The girl addressed by the name of Lita was about seventeen years

of age, small, and delicately formed, exceedingly dark, her wild

and changeful countenance being rather of a gipsy than of an Indian

character. She had been taken, when a child, by a war–party which had

penetrated into the country of the Comanches, a powerful and warlike

tribe still inhabiting the extensive prairies on the Mexican and Texian

frontier. She was devotedly attached to Prairie–bird, who treated her

more like a friend than a slave, but towards all others she observed

an habitual and somewhat haughty silence. Had her fate condemned her

to any other lodge in the encampment, the poor girl’s life would have

been a continued succession of blows, labour, and suffering; for her

spirit was indomitable, and impracticable to every other control

than kindness; but as the good–humoured Tamenund had appropriated

her services to his favourite child, she passed most of her time in

Olitipa’s tent, and thus avoided the ill–usage to which she might

otherwise have been exposed.

Such was the girl who now went to the folding aperture of the tent,

and desired Wingenund to come in. The youth entered, followed by a

boy bearing a large covered dish or basket of wicker–work, which

having placed on the table, he withdrew. Prairie–bird could not

fail to observe in her young brother’s countenance and carriage an

unusual stateliness and dignity, and she remarked at the same time

the circumstance of his having brought with him the boy to carry her

basket, a service which he had been accustomed to perform with his own

hands. Making him a sign to sit down, she thus accosted him, in terms

allusive to the customs of the tribe:—

“Has my young brother dreamt? Has the breath of the Great Spirit passed

over his sleep?”

“It is so,” replied Wingenund. “The chiefs and the braves have sat at

the council–fire; the name of Wingenund was on their tongues, the deeds

of his fathers are not forgotten; he is not to do the work of squaws;

his name will be heard among the warriors of the Lenapé.”

From this reply Prairie–bird knew that her young brother was about to

undergo the fasting, and other superstitious ordeals, through which

those youths were made to pass who wished to be enrolled among the

warriors of the tribe at an earlier age than usual. These superstitious

observances were repugnant to her good sense and enlightened

understanding; and as she had hitherto acted in the capacity of

monitress and instructress, she was perhaps not pleased at the prospect

of his suddenly breaking loose from her gentle dominion: she said to

him, therefore, in a tone more grave than usual,—

“Wingenund has heard the Black Father speak;—were his ears shut? Does

he not know that there is one God above, who rules the world alone? The

totems[29], and the symbols and the dreams of the medicine–men, are

for those poor Indians whose minds are under a cloud. Wingenund cannot

believe these things!”

“My sister speaks wisely,” replied the youth; “the wind cannot blow

away her words: but Wingenund is of the Lenapé, the ancient people; he

wishes to live and die among their braves; he must travel in the path

that his fathers have trod, or the warriors will not call his name when

the hatchet is dug up.”

“Let not the hatchet be dug up,” said the maiden, anxiously. “Have I

not told my brother that God is the avenger of blood spilt by man? why

should his foot be set on the war–path?”

“While the hatchet is below the earth,” replied the youth, in the low,

musical accent of his tribe, “Wingenund will sit by his sister and

listen to her wisdom; he will go out with War–Eagle and bring back the

skin of the antelope or the doe for her apparel, the meat of the deer

and the bison for her food; he will open his ears to the counsel of the

Black Father, and will throw a thick blanket over thoughts of strife

and blood. But if the Washashee (the Osage) bears a forked tongue (here

the youth sank his voice to a whisper of deep meaning),—if he loosens

the scalp–knife while his hand is on the poacan[30]—if the trail of

the Dahcotah is found near our village, Wingenund must be awake: he is

not a child: the young men will hear his voice, and the old men shall

say, ‘He is the son of his father.’ It is enough. Let my sister eat the

meat that War–Eagle has sent her: for three suns Wingenund tastes not

food.”

So saying, the lad threw his robe over his shoulder and left the

tent. Prairie–bird gazed long and thoughtfully on the spot where her

brother’s retreating figure had disappeared; she felt grieved that

all the lessons and truths of Christianity which she had endeavoured

to instil into his mind were unable to change the current of his

Indian blood: she had hoped to see him become a civilised man and a

convert, and, through his amiable character, and the weight of his

name, to win over many others of the Lenapé tribe. In addition to this

disappointment, she was alarmed at the purport of his parting words:

he had hinted at some treachery on the part of their Osage allies,

and that a trail of the Dahcotahs had been seen near the encampment.

These subjects of anxiety, added to the excitement which her feelings

had lately undergone, so completely engrossed the maiden’s attention,

that, although the corn–cakes were of the sweetest kind, and the

venison of the most delicate flavour, the basket of provisions remained

untouched on the table when Paul Müller entered the tent.

His brow was grave and thoughtful, but his countenance relaxed into its

usual benevolent expression, as his affectionate pupil sprang forward

to greet and welcome him.

“Dear father, I am so glad you are come!” she exclaimed; “I have been

waiting for you most impatiently, and I have been in need of your aid.”

“I heard, my child, as I walked through the village, that you had been

tending the wounds of a boy much hurt by a horse; was the hurt beyond

your skill?”

“Not exactly,” she replied, hesitating. “It was needful that blood

should flow from his arm; and, as you were not there, I was forced to

ask the assistance of Netis—that is, of Reginald.”

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

leech?”

“He would not allow me to look on,” she replied: “but, though it was

his first trial, he drew the blood, and stanched it, as skilfully as

you could have done it yourself; and then he walked with me to the

tent.”

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

“Oh yes; and he made me tell him a great deal about you, and I was

ashamed of talking so much; but then he told me that it gave him

pleasure to hear me talk. How can it please him to hear me talk, dear

father? I know nothing, and he has seen and read so much.”

Paul Müller averted his face for a moment to conceal from her the smile

which he could scarcely repress, as he replied,

“My child, he has perhaps seen and read much; but the life and habits

of the Indians are new to him, and of these you can tell him many

things that he does not know.”

“Tell me, dear father,” she said, after a short silence, “are there

others like him in my country? I mean, not exactly like him, but more

like him than the traders whom I have seen; they are so rough, and they

drink fire–water, and they never think of God or his mercies: but he is

so noble, his countenance made me afraid at first, but now, when he

speaks to me, his voice is as gentle as the fawn calling to its dam!”

Paul Müller saw very well how it fared with the heart of Prairie–bird.

He remembered that Reginald was the son of a wealthy proprietor, who

would probably have insuperable objections to his son’s marrying a

foundling of the wilderness, and he hesitated whether he should not

give her some warning caution on a subject which he foresaw would so

soon affect her peace of mind. On the other hand, he was convinced

that Reginald was a man of generous and decided character, and, while

he resolved carefully to observe the intercourse between them, he

would not mar the unsuspecting purity of her nature, nor throw any

obstacle in the way of an attachment which he believed might lead to

the happiness of both parties. In coming to this conclusion, it must

not be forgotten that he was a Moravian missionary, long resident in

the Far–west, and therefore not likely to trouble his head with the

nice distinctions of European aristocracy. In the country which was

now his home, he might be justified in deeming a match equal, if the

man were honest and brave, and the bride young and virtuous, without

reference to their birth, connections, or worldly possessions. Under

the impression of considerations like these, the missionary replied to

the maiden’s inquiry:

“My child, I will not say that among the cities and settlements of

the white men, there are many who would gain by comparison with

Reginald Brandon; for not only has he the accidental advantages of

fine features, and a form singularly graceful and athletic, but he

seems to me to possess the far higher and rarer qualities of a modest,

generous mind, and an honest heart: nevertheless, my child, I will

pray you, even in respect to him, not to forget what I have told you

regarding the general infirmity and waywardness of our nature; keep

a watch on your eyes and on your heart, and Providence will rule all

for the best:—we will speak no more on this subject now; let us take

some food from the basket on your table.” Prairie–bird spread the

simple meal in thoughtful silence, and when the missionary had asked a

blessing on it, they sat down together. After a pause of some minutes

she communicated to him her anxiety on account of the hints dropped by

Wingenund respecting the suspected treachery of some of their Osage

allies, and the circumstance of a hostile trail having been discovered

near the encampment. “It is too true,” replied the missionary gravely,

“there are signs of approaching strife; and even that boy, whom I have

so long endeavoured to instruct and lead aright, his blood is beginning

to boil. I fear it is almost as hard for an Indian to change his nature

as an Ethiopian his skin. He has told you the truth, and we must be

prepared for approaching trouble.”

After musing for a few moments, Paul Müller, fixing his eye on

Prairie–bird, continued: “Do you know any cause of quarrel between the

Osage and Lenapé chiefs?”

“None,” replied the maiden in unaffected surprise. “How should I know?

I go not near their council–fire.”

“True,” said the missionary; “but your eyes are not often shut in broad

day. Have you spoken to Mahéga of late? have you observed him?”

“He has spoken to me more than once, and often meets me on my return

from any far lodge in the village. I do not like him; he is fierce and

bad, and he beats his young squaw, Wetopa.”

“You are right, my child; avoid him; there is evil in that man; but if

you meet him, do not show any dislike or suspicion of him; you would

only kindle strife: you are among faithful and watchful friends; and if

they were all to slumber and sleep, you have a Friend above, whose eye

is never closed, and whose faithfulness is everlasting. Farewell, my

child. I must converse awhile with Tamenund. Do you solace an hour with

your guitar; it will put your unquiet thoughts to rest.”

Prairie–bird was so accustomed to pay implicit obedience to the

slightest wishes and suggestions of her beloved preceptor, that as

he left the tent she mechanically took up the guitar, and passed her

fingers through the strings. By degrees the soul of music within her

was stirred, and ere long vented itself in the following hymn.

The words were in the Delaware tongue, and composed by herself—the

melodies (for more than one were introduced into the irregular chaunt)

were such as she had caught or mingled from Indian minstrelsy, and the

whole owed its only attraction to the sweet and varied tones of her

voice. The first measure was a low recitative, which might be thus

rendered in English:—

“The sun sinks behind the western hills;

Deep red are the curtains of his couch.

One by one the stars appear;

Many they are and lustrous.

The pale moon is among them!

They walk in their appointed path,

Singing on their way, ‘God made us all!’

_Machelenda sutch Ktelewunsoacan_,

or

Hallowed be thy name.”

Here the measure changed, and sweeping the strings with a bolder hand,

she continued her untutored hymn, blending her Christian creed with the

figures and expressions of the people among whom she dwelt.

“The Great Spirit of the Lenapé is God.

He has sent His word to gladden the heart of man.

But clouds still darken the minds of the ancient people.

The Great Spirit knows that they are blind and deaf,

Yet His ear is open to hear,

His hand is ready to guide.

(_ut suprà._)

Hallowed be thy name!”

Again the measure changed, as in the richest tones of her melodious

voice she pursued her theme.

“Sion and the everlasting mountains are thy footstool!

Lightnings are about thy throne.

Thunder is thy voice.

And the evil spirit trembles before thee!

The eagle cannot soar to thy habitation;

His eye cannot look on thy brightness;

Yet dost thou give life to the insect,

And breath to the merry wren!

Thou leadest the wild horse to the pasture,

And the thirsty fawn to the stream.

Hallowed be thy name.”

Here the measure resumed its low and plaintive melody, as she thus

concluded her song.

“Who sings the praise of God?

It is ‘Prairie–bird,’ the poor child of the wilderness.

But God spurns not her prayer;

She is a stray–leaf, that knows not the tree

Whence the rude wind hath blown it;

But God planted the parent stem.

And not a branch or leaf thereof is hid from His sight.

The young whip–poor–will flies to its mother’s nest,

The calf bleats to the bison–cow:

No mother’s voice says to Olitipa,’Come here!’

The wide prairie is her home!

God is a Father to Olitipa!

Hallowed be thy name!”

In singing the last few words, the tones of her voice were “most

musical, most melancholy;” and though no human eye marked the

teardrop that stole down her cheek, it would appear that her song

had excited sympathy in some human bosom, for a deep sigh fell upon

her ear: startled at the sound, Prairie–bird looked around her tent,

but no one could be seen; she listened, but it was not repeated, and

the maiden remained unconscious that at the very first touch of her

guitar Reginald had crept out of the adjoining lodge, and, enveloped

in a buffalo robe on the grass at the back of her tent, had heard from

beginning to end her plaintive hymn, and had paid the unconscious

tribute of a heavy sigh to the touching pathos of its closing strain.

CHAPTER V.

SYMPTOMS OF A RUPTURE BETWEEN THE DELAWARES AND OSAGES.—MAHÉGA COMES

FORWARD IN THE CHARACTER OF A LOVER.—HIS COURTSHIP RECEIVES AN

UNEXPECTED INTERRUPTION.

Paul Müller, having left the lodge of Prairie–bird, fulfilled his

intention of entering that of Tamenund: he found the venerable

chieftain seated upon a buffalo robe; his back leaned against a bale

of cloth, a highly ornamented pipe–stem at his lips, while from its

other extremity a thin column of smoke, rising in wavy folds, found

its way out of the accidental rents and crevices in the skins which

covered the lodge. War–Eagle was listening in an attitude of respectful

attention to the words which fell from his father; but the subject of

conversation was evidently of some importance, as the women and the

youths were whispering together at a distance from the two principal

persons. The entrance of the missionary was not unnoticed, for Tamenund

made him a signal to draw near and sit down; several times the pipe was

passed round in silence, when the old chief addressing his guest in

the Delaware tongue, said, “The Black Father knows that there are dark

clouds in the sky!”

“He does,” replied the missionary. A glance of intelligence passed

between War–Eagle and Tamenund, as the latter proceeded.

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

shine again?”

“The Great Spirit only knows,” replied the missionary; “if the sun

shines, we will be thankful; if the storm falls, we will wrap round us

the cloak of patience.”

A fierce gleam shot from the young chief’s eye, but he spoke not a

word until Tamenund addressed him thus:—“What says War–Eagle? let him

speak.”

“The snows of many winters are on my father’s forehead; the Black

Father has learnt wisdom from the Great Spirit: it is more fitting for

War–Eagle to listen than to speak,” replied the young man, curbing the

angry thoughts that glowed in his breast.

“Nay, my son,” said the missionary, “let War–Eagle speak, and his

saying be afterwards weighed by the aged heads.”

War–Eagle then proceeded to explain how Wingenund, in returning from

the turkey–pen, had caught a glimpse of a distant figure, whom he knew

at a glance to belong to another tribe. Hastily concealing himself

among the bushes, he waited till the strange Indian passed, and then

resolving to watch him, crept stealthily on his trail.

Having made his way to a hollow in the thickest part of the forest,

he sat down on the stump of an alder–tree, where he made and twice

repeated a low signal whistle, which was soon answered by another

Indian, who approached in an opposite direction, and in whom, to his

great surprise, Wingenund recognised Mahéga. He was not near enough to

overhear their conversation, neither was he aware whether they spoke

in the Delaware tongue; but after conversing in a low tone for some

minutes, they separated, and Wingenund again put himself on the trail

of the stranger; the latter frequently stopped in his course, looked

round and listened, but the youth was too practised and sagacious to

be baffled by these precautions, and finally succeeded in tracking the

object of his pursuit to an encampment containing ten or a dozen armed

Indians, whom he knew at once to form a war–party, but could not decide

to what tribe they belonged; he succeeded, however, in securing a

mocassin which one of them had dropped, and returned unperceived to the

Delaware village.

Such was the outline of the occurrences now rapidly sketched by

War–Eagle; and in concluding his narrative, he held up the mocassin

above mentioned, and presented it to the aged chief. The latter

examined it for a moment in silence, and restoring it to the warrior,

pronounced, in a low guttural tone, the word “Dahcotah.”

“Yes,” said the War–Eagle, in a deep whisper, indicative of the

indignant passion that boiled within; “yes, the Dahcotah is in the

woods; he prowls like a prairie–wolf. The Great Spirit has made him a

dog, and if he sets his foot on the hunting–ground of the Lenapé, let

not his wife complain if she looks along his path in vain, and strikes

her breast, saying, ‘The wife of the Dahcotah is a widow!’ But the Evil

Spirit has crept into the heart of the Washashee, a snake is in the

council–chamber of the Lenapé, and lies are on the tongue of Mahéga! Is

it enough, or must War–Eagle speak more?”

“The words of my son are hard,” replied Tamenund, shaking his head

sorrowfully; “the Dahcotah are dogs, they are on a deer–hunt; their

heart is not big enough to make them dig up the hatchet to fight with

the Lenapé. Tamenund cannot believe that the tongue of Mahéga is so

forked, or his heart so black, that two suns have not passed since he

sat and smoked in this lodge, and spoke of Olitipa, the daughter of the

Prairie. He said that her voice was music to him, that her form was in

his dreams, and he asked Tamenund to give her to him as a wife.”

At these words the suppressed rage of the youthful warrior had

well–nigh burst the iron bands of Indian self–control; he ground his

teeth audibly together, his dilated form trembled through every nerve

and muscle; but observing the keen eye of the missionary fixed upon his

countenance, he subdued in a moment the rising tempest, and asked, in a

voice the forced calmness of which was fearful, “What said my father?”

Tamenund replied that the maiden was Great Medicine in the tribe, that

she was a gift of the Great Spirit, and that her dwelling could never

be in the lodge of an Osage chief. “He went away without speaking,”

added the old man seriously; “but his eye spoke bad words enough!”

“My father said well,” exclaimed the impetuous young man; “let Mahéga

seek a wife among his dog–brothers the Dahcotahs! War–Eagle will smoke

no more in his lodge.”

After a brief pause, Tamenund continued:

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

“Nay,” returned the young warrior, “let my father consult the Medicine,

and the counsellors who have seen many winters: War–Eagle will whisper

to his braves, and when the ancient men in council have spoken, he will

be ready.”

With this ambiguous answer, he folded his buffalo robe over his

shoulder and left the lodge.

The missionary saw that mischief was brewing, yet knew not how to

prevent it. He had gained extraordinary influence among the Delawares

by never interfering in their councils, unless when he felt assured

that the result would justify the advice which he offered; but on the

present occasion it was evident that his Indian friends had sufficient

grounds for suspecting their Osage allies of treachery; he resolved,

therefore, to wait and observe, before making those attempts at

reconciliation which became his character and his mission. Influenced

by this determination, he spoke a few words to the aged chief on

indifferent matters, and shortly afterwards retired to his own lodge.

During the preceding conversation Baptiste had been seated at a little

distance, his whole attention apparently engaged in mending a rent in

his mocassins, but scarcely a word had escaped his watchful ear; and

while he heard with secret delight that there was every chance of a

fight with the Sioux, towards whom he cherished, as we have before

observed, an unextinguished hatred, he could not view without much

uneasiness the dangerous position in which Reginald’s party might be

placed by a rupture between the Delawares and Osages, in a wild region

where either party might so soon obtain the ready aid of the Pawnees,

or some other warlike and marauding tribe; he resolved, however, for

the present to content himself with putting his young leader on his

guard, reserving a fuller explanation until he should have been able

to ascertain the intentions of his Delaware friends: in this last

endeavour he did not anticipate much difficulty, for the experienced

woodsman had proved his steadiness to them in many a fray, and his

courage and skill were no less proverbial among them than was his

mortal enmity to the Dahcotahs.

Nothing occurred during the ensuing night to disturb the quiet of the

encampment, if that may be denominated quiet which was constantly

interrupted by the chattering of wakeful squaws, the barking of dogs,

the occasional chaunt of a warrior, and the distant howling of hungry

wolves. Our hero’s dreams were, like his waking thoughts, full only of

Prairie–bird; and when he rose at daybreak he expressed no wish to roam

or hunt, but lingered within view of that small circular lodge, which

contained the treasure that he valued most on earth. To the cautious

warning of Baptiste he answered, smiling, “You confess yourself that

you only suspect; you know our friends and their language, their wiles,

and their stratagems. I trust the safety of my party to your sagacity;

if your suspicions are turned into certainty, tell me, and I am ready

to act.”

As the young man left the lodge without even taking his cutlass or his

rifle, Baptiste, looking after him, shrugged his shoulders, adding in

an under tone, just loud enough to be heard by Monsieur Perrot, who sat

at his side,—

“‘Suspicion,’ ‘certainty,’ ‘sagacity,’—why surely he is mad! He talks

as if plots and plans were measured out by rule amongst the red–skins,

as they may be ‘mongst lords and princes in Europe! This comes of his

towering, as they call it, amongst the Dutch, and other outlandish

tribes. Surely, he’s lived enough in the territory to know that with

these Ingians, and special near a Sioux trail, the first suspicion a

man is like to get is an arrow in his ribs or a tomahawk in his brain.

Capote–bleu, Maître Perrot, what do you think of your master, is he

mad?”

“Very much mad,” said the good–humoured valet, grinning, whilst he

continued assiduously to pound some coffee–beans which he was preparing

for breakfast; “very much mad, Monsieur Baptiste; he very mad to

leave Paris to go to his fox–huntin’ oncle in England; he more mad to

leave dat for the backwoods by de Muskingum; but he dam mad to leave

Mooshanne to come here where dere is nothing but naked savages and

naked prairies.”

“Ah! Maître Perrot,” replied the guide, “my father was a Canada

Frenchman, and although he was, mayhap, never further east than

Montreal, he was as fond of talking of Paris as a bear is of climbing a

bee–tree!”[31]

“He very right, Monsieur Ba’tiste; de world without Paris is no more

dan a woman widout a tongue; but as you know our language, I will speak

it to you, for pronouncing English is no better dan breaking stones wid

your teeth!” And the merry valet forthwith inflicted upon his graver

companion a Parisian tirade, that very soon went beyond the latter’s

stock of Canadian French.

The morning dawned with unusual splendour; the sun gradually rose

over the wooded hills that bounded the eastern horizon, and the light

breeze shook the dew–drops from the flowers, as Prairie–bird, fresh and

lovely as the scene around her, tripped lightly over the grass to the

sequestered spot which we have before mentioned as being her favourite

resort: there, seated at the root of the aged tree where Reginald had

first seen her, she opened the volume which was her constant companion,

and poured forth the grateful feelings of her heart, in the words of

the inspired Prophet–King; at her feet flowed the brawling stream

which fed the valley below the encampment; the merry birds sang their

matins among the leafy branches above her head, and around her sprang

sweet–scented flowers and blossoms of a thousand varied hues. There are

some spots, and some brief seasons, on earth, so redolent of freshness,

beauty, and repose, as almost to revive the Paradise lost by our first

parents; but soon, too soon, the effects of primeval sin and its

punishment are felt, and the atmosphere of heavenly peace is tainted by

the miasma of human passion!

Prairie–bird had enjoyed for some time her study and her meditations

undisturbed, when her attention was caught by the sound of approaching

footsteps: the conscious blood rushed to her cheek as she expected

to see the same visitor who had so suddenly presented himself on the

preceding day, when, to her surprise and annoyance, the gigantic figure

of Mahéga stood before her, on the opposite side of the streamlet by

which she was seated: although simple, unsuspecting, and fearless by

nature, there was something in the countenance and bearing of this

formidable chief that had always inspired her with mingled dislike and

awe: remembering on the present occasion the hint lately given to her

by the missionary, she returned the haughty greeting of the Indian by

a gentle inclination of her head, and then summoned composure enough

to continue her reading, as if desirous to avoid conversation: such,

however, was not Mahéga’s intention, who, softening, as far he was

able, the rough tones of his voice, addressed to her, in the Delaware

tongue, a string of the finest Indian compliments on her beauty and

attractions. To these the maiden coldly replied by telling him, that

she thanked him for his good words, but that as she was studying the

commands of the Great Spirit, she wished not to be disturbed.

Mahéga, nothing checked by this reply, continued to ply her with

protestations and promises, and concluded by telling her that she

_must_ be his wife; that he was a warrior, and would fill her wigwam

with spoils and trophies. As he proceeded, his countenance became more

excited, and the tones of his voice had already more of threat than of

entreaty. Prairie–bird replied, with forced calmness, that she knew he

was a great warrior, but that she could not be his wife: their paths

were different; his led to war, and spoils, and power in ruling his

tribe; hers to tending the sick and fulfilling the commands of the

Great Spirit given in the Medicine Book. Irritated by the firm though

gentle tone of her reply, the violent passion of the chief broke out in

a torrent of harsh and menacing words: he called her a foundling and

a slave; adding, that in spite of the Delaware squaws and their white

allies, she should sleep in his lodge, although the honour was greater

than she deserved.

Fired with indignation at this brutal menace, the spirited girl

rose from her seat, and, looking him full in the face, replied,

“Prairie–bird is a foundling; if Mahéga knows his parents, he disgraces

their name; she would rather be the slave of Tamenund than the wife of

Mahéga.”

A demoniac grin stole over the features of the savage, as he replied:

“The words of Olitipa are bitter. Mahéga laughs at her anger; she is

alone and unprotected; will she walk to his lodge, or must the warrior

carry her?”

[Illustration: PRAIRIE–BIRD AND MAHÉGA P. 219]

So saying, he advanced to the very edge of the narrow stream! The

maiden, although alarmed, retained sufficient presence of mind to

know that to save herself by flight was impossible; but the courage

of insulted virtue supported her, and she answered him in a tone that

breathed more of indignation than of fear:

“Olitipa is not alone—is not unprotected! The Great Spirit is

her protector, before whom the stature of Mahéga is as a blade of

grass, and his strength like that of an infant. See,” she continued,

drawing from her girdle a small, sharp–pointed dagger, “Olitipa is

not unprotected: if Mahéga moves a foot to cross that stream, this

knife shall reach her heart; and the great Mahéga will go to the

hunting–fields of the dead, a coward, and a woman–slayer.”

As she spoke these words she held the dagger pointed to her bosom, now

heaving with high emotion; her form seemed to dilate, and her dark eye

kindled with a prouder lustre. The glow on her cheek, and the lofty

dignity of her attitude, only heightened her beauty in the eyes of

the savage, and confirmed him in carrying out his fell purpose, to

ensure the success of which he saw that stratagem, not force, must be

employed: assuming, therefore, a sarcastic tone of voice, he replied,—

“Olitipa trusts to the edge of her knife; Mahéga laughs at her.” Then

he continued, in a louder key, as if addressing an Indian behind her,

“Let Wânemi seize her arm and hold it.”

As the surprised maiden turned her head in the direction where she

expected to see the Indian to whom Mahéga was speaking, that crafty

chief cleared the brook at a bound, and seizing her waist, while a

smile of triumph lit up his features, said, “The pretty one is Mahéga’s

prisoner; there is no one here but himself; a cunning tale tickled the

ears of Olitipa.”

The hapless girl saw how she had been outwitted by the savage: she

struggled in vain to free herself from his grasp, and a faint scream of

despair broke from her lips.

The spring of a famished tiger on a heifer is not more fiercely

impetuous than was the bound with which Reginald Brandon rushed from

the adjacent thicket upon Mahéga,—reckless of his opponent’s huge

bulk and strength, forgetful that he was himself unarmed. The cry of

Prairie–bird had strung with tenfold power every sinew in his athletic

frame: seizing with both hands the throat of Mahéga, he grasped it with

such deadly force that the Indian was compelled to release his hold

of the maiden,—but he still retained her knife, and in the struggle

plunged it into the arm and shoulder of Reginald, who relaxed not,

however, his iron grasp, but still bore his opponent backwards, until

the foot of the latter tripped over a projecting root, and he fell with

tremendous force upon his head, the blood gushing in torrents from his

nose and mouth. Reginald, who had been dragged down in his fall, seized

the dagger, and, as he raised it above his head, felt a light touch

upon his arm, and turning round saw Prairie–bird kneeling at his side,

her face pale as monumental marble, and the sacred volume still clasped

in her hand.

“Kill him not, Reginald,” she said, in a low impressive voice;

“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!’”

Breathless, and flushed with the late severe struggle, the young

man replied: “I will spare the villain, dear Prairie–bird, at your

bidding: he is stunned and senseless now, but he will soon recover, and

his fury and thirst for revenge will know no bounds; he shall know,

however, that I _have_ spared him.” So saying, he cut off the dyed and

ornamented scalp–lock from the top of Mahéga’s head, and, laying it

beside the prostrate chieftain, arose, and retired with Prairie–bird

from the spot.

They walked together some distance in silence, for her heart

was overcharged with contending emotions; and as they went she

unconsciously clung to his arm for support: at length she stopped, and

looking up in his face, her eyes glistening with tears, she said,

“How am I ever to thank you?—my first debt of gratitude is due to

Heaven; but you have been its brave, its blessed instrument of my

deliverance from worse than death!” and a shudder passed over her frame

as the rude grasp of Mahéga recurred to her remembrance.

“Dear Prairie–bird,” he replied; “as a man I would have done as much

for the poorest and most indifferent of your sex—how then am I repaid

a thousand, thousand fold by having been allowed to serve a being so

precious!” The deep mellow tone in which he spoke these words, and the

look by which they were accompanied, brought the truant colour again

to the cheek of his companion, and as she cast her full dark eyes

downwards, they rested on the arm that supported her, and she saw that

his sleeve was stained and dropping with blood!

“Oh! you are wounded, badly hurt, I fear. Tell me, tell me, Reginald,”

she continued, with an intensity of anxiety that her expressive

countenance betrayed, “are you badly hurt?”

“Indeed, dear Prairie–bird, I cannot tell you: I felt the Indian strike

me twice with the dagger before he fell; I do not think the wounds are

serious, for you see I can walk and assist your steps too.”

While he thus spoke he was, however, growing faint from loss of blood,

and the wound in his shoulder, having become cold and stiff, gave him

exquisite pain. Prairie–bird was not deceived by the cheerfulness of

his manner; she saw the paleness that was gradually stealing over his

countenance, and, with ready presence of mind, insisted on his sitting

down on the trunk of a fallen tree beside their path. The suffering

condition of Reginald redoubled instead of paralysing her energies; she

filled his cap with fresh water from the brook, urged him to taste a

few drops, and sprinkled more over his face and temples; then ripping

up the sleeve of his hunting–shirt, she found the blood still welling

from two severe wounds between the elbow and shoulder in the left arm:

these she bathed and carefully closed, applying to them a healing

salve, which she drew from the small bag that she wore at her girdle,

after which she bandaged the arm firmly with her kerchief; then,

kneeling beside him, strove to read in his face the success of her

simple surgery.

In the course of a few minutes the dizzy sensation of faintness that

had been produced by loss of blood, passed away, and the delighted

Prairie–bird, seeing on his countenance the beaming smile of returning

consciousness and strength, murmured to herself, “Oh! God I thank

thee!” then hiding her face in her hands, wept with mingled emotion and

gratitude. Reginald heard the words, he marked the tears, and no longer

able to suppress the feelings with which his heart overflowed, he drew

her gently towards him with his yet unwounded arm, and whispered in her

ear the outpourings of a first, fond, passionate love!

No reply came from her lips, her tears (tears of intense emotion)

flowed yet faster; but a sensible pressure on the part of the little

hand which he clasped within his own, gave him the blest assurance that

his love was returned; and again and again did he repeat those sacred

and impassioned vows by which the hopes, the fears, the fortunes, the

affections, the very existence of two immortal beings, are inseparably

blended together. Her unresisting hand remained clasped in his, and

her head leaned upon his shoulder, that she might conceal the blushes

that suffused her countenance: still he would not be satisfied without

a verbal answer to his thrice urged prayer, that he might call her his

own; and when at length she raised her beaming eyes to his, and audibly

whispered, “For ever,” he sealed upon those sweet lips the contract of

unchanged affection.

Bright, transitory moments of bliss! lightning flashes that illumine

the dark and stormy path of life, though momentary in your duration,

how mighty in your power, how lasting in your effects! Sometimes

imparting a rapturous glow and kindling an unceasing heat that death

itself cannot extinguish, and sometimes under a star of evil destiny

searing and withering the heart rendered desolate by your scorching

flame!

It is not necessary to inform the gentle reader how long the

_tête–à–tête_ on the fallen tree continued; suffice it to say, that

Prairie–bird forgot her fright, and Reginald his wounds; and when

they returned to the village, each sought to enjoy in solitude those

delicious reveries which deserve certainly the second place in love’s

catalogue of happiness.

CHAPTER VI.

ETHELSTON PREPARES TO LEAVE MOOSHANNE.—MAHÉGA APPEARS AS AN ORATOR, IN

WHICH CHARACTER HE SUCCEEDS BETTER THAN IN THAT OF A LOVER.—A STORM

SUCCEEDED BY A CALM.

While the events described in the last chapter were in progress, the

hours sped smoothly onward at Mooshanne. Lucy and Ethelston thought

themselves justly entitled to a liberal compensation for the trials

of their long separation; and, as the spring advanced, morning and

evening generally found them strolling together, in the enjoyment of

its opening beauties. Sometimes Aunt Mary encountered them during the

busy round of her visits to the poultry, the piggery, or to the cottage

of some neighbour, whither sorrow or sickness called her. The mate

frequently came over from Marietta to see his captain, and to inquire

whether there was no early prospect of another voyage, for he already

began to find that time travelled slowly ashore; and although he

consoled himself, now and then, with a pipe and social glass in David

Muir’s back parlour, he longed to be afloat again, and told the worthy

merchant that he would rather have made the fresh–water trip in the

canoe, than be laid up in dock, while he felt his old hull still stout

and seaworthy. His son Henry continued to advance in the good graces of

Jessie Muir; but unfortunately for the youth his father had discovered

his attachment, and lost no opportunity of bantering him in the

presence of the young lady, accompanying his jokes with sundry grins,

and severe pokes in the ribs, which caused sometimes a disagreeable

alternation of vexation and confusion: nevertheless David Muir remained

habitually blind to the state of his daughter’s affections, and Dame

Christie was a great deal too much occupied with the cares of domestic

government (including the occasional lectures and reproofs administered

to David) to admit of her troubling her head with what she would have

termed their childish fancies.

Such was the general state of affairs on the banks of the Muskingum,

when Colonel Brandon received letters from St. Louis, informing him

that, since the departure of his son, various disputes had arisen

between the agents of the different companies, and that unless a

speedy and amicable arrangement could be effected, a heavy loss must

necessarily fall upon the fur–proprietors and others interested in the

speculation. By the same post a letter bearing a foreign post–mark

was placed in the hands of Ethelston, during the perusal of which, an

expression of sadness spread itself over his countenance, and he fell

abstractedly into a reverie, the subject of which was evidently of a

painful nature. Such indications were not likely to escape the anxious

and observant eye of love; and Lucy, laying her hand lightly on his

arm, said in a tone half joking, half serious, “Am I not entitled to

know all your secrets now, Edward?”

“I think not,” he replied in the same tone; “and I am rather disposed

to refuse gratifying your curiosity, until you consent to acquiring

such a title as shall be indisputable.” Lucy coloured; but as she

still held out her hand and threatened him with her displeasure, if

he continued disobedient, he gave her the letter, saying, “I suppose

I must submit; the contents are sad, but there is no reason why I

should withhold them from yourself, or from your father.” With these

words he left the room: after a short pause, Lucy, at the Colonel’s

request, read him the letter, which proved to be from young Lieutenant

L’Estrange, and which, being translated, ran as follows:—

“My Honoured Friend,

“I need not tell you of the grief that I experienced on revisiting my

changed and desolate home. My father has told me all that passed during

your stay in the island. He looks upon those days not in anger, but in

sorrow; he is sensible that for a time he did you injustice, and fears

that, in the first bitterness of his grief, he may have omitted to make

you full reparation. These feelings he entreats me to convey to you, and

desires me to add, that from the first day of your arrival, to that of

your final departure, your conduct was like yourself,—noble, upright,

and generous. The misfortune that we still bewail, we bow to, as being

the infliction of a Providence whose ways are inscrutable. Accept the

renewed assurance of the highest regard and esteem of your friend,

“EUGENE L’ESTRANGE.”

As Lucy read this letter, her eyes filled with tears, though,

perhaps, she could scarcely have explained, whether she wept over the

afflictions that had befallen the L’Estrange family, or the generous

testimony which it bore to her lover’s conduct. The Colonel, too, was

much affected, and gladly acquiesced in his daughter’s proposal, that

they should for the future abstain from renewing a subject which must

cause such painful recollections to Ethelston.

Ere many hours had elapsed, the latter was summoned to attend the

Colonel, who informed him that the intelligence lately received from

St. Louis was of a nature so important to his affairs, that it required

immediate attention. “There is no one,” he continued, “to whom I

can well entrust this investigation, except yourself, for none has

deserved or received so much of my confidence.” There was an unusual

embarrassment and hesitation observable in Ethelston’s countenance, on

hearing these words, which did not escape his guardian’s quick eye, and

the latter added, “I see, my dear fellow, that you are not disposed to

leave Mooshanne again so soon; you are thinking about certain promises,

and a certain young lady,—is it not so, Edward?”

“It is so, indeed, my best and kindest of friends,” said Ethelston.

“Can you think or wish that it should be otherwise?”

“Nay,” said Colonel Brandon, smiling, “I will not deny that you are

entitled to entertain such thoughts, but believe me, when I assure you

seriously that this expedition is essential to your own interests and

to mine. A great portion of the property left to you under my care by

your father, is invested in these Fur companies; and ere you enter on

the responsibilities of a married life, it is necessary that you put

your affairs in such a posture, as to ensure some future provision for

the lady of whom you are thinking. These arrangements will not detain

you at St. Louis for more than six weeks or two months, by that time

Reginald will have returned from his Indian excursion; you will come

home together, and I will then listen patiently to whatever you may

think fit to say, regarding the young lady in question;—shall it be

so, Edward?”

“How can I be grateful enough!” replied Ethelston, taking the Colonel’s

hand; “give me only leave to explain to Lucy the cause and probable

duration of my absence, then I am ready to receive your instructions,

and to set about it immediately.” We will not inquire too minutely how

Lucy received this explanation from her lover’s lip, nor what means he

took to reconcile her to the proposed arrangement; it is sufficient

to state, that she finally acquiesced with her habitual gentleness,

and that, in a few days after the above conversation, Ethelston had

completed his preparations for his journey to St. Louis.

We will again take leave of him and of Mooshanne for a season, and

return to Mahéga, whom we left bleeding and senseless, at no great

distance from the Osage and Delaware encampment. Indeed, we should,

ere this, have accused ourselves of inhumanity towards that chief, for

leaving him so long in such sorry plight, had he not merited severe

punishment, for his rough and brutal behaviour to Prairie–bird.

When Mahéga recovered his senses, he was still so much confused from

the stunning effects of the severe blow that he had received on the

head, as well as from loss of blood, that he could not recall to mind

the events immediately preceding his swoon; nor did they present

themselves distinctly to his memory, until his eye rested upon his

stained scalp–lock, and beside it the knife that Reginald Brandon had

driven firmly into the turf. Then he remembered clearly enough the

struggle, his fall, and the maiden’s escape; and the rage engendered by

this remembrance was rendered yet more violent, when he reflected on

the insult that his scalp had sustained from an enemy who had scorned

to take his life.

Fierce as were the passions that boiled within the breast of the

Osage, his self–command was such that he was able to control all

outward demonstration of them; and, rising slowly, he first effaced

in the stream all the sanguinary marks of the late contest, and then

took his way toward the camp, revolving in his mind various projects

for securing the two principal objects that he was determined to

accomplish,—the possession of Prairie–bird, and the death of Reginald

Brandon!

Although a wild uninstructed savage, Mahéga was gifted with talents of

no common order. Bold, and inflexible in carrying out his purposes, he

had cunning sufficient to make unimportant concessions to the opinions

of other chiefs and braves in council: unlike the great majority

of his tribe and race, he was well aware of the power and strength

resulting from union, and although all his ambition ultimately centred

in himself, he had the art of persuading his countrymen that he sought

only their interests and welfare; thus, while many hated, and more

feared Mahéga, he was the most influential chief in the tribe, on

account of his daring courage, his success in war, and the reckless

liberality with which he distributed among others his share of booty,

or of spoil. When the Delaware band had migrated to the banks of the

Osage river, Mahéga’s first impulse had been to attack and destroy

them; but finding that the new comers were better supplied with arms

and ammunition, the issue of a conflict seemed doubtful. Moreover, as

they were visited by many traders, he calculated that, by keeping on

friendly terms with them, he should acquire for his tribe, and for

himself, many advantages greater than they had before enjoyed.

Acting upon these motives, he had not only encouraged peace with the

Delawares, but had effected through his own influence the league that

had for some time united the two bands in our encampment; nor had he

been mistaken in his expectations, for, since their union with the

band of Delawares, the Osages had been enabled to beat off the Pawnees

and other roving tribes, from whose inroads upon their hunting–ground

they had before been exposed to frequent and severe disasters; the

objects which he had contemplated, had thus been for the most part

accomplished. The tribe was plentifully supplied with arms and

ammunition by the traders; his own influence amongst them was higher

than ever; but he could not brook a rival to his fame as a warrior

in War–Eagle, nor bear to be checked and thwarted in his ambitious

schemes, by the mild authority of Tamenund.

The mind of Mahéga being thus prepared for seizing the earliest

opportunity of coming to a rupture with the Delawares it may well be

imagined how his most violent and rancorous passions were excited by

the scornful rejection of his suit on the part of Prairie–bird, and the

disgrace he had incurred in his rencounter with her white protector. He

resolved no longer to delay the meditated blow; he had already made a

secret league with the warlike and powerful Dahcotahs; and the occasion

seemed most favourable for wreaking his vengeance on the relatives of

Prairie–bird, and the white men now resident in the Delaware camp.

Having once formed his determination, he set about carrying it into

effect with the sagacity and profound dissimulation which had already

obtained for him such an ascendancy in the Osage council. No sooner had

he reached his lodge, than he dressed himself in his Medicine robe[32],

adorned his face with corresponding streaks of paint, and concealing

the loss of his scalp–lock by a Spanish kerchief, which he folded round

his head, somewhat after the fashion of a turban, he sallied forth to

visit the chiefs and braves, on whose co–operation he felt that success

must mainly depend.

Some of these were already prepared to adopt his views, by their

previous participation in the league with the Dahcotahs; others he

bent and moulded to his purpose by arguments and inducements suited to

their character or circumstances; and ere he returned to his lodge,

he felt confident that his proposed plans would be supported by the

most influential warriors in the tribe, and that he should easily bear

down the opposition of the more cautious and scrupulous, who might be

disposed to keep faith with their Delaware allies.

In the meanwhile War–Eagle was not idle, he visited the principal

braves and warriors of his tribe, and found them unanimous in their

resolution to break off all communication with the Osages, as soon as

the latter should commit any overt act that should justify them in

dissolving the league into which they had entered. He also resolved to

watch closely the movements of Mahéga, of whose malice and influence

he was fully aware; with this view he selected an intelligent Delaware

boy, who knew the Osage language, and desired him to hover about the

tent of the chief, and to bring a report of all that he should see or

hear.

Towards the close of day, Mahéga sent runners about his village, after

the usual Indian fashion, to summon the warriors and braves, most of

whom were already prepared for the harangue which he was about to

address to them; as soon as a sufficient number were collected, the

wily chief came forth from his lodge, in the dress before described,

and began by thanking them for so readily obeying his call.

“Why did Mahéga call together the warriors?” he continued; “Was it to

tell them that a broad bison–trail is near the camp? The Medicine–men

have not yet smoked the hunting–pipe to the Wahcondah.—Was it to tell

them of the scalps taken by their fathers? The young men have not been

called to the war–dance, their ears have not heard the Drum.[33]—Was

it to tickle their ears with words like dried grass? Mahéga’s tongue is

not spread with honey; he has called the Washashe to open their ears

and eyes, to tell them that snakes have crept under their lodges, that

the dogs in the village have become wolves!”

As he paused, the auditors looked each at the other; those who were

not yet instructed in the speaker’s project being at a loss to catch

the meaning of his words. Seeing that he had arrested their attention,

he proceeded: “When Mahéga was young, when our fathers were warriors,

who was so strong as the Washashe? Our hunters killed the deer and the

bison from the Neska to the Topeo–kà.[34] The Konzas were our brothers,

and we were afraid of none. But the Mahe–hunguh[35] came near, their

tongues were smooth, their hands were full, and the Washashe listened

to their talk:—is it not so?”

A deep murmur testified the attention of his auditors; but Mahéga knew

that he was venturing on dangerous ground, and his present object was

rather to incite them to vengeance against the band of Delawares and

their guests, than against the white men in general. He resumed his

harangue in a milder tone.

“The Long–knives smoked the pipe of peace with us, we gave them meat

and skins, and they gave us paint and blankets, and fire–weapons with

Medicine–powder and lead,—all that was well; but who came with the

Long–knives,—the Lenapé!” He paused a moment, then looking fiercely

round, he continued in a louder strain; “and who are these Lenapé? They

were beggars when they came to us! Their skin is red, but their hearts

are pale. Do we not know the tale of their fathers? Were they not

slaves to the warriors of other nations?[36] Were they not women? Did

they not leave the war–path to plant maize, and drink the fire–water of

the Long–knives? They gave up their hunting–ground; they left the bones

of their fathers; they crossed the Ne–o–hunge[37], and asked for the

friendship of the Washashe. We lighted the pipe for them; we received

them like brothers, and opened to them our hunting–ground; but their

hearts are bad to us, Washashes. Mahéga tells you that the Lenapé are

snakes!”

Another deep guttural sound, indicative of increased excitement,

gratified the speaker’s ear, and he continued in a strain yet bolder:

“Is Mahéga not a chief? Has he not struck the bodies of his enemies?

Are there no scalps on his war–shirt? He was good to these Lenapé,

he treated their warriors like brothers, he offered to make Olitipa

his wife, they gave him bitter words and threw dirt upon his lodge.

Shall the Washashe Chief be called a dog?” he exclaimed in a voice of

thunder; “Shall he sit on the ground while a Lenapé spits in his face?”

A shout of anger and fury burst from the audience, as, waving his

hand impatiently for silence, he went on: “The Lenapé knew that their

hearts were false, their arms weak, their tongues forked, and they

have brought in a band of Long–knives to defend them and to drive the

Washashe from their hunting–grounds. Shall it be so? Shall we hold our

backs to be scourged like children? Shall we whine like starved wolves?

See how the pale faces can insult your chief!” As he spoke, Mahéga tore

the turban with one hand from his head, and holding up his severed

scalp–lock with the other, while every muscle of his countenance worked

with fury, “See what the hand of a white–face boy has done. Mahéga

slept under a tree, and he whom they call Netis, the stranger who has

eaten our meat and smoked with our chiefs, stole upon Mahéga, struck

him on the head, and cut off his hair.” As he uttered this audacious

falsehood, which was, of course, believed by all who heard him, a

terrific shout burst from the assembled Osages, and the wily chief,

striking while the iron was hot, went on:—

“It is enough—the Washashes are not women; they will dig up the

hatchet, and throw it into the council lodge of these white–faced

and pale–hearted dogs. The great chief of the Dahcotahs has spoken

to Mahéga; he seeks the friendship of the Washashes; the Dahcotahs

are men; the bisons on their hunting–grounds are like the leaves in

the forest. They wish to call the Washashes brothers, they wait for

Mahéga’s words.—What shall he say?”

A tremendous shout was raised in reply, a shout that could be heard

throughout the whole encampment. Mahéga saw that his triumph was

complete, and folding his Medicine robe over his shoulder, he once more

waved his hand for silence, and dismissed the assembly, saying, “Before

the sun sinks again the chiefs and braves will meet in council. The

Washashes will hear their words and they will be ready.” As he spoke he

cast his dark eye expressively downwards to the tomahawk suspended at

his belt, and slowly re–entered his lodge.

Meanwhile the youth who had been sent by War–Eagle to observe what was

passing in the Osage encampment, executed his commission with fidelity

and address. Although not sufficiently familiar with the language to

catch all that fell from Mahéga, he yet learnt enough to satisfy his

young chief that a rupture was at hand. It only remained now to be

proved whether it would take place as the result of an open council, or

whether the Osages would withdraw secretly to their new Dahcotah allies.

On the morning succeeding the events above related, War–Eagle left the

encampment before daybreak, partly to see whether he could discover

any unusual stir among the Osages, and partly to revolve in his mind

the course of conduct that he should suggest if called upon to give

his opinion before the Lenapé council. Many various emotions were

struggling in his bosom, and in this respect the descendants of Adam,

whether their skins be white or red, so far resemble each other, that

on such occasions they seek to avoid the turmoil of their fellow–men,

and to be for a season alone amid the works of inanimate nature.

It was with impressions and feelings far different that Reginald and

Prairie–bird found themselves soon after sunrise together, as if by

tacit appointment, by the great tree, under which he had first seen

her. In order to guard against the treachery of which he believed

Mahéga capable, he had communicated to Baptiste the events of the

preceding morning, and had desired him to watch the movements of the

latter, especially guarding Prairie–bird against any renewal of his

violence.—The trusty forester, who had grown extremely taciturn since

he had observed his young master’s attachment, shrugged his shoulders,

and briefly promised to obey his instructions. He was too shrewd to

oppose a torrent such as that by which Reginald was carried away; and,

although it must be confessed, that he had many misgivings as to the

reception that the tidings would meet with at the hands of Colonel

Brandon, the beauty and gentleness of Prairie–bird had so far won

upon his rough nature that he was well disposed to protect her from

the machinations of the Osage. With these intentions he followed her

when she left her lodge, and as soon as she entered the thicket before

described, he ensconced himself in a shady corner whence he could

observe the approach of any party from the encampment.

We will now follow the steps of War–Eagle, who, having satisfied

himself by a careful observation of the out piquette that no immediate

movement was on foot among the Osages, turned towards the undulating

prairies to the westward of the village.

He was in an uneasy and excited mood, both from the treachery of the

Osages towards his tribe, and various occurrences which had of late

wounded his feelings in the quarter where they were most sensitive.

The victory over self is the greatest that can be achieved by man; it

assumes, however, a different complexion in those who are guided by

the light of nature, and in those who have been taught by revelation.

In the heathen it is confined to the actions and to the outward man,

whereas in the Christian it extends to the motives and feelings of the

heart. The former may spare an enemy, the latter must learn to forgive

and love him. But in both cases the struggle is severe in proportion to

the strength of the passion which is to be combated. In War–Eagle were

combined many of the noblest features of the Indian character; but his

passions had all the fierce intensity common to his race; and although

the instructions of Paul Müller, falling like good seed on a wild but

fertile soil, had humanised and improved him, his views of Christianity

were incipient and indistinct, while the courage, pride, and feelings

of his race were in the full zenith of their power. He had long known

that Prairie–bird was not his sister in blood, she had grown up from

childhood under his eye, and, unconsciously perhaps at first, he had

loved her, and still loved her with all the impassioned fervour of his

nature. It may be remembered in the earlier portion of this tale, when

he first became acquainted with Reginald, that he had abstained from

all mention of her name, and had avoided the subject whenever young

Wingenund brought it forward. He had never yet asked Olitipa to become

his wife, but the sweet gentleness of her manner, and her open contempt

for the addresses of the handsome and distinguished Osage, had led him

to form expectations favourable to his own suit. At the same time there

was something in the maiden’s behaviour that had frequently caused him

to doubt whether she loved him, and sharing in the awe with which she

inspired all the Indians around her, he had hitherto hesitated and

feared to make a distinct avowal. Of late he had been so much occupied

in observing the suspicious movements of the Osages that his attention

had been somewhat withdrawn from Olitipa: he was aware of her having

become acquainted with Reginald, and the adventure of the preceding

day, which had been communicated to him, filled him with an uneasiness

that he could not conceal from himself, although he had succeeded in

concealing it from others.

In this frame of mind, he was returning to the camp, along the course

of the streamlet passing through the grove where the rencounter of

the preceding day had occurred. When he reached the opening before

described, his eyes rested on a sight that transfixed him to the

spot. Seated on one of the projecting roots of the ancient tree was

Prairie–bird, her eye and cheek glowing with happiness, and her ear

drinking in the whispered vows of her newly–betrothed lover; her hand

was clasped in his, and more than once he pressed it tenderly to his

lips. For several minutes the Indian stood silent and motionless as a

statue; despair seemed to have checked the current of his blood, but

by slow degrees consciousness returned; he saw her, the maiden whom

he had served and loved for weary months and years, now interchanging

with another tokens of affection not to be mistaken, and that other a

stranger whom he had himself lately brought by his own invitation from

a distant region.

The demon of jealousy took instant possession of his soul; every

other thought, feeling, and passion was for the time annihilated, the

nobler impulses of his nature were forgotten, and he was in a moment

transformed to a merciless savage, bent on swift and deadly vengeance.

He only paused as in doubt, _how_ he should kill his rival—perhaps,

whether he should kill them both; his eye dwelt upon them with a stern

ferocity, as he loosened the unerring tomahawk from his belt; another

moment he paused, for his hand trembled convulsively, and a cold sweat

stood like dew upon his brow. At this terrible crisis of his passion, a

low voice whispered in his ear, in the Delaware tongue,

“Would the Lenapé chief stain his Medicine with a brother’s blood?”

War–Eagle, turning round, encountered the steady eye of Baptiste;

he gave no answer, but directed his fiery glance towards the spot

where the unconscious lovers were seated, and the half–raised weapon

still vibrated under the impulse of the internal struggle that shook

every muscle of the Indian’s frame. Profiting by the momentary pause,

Baptiste continued, in the same tone, “Shall the tomahawk of the

War–Eagle strike an adopted son of the Unâmi?[38] The Bad Spirit has

entered my brother’s heart; let him hold a talk with himself, and

remember that he is the son of Tamenund.”

By an effort of self–control, such as none but an Indian can exercise,

War–Eagle subdued, instantaneously, all outward indication of the

tempest that had been aroused in his breast. Replacing the tomahawk in

his belt, he drew himself proudly to his full height, and, fixing on

the woodsman an eye calm and steady as his own, he replied,

“Grande–Hâche speaks truth; War–Eagle is a chief; the angry spirit

is strong; but he tramples it under his feet.” He then added, in a

lower tone, “War–Eagle will speak to Netis; not now; if his white

brother’s tongue has been forked, the medicine of the Unâmi shall not

protect him. The sky is very black, and War–Eagle has no friend left.”

So saying, the Indian threw his light blanket over his shoulder and

stalked gloomily from the spot.

Baptiste followed with his eye the retreating figure of the Delaware,

until it was lost in the dense foliage of the wood.

“He _is_ a noble fellow,” said the rough hunter, half aloud, leaning

on his long rifle, and pursuing the thread of his own reflections. “He

is one of the old sort of Ingians, and there’s but few of ‘em left.

I’ve been with him in several skrimages, and I’ve seen him strike and

scalp more than one Dahcotah; but I never saw the glare of his eye so

wild and bloodthirsty before; if he had kept his purpose, my old sinews

would have had some trouble to save Master Reginald from that tomahawk.

It’s well for him that I’ve lived long enough among the Delawares to

know the ins and outs of their natur’, as well as John Skellup at

the ferry knows the sand–bars and channels in Bearcreek Shallows. I

thought the Unâmi Medicine whispered in his ear might do something;

but I scarcely hoped it could smother such a fire in a minute. I

remember, when I was young, I was in a hot passion, now and then,

myself. _Capote!_ I’m sometimes in a passion still, when I think of

those cut–throat Sioux, and if my bristles are up, it takes some time

to smooth ‘em down.” Here the woodsman’s hand unconsciously rested for

a moment on the huge axe suspended at his belt; but his musings took

another course, as he continued his muttered soliloquy:—

“Well, I sometimes think the bears and the deer have more reason than

human critturs, ay, and I believe that shot isn’t overwide o’ the mark.

Look at them two youngsters, Master Reginald and War–Eagle, two brave

honest hearts as ever lived; one saves the other’s life; they become

brothers and swear friendship; of a sudden, I am obliged to step in

between ‘em, to prevent one from braining the other with a tomahawk.

And what’s the cause of all this hate and fury? Why, love,—a pair of

black eyes and red lips;—a strange kind of love, indeed, that makes

a man hate and kill his best friend. Thank Heaven, I have nothing to

do with such love; and I say, as I said before, that the dumb animals

have more reason than human critturs. Well, I must do all I can to make

‘em friends again, for a blind man might see they’ll need each other’s

help, ere many days are past!”

So saying, the woodsman threw his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and

moved towards Reginald Brandon, who, unconscious of the danger that he

had so narrowly escaped, was still engaged with Prairie–bird in that

loving dialogue which finds no satiety in endless reiteration.

Baptiste drew near, and after the usual greetings, took an opportunity,

as he thought unobserved by Prairie–bird, of making a sign to Reginald

that he wished to speak with him in private; but the maiden, watchful

of every movement directly or indirectly affecting her lover, and

already aware of the intrigues and treachery of the Osages, said to

him with her usual simplicity of manner, “Baptiste, if you have aught

to say requiring my absence, I will go; but as there are dangers

approaching that threaten us all alike, do not fear to speak before me.

I know something of these people, and though only an unskilled maiden,

my thoughts might be of some avail.”

The sturdy hunter, although possessed of a shrewd judgment, was

somewhat confused by this direct appeal; but after smoothing down the

hair of his fur cap for a few moments, as was his custom when engaged

in reflection, he resolved to speak before her without concealment;

and he proceeded accordingly, with the blunt honesty of his nature,

to narrate to them all the particulars of his late interview with

War–Eagle. During his recital, both the auditors changed colour

more than once, with different yet sympathetic emotions; and when

he concluded, Reginald suddenly arose, and, fixing his eye upon the

maiden’s countenance, as if he would read her soul, he said,

“Prairie–bird, I conjure you by all you love on earth, and by all your

hopes of Heaven! tell me truly, if you have known and encouraged these

feelings in War–Eagle?”

The dark eyes that had been cast to the ground with various painful

emotions were raised at this appeal, and met her lover’s searching look

with the modest courage of conscious truth as she replied,—

“Reginald, is it possible that you can ask me such a question? Olitipa,

the foundling of the Delawares, loved War–Eagle as she loved Wingenund;

she was brought up in the same lodge with both; she called both,

brother; she thought of them only as such. Had War–Eagle ever asked for

other love, she would have told him she had none other to give. She

knew of none other, until—until——” The presence of a third person

checked the words that struggled for utterance; her deep eyes filled

with tears, and she hid them on Reginald’s bosom.

“I were worse than an infidel, could I doubt thy purity and truth,”

he exclaimed with fervour; “Baptiste, I will speak with my Indian

brother—I pity him from my heart—I will strive all in my power to

soothe his sorrow; for I, and I alone, can know what _he_ must suffer,

who has, in secret and in vain, loved such a being as this! Let us

return.”

Slowly and sadly they wended their way to the encampment, the guide

bringing up the rear. He was thoroughly convinced that Prairie–bird

had spoken the truth: every look, every accent carried conviction with

it; but he feared for the meeting between the young men, being fully

aware of the impetuosity of Reginald’s character, and of the intense

excitement that now affected the Indian’s mind. He determined, however,

to leave them to themselves, for he had lived enough among men of

stormy and ungoverned passions to know, that in a _tête–à–tête_ between

two high and generous spirits a concession will often be made, to which

pride might, in the presence of others, never have submitted.

On reaching their quarters in the encampment, they found Paul Müller

standing thoughtfully before Prairie–bird’s tent, into which, after

exchanging a brief but cordial greeting, he and the maiden withdrew,

leaving Reginald and the guide to retire into the adjoining lodge of

Tamenund.

War–Eagle, who had posted himself in a spot whence, without being seen

himself, he could observe their movements, now walked slowly forward

to the entrance of the tent, into which he was immediately invited by

the missionary; his manner was grave and composed, nor could the most

observant eye have traced in the lines of his countenance the slightest

shade of excitement or agitation.

After the usual salutation, he said, “War–Eagle will speak to the Black

Father presently; he has now low words for the ear of Olitipa.”

Paul Müller, looking on him with a smile, benevolent though somewhat

melancholy, said, “I shut my ears, my son, and go, for I know that

War–Eagle will speak nothing that his sister should not hear;” and

so saying, he retired into his adjacent compartment of the tent.

Prairie–bird, conscious of the painful scene that awaited her, sat in

embarrassed silence, and for upwards of a minute War–Eagle contemplated

without speaking the sad but lovely expression of the maiden’s

countenance; that long and piercing look told him all that he dreaded

to know; he saw that Baptiste had spoken to her; he saw that his hopes

were blasted; and still his riveted gaze was fixed upon her, as the

eyes of one banished for life dwell upon the last receding tints of

the home that he is leaving for ever. Collecting, at length, all the

stoic firmness of his nature, he spoke to her in the Delaware tongue;

the words that he used were few and simple, but in them, and in the

tone of his voice, there was so much delicacy mingled with such depth

of feeling, that Prairie–bird could not refrain from tears.

Answering him in the same language, she blended her accustomed

sincerity of expression with gentle words of soothing kindness; and,

in concluding her reply, she took his hand in hers, saying, “Olitipa

has long loved her brothers, War–Eagle and Wingenund; let not a cloud

come between them now; her heart is not changed to the great warrior of

Lenapé; his sister trusts to his protection; she is proud of his fame;

she has no other love to give him; her race, her religion, her heart

forbid it! but he is her dear brother; he will not be angry, nor leave

her.

“Mahéga and the Osages are become enemies; the Dahcotah trail is near;

Tamenund is old and weak; where shall Olitipa find a brother’s love,

and a brother’s aid, if War–Eagle turns away his face from her now?”

The noble heart to which she appealed had gone through its fiery ordeal

of torture, and triumphed over it. After the manner of his tribe, the

Delaware, before relinquishing her hand, pressed it for a moment to

his chest, in token of affection, and said, “It is enough; my sister’s

words are good, they are not spilt upon the ground; let Mahéga or the

Dahcotahs come near the lodge of Olitipa, and they shall learn that

War–Eagle is her brother!” The chieftain’s hand rested lightly on his

tomahawk, and his countenance, as he withdrew from the tent, wore an

expression of high and stern resolve.

How often in life is the observation forced upon us, that artlessness

is the highest perfection of art! It is an axiom, the truth of

which remains unchallenged under whatever aspect we view it, and is

indisputable even in its converse; thus, as in writing, the apparent

ease and simplicity of style is the result of frequent correction

and laborious study; so in corporeal exercises, the most assiduous

practice must be combined with the highest physical qualifications,

ere the dancer or the posture–master can emulate the unconscious grace

displayed in the movements of a sportive kitten, or a playful child.

Had Prairie–bird been familiar with all the learned treatises on

rhetoric that have appeared from the time of Aristotle to the present

day, she could not have selected topics better calculated to move

and soften the heart of her Indian brother. And yet she had no other

instructor in the heart than the natural delicacy of her sex and

character. While the tribute to his warlike fame gratified his pride,

the unstudied sisterly affection of her tone and manner soothed his

wounded feelings; and while the brief picture of her unprotected state

aroused all his nobler and more generous sentiments, no breath of

allusion to his successful rival’s name kindled the embers of jealousy

that slumbered beneath them.

As he walked from her tent, the young Indian’s heart dilated within

him; he trod the earth with a proud and lordly step; he had grappled

with his passion; and though it had been riveted “to his soul with

hooks of steel,” he had plucked it forth with an unflinching hand,

and he now met his deep–rooted grief with the same lofty brow and

unconquerable will with which he would have braved the tortures of the

Dahcotah stake.

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A MORAL DISQUISITION SOMEWHAT TEDIOUS, A

TRUE STORY SOMEWHAT INCREDIBLE, A CONFERENCE THAT ENDS IN PEACE, AND A

COUNCIL THAT BETOKENS WAR.

It is not a feature in the character of Indians to do anything by

halves; their love and their hate, their patience and impatience, their

abstinence and self–indulgence, all are apt to run into extremes.

Moderation is essentially a virtue of civilisation; it is the result

of forethought, reasoning, and a careful calculation of consequences,

whereas the qualities of the Indian are rather the children of impulse,

and are less modified by conflicting motives; hence, the lights and

shades of character are broader and more distinct; and though it may be

perhaps impossible that Indian villany should assume a deeper dye than

that which may unfortunately be met with among civilised nations, it is

not asserting too much to say, that there are to be found among these

savages instances of disinterested, self–devoted heroism, such as are

rarely heard of beyond the world of chivalry and romance.

This assertion will be received by many readers with an incredulous

smile, and still more will be disposed to believe that it can be true

only in reference to such virtues or actions as are the immediate

result of a generous impulse; but examples are not wanting to prove

the argument to be defensible upon higher grounds. It will readily

be admitted, that retributive justice, although consonant to the

first principles of reason and natural law, cannot, when deliberately

enforced, be considered in the light of a sudden impulse, much less

can it be so considered when the party enforcing it is to be himself

the sufferer by it; and those who are conversant with the history of

the Indian nations can testify that parallel instances to that which

follows have frequently occurred among them.

Some years ago, a young married Indian, residing on the western bank of

the Mississippi, quarrelled with another of his tribe, and in the heat

of passion killed him with a blow of his tomahawk. After a few moments’

reflection, he walked direct to the village, and presenting himself

before the wigwam of the murdered man, called together his relations,

and addressed them as follows:

“Your relative was my friend; we were together,—some angry words arose

between us,—I killed him on the spot. My life is in your hands, and

I have come to offer it to you; but the summer hunting–season has now

begun. I have a wife and some young children; they have done you no

wrong; I wish to go out into the woods to kill a plentiful supply of

meat, such as may feed them during the winter; when I have done that, I

will return and give myself to you.”

The stern assembly of mourners gave their assent, and the young man

retired; for many weeks he toiled indefatigably in the chase, his wife

jerked and dried the meat as he daily brought it in, until he saw that

the supply was ample for the ensuing winter; he then bid farewell to

her and to his little ones, and once more presenting himself before

the wigwam of his late friend, he said, “I am come: my squaw has meat

for the winter, my life is now yours!” To these words the eldest male

relative of the deceased replied, “It is well:” and rising from the

ground, executed on the unresisting offender the summary justice of

Indian retribution, by cleaving his skull with a tomahawk. Neither the

self–devotion of the one, nor the unrelenting severity of the other,

excited any peculiar sensation, each having acted according to the

strict, though barbarous usage of the tribe.

Amongst a people accustomed to look with stoic composure on scenes

such as that just described, War–Eagle had already won a distinguished

name, and he supported it on this trying occasion by resigning what was

dearer to him than life, and crushing, as under a weight of iron, that

passion which had been for years the hope and nourishment of his heart;

whether, albeit crushed and smothered, it still lingered there, is a

secret which it is neither our wish nor our province to betray, but

regarding which the reader may form his own opinion from the subsequent

conduct of the chief.

His first step was to seek Reginald Brandon, whom he desired, by a

silent signal, to leave the lodge and follow him. Our hero mechanically

obeyed, in a painful state of excitement and agitation, feeling that

he had been the unconscious means of blasting all the dearest hopes

of his Indian friend; and although he had intended no injury, he was

sensible that he had done one, such as man can rarely forgive, and

can never repair; for even had the romantic generosity of friendship

prompted him to resign all pretensions to Prairie–bird, he felt that

such a resignation, while he was secure of her affections, would be

mere mockery and insult. He knew also how prominent a feature is

revenge in the Indian character, and thought it not improbable that he

might be now following his conductor to some secluded spot, where their

rivalry should be decided by mortal strife, and the survivor return to

claim the lovely prize. This last thought, which would, under any other

circumstances, have nerved his arm and made his heart exult within

him, now overwhelmed him with sadness, for he loved both Wingenund and

War–Eagle, they were endeared to him by reciprocal benefits, and he

shrunk from a quarrel with the latter as from a fratricide.

Meanwhile the Indian strode rapidly forward; neither could Reginald

detect the feelings that lurked beneath the dignified and unmoved

composure of his countenance.

After walking in silence for some minutes, they reached a small hollow,

where a few scattered alder–bushes screened them from the observation

of the stragglers round the skirts of the Delaware camp: here the chief

suddenly halted, and turning towards Reginald, bent on him the full

gaze of his dark and lustrous eyes; the latter observed with surprise

that their expression, as well as that of his usually haughty features,

was a deep composed melancholy.

At length the Delaware broke the long and painful silence, addressing

his companion, after his imperfect notion of English, in the following

words:—

“The Great Spirit sent a cloud between Netis and War–Eagle—a very

black cloud; the lightning came from it and blinded the eyes of the

Lenapé chief, so that he looked on his brother and thought he saw an

enemy. The Bad Spirit whispered in his ear that the tongue of Netis was

forked; that the heart of Olitipa was false; that she had listened to a

mockingbird, and had mingled for War–Eagle a cup of poison.”

The Delaware paused for a moment; his eye retained its steady but sad

expression, his lips were firmly compressed, and not a muscle betrayed

the intensity of his feeling; but Reginald appreciated rightly the

self–control that had conquered, in so severe a struggle, and grasping

his friend’s hand, he said,—

“Noble and generous son of the Lenapé, the Bad Spirit has no power

over a heart like yours! Are we not brothers? Have not the waters of

the Muskingum, and the treacherous knife of the Huron, tied our hearts

together, so that no fear, no suspicion, no falsehood, can come between

them? Netis believed that War–Eagle loved Olitipa only as a sister, or

he would rather have given his scalp to Mahéga than have spoken soft

words in the maiden’s ear!”

“My brother’s words are true,” replied the Delaware, in the low and

musical tone for which his voice was remarkable; “War–Eagle knows

it; he has dreamt, and is now awake: Olitipa is his sister—the

Great Spirit decrees that no child of an Indian warrior shall call

her mother. It is enough.” The countenance of the Delaware assumed a

sterner expression as he continued:—

“My brother must be ready; let his rifle be loaded and his eye open,

for Tamenund has seen the snow of many winters; the Black Father

is good and true, but his hand knows not the tomahawk: the Osage

panther will crouch near the tent of Olitipa, and the feet of the

Cut–throats[39] will not be far; before the sun goes down War–Eagle

will see his brother again.”

Thus saying, and waiting no reply, he returned with hearty strides

towards the village. Reginald gazed long and earnestly after the

retreating figure of the Indian, forgetting awhile, in admiration of

his heroic self–control, the dangers that beset his beloved and his

party.

“Could I,” he asked himself, “could I, under the same circumstances,

with all the light, and aid, and high motives of Christianity, have

shown the forbearance, generosity, and self–command displayed by this

noble heathen? Could I have seen all my long–cherished hopes, my warm

and passionate love, blasted in a moment, and have so soon, so frankly,

and so fully exculpated and forgiven the man to whom I owed my misery?

I hope I might have done so, still I am afraid to ask my heart the

question!”

Reginald’s cheek glowed under the influence of this self–scrutiny,

and he gladly availed himself of the approach of Paul Müller, to whom

he related what had passed, and expressed in the warmest terms his

admiration of his Indian brother’s conduct. The good missionary felt

inexpressibly relieved at hearing the amicable issue now announced to

him, for although he had never been made a confidant of War–Eagle’s

feelings towards Olitipa, his own observation had shown him of late

that they were not exactly fraternal, and he had viewed with dread a

rivalry between the two high–spirited young men, at a crisis when the

aid of both might be so necessary to protect his fair pupil from the

perils by which she was surrounded.

Meanwhile the machinations of Mahéga, which had been conducted with

his accustomed secrecy and cunning, were almost ripe for execution;

several runners had interchanged communication between him and the

Dahcotah chief, the latter of whom was delighted at the prospect,

thus unexpectedly offered, of taking vengeance on his ancient and

hated Lenapé foes. A secret council of the Osages had been held, at

which a treaty with the Sioux and a rupture with the Delawares were

discussed, and almost unanimously carried, Mahéga appearing rather to

have coincided in the general determination than to have caused it by

his influence and intrigues. The result of this council was, that the

Osage village immediately struck their lodges, the horses were driven

in, skins, poultry, provisions, and all their utensils were packed

upon them, and in a few hours the whole body moved in a north–easterly

direction towards the upper fork of the river Konzas.

While they were departing, the Delaware council was summoned by a

crier; Reginald and Baptiste were also invited to attend, the former

in compliment to his station in the tribe as adopted brother of

War–Eagle; the latter being recognised as a warrior of tried courage

and experience. The Chiefs and Braves having seated themselves in

a semicircle, the centre of which was occupied by Tamenund, the

Great Medicine pipe was first passed round in silence, and with the

accustomed solemnities, after which Tamenund arose, and in a voice

feeble from age, but distinctly audible, proceeded to explain to the

assembly the affairs respecting which they had met to consult: while

he was speaking, one of the Indians appointed to guard the entrance of

the council lodge, came in and announced a messenger from the Osage

encampment. Tamenund paused, and desired the messenger to be introduced.

All eyes were bent sternly on the envoy, who advanced with a haughty

and dignified step into the centre of the lodge, where he stood still,

and resting on a long lance which he held in his right hand, awaited,

according to Indian custom, a signal from the council–chief to deliver

his errand. His dress, and the paint by which his body was adorned,

had evidently been prepared with every attention to the niceties of

Indian diplomacy, some portions of it being significant of peace or

alliance, and others of hostile preparation; his right side was painted

red, with streaks of black; on his left arm he wore a round shield of

buffalo–hide, a quiver of arrows hung at his back, a tomahawk and knife

were in his girdle, and in his left hand he carried a large string of

wampum[40], adorned with sundry ribbons and thongs of party–coloured

deer–skin.

The Delawares recognised in the messenger a young kinsman of Mahéga,

one who had already distinguished himself by several feats of daring

gallantry, and had been lately enrolled among the braves of his

nation: he had hitherto been upon the most friendly terms with the

Lenapé, was familiar with their language, and had volunteered on more

than one occasion to follow War–Eagle on the war–path; but the lines

of paint and his accoutrements were now, as has before been observed,

so carefully selected, that their practised eyes were unable to decide

whether peace or war was the object of his mission; neither was any

inference to be drawn from his countenance or bearing, for after

the first cold salutation on entering, he leaned on his lance in an

attitude of haughty indifference. Under these circumstances he was

not invited to sit, neither was the pipe handed to him, but Tamenund

briefly addressed him as follows:

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

“Flying–arrow,” replied the young man, in a modest and quiet tone,

“knows that many winters have passed over the head of the Lenapé chief;

he is sorry to speak hard words to Tamenund.”

“Let the young warrior speak freely; Tamenund knows that he is the

mouth of the Osage council,” was the grave reply.

“The Washashe say that the Lenapé have walked in a crooked path.

The council have assembled; and the words delivered to Flying–arrow

are these: The Washashe allowed the Lenapé to kill meat on their

hunting–ground, they smoked the pipe together, and gave each other the

wampum–belt of peace; but the Lenapé hearts are white, though their

skin is red; their tongues are smooth with telling many lies: they

have brought the pale–faces here to aid them in driving the Washashe

from the hunting–fields of their fathers! Is it not true?” continued

the fearless envoy, in a louder strain; “they have done all they can

to throw dirt upon the lodges of those whom they call brothers. When

Mahéga offered to take the daughter of Tamenund as his wife, what was

said to him? Does not the pale–face who crept upon him and defiled his

medicine, still sit and smoke at the Lenapé fire? Mahéga says, let

Tamenund give him Olitipa for a wife, and the pale–face, called Netis,

as a prisoner, and let him send back the other white men to the Great

River; then Mahéga will believe that the hearts of the Lenapé are true

to the friendship pledged on this belt.”

Thus saying, he shook the wampum before the assembled Delawares with

an air of proud defiance. A brief pause followed this daring speech;

the heart of War–Eagle boiled within him, but a scornful smile sat upon

his haughty countenance, as he waited composedly for the reply of his

father, who seemed engaged in deep and serious meditation.

Reginald had, of course, been unable to follow the envoy’s discourse,

but his quick ear had detected his own name; and a fierce look,

which accompanied its pronunciation, told him that he was personally

interested in the object of the Osage’s message. Having gathered

from Baptiste, in a whisper, the nature of Mahéga’s charge and

demand, a flush of indignation coloured his brow, but the examples of

self–command that he had so lately seen, and that he still witnessed

in the iron features by which he was surrounded, taught him to place

a like restraint upon his own feelings, and to await the reply of the

aged chief.

The latter, fixing his eye sternly upon the envoy, thus addressed

him: “Mahéga has filled the young brave’s mouth with lies. The hearts

of the Lenapé are true as the guiding–star.[41] They are faithful to

their friends, they fear no enemies. Tamenund will not give Olitipa to

Mahéga, nor his adopted son to be the Washashe’s prisoner. Tamenund

is old, but he is not blind, Mahéga wishes to become a friend of the

Dahcotahs. It is well; he will find among them hearts as bad and

tongues as forked as his own! I have spoken.”

A deep murmur of approbation followed the aged chief’s brief but

energetic harangue, and as soon as it was concluded, the fearless

messenger drew a sharp knife from his girdle, and severing the

wampum–belt, he cast the two halves on the ground, saying, “It is well!

thus is the league between the Washashe and the Lenapé divided.”

Baptiste, to whom Reginald had again addressed a few words in a

whisper, now rose, and having requested permission of Tamenund, said

to the Osage messenger, “Netis desires you to tell Mahéga that he is

a liar,—brave enough to frighten women, but nothing more. If he is a

warrior, let him come to–morrow at sunrise to the open prairie, north

of the camp; the friends of both shall stand back three arrow–flights

apart; Netis will meet him with a rifle and a hunting–knife; Olitipa

will not be there to save his life again!”

Another murmur of approbation went round the assembly, many of whom

had already heard of the rough treatment that the gigantic Osage had

received at Reginald’s hands, but hearing it now confirmed by the lips

of a tried warrior, like Grande–Hâche, they looked with increased

respect and esteem on the adopted brother of War–Eagle.

“Flying–arrow will tell Mahéga,” was the brief reply; and the messenger

glancing his eye haughtily around the circle, left the lodge and

returned to the encampment of his tribe. After his departure the

council continued their deliberations for some time, and had not yet

concluded them when a distant and repeated shouting attracted their

attention, and a Delaware youth, of about fifteen years of age, rushed

into the lodge, breathless, and bleeding from a wound inflicted by

an arrow, which had pierced his shoulder. A few hurried sentences

explained to the chiefs the news of which he was the bearer. It

appeared that he had been tending, in a bottom not far distant, a herd

of horses, chiefly belonging to Tamenund, War–Eagle, and the party of

white men, when a band of mounted Sioux came sweeping down the valley

at full speed; two or three young Delawares, who formed the out–picquet

on that side, had been taken completely by surprise, and paid with

their lives the penalty of their carelessness.

The wounded youth who brought the intelligence had only escaped by

his extreme swiftness of foot, and by the unwillingness of the enemy

to approach too near the camp. Thus had the Dahcotahs succeeded in

carrying off, by a bold stroke, upwards of one hundred of the best

horses from the Delaware village; and Reginald soon learnt, to his

inexpressible annoyance and regret, that Nekimi was among the number

of the captives. A hurried consultation followed, in which War–Eagle,

throwing off the modest reserve that he had practised during the

council, assumed his place as leader of the Lenapé braves, of whom he

selected forty of the most active and daring, to accompany him on the

difficult and dangerous expedition that was to be instantly undertaken

for the recovery of the stolen horses.

Reginald and Baptiste eagerly volunteered, and were instantly accepted

by War–Eagle; but it was not without some persuasion on the part of

the guide, that the chief allowed Monsieur Perrot to be of the party;

that faithful valet insisted, however, so obstinately upon his right

to attend his master, that, on Baptiste enjoining that he should

implicitly obey orders, he was permitted to form one of the selected

band.

In less than half an hour, from the receipt of the above disastrous

intelligence, the party left the camp well armed and equipped, each

man carrying three pounds of dried buffalo meat; and Baptiste secured

twice that quantity to his sturdy person, thinking it probable that

Reginald’s endurance of hunger might not prove proportionate to

his active qualities. The latter had, indeed, forgotten the meat

altogether, for he passed the last few minutes of his stay within the

camp, in bidding farewell to Prairie–bird, and in assuring her that he

would not be long absent, but trusted soon to return with his favourite

Nekimi. At his departure, Reginald left the strictest orders with

Bearskin (who remained in charge of his party) to keep a faithful watch

over the safety of Prairie–bird, and to follow the injunctions that he

might receive from Tamenund and Paul Müller.

The small band, who, at the instigation of Mahéga, had stolen the

Delaware horses, were chosen warriors, well mounted, thoroughly trained

to the predatory warfare in which they were now engaged, and ready,

either to defend their prize against an equal force, or to baffle the

pursuit of a superior one. As War–Eagle had lost many of his best

horses, he resolved to follow the enemy’s trail on foot, but he desired

two or three of his most active and enterprising followers, whose

horses had not been stolen, to hover on the rear of the retreating

party, to watch their motions, and bring back any intelligence that

might aid him in the pursuit.

The select band of Delawares moved swiftly forward under the guidance

of their young leader; close upon his steps followed Reginald, burning

with impatience to recover his favourite steed; next to him came

Baptiste, then Perrot, and the remainder of the Lenapé warriors.

The prairie–grass trodden down by the hoofs of the galloping and

affrighted steeds driven from their pasture, afforded a trail that

could be traced without difficulty, and the trampled banks of several

slow and lazy streams, which they passed in their course, marked the

headlong course taken by their fugitive steeds and their fierce drivers.

We will leave the pursuers for a time, and follow the movements of

Mahéga, who was now acting in concert with the Sioux, and who contrived

by his superior address to direct their plans, as completely as if he

had been himself the chief of their tribe. Having accompanied the Osage

village, fourteen or fifteen miles on their route to the northward,

he ordered a halt by the side of a stream, in a valley adjacent to

the encampment of their new allies, the two bands forming a body so

superior in number to the Delawares, that they had no cause to fear

an attack, especially as they learnt from their scouts that War–Eagle

and his followers had gone in an opposite direction in pursuit of the

horse–stealing party.

The evening was dark, and favoured the execution of a plot which Mahéga

had formed, and in furtherance of which all his preceding measures had

been taken. As soon as the sun had set, he selected one hundred of the

bravest and most experienced warriors in his tribe, whom he armed only

with bow and arrows, knife, and tomahawk; strictly forbidding the use

of any fire–arms; for he well knew that the latter were far from being

effective weapons in the hands of his followers, especially in such an

expedition as that in which he was engaged. Swiftly and silently they

moved under their leader’s guidance, who, directing his course towards

the south–east, brought them, after a few hours’ march, to the line of

wood skirting the great Prairie. Aware that the warriors remaining in

the Delaware encampment would be prepared against any surprise from

the quarter in which the Sioux were posted, his present object was

to make his attack from the opposite side, in order to effect which,

undiscovered, the greatest skill and rapidity were necessary.

It was on occasions such as these that the qualities of the Osage chief

were most conspicuously exhibited; with light and noiseless step, he

led his party through the depths of the forest, and during a swift

march of many hours not a word was spoken; now and then he paused as

a startled deer rustled through the thicket, and once or twice, when

a stray moonbeam, forcing its way through the foliage, silvered the

bark of the sycamore, he cast his eye upwards, as if to learn from the

leaves the direction of the wind, or to scan the heaven in search of

one of those stars, which the imperfect, but sagacious astronomy of the

Indians teaches them to recognise as guides.

Leave we them to pursue their dark and circuitous path and let us

transport the reader to the interior of the Delaware encampment, where

(as it may be remembered) Bearskin was left in command of that portion

of the white men who had not accompanied their leader in pursuit of the

Sioux.

Paul Müller sat late at night in the tent of the Prairie–bird; on the

rude table lay the Bible from which he had been reading, and explaining

some difficulties that had perplexed her strong, yet inquiring mind;

afterwards they had turned the conversation to the scenes which had

occurred within the last few days, and which were calculated to inspire

serious anticipations of coming evil. Prairie–bird made no effort to

conceal from her affectionate instructor how entirely her heart was

given to Reginald; she knew his bold and fearless disposition; she knew

too the wily cunning of the powerful tribe against whom his expedition

was undertaken, and more than one heavy sigh escaped her when she

thought of the risks that he must incur.

The good missionary employed every possible argument to allay her

fears, but none so effectively as that which referred to the protection

of that Being who had been from childhood her hope, her trust, and her

shield, and, bidding her good night, he had the pleasure of seeing her

agitated spirit resume its usual composure. He then wrapped his cloak

round his shoulders, and went out to see what provision Bearskin had

made for the security of the camp, during the absence of Reginald,

War–Eagle, and their party. The rough old boatman was smoking his pipe

over the embers of a fire in front of the lodge where he slept; beside

him lay, half–asleep, the gigantic Mike Smith; and the other white men

were within the lodge, each having his rifle within reach, and his

knife and pistols in his belt. Bearskin returned the greeting of the

missionary with blunt civility, and informed him that he had been to

the lodge of Tamenund, where it had been agreed to throw forward an

outpost of a dozen light, active, young Indians, half a mile beyond

the camp, in the direction of the Sioux: runners had also been sent

round to desire the warriors to be ready, and all the usual precautions

taken, such as are observed by Indians in the neighbourhood of a

dangerous enemy.

Satisfied with these arrangements, Paul Müller returned to his tent,

and throwing himself on the pile of buffalo skins that formed his bed,

was soon fast asleep. He knew not how long he had slept, when he was

aroused by a cry such as none who has once heard it can mistake or

forget. Scarcely had that shrill and savage whoop pierced the dull

silence of the night, when every creature within the encampment sprang

to their feet; the braves and warriors, seizing their weapons, rushed

to the quarter whence the cry proceeded, while the women and children,

crowding round the aged and defenceless men, waited in suspense the

result of the sudden and fierce attack. The noise and the tumult came

from the northern quarter, that most remote from the lodges of Tamenund

and Prairie–bird. Sixty of the chosen Osage warriors had fallen upon

the small outpost placed to give the alarm, and, driving them easily

before them and killing some, entered the camp almost simultaneously

with the survivors. This band was led by that daring young warrior

before introduced to the reader under the name of Flying–arrow, who now

burned with desire to render his name in the war annals of his tribe

famous as that of his kinsman Mahéga. Nor were the Delaware warriors

slow to meet the invaders, with a courage equal to their own; the

conflict was fierce and confused, for the moon was no longer up, and

the pale stars were contending, in a cloudy sky, with the dim grey

hue that precedes the dawn of day, so that the dusky figures of the

combatants were scarcely visible, and by their voices alone could they

distinguish friends from foes.

At the first alarm, Bearskin, with his habitual coolness, ordered Mike

Smith, with three of his men, to retire into the rear, to assist in

protecting the lodge of Tamenund and the tent of Prairie–bird, while

he led the remainder to check the advance of the Osages from the

northward. For some time the latter seemed to be gaining ground, but

the Delawares, still superior in number and hastening to the spot,

aided by Bearskin and his followers, recovered their lost advantage,

and the combat raged with renewed fury.

At this crisis Mahéga, who had succeeded in gaining, unperceived, the

valley to the southward of the Delaware camp, fell upon their rear

with his reserve of forty men; overthrowing all who opposed him, he

forced his way towards the white tent, which the advancing light of

dawn rendered now easily distinguishable from the dark–coloured lodges

around it; shouting his battle–cry with a voice like a trumpet, he

rushed onward, caring not, apparently, for scalps or trophies, but

determined on securing the prize for which he had already broken his

faith, and imbrued his hands in the blood of allies who had done him no

injury. A gallant band of Delawares surrounded their aged chief, whose

trembling hand now grasped a tomahawk that had for twenty years reposed

idly in his belt. Prairie–bird had sprung from her couch, and already

joined in the brief, but earnest prayer, which Paul Müller breathed

at her side; he recognised the Osage war–cry, and divining the chief

object of their terrible leader, he whispered solemnly to her,—

“My dear child, if I am soon taken from you, keep, nevertheless, your

trust in God. I see that knife still in your girdle; I know what you

have once dared; if it be the will of Heaven, you must be prepared

patiently to endure pain, sorrow, confinement, or oppression; remember,

it is only as the last resource against dishonour, that you may have

recourse to it.”

The maiden replied not, but a glance from her dark eye assured him

that he was understood, and would be obeyed; many emotions contended

in her bosom, but, for the moment, reverence and attachment to her

affectionate instructor prevailed over all others, and, dropping on her

knees before him, she covered his hand with kisses, saying,

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

child.”

The worthy missionary, albeit accustomed to resign himself entirely

to the will of Heaven, could scarcely command himself sufficiently to

utter aloud the blessing that he implored upon her head; but the shouts

and cries of the combatants were every moment approaching nearer, and

seizing his staff, he went to the aperture in front of the lodge, in

order to ascertain how the tide of conflict was turning.

The first object that met his view was the aged Tamenund, who had

fallen in his hurried endeavour to rush to the combat, but was

now partly supported and partly detained by his wailing wives and

daughters, while the tomahawk that had dropped from his nerveless arm

lay upon the ground beside him. As soon as he saw Paul Müller, he

called him, and said, in a low voice,

“The breath of Tamenund is going; he has lived long enough; the voices

of his fathers are calling to him from the far hunting–fields; he will

go, and pray the Great Spirit to give the scalps of these snake–tongued

Washashe to the knife of War–Eagle.” After a moment’s pause, the old

man continued: “I know that the heart of the Black Father is good to

the Lenapé; he has been a friend of many days to the lodge of Tamenund;

he must be a father to Olitipa; she is a sweet–scented flower; the

Great Spirit has given rain and sunshine to nourish its growth, and its

roots are deep in Tamenund’s heart; the Black Father will not allow it

to be trodden under the feet of Mahéga.” While saying these words he

drew from under his blanket a small leathern bag, the neck of which was

carefully closed with ligaments of deer sinew that had been dipped in

wax, or some similarly adhesive substance. “This,” he added, “is the

medicine–bag of Olitipa; the Black Father must keep it when Tamenund is

gone, and, while it is safe, the steps of the Bad Spirit will not draw

near her.”

The missionary took the bag and concealed it immediately under his

vest, but, before he had time to reply to his aged friend, a terrific

cry announced that the Osages had succeeded in breaking through the

Delaware ranks, and a fearful scene of confusion, plunder, and massacre

ensued; the faithful missionary hastened to the side of his trembling

pupil, resolved to die in defending her from injury, while the air was

rent by the shouts of the victors, and the yells and shrieks of those

suffering under their relentless fury.

Mike Smith and his men plied their weapons with determined courage and

resolution, and several of the Osages paid with their lives the forfeit

of their daring attack; still the survivors pressed forward, bearing

back the white men by force of numbers, and allowing not a moment for

the reloading of the fire–arms. The voice of Mahéga rose high above

the surrounding din, and all seemed to shrink from the terrible weapon

which he wielded as if it had been a light cane or small–sword; it

was a short bludgeon, headed with a solid ball of iron, from which

protruded several sharp iron spikes, already red with human blood.

Mike Smith came boldly forward to meet him, holding in his left hand

a discharged horse–pistol, and in his right a heavy cutlass, with

which last he made a furious cut at the advancing Osage. The wary

chief neither received nor parried it, but, springing lightly aside,

seized the same moment for driving his heavy mace full on the unguarded

forehead of his opponent, and the unfortunate woodsman dropped like an

ox felled at the shambles; the fierce Indian, leaping forward, passed

his knife twice through the prostrate body, and tearing off the scalp,

waved the bloody trophy over his head.

Disheartened by the fall of their brave and powerful companion, the

remaining white men offered but a feeble resistance, and the Osage

chief rushed onwards to the spot where only some wounded Delawares

and a few devoted and half–armed youths were gathered around the aged

Tamenund, determined to die at his side. It is not necessary to pursue

the sickening details of the narrative.

The old man received his death–blow with a composed dignity worthy of

his race, and his faithful followers met their fate with equal heroism,

neither expecting nor receiving mercy.

The victory was now complete, and both the scattered Delawares and the

remaining white men fled for shelter and safety to the nearest points

in the dense line of forest; few, if any, would have reached it, had

not the war–pipe of Mahéga called his warriors around him. None dared

to disobey the signal, and in a few minutes they stood before him in

front of the tent within which the faithful missionary still cheered

and supported his beloved pupil. The fierce Osage, counting over his

followers, found that fifteen were killed or mortally wounded: but the

loss on the part of their opponents was much heavier, without reckoning

upwards of a score prisoners, whose hands and legs were tightly

fastened with bands of withy and elm–bark.

Mahéga, putting his head into the aperture of the tent, ordered Paul

Müller to come forth.

“Resistance is unavailing,” whispered the missionary to the weeping

girl; “it will be harder with thee if I obey not this cruel man.

Practise now, dear child, the lessons that we have so often read

together, and leave the issue to Him who has promised never to leave

nor forsake those who trust in Him.”

So saying, he kissed her forehead, and gently disengaging himself from

the hand that still clung to his garment, he went forth from the tent,

and stood before Mahéga.