.

A rapid glance sufficed to show him that the new comers, although apparently busied about their meal without distrust, were not only well armed but ready for immediate service; nor did his eye fail to note the martial bearing and gigantic proportions of Mahéga, who sat like a chief expecting the approach of an inferior.

Influenced by these observations, the leader of the roving band resolved that the first intercourse at least should be of a peaceful nature, prudently reflecting, that as his own numbers were far superior, the nearer the quarters the greater would be their advantage. Having uttered a few brief words to his followers, he advanced with a friendly gesture towards Mahéga, and the following dialogue took place, in the ingenious language of signs before referred to:—

Mahéga.—“What tribe are you?”

Leader.—“Ari–ca–rá.[51] What are you, and whither going?”

M.—“Washashee, going to the mountains.”

L.—“What seek you there?”

M.—“Beaver, otter, and grisly bear–skins.”

L.—“Good. What is in the green–branch wigwam?”

M.—“Great Medicine—let the Aricará beware.” To this the chief added the sign usually employed for their most solemn mysteries.

While this conversation was going on, the rovers of the wilderness had gradually drawn nearer, not, however, unperceived by Mahéga, who, throwing down a strip of blanket at a distance of twenty yards from the arbour of Prairie–bird, explained by a sign sufficiently intelligible, that if the main body of them crossed that line, his party would shoot.

At a signal from their leader they again halted; and Mahéga observed that from time to time they threw hasty glances over the hill whence they had come, from which he inferred that more of their tribe were in the immediate neighbourhood.

Meanwhile their leader, whose curiosity urged him to discover what Great Medicine was contained in the arbour, advanced fearlessly alone within the forbidden precincts, thus placing his own life at the mercy of the Osages.

Ordering his men to keep a strict watch on the movements of the Aricarás, and to shoot the first whom they might detect in fitting an arrow to his bow–string, Mahéga now lighted a pipe, and courteously invited their leader to smoke; between every successive whiff exhaled by the latter, he cast an inquisitive glance towards the arbour, but the packages and the leafy branches baffled his curiosity; meanwhile the preliminaries of peace having been thus amicably interchanged, the other Aricarás cast themselves from their horses, and having given them in charge to a few of the youngest of the party, the remainder sat in a semicircle, and gravely accepted the pipes handed to them by order of Mahéga.

That chief, aware of the mischievous propensities of his new friends, and equally averse to intimacy or hostility with such dangerous neighbours, had bethought himself of a scheme by which he might at once get rid of them by inspiring them with superstitious awe, and gratify himself with a sight of one of those wonders which the missionary had referred to in his last warning respecting the Prairie–bird. It was not long before the curious Aricará again expressed his desire to know the Great Medicine contents of the arbour. To this Mahéga replied,

“A woman,” adding again the sign of solemn mystery.

“A woman!” replied the leader, in his own tongue, expressing in his countenance the scorn and disappointment that he felt.

“A woman,” repeated Mahéga, gravely; “but a Medicine Spirit. We travel to the mountains; she will then go to the land of spirits.”

The Aricará made here a gesture of impatient incredulity, with a sign that, if he could not see some medicine–feat, he would believe that the Osage spoke lies.

Mahéga, desiring him to sit still, and his own party to be watchful, now approached the arbour, and, addressing Prairie–bird in the Delaware tongue, explained to her their present situation, and the dangerous vicinity of a mischievous, if not a hostile tribe, adding, at the same time,

“Olitipa must show some wonder to frighten these bad men.”

“What is it to Olitipa,” replied the maiden, coldly, “whether she is a prisoner to the Osage, or to the Western Tribe? perhaps they would let her go.”

“Whither?” answered the chief. “Does Olitipa think that these prairie wolves would shelter her fair skin from the sun, or serve and protect her as Mahéga does? If she were their prisoner they would take from her every thing she has, even her medicine book, and make her bring water, and carry burdens, and bear children to the man who should take Mahéga’s scalp.”

Bad as was her present plight and her future prospect, the poor girl could not help shuddering at the picture of hopeless drudgery here presented to her eyes, and she replied,

“What does the Osage chief wish? How should his prisoner frighten these wild men?”

“The Black Father said that Olitipa could gather the beams of the sun, as our daughters collect the waters of the stream in a vessel,” said the chief in a low tone.

Instantly catching the hint here given by her beloved instructor, and believing that nothing done in obedience to his wishes could be in itself wrong, she resolved to avail herself of this opportunity of exciting the superstitious awe of the savages, and she replied,

“It is good. Let Mahéga sit by the strange men; Olitipa will come.”

Hastily winding a party–coloured kerchief in the form of a turban, around the rich tresses of her dark hair, and throwing a scarf over her shoulder, she took her small bag, or reticule, in her hand, and stepped forth from the arbour. Such an apparition of youthful bloom, grace, and beauty, extracted, even from the wild leader of the Aricarás, an exclamation of astonished admiration. Having seated herself upon a finely painted bison robe, placed for her by Lita, she waited gravely until Mahéga should have prepared the stranger chief for what was to follow.

It was now scarcely an hour after noon, and the sun shone full upon them, with bright and excessive heat; Mahéga, pointing upward, explained to the Aricará that the Woman–Spirit would bring some fire down from that distant orb. He could not give any further information, being totally ignorant of the nature of the wonder to be wrought, and as anxious to witness it as the wild chief himself.

“Where will she place it?” he inquired.

“In the chief’s hand,” replied the maiden, whose intelligent mind had long since, during her residence with the Delawares, become familiar with the language of signs.

The two leaders now explained to their followers, in their respective tongues, the great medicine which they were about to see; and the latter, forgetful alike of distrust and precaution, crowded with irresistible curiosity about the spot, Mahéga alone preserving his habitual self–command, and warning those nearest to him to be prepared against treachery or surprise. The only ornament worn by the Aricará leader was a collar, made of dark blue cloth, adorned with porcupine quills, and girt with the formidable claws of the grisly bear. This collar, being at once a trophy of his prowess, and a proof of its having been gained among the Rocky Mountain traders (from whom alone the cloth could have been procured in that remote region), was highly prized both by the owner and his followers, and was, therefore, as well as from its colour, selected by Prairie–bird as a fitting object on which to work her “medicine wonder.” She desired him to take it from his neck, and to place it on the grass, with his hands below it, that no fire might come near it. When he had complied with her request, she drew from her bag a burning–glass, and, carefully adjusting the focus, held it over the dark blue cloth, in which ere long a hole was burnt, and the astonished leader’s hand below was scorched.

It is impossible to depict the wonder and awe of the attentive savages; they looked first at her, then at her glass, then at the sun; then they re–examined the cloth, and ascertained that it was indeed burnt through, and that the smell of fire still rested on the edge of the aperture. After this they withdrew several paces from the spot, the leader inquiring with submissive signs whether he might replace the collar? To which inquiry the maiden gravely bowing assent, retired again into the arbour. For some time a profound silence ensued, the Osages being as much awe–struck as the Aricarás; even Mahéga himself was not proof against the prevalent feeling of superstitious terror; and thus, while desiring Prairie–bird to terrify others, he had unconsciously furnished her with a mysterious and powerful check upon himself.

It was not long before the Aricarás rose to take leave,—their chief presenting Mahéga with a fine horse; and receiving in return sundry ornaments and trinkets, of no real value, but highly prized from their rarity in that wild and desolate region. As they withdrew, they cast many a furtive glance at the arbour and its mysterious tenant, seemingly glad when they found themselves at such a distance as rendered them safe from her supernatural influence. On their return to their own people, they related, with considerable exaggeration, the wonders which they had witnessed; and Prairie–bird was long afterwards spoken of in the tribe by a name equally impossible to print, or to pronounce, but which, if translated into English, would be, “The Great–Medicine–Daughter–of–the–burning–sun!”

After this adventure, Mahéga pursued his uninterrupted way towards the spurs of the Rocky Mountains; his manner and bearing towards Prairie–bird being more deferential than ever, and the passion that he entertained for her being checked and awed by the miraculous power that she had displayed; he still nourished strong hopes of being able ultimately to gain her affection, but in the meantime resolved to turn her supernatural skill to good account, by frightening such wild roving bands as they might fall in with, and extorting from their superstitious fears valuable presents in horses and peltry.

Meanwhile, the maiden’s observant eye had marked the effect upon Mahéga produced by the burning–glass, in spite of his well–dissembled indifference, and she secretly determined that the chief use that she could make of such exhibitions as were calculated to excite superstitious awe among Indians, should be to maintain the command over Mahéga which she was conscious she now possessed.

During the whole of this long and toilsome march, the faithful and indefatigable Wingenund hovered over the trail at such a distance as never to be perceived by any of the party, and left at occasional intervals a willow–rod, or a slip of bark, so marked as to be a sure guide to an eye less keen and sagacious than that of War–Eagle. His only food was dried undressed buffalo meat; his drink, the stream where the Osages had slacked their thirst; his bed, the barren prairie; he made no fire to scare away the prowling wolves, that yelped and howled at night round his solitary couch, his only protection from their ravenous hunger being a tuft of damp grass, over which he rubbed some powder from his flask. Twice was he descried and pursued by roving bands of Indians, but on both occasions saved himself by his extraordinary fleetness of foot; and the moment that the immediate danger was over, renewed his weary and difficult task.

Cheered by his deep affection for his sister, encouraged by the approval which he knew that his exertions would meet from War–Eagle and Reginald, and, more than all, stimulated by the eager desire to distinguish himself as a Delaware chief on this his first war–path, the faithful youth hung over the long and circuitous trail of his enemies with the patience and unerring sagacity of a bloodhound; and though she saw him not, Prairie–bird felt a confident assurance that her beloved young brother would be true to his promise, and would never leave nor desert her while the pulses of life continued to beat in his affectionate heart.

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