REGINALD AND BAPTISTE PAY A VISIT TO WAR–EAGLE.—AN ATTEMPT AT
TREACHERY MEETS WITH SUMMARY PUNISHMENT.
The other horse being now secured, the party prepared to resume their
journey; and as it appeared, after a few words whispered between the
Indian and the guide, that their routes were in the same direction,
they struck into the forest, Baptiste leading, followed by Reginald,
and War–Eagle bringing up the rear with the two horses.
After walking a few minutes in silence, “Baptiste,” said our hero, in
French, “what was the story told about the horse? I understood little
of what he said in English, and none of what he spoke in his own
tongue.”
“He told us, Master Reginald, that he was out on a war–party against
the Camanchees, a wild tribe of Indians in the South west: they steal
horses from the Mexicans, and exchange them with the _Aricarás_,
Kioways, Pawnees, and other Missouri Indians.”
“Well, Baptiste, how did he take this swift horse with his
‘neck–bullet,’ as he called it?”
“That, Master Reginald, is the most difficult shot in the prairie;
and I have known few red–skins up to it. The western hunters call it
‘creasing:’—a ball must be shot just on the upper edge of the spine
where it enters the horse’s neck: if it is exactly done, the horse
falls immediately, and is secured; then the wound is afterwards healed:
but if the ball strikes an inch lower, the spine is missed, or the
horse is killed. Few red–skins can do it,” muttered the guide; “and the
‘doctor’ here,” shaking his long rifle, “has failed more than once; but
War–Eagle has said it, and there are no lies in _his_ mouth.”
“Tell me, Baptiste,” said Reginald, earnestly; “tell me something about
my brother’s history, his race, and exploits.”
“Afterwards, my young master. I know not that he understands us now;
but these Indians are curious critturs in hearing; I believe if you
spoke in that strange Dutch lingo which you learnt across the water,
the red–skins would know how to answer you—stay,” added he, putting
his rifle to his shoulder, “here is work for the doctor.”
Reginald looked in the direction of the piece, but saw nothing; and the
guide, while taking his aim, still muttered to himself, “The pills are
very small, but they work somewhat sharp.” Pausing a moment, he drew
the trigger; and a sudden bound from under a brake, at fifty yards’
distance, was the last death–spring of the unlucky deer whose lair had
not escaped the hunter’s practised eye.
“Bravely shot,” shouted Reginald; “what says War–Eagle?”
“Good,” replied the Indian.
“Nay,” said Baptiste; “there was not much in the shot; but your French
waly–de–sham might have walked past those bushes without noting the
twinkle of that crittur’s eye. Our red–skin friend saw it plain enough,
I warrant you,” added he, with an inquiring look.
“War–Eagle’s path is not on the deer track,” said the young chief, with
a stern gravity.
In a very few minutes an additional load of venison was across the
sturdy shoulders of the guide, and the party resumed their march in
silence.
They had not proceeded far, when the Indian halted, saying,
“War–Eagle’s camp is near; will my white brother eat and smoke?—the
sun is high; he can then return to his great wigwam.”
Reginald, who was anxious to see more of his new friend, and in whom
the morning’s exercise had awakened a strong relish for a slice of
broiled venison, assented at once, and desired him to lead the way.
As he was still followed by the two horses, War–Eagle was somewhat in
advance of his companions, and Baptiste whispered, in French, “Beware,
Master Reginald—you may fall into a trap.”
“For shame,” said the latter, colouring with indignation; “can you
suspect treachery in _him_? Did you not yourself say he could not lie?”
“Your reproof is undeserved,” said the cool and wary hunter; “War–Eagle
may not be alone, there may be turkey–buzzards with him.”
“If there be a score of vultures,” said Reginald, “I will follow him
without fear—he would not lead us into harm.”
“Perhaps you are right,” was the guide’s answer; and again the party
resumed their march in silence.
They soon arrived at a place where the forest was less densely
wooded; some of the larger trees appeared to have been overthrown by
a hurricane, and some of the lesser to have fallen by the axe. Nekimi
trotted forward, as if making for a spot that he recognised, and the
Indian recalled him with the same cry that he had before used, adding,
however, another, and a shriller sound.
The guide shook his head, and muttered something inaudibly between
his teeth, loosening at the same time the huge axe in his belt, and
throwing his long rifle over his arm, ready for immediate use.
These preparations did not escape the observation of Reginald; and
although he said nothing, he felt more uneasy than he cared to own; for
it struck him that if the guide, who seemed to have so high an opinion
of War–Eagle, was apprehensive of treachery or of some unforeseen
danger, there was less ground for his own confidence.
Meantime the Indian walked composedly forward until he reached the
_camp_[6],—a pretty spot, sheltered on the windward side by a laurel
thicket, and on the other commanding a view of the open glade, and of
a small stream winding its silent course towards the river which our
party had so lately left.
On a grassy plot, between two venerable trees, the embers of a
smouldering fire sent up the thin blue vapour which rises from the
burning of green wood, several logs of which were still piled for fuel;
while sundry bones and feathers, scattered at no great distance, gave
sufficient evidence of recent feasting.
War–Eagle glanced hastily around his camp; and leaving Nekimi to
feed at liberty, secured the less tractable horse; while he was thus
employed, the guide whispered in a low voice, “There are three or four
Indians here! I trace their marks on the grass, and I know it by this
fire; it is a war party—there are no squaws here; Master Reginald,
keep your ears and eyes open, but show no distrust; if he offers a
pipe, all may yet be right.”
Although the guide said this so distinctly that Reginald heard every
syllable, he was to all appearance busily engaged in throwing some dry
sticks on the fire, and easing himself of the skins and the venison
with which he was loaded. The Indian now took from a hollow in one of
the old trees before–mentioned, a pipe, the bowl of which was of red
sandstone, and the stick painted and ornamented with stained porcupine
quills; he also drew out a leather bag of _kinne–kinek_[7]; and having
filled and lighted his pipe, seated himself at a short distance from
the fire, and gravely invited Reginald to sit on his right, and the
guide on his left. As soon as they were seated, War–Eagle inhaled a
large volume of smoke; and looking reverently up to the sky, sent forth
a long whiff, as an offering to the Great Spirit; then simply saying,
“My brother is welcome,” he passed the pipe to Reginald, and afterwards
to Baptiste.
For some time they smoked in silence: not a sound was heard but the
crackling of the wood on the fire, and the occasional chirrup of a
robin in the neighbouring bushes. This silent system not suiting
Reginald’s ardent temperament, he abruptly addressed the Indian as
follows:—
“Has my brother come far from his people?”
A cloud gathered on the chief’s brow, and the guide thought that a
storm of wrath would be excited by this unlucky question; but the
Indian, looking steadily upon the frank open countenance of the
speaker, replied, in a voice rather melancholy than fierce, “War–Eagle
has few people: the bones of his fathers are _not far_!”
Our hero, anxious to dismiss a subject which seemed painful to his new
friend, turned the conversation to his equipment, and observed, “My
brother walks abroad without fear; he is almost without arms.”
The Indian, carelessly resting his hand upon his war–club, said
(speaking rather to himself, than to his companions), “It has tasted
blood: ask the Dahcotahs!”
“The Dahcotahs are dogs,” said the guide, angrily. “Their skins are
red, but their hearts are white!”
War–Eagle, turning upon him a penetrating look, continued,
“Grande–Hâche is a warrior; he has smoked, has feasted, has fought
among the _Lenapé_[8]; he has struck more than one Dahcotah chief.
But the Grande–Hâche cannot rest: the scalp of his mother hangs in
the lodge of the _Assiniboins_[9]; her spirit is unquiet in the dark
hunting–ground.”
The guide made no reply, but the forced compression of his lips, and
the muscular contraction that passed over his sinewy frame, showed how
deeply he cherished that vengeance which the Indian’s word awakened.
“This is then,” said our hero to himself, “the cause of that fierce
unextinguishable hate which Baptiste has always borne to these Sioux;
I cannot wonder at it.” Reginald continued, however, his conversation
respecting his new friend’s equipment, in the same tone: “My brother’s
war–club is strong, and that iron spike in its head is sharp; but the
rifle kills from far, and the white men are not all friends to him.”
“War–Eagle has ears and eyes; he can see snakes in the grass,” was the
calm reply.
“Nay, but my brother is careless,” said Reginald laughing;
“Grande–Hâche, as you call him, and I are two men, both strong and
armed with rifles: if we were not his brothers, the War–Eagle would be
in danger.”
“The bad Spirit made the thick water and the horses too strong for
War–Eagle,” said the latter, referring to the morning’s accident, “but
he could not be hurt by his brother’s rifle.”
“And why so?” demanded Reginald.
“Because,” said the Indian, “the white warrior has smoked, has taken
his brother’s gift, and the Great Spirit has written on his face that
he cannot speak lies.”
“You are right, my brave friend,” said Reginald (not a little gratified
by the untutored compliment); “but if you fall in with white men who
carry rifles, and who _do_ speak lies—how fares it with you then?”
“War–Eagle is always ready,” said he, in the same unmoved tone; “the
Grande–Hâche is a great warrior—my brother will take many scalps; yet
_if_ their tongues were forked—_if_ their hearts were bad—both would
die where they now sit—they have neither ears nor eyes—but the Lenapé
is a chief, they are as safe here as in the great white village.”
Though inwardly nettled at this taunt, which he felt to be not
altogether undeserved, the guide took no other notice of it than to
strain to the utmost those organs of sight and hearing which the
red–skin had held so cheap, but in vain: the forest around them seemed
wrapt in solitude and silence; the eyes of Reginald, however, served
him better on this occasion. “By heaven, the Indian speaks truth,” said
he; “I see them plainly—one, two, three! and we, Baptiste, are at
their mercy.”
This he spoke in French, and the guide answered in the same language:
“Do you see Indians, Master Reginald, where I can see naught but trees,
and logs, and grass; if it is so—I am an owl, and no hunter!”
“Glance your eye,” said our hero, calmly, “to yon old fallen log, that
lies fifty or sixty yards to your right, there are three small parallel
lines visible there,—they are three gun–barrels; the sun shone on them
a minute since, and their muzzles are directed full upon us.”
“It is true; your eyes are younger than mine, I suppose,” said the
guide, apparently more disconcerted at that circumstance than at the
imminent peril of their situation; he added, in a low, determined tone,
“but they must shoot very true, if they wish to prevent me from taking
this deep and deceitful villain with me on the long journey.”
During the whole of this conversation, War–Eagle sat in unmoved
silence, occasionally puffing out a whiff from the fragrant herb in
his pipe. Reginald met the unexpected danger with the straightforward,
daring courage which was the characteristic of his mind; Baptiste with
the cool resolution which was the result of a life of stratagems,
perils, and escapes.
“War–Eagle,” said the former, “you speak true; Grande–Hâche and I have
shut our eyes and ears; but they are now open; I see your warriors.”
The Indian turned his searching eye full upon the speaker; he met a
look bold, open, fearless as his own. “Where can my white brother see
warriors?” he inquired.
“Their guns are across yonder log,” said Reginald; “and their muzzles
are pointed here.”
“It is so,” said War–Eagle; “the red men are on the war–path; they seek
blood; is my white brother not afraid?”
“War–Eagle is a chief,” replied the young man; “he cannot lie,—he has
said that his white brother is as safe as in the wigwam of his father!”
Again the Indian bent a scrutinising look upon the countenance of the
speaker, and again met the same smile of fearless confidence. With more
emotion than he had yet shown, he said, “The Great Spirit has given to
my white brother the big heart of a Lenapé!”
He now made a signal to his ambuscade to come forth, on which they
started up from behind the large fallen tree which had hitherto
screened them, and advanced slowly towards the camp. They were three
in number; two of them active looking men, of moderate stature, but of
symmetrical proportions; the third a lad, apparently about seventeen
years old; the faces of the two former were painted with black
stripes, which gave them an appearance at once fierce and grotesque;
they were lightly clad in hunting–shirts, leggins, and mocassins,
all of elk–skin, and each carried a tomahawk, scalp–knife, and the
gun before mentioned; the young lad carried no other weapon but the
gun; his hunting–shirt was fancifully ornamented with tassels of
porcupine quills, and was fastened at the waist by a belt studded with
party–coloured beads; his leggins were fringed, and his mocassins were
also braided with the quills of the porcupine; in figure he was slight
and tall; as he drew near, Reginald thought his countenance even more
remarkable than that of War–Eagle: indeed its beauty would have been
almost effeminate, had it not been for the raven blackness of the
hair, and the piercing fire of the dark eyes. The three came forward
in silence, the lad being rather in advance of the others, and stood
before the War–Eagle.
He bade them, in his own language, to be seated, and smoke the pipe
with the white men. They did so, with the exception of the lad, who
not being yet a warrior, passed it untouched; and when it had gone
round, War–Eagle harangued his party: as he narrated the events of
the morning, Reginald was struck by the deep and flexible modulation
of his voice; and although he did not understand a word of the
language, fancied that he knew when the chief related his immersion and
subsequent preservation by the white man’s knife.
At this portion of the tale, the Indian youth made no attempt
to conceal his emotion; his glistening eyes were fixed upon the
speaker, and every feature of his intelligent countenance beamed with
affectionate interest: as War–Eagle described his being struck under
water, stunned by a blow from a horse’s foot, and that the thick water
covered him, a hurried exclamation escaped from the boy’s lips; and
when his chief related how the white warrior had dived, had cut the
cord in which he was entangled, and had brought him again to the air
and to life, the youth, no longer able to control his feelings, threw
himself into Reginald’s arms, exclaiming, in good English,
“The Great Spirit reward the white warrior: he has given me back my
chief—my brother!”
Our hero was no less astonished than was the guide, at such
uncontrolled emotion in a youth of a nation so early taught to conceal
their feelings; nor were they less surprised at the clearness and
purity of accent with which he expressed himself in English.
“I only did, my boy,” said Reginald, kindly, “what you would have done
had you been in my place.”
“You are a great warrior,” said the youth, running his eye over the
powerful frame beside him: “Wingenund would have gone into the strong
river, and would have died with the War–Eagle.”
“Is Wingenund, then, your name, my brave boy?”
“It was my forefather’s name,” said the youth, proudly. “I have yet no
name; but War–Eagle says I may have one soon, and I will have no other.”
“I feel sure you will deserve your forefather’s name,” said Reginald.
“What does it mean in my language?”
“It means, ‘The Beloved.’”
“The youth speaks true,” murmured the guide (who, though busily engaged
in rounding off a bullet with his knife, lost not a word or gesture
that passed), “he speaks only truth; I knew his forefather well: a
braver and a better heart never dwelt among the Lenapé.”
The boy looked gratefully at the weather–beaten hunter; and as he cast
his eyes down in silence, it would have been difficult to say whether
pleasure, pride, or pain predominated in their expression.
“Tell me,” resumed Reginald, “how come you to speak English like a
white man?”
“The good father and Olitipa taught me.”
Reginald looked at the guide for an explanation; that worthy personage
shook his head, saying, “The boy talks riddles; but they are not hard
to guess. The good father must be some missionary, or priest; and
Olitipa would in their tongue signify ‘pretty prairie–fowl;’ so it is
probably the name of a Delaware woman—perhaps his sister.”
“_Kehella là_—so it is,” said the boy: “Olitipa is in your tongue
‘pretty prairie–bird,’ and she is my sister.”
“Where is Prairie–bird?” inquired Reginald, amused by the youth’s
_naïveté_.
“Far, far away, beyond the great river! But we will go back
soon;—shall we not?” inquired he, looking up timidly at War–Eagle.
“_Pechu lenitti_,[10]” answered the chief; and leaning towards the
youth, he added some words in a whisper, which made him start up to
obey the orders he had received.
Reginald was not long left in ignorance of their nature, as in a few
minutes the active lad had refreshed the fire, and was busy in broiling
some venison steaks, which, after the exercise of the morning, sent up
a steam far from unpleasant to the senses of any of those present.
“Master Reginald,” said the guide, “that silly perroquet of yours,
Gustave Perrot, is always telling fine stories of what he has seen in
Europe, and talking of the scent of roses, and the sweet sounds of
music, till the girls in the clearins think he’s a book–author and a
poet: did you ever smell any scent, or hear any music, sweeter than
comes from the hissing and frizzing of those slices of fat venison
after a six hours’ hunt in the woods?”
“Perhaps not,” said Reginald, laughing; “but we are only hunters, and
Monsieur Perrot is a man of taste.”
“Whom have we here,” grumbled the guide, as an Indian appeared in the
distance. “Friend War–Eagle, is this another of your band?”
“He is,” replied the chief: “all are now here.”
The new comer was a powerful, athletic–looking man: his face was
painted one half black, and the other half striped with bars of red;
the sleeves of his hunting–shirt were so short and loose, that his
naked arms were visible, one of which was tatooed in the form of a
lizard, and on the other he wore an armlet of brass; his leggins and
mocassins were soiled and torn, and the perspiration streaming from his
matted hair showed that he had travelled both far and fast. He was,
like the rest, equipped with rifle, tomahawk, and scalp–knife; his
countenance, as far as it could be distinguished through its disguise
of paint, was expressive of cunning and ferocity. Though probably much
surprised at seeing two white men sitting thus amicably with his chief,
he took little notice of them, or of the rest of the party; but without
asking, or being asked, any questions, seated himself on the opposite
side of the fire, lighted his pipe, and smoked.
“Master Reginald,” said the guide, in French, “I do not like that
fellow. I know not how he comes to be with our friend here, for he
belongs to another tribe; I have seen him before.”
Meantime, the industrious lad had broiled his venison steaks, and
having gathered some broad leaves, which served on this occasion
for plates, he brought the first slice to Reginald, the second to
Baptiste, the next to War–Eagle, and so on, until he went through the
party; after which, without tasting anything himself, he took his
station close to his chief and his new friend. During the meal, the
Indian last arrived talked much in a suppressed voice to the one next
to him, and seemed studiously to avert his eyes from his chief and the
two white men.
“Tarhé,” said War–Eagle, addressing him, “is there not _tassmanané_[11]
for the stranger? he is my brother, and his path has been long.”
Tarhé went to his “câche,” a spot not many yards distant, and taking
out two or three small cakes, brought them round behind his chief, and
offered one to our hero, who was in the act of receiving it, when the
miscreant, drawing the knife from his girdle, aimed a blow at the back
of the unsuspecting Reginald.
Nothing could have saved him from instant death, had not the gallant
boy thrown himself between the savage and his victim. The knife went
through his arm; and so deadly was the force by which it was guided,
that it still descended, and inflicted a slight scratch on Reginald’s
shoulder.
War–Eagle sprang like a tiger from the ground, and with one blow of
his tremendous war–club dashed the ruffian to the earth; then turning
suddenly his angry glance upon the two other Indians, he asked if they
had any part in Tarhé’s plot. Neither had stirred from their seat, and
both declared they had known nothing of his intention. It was well for
them that the chief believed them, for this act of vile treachery had
aroused all the slumbering fire within him, and the veins started like
blue cords upon his temples.
Reginald’s first impulse, when he jumped upon his feet, was to hasten
to the wounded youth, whose features were now lighted up by a smile of
happiness. “Tell me, my brave, generous boy, are you much hurt?”
“No,” said he, “I should have been hurt if the War–Eagle’s camp had
been stained with the blood of his white brother.”
The sturdy guide himself could not repress his admiration of this
gallant boy’s conduct, who now stood looking intently upon War–Eagle,
his features animated by excitement and by pride, and the knife still
fixed up to the very handle in his arm,
“War–Eagle,” said Baptiste, “the Lenapé are men,—their boys are
warriors: that dog is not a Lenapé,” added he, pointing to the
prostrate body of Tarhé.
“_Tah–Delamattenos_[12],” said the chief indignantly. The youth now
moving a step forward, came before his chief with an air of modest
dignity, and slowly drew the reeking knife from his arm, while a stream
of blood gushed from the wound; not a muscle of his frame trembled,
not a feature varied its expression, as he said, in a voice of musical
gentleness, “War–Eagle, will Wingenund allow his grandson now to bear
his name?”
“_Wingenund!_” said War–Eagle, looking upon him with affectionate
pride, “the chiefs at the Council–fire shall know that the blood of the
well–beloved still flows in a young warrior’s veins.”
“My good friend,” said the guide to the chief, “you have no time to
lose, the lad will bleed to death!”
Reginald sprang forward, and closing as he best could the gaping wound,
bound his handkerchief tightly over it.
There was, indeed, no time to be lost; for the blood had flowed more
freely than his youthful frame could endure. A painful dizziness came
over him; and murmuring, almost inaudibly, “The White Warrior is safe,
and Wingenund is happy,” he fell senseless into Reginald’s arms.