Chapter II…

Chapter II

CONTAINING VARIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED TO THE PARTY FOLLOWING THE TRAIL.—PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS, AND A DISCUSSION UPON ORATORY, WHICH IS VERY MUCH OUT OF PLACE, AND, FORTUNATELY FOR THE READER, IS NOT VERY LONG.

There is scarcely any position or occasion in life more gratifying to a young and generous spirit, than when it finds itself, for the first time, entrusted with a high responsibility. The elastic mind, far from succumbing under the unwonted burden, springs upward with increased vigour to resist its pressure; and the trials and difficulties which threaten to overwhelm it, only serve to call forth and multiply its energies. Such was the case with Wingenund, who now found himself, although not yet seventeen years of age, leading a gallant band on a trail—a task which is at all times the greatest trial of an Indian warrior’s skill; and, if successful, lays the foundation of his fame. The issue at stake was, in this instance, heightened by the importance of the object to be attained, and by the remarkable circumstance that he had ventured to differ from, and overrule, the opinion of his elder brother, the most sagacious warrior of the tribe.

Fully impressed with the serious responsibility that he had incurred, the youth set forth upon the trail with a gravity of demeanour which contrasted strongly with his almost boyish years. Yet while his keen eye darted from point to point, suffering not a blade of grass to escape its scrutiny, his countenance wore a beaming look of confidence, that imparted its cheering influence to the whole party.

For some hours he marched rapidly forward, with the assured step of a man who was treading a familiar path. Attō followed at no great distance, next to whom, on the trail, came Reginald, with Ethelston, Baptiste, and the other Whites, the line being closed by the Delawares, who brought up the rear. It may easily be imagined that Reginald bent his eyes anxiously on the path; but although frequent traces were discernible of the passage of men, as well as of various animals, he could not discover the slightest indication of the marks for which he looked; neither did the observation of the more experienced Baptiste meet with any better success.

When Wingenund reached the streamlet, on the sandy edge of which he had before noticed the light tread of a foot, which in spite of its dimension, he believed to be that of Prairie–bird or her attendant, he halted the party, and summoned Attō to a close examination of the trail. Stooping over it, the Indian looked long and earnestly, after which he shook his head, as if dissatisfied, and muttered a few words, the meaning of which Baptiste was not near enough to catch. Wingenund made no reply, and crossing the brook resumed the trail on its opposite bank.

“Does Attō find the mark of women’s feet on the sand?” inquired Baptiste.

“He is not sure; bison have passed over the marks, and trodden them,” was the evasive reply, and the party proceeded on the track.

Nothing of any importance occurred for some time to enliven the tedium of the march. The sanguine hopes of Reginald had been checked by what had fallen from Attō, of whose acuteness he justly entertained a high opinion. Ethelston seemed buried in deep reflection; and even the comic sallies of Monsieur Perrot failed to excite any mirth in those to whom they were addressed.

“Ethelston, I fear that I acted imprudently,” said his friend in a low voice “when I preferred the counsel of this youth to the more experienced opinion of War–Eagle; yet there was something in his manner that I could not resist.”

“Doubtless,” replied Ethelston, “the counsel of the elder warrior was entitled to the greater weight; and yet I do not think that he would himself have placed this detachment under the guidance of Wingenund, unless he felt sure that the latter had strong grounds for the tenacity with which he clung to his opinion.”

“I would willingly peril my life on his truth and fidelity,” said Reginald. “The question is, whether on this occasion he may not have been led into some error by the very eagerness of his wishes, and the ardour of his temperament.”

Scarcely had he uttered these words, when Wingenund stooped to pick up a small object which his quick eye had caught beside the trail; in another minute he placed it in the hand of Reginald, while a triumphant smile lit up his animated features. The object referred to was a slip of folded paper, damp with the dew which had fallen upon it. Reginald opened its folds, then gazed upon it in silence, with a fixed look, like one in a trance, while his powerful frame trembled from head to foot. The paroxysm of excitement lasted but for a moment, then putting the slip of paper into the hand of Ethelston, he threw himself into the arms of Wingenund; and if a tear escaped him, it fell unseen upon the bosom which he pressed with grateful affection to his heart.

Meanwhile Ethelston made himself master of the secret which had produced an effect so sudden as to cause the greatest astonishment in the whole party, now gathered round to ascertain what had happened. He had read on the slip the magical word “Follow,” written in a distinct legible hand, and every doubt as to the Prairie–bird having passed along the trail vanished in an instant. This was no sooner made known to the hunters, and by Baptiste to the Delawares, than a shout of triumph from the whole party roused Reginald from the momentary weakness into which he had been betrayed.

“Follow thee!” he exclaimed aloud, holding the paper in his left hand, and grasping a rifle in his right; “Follow thee, dearest one! yes, over prairie and mountain, through valley and river, in cold or in heat, in hunger or thirst, there are those here who will never cease to follow thee, until thou art set free, and the injuries done to thyself and thy kindred dearly avenged!”

Again a shout of sympathetic enthusiasm broke from the party, as they caught the words of their leader, and read on his glowing countenance the intense ardour of feelings, too strong to be repressed.

What must have been, in the meantime, the sensations of the Delaware youth? The affectionate yearnings of his heart towards his adopted brother, his deep anxiety for his sister’s fate, his future fame as the rising war–chief of his tribe, all these combined together to swell the triumph of the hour; yet there was not visible in his features the slightest appearance of gratified pride or vanity; and if his dark eye beamed with a brighter lustre, it was not so much with self–congratulation at what he had done, as with high aspirations for the glorious task before him.

Ethelston, who had watched him closely, was surprised at his calm, unmoved demeanour, and whispered to Baptiste, “Wingenund evinces little anxiety or emotion on this occasion; and yet this undoubted token which he has found on the trail must be a great triumph to him, after the doubts expressed by so many warriors of greater experience.”

“It’s partly the natur’, and partly the trainin’ of the boy,” replied the guide, leaning on his long rifle; “the stronger his feelings the less will he show ‘em to another man. I reckon this has been one of the proudest moments in his life, yet, as you say, he looks almost as if he’d nothin’ to do with the matter; and he’d look the same if the Osages were pinchin’ his flesh with hot tongs. Wingenund is three years older now than he was last month!”

“You are right,” Baptiste, replied Ethelston: “it is not days, nor weeks, nor months, but rough trials, brave deeds, and deep feelings that make up the calendar of human life.”

So saying, he sighed, and musingly resumed his place in the line of march, remembering in how short a space of time Nina’s unrequited love had, while she was still younger than the lad of whom he was speaking, consigned her, wasted and heart–broken, to the grave.

Again Wingenund moved swiftly forward on the trail, and the whole party followed, their hopes excited, and their spirits raised by the occurrence above related. Reginald walked silently on, still clasping in his hand the magic token which had conjured up hopes and thoughts too deep for utterance. From time to time his lips unconsciously murmured “Follow!” and then the idea shot like fire through his brain, that all his power to obey the dear behest hung upon the sagacity of the youth who was now tracing the steps of an enemy, skilled in all the wiles of Indian warfare, and whose object it clearly was to baffle pursuit.

Before the close of day the watchful perseverance of Wingenund was again rewarded by finding another of the slips of paper dropped by Prairie–bird, which he brought, as before, to Reginald. The magic “Follow” again met his longing eyes; and as he announced it to the rest of the party, a joyful anticipation of success pervaded every breast.

After a brief consultation with Attō, Wingenund now resolved to halt for the night, as the increasing darkness rendered it impossible any longer to distinguish the trail with accuracy; so the horses were picketed, the succession of sentries arranged, and the party bivouacked under the shelter of two enormous pines, where the preparations for a substantial supper were soon completed, Monsieur Perrot taking charge of that destined for Reginald and Ethelston, while Bearskin and the other hunters prepared a meal for themselves and the Delawares apart. Wingenund was about to join the latter party; but at the earnest request of the two friends, he placed himself beside them, Baptiste being invited to sit down with them also.

It may be imagined that the conversation turned chiefly upon the all–engrossing subject of the pursuit in which they were engaged; and Ethelston was struck by the change which he observed in the demeanour of Wingenund; for the latter had now put off the gravity and somewhat haughty bearing of the aspiring warrior, and had resumed the playful and touching simplicity of manner that was natural to his years, and accorded equally well with the almost feminine delicacy of his features and the soft melody of his voice. He took no pains to conceal the pleasure with which he received the warm and sincere encomium that Reginald passed upon the patience and sagacity that he had displayed in his arduous task.

“Netis owes me no thanks,” he said, smiling. “Love for my sister, and revenge on the Washashes, who like cowards and false friends slew my kindred,—these lead me on the trail.”

“It is not your eagerness, nor the strength of your motives that I call in question, dear Wingenund; but I am surprised that you are able to follow so slight a trail without being deceived by the tricks and devices of the Osage.”

“The Black Father has often told me that among the southern men there are dogs who can follow the foot of a man by day or night, and will never leave the scent till they seize him. If an antelope is wounded, the wolf will hunt the track of her blood on the prairie till he finds her; if a bison is killed, turkey buzzards, many in number, fly from far to to the carcass, though there is no trail in the air for them to follow. Is it wonderful that the Great Spirit should bestow on the son of his ancient people a gift enjoyed by these beasts and fowls?”

“What you say is true,” replied Reginald, “yet certainly we who live in settlements have not these faculties; at least we have them in a very inferior degree.”

“The wise men of our nation have always said that the eyes and ears of white men are not good; but the Black Father says that their speech is not true, for that the Great Spirit has made the ears and eyes of red and white men alike, only the Pale–faces do not improve them, as we do, by use.”

“Your Black Father may say what he likes,” interposed Baptiste, “but I maintain that the ears of a white man are no more like the ears of a real Ingian than the paws of a bear are like the legs of an antelope. I remember, though it’s now some twenty years ago, I was out on a hunt in the North with a Delaware comrade; he was called in the tribe, ‘The–man–who–hears–from–far;’—to say truth, I thought he often pretended to hear things that never happened, only just to keep up his name. We had walked all the morning, and having killed an elk, sat down to cook it on the prairie. All at once he held up his finger for me to keep silence; and turning his head to listen, his countenance changed, and his ear pricked up like that of a scared doe. Nay, Master Reginald, you need not smile, for it’s as true as a gun–barrel; and said I, ‘What’s the matter now?’ He made no answer, but went a little way off; and lying down, put the side of his head to the ground. He soon returned, and told me that ‘a big canoe was coming over the lake.’—‘What,’ said I, ‘over that lake we passed this morning beyond those high woods?’—‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘the same; I hear the paddles dip in the water.’ I laughed in his face, and told him he was dreaming; for the lake was, may be, two miles off; but he declared that he had heard the paddles as plain as he now heard my voice. I tried to listen, but could not hear a sound; however, I knew that if he was right, the canoe would be full of enemies, seein’ that we had no particular friends then in the Dahcotah country, and I thought it better to believe him for once: so we put more sticks on the fire, to make as great a smoke as we could, and then ran off to the top of a hill, where a big pine–tree grew; and as it was about half–way between the fire and the lake, we clomb in among its branches, where we could have a good look–out on both. We remained some time without hearing or seeing any thing; and I began to conceive that my comrade had made a fool of me, as well as of himself, when we saw five or six Sioux devils peep out of the brush at the edge of the prairie, where they pointed to the smoke that rose from our fire, and began to creep cautiously towards it.”

At this point the narrative of the guide was unexpectedly interrupted by a sharp cry uttered by Monsieur Perrot, who jumped up from his seat, and capered like a harlequin, making at the same time the most doleful grimaces and ejaculations. Wingenund was the first to perceive and to explain to Reginald the cause of the unfortunate valet’s distress, in doing which he laughed with such hearty inexpressible mirth, that the tears started from his eyes.

It appears that Monsieur Perrot, in his anxiety to hear Baptiste’s adventure, had unconsciously edged himself nearer and nearer to the fire, by the side of which was a small pile of dry burrs and prickly adhesive twigs; while sitting upon these, and listening intently to the narrative, they had become accidentally ignited, and not only burnt him as he sat, but adhered to his nether garments when he jumped up, where they continued to crackle and smoke in spite of the efforts which he made to disengage himself from them. To add to his terror, he remembered at this critical juncture that there was a powder–flask in the hinder pocket of his jacket; a circumstance which he communicated to his master with renewed exclamations, and unavailing attempts to rid himself of the dangerous magazine. On hearing this, Ethelston emptied a vessel full of water over a blanket that lay beside him, in which he immediately enveloped the alarmed valet, and by this ready application of one element freed him from the more serious danger to be apprehended from the other.

As soon as the gravity of the party was in some degree restored, Reginald requested the guide to conclude the narrative which had been so unexpectedly interrupted, expressing at the same time his curiosity to learn how Baptiste and his comrade had extricated themselves from their unpleasant position among the branches of the pine–tree.

“Why, you see, Master Reginald, as soon as they were fairly busied in making their way to the fire which we had left burning, we slipped down the tree, and struck into the wood, where we had no difficulty in finding their back–trail to the lake, and creeping cautiously towards the shore, we found that the hot–headed fools had left no one to watch their canoe, which we spied under the boughs of an alder that hung over the lake; so we just stuck a piece of stick in the ground, with a Delaware mark on it to vex ‘em on their return, when we paddled away to the other side; and having bored two holes in the canoe, and broken the paddles, we went on our way; and since that time I’ve always held my own opinion about an Indian’s ears, and I’m not likely to change it now.”

Whether the guide’s story was tedious, or that the fatigues of the day had produced their effects upon his hearers, certain it is, that soon after its conclusion both the ears and eyes of the greater portion were closed in sleep; and nothing having occurred during the night to alarm those who had watched, the whole party set forward as soon as daylight broke on the following morning.

Wingenund had no difficulty in making out the trail until he reached the banks of the river, in crossing which Mahéga had taken so much pains to mislead his pursuers. Here the youth halted, and informed Reginald that he might look for game during the remainder of the day, as it would be necessary for him and Attō to search for War–Eagle’s party, and with them to find the right trail on the opposite bank.

The two Delawares started at a rapid pace to the westward, bestowing as they went careful attention on various tracks of bison and other animals which had crossed at the different fords that they passed. After a toilsome march of some hours, they fell in with War–Eagle’s party, whom they found occupied in a like investigation. The chief learnt his young brother’s success with undisguised pleasure; his nature was too noble to entertain a thought of jealousy; and one of the first wishes of his heart was to see Wingenund take his place among the first warriors of the tribe. He had ascertained beyond a doubt, that although the horses of the Osages had crossed the river opposite to the trail which he had been following, they had not travelled far in that direction, but had returned to the bed of the river for the obvious purpose of baffling pursuit; and the Delawares now crossed to the northern bank, and after minute examination of every path and track which led from it, they arrived in the evening at the point from whence Wingenund started, confident that the right trail must, if the Osages had crossed at all, be at some spot lower down the stream.

The whole party, now again reunited, encamped for the night, and related, over their evening meal, the indications and tracks which they had remarked on their respective lines of march. At the earliest dawn War–Eagle was again afoot, and after an hour’s patient search, he struck a trail, which he pronounced, without hesitation, to be that of the Osages. As it led through a wooded and hilly region along the base of the Great Mountains, abounding in narrow and dangerous passes, every precaution was used against ambush or surprise; War–Eagle, Wingenund, and Attō leading the advance, with several of the most swift and skilful of their warriors, and the white men, who brought up the rear, being cautioned against straggling or falling behind the main body.

Another slip of paper found upon the trail, bearing Prairie–bird’s inspiring watchword “Follow,” raised the spirits of the party to the highest pitch. They halted at midday to refresh themselves and their horses for an hour under the shade of some spreading cedars, above which rose a high conical peak, on the sides of which were scattered a few dwarf oaks, and other timber of stunted growth. Obeying a signal from War–Eagle, Reginald climbed with him to the summit of this hill, whence they could command an extensive view of the sand–hills and undulating ocean of prairie to the eastward, while above them to the westward towered the lofty and still distant mountain–tops, clad in their bright mantle of eternal snow.

But it was not to enjoy the splendour of this magnificent prospect that the Delaware had toiled up this steep ascent, or that he now cast his restless and searching eye towards the north and east horizon: he had another object in view. Neither did he seem to have altogether failed in its attainment, for after gazing long and intently upon a spot to the northward, his countenance brightened, and he desired Reginald, who was unable to distinguish so distant a speck with the naked eye, to examine it carefully with his telescope, for that he would see something there that would make his heart beat.

Reginald did so, and having succeeded in catching the indicated object with his glass, he exclaimed, “War–Eagle, my brother, you are right, I can see them plainly, one—two—three—aye, twenty Indian lodges, and the white tent among them. Heaven be praised for all its mercies, we shall save her yet!”

For a few moments the chief was silent; then he said, “Let my brother use the glass again, and say how many lodges he can count.”

“There seem to be very many,” said Reginald, after a careful survey, “more than fifty, but I cannot count them, for the tent is on a small hill, and some may be hid behind it.”

“Mahéga smokes the pipe with a powerful tribe,” said the Delaware, musing; and the two friends descended the hill, each contemplating, according to the bent of their respective characters, the difficulties yet to be encountered, and the means by which those difficulties might be overcome.

Meanwhile it must not be supposed that Mahéga remained in idle security a resident in the Crow encampment; he appreciated too justly the skill and perseverance of War–Eagle to suppose that the latter would not strike and follow his trail, he therefore turned his attention to the strengthening of his alliance with his new friends by every means in his power. In this endeavour his own sagacity was admirably, though perhaps unconsciously, seconded by the winning manners and character of Prairie–bird; for the Crows, who had been prepared to look upon her with a feeling akin to dread, were agreeably surprised by her extreme beauty, and the gentleness of her demeanour.

The cunning Osage, knowing that she could only be drawn from the strict seclusion in which she lived by her never–failing willingness to alleviate suffering, had caused several children, and others afflicted with illness, to be brought to her, and she never declined giving them such remedies from her remaining stock of medicine as she thought most likely to afford relief. The general success of her simple pharmacy fully answered the expectations of Mahéga, in the increasing anxiety daily evinced by the Crows to guard and protect the “Great Medicine” of the tent; and thus, while obeying the dictates of her own gentle and humane feeling, the maiden little knew that she was strengthening the cords of her captivity.

Neither did Mahéga neglect to take every precaution against an attack or surprise on the part of War–Eagle and his party. Although ignorant of their precise force, he knew that they would in all probability be well armed, and was far from satisfied with the position of the present encampment occupied by the Crows.

After conversing once or twice with Besha, and the judicious admixture of a few presents to that _dis_interested personage, he learnt that there was at a distance of half a day’s march to the northward a favourite stronghold of the Crows, to which they frequently resorted when attacked by an enemy too numerous to be resisted in the open plain, and it was represented to be in a neighbourhood affording abundance of game, and a plentiful supply of pasture for the horses.

Mahéga found it not a very difficult task to persuade the Crow chief to withdraw to this post, representing to him the formidable equipment of the Delawares aided by their white allies, and he urged him also to send a few of his best runners to hang about the trail by which he had himself arrived, so that timely notice of the enemy’s approach might be received.

The Crow acquiesced in both suggestions, and the united band moved off accordingly to the post above referred to, which they reached in the afternoon of the same day; it was a conical hill, covered on one side with low juniper bushes, and rising suddenly out of the prairie at a distance of several miles from the higher range of mountains to the west; a few hundred yards further to the east was another height of similar elevation, but of less circumference, and between these two lay a valley of extreme fertility, watered by a stream so cool and clear, that it bespoke at once the mountain source whence it flowed; the eastern side of this second hill was almost perpendicular, so as to be secure against any attack from that quarter; while an enemy approaching from the valley would be exposed to missiles shot from either height.

Mahéga saw at a glance the strength of the position, and proposed to the chief that he, with his Osages, should garrison the smaller height, leaving the larger hill and the intermediate valley to be occupied by the Crows.

This arrangement being agreed upon, the tent of Prairie–bird was pitched near the summit, on a spot where the ground gently sloped to the westward, and a few scattered oaks, cedars, and pines afforded not only a partial shelter from the rays of the sun, but a sufficient supply of fuel for cooking the venison and bison–meat, which the hunters had brought in abundantly. Some twenty lodges of the Crows were placed upon the opposite and larger height; these consisted chiefly of the principal braves and warriors; the intermediate valley being occupied by the remainder of the band; and an ample space was left for picketing the horses at night between the two hills.

On arriving at her new quarters, Prairie–bird could not avoid being struck by the singularity as well as by the beauty of the scenery. It was evident that the face of the sandstone rock, above which her tent was pitched, had been eaten away by the action of water and the elements; and she imagined that ere many years should pass, the precipitous cliff on its eastern front would partially fall in, and leave in its place a broken and turreted ruin, such as she had before noted and admired on the western borders of the great prairie. It was a great relief to her that she was so much by herself; for the lodge of Mahéga and his followers was pitched somewhat lower down the hill than her own tent, and she was yet further removed from the dirt and other annoyances of the Crow lodges. This was, indeed, a great luxury, as the quantity of bison–meat brought into the camp on the first day’s hunt was so great, that the Upsaroka women were spreading and drying it in every direction; and as these ladies are not usually very particular in removing the offal, the odour thence arising in the valley below was not the sweetest that could be imagined.

Mahéga was in high good humour in consequence of the successful result of his arrangements; for he now occupied a post not only well protected against the attack of an enemy, but where his baggage could not be purloined by the light–fingered youths, who are so proverbially abundant among the Crows. But however secure he might feel, he did not relax his usual vigilance, in which he was zealously seconded by Toweno; and whenever the one was absent from the garrison, even for a short time, the other always remained at home on the watch. He renewed, also, a rude breastwork of unhewn logs, which had been thrown up by the Crows on some former occasion, and which afforded a shelter, from behind which he and his men could fire upon an approaching enemy without being themselves exposed.

They had not long been settled in their new quarters before the detachment which had been sent to reconnoitre returned to report that they had seen the united band of white men and Delawares, about thirty in number, advancing cautiously along the base of the hills towards the Upsaroka camp. The scouts had recognised Reginald as the person who had killed one of their principal warriors; and the announcement of his approach was received with a yell that showed how determinately the Crows were bent on revenge.

A war–council was immediately held, which Mahéga was summoned to attend; and although the wary Osage kept himself in the background, and showed no disposition to offer his advice until twice pressed by Besha to do so, it was soon evident that his spirit would rule the meeting, and that on him would devolve the conduct of the struggle in which they must soon expect to be engaged: such was the impression already made upon his new allies by his gigantic stature, and the air of command that accompanied his every word and gesture.

Unless the advantage of numbers was to be very great on his side, Mahéga did not augur favourably of the result of an open conflict between the Crows and the small but well–appointed force opposed to them. He formed a just estimate of the skill and sagacity of War–Eagle, and of the impetuous courage of Reginald Brandon. He hated both, especially the latter, with all the bitter intensity of which his nature was capable; and resolved that no stratagem should be left untried to heap upon them every species of suffering and disgrace.

With this view, he conferred long, through the medium of Besha, with the leading warriors of the Crows as to the nature of the ground in the neighbourhood of the enemy’s line of march; being determined, if possible, to lead them into an ambush; or at least to attack them in some defile or pass, where the bow and arrow would be a better match for the rifle than in the open plain. Not being altogether satisfied with the replies which he received, he declined giving his opinion until he should have reconnoitred the district in person, and set forth without delay, accompanied by the dwarfish interpreter and two Crow warriors, all being mounted on swift horses.

Having reached the base of the first range of hills, the Crow who acted as guide struck into a narrow winding ravine; after following the course of which for some distance, the party emerged upon an elevated table land, which they crossed at full speed, and found themselves at the base of a second range of hills, more broken and abrupt than the first. Here the guide and Mahéga dismounted, and having concealed the horses, and left them behind the projection of a rock in charge of the other two, they climbed with some difficulty to the brow of a sandstone cliff, whence they could command an extensive view of the region to the southward.

Creeping cautiously to the edge of the height, and screening themselves behind the junipers and scanty bushes growing there, they could easily distinguish the camp of the Delawares and white men in the valley below. The band had come to a halt, and were evidently engaged in refreshing themselves and their horses with their midday meal.

The Osage chief glared upon them like a tiger on his anticipated prey. He examined the ground in front and rear and flank of their position; he noted the breadth of the pass where the valley opened out upon the plain beyond, and questioned his guide closely as to the route which they would probably take in advancing towards the Crow encampment.

We will leave him for a time to pursue these investigations, while we return to Reginald and War–Eagle, whom we left deliberating as to the most advisable course to be pursued for the rescue of Prairie–bird.

The Delaware chief having been soon informed by his scouts of the enemy’s retreat to another and stronger position, lost no time in pushing forward his party to the point in the valley where it had (as above mentioned) been descried by Mahéga and his guide. Reginald and the other white men were at a loss to imagine why War–Eagle had selected for his halt a spot where a dense thicket on the side of each hill seemed to offer to an enemy, familiar with the country, a favourable opportunity for attacking him unawares; and even Baptiste, when questioned upon the subject, shook his head, saying: “Wait till to–morrow; we shall know by that time what hole the coon is making for.”

As for the Delawares, they ate their bison–meat and smoked their pipe with as much indifference as if they were in the heart of their own hunting–ground, being confident in the skill of their leader, from the experience of many a foray and fight. The latter, having thrown forward two or three of his men as outposts, to guard against surprise, summoned Wingenund, to whom he gave, in an earnest voice, some minute directions, which did not reach the ears of others in the party; and the youth, as soon as he had received them, went up to Reginald, and said to him, “Will Netis lend Nekimi to Wingenund? He will be back before the moon is up,—and if he meets the Upsarokas, he must leave them behind.”

Reginald testified his willing assent to the youth’s request, and in a few minutes Nekimi was bounding over the prairie beneath his light burthen with a speed that soon brought him to a point whence he could command a view of the two heights, upon and between which the Crows were encamped.

The sand–hills in that region project in many places from the base of the Great Mountains into the open plain, like the promontories of an indented shore into the ocean, and it was by skirting one of these until he reached its extremity that he contrived to watch the encampment of the Crows without being observed by their scouts; for several hours he stood motionless by the side of Nekimi, under the shade of a pine, with that untiring patience which renders an Indian unequalled as a spy, when he saw four horsemen emerge from the camp, and gallop off towards the base of the mountains. As soon as they entered a valley where they were screened from his view, he put Nekimi to his speed, and by a shorter cut reached the head of the same valley before them; then leaving his horse behind a thicket of junipers, he crept forward, and hiding himself in some brushwood, waited for the passing of the horsemen.

As the roughness of the ground had compelled them to slacken their speed, he had no difficulty in recognising Mahéga, but the features of the misshapen interpreter and the Crow warriors were, of course, strange to him. He watched the Osage chief and his companion as they climbed the hill, from the top of which they made their observations of the Delaware camp; and as they returned and remounted their horses, they passed so near to his hiding–place that the youth distinctly heard two or three words which Mahéga spoke to Besha in the Osage tongue. As soon as they were out of sight he hastened to the spot where he had left Nekimi, and returned at full speed to make his report to War–Eagle.

The chief had evidently been awaiting with some impatience the return of his messenger, and when he received the intelligence which the latter brought back, he said, “It is well, let Netis and the chiefs be called to council—there is no time to lose.”

A few minutes sufficed to assemble the leaders, who were expected to take a part in the deliberations about to be entered upon, all of them being well aware of their vicinity to the enemy of whom they had so long been in pursuit; but when called upon to express their opinion as to the course to be adopted, a manifest reluctance prevailed, arising probably from the wild and rugged nature of the region, and from their ignorance of the strength of the band with which Mahéga had allied himself. After a brief pause, Baptiste, who was thoroughly versed in the character of the Delawares, arose and said, “Are the tongues of the warriors tied? the sun will not stay in his path, neither will the grass grow beneath the feet of the Washashee and Upsaroka; the white men and the Lenapé wait to hear the voice of the Great Chief—let War–Eagle speak.”

Thus called upon, the Delaware leader came forward to address the council. He painted the wrongs that his tribe had suffered at the hands of the Osages, the treachery and cruelties practised on their wives and children; then he dwelt on the spoiling of their lodges, the abduction of Prairie–bird, and the attempted murder of Wingenund. Having thus roused the passions of his Delaware hearers, he gradually brought them back to a calmer state of reflection, by representing to them the dangers and difficulties of their present position, owing to the alliance formed by their implacable enemy with the Upsaroka, who knew every pass and dangerous defile of the country through which they were marching, and he impressed upon them the necessity of their having recourse to stratagem in order to make up for their deficiency in numbers and in local knowledge. He then proceeded to unfold his plan of operations, which (as afterwards explained by Baptiste to Reginald and his friend) was nearly in the following words:—

“Mahéga and the Upsaroka will attack our camp to–night—the wolf shall fall into a trap—they will come to take scalps, let them look after their own—but we must divide our party—Wingenund has seen the Washashee camp, he shall guide ten warriors to it in the dark, and while Mahéga is leading his blind followers here, the tomahawk and the fire shall be in his lodge!”

A deep murmur of approbation satisfied the chief as to the sentiments of his stern and determined band; and Ethelston, although he knew not the meaning of the words which had been uttered, was struck by the dignity with which they had been spoken, and by the rich and varied intonation of War–Eagle’s voice.

“Reginald,” said he, “how much I regret that I could not follow your Indian brother in his discourse. His attitudes brought to my mind the orators of old, as represented to us by classic pen and chisel: it seemed as if I could almost gather his meaning from his eloquence of eye and tone!”

“Certainly,” replied Reginald, “whether the merit of oratory consists in action, as held by the ‘old man eloquent who fulmined over Greece,’ or in the art of persuasion, by convincing the judgment while moving the passions of the hearers, as held by the best authors who have since written on the subject, War–Eagle possesses it in an eminent degree.”

“Yes,” replied Ethelston, “I admit the persuasive power, and the action at once graceful and commanding, but I maintain that there is yet a stronger element, the mention of which you, and the authors whom you quote, have strangely neglected, namely, truth; that immortal essence, which pervades the whole intelligent creation, before which falsehood shrinks abashed, and sophistry vanishes into vapour. This it is that guides the winged words of man direct to the heart of his brother; by this, and this alone, did the voice of Luther triumph over the thunders of the Vatican, and beneath its mighty influence the haughty Felix trembled before the captive apostle. This is, if I mistake not, the secret of your Indian friend’s oratory; every word that he utters finds an echo in the breast of those whom he is addressing. The injuries that he recounts are recent; the dangers against which he warns them are real and present; and the vengeance to which he guides them, they pant for with a thirst ardent as his own.”

“Far be it from me,” replied Reginald, “to disparage the might and majesty of truth, or to doubt that in the end it must triumph over error and falsehood, as certainly as Good shall obtain the victory over Evil. Nevertheless, I hold, that as the object of eloquence frequently is to ‘make the worse appear the better cause,’ and to guide the hearers, not so much to their own real good as to the immediate purpose of the speaker, there are some occasions, where he will more effectively attain it by working on the prejudices, frailties, and passions, than he could by the most direct appeal to justice or to truth. If Felix trembled at the denunciations of Paul, the bolder and mightier spirit of Wallenstein quailed before the wily astrologer, who pretended to have interwoven his destinies with the mysterious movements of the planets.”

“I see the scope of your argument, Reginald, and acknowledge its force. It is because men obey the dictates of passion more willingly than those of conscience, that they are more easily led by the factious sophistry of a Cleon than by the virtuous wisdom of a Socrates. Nevertheless, you will not deny that even sophistry and faction bear testimony to the might of truth, by putting on her semblance, and disguising themselves as her followers, thus do they achieve success, until they encounter some champion strong enough to unmask and detect them; as the Trojans fled before Patroclus clad in the armour of Achilles, until Hector pierced his disguise, and killed him.”

“Is it not strange,” said Reginald, laughing, “that in this wild and remote region, and amidst its wandering tribes, we should renew discussions, which we so often held together in early days on the banks of the Elbe and Rhine! I remember that you generally beat me in argument, and yet permitted me to retain possession of the field of battle. On this occasion I think we must draw off our forces, and neither claim the victory. The Indians are already preparing for the night’s expedition, and interests so dear to me depend upon its result, that I look forward to it with the deepest anxiety. If War–Eagle is correct in his calculation, that the Osages and their allies will attack our camp to–night, it is uncertain whether they will carry Prairie–bird with them, or leave her behind under a guard. We must be prepared for either plan; and in dividing our force arrange it so, that if we succeed, she may be sure of falling into the hands of those fit and authorised to protect her. I will take with me Wingenund, and our steady friends Baptiste and Pierre: do you remain with War–Eagle, Paul Müller, and the main body reserved for the defence of the camp.”

“Be it so,” replied Ethelston, “I trust we shall not be long separated, and that before this hour to–morrow we shall have rescued your betrothed from her captors.” He added, with a smile, “Remember that in our German expedition you made me many promises of discretion, which in the excitement of action you were somewhat apt to forget; you must not do so now that you are engaged in the cause of one, to whom your life is perhaps dearer than it is to yourself.”

“Baptiste himself shall not be more cautious than I will be,” replied Reginald, grasping his friend’s hand; and they parted to make the requisite preparations for their respective duties.

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Chapter III

A SCENE IN THE TENT OF PRAIRIE–BIRD, WHO GIVES SOME GOOD ADVICE, AND RECEIVES IN A SHORT SPACE OF TIME MORE THAN ONE UNEXPECTED VISITOR.—THE CROWS LED BY MAHÉGA ATTACK THE DELAWARE CAMP BY NIGHT.—THE DEFEATED PARTY ACHIEVE A KIND OF TRIUMPH, AND THE VICTORS MEET WITH AN UNEXPECTED LOSS.

The evening passed away with the rapidity usual in that western region, where twilight has no sooner thrown its dusky hue over mountain and plain, than it again yields its place to the darker gloom of night; and yet it were a libel upon nature to call by the name of gloom that uncertain light in which that mighty landscape reposed. The moon was half full, and her beams, scarcely piercing through the deep foliage of the wooded vale, streaked with silver lines its mossy herbage; eastward lay the vast expanse of undulating prairie, on which countless herds of bison lazily cropped the dew–sprinkled grass, while high above the scene towered the gigantic peaks of the Western Andes slumbering in a light as cold and pale as their own eternal snow.

Nothing was heard to disturb the reign of silence save the distant murmur of the streamlets as they plashed from rock to rock in their descent to the quiet river that flowed beneath; or here and there the stealthy foot of the panther or prowling bear. A few stars glimmering in the vault above, and clouds of ever–varying shape flitted athwart its surface, now hiding, and again partially revealing, the dark outlines of forest, vale, and rugged cliff.

It was an hour and a scene calculated to inspire thoughts of awe, piety, and gratitude towards the Creator; of love, gentleness, and peace towards His creatures; and yet through those groves and glens feet more stealthy than the panther’s step, foes more fell than the prowling bear, now wound their silent way, bent on their secret errand of destruction and of blood.

In one quarter Reginald, followed by Baptiste, Pierre, and six men, moved swiftly across the prairie, under the guidance of Wingenund, towards the camp of the Osages; in another, Mahéga led a numerous band through the defiles before described, to surprise the encampment of the Delawares; while at the latter place War–Eagle, aided by Attō and his chosen warriors, was making all the necessary dispositions for a stratagem by which he hoped to defeat the expected attack of his enemies.

It was already several hours past midnight, the moon had withdrawn her light, and Prairie–bird was buried in the refreshing sleep that visits the eyelids of guileless youth; Lita slumbered on a couch of skins stretched across the entrance of her mistress’s tent, before which at a little distance the Osage sentry, seated by the breastwork thrown up for the defence of the position, hummed a low and plaintive air of his tribe. Suddenly his ear caught the sound of approaching feet, and quick as thought the arrow was fitted to his bow–string, but he checked the hasty movement, remembering that sentries were posted at the base of the hill, who would not have permitted any hostile step to approach unchallenged. As the new comers drew near he distinguished through the gloom the figures of a man and a woman, the former short and square–built, the latter slight and graceful.

“What do the strangers seek?” inquired Toweno, for he it was whom Mahéga had left in charge of his camp, and who now guarded the tent of Prairie–bird.

“Toweno is a great warrior among the Washashee; his voice is welcome to the ear of a friend,” replied in the Osage tongue, the rough voice of Besha, the horse–dealer. “The Upsaroka maiden wishes to speak with Olitipa, the Great Medicine of the tent.”

“This is not a time for maidens to visit or to speak,” replied Toweno; “the feet of the braves are on the night–path, and many wives who sleep now will be widows ere the sun is up.”

“Besha knows it well,” answered the horse–dealer; “nor can he understand how Toweno is in the camp while Mahéga and his warriors are on the bloody–path.”

“The Pale–faces are cunning,” replied the Osage, “and Mahéga would not leave the rich skins of otter, beaver, and bison, and the Great Medicine of the tent, without a guard.”

“The Pale–faces will not come near the high–camp,” said Besha, casting a rapid glance over the bales of fur and cloth. “Have you many warriors left with you?”

“Four of the Washashee, and four times four of the Upsaroka, is the band in camp[65]; but what does the woman desire of Olitipa?”

“She is the youngest and favourite wife of the Upsaroka chief,” replied Besha, lowering his voice, “and she desires a medicine that his love for her may never change; her heart is good towards the Washashee, and her hands are not empty.” Here he whispered a few words to his companion, and the girl timidly extending her hand placed in that of the Osage a small roll of tobacco.

The grim features of the warrior relaxed into a smile, as his fingers closed upon the scarce and much–coveted leaf[66], and without further delay he moved to the entrance of the tent, and wakening Lita, desired her to arouse her mistress for a conference with the bride of the Upsaroka chief.

Although surprised at this unexpected summons, Prairie–bird hastened to receive her visitor, supposing that some sudden illness or accident must be the cause of her coming at such an hour. Her simple toilet was soon made; and fastening to her girdle the bag containing the slender stock of instruments and trifles that she always carried with her, she stepped into the outer compartment of the tent, and desired Lita to admit the stranger.

The Crow girl, led by Besha, came forward with apparent reluctance, obviously under the influence of the greatest terror, and Prairie–bird was, for the moment, annoyed at the admission into her tent of a man whom she had only seen once or twice before, and whose appearance was forbidding in the extreme; but quickly remembering that without him it would have been impossible to communicate with her visitor, she desired Lita to place three mats; and seating herself upon one, kindly took the Crow girl by the hand, drawing her gently to that nearest to herself; then motioning to Besha to occupy the third, she requested him in the Delaware tongue, to explain the object of this nightly visit.

“The tale of the Upsaroka maid is secret,” he replied; “it is only for the ears of Olitipa.”

At a signal from her mistress, Lita, throwing a blanket over her shoulder, stepped into the open air, and leaned against the breastwork not far from the post of Toweno.

“Does the ‘Bending–willow’ wish all to be told?” inquired Besha of his companion in a whisper.

Bending–willow, who had not yet dared to lift her eyes from the ground, now timidly raised them; and encountering the kind and encouraging glance of Prairie–bird, answered, “Let all be told.”

Having received this permission, the one–eyed horse–dealer proceeded to relate, with more feeling than could have been expected from his harsh and uncouth appearance, the story of his fair companion. She was the daughter of the principal brave in the nation; both he and his only son had fallen lately in a bloody engagement with the Black–feet. The father had, with his dying breath, bequeathed his surviving child to the protection of his chief, and the latter had fulfilled the trust by giving her in marriage to his eldest son, a gallant youth, who, although not yet twenty–five years of age, had already two wives in his lodge, and had taken many scalps from the Black–feet, against whom he was now absent on an expedition undertaken to avenge the slain relations of his newly–espoused bride.

Bending–willow, who had not yet seen eighteen summers, was passionately fond of her young lord, who now returned her affection with an ardour equal to her own; this had moved the spite and jealousy of his two former wives, who took no pains to conceal their hatred of her; and although they dared not strike or ill–treat her as long as she remained the favourite, they endeavoured by every means in their power to vex and annoy her, and to bring her, by degrees, under the suspicion and distrust of their husband.

It was to obtain from Prairie–bird a medicine by which she might secure his continued affection, that Bending–willow had made this visit; and she had come stealthily by night, in hopes of escaping thereby the observation of her watchful colleagues.

During the horse–dealer’s recital, Prairie–bird glanced more than once at the young woman’s countenance, of which she was enabled by the red light of the wormwood torch that burnt near the centre of the tent, to distinguish the features and expression; both were remarkably pleasing and attractive, while the long black hair falling over her shoulders in two plaits, interwoven with beads of various colours, was set off by the delicate hue of the fawn–skin dress, which displayed to advantage the symmetry of her slight and graceful figure. Prairie–bird took her hand in silence, and the Crow girl fixed her eyes with guileless and admiring wonder upon the surpassing loveliness of the “Great Medicine of the tent,” which struck her the more forcibly, as she had come in the expectation of seeing a person decked out and ornamented after the fantastic fashion adopted among the Indian tribes by those who pretend to supernatural powers.

After a brief silence, Prairie–bird, addressing her visitor through the interpreter, said, “When the wives of the young chief scold and speak bad words to Bending–willow, what does she reply?”

“She gives them bad words again, sharper and harder than their own,” answered the bride hastily.

Prairie–bird shook her head, and continued, “Has Bending–willow watched their faces when they scold and heap angry words upon her? How do they look then?”

“They look ugly and spiteful as spotted snakes!”

“Bending–willow has come for a medicine to make the love of her husband endure fresh and green as the valleys watered by the Nebraska! Does she think he would love her if when he returns to his lodge he hears sharp angry tones in her voice, and sees spiteful looks in her countenance? The Great Spirit has made her face and voice sweet as the breath of the morning; if she makes them ugly and harsh, the medicine of Olitipa cannot preserve her husband’s love.”

The Crow bride cast down her eyes, evidently confused and puzzled by this address. At length she inquired, in a subdued tone, “What, then, is the counsel of Olitipa? What is Bending–willow to do when these sharp tongues scold and rail at her?”

Prairie–bird opened the volume that lay beside her, and answered, “The words of the Great Spirit are, ‘A soft answer turneth away anger!’ When the tongues of the women are bitter against Bending–willow, let her give gentle words in reply; they will be ashamed, and will soon be silent.”

“But,” said the quick–tempered bride, “the angry spirit gets into the heart of Bending–willow: when fire is in the breast, cool water flows not from the tongue!”

“Olitipa will give a medicine to her sister,” replied our heroine; and opening a case that stood near her, she drew thence a small hand–mirror. Presenting this to her visitor, she added, “When Bending–willow finds the angry spirit in her heart, and bitter words ready on her tongue, let her look at her face in this medicine–glass, and say to herself, ‘Are these the soft eyes that the chief loves to look upon?’”

The bride took the glass, and contemplated her features therein, apparently not without satisfaction. But their expression was troubled, for she was frightened at the words which Prairie–bird had told her were those of the Great Spirit, and her eyes wandered from the book to the maiden, as if she would willingly learn more of her mysterious communion with the powers above.

At this crisis the wild war–cry of the Crows rang through the tent; several shots followed each other in rapid succession, mingled with the whistling of arrows and the clash of blows, while loud above the din of conflict rose the voice of Toweno, urging and encouraging his men.

Besha started to his feet, and rushed from the tent to learn whence came this sudden and unexpected attack, and Lita hastened to the side of her mistress, as if resolved to share her fate, whatever that might be.

Louder and nearer came the mingled cries and yells of battle, and a stray rifle–ball pierced the canvass of the tent, leaving a rent in it close to the head of Prairie–bird. She neither stirred nor spoke; and as the wailing and terrified Bending–willow, the daughter and the bride of warriors inured to scenes of blood, looked on the pale, calm cheek of the Christian maiden, whose hand still rested on the mysterious volume, she felt as if in the presence of a superior being, and crept closer to her side for protection and security.

But we must leave the tent and its inmates, and turn to the scene of strife without. The darkness of night was giving place to the grey hue of dawn, and a faint streak of light was already discernible in the eastern horizon, ere Reginald’s party, guided by Wingenund, was able to reach the base of the hill on which the Osages were posted. His intention had been to arrive there several hours sooner; but he had been prevented by various obstacles, such as might be expected to occur on a night–march through so rugged and difficult a country, and also by the necessity of making a considerable circuit to avoid being seen by the Crows encamped, as was before mentioned, on a hill on the opposite side of the valley.

Reginald had no means of ascertaining the force that might be left to guard the camp and the tent, and it appeared rash in the extreme to attempt by daylight the storming, with only ten men, a position so fortified by nature, and defended by warriors familiar with its local advantages. But his impetuous ardour had communicated itself to all his party, and it was unanimously agreed that the attack should be made.

In the sketch before given of the Osage camp, it was stated that the hill was steep, and of a conical shape, sloping less abruptly towards the valley, while the front that it presented to the prairie eastward was precipitous and inaccessible. The attacking party had made their approach from this quarter, rightly conjecturing that it would be left unguarded. They succeeded in gaining the base of the cliff unperceived; but in spite of the caution with which they advanced towards the more sloping face of the hill, they were descried by the enemy’s outposts, who discharged at them a flight of arrows, uttering at the same time the shrill war–cry that had startled the party within the tent.

There being now light sufficient to enable the combatants to distinguish each other, the rifles of the white men told with fatal effect, and several of the Crows fell at their first fire; the remainder retreated fighting, towards the breastwork above, whither Reginald’s party pursued them with an impetuosity not to be resisted. When, however, the Crows gained the protection of the breastwork, they recovered from their temporary panic, and, animated by the example of Toweno and the few Osages with him, let fly their arrows with precision and effect.

The leader of the Osages, and one of his band, were provided with rifles, and although the attacking party availed themselves of the occasional shelter of trees and bushes in their ascent, two of them received severe bullet–wounds from the marksmen securely posted above. They were not unnoticed by the quick eye of Baptiste, who, having reloaded his long rifle, deliberately waited until the Osage beside Toweno showed the upper part of his head above the breastwork as he aimed at Reginald, now within pistol–shot of him. The finger of the savage was on the trigger, when a ball from the rifle of the guide struck him in the centre of the forehead, and with a convulsive bound he fell dead on the spot, overthrowing in his fall Toweno, whose rifle was thereby for the moment rendered unserviceable.

“Forward! Master Reginald,” shouted the guide; “Wingenund is already at the breastwork!”

Light as an antelope, and active as a mountain cat, the Delaware youth had distanced all his companions in the ascent, and, regardless of the fearful odds of numbers opposed to him, was already clambering over the stockade, when an arrow pierced his arm, and a war–club, hurled with equal force and precision, struck him on the head, and he fell backwards at the feet of Reginald. The latter rendered desperate by the fall of his Indian brother, caught from Baptiste the huge axe that hung at his belt, and springing forward to the stockade, soon hewed himself a passage through its wooden barrier—wounded slightly by an arrow in his thigh, grazed by another on the cheek, his hunting–cap pierced and carried from his head, it seemed as though his life were charmed against the missiles of the enemy—and despite every obstacle, he stood at length within the breastwork, followed by Baptiste and his brave companions. The guide, whose cool and wary eye noted every movement, had reserved the fire of the pistols in his belt, and twice, while his young master was hewing with reckless daring at the tough barrier, had an unerring ball from them rendered powerless an arm raised for his destruction.

Although still superior in numbers in the proportion of two to one, the allied band of Osages and Crows were so discouraged by the storming of their barrier, that they offered but a feeble resistance, each endeavouring to provide for his own safety. Toweno alone, aided by one of the bravest warriors of his band, determined in this fatal crisis to execute the bloody orders of Mahéga; and by a preconcerted signal, as soon as Reginald made good his footing within the breastwork, they rushed into the tent of Prairie–bird.

From the beginning of the affray, the terrified Upsaroka bride had never moved from the side of our heroine, on whose countenance she fixed her anxious eyes, as if expecting from her some display of supernatural power for their common protection; Lita clung also to the arm of her mistress; and the Christian maiden, trusting to that Word on which her hand and her heart alike reposed, awaited with patient resignation the issue of a peril, of which she knew neither the nature nor the extent. That the camp was attacked she was well aware, by the shouts and cries of the combatants; but who the attacking party might be, and whether likely to fail or to succeed, she had no means of judging.

Besha had from the commencement of the affray shot several arrows from the breastwork at the invaders; but seeing them press forward with such determined resolution, he bethought himself of the bride, for whose safety he was responsible, and retired within the tent, resolved, if possible, to withdraw her from the scene of confusion while there might yet be time for escape; but Bending–willow obstinately refused to quit the side of Prairie–bird, and he was still urging his entreaties to that effect, when the two Osages burst into the tent.

“Let the Medicine–woman of the Bad Spirit die,” shouted Toweno, as he raised his tomahawk to strike; but Besha caught the descending blow, and endeavoured to avert the murderous weapon from his hold. Meanwhile the other Osage advanced to execute the fell purpose of his leader, when the devoted Lita, throwing herself in his way, clung to his upraised arm with the strength of despair. Slight, however, was the resistance which she could offer; and the savage, throwing her with violence to the ground, again raised his knife above the head of his unresisting victim. Lita shrieked aloud, and the fate of Prairie–bird seemed inevitable, when a warlike figure burst into the tent, and Reginald Brandon, still wielding the axe of Baptiste, stood in the midst of the group. His fiery glance fell upon the savage about to strike his beloved, and swift as thought that terrible weapon descending, clove the Indian’s skull.

By this time Toweno had freed himself from Besha, whom he had rendered almost helpless by two severe wounds with his scalp–knife, and he now flew at Reginald with the fury of a tiger at bay; but the presence of Prairie–bird nerved her lover’s arm with threefold strength, and parrying the blow which his opponent aimed at his throat, he passed his cutlass through the body of the Osage, and threw him, bleeding and mortally wounded, several yards from the tent. At this moment a shout of triumph without, raised by Baptiste and his companions, assured Reginald that the victory was complete, and that those of the enemy who survived had fled and left him in possession of the camp. Then he cast himself on his knees by the side of his betrothed, and as she leaned her head upon his shoulder, a flood of tears relieved the suppressed emotions caused by the fearful trial that she had undergone. Few and broken were the words that passed between them, yet in those few words what volumes of the heart’s grateful and affectionate language were expressed!

The entrance of Baptiste recalled to the recollection of Reginald the duties that still remained for him to perform, while the wounds received by Besha in her defence pleaded with the maiden for such remedies as she had within her power. After briefly explaining to her lover the circumstances which had brought the horse–dealer and his still trembling companion to her tent, she sought her stock of healing ointments and salves; while Reginald, although slightly wounded, went out to arrange with Baptiste and Pierre for the defence of their newly–acquired possession, and to ascertain the loss which his party had sustained. This last was less than he had feared it might prove; and it was with heartfelt pleasure that he shook by the hand young Wingenund, who had recovered from the stunning effects of the blow which he had received in his gallant attack upon the breastwork.

“Let my young brother go into the tent,” said Reginald; “rest will do him good, and the eyes of Olitipa will be glad to see him.”

As the youth turned away, Baptiste added, “Let not the man nor the Crow woman escape; we may want them yet.”

Wingenund replied by a sign of intelligence, and entered the compartment of the tent where he found his sister exercising her office of charity.

We will now leave Reginald Brandon and his party busily employed in repairing the breach made in the breastwork, in examining and strengthening all the defences of the post (which they found much stronger than they had expected), and in making all the requisite preparations for the attack which they anticipated on the return of Mahéga and his Crow allies. The booty, ammunition, and supplies found in the camp exceeded their expectations, as in searching the Osage lodges they discovered all the goods stolen by the latter from the Delawares. The eyes of Baptiste and Pierre brightened at the sight of this recovered treasure; those experienced hunters well knowing that the Osage chief, when deprived of the means of offering presents or bribes, would not long retain the friendship of his treacherous allies.

We will now go back for a few hours, and see with what success he met in the expedition which he undertook against the camp of War–Eagle. So confident did he feel in its issue, that he had prevailed upon two–thirds of the fighting men of the Crows to join his party, promising them abundance of scalps and plunder, as well as revenge for the losses which they had sustained at the hands of Reginald’s band. Having already carefully noted all the land–marks on the path by which he meant to make his approach, he followed it with instinctive sagacity, and a few hours’ rapid night–march along the base of the hills brought him to the opening of the narrow valley, at the upper extremity of which the enemy’s camp was posted. Here they slackened their speed, and advanced in silence with noiseless step, Mahéga stealing onward in front, darting his quick glance from side to side, as if he would penetrate the gloom, rendered yet deeper by the trees and rocks, beneath which they wound their cautious way. It was not long before he was enabled to distinguish the site of the Delaware camp, by the ruddy glare cast by the watch–fires on the surrounding foliage. The Osage stopped and pointed out the welcome beacon to his followers—not a word was spoken—every warrior there knew the preconcerted plan of attack, and was aware that a careless step upon a dry stick might discover and defeat it. Mahéga carried a rifle, and the discharge of it was to be immediately followed by a flight of arrows from his party, after which they were to rush on the surprised foe, with battle–axe and tomahawk. Onward moved the dusky band; and it seemed as if fate had given the enemy into their power. Not a deer nor a mountain–cat was startled from its lair to give warning of their approach; and at length Mahéga succeeded in creeping to the bushy summit of a hillock, whence, at a distance of less than fifty yards, he commanded a view of the camp below.

“For once have the cunning and watchfulness of War–Eagle failed him,” said the triumphant Osage to himself, as he loosened the thong of his war–club, and thrust forward the barrel of his rifle.

One by one of his followers crept forward, until they lay in line beside him, behind the crest of the hillock, over which their eager eyes looked down with savage anticipation upon the Delaware camp. The moon had entirely withdrawn her light, and all the scene was wrapt in impenetrable gloom, save where the camp–fires cast a red glare on the bark and branches of the surrounding trees, and on the figures which lay around, enveloped in blanket or in bison–robe; no sound disturbed the deep silence of the night, except the nibbling bite of the horses as they cropped the cool grass of the valley below the camp. For a minute Mahéga contemplated, with fierce delight, the helpless condition of his hated foes, then taking deliberate aim at a blanketed form supported against the tree nearest to the fires, he pulled the fatal trigger, and without waiting to see the effect of his shot, he shouted his battle–cry, and sprang forward with his war–club towards the camp. Scarcely had the bullet left his rifle ere the Crows discharged their arrows, each aiming at the figure that he could the most easily distinguish; then they rushed forward to complete the work of destruction with knife and tomahawk.

Leaping into the camp, fifty of the savages were already in the full glare of its fires, when a shrill whistle was heard, and the simultaneous report of a dozen rifles echoed through mountain, forest, and valley. So near were the marksmen, and so true their aim, that not a bullet failed to carry a death or fatal wound; and the surviving Crows now first ascertained that the figures which they had been piercing were stuffed with grass, and wrapped in blankets or robes, so as to resemble sleeping warriors! Great was their terror and dismay; they knew neither the number nor position of their concealed foe, and the master–spirit who had led them, and to whose guidance they trusted for their extrication, was nowhere to be seen. Such had been the impetuous haste of the Osage to satisfy his desire for vengeance, that in his rapid descent upon the enemy’s camp he had caught his foot in a tough and tangled ground–brier, and had fallen headlong forwards. It happened that the very spot where he fell was the post of one of the concealed Delawares, who grappled with him before he could rise to continue his course.

Though taken thus by surprise and at disadvantage, the fierce Osage lost not for a moment his courage or self–possession; seizing the upraised arm of his antagonist, he wrenched the knife from his grasp, and, swift as thought, drove it into the heart of his foe; then tearing off the scalp, and suspending it to his belt, he looked upon the scene of confusion and slaughter below. A glance sufficed to show him that he had fallen into the trap that he had prepared for others, and that a continued contest with an enemy armed with rifles, and securely hidden, must be attended with great and unavailing loss. His own person had not yet come within the light of the fires, neither had the groans of the dying Delaware been heard amid the yells of the Crow attack, and the succeeding report of the guns; thus was the Osage enabled to retire unobserved a score of paces into the wood, bearing with him the yet undischarged rifle of the Delaware whom he had slain; then he applied his war–whistle[67] to his lips, and blew a loud and shrill recal.

Glad were his faithful followers and the terrified Crows to hear and obey the signal; yet did they not leave the scene without further loss, for ere they got behind the circle around which the camp–fires shed their uncertain light, another volley was fired after them by the enemy, and although none were killed by this second discharge, many were so grievously wounded that they were with difficulty borne off by their companions. It was some relief to them in their hasty retreat to find that they were not pursued. Mahéga placed himself in the rear; he even lingered many yards behind the rest, crouching now and then behind tree or bush in hopes of being able to slake his burning thirst for revenge—but in vain; War–Eagle was too sagacious to pursue by night, in an unknown and broken country, an enemy who, although dismayed and panic–struck, still out–numbered his band in the proportion of three to one.

“Bloody–hand, the great warrior of the Osages, will not come again soon to visit the Lenapé camp,” said War–Eagle, in answer to Ethelston’s congratulations, as they stood surrounded by their victorious handful of men on the spot whence they had just driven the enemy with so much slaughter. “Let Attō count the dead,” continued the chief, “and bring in the wounded, if any are found.”

“War–Eagle,” said the missionary, who from his concealment had been an unwilling spectator of the late brief, but sanguinary skirmish, “forbear to exercise here the cruel usages of Indian war; let the wounded be cared for, and the dead be put to rest in peace below the earth.”

“The ears of War–Eagle are open to the Black Father’s words,” replied the chief sternly; “if any wounded are found, they shall suffer no further hurt: but the scalps of the dead shall hang on the medicine–pole of the Lenapé village, that the spirits of Tamenund and his fathers may know that their children have taken vengeance on the forked–tongued Washashee.”

Further conversation was interrupted by a cry uttered by Attō, who had found the body of the unhappy Delaware slain by Mahéga. The whole party hastened to the spot; and War–Eagle, without speaking a word, pointed to the reeking skull whence the fierce Osage had torn the scalp.

Paul Müller, feeling that all reply would be ill–timed and unavailing, turned away, and walked towards the feeding–place of the horses, while the Delawares scalped and threw into an adjacent hollow the bodies of the Crows and Osages who had fallen. Of the latter they counted two, and of the former ten, besides a much greater number whom they knew to have been borne off mortally wounded.

As the missionary strolled onward, accompanied by Ethelston, a low moan caught his ear, and, stooping down, he discerned an Indian coiled up in a position indicative of intense agony under the branches of a juniper. They carried him back to the camp–fire, and on examining him by its light, he proved to be a young Crow warrior, shot through the body, who had dragged himself with difficulty for some distance, and had then fallen exhausted to the ground. Doubtless he expected to be immediately scalped and despatched; nor could he for some time be induced to believe that those into whose hands he had fallen were indeed endeavouring to alleviate his sufferings.

War–Eagle, faithful to his promise, rendered every assistance in his power to the worthy missionary while thus employed; but it might easily be seen, by the scornful curl of his lip, that he looked upon this care of an enemy wounded in battle as an absurd and effeminate practice.

Day broke, and the dispirited band of Crow and Osage warriors returned from their fruitless expedition, only to find a worse disaster at home. Great, indeed, was their dismay, when they were met by a scout from their village, who informed them that a party of white men had stormed the Osage camp by night, and still retained possession of it, having destroyed the greater proportion of those left to defend it. In his description of the attack, the height, the strength, the daring and impetuous courage of the young warrior who had led it were painted in colours exaggerated by terror; yet the Osage chief had no difficulty in recognising the hated rival who had struck and disgraced him, and who was now master of the fate of her for whose sake he had toiled, and plotted, and suffered so much.

Stung to the quick by these suggestions of wounded jealousy and pride, he ground his teeth with fury that would not be repressed, and he swore that before two suns had risen and set, either he or his rival, or both, should see the light of day no more. His position was now precarious in the extreme, all his goods and ammunition having fallen into the enemy’s hands, excepting that which he and his few remaining followers had about their persons. He knew that if he no longer possessed the means of making presents, the Crows would abandon, if not betray him at once, and he resolved to strike some sudden and decisive blow before that thought should obtain possession of their minds.

This resolve imparted again to his manner its usual fierce and haughty grandeur; and, although the Crows loved him not, they could not help looking with a certain awe upon the man who, amid the confusion and panic of the late disastrous attack upon the Delaware camp, had borne away from the victorious enemy the bloody trophy which now hung at his belt, and who, although he had lost by a single blow his lodges, his supplies, and the Great Medicine of the tent, preserved unsubdued the commanding pride of his demeanour.

The success of the stratagem which he now meditated will appear in due season; meanwhile, we must return to the camp of War–Eagle, who began his march at dawn of day, with the view of rejoining Reginald and his band with the least possible delay.

Although he did not anticipate any attempt at reprisals on the part of the Crows, to whom he had just given so severe a lesson, yet he was aware of Mahéga’s having escaped, and well knew that he would leave untried no schemes for obtaining revenge.

On this account the Delaware chief went forward to the front, taking with him several of his warriors, whom he sent out from time to time to examine the ground, and leaving Attō with Ethelston and Paul Müller to bring up the rear. The latter could not be prevailed upon to abandon the wounded Crow, whom he had placed upon his own horse, which he led by the bridle, while Ethelston supported the sufferer in the saddle.

Ever since the occasion when Reginald Brandon had presented to Attō the bear–claw collar as a testimony to his bravery, the Delaware had attached himself more and more to the white men; and although, with the instinctive sagacity of his race, he foresaw that the best exertions of the two now in his company would fail to effect a cure of the wounded man, he willingly and good–humouredly assisted their charitable endeavours.

In this order they had marched for some hours, and the leaders of the band having attained the summit of a ridge, already saw at no great distance the two remarkable hills before mentioned as the favourite encampment of the Crows. Encouraged by the sight, they descended the opposite slope with increased speed, War–Eagle being most anxious to learn the success of Reginald’s detachment. The whole band had passed over the summit of the ridge, excepting the small party who escorted the wounded Crow, when the latter grew so faint from the effects of internal bleeding that they were no longer able to keep him in the saddle, and deposited him gently on the grass. The poor fellow pointed to his parched lips, and made an imploring sign for water. Paul Müller, casting his eyes around, saw at a small distance a broken ravine or fissure, in which he hoped that some rain–water might be found, and he desired Attō to hasten thither with all speed.

The Delaware obeyed, and had approached within a few paces of its edge, when an arrow from an unseen enemy pierced him through the breast; and Mahéga, leaping from his concealment, killed the brave fellow with his club, and attached another Lenapé scalp to his belt. He was followed by eight or ten well–armed Crow warriors, who, passing him while he stooped over his fallen enemy, hastened forward and surrounded Paul Müller, Ethelston, and the wounded man. Great was their astonishment at recognising in the latter a highly esteemed brave of their own tribe, and greater still at observing that the two white men were so busily engaged in tending and supporting him in his sufferings, as not to have noticed their approach.

When Ethelston became aware of their presence, his first impulse was to lay his hand upon a pistol in his belt; but, with the steady self–possession of true courage, he saw at a glance that he should, by unavailing resistance, only cause the certain death of himself and his peaceable companion; so he continued his attentions to the wounded man, and poured into his mouth the last few drops of a cordial which he had reserved in a leathern flask.

Fresh from the slaughter of the unfortunate Attō, Mahéga now came forward, and would have sacrificed the unresisting missionary to his blind fury, had not one of the Crow warriors caught his arm, and pointed in an attitude of remonstrance to his wounded comrade.

The Osage perceived at once that the time was not propitious for his indiscriminate revenge, and contented himself with explaining by signs to his allies that ere long the party now out of sight behind the hill would reappear over its crest in search of their missing companions.

This hint was not lost upon the Crows, who forthwith deprived Ethelston of his arms, and, tying him with a leather thong to the missionary, hurried them along in an oblique direction towards an adjoining thicket, while some of them relieved each other in the care of the dying man.

War–Eagle was already far advanced in his descent of the hill on the opposite side, when his progress was arrested by shouts and cries from the rear. On looking round he perceived that these proceeded from Monsieur Perrot, who was waving his arms, and with other gesticulations, indicative of the greatest excitement, calling upon the chief to return.

“Varicle, Varicle, come quick back!”

Although the latter had little regard for the character of the French valet, he saw that something alarming had occurred; and hastening to the spot, scarcely waited to hear his explanation that “Monsieur Etelston, de Black Fader, and de vounded Corbeau, were not to be seen,” but pushed on at once to the top of the hill, over which he had so lately passed.

Casting his anxious eyes around, he looked in vain for the missing members of his party; but he saw at a considerable distance on the back trail the missionary’s pony quietly cropping the prairie–grass. Having called one of his men to his side, and given him a few brief instructions, he returned speedily towards the scene of the late catastrophe, and, on approaching it, found the scalped and plundered body of Attō, from which the Crows had carried off the arms, the belt, and the bear–claw collar given to him by Reginald. Although deeply grieved at the loss of the bravest of his followers, War–Eagle was too much inured to scenes of strife and bloodshed to give way to any emotion save the ardent desire for revenge; and he struck off alone upon the enemy’s trail, some of his party following him at a distance.

As he approached the thicket, his attention was caught by a column of smoke ascending from a point near the centre of it; and he judged that the band must be very strong, either in their position or in numbers, if they could have the audacity thus to light a camp–fire, in defiance as it were of his pursuit. Influenced by this consideration, he waited until his whole party had come up, when he again moved forward towards the wood, cautiously watching every bush and shrub, in momentary expectation of seeing the enemy start from the covert.

These precautions seemed, however, altogether unnecessary; for he reached unmolested the spot whence he had seen the smoke ascend, and on his arrival found that the fire was consuming the last mortal remains of some human being, whose bones were mingled with its dying embers. This he knew at once to have been the wounded Crow who had expired in the arms of his companions, and to whom they had paid in their retreat this hasty funeral rite, to prevent his body from being liable to any indignities in the event of a pursuit. The quiver and tomahawk of the deceased warrior were suspended by a branch over his funeral pyre, and War–Eagle turned from the spot in moody, silent meditation. He felt assured that the retreating party were now too far advanced for him to overtake them, unless he gave up the idea of joining Reginald; and he thought it by no means improbable that this attack had been devised for the purpose of preventing that junction, so important to the safety of both parties; wherefore he resolved to effect it without delay, and afterwards to employ all possible means for the recovery of the prisoners.

With this view he returned upon his steps; and having seen the last honours paid to the remains of the faithful Attō, again proceeded in the direction of the Crow camp.

As his little band drew near upon the prairie, it was distinctly visible from both the fortified hills, and some fifty or sixty horsemen galloped out from the higher of the two, with the apparent intention of attacking him; but the steady front presented by the white men and Delawares deterred them from approaching too near the glittering tubes levelled to receive them, and they galloped and wheeled in rapid circles over the prairie, taking care, however, to keep beyond rifle range. At this juncture the cheering notes of a bugle rose on the air; and Reginald, who had descried his friends, now came down with two men from his little garrison to meet them. The Crows, seeing that further opposition on the open ground was unavailing, retired with threats and yells to their camp; and a few minutes afterwards the parties under War–Eagle and Reginald were reunited within the little fortress so hardly won by the latter, who now learnt, with unspeakable regret, the capture of Ethelston and Paul Müller, and the death of the brave warrior who had shared with him the perils of the first skirmish with the Crows.

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Chapter IV

THE NEGOTIATION SET ON FOOT BY REGINALD FOR THE RELEASE OF HIS FRIENDS.—BESHA BECOMES AN IMPORTANT PERSONAGE.

Scarcely had War–Eagle entered within the breastwork by the side of his friend, ere his eager and indefatigable spirit prompted him to inspect the defences of the new camp, and to guard every approach open to the attacks of their dangerous neighbours. On this service Baptiste willingly agreed to accompany the chief; and while they were thus employed, Reginald undertook the painful task of communicating to Prairie–bird the intelligence that her beloved instructor was, with his friend Ethelston, a captive in the hands of the Crows.

Trials and sufferings of her own the maiden could bear with fortitude; but her feelings towards the missionary were those of the fondest daughter towards a parent; and when she thought of the risk that be incurred of ill–usage or death at the hands of his captors, she burst into tears, and exclaimed, “Oh, Reginald! cannot he be rescued ere it be too late?”

At the sound of that voice, and the sight of those tears, Reginald’s heart would have prompted him to rush headlong into the camp of the Upsarokas; but he felt that he would thereby only sacrifice his own life without effecting the object in view; and, moreover, he was by no means certain whether Mahéga and his party had conveyed their prisoner to the central camp.

The doubt and anxiety of his mind were plainly visible on his countenance, when a low voice whispered in his ear, “May Wingenund speak to Netis?”

“Surely, dear brother,” said Reginald, laying his hand kindly on the youth’s shoulder, “when I remember that it was Wingenund who guided me over the prairie to his sister’s tent, I were worse than ungrateful to reject his counsel now!”

“That young woman,” he replied, pointing to the captive bride seated in the corner of the tent, “is dear to the Upsaroka chief; she is his youngest wife, and his heart is warm towards her. Let the one–eyed stranger from the unknown tribes, who speaks many tongues, go back to the Crow camp, and tell the chief that if his prisoners are hurt, his bride shall be burnt alive; if they are set free, she shall return unhurt to his lodge.”

“It is a brave device, dear Wingenund, and shall be executed without loss of time; but can we trust the stranger?”

“Methinks you may,” said Prairie–bird, “for he received his wound in defending me from those cruel men.”

“True,” replied Reginald; “let my brother speak to him in the Delaware tongue, and explain the message he is to bear.”

“It is well,” answered the youth; adding, with an arch look, “and let Netis not send him away with empty hands. There is cunning in the stranger’s eye, he knows that Mahéga is poor; and he will rather make friends with those who have something to give.”

“Be it so,” said Reginald, laughing; and he forthwith desired one of his men to select from a package containing knives, powder, tobacco, and cloth, a quantity equal to the usual Indian price for a horse. Wingenund, having waited in silence the return of the messenger, addressed the prisoner as follows:—

“Has the stranger a name in his tribe?”

“He is called Besha in the southern prairies.”

“Besha dwells among the Crows. They have shed the blood of white men and Delawares in battle; his scalp belongs to those who have taken him.”

The horse–dealer bowed in silence, and the youth continued:

“But the heart of the white chief is great; he will not take Besha’s life, neither will he bind his limbs. Besha is free to go where he likes.”

The horse–dealer stared as if he did not quite believe his ears; but Wingenund, without appearing to notice his surprise, proceeded.

“That is not all. Besha received a wound in defending Olitipa from the Washashee. The white chief’s hand is open; it is quick to reward good deeds, and to punish bad ones; the presents in that package, of knives and cloth, tobacco and powder, are for Besha: he may return to the Upsaroka camp, and his friends shall not say that he comes with empty hands.”

The deep–set eye of the horse–dealer gleamed with pleasure as he fixed it on the welcome bale, and heard these words. His first movement was to rise from the ground, and place the right hands of Reginald and of Wingenund on his heart in token of gratitude; then turning towards the latter, he inquired, “Is there a dark cloud over the Upsaroka bride? Will the white chief kill her, or make her a slave?”

“Let Besha open his ears,” replied the youth, earnestly, “and let not the wind blow away good counsel. The Washashee and the Upsaroka have taken captive two white men from this band; these have killed no red man; they have done no harm. If any hurt be done to them, or their lives be taken, the Upsaroka bride shall be burnt before the next setting sun; but if they are sent back free and unhurt, she shall return to her husband the same hour, and a present four times as great as this shall be given to Besha.”

Having thus spoken, the youth placed the package in the horse–dealer’s hands, and made him a sign to go. Before obeying this hint, the latter whispered a few words to Bending–willow, in which he comforted her with the assurance that he would labour incessantly for her release; after which he departed towards the Crow camp, with a gait somewhat tottering and uncertain, from the joint effect of the weight of his burthen and the wound that he had so lately received.

We will now leave Reginald engaged in the sad yet dear employment of comforting his betrothed, and striving, by a thousand suggestions, to relieve her anxiety respecting the fate of her beloved instructor, and her lover’s friend. Neither will we follow War–Eagle and Baptiste in securing the important post which they had so unexpectedly won; but we will return to the Crow camp, where Mahéga had newly arrived with his prisoners, and where every thing was in a state of alarm and confusion.

Great had been the panic consequent on the double defeat which they had sustained; nor had its effects been entirely removed by the successful blow last struck by Mahéga, and the capture of the two white men. The Osage chief had lost all his warriors, with the exception of four, his baggage and ammunition were in the hands of the enemy, and he well knew that his only remaining chance of retaining the support of his allies, was in vigorously pursuing the success which he had so opportunely gained. The Crow chief, on the other hand, disheartened by the loss and disgrace which had befallen his tribe, and vexed beyond measure at the detention of his son’s favourite wife, justly attributed both these misfortunes to an alliance which had brought no increase either to his power or his wealth.

Such was the state of parties when the council of the Upsarokas met to decide upon the fate of their prisoners. The debate being carried on in their own language, Mahéga was unable to gather the sentiments of the several speakers, and he declined to sit in the circle, but stood leaning against the outer post of the council lodge, his quick eye bent upon the countenance of each successive speaker, as if he would read there the purport of his harangue. One fierce and hot–headed warrior proposed that the prisoners should be instantly put to death, and a sudden attack be made with their whole force on the opposite hill, which would be easily recovered, and an abundance of plunder acquired. An older Indian next addressed the meeting in a persuasive tone, that suited well the sharp and cunning expression of his countenance. He argued, that the Crows had derived no advantage, but rather loss and misfortune, from their alliance with Mahéga, and that it was their interest to make friends with the newly arrived band, who were more rich and powerful; wherefore he advised that the lives of the prisoners should for the present he spared.

The debate was at its height, and the assembly apparently divided in opinion, when Besha entered the council–lodge, and sat down in the outer circle near to the entrance. All eyes were turned to him, as the report of his capture had already spread through the village, and his wasted appearance, as well as the bandages over his neck and arm, showed that he had been wounded in the late affray. After a brief silence, the chief desired that he would relate what had occurred, a command which the horse–dealer obeyed without hesitation.

Although not gifted with any orational powers, he was a shrewd fellow, thoroughly versed in all the wiles of Indian diplomacy, and well aware, as a resident guest among the Crows, that his best chance of a favourable hearing was to frame his speech according to their interests, which happened in the present instance to tally with his own. In relating the events which had occurred in the opposite camp, he exaggerated the strength and wealth of the enemy, dwelling at large upon the clemency shown to himself, and upon the desire evinced for peace; stating, in conclusion, that he was the bearer of a specific message, or proposal, to the great chief. At this announcement there was a general murmur of curiosity, and Mahéga bit his lip with vexation at his inability to understand what was going on.

At a signal from the chief, Besha proceeded to inform the council, that Bending–willow, the bride of their favourite and absent war–leader, was now a captive; and he recounted faithfully the circumstances under which she had visited the white tent with him, and the terrible threats held out respecting her in the event of any injury being done to the white prisoners. The effect of this announcement was so great, that it was visible even to Mahéga; nor was he surprised when Besha explained to him, by order of the chief, that the council had decided upon sparing the lives of the white men, at least until the return of the war–leader and his band of braves, now absent on a foray into the country of the Black–feet.

Agreeably to this decision, Paul Müller and Ethelston were confined in a lodge adjoining that of the chief, under a Crow guard, to whom strict orders were given to prevent their escape, and also to protect them against any attempt on the part of Mahéga or his followers. Besha was allowed to see them, and they learnt from him that their friends had been completely successful, and had recaptured the Great Medicine of the tent, as well as the ammunition and baggage. He further informed them, that he would do all in his power to effect their release; adding a significant hint that he should not be unwilling to receive tangible proofs of their gratitude.

The captives were, upon the whole, much comforted by this interview; and on his departure, Ethelston said, addressing his companion, “Reverend father, we have cause to be grateful for the intelligence communicated to us by this man, inasmuch as we expected no less than to be put to an immediate and perhaps a cruel death. Yet, methinks, for a messenger of good tidings, he has the most uncomely and villanous countenance that ever I beheld.”

“I will not say that his face recommends him,” said Paul Müller, smiling; “albeit the expression thereof may have been altered for the worse by the loss of an eye. I have seen him more than once before among the tribes bordering upon the Mexican frontier, and if my memory serves me, he bore the reputation of being a crafty and designing knave in his vocation; but I never heard him charged with cruelty or thirst of blood.”

“What, then, do you think are the motives for the friendly exertions which he professes to make in our behalf?”

“We will hope that they are partly owing to a grateful sense of the treatment he has experienced at the hands of our friend Reginald, and partly from the expectation of presents and rewards, which the Osage is no longer in a condition to offer. Meanwhile, we must solace ourselves in our captivity with the reflection, that my beloved pupil is safe under the charge of friends upon whose fidelity and devotion we can fully rely.”

Leaving the captives to comfort each other with these and other similar suggestions, we will return to Reginald Brandon, who forgot not, even in the enjoyment of Prairie–bird’s society, to occupy himself constantly in devising plans for their liberation. In these he was warmly seconded by War–Eagle and Baptiste; but, after carefully reconnoitring the Crow camp, they agreed that it was too strong to be carried by open attack by their small party, especially as they had learnt from Besha that the husband of Bending–willow, the son of the great chief, had just returned with his band, consisting of fifty chosen warriors, from a successful foray into the Black–foot country.

The wily horse–dealer was allowed, in his mixed capacity of interpreter and envoy, to pass from camp to camp; and, as both parties were desirous of securing his co–operation, presents were liberally heaped upon him; and his grey eye twinkled, as he cast it upon the increasing pile of goods at the back of his lodge. “There will soon be enough to exchange for a hundred beaver–skins,” said he to himself; “then Besha will look for some fine horses, and go towards the east.”

While he was thus congratulating himself on his prospects of future wealth, a tall figure darkened the entrance of his lodge, and the young war–chief stood before him. “White–bull[68] would speak with Besha,” said the former in a haughty tone, adjusting with dignity the cream–coloured robe from which he took his designation.

“Let the young chief be seated,” replied the horse–dealer, making at the same time a signal to one of his lads to offer food and a pipe to his guest.

White–Bull’s first impulse was to refuse this hospitality, but he checked it; and having tasted a morsel, and emitted two voluminous puffs of smoke from the pipe, he turned to the horse–dealer, and said in a stern deep tone, “Bending–willow is a prisoner in the white tent! Besha took her there, he must bring her back, for the heart of White–bull is dark—there is no light or pleasure without her.”

“The will of the bride was strong,” he replied; “she would take no counsel from Besha; if he did not go with her she would go alone to consult the Medicine of the tent; Besha went with her that none might do her harm.”

“The ears of White–bull are not to be tickled by the songs of birds,” said the young chief, fiercely. “Besha took her to the white men’s camp, and he must bring her back before two suns have set, or his heart shall be cut out from his body.”

“White–bull knows that there are two white prisoners here; let him give them to Besha, and he will bring back Bending–willow before the sun is in the west.”

“The white prisoners belong to the war–council,” said the young man sullenly. “White–bull cares not whether they live or die; but he wants his bride, whom the fool Besha led away to a place where she was caught like a beaver in a trap; if he does not bring her back within two sunsets, the blade of this knife shall be red. White–bull has spoken, and his words are not wind!” So saying, the violent youth passed with angry strides from the horse–dealer’s lodge.

Besha now found himself in an awkward predicament, in endeavouring to extricate himself from which his first step was to consult the young chief’s father, hoping that the latter would give his consent at once to release the prisoners for the recovery of the favourite bride. But the old man would not agree to the proposal, giving as his reason, that the council had resolved either to take the lives of the prisoners, or to make the enemy pay many horses and much goods for their ransom. “Besha has a tongue,” continued the crafty old man; “he can speak with the white men; he can tell them that if the bride is given up, their friends shall be returned; they will believe him, and all will be well.”

Besha, though not particularly scrupulous in his morality, was startled at first by this proposal of treacherous and deliberate falsehood towards one who had spared his life and had given him his liberty, besides loading him with presents; but his conscience being of an extremely elastic texture, he soon reconciled himself to the idea by the reflection that it was his best, if not his only chance of saving his life from the fury of the incensed White–bull. He made no reply to the old chief; but, as he went away, the two rogues exchanged a look which satisfied them that they understood each other.

The horse–dealer proceeded without delay to the lodge where Paul Müller and Ethelston were confined, into which he was admitted by their guards. Having explained to the missionary that he was about to visit the white men’s camp for the purpose of liberating him and his companion by the recovery of the captive bride, he desired to be furnished with a sign by which they would be induced to give her up without hesitation; for Besha, in his rambles on the Mexican frontier, had frequently met with the Spanish traders, and although he could not read letters himself, he knew how they were used for the interchange of communication at a distance.

Before giving any reply, Paul Müller explained the state of affairs to his companion, and asked his counsel.

“Methinks we should trust the fellow,” said Ethelston, “for he has hitherto befriended us: but let us not write any thing that can endanger the safety of Prairie–bird.”

“I agree with you, my son,” he replied, “and will write accordingly.”

So saying, he took a small pocket–book from his breast, and wrote with a pencil upon a leaf of it the following words:

“Ethelston and Paul Müller send their affectionate greeting. The bearer says that he can liberate them if the captive bride is restored. Reginald Brandon will consult with those about him, and do what he thinks best. Let the safety of Prairie–bird, and of those who are now her protectors, be the first object. Glad and thankful should we be to embrace our dear friends again; but we are well and cheerful here: in joy and in sorrow, in life and in death, we are in the hands of One who rules all for the best. Farewell.”

Having received the paper, Besha lost no time in setting off to the opposite camp.

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Chapter V

DAVID MUIR AND HIS DAUGHTER PAY A VISIT TO COLONEL BRANDON.—THE MERCHANT BECOMES AMBITIOUS; HE ENTERTAINS PROJECTS FOR JESSIE’S FUTURE WELFARE, WHICH DO NOT COINCIDE WITH THAT YOUNG LADY’S WISHES.

While the events related in the preceding chapters were passing in the great Western wilderness, the days of early summer glided smoothly on at Mooshanne, uninterrupted by any incident worthy of record. Aunt Mary continued her round of busy occupation with her usual indefatigable activity. Never could there occur in the neighbourhood a case of sickness or of sorrow to which she did not hasten to administer the needful consolation; and in the town of Marietta her benevolent exertions were assisted by Jessie Muir, whose attendance in her father’s store enabled her to gather all the current news from the numerous customers who frequented it.

“The merchant” (for so David Muir was designated by all who did not wish to affront him) grew daily in importance and dignity. His speculations in trade had been, for the most part, successful; and two or three of his suggestions for the improvement of the town had been adopted. A sharp attack of fever had subdued for a season the domineering spirit of Dame Christie; and David found himself not only respected by the neighbours, but even enjoyed the sweet though brief delusion, that he was master in his own house.

Neither his pride nor his increasing wealth interrupted, however, his close attention to business; and Colonel Brandon, finding that the affairs entrusted to him were managed with great punctuality and skill, treated him with corresponding confidence.

On a fine summer’s morning, about a month after Ethelston’s departure for the Far–west, the merchant’s four–wheeled chaise stood before his door, drawn, not by a sorry pony, but by a strong horse, the condition and appearance of which betokened the thriving circumstances of the owner. Jessie Muir, wearing a very becoming bonnet, and a shawl newly arrived from England, had just cast a passing look into the oval mirror in the back–parlour, and was busily employed in giving directions respecting the contents of a parcel about to be placed in the seat of the chaise, while Henry Gregson was listening with ill–dissembled impatience to the repeated cautions given to him by David as to his conduct during the brief absence which he meditated.

“Noo, Hairy,” (for thus was the name of Harry pronounced in David’s north–country dialect,) “ye maun be vera carefu’ o’ the store, and see that the lads attend weel to the folk wha come to buy, and that Jane stays aye amang the caps an’ shawls and printed cottons, instead of keekin out o’ the window at a wheen idle ne’er–do–weels in the street; and as for the last lot of Bohea, ye can truly say it’s the finest that ever cam’ to Marietta: I’m thinkin’ the minister’s wife will be fain to buy a pun’ or twa. And, Hairy, mind that ye ... but the deil’s in the lad! what are ye glow’ring at, over my shoulder, as if ye se’ed a wraith, an’ no listening to what I’m sayin’?”

Here the merchant turned round, and his eye happening to fall upon a parcel of fire–irons so carelessly placed on an upper shelf, that they threatened the destruction of a pile of crockery below, he ordered the shop–boy to secure the offending tongs, and, turning to Harry, continued in a more complacent tone, “It’s nae wonder, lad, that ye could na tak’ your een off they irons; they had like to make an awfu’ smash amaing the cups and saucers; I’m glad to see that ye ‘re so canny and carefu’ o’ the goods.”

Harry bit his lips, and made no reply, while the merchant, who had already seen Jessie take her seat in the chaise, was preparing to follow, when he turned to the young man, and said in a low voice, “Ye ‘ll not forget that the mistress will need her gruel at midday?”

“I will take care that it is not forgotten, and I suppose, sir, the glass of French brandy is to be put into it?”

“Glass o’ French brandy, ya daft chiel,” said the merchant, forgetting for a moment the prudential whisper; then resuming it, he added, “Wha talks o’ glasses o’ French brandy? Ye ken tho’ that the mistress has no gotten her strength yet, and she said she would like just four spoonfu’s o’ brandy in the gruel to gie’t a taste and keep the cauld out o’ her wame. Ye ken the mistress’ ain spoon in the tea–cup–board?”

“Yes, sir, I know it well,” replied Harry, with demure gravity, adding, half–aloud, as his principal drove from the door, “and a precious gravy–spoon it is; before it is four times filled and emptied it will make the largest wine–glass in the store run over the brim, and the old lady’s tongue go like a mill–wheel. Never mind, for Jessie’s sake, I’ll brew the gruel as stiff as my father’s grog, and bear Dame Christie’s scolds without complaint.”

“He’s a canny, douce lad, yon Hairy,” said the merchant to his daughter, as they jolted leisurely along the uneven, but picturesque road that led from Marietta to Mooshanne, “and does na’ care to rin about the toon like ither idle gillies, but seems aye content to min’ the store; did ye see, Jessie, how he caught wi’ ae blink o’ his ee the airns that were about to fa’ amongst my best Wedgewood?”

Had the merchant not been occupied as he put this question, in guiding the wheels between sundry deep ruts and holes in the road, he could not have failed to observe the heightened colour that it brought into Jessie’s countenance; for the maiden was conscious that at the moment referred to, Harry’s gaze had been fixed, not upon the fire–irons or the Wedgewood, but upon her own comely self.

It is one of the peculiar properties and triumphs of love, that, not content with securing its own position in the human heart, it delights in unsettling and metamorphosing the tenants by which it was previously occupied. Under its wayward sway boldness becomes timidity, and fierceness is transformed into gentleness, while bashfulness is rendered bold, and simplicity has recourse to the devices of cunning.

Thus Jessie Muir, who was naturally of a frank open disposition, but who had a secret presentiment that her father would reject the suit of her lover if it were now to be declared, acquiesced demurely in his observation respecting the attention shown by Harry Gregson to the business of the store.

“Weel, a–weel,” continued the merchant, “he’s a gude lad, and no ill–faured neither; I’m thinkin’, Jessie, that he and Jean will maybe fancy each other; they’re aye thegither i’ the store, an’ the bit lassie might gae further and fare waur than by takin’ up wi’ Hairy.”

This speech was too much for Jessie’s equanimity; the coolness with which her father spoke of his servant–maid “takin’ up” with her lover, stung her to the quick, and she replied tartly, “Father, I wish you would mind your driving among these holes and stumps, instead of talking about Jean and her idle nonsense. Indeed, father, that last jolt nearly threw me out of the chaise.”

“Weel, Jessie, ye need na mak’ such a pother about a stump mair or less atween Marietta and Mooshanne; and though I’ll no say that my drivin’ is like that of Jehu, the son of Jehoshaphat, ye need na fear that I’ll coup the braw new chaise for a’ that.”

Jessie was well pleased to have turned her father’s thoughts into another channel; and being a little ashamed of the momentary irritation to which she had given way, she now exerted herself to please and amuse him, in which she succeeded so well that they reached Mooshanne in cheerful mood, and with wheels uninjured by hole or stump.

Colonel Brandon, seeing the merchant drive up to the door just as he, with Lucy and Aunt Mary, were about to sit down to dinner, went himself to the door, and, with the frank hospitality of his nature, invited him and his daughter to share their family meal. This invitation was no small gratification to the pride of David Muir, who had on former visits to Mooshanne regaled himself with Monsieur Perrot in the pantry. The boxes and parcels having been safely deposited, and the chaise sent round to the stable, Lucy aided Jessie to uncloak and unbonnet, and in a few minutes the party, thus increased, found themselves assembled at the Colonel’s table.

“My worthy friend,” said the latter, addressing his guest, “you seem to have brought an unusual variety of packages to–day; I suppose the greater part of them are for Lucy’s benefit rather than for mine?”

“Maybe Jessie has brought a few things fresh frae Philadelphy for Miss Lucy to look at,” replied David; “but the maist part o’ what I hae wi’ me the day, came late yestreen, by Rob Mitchell’s batteau from St. Louis. There’s a wheen letters and parcels frae Messieurs Steiner and Roche, which will, nae doubt, explain the settlement o’ the matter anent your shares in the fur trade.”

“Are there not any other letters from Saint Louis?” inquired Lucy, colouring slightly.

“There’s nane, my bonny young leddy,” replied David, “excepting twa, ane frae auld Miller, to acknowledge the receipt o’ the last ten barrels o’ saut pork that I sent him, and anither frae Reuben Stiggs, wha keeps the great outfitting store for trappers, to order an early freight o’ blankets, bibles, religious tracts, scalp–knifes, and whisky, for the Indian trade.”

In spite of her disappointment, Lucy could not forbear smiling at the gravity with which the merchant enumerated this strange mixture of goods ordered for a warehouse, to which the missionary and the trapper both resorted for their respective supplies.

The dinner passed agreeably enough; and Jessie Muir having soon recovered from the diffident shyness by which she had been at first overcome, amused Lucy and Aunt Mary by her quiet, but shrewd, observations on persons and things in Marietta; while the merchant enjoyed, with evident satisfaction, several glasses from a certain bottle of madeira, which he knew to have been for some years deposited in his own warehouse.

As soon as dinner was over, the ladies retired to Lucy’s boudoir, where she examined the contents of the packages which Jessie had brought for her inspection, while Colonel Brandon looked over the letters and papers from St. Louis. These proved to be of considerable importance, as they announced that all the points in dispute with the other fur company had been satisfactorily arranged, and that his own shares, as well as those in which Ethelston’s property was chiefly invested, had risen greatly in value. During the perusal of this correspondence the Colonel spoke from time to time familiarly and unreservedly with his companion. He had learnt from Lucy the attachment that existed between Henry Gregson and the merchant’s daughter, and had formed an internal resolution to contribute to its successful issue by advancing to the young man a sum sufficient to enable him either to enter into partnership with the merchant, or to commence business on his own account; but it was not his intention to develope this scheme until he had spoken with the elder Gregson; wherefore, he contented himself for the present with sounding the merchant in vague and general terms respecting the disposal of his daughter’s hand.

“My good friend,” said the Colonel, “now that we have despatched our business, it occurs to me that I ought to remind you of a circumstance which may not yet have entered your thoughts, namely, that your daughter Jessie is grown up to be a very pretty, sensible, and discreet young woman, and that having no son of your own, you ought to seek for her a worthy husband, who might hereafter aid her in comforting the declining years of Dame Christie and yourself.”

During this address the merchant fidgeted on his chair, and betrayed other evident symptoms of uneasiness; but he made no reply, and the Colonel continued: “I think I know of a young man who has long entertained an attachment for her; and, if I am not mistaken, Miss Jessie would be more likely to smile than to frown upon his suit. Feeling myself not a little interested in his future prospects, I should, if Mrs. Muir and yourself approve the match, willingly contribute, as far as lies in my power, to their comfortable settlement.”

“Really, Colonel Brandon, ye’re vera kind, I can no’ fin’ words to thank ye,” stammered David, who seemed to have lost his self–possession; and before he could recover it so far as to make any distinct reply, Lucy came into the room; and taking the Colonel’s arm, looked up affectionately into his face, saying, “Dear father, you have given enough time now to business; come into my room and hear one of Jessie’s Scotch songs. I have just been listening to one which was written, as she tells me, by Robert Burns; it is so simple and so beautiful, she has promised to sing it over again for you.”

The Colonel smiled, and followed his daughter, saying to the merchant as they left the room, “We will speak further on that subject the next time that we meet.”

As soon as the little party was assembled in the boudoir, Colonel Brandon entreated Jessie Muir to fulfil her promise of singing again the song which had given so much pleasure to his daughter. Blushing slightly, Jessie complied, and sung, in a voice of much natural sweetness, and without accompaniment:—

“Oh! wert thou in the cauld, cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea; My plaidie to the angry airt,[69] I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee. Or did misfortune’s bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw; Thy bield[70] should be my bosom, To share it a’, to share it a’.

“Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black an’ bare, sae black and bare; The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there: Or were I monarch of the globe, Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign; The brightest jewel in my crown Should be my queen, should be my queen.”

The Colonel having bestowed not undeserved praise upon the taste and feeling with which Jessie had sung her simple melody, added, “Yet I do not remember these words among the songs of the Ayrshire bard. Lucy, you have often read to me from the volume of his poems which came from England; do you recollect having seen this song amongst them?”

“Indeed I do not,” replied Lucy; “yet it is so full of his peculiar force of expression and feeling, that it is difficult to believe it to have been written by any one else.”

“I have been told,” said Jessie, “that this song was found among his papers after his death. This may be the reason why you have not seen it in your volume.”

The conversation having once turned upon the subject of the writings of Ayrshire’s immortal bard, whose fame was then spreading far and wide over the habitable globe, it dwelt for some time upon the attractive theme; and the tall pines were already beginning to cast their lengthened shadows over the lawn, ere the merchant remembered that Dame Christie might be “wearyin’” for his return, and perhaps scold him for exposing himself and his daughter to the perils of the Mooshanne stump–studded track in the dusk of the evening. The chaise having been ordered to the door, David Muir put on his hat and cloak, while Jessie donned her bonnet and shawl; and a few minutes saw them jogging steadily away on their return to Marietta.

For some time, neither broke the silence of the deep forest through which they were driving, for each had their own subject for meditation. Jessie, whose spirit was softened by the songs of her father–land, and had been touched by the gentle kindness of Lucy’s manner towards her, looked steadily towards the west; and while she thought that she was admiring the gigantic hemlock pines, whose huge limbs now came out in bold relief from the ruddy saffron sky beyond, her musings blended in sweet, but vague, confusion the banks of Allan, Doon, and Ayr, with those of the river beside her, and pictured the “Jamies,” “Willies,” and other “braw, braw lads” of Scottish minstrelsy, in the form of no less a personage than Harry Gregson.

She was roused from her reverie by the voice of her father, whose meditations had taken quite a different direction, as will be seen by the conversation that ensued between them.

“Jessie, it’s a gae bonnie house, yon Mooshanne, an’ the mailen’s[71] the best in th’ haill territory.”

“Indeed, father, it is a very pretty house, and most kind are those who live in it.”

“Wad ye no’ like to live in it yoursel, Jessie?”

“To say truth, father, I would rather live in a smaller house that I might call my own.”

“But suppose ye might ca’ yon fine house your own, what wad ye say then, lassie?” This inquiry was enforced with a significant poke from the merchant’s elbow.

Jessie looked up in her father’s face, and seeing that it was unusually grave, she replied, “Father, I do not understand what you are aiming at. I am very happy in our house at Marietta, and wish for none better.”

“Ye’re a fule,” said the merchant, angrily. “I tell ye, Jessie, ye’re no better than a fule; and when fortun’ hands oot her han’ to ye, ye’ll no’ gang half–way to tak’ it. Hae ye no’ seen how oft Maister Reginald comes to our store, and hangs aboot it like a tod round a hen–roost?”

“Indeed, father, I have made no such remark; and if Master Reginald did often come to our store, it was for powder, or a knife, or some trifle for Miss Lucy, and not for any other cause.”

“Hoot awa’ wi’ your pouther and knives, ye blind hizzie,” said the merchant; “it was to see and speak wi’ yoursel”, and no’ for any other cause.”

“Father, I am sure you are mistaken; Master Reginald would never so far forget the difference in our rank and condition, and I should be very sorry if he did.”

“What do ye mean, lass, about difference o’ rank and condeetion? Are the Muirs no’ as weel–born as ony lord or duke in the auld kintra? Do ye no’ ken that my mother’s father’s sister was married to Muir of Drumliwhappit, an’ that he was near cousin to the Laird o’ Blagowrie, wha married the sister o’ the Earl o’ Glencairn? Rank and condeetion, indeed! as I tauld ye, just now, ye’re neither mair nor less than a fule, Jessie. Why, the Colonel spak’ wi’ me anent the matter this vera day, an’ said that he’d do what lay in his power to mak a’ smooth an’ comfortable.”

Jessie Muir was now, indeed, surprised; for she had hitherto imagined that the idea of Reginald Brandon having taken a fancy to her, was one of those crotchets which the merchant sometimes took up, and which he would then maintain with all the pertinacious obstinacy of his character; but she knew him to be incapable of a direct untruth, and was therefore overwhelmed with astonishment at the communication last made to her.

We should not faithfully portray Jessie’s character, were we to say that she experienced no secret gratification when she learnt that her hand was sought by one possessed of so many advantages of person and fortune; but we should do her injustice were we not to add, that the sensation endured only for a moment; and then, her heart reverting to Henry Gregson, she thought only of the increased obstacles which would now interfere with their attachment, and she burst into tears.

“Dinna greet, lassie, dinna greet,”[72] said the merchant, surprised and somewhat softened by this unexpected emotion, and he muttered to himself, “There’s no kenning the twists and krankums o’ a woman’s mind! I tell her that she’s courted by a weel–faured young man, wi’ the best prospects in the haill territory, and she taks on to greet like a skelpit wean.”[73]

After various ineffectual attempts to draw from her any explanation of the cause of her grief, he ceased to interrogate her, wisely resolving to consult Dame Christie on the subject, and they drove on in silence until they reached their home in Marietta.

As they entered the house they were met by Harry Gregson, who led the way into the parlour, where he placed in the merchant’s hand a paper which had arrived during his absence, and which proved to be an extensive order for articles to be shipped for St. Louis on the following day.

Whilst David Muir ran his eye over the list, calculating the amount of profit which he might expect to realise from the whole, young Gregson, observing the tears not yet dry upon Jessie’s cheek, cast upon her a look of anxious affectionate inquiry, which seemed only to increase her confusion and distress.

“Father, I am tired,” she whispered, in a subdued voice, “and will go to my room to rest.” Having received his embrace, she turned towards the door, where Gregson presented to her a candle that he had lighted for her, and in so doing he took her hand and pressed it; she withdrew it gently, and, in reply to his “Good night, Miss Jessie,” gave him in silence a parting look so full of mingled tenderness and grief, that his anxiety was no longer to be controlled, and he resolved to draw from the merchant some explanation of her agitation. Seeing that he had at length finished his careful perusal of the paper, he said, “I think, sir, that Miss Jessie looks very unwell this evening; has any thing happened to hurt or alarm her?”

“Naething, naething, my gude lad, only I tauld her some news that ought to have made her blithe as a lavrock,[74] and she thought fit to wet her een wi’ dool[75] anent it.”

“That is strange, indeed,” replied the young man; and he added, in a hesitating tone, “I hope, sir, you will not think me impertinent, as I take so much interest in all that concerns your family, if I inquire what was the nature of the good news that you communicated to Miss Jessie?”

“Why, Hairy,” replied the merchant, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “as ye’re a discreet cannie lad, that’ll no crack[76] about they things all ower the toon, I may just tell ye that, Jessie—“

“David! David!” screamed a shrill voice from the room above, “are ye gaun to haver[77] there the lee–lang night?”

“Comin’ this moment, Christie,” said the obedient husband, leaving the room as he spoke, with the air and countenance of one so thoroughly hen–pecked, that Harry Gregson, in spite of his anxiety, laughed outright; saying to himself, as many a lover has said before and since, “How unlike is Jessie’s voice to that of her mother!”

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Chapter VI

BESHA PURSUES HIS CAREER AS A DIPLOMATIST.—AN AGREEABLE TETE–A–TETE DISAGREEABLY INTERRUPTED.—THE STEPS THAT MAHÉGA TOOK TO SUPPORT HIS DECLINING INTERESTS AMONG THE CROWS.

We left Besha engaged in an attempt to liberate the bride of the young Crow chief, by proposing to Reginald and his party an exchange of prisoners.

On arriving at the camp, he was allowed to pass by the sentries, and took his way up the hill to the tent of Prairie–bird. As soon as the object of his errand became known, a council was held, consisting of Reginald Brandon, War–Eagle, Baptiste, Pierre, and Wingenund; and, having heard the proposal made on the part of the Crows they proceeded to deliberate on the course to be pursued.

They could have no hesitation in agreeing to an exchange of prisoners, could that be effected upon equal terms; but the Crows insisted upon the return of Bending–willow, as a preliminary step towards the release of their prisoners, and to this Baptiste and Pierre were most strongly opposed, especially the latter, who had experienced on more than one occasion the proverbial treachery of the Upsaroka tribe.

Reginald was disposed, with the fearless generosity of his nature, to be satisfied with binding them, by the most solemn obligations recognised by their customs, to release their prisoners on the safe return of Bending–willow; but his opinion was overruled by his companions, and the horse–dealer’s mission wore a most unpromising aspect, when he bethought him of delivering the note written by Paul Müller to Reginald.

The perusal of this effected an immediate alteration in the sentiments of the council, and the restoration of the captive bride was decided upon. She was seated in the outer compartment of Prairie–bird’s tent, when Besha entered, accompanied by Reginald, to inform her of her liberation.

Pierre, who was still suspicious of some treachery, and who had some knowledge of the Crow language, placed his ear at the corner of the aperture, with the intention of discovering any under–plot that might be going forward.

Besha, however, was too crafty to be caught in such a trap, or else he did not intend to make Bending–willow the confidant of his real intentions; so he simply announced to her that she was free to return to her husband’s lodge, and that the white prisoners were to be restored in exchange for her.

Shaking off the sadness by which she had been of late overcome, she sprang to her feet, and her eyes sparkling with grateful joy, she pressed her hand upon Reginald’s breast, then, looking round, she pronounced distinctly the name of “Olitipa.”

On hearing herself thus called, Prairie–bird came forth from her inner tent, and having learnt the intelligence that, by the restoration of her new friend, the liberation of Paul Müller was to be effected, she embraced the former and presented her with a necklace of coral. Bending–willow returned the embrace with affectionate earnestness, and was then led by Besha from the tent.

As they passed towards the stockade, Pierre, whose suspicions were not yet entirely lulled, and who felt a deep interest in the safety of Ethelston, came up to the horse–dealer, and whispered in his ear, “If the tongues of the Crows or of Besha are forked, if the white prisoners are detained or injured, many widows shall howl in the camp, and the tongues of the wolves shall be red with Upsaroka blood!”

The prairie–guide spoke these words in a tone of deep meaning, and Besha knew that he was not a man likely to utter an idle or empty threat; he answered accordingly, “If Besha lives, the prisoners shall return unhurt before the next sunset,” and, so saying, pursued his unmolested way to the Crow camp.

While they were crossing the valley which separated the two encampments, Reginald, War–Eagle, and Baptiste still lingered near the door of the tent, discussing the events of the day, and expressing their respective opinions as to the probable conduct of the Crows.

“What says Prairie–bird?” inquired Reginald, addressing the maiden, who had been a not uninterested auditor of the discussion.

“Has not the Crow chief,” she replied, “given a faithful promise that on the return of the bride he would restore my father and his friend unhurt?”

“He has.”

“What, then, is the doubt?”

“The doubt is, whether the word of the Crow can be believed: whether he may not still detain or injure his prisoners.”

Prairie–bird mused for a few seconds, as if debating within herself the possibility of such falsehood; then raising her head, she said in a tone of emphasis, “Fear not: my father and your friend will return to us uninjured.”

“I accept the omen, sweet prophetess!” exclaimed Reginald, cheerfully; “and will believe that their thoughts are honest and straightforward, as you deem them, unless their conduct should prove the contrary; in that event,” he added, turning to War–Eagle, “my Indian brother and I will see what our own heads and hands can do to set free our friends.”

The chief replied not; but the sarcastic smile that played over his dark features, showed how little he shared in Prairie–bird’s opinion of Upsaroka faith.

Meanwhile, Bending–willow returned in safety to her lodge, where Besha presented her, with an air of triumph, to her impatient lord. The other wives and women retired while she related to him her adventures; and from the mingled laughter and caresses with which he listened to her narrative, it is probable that she confessed to him the motive that had induced her to seek the Medicine of the white tent.

As soon as she concluded, he desired one of his young men to lead before the lodge a favourite horse, swift, high–couraged, and strong, from the back of which he had killed, with lance and bow, many a bison cow. Placing the bridle of raw hide in the hands of the horse–dealer, he said, “Besha has brought back the Sweet–scented–willow to its bed, he shall not go away with empty hands. When he rides through the village the warriors shall say that his horse is fit to carry a chief; and if any speak to him bad words, let him tell them to beware, for White–bull calls him brother!”

So saying, the young savage, who had now completely recovered his good humour, half–lifted, half–threw the astonished dealer upon the horse’s back, and turned again into the lodge to renew his caresses to his recovered bride.

“All goes well!” thought Besha within himself, as he rode towards his own quarters, proving, with professional skill, the paces and qualities of his new steed. “All goes well! and this animal will fetch me two hundred dollars in the lower Arkansas country; few such are to be found there. I wonder where this Crow thief found or stole it? If I can manage with fine words to get a few more skins from this tribe, and a few more presents from the white men, I will join the summer return–train from the Black Hills, and make my way back towards the east.”

Indulging in these honest and disinterested meditations, the horse–dealer arrived before his own lodge, where his Indian wife awaited his coming with a savoury mess of bison–meat and marrow; after despatching which he smoked his pipe, without permitting any reflections concerning the prisoners whose cause he had so shamelessly betrayed to disturb his appetite or his present lazy enjoyment.

It was fortunate for them that they had an advocate more honest and zealous in a quarter where they least suspected it. This was Bending–willow; who, after showing to her lover–husband the coral necklace given to her by Prairie–bird, and repeating to him the kind treatment that she had experienced in the tent, entreated him to use his influence for the restoration of the prisoners.

This she was not able to effect, as he stated that they belonged to the great council, who would decide upon their fate, after consulting the Medicine; but she obtained from him a promise that he would in the meantime protect them from all chance injury, as well as from the violence of any personal enemy who might bear them ill–will.

The deliberations of the Indian tribes are, in fact, carried on in a manner more strongly resembling those of civilised nations than is usually believed; that is, a few leading men meet together, and arrange the plan of operations to be pursued, after which they convoke the grand council, by whatever name it may be called, and insensibly lead its members to propose, second, and carry the measures previously agreed upon. Thus it was with the Crows upon the present occasion. The old chief of the band, as soon as he learnt the safe return of Bending–willow, sent for his son the White–bull, whose rank as leader of the braves entitled him to be present at a secret council; two other warriors, of more advanced age and experience, were also admitted; and these four being assembled, they entered upon their deliberations with a freedom of thought and speech such as could not have been consistent with the forms and usages of a public meeting.

It would be tedious to relate in order the various arguments that were adduced by the several speakers in turn; suffice it to say, that the father of White–bull, independent of his claim to authority as chief, happened to be the oldest man and the greatest rogue present; all which concurrent advantages gave a preponderating influence to his advice. The result was, as might have been expected, its adoption by the unanimous consent of his three companions; and, as the aftermovements of the band were regulated by it, a brief sketch of its purport and objects will not be misplaced.

His counsel, stript of Indian imagery and ornament, was that they should for the present detain the prisoners; and in order to avoid the consequences of the violent ebullition of resentment which might be expected on the part of the white men and Delawares, that they should instantly decamp, and marching towards the south and west by the most intricate and difficult passes, make their way to the neighbourhood of the district where Mahéga informed them that he had concealed his goods and stores. These it was their intention, of course, to appropriate, and afterwards to deal with their dangerous and haughty possessor as might be found most expedient. Meanwhile it was certain that the allied band would follow their trail for the recovery of the prisoners; and if they did so, with their baggage and Prairie–bird’s tent, the Crows had little fear of being overtaken, excepting when they chose to halt for the purpose; if, on the contrary, the allied band should divide, the chief knew that from the intimate acquaintance of his warriors with the localities, they would easily find means to attack and overcome the weakened party left in charge of the tent and its wonderful mistress.

The outline of operations being settled, it was further agreed that the prisoners should be entrusted to the care of White–bull, who made himself responsible for their security, and who was to lead the van of the retreat, while Besha was summoned, and ordered to explain to the Osage chief the proposed plan of operations, and that to him was to be assigned the honourable post of defending the rear of the march.

In consequence of all these preliminary arrangements, a formal council was summoned, at which they were proposed and agreed upon, with the sanction of the Medicine, and a treaty was entered into with Mahéga, by which he bound himself with his companions to fight faithfully for the Crows, and to make over to them one half of his goods concealed in the câche, on condition that they should do every thing in their power to recover for him the Great Medicine of the tent, and his baggage now in the hands of the Delawares.

These arrangements and agreements were no sooner completed than they were carried into execution with a speed, order, and noiseless silence peculiar to these roving tribes, whose fate is so often dependent upon the secrecy and celerity of their movements.

While these things were going forward in the Crow camp, Reginald sat by the side of Prairie–bird under the small cedar–tree in front of her tent. Being still somewhat stiff from the wounds and bruises received in the late attack, he gladly availed himself of that pretext for enjoying a few hours of repose in the society of his beloved, while he left the chief care of the defence of the camp to Baptiste and War–Eagle.

His eye wandered occasionally across the valley below, and scanned with an anxious look the opposite hill upon which the dusky figures of the Crows were seen moving to and fro between the lodges and bushes, until it returned to rest upon the lovely countenance of his companion: that countenance, which was now lighted up by the parting rays of the declining sun, beamed with emotions too deep for utterance.

Her love for Reginald was not like the love so often found in the artificial world of society, a mere preference, engendered, perhaps, by fancy, and nurtured by habit, accident, or mere congeniality of tastes; but a single absorbing passion, the intensity of which she trembled to acknowledge even to herself. All the poetry, the enthusiasm, the yearnings of womanly feeling in her nature were gathered into a focus, and nothing but her strong and abiding sense of religion prevented that love from being idolatry.

As her eye fell upon the recent scar upon his forehead, and the sling in which his left arm was enveloped, she remembered that twice already had his blood been shed in her defence—twice had her life been saved at the risk of his own. Tears of delicious gratitude, tears sweeter than any smiles that ever dimpled the cheek of joy began to flow, and half averting her face from her lover, she turned it thoughtfully towards the western horizon.

The orb of the sun had just disappeared behind the rugged and far–distant mountain range, whose towering and snow–clad peaks stood out in clear relief from the deep masses of cloud whose wavy edges still reflected his golden light. A mellowed haze wrapped as in a saffron mantle the nearer hills, whose irregular forms, some rocky and precipitous, others undulating and covered with dense forests of pine and cedar, formed the foreground of the magnificent evening landscape. A single star glimmered palely in the twilight heaven, a forerunner of the thousand glorious lights about to emerge from its unfathomed vault. To look up from nature to nature’s God was the habitual process of Prairie–bird’s mind, a habit resulting partly from the fatherly instructions of the missionary, but chiefly from her constant study of the Scripture amid scenes calculated to impress its lessons most deeply upon her.

Such a scene was that now before her; and as the deepening shadows fell upon mountain, forest, and vale, a holier calm stole over the current of her thoughts, and imparted to her eloquent features an expression in which the sweet consciousness of reciprocated earthly affection was blended with adoring gratitude to Him whose everlasting name is Love.

The earnest and affectionate gaze of Reginald was still riveted upon her countenance, when a gentle sigh fell upon his watchful ear. Taking her hand within his own, he whispered, “Is Prairie–bird sad?—Does any sorrow disturb her peace?”

Dropping to the earth those humid eyes so late upraised to heaven, she replied, in a hesitating voice, “Not sad, dear Reginald, but ... afraid.”

“Afraid! dearest; and of what? Nay, blush not, but tell me your cause of fear.”

“Afraid of too much happiness, of too much love. I tremble, and doubt whether my thoughts are such as God approves.”

“Be not rash nor unjust in self–condemnation,” said Reginald, in a chiding tone, while secretly delighted by a confession which his heart interpreted aright; “think you that the Creator who implanted these affections within us, and who has pronounced repeated sanctions and blessings upon the bond of wedded love; think you, dearest, that He can be offended at your love for one to whom you have plighted your troth, and who, albeit in many respects unworthy of such a treasure, has at least the merit of repaying it an hundredfold!”

“Unworthy!” repeated Prairie–bird, in a tone of reproachful tenderness,—other words trembled upon her lips, but the instinct of maidenly reserve checked their utterance, and she was silent.

“Nay, if you like not the word, it shall be unsaid,” whispered Reginald, gently pressing the hand which he held within his own; “and my whole future life shall be a constant endeavour to make it untrue. Let me, however, guess at the secret cause of your fear, and of the sigh that escaped you,—you were thinking of your dear fatherly instructor, and were afraid that he would not return?”

“Indeed my thoughts were not of him at the moment,” she replied, with earnest simplicity; “nor am I afraid on his account.”

“Why, is he not yet in the hands of an enemy whose cruelty and treachery are proverbial? What if the Crow chief should, in spite of his solemn promise, refuse to give up his prisoners?”

“It cannot be,” she replied gravely; “God will not permit such falsehood.”

“You speak,” said Reginald, “like one who has studied chiefly your own heart, and the precious book now lying at your side; but even there you may have read that the Almighty sometimes permits falsehood and wickedness to triumph upon earth.”

“It is too true,” replied Prairie–bird; “yet I feel a strong assurance that our friends will return to us in safety. I cannot tell whence it comes—whether from a dream sent in the watches of the night, or the secret whispers of some mysterious and unseen counsellor, but it brings hope, rest, and comfort to my heart.”

“God forbid,” said Reginald passionately, “that I should say any thing likely to banish such sweet guests from so sweet a home. But if the Crow chief should be guilty of this treacherous act of falsehood, I will endeavour to inflict upon him a vengeance so signal as shall deter him and his tribe from any future repetition of the crime.”

“It is lawful,” replied the maiden, “to recover our friends by force or device, if they are detained by treachery; but remember, dear Reginald, that vengeance belongs not to our erring and fallen race; if the Upsaroka should sin as you expect, defeat, if you can, his evil schemes, but leave his punishment to the Great Avenger, who can make his latter days loathsome as those of Gehazi, or his death sudden and fearful as that of Ananias and his guilty spouse.”

Reginald coloured deeply, for his conscience reminded him that on a late occasion he had used, in a discussion with War–Eagle, the same argument as that now applied with so much force to himself, and he felt ashamed of having forgotten, in the excitement of his own passions, a truth which he had laboured strongly to impress upon another.

“Thanks, dearest monitress,” he replied, “for recalling me to my better self; would that you were always by my side to control my impatience and reprove the hastiness of my temper. Nay, I trust ere long that you will be always at my side; your father and instructor will return, and will unite us in those holy bands not to be severed by man. You will then leave the prairie and the tent, and come with me to a home where a second father and a loving sister claim a share in your affection.”

“It shall be so,” replied Prairie–bird, in a low and earnest voice; “read my answer in the language of one who, like myself, was humble and friendless, but who, trusting in her God, found in a strange land a husband and a home.”

“Nay, read it to me,” said Reginald, anticipating her selection; “however beautiful the words may be, your voice will make them fall more sweetly on my ear.”

Prairie–bird opened the book, but she looked not on the page, for the words were treasured in her heart; and she repeated, in a voice faltering from deep emotion, “Whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.”

As she concluded these words, she looked up to the face of her betrothed with eyes beaming with truth and affection. The strong man was overcome; he could only utter a deep Amen. The consciousness that the trustful, guileless being now at his side had surrendered to his keeping the ark of her earthly happiness, mingled an awful responsibility with the more tender feelings that possessed his inmost soul; he felt what has been so truly described by a poet out of fashion and out of date,—that

“The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the concealed comforts of a man Locked up in woman’s love.”

Then did he record a secret and solemn vow that he would guard his precious treasure with a miser’s care; the stars began more brightly to twinkle in the sky, the watch–fires emitted through the deepening gloom a clearer ray; and as the head of Prairie–bird lightly rested upon her lover’s shoulders, they gave themselves up to the delicious reveries suggested by the hour, the scene, and hearts overcharged with bliss.

The happy pair were suddenly aroused from their waking dream by the sharp crack of a rifle, the flash of which Reginald distinctly saw through the bushes on the side of the hill below them; a bullet whizzed close to his head, and a half–suppressed cry broke from Prairie–bird.

“Speak, love, speak!” he exclaimed, in frantic alarm; “speak but one word to tell me you are not hurt!”

“I am not hurt,” she replied; “God be praised that you are also unharmed! Nay, dearest, do not break from me.” Here the report of fire–arms was again heard, mingled with the shouts and tumult of a sudden fray. “Our friends are on their guard! you are still weak from your late wound! Oh, Reginald, stay! I entreat—I implore!”

But he heard her not; the din of arms and the foul attempt at murder, directed, as he believed, against the life of his betrothed, had awakened the tempest within him; the wounded arm was released from its sling, and with drawn cutlass in his right hand, he rushed down the steep slope of the hill with the reckless speed of a madman. We will now proceed to explain the cause of this sudden interruption of their tête–à–tête.

It has been already mentioned that Besha had been charged with explaining to Mahéga the arrangements and plans adopted at the Upsaroka council. No sooner had he done so, than the Osage chief, finding that the evacuation of the camp was to take place during the night, resolved upon striking, before they withdrew from the neighbourhood, one blow at the foes who had defeated and baffled him.

Too cunning to be deceived by the Crows, or to be misled by the flattery of Besha, he knew that as he had now no more presents to offer, his only chance of retaining any authority or influence with them was by such deeds of daring as should compel them to look up to him as a war–leader. This feeling, stimulated by his thirst for revenge, led him without hesitation to attempt a feat which, if successful, must render him the terror not less of his allies than of his foes.

As soon as the horse–dealer had left him, he summoned his few remaining followers, and informed them that they must prepare to march during the ensuing night; he told them, also, that he was about to set forth himself on the war–path alone, and all that he required of them was to conceal themselves among the bushes fronting towards the enemy’s camp, so as to cover his retreat in case of his being pursued from that quarter, and that he intended to return, if possible, on a horse.

The men listened with silent attention to their leader’s orders, and retired without making either comment or reply. Mahéga then stripped himself of every ornament that could attract attention, and threw off his hunting–shirt and leggins, thrusting a brace of small pistols and a long knife into his waist–belt; and with no other covering than a light pair of mocassins on his feet, he stole out of the camp at a point which was not visible from the enemy’s quarters.

Availing himself of every ravine and undulation of ground, he made a swift circuit in the distant prairie, and approached the Delaware camp on the north–eastern side, where, as has been before mentioned, it was protected by a precipitous cliff. He had observed a narrow valley in this direction, not more than half a mile from the base of the rock, to which the white men drove their horses for pasture; and as a view of it was commanded from the height, they were only guarded by a single man, who drove them back in the evening to the camp. The man who happened to be on duty there was a hunter belonging to the band brought out by Pierre, a brave and somewhat reckless fellow, who had been inured to all the hardships and risks of a mountain trapper’s life.

The crafty Osage, having succeeded in obtaining the important advantage of seeing his opponent before he could be himself perceived, directed his movements accordingly. He might, perhaps, have succeeded in creeping near enough to shoot him, and have gained the shelter of his own camp before he could be overtaken; but such was not his purpose. He had determined that the bullet now in his rifle should lodge in the heart of Reginald or War–Eagle, and no other life could satisfy his revenge.

Not more than a hundred paces from the spot where the unconscious sentry sat, with his face towards the Upsaroka camp, the valley made a bend, becoming at the same place narrower and steeper in its banks; thither did Mahéga stealthily creep, and on reaching it found that he was not within sight of his enemy.

After waiting some time, during which he carefully noted every brush and hillock that might be made subservient to his projected plan, he saw feeding towards him a steady old pack–horse, whose scarred back and sides showed that he had carried many a weary burthen over mountain and prairie. The Osage remarked, also, that the animal had a long laryette of hide round its neck. As soon as he felt assured that it had passed the bend, and could no longer be seen by the man on guard, he caught the end of the laryette, and led his unresisting quadruped prisoner to a spot further up the valley, where some thick bushes offered him the means of concealing himself. Here he twisted the laryette firmly round the fore–leg of the horse, and ensconcing himself behind the largest of the bushes, patiently awaited the result.

As the shades of evening drew on, the hunter rose to collect and drive his horses to the camp. Having gathered those in the lower part of the valley, he afterwards came in search of those that had strayed beyond the bend. When his eye fell upon the old pack–horse cropping the long grass, and occasionally the younger shoots of the adjacent bushes, he muttered to himself, “The old fool hasn’t sense to know summer from winter: there he stands, gnawing the twigs off the bushes, when he might be eating the best grass in the bottom.”

As soon as he reached the animal whom he thus apostrophised, he laid down his rifle, in order to free the entangled leg from the laryette. While stooping for this purpose, a slight rustling of leaves caught his ear; and ere he could look round, the fierce Osage sprang upon him with the bound of a tiger. The unfortunate man strove to catch up his rifle, but the foot of the giant was upon it, a grasp of iron was upon his throat, and ere he could utter a sound, or raise a hand, the knife of the savage was buried in his heart.

Having thus far succeeded in his plan, Mahéga dressed himself from head to foot in the clothes of his victim, taking possession at the same time of his knife and pistols, having first deliberately scalped him,—and placed the scalp in his own belt, below the ill–fated hunter’s shirt. When thus accoutred and attired, the Osage grinned with satisfaction, and proceeded to the next and more dangerous portion of his enterprise.

His first step was to select and secure the best horse from those pasturing in the valley, which he bridled with the laryette already mentioned; and having slung the hunter’s rifle over his shoulder, he mounted his newly–acquired steed, and began leisurely to drive the others towards the Delaware camp. As soon as he emerged from the valley he came in sight of the enemy’s sentries and outposts; but the well–known wolf–skin cap and elk–skin shirt attracted no particular attention, and he rode deliberately forward until he reached a huge pine–tree, the shade of whose branches was rendered yet more dark by the deepening gloom of evening. Here he fastened his horse; and leaving the others to find their way as they best might, he struck boldly into the thicket that fringed the base of the hill.

Conscious that he was now in the midst of enemies, and that his life must depend upon his own skill and address, he crept forward up the steep ascent, now stopping to listen for the sound of a footfall, now straining his eyes through the dusky shade in search of some light or object by which to direct his course. Knowing every inch of the ground, he was, soon able to distinguish the angle of the stockade, and at no great distance above it the white tent, partially lighted up by a fire, round which were seated Monsieur Perrot, Pierre, and several others.

As night drew on, and the surrounding scenery became involved in deeper gloom, the watch–fire emitted a stronger light, by which Mahéga caught, at length, a view of Reginald seated by the side of Prairie–bird. All the stormy passions in his breast, jealousy, hatred, and revenge, were kindled at the sight; and as soon as he thought the muzzle of his rifle truly aimed at his rival’s heart, he fired. Fortunate was it for Reginald, that the light cast by the fire was flickering and uncertain, or that hour had been his last.

The savage, without waiting to see the result of his shot, which had alarmed the hunters and the Delawares patrolling near the spot, rushed down the hill towards the tree where he had left his horse. Twice was his path crossed by an enemy; the first he felled with a blow on the head from the discharged rifle; and the second, which was no less a person than honest Baptiste himself, he narrowly missed, in firing a pistol in his face at so near a distance that, although unhurt by the ball, his cheek was singed by the powder.

Completely taken by surprise, the guide fired into the bushes after the retreating figure of his unknown foe, and then dashed forward in pursuit; but the darkness favoured the escape of the Osage, who never paused nor turned again until he reached the spot where he had fastened the horse; then vaulting on its back, he shouted his insulting war–cry, in a voice that might be heard above all the mingled sounds of pursuit, struck his heel into the flank of the captured steed, and, unscathed by any of the bullets that whistled after him, reached the Crow camp in safety.

The Osage warriors looked with some surprise upon their chief in his unusual attire, but he briefly returned their greeting, and proceeded without delay to the lodge of the Upsaroka chief. A fire was burning there, by the light of which he recognised the old man seated in the midst, with his son White–Bull on his right, and Besha at some distance on his left. Mahéga had by this time thrown off the garments of the slain hunter, which were slung across the horse. Leading the latter forward, until the light of the fire fell upon it and upon himself, he stood a moment in an attitude of haughty and silent expectation. White–Bull and his father raised their eyes in surprise at the sudden appearance of their guest, and in involuntary admiration of his herculean figure, the fine proportions of which were seen to advantage by the ruddy glare of the blazing logs.

“Let Besha tell my brother he is welcome,” said the old chief, cautiously; “and let him inquire whence he comes, and what he has to say.”

“Mahéga is come,” replied the proud Osage, “from a visit to the pale–faces and the Lenapé women. His hands are not empty; the shirt, the leggins, the belt, the head–dress, and the horse of a white hunter he has brought as a present to the Upsaroka chief. If White–Bull will receive the Medicine–weapon[78], the heart of Mahéga will be glad.”

White–Bull and his father accepted the offered presents with every demonstration of satisfaction. The latter, again addressing Besha, desired him thus to speak:

“Mahéga forgets that all his goods are in the hands of his enemies—does he keep nothing for himself?”

The Osage made no reply, but, drawing the recent scalp from his belt, and pointing to it, the knife still red with human blood, he smiled scornfully, and strode through the camp back to his own lodge. His purpose was effected; he had succeeded in his daring exploit, and, although uncertain of the result of the shot fired at Reginald, he had regained some of his influence over the Upsaroka chief and his intractable son. Mahéga pondered over these things in his lodge, as he mechanically attached the scalp of his last–killed foe to a thong, on which were already fastened many similar trophies of his former prowess.

His musings were soon disturbed by the voice of Besha, who entered the lodge, bearing a sack of considerable dimensions, which he deposited upon the ground. “Mahéga is a great warrior,” said he, greeting the Osage with something of the reluctant courtesy which a terrier shows to a mastiff: “his name will be heard far among the tribes of the Upsaroka nation. The Great Chief wishes to make his Washashee brother a present: three horses stand without the lodge to carry the followers of Mahéga on the path of the bison, or of the Lenapé.”

The eye of the chief brightened with fierce pleasure at this announcement, as two of his few remaining men were unhorsed; and he satisfied himself, by going to the door of the lodge, that the horses now presented to him were good and fit for service.

“That is not all,” continued the horse–dealer; “White–Bull knows that the Medicine–weapon cannot live without food, he has sent me to offer this bag to Mahéga.”

As he spoke, Besha opened the sack, and exposed to the view of the Osage powder and lead sufficient for fifty or sixty shots, and half–a–dozen pair of strong mocassins, such as are made by the Crow women for their lords.

“The hand of the Upsaroka is open,” said Mahéga; “tell him that his gifts shall not fall upon the ground; the lead shall be buried in the hearts of his enemies.”

Besha, having given to the chief a few brief explanations of the hour and the arrangements fixed for the night–march, withdrew, and left him to communicate with his followers.

We must now return to Reginald Brandon, whom we left engaged in the disagreeable and perilous task of pursuing an unseen enemy down the slope of a steep hill in the dark. His was not, however, a foot or a heart likely to fail him in such an emergency, and, reckless alike of obstacles or of the difficulties in his path, he continued his rapid descent, and soon found himself among the glades and bushes whence the firing had aroused his attention. Advancing with his drawn cutlass still in his hand, he stumbled over something which he found to be the prostrate form of a man, and in whom he recognised by his dress one of his own party. Finding that he could extract from him nothing but broken and muttered sentences, about “the devil” and “the darkness,” he hastened on until he reached a spot where he heard several voices in earnest conversation; these he found to be War–Eagle, Wingenund, and Baptiste; and he soon gathered from the latter all that he had to tell, which was, that, having suddenly heard the crack of a rifle in the camp, and then seen a man rushing through the bushes in descending the hill, he had thrown himself in the way of the stranger, who, after nearly blinding him by the discharge of a pistol in his face, had darted past him into the thicket below. “I fired after him,” continued the honest guide, “both pistol and rifle, but I scarcely think I hit him, for on reaching the edge of the timber, I could just distinguish a horseman crossing the prairie at full speed to the Crow camp; ’tis a bad business, but I fear there is worse yet behind.”

“How mean you?” inquired Reginald.

“Why, I fear some foul play in our own camp; the fellow who shot the pistol at me was one of our party.”

“Impossible!” said Reginald; “I will not believe it.”

“Neither would I, if I could help it,” replied the guide; “but, dark as it was, I could plainly see the fur–cap and elk–shirt upon him; whoever it was, he joined Mahéga on the prairie, for the Washashee shouted his cursed war–whoop aloud to insult us.”

Wingenund here whispered a few words to War–Eagle, who replied, “Right, my young brother, let us visit the posts and the fires, we shall soon see who is missing.”

While the chief, with the aid of Pierre and Baptiste, undertook this task, Reginald returned, accompanied by Wingenund, to the spot where he had stumbled over the wounded man. They found him seated in the same place, but his senses had returned, and with the exception of the severe bruises on the head, they were glad to learn that he was uninjured. He could give no account of what had passed further than that already given by Baptiste. He had been prostrated and stunned by a heavy blow from some one descending the hill with great rapidity; he also stated his impression that he had distinguished the dress of a white hunter.

The result of the investigation may of course be anticipated; the unfortunate owner of the wolf–skin cap was suspected of having plotted with Mahéga, and (after aiding him in an attempt to murder Reginald) of having gone off with one of the best horses to the Crow camp. Such was the conjecture of some, and if there were others who guessed more nearly at the truth, their opinions were for the present reserved; it being, however, impossible to make further inquiry until daylight, the different parties retired to their respective quarters, and Reginald again sought the tent to give to Prairie–bird an account of what had passed, and to assure her of his safe return. At the first sound of his voice she came forth, and listened with breathless attention to his brief narration. The watch–fire had been fed with fresh fuel, and its light falling upon her countenance, enabled her lover to see the intense anxiety which it expressed; a handkerchief, hastily folded like a turban, covered her head, and a dark Mexican mantle was thrown over her shoulders; her hand trembled in his, and a slight shudder passed through her frame as he mentioned the name of Mahéga.

“Nay, dearest,” said Reginald, “I shall grieve, indeed, if the name of that hateful savage hath power so to move and disturb your peace. Fear him not: believe me, we shall yet defeat all his attempts, whether of hidden fraud or open force.”

“There is no room, dear Reginald, for thoughts of fear for the future in my heart, ’tis already full, too full, of gratitude for the past; you are again by my side, safe and unhurt. Yet, methinks, I am sadly changed of late! A short time since, the report of the rifle, the arrow’s hissing path, brought no terror to my ear, and now I tremble when I hear them! Will you not regret having chosen a coward for your bride?”

“Perhaps I may,” said Reginald, “when the thirsty summer–grass regrets being moistened by the dew of heaven; when the watchful mother regrets that she has borne the infant by whose cradle she is seated; when the miser regrets having discovered an unsuspected treasure; and the weary traveller regrets having found a fresh spring amid the burning sands of the desert, then may I perhaps regret having chosen Prairie–bird to be to my thirsting heart its summer–dew, its firstling, its treasure, its fountain of exhaustless joy and love!”

Although it was not the first time that she had received the assurance of his affection, her ear drank it in with delight: the repetitions of love have for his votaries perpetual freshness and variety.

“How silver–sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night!”

So says one of the fairest creations of the great interpreter of human passion; yet it is only to each other that these voices do so sweetly sound; to others, less interested, their parlance is apt to seem dull and monotonous. Neither would a dinner of honey, or guava jelly alone, be more nauseous and disappointing to the appetite of a hungry man than a volume filled with love–letters, or love–speeches, to one in search of literary food. Duly impressed with this truth, we will spare any further detail of the conversation that passed between Reginald and his betrothed, and will content ourselves with relating that after more than one “Good night!” such as only lovers know, Prairie–bird retired into her tent, with her thoughts so absorbed in one object, that she was scarcely conscious of the affectionate attentions of her faithful Lita, or of the watchful care of young Wingenund, who took his accustomed station at the entrance to the outer division of his sister’s canvasss dwelling.

An hour before the dawn the wakeful youth arose and looked abroad. The pale and expiring fires of the opposite camp were still distinctly visible; but his practised ear missed the usual sounds of Indian life—the hum of men, the cries of children, and the barking of curs. Having learnt the use of Reginald’s spy–glass, he took it down from the peg on which it was suspended, and examined the opposite hill. As the light of day gradually advanced, and objects became more easily distinguishable, his suspicions became confirmed, and he resolved no longer to delay communicating them to War–Eagle. He found the chief seated at the door of his lodge, in an attitude which he at first mistook for slumber, but it proved to be one of deep meditation; for, on the youth’s approach, he looked up, and said, in the gentle tone in which he always addressed his beloved brother,

“Wingenund is a foot before the sun; have his ears or eyes been open during the night?”

“They have,” said the youth gravely; “and the words that he brings to his brother are not good.”

“The Wolf–cap hunter is gone to the Upsaroka camp; that is bad news: is there any worse?”

“Wingenund knows nothing of the Wolf–cap hunter; but the Upsaroka camp is like the village of the Lenapé, on the prairies of the east; there remains in it neither man, nor woman, nor child!”

War–Eagle sprang upon his feet, and hastily desiring Wingenund to summon Reginald, Baptiste, and Pierre to council, he descended the hill to the spot where his horses were fastened, and throwing himself upon the back of the swiftest, he galloped at full speed towards the opposite camp. As he approached it, he began to suspect that its apparent desertion might be only a manœuvre to draw his party into an ambush, wherefore he wheeled his horse, and made a circuit round the base of the hill, at such a distance as to be secure from the arrow or ball of any marksman hidden among the bushes. As he gained a spot whence the expanse of prairie was open to his view towards the south–west, he saw a body of horsemen retreating rapidly in that direction; they were already several miles from the camp, and he rightly conjectured them to be the rear–guard of the retiring enemy.

The main body had marched early in the night, and only a score of the best mounted had been left, to walk up and down by the fires, to talk aloud, and thus to prevent any suspicion of their movements from entering the Delaware camp.

Vexed and disappointed, the chief returned to his party, which he found in confusion and dismay, from their having just discovered the body of the unfortunate Wolf–cap hunter, one of his companions having visited the valley before mentioned, in search of the missing horse and laryette!

The mystery was now cleared up, and the truth flashed upon them that Mahéga, dressed in the clothes of their slain comrade, had actually come within their posts, and, after a deliberate attempt to shoot Reginald, had singed the beard of Baptiste, knocked down another of their party, stolen one of their best horses, and escaped in triumph to his camp!

It may well be imagined how such a complication of injury and insult aggravated the hatred which they already entertained towards the Osage. Yet were there many among the rough and hardy men present, who could not prevent feeling a secret admiration of his daring and successful exploit.

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Chapter VII

WINGENUND DEVISES A PLAN FOR THE LIBERATION OF HIS FRIENDS, AND SEEKS TO OBTAIN BY MEANS EQUALLY UNUSUAL AND EFFECTIVE THE CO–OPERATION OF THE ONE–EYED HORSE–DEALER.—A FURTHER MARCH INTO THE MOUNTAINS.—WINGENUND PAYS A VISIT TO HIS FRIENDS, AND THE LATTER MAKE ACQUAINTANCE WITH A STRANGE CHARACTER.

It was about a week after the events related in the preceding chapter, that, in a deep romantic glen, apparently locked in by impassable mountains, there sat a hunter busily engaged in changing the flint of his rifle, it having just missed fire, and thereby lost him a fine chance of killing a bighorn, or mountain sheep; his countenance expressed little of the disappointment which would have been felt by a younger man on such an occasion, and its harsh, coarse features would have led any observer to believe that their possessor was habituated to occupations less generous and harmless than those of the chase.

As he fixed a fresh flint into the lock of his rifle, he hummed, or rather grunted, in a low tone, a kind of chaunt, which was a mixture of half a score different tunes, and as many various dialects, but from the careless deliberation with which he went on with his work, it was easy to perceive that his mind was otherwise occupied.

Whatever might have been his reflections, they were suddenly interrupted by a hand laid upon his shoulder, which made him start as if he had been stung by a serpent. Springing to his feet, and instinctively dropping the muzzle of his rifle to the breast of his unexpected visitor, he exclaimed, after a momentary pause, “Does Wingenund come as a friend or an enemy?”

“Neither,” replied the youth, scornfully. “Wingenund has no friendship for a forked tongue; and if he had come as an enemy, Besha would not now have been alive to ask the question; ‘twas as easy to shoot him as to touch his shoulder.”

“For what, then, is he come?” inquired the horse–dealer, who, although somewhat abashed at this reproof, was not disposed to endure the tone of superiority assumed towards him by the young Delaware.

“He is come to speak to Besha, and then to return; this is not a place to throw away words and time.”

“Indeed it is not, for Wingenund knows that his enemies are within hearing of a rifle–shot.”

“There may be other rifles nearer than Besha thinks,” replied the youth, dryly. “Wingenund is not a bird; wherever he goes his friends can follow him.”

The horse–dealer cast an uneasy glance around, and muttered half–aloud, “If Wingenund is not a bird, I know not how be came to this place unseen by the Upsaroka scouts, who are abroad in every quarter?”

To this Wingenund deigned no reply, but entered at once upon the business upon which he had come. As he explained his proposal, the single eye of his auditor seemed to dilate with unfeigned astonishment, and at its conclusion he shook his head, saying, “It cannot be! the mad–spirit has entered my young brother’s head. Besha would do much to serve his friends, but this would hold a knife to the cord of his own life!”

“The knife is there already,” said the youth sternly; “Besha has told lies to Netis and to War–Eagle, and unless he makes good his first words, their knife or bullet shall find him on the mountain or in the wood, or in the midst of the Upsaroka camp.”

For an instant Besha was tempted to rush upon the bold speaker, and trust the issue to his superior strength; but the quiet eye of the young Delaware was fixed upon him with an expression so fearless and resolved, that he involuntarily quailed before it; and as he was endeavouring to frame some further excuse, the youth continued, in a tone of voice less stern, “Let Besha’s ears be open, it is not yet too late; if he chooses to be friends with Netis, Wingenund can tell him some news that will be good for the person whom he loves best.”

“And who may that be?” said the horse–dealer, doubtless surprised at the youth’s pretending to a knowledge of his affections.

“Himself,” was the brief reply.

The horse–dealer’s eye twinkled with a comic expression, and a broad grin sat upon his countenance. “Supposing that my young brother’s words are true, what is the good news that he has to tell?”

“If the white prisoners are given back unhurt to their friends, the lodge of Besha shall be more full of gifts than any lodge on the banks of the great southern river[79]; if not, the mountain wolves shall gnaw his bones before the change of another moon: let him choose for himself.”

“My brother’s words are big,” replied the horse–dealer, striving to overcome the effect produced upon him by the threat of the Delaware youth. “The tongues of women are very brave; if the Washashee tell the truth, not many summers have passed since the Lenapé were a woman–people.”

The blood of the young chief boiled within him at this insulting allusion to an era in the history of his tribe which has already been explained to the reader, and had he followed his first fierce impulse he would have instantly avenged the affront in the blood of the speaker; but he never lost sight of the object for which he had so long sought an interview with the horse–dealer, wherefore he controlled his rising passion, and replied, “Wingenund comes with this message from those who not many days ago drove the Washashee and the Upsaroka from their strong camp: Besha may judge whether they are women or warriors.”

The horse–dealer felt, if he did not own, the justice of the reproof; he knew also that the greater portion of the coveted goods were in the possession of War–Eagle’s party, and he was willing enough to conciliate them, provided he could ensure a safe retreat from the anger of the Crows, in the event of his intrigue being discovered by them.

Moved by these considerations, he said, in an undecided tone, “My young brother must not forget that the edge of the knife is on the cord of his life; if Besha agrees to his proposal, and the Crows discover him, he will be torn in pieces like a wounded elk among wolves.”

“The life of Wingenund is like the breath of the mountain breeze,” answered the youth; “it is in the hands of the Great Spirit, to move and send it whither he pleases. Let Besha taste this black–water,” he added, drawing from his belt a small bottle; “it is very wonderful.”

The horse–dealer took the phial, which contained a strong, and not very palatable mixture, which had been borrowed by Wingenund from his sister’s chest of medicine; but he declined tasting it, shaking his head in a manner that gave the youth to understand that he suspected something of a hurtful or poisonous nature.

“Let not Besha be afraid,” said the youth scornfully; “the tomahawk and the rifle are the death–weapons of the Lenapé, they war not with bad waters!” and as he spoke he drank a portion of the dark and distasteful liquid.

It would not have been held, according to Indian custom, an act of unpardonable cowardice in Besha had he any longer hesitated to taste the pledge; and whatever doubts or scruples he might in secret have entertained, he concealed them, and drank off the remaining contents of the phial.

As soon as he had swallowed them, the youth, pointing up to the sky, said, with much solemnity, “Now Wingenund and Besha are before the Great Spirit, and they must beware what they do. This dark–water was given into their hands by the Medicine of the white tent: it is made up by Prairie–bird from a thousand unknown herbs; it is harmless to the good, but it is poison to the forked tongue! Has Besha ever heard of the sickness which makes the skin like a honeycomb; which spares neither woman, warrior, nor child; and in the course of half a moon turns a powerful tribe into a feeble and exhausted band?”

“He has heard of it,” replied the horse–dealer, trembling from head to foot at this allusion to that fell disease[80], which had already begun its fearful ravages among the Indian nations, and has since fulfilled to the very letter the description given of it by the Delaware youth. Its origin and causes were unknown, its cure beyond their skill; it is not therefore to be wondered at if they looked upon it with a mysterious dread.

“Yes,” continued Wingenund, “if truth is on the lips and in the heart of Besha, the medicine–water will be good for him and make him strong. If he thinks of falsehood, and lies spring up in his heart, but he overcomes the bad spirit within, and treads it under his foot, then will the medicine–water give him pain for a short time, but he will recover and be stronger than before; and if his lips and heart continue full of deceit, diseases and sores shall come so thick upon his skin that he shall die among these rocks, the hungry wolf and the turkey–buzzard shall refuse to come near the polluted carcase.”

Such, or nearly such, was the warning threat which the youth held forth in the bold and figurative language of his tribe; and although Besha could not with justice be called a coward, and was superior to many of the superstitions of the Indian nations, still he had heard such well–authenticated accounts of the miraculous power of the Great Medicine of the tent, that the words of Wingenund produced all, and more than all, the effect he had anticipated.

“It shall be done,” said Besha, in a subdued tone; “let Wingenund tell Olitipa that the lips and the heart of her friend will be true, and let him desire her to speak to the Great Spirit, that the medicine–water may not hurt him. Besha will be true; if the Crows discover and kill Wingenund, the hands of Besha shall be clear of his blood.”

“Let the words of Wingenund remain in Besha’s ears; let his tongue and his path be straight, and the hearts and hands of the Lenapé will be open to him. At two hours after nightfall[81] Wingenund will be here again.”

So saying, the youth turned; and, darting through some low bushes, clambered up the steep and rocky bed of a mountain–torrent with the activity of a mountain–cat.

Besha followed with his eyes the light form of the young Delaware, until it disappeared behind a tall cliff that projected so far across the narrow gorge as completely to hide its existence from the observation of any one traversing the valley, while its rugged and precipitous front might have deterred the boldest hunter from attempting the passage. The horse–dealer then shouldered his rifle, and returned slowly to the Crow camp, distant about a mile, revolving as he went along various schemes for ensuring the gratitude of the Delawares, without forfeiting the friendship of those with whom he was now allied.

Wingenund had rightly estimated the probable nature and quality of his reflections, and sundry sharp twitches which he felt in his stomach served to remind him of the dangerous liquid which it contained. Warned by these sensations, he made up his mind to obey the Great Medicine of the tent, and for the present, at least, to be faithful to the promise made to Wingenund.

The Delaware youth pursued his way up the rough and craggy gorge until he reached a cave that he had noticed on his descent as likely to afford shelter and a secure retreat. Here he stopped; and ensconcing himself in a dark recess, whence he could, without being himself discovered, see any one passing before the aperture, he threw himself on the ground, and drawing from his belt a few slices of dried bison–meat, he made his frugal meal, and quenched his thirst from a streamlet that trickled down the face of the rock behind him. While resting himself, he indulged in hopes and reveries suited to his enthusiastic nature; he was now engaged in an enterprise such as he had often heard recorded in the songs of the Lenapé warriors; he was about to trust himself alone in the midst of a hostile camp, and to risk his life for the liberation of his early benefactor and the friend of his adopted brother; he felt the spirit of his fathers stir within his breast.

“If I escape,” said he to himself, “they shall escape with me; and if I die, I will not die alone, and the name of Wingenund shall not be forgotten among the warriors of his tribe.”

In these and similar meditations he beguiled the hours until darkness overspread the earth, and the time of the appointed rendezvous drew nigh; then, once more emerging from the cave, he picked his way cautiously among the rocks, and at length found himself at the spot where he had parted from Besha. Having purposely concealed his rifle in the cave, he was now armed only with a knife and a small pistol, which he carried in his belt.

The night was cold and boisterous; dark clouds hung around the mountain–peaks, and chased each other in rapid succession over the disc of the moon, while a fitful gust of wind swept down the rocky glens, whistling as they passed among the branches of the scathed pines which were thinly scattered in that wild and desolate region.

He had not waited long when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and straining his keen sight to its utmost power, he recognised Besha, who came not alone, but accompanied by another man.

Although this was an addition to the company that he did not expect, the youth came fearlessly forward, his quick apprehension suggesting to him that if treachery had been intended the horse–dealer’s companion would have been concealed. After exchanging a sign of recognition, Wingenund led the way to a deep recess which he had noted in a rock at no great distance, where they collected and kindled a few sticks of withered juniper and sage, which supplied them with warmth and light without rendering the place of their colloquy visible from the valley below.

By the light of the fire Wingenund observed with surprise that the horse–dealer’s companion, a lad of nearly his own size and stature, had only one eye, the cavity of the other being covered with a patch of cloth; his complexion was of a hue so swarthy, that it evidently contained an admixture of the negro race: and his hair, though not woolly, was coarse, long, and matted, differing entirely in its texture from that of the tribes of purely Indian blood. He was wrapped in a tattered blanket, and stood apart like one conscious of his inferiority of station. To account for his appearance without entering at length into the explanations given by the horse–dealer to Wingenund, it will be sufficient to state that the latter had proposed to enter the Crow camp in a female dress, and to find an opportunity, as an inmate of his lodge, for communicating with Paul Müller and Ethelston.

As soon as Besha once made up his mind to forward the scheme, he resolved to do so with as little risk of discovery as possible. Happening to have in his lodge a slave, a captive taken in a horse stealing skirmish among the Comanches, who was nearly the same age as Wingenund, he thought that the youth might personate him more easily than he could imitate the gait and appearance of a woman.

Many were the jokes among the Crows about the one–eyed Besha, and his one–eyed slave. The latter had lost his eye by the point of an arrow, in the same skirmish which threw him into Besha’s power, and being a cunning and dexterous lad, he soon grew into favour with his new master, who frequently employed him as a spy, and found him extremely useful in stealing, marking, and disguising horses for him.

Wingenund saw at once the drift of Besha’s project, and they lost no time in carrying it into effect. The exchange of dress was made in a few seconds, and the horse–dealer then drew from his pouch a small bladder, containing ointment, with which he stained the youth’s hands and face, fastening at the same time a patch over his left eye. Wingenund then desired Besha to walk up and down, and speak with the lad, that he might carefully note his movements, and the intonation of his voice. This observation he continued for some time, until he thought himself tolerably perfect in his lesson. There remained, however, one point on which he still felt himself very insecure against detection. On his explaining this to Besha, the latter grinned, and drawing from under his vest a head–dress of false hair, ragged and matted as that of his slave, he placed it on the head of Wingenund. The youth felt his disguise was now complete; and retaining his own knife and small pistol in his belt, threw the tattered blanket over his shoulder, and prepared to accompany Besha to his lodge.

The latter having instructed the slave to keep himself concealed among the rocks for a few days, and having provided him with a small bag of provisions, returned slowly towards the Crow camp, giving to his young companion by the way such hints as he deemed necessary for his safety. Fortunately for Wingenund, the lad whom he personated was known by the Crows to be ignorant of their language, so there was no great risk of his being betrayed by his speech.

As they picked their way slowly along the base of the rugged hills which frowned over the valley, they came to a spot where a few stunted pines threw a darker shadow across their path. To one of these was attached a horse, which Wingenund unfastened by desire of Besha, and led it after him by the halter.

As they reached the outposts of the camp, Besha was addressed by several of the sentries, to whom he explained his night expedition, by informing them that he had been with his slave to recover a horse that had strayed. They were perfectly satisfied with this explanation, it being of very frequent occurrence that both master and man returned by day and by night with horses that they had “recovered;” the latter word being in the Crow dialect almost, if not quite, synonymous with “stolen.”

The lodge of Besha was pitched next to that of White–bull, in which Ethelston and Paul Müller were confined. His entrance caused no disturbance amongst its slumbering inmates; and Wingenund, fore–armed with the requisite local information, tied up the horse beside its fellow; and nestling himself into his allotted corner, laid himself down to rest as composedly as if he had been in his usual quarters in the outer division of his sister’s tent.

While Wingenund was thus carrying his project into effect his friends fulfilled the intention they had formed of marching further into the mountains.

“Dear Prairie–bird!” said Reginald, as they walked together in front of her tent, “I fear you must be much fatigued by this last march. I never could have believed that a horse, bearing a female rider, could have crossed that rocky pass by which we entered this valley.”

“The horse deserves more praise than the rider, Reginald; and Nekimi seemed quite aware that his master attached a higher price to his burthen than it was worth, for he put his feet so safely and gently down, that I need not have feared his slipping, even had he not been led by one yet more gentle and careful than himself.”

“It was, however, a severe trial, Prairie–bird,” replied her lover; “for you remember that Lita’s mule stumbled, and nearly fell with her over that fearful precipice! but Nekimi is unmatched for speed and sureness of foot, and is of so generous and affectionate a nature that I love him more than I ever thought I could have loved a quadruped. When we return to Mooshanne, he shall be repaid for all his faithful service; warm shall be his stable, soft his litter, and his beloved mistress shall sometimes give him corn with her own fair hand, in remembrance of these days of hardships!”

At the mention of his home, the cheek of Prairie–bird coloured with an emotion which that subject never failed to excite. Reginald observed it, and said to her, in a half–jesting tone, “Confess now, dearest, have you not a longing desire to see that home of which I have so often spoken to you?”

“It appears to me so like a dream, that I scarcely dare let my thoughts dwell upon it! But your sister, of whom Wingenund told me so much, I hope she will love me?”

Reginald bent his dark eyes upon her countenance with an expression that said, as plainly as words could speak it, “How could any one see thee, and fail to love thee?” Then turning the conversation to Wingenund, he replied, “Two days have now elapsed since your young brother went upon his dangerous expedition; I begin to feel most anxious for his safety.”

“With grief I saw him go; for even if he succeeds in seeing and speaking with the Black Father, I cannot tell what advantage will come from it.”

“They may perhaps devise some scheme for escape, and will at all events be comforted by the assurance that their friends are near and watchful. Three several times on the march hither had we made our plans for attacking the camp, and rescuing them, but the hateful Mahéga was always on his guard, and had posted himself in such a manner that we could not approach without incurring severe loss. War–Eagle has himself owned that the Osage has conducted this retreat with wonderful skill. What a pity that so great a villain should possess such high qualities!”

“If he were not in the camp of the Crows,” said Prairie–bird, “my beloved father and your friend would have been set free long ago; cruelty and revenge are his pleasures, and his hand is ever ready to shed blood.”

“He will doubtless do all in his power to prevent their liberation; and if his malignant eye should detect the presence of Wingenund, he would represent the brave youth as a spy, and urge the Crows to destroy him.”

“I trust much to Wingenund’s skill, but more, oh! how much more to the protection of Him, at whose word the strongest bars and bolts are broken, and the fetters of iron fall from the limbs of the captive!”

“What a strength and support must it be to you, dearest Prairie–bird, thus habitually to look up to Heaven amid all the trials and troubles of earth!”

“How would it be possible to do otherwise?” she replied, looking up in his face with an expression of innocent surprise; “Can any one look upon the flowers of the prairie, the beauty of the swift antelope, the shade of the valleys, the hills and snow–clad mountains, the sun, the moon, and the thousand thousand worlds above, and yet not worship Him who framed them?”

“I grant you, dearest,” he replied, “that no reasonable being could consider those things without experiencing the emotions that you describe, yet many, very many, will not consider them; still fewer are there who refer the thoughts, actions, and events of daily life to an ever–present, over–ruling Providence.”

“Surely they can never have read this book,” she said, pointing to the volume which was her constant companion; “or they must feel ever grateful for past mercies, present benefits, and the blessed promises of the future revealed in it!”

For a moment Reginald cast his eyes upon the ground, conscience reminding him of many occasions on which he had been led by temptation and carelessness to wander from those ordinances and precepts of religion which he respected and approved; at length he replied, “True, my beloved, but the human heart is a treacherous guide, and often betrays into errors which reason and revelation would alike condemn.”

“It may be so among the cities and crowded haunts of men, of which I know nothing beyond what I have read and what the Black Father has taught me; yet I cannot understand how a loving heart can be, in such cases, a treacherous guide. Is it not sweet to serve one whom we love on earth, to think of him, to bless him, to follow where he points the way, to afford him pleasure, to fulfil his wishes, even before they are expressed? If such feelings be sweet and natural towards one frail and imperfect as ourselves, why should the heart refuse to entertain them towards the one perfect Being, our ever–present Benefactor, the Fountain of Love?”

Again Reginald was silent; the impassioned eloquence of her eyes told him how her heart overflowed with feelings but faintly shadowed in her simple language; and he desired rather to share than to shake her creed. Why should he tell her, that in spite of all the incentives of hope and gratitude, in spite of all the arguments of reason and the truths of revelation, the great majority of the so–called Christian world pursued their daily course of business or amusement as if the present were the substance of life, and eternity a dream? Reginald felt his own heart softened, purified, and exalted by communion with the gentle being at his side; the cares and troubles of life might perhaps disturb at some future time the current of her lot, but her faith was built upon a Rock that would not be shaken, and his spirit, already sympathising with hers, experienced a new and delightful sensation of happiness.

He might have indulged longer in this blissful reverie, had not his ear caught the sound of an approaching footstep: he turned quickly, and recognising the light form of Wingenund, exclaimed, “See, Prairie–bird, our dear young brother safely returned! May all your other hopeful anticipations be as happily realised! Speak, Wingenund; let us hear how you have sped in your difficult and dangerous mission?”

Instead of giving the youth’s narrative in his own words, we will resume the thread of his story where we left it, being thus enabled to relate various particulars which his modesty induced him to omit.

At the first dawn of day he looked round the horse–dealer’s lodge, and made a survey of its inmates. In the centre lay Besha himself, and by his side a squaw from one of the southern tribes, who had been the companion of his rambles and expeditions for many years. Beyond them there slept, or seemed to sleep, a youth, whose appearance indicated that he also belonged to a southern clime, and that some Mexican blood ran in his veins; his features were finely formed, his complexion darker than that of a northern Indian, and a short moustachio began to shade his upper lip; his eye was small, but piercing, and black as jet, and scarcely was the light sufficient to render distinguishable the objects in the lodge ere his quick gaze fell upon Wingenund, with an expression that convinced the latter that the plot had been confided to him. These were the only inmates of the lodge, which was filled with various indications of its owner’s success in trade, packages and bales being piled therein to a considerable height.

Agreeably to the plan preconcerted by Besha, his wife invited Bending–willow to come to her in the course of the morning; and, on her arrival, set before her some cakes of maize, sweetened with sugar,—a luxury equally new and agreeable to the Upsaroka bride. Further civilities beyond those interchangeable by signs were precluded between them, by the circumstance of their being each entirely ignorant of the other’s language; but the offering of a string of blue beads after the cakes completed the triumph of the hostess in the good graces of her guest.

Besha did not lose this favourable opportunity for calling the attention of the latter to the subject of the prisoners, in whose behalf he expressed a hope that she would use her best exertions.

Bending–willow smiled, and said that she was a woman, and had no power in the council of the tribe.

The crafty horse–dealer saw at a glance how the assertion was belied by the smile, and replied,—

“When White–bull speaks, the braves listen: when Bending–willow speaks, does not White–bull listen too?”

The Upsaroka beauty looked down and counted the beads upon her new bracelet, with an expression of countenance which encouraged Besha to proceed. “These white men are of no use in the Upsaroka camp; they eat and drink, and kill no game. If they are sent back to their own people, the lodge of White–bull will be full of presents, and the women will say, ‘Look at Bending–willow; she is dressed like the wife of a great chief!’”

By these, and similar arguments, the Crow bride was easily induced to connive at the plot laid for the liberation of the prisoners. Being a good–natured creature, and feeling that the kindness of Prairie–bird to her had been ill requited, she was the more willing to favour the white people, and only held Besha to the promise that, in contriving their escape, no injury should be done to the person or property of any of her tribe.

With the assistance of Bending–willow, Wingenund found several opportunities of conversing with Ethelston and the Black Father; but the camp was so strictly guarded that they could not devise any plan that seemed to promise success, while a failure was sure to bring upon them more rigid confinement, if not a severer and more summary punishment. Wingenund was authorised by Besha to comfort them with the assurance that they had a true friend in White–bull’s bride, and that they were quite safe from the malignant designs of Mahéga. On the other hand, the horse–dealer positively refused, under present circumstances, to incur the risk of aiding their escape while the position of the camp was so unfavourable for it, and the Crow sentries were kept so much on the alert by the immediate vicinity of War–Eagle’s party.

Under these circumstances, the youth had slipped away by night to consult with his friends whether the liberation of the prisoners should be attempted by force, or whether it might not be more advisable to throw the Crows off their guard by discontinuing the pursuit, and leaving it to the ingenuity of Wingenund to devise a plan for their escape.

These two alternatives having been duly discussed in council, it was almost unanimously agreed to adopt the latter; and Wingenund prepared again to return to his perilous post, having received from War–Eagle, Reginald, and Prairie–bird the praises which his skill and enterprise had so well deserved.

He did not forget to take with him a small supply of beads and trinkets, which he concealed in his belt, and which were destined to secure the continued favour of Bending–willow.

As soon as he was gone, War–Eagle proposed that the party should quit their present station in search of one where they might be more likely to fall in with deer and bison, as meat was becoming very scarce in the camp; and a scout, sent out on the preceding day, had returned with a report that he had found, at the distance of half a day’s march, a large and fertile valley, watered by a fine stream, and abounding in materials for fuel. This last consideration was of itself highly important, for the Crows had gathered every dry bush and stick from the barren glen in which they were now encamped; and the utmost exertions of the indefatigable Perrot scarcely enabled him to provide a sufficiency for cooking the necessary provisions; while the coldness of the atmosphere, especially at night, rendered the absence of fire a privation more than ordinarily severe.

The counsel of War–Eagle was therefore adopted without delay, it having been agreed that two of the most experienced men, the one a Delaware, and the other a white hunter, should hover around the Crow camp, and communicate to the main body, from time to time, their movements and proceedings.

Having been supplied with an extra blanket, and a few pounds of dried meat and parched corn, these two hardy fellows saw their comrades depart without the least apparent concern, and soon afterwards withdrew to a sheltered and more elevated spot, whence they could, without being perceived, command a distant view of the Crow camp.

Following the steps of the scouts, War–Eagle led his party to a part of the valley where a huge rent or fissure in the side of the mountain rendered the ascent practicable for the horses. It was, however, a wild and rugged scene, and a fitting entrance to the vast pile of mountains that showed their towering peaks far to the westward.

Prairie–bird was mounted upon Nekimi, and Reginald walked by her side, his hand ever ready to aid and guide him amongst the huge stones, which in some places obstructed the path.

Never had velvet lawn, or flower–embroidered vale, seemed to our hero half so smooth and pleasant as did that rocky pass. At every turn some new feature of grandeur arrested the attention of Prairie–bird, who expressed her admiration in language which was a strange mixture of natural eloquence and poetry, and which sounded to his ears more musical than “Apollo’s lute.”

What struck him as most remarkable was, that, whether in speaking of the magnificent scenery around, or of the more minute objects which fell under her observation, her spirit was so imbued with Scripture, that she constantly clothed her ideas in its phraseology, without being conscious of so doing.

Thus, when in crossing the valley they passed by some anthills, and, in ascending the opposite height, saw here and there a mountain–rabbit nibbling the short moss that overspread the bed of rock, Reginald directed her attention to them, saying, “See, Prairie–bird, even in this desolate wilderness these insect–millions have built them a city, and the rabbit skips and feasts as merrily as in more fertile regions.”

“True, dear Reginald,” she replied, “therefore did the wise man say in days of old, ‘The ants are a people not strong, yet they prepare their meat in the summer: the conies are but a feeble folk, yet make they their houses in the rocks.’”

A little further onward, the pass was overhung by an enormous cliff, from the top of which a bighorn looked down upon the party below, the long beard of the mountain–goat streaming in the wind. One of the hunters fired at it, but the harmless bullet glanced from the face of the cliff, while amid the echoes repeated and prolonged by the surrounding heights, the bighorn sprang from rock to rock across the yawning chasms by which they were divided, as lightly as the forest squirrel leaps from a branch of the spreading oak to that of the neighbouring elm.

Reginald watched the animal’s progress, and called the attention of Prairie–bird to the surprising swiftness and activity with which it held on its perilous course.

When at length it disappeared behind the angle of an abrupt precipice, she said, “Does it not call to your mind the description given of the wild–ass of the East, in the Book of Job, ‘Who has sent out the wild–ass free? or who hath loosened the band of the wild–ass? whose house I have made the wilderness, and the barren land his dwelling? He scorneth the multitude of the city, neither regardeth he the crying of the driver. The range of the mountains is his pasture, and he searcheth after every green thing.’ Tell me, Reginald,” continued the maiden, after a momentary pause, “can the creature here described be the same dull patient animal that I have often seen bearing the packs of the Mexican traders?”

“The same, I believe, dearest, in its origin, and its place in natural history, but widely different in its habits and powers, if we may credit the narratives of travellers, whether modern or ancient. I remember reading a most spirited description of this same animal in the account given by the eminent historian[82] of the expedition of the younger Cyrus, who relates that the herds of them found near the banks of the Euphrates surpassed the swiftest horses in speed, and were neither to be tamed nor approached without the greatest difficulty; and in later times they have been described as abounding in the wildest regions of Persia and Tartary, where their flesh is considered one of the greatest delicacies at the table of the hunter, and even at that of the prince. In order to distinguish this animal from its humble and degraded kindred in the West, it has been dignified by the name of the Onager.”

The conversation was here interrupted by a sudden halt in the line of march, and Reginald heard the sound of numerous voices towards the front as of men speaking under surprise and excitement. When he advanced, with Prairie–bird at his side, they made way for him to pass until he reached the front, where he found War–Eagle holding by a leathern thong the most singular–looking creature that he had ever beheld. It bore in some respects the semblance of a human being, but the extreme lowness of its stature, the matted hair by which it was covered, the length of the finger nails, and the smallness of the deep–set eyes, made it almost a matter of doubt whether it did not rather belong to the monkey tribe.

This was, however, soon dispelled by Pierre, who recognised in the diminutive and terrified creature one of the race known to mountain–hunters under the name of Root–diggers. They are the most abject and wretched of all the Indian tribes, living in caves and holes, and supporting their miserable existence upon such animals as they can catch, in toils of the simplest kind, and by grubbing and digging for roots such as no other human being could eat or digest. The one now taken by the Delawares had been engaged in the latter occupation when he first saw them approach, and he fled immediately towards the rocks. Had he been followed by an eye less sure, and a foot less fleet than that of War–Eagle, he might have escaped, for despite his uncouth appearance, he was nimble as a mountain–cat, but the Delaware chief overtook and secured him; and in spite of all the endeavours made to reassure him, the unfortunate Root–digger now looked about him as if he expected every moment to be his last. Beads, trinkets, and shreds of bright–coloured cloth were all held up to him in turn, but were left unnoticed, and his deep twinkling eyes roved incessantly from one to another of the bystanders with an expression of the most intense alarm.

“Are they always thus fearful and intractable?” inquired Reginald of the Canadian hunter.

“Not always,” replied Pierre; “but the Crows and Black–feet, and white men too, generally treat them worse than dogs whenever they find them: that is not often, for they always hide among rocks and stones, and seldom come down so low in the valleys. I never saw one in this region before.”

“Prairie–bird,” said Reginald in a whisper to the maiden, “speak to the poor creature a few words of comfort. Were he shy, suspicious, and wild as a wolf, that voice would subdue and dispel his apprehensions.”

“The sweetness of the voice lies in the hearer’s partial ear,” replied Prairie–bird, blushing deeply; “but I will do your bidding to the best of my power; and if I mistake not the poor creature’s symptoms, I think I can find the means to relieve them.”

So saying, and leaping lightly from her horse, the maiden took from one of the packs a piece of baked maize–cake, and a slice of dried bison–meat. Carrying these in her hand, she approached the Root–digger, and motioning to the bystanders to retire to some distance, she deliberately untied the thong by which he had been fastened, and placing the food before him, made signs that he should eat. At first the uncouth being gazed upon her as if he could or would not understand her meaning; but she spoke to him in the soft Delaware tongue, and eating a morsel of the cake, repeated the signal that he should eat with her. Whether overcome by the gentleness of her manner, or by the cravings of hunger, the savage no longer resisted, but devoured with ravenous haste the food which she had set before him. Prairie–bird smiled at the success of her attempt, which so far encouraged her, that she again offered the several presents which he had before rejected, and which he now accepted, turning them over and over in his hand, and inspecting them with childish curiosity.

Reginald looked on with gratified pride, saying within himself, “I knew that nothing could resist the winning tones of that voice!

‘Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature;’

And where is there music like the voice of Prairie–bird?”

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Chapter VIII

THE ROOT–DIGGER MAKES FRIENDS WITH THE PARTY.—AN ADVENTURE WITH A GRISLY BEAR.—THE CONDUCT OF WAR–EAGLE.

No sooner had Prairie–bird gained the confidence of the Root–digger, than War–Eagle, Reginald, and the other chief hunters approached him with signs of amity and friendship: nevertheless, he continued shy and suspicious, still refusing to receive either food or present from any hand excepting that of the maiden. They were obliged, therefore, to make her their interpreter, and to endeavour, through her, to acquire the information of which they were in want respecting the scarcity or abundance of deer and bison in the neighbourhood.

In the discharge of this office, Prairie–bird discovered so much natural quickness, and at the same time so complete a knowledge of the Indian language of signs, that Reginald looked on with the most intense interest, while the maiden, whose beauty was so strongly contrasted with the hideous face and figure of the mountain dwarf, maintained with him a conversation of some length, in the course of which she learnt that there were few, if any, bison in the neighbourhood, but that the argali, or mountain sheep, and deer of several kinds, were to be found at no great distance. She succeeded also, at length, in so far disarming his suspicions, that he agreed to act as guide to Baptiste and Reginald in pursuit of game, and to return with them to reap the reward of his trouble in further presents from the hand of Prairie–bird.

The sturdy backwoodsman did not seem to place much confidence in the fidelity of his new acquaintance, and bluntly observed to Pierre, “For sure, I never saw an uglier crittur, and his eyes rolled from side to side with an underlook that I don’t half like: perhaps he’ll lead us into some ambush of Upsarokas, or other mountain Ingians, rather than to a herd of deer.”

“You need not be afraid, Baptiste,” replied his brother hunter, laughing; “these poor Root–diggers are harmless and honest in their own miserable way. They are said to belong to the Shoshonies, or Snake–tribe, and are the best of all the Ingians hereabouts; not such fighting devils as the Black–feet, nor such thieves as the Crows, but friendly to the Whites. This poor crittur has been digging for roots many a long day with that sharpened flint, which you see in his hand. After you have started on your hunting trip, make him a present of a good knife. I have watched his eyes roving from belt to belt; he would give his ears for one, and yet is too frightened to ask for it.”

“Thanks for the hint, Pierre,” said his companion, looking carefully to the priming of his rifle; “thanks for the hint. I will carry a spare one with me on purpose; and in case we should fall in with a fat herd, do you, friend War–Eagle, give us the company of one of your stoutest men, that he may assist in bringing in enough meat for the party.”

On hearing these words, Prairie–bird inquired of the Root–digger, by signs, whether one of the mules could not go over the hunting–ground. The savage looked first at the animal, then at the fair speaker, and then, with a grin, gave a most decided indication of a negative.

The preparations for the hunt were soon made. Prairie–bird urged Reginald in a low voice, not to remain too long absent, a command which he faithfully promised to obey; and just as he was about to set forth, he led her up to the chief, and said, “War–Eagle will take care of his sister?”

The Indian’s proud heart was gratified by this simple proof of his friend’s unbounded confidence; he saw that no jealousy, no doubt of his victory over self, lurked in the breast of Reginald, and he replied, “While War–Eagle has life to protect her, Olitipa shall be safe as in the lodge of Tamenund.”

Reginald turned and followed Baptiste and the Root–digger, who had already taken their way up the valley, accompanied by the Delaware selected to aid in carrying home the anticipated booty.

Leaving them to toil up one rocky steep after another, wondering at the enduring agility of the Shoshonie dwarf, who seemed almost as active and sure–footed as one of the mountain–goats of which they were in search, we will return to the valley where War–Eagle’s camp was posted, which formed, as we have before noticed, a pleasing contrast to the savage scenery around. The stream that flowed through its centre, fresh from the snowy bosom of the mountain was cool and clear as crystal, and the shade of the trees which grew along its banks was delightfully refreshing after the fatigues of a summer march, even in a region, the elevation of which rendered the atmosphere extremely cold before the rising and after the setting of the sun. Prairie–bird felt an irresistible desire to stroll by the banks of this stream,—a desire that was no sooner mentioned by Lita to War–Eagle than he at once assented, assuring her that she might do so in safety, as his scouts were on the look–out both above and below in the valley, so that no enemy could approach unperceived. At the same time he gave instructions in the camp that none of the men should wander to that quarter, in order that it might be left altogether undisturbed.

Shortly afterwards Prairie–bird set forth, taking in her hand a mocassin, which she was ornamenting with stained quills for the foot of Reginald, and accompanied by her faithful Lita, who bore upon her hand a bundle containing various articles belonging to her mistress and to herself, on which she was about to exercise her talents as a laundress.

They had pursued their respective avocations for several hours without interruption, when on a sudden they heard the report of a rifle and the voice of a man shouting, as if engaged in the pursuit of game. This was an occurrence to which both were so much accustomed, that they paid at first little attention to it; but they felt some alarm when they saw one of their party, a white hunter, coming towards them as if running for his life. Before reaching the spot where they were seated, he threw his rifle upon the ground and climbed into a tree; immediately afterwards a young male, not full–grown, of the species called the grisly or rocky mountain bear, came up, limping as if wounded by the rifle so lately discharged, and missing the object that he had been following, looked around him, howling with mingled rage and pain. At length he caught sight of Prairie–bird and her companion; and setting up a more loud and angry howl, trotted towards them. Unfortunately, the spot to which they had retired was a narrow strip of wooded ground, projecting into a curve of the stream above mentioned, and they could not retreat towards the camp without approaching yet nearer to the wounded bear. There was no time for reflection; and in the sudden emergency, Prairie–bird hesitated whether she should not adopt the desperate alternative of throwing herself into the water, in hopes that the stream might carry her out of the reach of danger.

At this crisis the crack of a rifle was heard, and the young bear fell, but again rose and struggled forward, as if determined not to be disappointed of its prey. Seeing the imminent danger of the woman, the hunter who had climbed the tree dropped lightly to the ground, and catching up his rifle, attacked the half–exhausted animal, which still retained sufficient strength to render too near an approach extremely dangerous. War–Eagle—for he it was who had fired the last opportune shot—now sprang forward from the bushes, reloading his rifle as he came, in order to decide the issue of the conflict, when a loud shriek from Lita reached his ear; and on turning round he beheld the dam of the wounded cub, a she–bear of enormous bulk, trotting rapidly forward to the scene of action; the hunter was so much engaged in dealing blow after blow with the butt of his rifle, that he had noticed neither her approach nor the warning shout of War–Eagle, when one stroke from her terrible paw struck him bleeding and senseless to the ground. For an instant she smelt and moaned over her dying offspring; then, as if attracted by the female dress, pursued her way with redoubled speed and fury towards the spot where Lita clung, with speechless terror, to the arm of her mistress. The latter, although fully alive to the imminency of the peril, lost not her composure at this trying moment. Breathing a short prayer to Heaven for support and protection, she fixed her eyes upon War–Eagle, as if conscious that the only human possibility of safety now lay in his courage and devotion.

Then it was that the Indian chief evinced the high and heroic properties of his character; for although every second brought the infuriated brute near and more near to her who had been from youth his heart’s dearest treasure, he continued, as he advanced, to load the rifle with a hand as steady as if he had been about to practise at a target; and just as the ball was rammed home, and the priming carefully placed in the pan, he threw himself directly in front of the bear, so that it was only by first destroying him that she could possibly approach the objects of his care. It was a moment, and but a moment, of dreadful suspense, for the bear swerved neither to the right nor to the left from her onward path; and it was not until the muzzle of the rifle was within three yards of her forehead that he fired, taking his aim between her eyes; shaking her head as if more angered than hurt, she raised her huge form on her hind legs, and advanced to seize him, when he drew his pistol and discharged it into her chest, springing at the same time lightly back, almost to the spot to which Prairie–bird and her trembling companion seemed rooted as if by a spell. Although both shots had struck where they were aimed, the second appeared to have taken no more effect than the first, and the bear was again advancing to the attack, when War–Eagle, catching up from the ground a blanket which Lita had brought down to the brook, held it extended before him until the monster sprung against it, and with her claws rent it into shreds; not, however, before it had served for an instant the purpose of a veil; profiting by that opportunity, the heroic Delaware dashed in between her fore–paws and plunged his long knife into her breast. Short, though terrible, was the struggle that ensued; the bear was every moment growing weaker from the effect of the shot–wounds, and from loss of blood, and although she lacerated him dreadfully with her claws and teeth, she was not able to make him relax the determined grasp with which he clung to her, plunging the fatal knife again and again into her body, until at length she fell exhausted and expiring into a pool of her own blood, while the triumphant war–cry of the Delaware rung aloud through wood and vale.[83]

Alarmed by the shots, the yells of the dying bear, and the shouts of the chief, several of the party now hastened towards the scene of action; but before they could reach it Reginald Brandon, who was just returning into the camp with the results of a successful chase, caught the mingled sounds, and outstripping all his companions, arrived, panting and breathless, on the spot. For a moment he gazed on the strange and fearful spectacle that met his view. The Delaware chief, supporting his head upon his hand, still reclined against the body of his grim antagonist, his countenance calm in its expression, but both his face and his whole form covered with recent blood; at his feet lay Lita, perfectly unconscious, and sprinkled with the same crimson stream; while at his side knelt Prairie–bird breathing over her heroic preserver the fervent outpourings of a grateful heart! Another moment, and Reginald was beside her; he understood instinctively all that had passed, and no sooner had ascertained that his betrothed was safe and unhurt, than he turned with affectionate and anxious solicitude to inquire into the condition of his friend. “Olitipa is safe and War–Eagle is happy,” replied the chief.

By this time the Delawares were all gathered round their beloved leader, and in obedience to an order which he gave in a low voice, one of them threw a blanket over his torn and blood–stained dress, while another brought from the stream a bowl of fresh water, which Prairie–bird took from the messenger, and held to his parched lips; then, wetting a cloth, she washed the blood from his face, cooled his hot brow, and inquired in a tone of sisterly affection, whether he found himself recruited and refreshed.

“The hand of Olitipa is medicine against pain, and her voice brings comfort!” replied the chief gently. “War–Eagle is quite happy.”

Not so were those around him. His stern warriors stood in sad, unbroken silence; the features of the hardy guide worked with an emotion that he strove in vain to conceal, for he knew that the Delaware would not have retained his sitting posture by the carcase of the bear had not his wounds been grievous and disabling; Reginald Brandon held the hand of his friend, unable to speak, save a few broken words of affection and gratitude: while Prairie–bird found at length relief for her oppressed heart in a flood of tears. So much engrossed were they all by their own feelings, that none seemed to notice the anguish of Lita, who still lay in a pool of blood at the feet of him whom she had long and secretly loved, giving no further signs of life than a succession of smothered wailings and groans that escaped from her unconscious lips.

The only countenance among those present that retained its unmoved composure was that of the chief himself; and a bright ray shot from his dark eye when one of the bravest of his warriors laid down before him the claws of the huge bear and her cub, which he had cut off according to custom, and now presented as a trophy of victory.

Baptiste and Pierre having conferred together for a few minutes, the former whispered to Reginald Brandon that Prairie–bird and Lita should be withdrawn for a short time, while War–Eagle’s wounds were examined, and his real condition ascertained. Agreeably to this suggestion, Reginald led his betrothed weeping from the spot. Some of the Delawares and hunters removed Lita; but not without difficulty, as she still clung with frantic energy to the torn garments of the chief; and, as they bore her away, they now for the first time observed that she had received some severe scratches in her fruitless endeavour to rescue him from the struggles of the dying bear.

When all had retired to some distance, and there remained only by the Delaware the oldest of his warriors, Pierre and Baptiste, the latter gently lifted the blanket from the shoulders of the wounded man, saying, “Let my brother allow his friends to see the hurts which he has received, that they may endeavour to relieve or heal them.”

The chief nodded his assent, and no sign, save the dew that stood upon his brow, betrayed the agony and the sense of exhaustion that he endured. When the tattered remnants of his hunting dress were removed, a spectacle so terrible was presented to the eyes of the guide, that even his iron nerves could not endure it, and, covering his face with his hands, he groaned aloud, while the exclamation, “Dieu de la miséricorde!” broke from his lips in the language that they had first been taught to speak.

The left arm of the chief was bitten through and through, and so dreadfully mangled that no skill of surgery could restore it; the shoulders and chest had been lacerated by the fore–paws, some of the wounds being wide and gaping, as if made by a saw or hatchet; these, however, might possibly yield to time and careful treatment; but the injuries that he had received in the lower part of the body were such as to leave no hope of recovery, for the bear, in her last dying struggles, had used the terrible claws of her hind feet with such fatal effect, that the lacerated entrails of the sufferer protruded through the wound.

Baptiste saw at a glance that all was over, and that any attempt at closing the wounds would only cause additional and needless pain. War–Eagle watched his countenance, and reading there a verdict that confirmed his own sensations, gave him his hand and smiled. The rough woodsman wrung it with ill–dissembled emotion, and turned away his head that his Indian friend might not see the moisture that gathered in his eye.

A brief consultation now ensued, during which it was arranged that the carcases of the bears should be carried away, and the wounded chief gently moved to a soft grassy spot a few yards distant, where his wounds might be so far dressed and bandaged as to prevent further effusion of blood. It was also agreed that the tent and the lodges should be brought to the spot, so that he might receive all the care and attention that his desperate case admitted.

These arrangements having been made, Baptiste walked slowly towards the place where the rest of the party awaited in deep anxiety the result of his report. As he drew near with heavy, lingering steps, and his weather–beaten countenance overspread with gloom, they saw too well the purport of his message, and none had courage enough to be the first to bid him speak. Prairie–bird clung to the arm of Reginald for support; the Delawares leaned upon their rifles in silence; and even the rough hunters of the prairie wore an aspect of sadness that contrasted strongly with their habitual bold and reckless bearing.

Recovering his composure by a powerful effort, the guide looked gravely around him as soon as he reached the centre of the semicircle in which they stood, and addressing himself first to Reginald and the white men, said, “There is no cure for the wounds of the Delaware; were the Black Father himself among us, his skill and his medicine would be in vain.” Then turning to the Delawares, he added in their own tongue, “The sun of the Lenapé Chief is setting. The Great Spirit has sent for him, and he must obey: let his warriors gather round him to smooth his path through the dark valley.”

Having thus spoken, the guide hastened to carry into effect the arrangements above mentioned, and in a short time the little camp was moved to the spot where the Delaware reclined against the stump of a withered alder, over which his followers had already thrown some blankets and buffalo–robes to soften his couch. Hither was brought the tent of Prairie–bird, which was so pitched that the outer compartment might shelter the wounded chief, and might afford to Reginald and Prairie–bird the means of watching him constantly, and administering such relief in his extremity as was within their power.

Lita’s energies, both of mind and body, seemed entirely paralysed, she neither wept nor sobbed, but sate in a corner of the tent, whence she gazed intently, yet with a vacant expression, upon the sufferer.

He alone of the whole party maintained throughout a dignified and unmoved composure; nor could either the pangs he endured, nor the certain prospect of a lingering death, draw from him a word of complaint. He smiled gratefully as Prairie–bird from time to time raised the refreshing cup of water to his lips, or wiped away the drops which weakness and agony wrung from his forehead. Once, and once only, did a look of gloom and discontent pass over his countenance.

Reginald observing it, took his hand and inquired, “Is there a dark thought in my brother’s heart, let him speak it?”

“There is,” replied the chief, with stern energy, “Mahéga, the bloody–hand—the Washashee wolf—the slayer of my tribe, he lives, and War–Eagle must go to the hunting–fields of the brave, and when his fathers say to him, ‘where is the scalp of Mahéga?’ his tongue will be silent, and his hands will be empty.”

“His hands will not be empty,” replied Reginald, breathing his own impassioned feelings in the figurative language of his friend. “His hands will not be empty; he can show the scalps of many enemies; he may tell the ancient people that he was the war–chief of their race, that neither Washashee nor Dahcotah ever saw his back; and that, to save his sister’s life, he gave his own. Where is the warrior who would not envy the fame of War–Eagle, and who would not rejoice in the glory of such a death?”

These words, and the tone of earnest feeling in which they were spoken, touched the right chord in the heart of the chief; he pressed the hand of his friend, and a smile of triumph shot across his features like a sunbeam breaking through the thick darkness of a thunder cloud.

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