That wily chief was well aware that both the missionary and his fair

pupil had many warm friends among his own tribe; there was in fact

scarcely a family among them that had not experienced from one, or

both, some act of charity or kindness; he had resolved therefore to

treat them without severity, and while he assured himself of the person

of Olitipa, to send her instructor to some distant spot, where neither

his advice nor his reproofs were to be feared; with this determination

he addressed him briefly, as follows:—

“The Black Father will travel with my young men towards the east; he

is no longer wanted here; he may seek the lodges of the Lenapé squaws

beyond the Great River; he may advise them to remain where they are,

to dig and grow corn, and not to come near the hunting fields of the

Washashe. My young men will travel three days with him; they may meet

strangers,—if he is silent, his life is safe; if he speaks, their

tomahawk drinks his blood; when they have left him, his tongue and his

feet are free. I have spoken.”

Mahéga added a few words in a lower tone to the young warrior who was

to execute his orders, and who, with two others, now stood by his

prisoner; there was a lowering frown on the brow of the chief, and a

deep meaning in his tone, showing plainly that there would be danger in

disobeying the letter of those commands.

Paul Müller, advancing a few steps, addressed the chief in the Delaware

tongue, with which he knew him to be familiar. “Mahéga is a great

chief, and the Black Father is weak, and must obey him; before he goes

he will speak some words which the chief must lock up in his heart.

He loves Olitipa; he wishes to make her his wife; it may be, after a

season, that she may look kindly upon him; but she is not like other

maidens, she is under the care of the Great Spirit. Mahéga is strong,

but her medicine is stronger. She can hide the moon behind a cloud, and

gather the fire of the sun as the daughters of the Washashe gather the

river–waters in a vessel; let the chief remember the Black Father’s

last words. If Mahéga protects Olitipa and what belongs to her in the

tent, it may be better for him when the Great Spirit is angry; if he

offers her harm or insult, he will die like a dog, and wolves will pick

his bones.”

The missionary delivered this warning with a dignity and solemnity so

earnest, that the eye of the fierce but superstitious savage quailed

before him; and pleased to mark the effect of his words, Paul Müller

turned and left the spot, muttering in his own tongue to himself, “God

will doubtless forgive my endeavour to protect, through this artifice,

a forlorn and friendless maiden, left in the hands of a man so cruel

and unscrupulous.”

In a few minutes the good missionary had completed the slight

preparation requisite for his journey, and, accompanied by his Indian

escort, left the ruined and despoiled village with a heavy heart.

As soon as Mahéga was somewhat recovered from the startling effect of

Paul Müller’s parting address, he made his dispositions for the further

movements of his band with his usual rapidity and decision; he was well

aware that his position was now one of great peril, that in a short

time War–Eagle and his party would be informed of all that had passed,

and would seek a bloody revenge; he knew also that some of the fugitive

Whites or Delawares might speedily arm a body of the inhabitants of

the frontier against him, and that he would be altogether unable to

maintain himself in the region that he now occupied.

Under these circumstances he made up his own mind as to the course that

he would pursue; and having first given all the necessary orders for

the burial of the Osage dead and the care of the wounded, as well as

for the security of the prisoners, he called together the heads of his

party, and having laid before them his plans, asked their advice with a

tone and manner probably resembling that with which, a few years later,

Napoleon was in the habit of asking the counsel of his generals and

captains; a tone indicating that his course being already determined,

nothing was expected of them but compliance.

CHAPTER VIII.

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

We left Reginald, and War–Eagle’s party, in pursuit of the marauding

band of Sioux horse–stealers. They continued their toilsome march

with unabated speed until nightfall, when the trail was no longer

distinguishable: they then halted, and while they ate a scanty supper,

the mounted Delawares, who had been sent forward, returned, bringing

with them two wearied horses which had escaped, in the hurried flight,

from their captors.

War–Eagle, summoning Baptiste to his side, questioned the young man

closely as to the appearance and direction of the trail. From their

answers he learnt that its course was northward, but that it bore

gradually towards the east, especially after a brief halt, which the

Sioux had made for refreshment; a gleam shot athwart the dusky features

of the young chief at this intelligence, but he made no observation,

and contented himself with asking the opinion of his more experienced

companion.

The guide, taking off his hunting–cap, allowed the evening breeze

to play through the grisly hairs which were scattered, not too

plentifully, on his weather–beaten forehead, as if his reflective

powers might thence derive refreshment; but, apparently, the expedient

was not, at least on this occasion, rewarded with success; for, after

meditating in silence for a few seconds, he shook his head and owned

that he saw no clue to the intentions of the party whom they were

pursuing. The young chief had his eye still bent upon the ground,

seemingly employed in observing a large rent, which the day’s march

had made in his mocassin; but the woodsman read in the lines of his

intelligent countenance that the mind was busily engaged in following a

connected train of thought.

After allowing a few minutes to pass in silence, the guide, addressing

his companion, said, “Can War–Eagle see the Dahcotah path? It is hid

from the eyes of Grande–Hàche.”

“The night is dark, and the eyes cannot see the trail; but the wolf

finds his way to the wounded bison, and the blue dove keeps her course

to her nest in the mountain. The Great Spirit has not made the Lenapé

warrior more ignorant than the bird, or the brute; War–Eagle knows

the path of the Dahcotah dogs.” He then bent down towards the ear of

Baptiste, and whispered to him long and earnestly in the Delaware

tongue.

“Capote–bleu! but the boy is right,” exclaimed the guide, in his own

mixed dialect; “the dogs have only taken this northern start to mislead

us; they are not making for the Missouri river, but intend to double

back and join their village, now lying to the eastward of us. The boy

is right; my brain must be getting as worn–out as my hunting–shirt,

or I should have understood their drift. I see his plan is to be in

cash[42] for them on their return. Well, if he can make sure of his

game, I will say that he’s fit to be a war–chief, for these Sioux have

a long start, and the village must be many miles to the right.”

As he made these reflections half aloud, Reginald caught their general

bearing; and though he had great confidence in the sagacity of his

Indian friend, still he felt a chill of disappointment at the idea

that the pursuit was to be abandoned, for what appeared to him the

hopeless chance of intercepting a small band of Sioux, of whose course

they were ignorant, in a boundless extent of prairie like that around

him. He had, however, good sense enough to conceal all traces of his

disappointment, knowing that on such an expedition there can be but one

leader, and that, without unanimity and discipline, failure must ensue.

War–Eagle now called one of the young Lenapé warriors to his side,

and gave him brief instructions, to the effect, that he was to choose

three others of the best runners of the party, and, accompanied by the

mounted Indians, to start with the earliest dawn on the Dahcotah trail,

which they were to follow as close as possible without discovering

themselves. He then desired Reginald and Baptiste to divide the band

into watches, and to sleep alternately, but not to move until he

returned.

Having given these few directions, without allowing himself either

food or rest after a march of so many hours, he drew his belt tighter

around his loins, and started on his solitary excursion. Reginald

watched the retreating figure of his friend, until it was lost in the

deepening gloom, and turning to the guide, he said,—

“Baptiste, I cannot but envy War–Eagle the possession of sinews

that seem unconscious of fatigue, and eyes that require no slumber!

We have marched from daylight until this late hour without either

rest or refreshment, and I confess I am very glad of this seat on

my buffalo–robe, and this slice of dried venison, with a draught of

water; War–Eagle, however, walks off into the prairie, as if he had

just started fresh from repose, and Heaven only knows where or for what

purpose he is going.”

“Master Reginald,” replied the guide, throwing himself lazily down by

the side of his young leader; “I will not deny that War–Eagle’s sinews

are strung like the bow of a Pawnee, for I have been on a trail with

him before, and few could follow it so long or so true; but there has

been a time,” he added, casting his eyes down on his worn and soiled

leggins, “when these limbs of mine would have kept me for a week at

the heels of the fleetest Dahcotah that ever crossed the country of

the Stone–eaters.[43] Those days are gone, but when the game’s afoot,

perhaps there may be younger men who might give out before old Baptiste

yet.”

As he spoke, the eye of the guide rested with a comic grin on Monsieur

Perrot, who, with a countenance somewhat rueful, was endeavouring to

masticate a crude pomme de prairie[44] that one of the Delawares had

given to him, with the assurance that it was “very good!”

“I believe you, Baptiste,” said Reginald, humouring the old hunter’s

pardonable vanity; “I believe you, indeed, and if the Sioux offer us a

long chase, as appears likely, the crack of your rifle will be heard

before the foremost of our party has come to close quarters with them;

but you have not answered my question relative to War–Eagle’s excursion

during this dark night.”

“He is gone,” replied the guide, “to examine the ground carefully,

perhaps even to approach the northern border of the Dahcotah

encampment; he will then judge of the route by which these

horse–stealing vagabonds are likely to return, and will choose a place

for us to conceal ourselves for an attack.”

“I understand it all, Baptiste; it seems to be a bold, well–devised

plan, if War–Eagle is only correct in his guess at their intentions:

meanwhile let us post our sentries, and get what sleep we can, for

to–morrow may be a busy day.”

They accordingly divided their party into watches, Baptiste and Perrot

with one Indian taking the first, and Reginald undertaking the charge

of the second. The night was gloomy, and few stars were visible through

the thick clouds, by which the heavens were overspread; the men were

partially sheltered by some stunted alder–bushes which grew by the side

of the stream with whose waters they had cooled their thirst, and those

who were not destined to the first watch soon fell asleep, lulled by

the distant howling of a hungry pack of prairie–wolves.

Towards the close of Reginald’s watch, about an hour before daybreak,

a dusky figure glided with noiseless step towards the encampment; the

young man cocked his rifle, in order to be prepared against surprise,

but in the next moment recognised the commanding form of his friend,

and hailed him by name.

“Netis!” replied the chief, sitting down beside him, and wringing the

water from his leggins, which had been saturated partly by the heavy

dew on the long grass through which he had made his way, and partly by

the streams which he had been obliged to ford.

“Has my brother found a path?” inquired Reginald in a whisper; “has he

been near the Dahcotah village?”

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

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

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

Here the conversation closed, and in a few minutes the little party

were aroused and afoot, their leader being resolved that not a moment

should be lost, as soon as there was sufficient light for pursuing the

trail.

When on the point of starting, Baptiste, taking War–Eagle aside,

whispered in his ear a few words, on which the latter appeared to

reflect seriously and somewhat in doubt: he nodded his head, however,

and replied, “Well, it is good.”

The guide informed Reginald that at his own request he was to accompany

the party on the trail.

“You see, Master Reginald,” he continued, “I am a true–scented old

hound, and if these young ones run too fast, I may perhaps help ‘em at

a pinch; then if we catch the scoundrels, you will be in their front,

and we in their rear, and they will be as bad off as a Kentucky coon

between two of old Dan Boone’s cur dogs. Remember the signals,” he

added impressively, touching the bugle slung across his shoulder. “We

have not practised them of late, but I have forgot none of them; they

may do us a good turn here; stick close to War–Eagle, you are sworn

brothers, and, according to Indian fashion, if he falls you must die

with him or revenge him.”

“That will I, honest Baptiste,” replied our hero; “the Lenapé shall not

say that their chief was deserted by his adopted brother; neither will

I forget the signals—farewell!”

Here the two parties separated, that of Baptiste resuming their pursuit

of the trail, and that of War–Eagle following in silence the rapid

strides of their young chief across the prairie to the eastward. He

marched for several hours in silence—his brow wore an expression

of thoughtfulness, and he stopped several times as if to scan the

bearing and the distance of every remarkable elevation or object in

the undulating prairie which they were crossing. It was now about

midday; they had walked since daybreak without halt or food; the rays

of the sun were fiercely hot, and it required all the determined energy

of Reginald’s character to enable him to endure in silence the heat

and thirst by which he was oppressed; as for Monsieur Perrot, he had

contrived to secrete a small flask of brandy about his person, more

than one mouthful of which, mingled with the muddy water of the pools

which they passed, had hitherto enabled him to keep pace with the rest

of the party, but he was now beginning to lag behind, and some of the

Indians were obliged to urge and assist him forward.

At this juncture War–Eagle suddenly stopped, and uttering a sound like

a low hiss, crouched upon the ground, an attitude into which the whole

party sunk in a moment. Laying a finger lightly on Reginald’s arm, he

pointed to the upper range of a distant hill, saying, “There are men!”

Our hero, shading his eyes with his hand, looked in the direction

indicated, but, after a careful survey, he could see nothing but the

faint green reposing in the sunny haze of noon: he shook his head; but

War–Eagle replied with a quiet smile—

“My brother saw the rifles behind the log near the Muskingham; his eyes

are very true, but they have not looked much at the prairie; let him

use his medicine glass–pipe.”

When Reginald had adjusted his telescope, he looked again to the spot

on which the bright clear eye of War–Eagle was still riveted like the

gaze of a Highland deer–hound, who has caught sight of a hart browsing

on the further side of some wide and rocky glen.

“By Heaven, it is true!” he exclaimed. “I see them—one, two, three,

mounted Indians; they are at speed—and buffalo are galloping before

them.”

“That is good,” said War–Eagle; “keep the glass–pipe before them, and

say if they go out of sight, or if more appear.”

Reginald did so; and after a few minutes, reported that they had

disappeared over a neighbouring height, and that no others had come in

view.

Upon this, War–Eagle rose, saying, “My brother shall drink and

rest—there are shade and water not far.” As he had said, half an

hour’s march brought them to a clump of stunted alders, beside which

flowed a stream, the waters of which were tolerably fresh and cool.

Here they ate some dried buffalo–meat, and satisfied their thirst,

after which they followed with renewed spirits their gay leader,

whose iron and sinewy frame seemed (like that of Antæus of old) to

gather fresh strength every time that his foot fell upon the earth.

The prairie through which they now passed was extremely hilly and

broken, intersected by many steep and narrow ravines; threading his way

among these, the chief frequently stopped to examine the foot–marks

which had been left by bison or other animals, and often bent his

searching glance along the sides of the hills around him. The only

living creatures seen during the whole march were a few bulls, lazily

cropping the prairie grass, as if conscious that their tough carcase,

and burnt, soiled hides, rendered them at this season worthless to the

hunters, who had driven from them the cows and the younger bulls of the

herd. Emerging from these defiles, the party came to a broader valley,

the sides of which were very steep; along the bottom ran a stream of

considerable magnitude, on the banks of which was a large tract of

copse–wood, consisting apparently of alder, poplar, and birch, and

affording ample space for concealing a body of several hundred men.

Towards this wood War–Eagle led the way; and when he reached a few

bushes, distant from it some hundred yards, he desired the rest of the

party to lie still, while he went forward alone to explore. During his

absence Reginald occupied himself with examining through his glass the

sides of the valley, but could see neither man nor any other living

creature; and when War–Eagle returned and conducted them into the wood,

Reginald could read on his friend’s countenance that he was in high

spirits at having reached this point undiscovered.

When they came to the centre of the woodland, they found a broad trail,

near which they were carefully posted by their chief, in such a manner

that, themselves unseen, they could command a view of any one passing

along it.

The party led by Baptiste was not less successful in carrying out the

instructions given to them by War–Eagle. After a rapid and toilsome

march of many hours upon the Dahcotah trail, they came at length in

sight of their enemies; although at a distance of many miles, the

prudence and caution of the experienced scout controlled the impetuous

ardour of the young Delawares, who were burning to revenge the insult

offered to their tribe. But Baptiste was aware that to attack with

his present force would be hopeless, and he bent all his energies to

creep as near to the Sioux as possible, so that he might be ready to

dash in upon their rear, in case he should find that the ambuscade of

War–Eagle was successfully laid; at the same time the hardy woodsman

was determined not to allow them, under any circumstances, to gain

the village without making by day or by night one bold effort for the

recovery of the horses.

A habit of self–control was one of the distinguishing features of the

guide’s character; and although his hatred of the Sioux was fierce

and intense, as we have seen in the earlier part of this tale, he now

conducted his operations with a cool deliberation that might almost

have been mistaken for indifference: selecting the most intelligent

warrior among the Lenapé, he sent him forward to creep on the trail;

he himself followed at a short distance; then the other runners at

short intervals, and the mounted Indians were desired to keep entirely

out of sight in the rear. In this order they continued the pursuit;

and by the skilful selection of ground, and taking advantage of every

trifling hill or ravine over which they passed, he contrived at length

to approach as near as he deemed it prudent to venture until he should

see the result of the stratagem devised by War–Eagle.

CHAPTER IX.

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

ENDEAVOURS TO BAFFLE PURSUIT.

We must now shift the scene to the spot where the Delaware village had

been encamped. What a change had a few days produced! The lodges of the

chiefs, with their triangular poles bearing their shields and trophies;

the white tent of Prairie–bird; the busy crowds of women and children;

the troops of horses, the songs and dances of the warriors—all

were gone! and in their stead nothing was to be seen but a flock of

buzzards, gorging themselves on a meal too revolting to be described,

and a pack of wolves snarling and quarrelling over the remains of the

unfortunate Lenapé victims.

On the very spot where the tent of Olitipa had been pitched, and

where the marks of the tent–poles were still easily recognised, stood

a solitary Indian, in an attitude of deep musing; his ornamented

hunting–shirt and leggins proclaimed his chieftain rank; the rifle on

which he leaned was of the newest and best workmanship, and his whole

appearance was singularly striking; but the countenance was that which

would have riveted the attention of a spectator, had any been there

to look upon it, for it blended in its gentle yet proud lineaments a

delicate beauty almost feminine, with a high heroic sternness, that

one could scarcely have thought it possible to find in a youth only

just emerging from boyhood: there was too a deep silent expression of

grief, rendered yet more touching by the fortitude with which it was

controlled and repressed. Drear and desolate as was the scene around,

the desolation of that young heart was yet greater: father, brother,

friend! the beloved sister, the affectionate instructor; worst of all,

the tribe, the ancient people of whose chiefs he was the youngest and

last surviving scion, all swept away at “one fell swoop!” And yet no

tear fell from his eye, no murmur escaped his lip, and the energies

of that heroic though youthful spirit rose above the tempest, whose

fearful ravages he now contemplated with stern and gloomy resolution.

In this sketch the reader will recognise Wingenund, who had been

absent, as was mentioned in a former chapter, on a course of watching

and fasting, preparatory to his being enrolled among the band of

warriors, according to the usages of his nation. Had he been in the

camp when the attack of the Osages was made, there is little doubt that

his last drop of blood would have there been shed before the lodge

of Tamenund; but he had retired to a distance, whence the war–cry

and the tumult of the fight never reached his ear, and had concluded

his self–denying probation with a dream of happy omen—a dream that

promised future glory, dear to every ambitious Indian spirit, and in

which the triumphs of war were wildly and confusedly blended with the

sisterly tones of Olitipa’s voice, and the sweet smile of the Lily of

Mooshanne.

Inspired by his vision, the ardent boy returned in high hope and

spirits towards the encampment; but when he gained the summit of a

hill which overlooked it, a single glance sufficed to show him the

destruction that had been wrought during his absence; he saw that the

lodges were overthrown, the horses driven off, and that the inhabitants

of the moving village were either dispersed or destroyed. Rooted to the

spot, he looked on the scene in speechless horror, when all at once his

attention was caught by a body of men moving over a distant height in

the western horizon, their figures being rendered visible by the deep

red background afforded by the setting sun: swift as thought the youth

darted off in pursuit.

After the shades of night had fallen, the retreating party halted,

posted their sentries, lit their camp–fires, and, knowing that nothing

was to be feared from an enemy so lately and so totally overthrown,

they cooked their meat and their maize, and smoked their pipes, with

the lazy indifference habitual to Indian warriors when the excitement

of the chase or the fight has subsided. In the centre of the camp rose

a white tent, and beside it a kind of temporary arbour had been hastily

constructed from reeds and alder–boughs; beneath the latter reclined

the gigantic form of Mahéga, stretched at his length, and puffing out

volumes of _kinnekenik_[45] smoke with the self–satisfied complacency

of success.

Within the tent sat Prairie–bird, her eyes meekly raised to heaven, her

hands crossed upon her bosom, and a small basket of corn–cakes being

placed, untasted, upon the ground beside her. At a little distance,

in the corner of the tent, sate her female Indian attendant, whom

Mahéga had permitted, with a delicacy and consideration scarcely to be

expected from him, to share her mistress’s captivity. He had also given

orders that all the lighter articles belonging to her toilet, and to

the furniture of her tent, should be conveyed with the latter, so that

as yet both her privacy and her comfort had been faithfully secured.

Guided by the fires, Wingenund, who had followed with unabated speed,

had no difficulty in finding the Osage encampment; neither was his

intelligent mind at a loss to apprehend what had occurred: he had

long known the views and plans entertained by Mahéga respecting

Prairie–bird, and when, from a distant eminence he caught a sight of

her white tent pitched in the centre of a retreating Indian band, he

understood in a moment her present situation, and the disastrous events

that had preceded it. Although he believed that both War–Eagle and

Reginald must have fallen ere his sister had been made a captive, he

resolved at all hazards to communicate with her, and either to rescue

her, or die in the attempt.

Having been so long encamped with the Osages, he was tolerably well

versed in their language; and he also knew so well the general

disposition of their outposts, that he had no doubt of being able to

steal into their camp. As soon as he had gained, undiscovered, the

shelter of a clump of alders, only a few bow–shots distant from the

nearest fire, he stripped off and concealed his hunting–shirt, cap,

leggins, and other accoutrements, retaining only his belt, in which he

hid a small pocket–pistol, lately given to him by Reginald, and his

scalp–knife, sheathed in a case of bison–hide. Thus slightly armed, he

threw himself upon the grass, and commenced creeping like a serpent

towards the Osage encampment.

Unlike the sentries of civilised armies, those of the North American

Indians frequently sit at their appointed station, and trust to their

extraordinary quickness of sight and hearing to guard them against

surprise. Ere he had crept many yards, Wingenund found himself near

an Indian, seated with his back against the decayed stump of a tree,

and whiling away his watch by humming a low and melancholy Osage air;

fortunately, the night was dark, and the heavy dew had so softened the

grass, that the boy’s pliant and elastic form wound its onward way

without the slightest noise being made to alarm the lazy sentinel.

Having passed this outpost in safety, he continued his snaky progress,

occasionally raising his head to glance his quick eye around and

observe the nature of the obstacles that he had yet to encounter: these

were less than he expected, and he contrived at length to trail himself

to the back of Olitipa’s tent, where he ensconced himself unperceived

under cover of a large buffalo–skin, which was loosely thrown over her

saddle, to protect it from the weather. His first object was to scoop

out a few inches of the turf below the edge of the tent, in order that

he might conveniently hear or be heard by her, without raising his

voice above the lowest whisper.

After listening attentively for a few minutes, a gentle and regular

breathing informed him that one sleeper was within; but Wingenund,

whose sharp eyes had already observed that there were two saddles under

the buffalo robe which covered him, conjectured that her attendant

was now her companion in captivity, and that the grief and anxiety of

Olitipa had probably banished slumber from her eyes. To resolve these

doubts, and to effect the purpose of his dangerous attempt, he now

applied his mouth to the small opening that he had made at the back of

the tent, and gave a low and almost inaudible sound from his lips like

the chirping of a cricket. Low as it was, the sound escaped not the

quick ear of Olitipa, who turned and listened more intently: again it

was repeated, and the maiden felt a sudden tremor of anxiety pervade

her whole frame, as from an instinctive consciousness that the sound

was a signal intended for her ear.

Immediately in front of the lodge were stretched the bulky forms of two

half–slumbering Osages. She knew that the dreaded Mahéga was only a

few paces distant, and that if some friend were indeed near, the least

indiscretion on her part might draw down upon him certain destruction;

but she was courageous by nature, and habit had given her presence of

mind. Being aware that few, if any, of her captors spoke the English

tongue, she said, in a low but distinct voice, “If a friend is near,

let me hear the signal again?”

Immediately the cricket–chirrup was repeated. Convinced now beyond

a doubt that friendly succour was nigh, the maiden’s heart throbbed

with hope, fear, and many contending emotions; but she lost not her

self–possession; and having now ascertained the spot whence the sound

proceeded, she moved the skins which formed her couch to that part of

the tent, and was thus enabled to rest her head within a few inches of

the opening made by Wingenund below the canvass.

“Prairie–bird,” whispered a soft voice, close to her ear—a voice that

she had a thousand times taught to pronounce her name, and every accent

of which was familiar to her ear.

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

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

As Prairie–bird briefly described the events above narrated, Wingenund

found some comfort in the reflection that War–Eagle, Reginald, and

their band had escaped the destruction which had overwhelmed the Lenapé

village: when she concluded, he replied,

“It is enough; let my sister hope; let her speak fair words to Mahéga:

Wingenund will find his brothers, they will follow the trail, my sister

must not be afraid; many days and nights may pass, but the Lenapé will

be near her, and Netis will be with them. Wingenund must go.”

How fain was Prairie–bird to ask him a thousand questions, to give him

a thousand cautions, and to send as many messages by him to her lover!

but, trained in the severe school of Indian discipline, she knew that

every word spoken or whispered increased the danger already incurred

by Wingenund, and in obedience to his hint she contented herself with

silently invoking the blessing of Heaven on the promised attempt to be

made by himself and his beloved coadjutors for her rescue.

“That pale–faced maiden speaks to herself all through the night,” said

one of the Osage warriors to his comrade stretched beside him before

the tent.

“I heard a sort of murmuring sound,” replied the other; “but I shut

my ears. Mahéga says that her words are like the voices of spirits;

it is not good to listen! Before this moon is older I will ask her to

curse Pâketshu, that Pawnee wolf who killed my two brothers near the

Nebraske.”[46]

Profiting by this brief dialogue, Wingenund crept from under the

buffalo–skin; and looking carefully around to see whether any new

change had taken place since his concealment, he found that several of

the Osage warriors, who had been probably eating together, were now

stretched around the tent, and it was hopeless to attempt passing so

many cunning and vigilant foes undiscovered. While he was meditating

on the best course to be pursued, his attention was called to a noise

immediately in front of the tent, which was caused by the horse ridden

by Olitipa having broken from its tether and entangled its legs in the

halter. Springing on his feet, Wingenund seized the leather–thong,

using at the same time the expressions common among the Osages for

quieting a fractious horse.

“What is it?” exclaimed at once several of the warriors, half raising

themselves from their recumbent posture.

“Nothing,” replied Wingenund, in their own tongue; “the pale–faced

squaw’s horse has got loose.”

So saying, he stooped leisurely down, and fastened the laryette again

to the iron pin from which it had been detached. Having secured the

horse, he stood up again, and stepped coolly over several of the Osages

stretched around the tent; and they, naturally mistaking him for

one of their own party, composed themselves again to sleep. Thus he

passed through the encampment, when he again threw himself upon the

ground, and again succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the outposts,

and in reaching safely the covert where he had left his rifle and his

accoutrements.

The active spirit of Wingenund was not yet wearied of exertion. Seeing

that the course taken by the Osages was westerly, he went forward in

that direction, and having ascended an elevated height commanding a

view of the adjoining valleys, he concealed himself with the intention

of watching the enemy’s march.

On the following morning the Osages started at daybreak, and marched

until noon, when Mahéga halted them, and put in execution the plan that

he had formed for throwing off any pursuit that might be attempted.

He had brought four horses from the Delaware encampment: of these he

retained two for the use of Prairie–bird and her attendant, and ordered

their hoofs to be covered with thick wrappers of bison–hide[47]; he

selected also ten of the warriors, on whose courage and fidelity he

could best depend; the remainder of the band he dismissed, under the

conduct of Flying–arrow, with the remaining two horses laden with a

portion of the Delaware spoils and trophies, desiring them to strike

off to the northward, and, making a trail as distinct as possible, to

return by a circuitous march to the Osage village. These orders were

punctually obeyed, and Mahéga, having seen the larger moiety of his

band start on their appointed route, led off his own small party in

a southwesterly direction, through the hardest and roughest surface

that the prairie afforded, where he rightly judged that their trail

could with difficulty be followed, even by the lynx–eyed chief of the

Delawares.

From his concealment in the distance, Wingenund observed the whole

manœuvre: and having carefully noted the very spot where the two trails

separated, he ran back to the deserted Lenapé village to carry out the

plan that he had formed for the pursuit. On his way he gathered a score

of pliant willow rods, and these lay at his feet when he stood in the

attitude of deep meditation, described at the commencement of this

chapter. He knew that if War–Eagle and his party returned in safety

from their expedition, their steps would be directed at once to the

spot on which he now stood, and his first care was to convey to them

all the information necessary for their guidance. This he was enabled

to do by marking with his knife on slips of elm–bark various figures

and designs, which War–Eagle would easily understand. To describe these

at length would be tedious, in a narrative such as the present; all

readers who know anything of the history of the North American Indians

being aware of their sagacity in the use of these rude hieroglyphics:

it is sufficient here to state, that Wingenund was able to express,

in a manner intelligible to his kinsman, that he himself marked the

elm–bark, that Olitipa was prisoner to Mahéga, that the Osage trail was

to the west; that it divided, the broad trail to the north being the

wrong one; and that he would hang on the right one, and make more marks

for War–Eagle to follow.

Having carefully noted these particulars, he stuck one of his rods into

the ground, and fastened to the top of it his roll of elm–bark: then

giving one more melancholy glance at the desolate scene around him, he

gathered up his willow–twigs, and throwing himself again upon the Osage

trail, never rested his weary limbs until the burnt grass, upon a spot

where the party had cooked some bison–meat, assured him that he was on

their track; then he laid himself under a neighbouring bush and slept

soundly, trusting to his own sagacity for following the trail over the

boundless prairie before him.

While these events were passing on the Missouri prairie, Paul Müller

having been escorted to the settlements and set free by the Osages,

pursued his way towards St. Louis, then the nucleus of Western

trade, and the point whence all expeditions, whether of a warlike or

commercial nature, were carried on in that region. He was walking

slowly forward, revolving in his mind the melancholy changes that had

taken place in the course of the last few weeks, the destruction of

the Lenapé band, and the captivity of his beloved pupil, when he was

overtaken by a sturdy and weather–beaten pedestrian, whose person

and attire seemed to have been roughly handled of late, for his left

arm was in a sling, various patches of plaster were on his face and

forehead, his leggins were torn to rags, and the barrel of a rifle

broken off from the stock was slung over his shoulder.

The missionary, turning round to greet his fellow–traveller with his

accustomed courtesy, encountered a countenance which, notwithstanding

its condition, he recognised as one that he had seen in the Delaware

village.

“Bearskin, my good friend,” said he, holding out his hand, and grasping

heartily the horny fist of the voyageur, “I am right glad to see you,

although it seems that you have received some severe hurts; I feared

you had fallen among the other victims of that terrible day.”

“I can’t deny that the day was rough enough,” replied Bearskin, looking

down upon his wounded arm; “and the red–skin devils left only one other

of my party besides myself alive: we contrived to beat off those who

attacked our quarter, but when we found that Mahéga had broken in upon

the rear, and had killed Mike Smith and his men, we made the best of

our way to the woods: several were shot and scalped, two of us escaped:

I received, as you see, a few ugly scratches, but my old carcase is

accustomed to being battered, and a week will set it all to rights.”

“You know,” replied the missionary, “that I have some skill in curing

wounds. When we reach St. Louis we will take up our lodging in the same

house, and I will do what I can to relieve your hurts. Moreover, there

are many things on which I wish to speak with you at leisure, and I

have friends there who will supply us with all that is needful for our

comfort.”

While they were thus conversing, the tall spires of the cathedral

became visible over the forest, which then grew dense and unbroken to

the very edge of the town, and in a few minutes Bearskin, conducted

by the missionary, was snugly lodged in the dwelling of one of the

wealthiest peltry–dealers in the famous frontier city of St. Louis.

CHAPTER X.

AN AMBUSCADE.—REGINALD BRANDON FINDS HIS HORSE, AND M. PERROT NEARLY

LOSES HIS HEAD.—WHILE INDIAN PHILOSOPHY IS DISPLAYED IN ONE QUARTER,

INDIAN CREDULITY IS EXHIBITED IN ANOTHER.

We left War–Eagle and his party posted in a thicket of considerable

extent, in the centre of a valley through which he had calculated that

the marauding band of Sioux would return with the captured horses

to their village; long and anxiously did he wait in expectation of

their appearance; and both himself and Reginald began to fear that

they must have taken some other route, when they saw at a distance

an Indian galloping down the valley towards them; as he drew near,

the head–dress of eagle’s feathers, the scalp–locks on his leather

hunting–shirt, and the fringes by which his leggins were adorned,

announced him to the practised eye of the young Delaware chief, as a

Dahcotah brave of some distinction; but what was the astonishment of

Reginald, at recognising in the fiery steed that bore him, his own lost

Nekimi. By an unconscious movement he threw forward his rifle over the

log which concealed him, and was preparing to secure a certain aim,

when War–Eagle, touching his arm, whispered, “Netis not shoot, more

Dahcotahs are coming,—noise of gun not good here, Netis have enough

fight soon,—leave this man to War–Eagle, he give Netis back his horse.”

Reginald, although disappointed at not being allowed to take vengeance

on the approaching savage, saw the prudence of his friend’s counsel,

and suffering himself to be guided by it, waited patiently to see how

the Delaware proposed to act. The latter, laying aside his rifle, and

armed only with his scalp–knife and tomahawk, crept to a thick bush on

the edge of the broad trail passing through the centre of the thicket;

in his hand he took a worn–out mocassin, which he threw carelessly upon

the track, and then ensconced himself in the hiding–place which he

had selected for his purpose. The Dahcotah warrior, who had been sent

forward by his chief to reconnoitre, and to whom Nekimi had been lent

on account of the extraordinary speed which that animal had been found

to possess, slackened his speed as he entered the thicket, and cast his

wary eyes to the right and to the left, glancing occasionally at the

sides of the hills which overhung the valley.

The Delawares were too well concealed to be seen from the path, and he

rode slowly forward until he came to the spot where lay the mocassin

thrown down by War–Eagle.

“Ha!” said the Sioux, uttering a hasty ejaculation, and leaping

from his horse to examine its fashion. As he stooped to pick it up,

War–Eagle sprung like a tiger upon him, and with a single blow of

his tomahawk laid the unfortunate warrior dead at his feet. Throwing

Nekimi’s bridle over his arm, he drew the body into the adjacent

thicket, and, having found in the waistband the small leathern bag in

which the Indians of the Missouri usually carry the different coloured

clays wherewith they paint themselves, he proceeded to transform

himself into a Sioux. Putting on the Dahcotah head–dress and other

apparel, aided by one of the most experienced of his band, he disguised

himself in a few minutes so effectually that, unless upon a very close

inspection, he might well be taken for the Indian whom he had just

killed.

As soon as this operation was completed, he desired Reginald and the

rest of the party to remain concealed, and if he succeeded in luring

the enemy to the spot, on no account to fire until their main body had

reached the bush from which he had sprung on the Sioux. Having given

this instruction, he vaulted on Nekimi’s back, and returned at speed

to the upper part of the valley, from which direction he knew that the

Dahcotahs must be approaching. He had not ridden many miles ere he

saw them advancing at a leisurely rate, partly driving before them,

and partly leading, the horses stolen from the Delawares. This was an

occasion on which War–Eagle required all his sagacity and presence of

mind, for should he betray himself by a false movement or gesture, not

only would the enemy escape the snare laid for them, but his life would

pay the forfeit of his temerity. Wheeling his horse about, he returned

towards the thicket, and, after riding to and fro, as if making a

careful investigation of its paths and foot–marks, he went back to the

broad trail, and as soon as the foremost of the Dahcotahs were within

a couple of hundred yards, he made the signal “All right[48],” and

rode gently forward through the wood. So well did his party observe the

orders which he had given them, that, although he knew the exact spot

where they were posted, and scanned it with the most searching glance

of his keen eye, not a vestige of a human figure, nor of a weapon could

he detect, and a smile of triumph curled his lip as he felt assured of

the success of his plan. No sooner had he passed the bush where the

Dahcotah had fallen, than he turned aside into the thicket, and, having

fastened Nekimi securely to a tree, tore off his Sioux disguise, and

resuming his own dress and rifle, concealed himself on the flank of his

party.

The Dahcotahs, who had, as they thought, seen their scout make the

sign of “All right,” after a careful examination of the wood, entered

it without either order or suspicion; neither did they discover their

mistake until the foremost reached the fatal bush, when a volley from

the ambuscade told among them with terrible effect. Several of the

Sioux fell at this first discharge, and the confusion caused by this

unexpected attack was increased by the panic among the horses, some of

which being frightened, and others wounded, they reared and plunged

with ungovernable fury.

Although taken by surprise, the Dahcotah warriors behaved with

determined courage; throwing themselves from their horses, they dashed

into the thicket to dislodge their unseen foes, and the fight became

general, as well as desultory, each man using a log or a tree for his

own defence, and shooting, either with rifle or bow, at any adversary

whom he could see for a moment exposed. The Sioux, though more

numerous, were unprovided with efficient fire–arms; and sensible of the

advantages thence arising to their opponents, they made desperate, and

not unsuccessful efforts to bring the fight to close quarters. Reginald

and War–Eagle were side by side, each endeavouring to outdo the other

in feats of gallantry, and at the same time to watch over the safety of

his friend.

Monsieur Perrot caught the general spirit of the affray, and, as he

afterwards said of himself, “fought like a famished lion!” when,

unluckily, his pistol snapped in the face of a Sioux warrior, who

struck him a blow that felled him to the earth. Stepping lightly over

the form of his prostrate foe, the savage, grasping a knife in his

right hand, and seizing the luckless Frenchman’s hair with his left,

was about to scalp him, when the knife dropped from his hand, and he

stood for a moment petrified with astonishment and horror. The whole

head of hair was in his left hand, and the white man sat grinning

before him with a smooth and shaven crown.

Letting fall what he believed to be the scalp of some devil in human

shape, the affrighted Sioux fled from the spot, while Perrot, replacing

his wig, muttered half aloud, “_Bravo! ma bonne perruque! je te dois

mille remerçimens!_”

At this crisis, while the issue of the general combat was still

doubtful, the sound of a bugle was heard in the distance, and the

signal immediately answered by Reginald, who shouted aloud to

War–Eagle, that Grande–Hâche was at hand. Inspired by the knowledge

of approaching reinforcement, the Delawares fought with renewed

confidence, while the Dahcotahs, startled by the strange and unknown

bugle calls, were proportionately confused and thrown into disorder.

The panic among them was complete when the sharp crack of Baptiste’s

rifle was heard in the rear, and one of their principal braves fell

dead at the root of the tree which sheltered him from the fire of

War–Eagle’s party. Hemmed in between the two hostile bands, the Sioux

now gave up all hope of concealment, and fought with the courage of

despair; but the resistance which they offered was neither effective

nor of long duration. Baptiste, wielding his terrible axe, seemed

resolved this day to wreak his fierce and long–delayed vengeance on

the tribe at whose hands he had sustained such deadly injury; and

regardless of several slight wounds which he received in the fray,

continued to deal destruction among all who came within reach. Nor were

Reginald and War–Eagle less active in the fight; the struggle was hand

to hand; the Sioux seeming to expect no quarter, and being determined

to fight while they could wield a knife or tomahawk.

Their chief, a man of stature almost as powerful as that of Mahéga,

seemed gifted with a charmed life, for although he exposed himself

freely to the boldest of his opponents, animating his men by shouting

aloud the terrible war–cry of the Dahcotahs[49], and rushing to their

aid wherever he found them giving way, he was hitherto unhurt, and

bent every effort to destroy War–Eagle, whom he easily recognised

as the leader, and most formidable of the Delawares. An opportunity

soon offered itself, as War–Eagle was engaged with another of the

Dahcotahs. The chief aimed at his unguarded head a blow that must have

proved fatal, had not Reginald warded it off with his cutlass; the

Indian turned furiously upon him, and a fierce combat ensued, but it

was not of long duration, for after they had exchanged a few strokes,

a successful thrust stretched the Dahcotah chief upon the ground. An

exulting cry burst from the Delawares, and the panic–struck Sioux

fled in every direction. The pursuit was conducted with the merciless

eagerness common to Indian warfare, and as Reginald felt no inclination

to join in it, he returned his cutlass to its sheath, and busied

himself in securing all the horses that came within his reach.

One by one the Delawares came back to the place of rendezvous, some

bearing with them the scalps which they had taken, others leading

recaptured horses, and all in the highest excitement of triumph.

War–Eagle set free Nekimi, and led it towards its master. As soon as it

was near enough to hear his voice, Reginald called to the noble animal,

which, shaking its flowing mane, came bounding and snorting towards

him. He caressed it for a short time, then vaulted upon its back, and

was delighted to find that its spirit and strength had suffered no

diminution since its capture. Again he dismounted, and Nekimi followed

him unled, playing round him like a favourite dog. While he thus amused

himself with his recovered steed, Baptiste sat by the side of a small

streamlet, cleaning his axe and his rifle, and listening with a grim

smile to Monsieur Perrot’s account of the danger from which he had been

saved by his peruke. In the midst of his narrative, seeing some blood

on the sleeve of his companion’s shirt, he said, “Baptiste, you are

surely wounded?”

“Yes,” replied the other; “one of the red–skins gave me a smartish

stroke with a knife in that skrimmage—however, I forgive him, as I

paid him for it.”

“But would it not be better to attend to your wound first, and to your

weapons afterwards?”

“Why, no, Monsieur Perrot, that isn’t our fashion in the woods; I like

first to make the doctor ready for service, and then it will be time

enough to put a little cold water and a bandage to the cut.”

The good–humoured Frenchman insisted upon his proposal, but had some

difficulty in persuading the rough guide to let him dress the wound,

which, though deep and painful, was not dangerous.

On the following day, War–Eagle returned with his triumphant party and

with the rescued horses towards the Delaware village, every bosom, save

one, beating high with exultation. Reginald could scarcely control

his impatience to relate to Prairie–bird the events of the successful

expedition. The young warriors anticipated with joy the beaming smiles

with which they would be welcomed by the Lenapé maidens; while those

of maturer age looked forward to the well–merited applause of their

chiefs, and the fierce excitement of the war–dance with which their

victory would be celebrated. Baptiste had satiated his long–cherished

vengeance on the tribe which had destroyed his parents, and Monsieur

Perrot prepared many jokes and gibes, which he proposed to inflict upon

Mike Smith, and those who had not partaken in the glory which he and

his party had gained.

War–Eagle alone shared not in the general joy! Whether it was that he

could not prevent his thoughts from reverting to Prairie–bird, or that

he was oppressed by a vague and mysterious presentiment of calamity,

his demeanour was grave, even to sadness, and the trophies of victory

hung neglected from the fringes of his dress.

Having taken the shortest route, they arrived, a few hours before

nightfall, at a point where a broad trail led direct to the encampment;

and War–Eagle, whose penetrating eye had marked his friend’s

impatience, and who never lost an opportunity of proving to him the

warmth of his attachment, said to him,

“Netis should go forward and tell Tamenund and the chiefs, that the

Lenapé war–party are coming, and that the Dahcotah scalps are many. It

will be a pleasant tale for the ancient chiefs, and it is good that

they hear it from the mouth of the bravest warrior.”

This compliment was paid to him aloud, and in the hearing of the whole

band, who signified their approbation by the usual quick and repeated

exclamation.[50]

Reginald replied, “No one is bravest here; where War–Eagle leads, none

but brave men are worthy to follow.”

The next minute Nekimi was in full speed towards the village; and the

Delaware band, with Baptiste and Perrot, moved leisurely forward after

him.

Scarcely two hours had elapsed when a single horseman was seen riding

towards them, in whom, as he drew near, they had some difficulty in

recognising Reginald, for his dress was soiled, his countenance haggard

and horror–stricken, while the foaming sides and wide–dilated nostril

of Nekimi showed that he had been riding with frantic and furious

speed. All made way for him, and he spoke to none until he drew his

bridle by the side of War–Eagle, and beckoned to him and to Baptiste

to come aside. For a moment he looked at the former in silence with an

eye so troubled, that the guide feared that some dreadful accident had

unsettled his young master’s mind, but that fear was almost immediately

relieved by Reginald, who, taking his friend’s hand, said to him, in a

voice almost inarticulate from suppressed emotion,

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

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

reply.

“But this is darkness,” said Reginald, shuddering; “black darkness,

where there is neither sun nor moon, not even a star!”

“My brother,” said the Indian, drawing himself proudly to his full

height; “my brother speaks without thinking. The sun shines still, and

the stars are bright in their place. The Great Spirit dwells always

among them; a thick cloud may hide them from our eyes, but my brother

knows they are shining as brightly as ever.”

The young man looked with wonder and awe upon the lofty countenance of

this untaught philosopher of the wilderness; and he replied, “War–Eagle

is right. The Great Spirit sees all, and whatever he does is good! But

sometimes the cup of misfortune is so full and so bitter, that man can

hardly drink it and live.”

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

seen at the village?”

“_There is no village!_” said the young man in an agony of grief. “The

lodges are overthrown; Tamenund, the Black Father, Olitipa, all are

gone; wolves and vultures are quarrelling over the bones of unburied

Lenapé!”

As Reginald concluded his tragic narrative, an attentive observer

might have seen that the muscles and nerves in the powerful frame of

the Indian contracted for an instant, but no change was visible on his

haughty and commanding brow, as he stood before the bearer of this

dreadful news a living impersonation of the stern and stoic philosophy

of his race.

“War–Eagle,” said Reginald, “can you explain this calamity—do you see

through it—how has it happened?”

“_Mahéga_,” was the brief and emphatic reply.

“Do you believe that the monster has murdered all, men, women, and

children?” said Reginald, whose thoughts were fixed on Prairie–bird,

but whose lips refused to pronounce her name.

“No,” replied the chief; “not all, the life of Olitipa is safe, if she

becomes the wife of that wolf; for the others, War–Eagle cannot tell.

The Washashe love to take scalps, woman, child, or warrior, it is all

one to them; it is enough. War–Eagle must speak to his people.”

After a minute’s interval, the chief accordingly summoned his faithful

band around him, and in brief but pathetic language informed them of

the disaster that had befallen their tribe. Reginald could not listen

unmoved to the piercing cries and groans with which the Delawares rent

the air on receiving this intelligence, although his own heart was

racked with anxiety concerning the fate of his beloved Prairie–bird.

While the surrounding warriors thus gave unrestrained vent to their

lamentations, War–Eagle stood like some antique statue of bronze, in

an attitude of haughty repose, his broad chest thrown forward, and his

erect front, bearing the impress of an unconquerable will, bidding

defiance alike to the human weakness that might assail from within,

and the storms of fate that might threaten from without. The stern and

impressive silence of his grief produced, ere long, its effect upon his

followers; by degrees the sounds of wailing died away, and as the short

twilight of that climate was rapidly merging into darkness, the chief,

taking Reginald’s arm, moved forward, whispering to him in a tone, the

deep and gloomy meaning of which haunted his memory long afterwards,

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

On the following morning War–Eagle rose an hour before daybreak, and

led his party to the spot where the lodges of their kindred had so

lately stood, and where they had anticipated a reception of honour

and triumph. The chief strode forward across the desolate scene,

seemingly insensible to its horrors; faithful to his determination,

all the energies of his nature were concentrated in the burning thirst

for revenge, which expelled, for the time, every other feeling from

his breast. The Delaware warriors, observant of the stern demeanour

of their leader, followed him in gloomy silence; and although each

shuddered as he passed the well–known spot where, only a few days

before, an anxious wife had prepared his food, and merry children had

prattled round his knee, not a groan nor a complaint was uttered; but

every bosom throbbed under the expectation of a vengeance so terrible,

that it should be remembered by the Osages to the latest hour of their

existence as a tribe.

War–Eagle moved directly forward to the place where the lodge of

Tamenund and the tent of the Prairie–bird had been pitched. As they

approached it Reginald felt his heart faint within him, and the colour

fled from his cheek and lip.

Baptiste, taking his master’s hand, said to him, in a tone of voice the

habitual roughness of which was softened by genuine sympathy, “Master

Reginald, remember where you are; the eyes of the Lenapé are upon the

adopted brother of their chief; they have lost fathers, brothers,

wives, and children; see how they bear their loss; let them not think

Netis less brave than themselves.”

“Thank you, thank you, honest Baptiste,” said the unhappy young man,

wringing the woodman’s horny hand; “I will neither disgrace my own, nor

my adopted name; but who among them can compare his loss with mine! so

young, so fair, so gentle, my own affianced bride; pledged to me under

the eye of Heaven, and now in the hands of that fierce and merciless

villain.”

At this moment a cry of exultation burst from the lips of War–Eagle, as

his eye fell upon the wand and slips of bark left by Wingenund. One by

one the chief examined them, and deciphering their meaning with rapid

and unerring sagacity, communicated to his friend that the youth was

still alive and free; that Olitipa, though a prisoner, was well, and

that a fine trail was open for them to follow.

“Let us start upon it this instant,” cried Reginald, with the

re–awakened impetuosity of his nature.

“War–Eagle must take much counsel with himself,” replied the chief,

gravely. “The ancient men of the Lenapé are asleep, their bones are

uncovered; War–Eagle must not forget them; but,” he added, while a

terrible fire shot from his dark eye, “if the Great Spirit grants him

life, he will bring Netis within reach of Mahéga before this young

moon’s horn becomes a circle.”

Having thus spoken, he resumed his scrutiny of the ciphers and figures

drawn upon the bark; nor did he cease it until he fully understood

their purport; he then called together his band, and explained to them

his further plans, which were briefly these:—

He selected ten of the youngest and most active, who were to accompany

him, with Reginald, Baptiste, and Perrot, on the trail of Mahéga; the

remainder of the party, under the guidance of an experienced brave,

were to follow the more numerous body of the Osages, to hang on their

trail, and never to leave it while there remained a chance or a hope

of an enemy’s scalp. Two of the Delawares were at the same time

despatched, one to seek the aid and sympathy of the Konsas and other

friendly, or neutral tribes, the other to prowl about the woods in the

neighbourhood, to collect any fugitives who might have escaped, and

guide any party that might be formed to aid in the meditated pursuit.

He also ordered the larger party to gather the bones and relics of

their kindred, and to perform the rites of sepulture, according to the

custom of the tribe.

While the chief was giving these instructions to the several parties

above designated, Reginald sat musing on the very grass over which the

tent of his beloved had been spread; no blood had there been spilt; it

had been spared the desecration of the vulture and the wolf; her spirit

seemed to hover unseen over the spot; and shutting his eyes, the lover

fancied he could still hear her sweet voice, attuned to the simple

accompaniment of her Mexican guitar.

How long this waking dream possessed his senses he knew not, but he was

awakened from it by War–Eagle, who whispered in his ear, “The trail

of Mahéga waits for my brother.” Ashamed of his temporary weakness,

Reginald sprung to his feet, and thence upon the back of Nekimi. The

chief having chosen four of the strongest and best from the recaptured

horses, one for the use of Perrot, the others for such emergencies as

might occur, left the remainder with the main body of the Delawares,

and, accompanied by his small party thoroughly well armed and equipped,

started on the trail in pursuit of the Osages.

While these events were passing near the site of the Lenapé village,

Mahéga pursued his westward course with unremitting activity, for

although he felt little apprehension from the broken and dispirited

band of Delawares, he knew that he was entering a region which was the

hunting–ground of the Pawnees, Otoes, Ioways, and other tribes, all of

whom would consider him a trespasser, and would be disposed to view

his present expedition in the light of a hostile incursion; for this

reason, although he was amply provided with presents for such Indians

as he might fall in with, from the plunder of the Delaware lodges, he

marched with the greatest rapidity and caution, and never relaxed his

speed until he had passed that dangerous region, and had entered upon

the higher, and, comparatively, less frequented plain, lying between

the waters of the Nebraska, or Platte River, and the lower ridges,

known by the name of the Spurs of the Rocky Mountains.

During the whole of this tedious march the attention paid to the

comfort of Olitipa by her wild and wayward captor was constant and

respectful; secure, as he thought, from pursuit, he had determined to

gain her confidence and affection, and thus to share in that mysterious

knowledge and power which he believed her to possess, and which he

well knew that force or harshness would never induce her to impart.

Thus she remained continually attended by her favourite Lita; when the

band halted for refreshment, the choicest morsels were set apart for

her use, and the young branches of the willow or poplar were gathered

to shelter her from the sun. Mahéga rarely addressed her, but when he

did so it was in language calculated to dispel all apprehension of

present injury or insult; and Prairie–bird, remembering the parting

counsel of the missionary, replied to the haughty chief’s inquiries

with courtesy and gentleness; although she could not help shuddering

when she remembered his former violence, and the dreadful massacre at

the Delaware village, she felt deeply grateful to Heaven for having

softened the tiger’s heart towards her, and for having led him, by

means and motives unknown to herself, to consult her safety and her

comfort.

On one occasion during the march, Mahéga availed himself of her

mysterious acquirements, in a manner that reflected great credit

upon his sagacity, at the same time that it increased, in a tenfold

degree, the awe with which she had inspired him and his adherents.

They had made their usual halt at noon, by the side of a small stream;

Prairie–bird and her faithful Lita were sheltered from the burning

rays of the sun by an arbour of alder–branches, which the Osages had

hastily, but not inconveniently, constructed; Mahéga and his warriors

being occupied in eating the dainty morsels of meat afforded by a

young buffalo cow killed on the preceding day, when a large band of

Indians appeared on the brow of a neighbouring hill, and came down at

full speed towards the Osage encampment Mahéga, without manifesting

any uneasiness, desired his men to pile a few of their most valuable

packages within the arbour of Olitipa, and to form themselves in a

semicircle around, for its protection, their bows and rifles being

ready for immediate use. Having made these dispositions, he waited the

approach of the strangers, quietly cutting his buffalo beef, and eating

it, as if secure of their friendly intentions. Having come within

a hundred yards, they drew in their bridles on a signal from their

leader, who seemed disposed to take a more deliberate survey of the

party. From their appearance Mahéga knew that they must belong to one

of the wild roving tribes who hunt between the sources of the Platte

and Arkansas rivers, but the name or designation of their tribe he was

at first unable to make out. Their weapons were bows and arrows, short

clubs, and knives; their dress, a hunting–shirt of half–dressed skin, a

centre–cloth of the same material, and mocassins on their feet, leaving

the legs entirely bare; the leader had long hair, clubbed at the back

of his head, and fastened with sinew–strings round a wooden pin, to

which were attached several stained feathers, which danced in the wind,

and heightened the picturesque effect of his costume.

A rapid glance sufficed to show him that the new comers, although

apparently busied about their meal without distrust, were not only well

armed but ready for immediate service; nor did his eye fail to note

the martial bearing and gigantic proportions of Mahéga, who sat like a

chief expecting the approach of an inferior.

Influenced by these observations, the leader of the roving band

resolved that the first intercourse at least should be of a peaceful

nature, prudently reflecting, that as his own numbers were far

superior, the nearer the quarters the greater would be their advantage.

Having uttered a few brief words to his followers, he advanced with a

friendly gesture towards Mahéga, and the following dialogue took place,

in the ingenious language of signs before referred to:—

_Mahéga._—“What tribe are you?”

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

_M._—“Washashee, going to the mountains.”

_L._—“What seek you there?”

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

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

_M._—“Great Medicine—let the Aricará beware.” To this the chief added

the sign usually employed for their most solemn mysteries.

While this conversation was going on, the rovers of the wilderness

had gradually drawn nearer, not, however, unperceived by Mahéga,

who, throwing down a strip of blanket at a distance of twenty yards

from the arbour of Prairie–bird, explained by a sign sufficiently

intelligible, that if the main body of them crossed that line, his

party would shoot.

At a signal from their leader they again halted; and Mahéga observed

that from time to time they threw hasty glances over the hill whence

they had come, from which he inferred that more of their tribe were in

the immediate neighbourhood.

Meanwhile their leader, whose curiosity urged him to discover what

Great Medicine was contained in the arbour, advanced fearlessly alone

within the forbidden precincts, thus placing his own life at the mercy

of the Osages.

Ordering his men to keep a strict watch on the movements of the

Aricarás, and to shoot the first whom they might detect in fitting an

arrow to his bow–string, Mahéga now lighted a pipe, and courteously

invited their leader to smoke; between every successive whiff exhaled

by the latter, he cast an inquisitive glance towards the arbour, but

the packages and the leafy branches baffled his curiosity; meanwhile

the preliminaries of peace having been thus amicably interchanged, the

other Aricarás cast themselves from their horses, and having given them

in charge to a few of the youngest of the party, the remainder sat in a

semicircle, and gravely accepted the pipes handed to them by order of

Mahéga.

That chief, aware of the mischievous propensities of his new friends,

and equally averse to intimacy or hostility with such dangerous

neighbours, had bethought himself of a scheme by which he might at once

get rid of them by inspiring them with superstitious awe, and gratify

himself with a sight of one of those wonders which the missionary had

referred to in his last warning respecting the Prairie–bird. It was not

long before the curious Aricará again expressed his desire to know the

Great Medicine contents of the arbour. To this Mahéga replied,

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

“A woman!” replied the leader, in his own tongue, expressing in his

countenance the scorn and disappointment that he felt.

“A woman,” repeated Mahéga, gravely; “but a Medicine Spirit. We travel

to the mountains; she will then go to the land of spirits.”

The Aricará made here a gesture of impatient incredulity, with a sign

that, if he could not see some medicine–feat, he would believe that the

Osage spoke lies.

Mahéga, desiring him to sit still, and his own party to be watchful,

now approached the arbour, and, addressing Prairie–bird in the Delaware

tongue, explained to her their present situation, and the dangerous

vicinity of a mischievous, if not a hostile tribe, adding, at the same

time,

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

“What is it to Olitipa,” replied the maiden, coldly, “whether she is a

prisoner to the Osage, or to the Western Tribe? perhaps they would let

her go.”

“Whither?” answered the chief. “Does Olitipa think that these prairie

wolves would shelter her fair skin from the sun, or serve and protect

her as Mahéga does? If she were their prisoner they would take from

her every thing she has, even her medicine book, and make her bring

water, and carry burdens, and bear children to the man who should take

Mahéga’s scalp.”

Bad as was her present plight and her future prospect, the poor girl

could not help shuddering at the picture of hopeless drudgery here

presented to her eyes, and she replied,

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

wild men?”

“The Black Father said that Olitipa could gather the beams of the sun,

as our daughters collect the waters of the stream in a vessel,” said

the chief in a low tone.

Instantly catching the hint here given by her beloved instructor, and

believing that nothing done in obedience to his wishes could be in

itself wrong, she resolved to avail herself of this opportunity of

exciting the superstitious awe of the savages, and she replied,

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

Hastily winding a party–coloured kerchief in the form of a turban,

around the rich tresses of her dark hair, and throwing a scarf over her

shoulder, she took her small bag, or reticule, in her hand, and stepped

forth from the arbour. Such an apparition of youthful bloom, grace,

and beauty, extracted, even from the wild leader of the Aricarás, an

exclamation of astonished admiration. Having seated herself upon a

finely painted bison robe, placed for her by Lita, she waited gravely

until Mahéga should have prepared the stranger chief for what was to

follow.

It was now scarcely an hour after noon, and the sun shone full upon

them, with bright and excessive heat; Mahéga, pointing upward,

explained to the Aricará that the Woman–Spirit would bring some fire

down from that distant orb. He could not give any further information,

being totally ignorant of the nature of the wonder to be wrought, and

as anxious to witness it as the wild chief himself.

“Where will she place it?” he inquired.

“In the chief’s hand,” replied the maiden, whose intelligent mind had

long since, during her residence with the Delawares, become familiar

with the language of signs.

The two leaders now explained to their followers, in their respective

tongues, the great medicine which they were about to see; and the

latter, forgetful alike of distrust and precaution, crowded with

irresistible curiosity about the spot, Mahéga alone preserving his

habitual self–command, and warning those nearest to him to be prepared

against treachery or surprise. The only ornament worn by the Aricará

leader was a collar, made of dark blue cloth, adorned with porcupine

quills, and girt with the formidable claws of the grisly bear. This

collar, being at once a trophy of his prowess, and a proof of its

having been gained among the Rocky Mountain traders (from whom alone

the cloth could have been procured in that remote region), was highly

prized both by the owner and his followers, and was, therefore, as well

as from its colour, selected by Prairie–bird as a fitting object on

which to work her “medicine wonder.” She desired him to take it from

his neck, and to place it on the grass, with his hands below it, that

no fire might come near it. When he had complied with her request, she

drew from her bag a burning–glass, and, carefully adjusting the focus,

held it over the dark blue cloth, in which ere long a hole was burnt,

and the astonished leader’s hand below was scorched.

It is impossible to depict the wonder and awe of the attentive savages;

they looked first at her, then at her glass, then at the sun; then

they re–examined the cloth, and ascertained that it was indeed burnt

through, and that the smell of fire still rested on the edge of the

aperture. After this they withdrew several paces from the spot, the

leader inquiring with submissive signs whether he might replace the

collar? To which inquiry the maiden gravely bowing assent, retired

again into the arbour. For some time a profound silence ensued, the

Osages being as much awe–struck as the Aricarás; even Mahéga himself

was not proof against the prevalent feeling of superstitious terror;

and thus, while desiring Prairie–bird to terrify others, he had

unconsciously furnished her with a mysterious and powerful check upon

himself.

It was not long before the Aricarás rose to take leave,—their chief

presenting Mahéga with a fine horse; and receiving in return sundry

ornaments and trinkets, of no real value, but highly prized from

their rarity in that wild and desolate region. As they withdrew, they

cast many a furtive glance at the arbour and its mysterious tenant,

seemingly glad when they found themselves at such a distance as

rendered them safe from her supernatural influence. On their return to

their own people, they related, with considerable exaggeration, the

wonders which they had witnessed; and Prairie–bird was long afterwards

spoken of in the tribe by a name equally impossible to print, or to

pronounce, but which, if translated into English, would be, “The

Great–Medicine–Daughter–of–the–burning–sun!”

After this adventure, Mahéga pursued his uninterrupted way towards

the spurs of the Rocky Mountains; his manner and bearing towards

Prairie–bird being more deferential than ever, and the passion that

he entertained for her being checked and awed by the miraculous power

that she had displayed; he still nourished strong hopes of being able

ultimately to gain her affection, but in the meantime resolved to

turn her supernatural skill to good account, by frightening such wild

roving bands as they might fall in with, and extorting from their

superstitious fears valuable presents in horses and peltry.

Meanwhile, the maiden’s observant eye had marked the effect upon

Mahéga produced by the burning–glass, in spite of his well–dissembled

indifference, and she secretly determined that the chief use that

she could make of such exhibitions as were calculated to excite

superstitious awe among Indians, should be to maintain the command

over Mahéga which she was conscious she now possessed.

During the whole of this long and toilsome march, the faithful and

indefatigable Wingenund hovered over the trail at such a distance as

never to be perceived by any of the party, and left at occasional

intervals a willow–rod, or a slip of bark, so marked as to be a sure

guide to an eye less keen and sagacious than that of War–Eagle. His

only food was dried undressed buffalo meat; his drink, the stream where

the Osages had slacked their thirst; his bed, the barren prairie;

he made no fire to scare away the prowling wolves, that yelped and

howled at night round his solitary couch, his only protection from

their ravenous hunger being a tuft of damp grass, over which he rubbed

some powder from his flask. Twice was he descried and pursued by

roving bands of Indians, but on both occasions saved himself by his

extraordinary fleetness of foot; and the moment that the immediate

danger was over, renewed his weary and difficult task.

Cheered by his deep affection for his sister, encouraged by the

approval which he knew that his exertions would meet from War–Eagle

and Reginald, and, more than all, stimulated by the eager desire to

distinguish himself as a Delaware chief on this his first war–path,

the faithful youth hung over the long and circuitous trail of his

enemies with the patience and unerring sagacity of a bloodhound; and

though she saw him not, Prairie–bird felt a confident assurance that

her beloved young brother would be true to his promise, and would never

leave nor desert her while the pulses of life continued to beat in his

affectionate heart.

CHAPTER XI.

ETHELSTON VISITS ST. LOUIS, WHERE HE UNEXPECTEDLY MEETS AN OLD

ACQUAINTANCE, AND UNDERTAKES A LONGER JOURNEY THAN HE HAD CONTEMPLATED.

During the occurrence of the events related in the preceding chapters,

the disputes and difficulties attending the distribution of peltries

among the different fur companies at St. Louis had rather increased

than diminished, and Ethelston had found himself compelled, however

unwillingly, again to bid adieu to Lucy, and take a trip to the

Mississippi for the arrangement of his guardian’s affairs in that

quarter; a considerable portion of the fortune that he inherited from

his father was invested in the same speculation, and he could not,

without incurring the charge of culpable negligence, leave it in the

hands of others at a great distance, many of whose interests might

perhaps be at variance with those of Colonel Brandon and himself.

He had been only a short time in St. Louis when, one day, on passing

the cathedral, he met two men, whose appearance attracted his

attention. The one was past the meridian of life, and the benevolent

thoughtfulness of his countenance accorded well with the sober suit of

black that indicated the profession to which he belonged; the other

was a stout, square–built man, evidently cast in a coarser mould than

his companion, but apparently conversing with him on terms of friendly

familiarity. After looking stedfastly at this second, Ethelston felt

convinced that he was not mistaken in addressing him: “Bearskin, my

good friend, how come you to be in St. Louis? I thought you were busy,

bear and buffalo hunting with my friend Reginald, among the Delawares

of the Missouri?”

“Ha! Master Ethelston,” replied the sturdy voyageur, “I am right glad

to see your face here. We have been in some trouble of late, and

instead of our hunting the bears, the bears has hunted us.”

“I see you have been in some trouble,” said Ethelston, noticing for the

first time the boatman’s scars and bruises; “but tell me,” he added,

hastily catching him by the arm, “has any evil befallen my friend, my

brother Reginald?”

“No harm that I knows of,” replied the other; “but I must say that

things wern’t what a man might call altogether pleasant, where I left

him.”

“What!” exclaimed Ethelston, with an indignation that he made no

attempt to conceal, “you left him in danger or in difficulties, and can

give no account of him? Bearskin, I would not have believed this of

you, unless I had it from your own lips!”

“Master Ethelston,” answered the justly offended voyageur, “a man that

goes full swing down the stream of his own notions, without heeding oar

or helm, is sure to run athwart a snag; here’s my worthy friend here,

Paul Müller, and though he is a preacher, I’ll hold him as honest a man

as any in the territory; he can tell you the whole story from one end

to t’other; and when he’s done so, perhaps you’ll be sorry for what

you’ve said to old Bearskin.”

“I am already sorry,” replied Ethelston, moved by the earnest

simplicity of the scarred and weather–beaten boatman. “I am already

sorry that I have done you wrong, but you will make allowance for my

impatience and anxiety concerning my brother’s fate!” (Ethelston always

spoke of Reginald as his brother, for he had a secret and undefined

pleasure in so doing, as it implied his union with the sister of his

friend.) Paul Müller, easily guessing from the few words that had

passed that the person now addressing Bearskin was the Edward Ethelston

of whom Reginald had so often spoken to him, said,

“Sir, you certainly did an injustice to Bearskin, in thinking him

capable of deserting a friend in need; but the apology you have offered

is, I am sure, sufficient to satisfy him. The intelligence which I

have to communicate respecting Reginald Brandon and his party is in

some respects exceedingly melancholy; if you will accompany me to our

lodging, which is just at hand, I will explain it to you in full;

meanwhile, rest satisfied with the assurance that, to the best of our

belief, your friend is safe and well in health.”

As soon as they had entered the house, Bearskin, forgetting the hasty

words which had so much hurt his feelings, busied himself in preparing

some refreshment for Ethelston, while the missionary related to him

all that had occurred since his friend joined the Delaware encampment.

He did not even conceal from him the violent passion that the latter

had conceived for Prairie–bird, and the despair with which, on his

return to the village from the Sioux expedition, he would learn the

destruction of her kindred, and her own captivity among the Osages.

“Indeed, my good sir,” said Ethelston, “I must freely confess that

this portion of your intelligence is the only one that brings with

it any comfort: the fate of Mike Smith and his companions, and the

destruction of the unoffending Delawares, are disasters deeply to be

lamented; but, surely, the fact of the Osage chief having carried

off the Indian maiden whom you call Prairie–bird, and who seems to

have exercised such a strange fascination over Reginald Brandon, can

scarcely be regretted: for she will be more likely to find a congenial

mate among the red–skins, and a bitter disappointment will be spared to

my excellent guardian Colonel Brandon.”

“I know not, my son,” answered the missionary mildly; “the ways of

Providence are inscrutable, and it does frequently happen, as you say,

that events which we lament at the moment, afford afterwards just

grounds for rejoicing. Nevertheless, I cannot view this matter exactly

as you do, for I have known the maiden from her childhood, and she is

a more fitting bride for a Christian gentleman, than for a heathen

warrior.”

“I did, indeed, hear the Colonel, and the other members of the family

at Mooshanne, say that the Delaware youth who so bravely defended the

life of Reginald at the risk of his own had spoken in the highest

terms of praise respecting his sister the Prairie–bird, as if she

were a being of a superior race; but you, my good father, are above

the prejudices which darken the minds of these Indians; and you must

therefore know, that whatever may be her beauty and amiable qualities,

she is, after all, the daughter of a Delaware chief, and, as such,

could not be a welcome inmate of my guardian’s house.”

“Nay, my son,” replied the missionary, “she is but the adopted child

of the venerable Delaware who lately fell in the massacre which I

have related to you; she was not of his blood nor of his race; such

qualities and nature as she possesses have been in some measure the

fruit of my own care and toil. Were it not that you might mistake my

language for that of boasting, I would say, that although the prairie

has been her dwelling, and a Lenapé tent her home, she does not in her

education fall far short of your maidens in the settlements, who have

had greater advantages of instruction.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of a negro with

refreshment, preceded by Bearskin, bearing in his hand a bottle of

French brandy, of which he vaunted, not without reason, the excellent

quality and flavour; but Ethelston continued to converse in an under

tone with the missionary, his countenance evincing every moment

increased eagerness and interest in the subject of their discourse,

which so absorbed his attention, that he never noticed the honest

boatman’s repeated attempts to call his attention to the refreshment

which he had prepared. Even Paul Müller was unable to comprehend this

sudden change in his manner, and his vehement desire to know all the

most minute particulars respecting a person of whom he had spoken a few

minutes before in terms of disparagement; but he attributed it to the

interest which he took in his friend’s selected bride, and satisfied

his curiosity to the best of his ability.

When all his many and rapidly uttered questions were answered,

Ethelston rose from his seat, and abruptly took his departure, saying,

as he left the room, “Thanks, thanks, my good friends, you shall see me

again ere long.”

“Indeed I care not much how long it may be before I see his face

again,” said Bearskin sulkily. “Here have I been bothering myself to

make Pompey bring up these cakes and, fruits, and I have opened a

bottle of Father Antin’s best brandy, and he goes off without tasting

with us, or so much as taking a drop to wash down the ill words which

were in his mouth a while since.”

“Nay, my good friend,” replied the missionary, “be not hasty to censure

Master Ethelston, for he is a true and zealous friend to Reginald

Brandon, and the news from the west seems to have affected him with

much anxiety and alarm.”

“That’s all very well for you learned folk,” said the unpacified

boatman, “but we don’t do things after that fashion on the river–side;

and for all he’s the son of an old friend of the Colonel’s, when he

comes this way again he’s like to hear something of my notion of his

manners.”

“What sort of character bears he at home?”

“Why, to tell the truth, his character’s indifferent good; I never

heard of his bein’ rude or uncivil–like before.”

“Well, then, Bearskin, if he comes here again, give him an opportunity

for explaining his sudden departure, before you take or express

any offence at conduct of which you may not rightly understand the

motives. Come, my good friend, clear your brow, and let us partake with

gratitude of the excellent cheer that you have provided.”

Thus saying the missionary placed himself with his companion at table,

and the ill–temper of the latter was dispelled by the first glass of

Father Antin’s cognac.

After this interview with Paul Müller, Ethelston pursued the business

which had brought him to St. Louis with such vigour and energy, that

at the close of a week’s negotiation he was able to inform Colonel

Brandon that by sacrificing a small portion of the disputed claim, he

had adjusted the matter upon terms which he trusted his guardian would

not consider disadvantageous; his letter concluded thus:

“Having now explained these transactions, and informed you in another

letter of the melancholy fate of Mike Smith and some of his companions,

I must announce to you my intention of setting off immediately in

search of Reginald, with the best–appointed force that I can collect

here, for I am seriously apprehensive for his safety, surrounded as

he is by roving tribes of Indians, with some of whom he and his party

are at open war; while the band of Delawares, upon whose friendship he

might have relied, is almost destroyed. As it may be a work of some

time and difficulty to find Reginald in a region of such boundless

extent, I must entreat you not to feel uneasy on my account, should my

absence be more protracted than I would wish it to be, for I shall be

accompanied by Bearskin and other experienced trappers; and I know that

even Lucy would have no smile for me on my return, if I came back to

Mooshanne without making every exertion to extricate her brother from

the difficulties in which these unexpected incidents have involved him.”

By the same post Ethelston wrote also to inform Lucy of his resolution;

and though she felt extremely vexed and anxious on account of the

lengthened absence which it foretold, still she did him the justice in

her heart to own that he was acting as she would have wished him to act.

Not a day passed that he did not consult with Paul Müller, and also

with the most experienced agents of the fur companies, in order that

he might provide the articles most requisite for his contemplated

expedition, and secure the services of men thoroughly trained and

accustomed to mountain and prairie life.

In this last respect he was fortunate enough to engage a man named

Pierre, a half–breed from the Upper Missouri, whose life had been spent

among the most remote trading–posts, where his skill as a hunter, as

well as in interpreting Indian languages, was held in high estimation.

Bearskin, who was almost recovered from his wound, and from his short

fit of ill–humour with Ethelston, agreed to join the party, and the

good missionary resolved to brave all dangers and fatigues in the

hope of rejoining, and perhaps of being instrumental in rescuing, his

beloved pupil.

With unwearied industry and exertion Ethelston was able, in one week

subsequent to the date of his letter, to leave St. Louis in search

of his friend, attended by eight hardy and experienced men, all of

whom, excepting the missionary, were well armed, and furnished with

excellent horses, mules, and every necessary for their long and arduous

undertaking.

Guided by Bearskin, they reached without accident or adventure the site

of the desolate Lenapé village, in the Osage country, and there fell

in with one of the young Delawares detached by War–Eagle to observe

what might be passing in the neighbourhood: from this youth they learnt

that War–Eagle and Reginald, with a small party, had gone westward in

pursuit of Mahéga, and that the large body of the surviving Delawares

were on the trail of the more numerous band of the treacherous Osages.

Ethelston wished to go on at once in search of his friend, but the

youth insisted that he should first assist his band in taking vengeance

on their enemies. Promises and threats proved equally unavailing; and

after the missionary had exhausted all his eloquence in endeavouring to

promote peace, he was himself compelled to assure Ethelston that his

only chance of finding the trail of his friend in a spot so intersected

by multitudinous paths, was to accede to the terms proposed by the

Indian; he concluded in these words:

“Doubtless the conduct of these Osages was bloodthirsty and

treacherous. I cannot deny that they deserve punishment, but I

would fain have left them to the chastisement of a higher Power;

I know, however, that I cannot change the notion of retributive

justice entertained by the Indians; and although I cannot prevent

retaliation, my presence may soften the severities by which it is

usually accompanied; at all events I will not shrink from the attempt,

especially as it is the only means by which we can possibly hope to

trace those in whose safety we are so deeply interested.”

Ethelston could not press any further objection; and his party, under

the guidance of the young Delaware, was soon in rapid motion upon

the trail of the larger body of the Osages, who were, as it may be

remembered, already pursued by a band of Lenapé warriors.

Towards the close of the second day’s march, Ethelston and his party

met the latter returning in triumph from a successful pursuit of their

enemies, whom they had overtaken and surprised before they could reach

the main body of the Osage village. The attack was made by night, and

the Delawares had taken many scalps without the loss of a single man;

but their number was not sufficient to justify their remaining in the

neighbourhood of a force so much superior to their own, so they had

retreated to the southward, and were now on the way to their former

village, where they intended to perform more at leisure the funeral

ceremonies due to their aged chief, and those who had been killed with

him, and to appease their unquiet spirits by offering at their graves

the trophies taken during their late expedition. A few of the most

daring and adventurous entreated permission to join Ethelston’s band

in his search for War–Eagle, their favourite leader; nor was he by any

means sorry to grant their request, justly considering the addition of

ten well–armed Lenapé warriors as a most desirable reinforcement to his

party.

As soon as the selection was made, they separated at once from the

remaining body of Delawares, and, guided by the youth before mentioned,

threw themselves upon the trail of Mahéga and his pursuers.

CHAPTER XII.

THE OSAGES ENCAMP NEAR THE BASE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.—AN UNEXPECTED

VISITOR ARRIVES.

After parting with the Aricarás, Mahéga travelled westward for many

days over that barren and desolate region lying between the sources

of the Platte and Arkansas rivers, without falling in with any other

Indians: his party was guided by a grim and scarred warrior, who had

been on several hunting excursions to the Rocky Mountains, in the

course of which he had been more than once engaged with the Shiennes,

Crows, and other tribes, whose names have of late years become

familiar to the general reader, but who were then known only to the

few adventurous spirits who had pushed their way into that wild and

dangerous country.

Prairie–bird, attended by her faithful Lita, and mounted on her

high–mettled and sure–footed pony, was placed near the centre of the

line of march, and Mahéga himself always brought up the rear, that

being the post usually occupied by an Indian chief on all occasions,

excepting when engaged in attack or pursuit of a foe.

The maiden seemed to have resigned herself composedly to her captive

condition; and if she still harboured thoughts, or projects of escape,

none could detect them in the quiet observant eye with which she

noted the new and interesting objects presented to her view. They had

already passed the chain of hills known as the Ozark range, and leaving

the Black Hills to the northward, were crossing the sandy elevated

plain which lies between them and the Rocky Mountains: the sand of

this district is of a reddish hue, and in many places the hollows and

small ravines are incrusted with salt, which gives them, at first, the

appearance of being covered with snow; large masses of rock salt are

also of frequent occurrence, and give to the waters of all the smaller

tributaries of the Upper Arkansas a brackish and briny taste.

One evening, a little before sunset, Prairie–bird checked her horse,

to enjoy at leisure the magnificent panorama before her; and even the

suspicious Mahéga forbore to interrupt her enjoyment of its beauties,

contenting himself with viewing them as reflected on her own lovely

countenance. To the northward was an abrupt crag of sandstone rock,

towering above the plain, over which the party were now travelling;

its rugged outline broken into a thousand fissures and rents, probably

by the might of a rushing torrent in bygone years, frowned like the

turrets and battlements of an ancient feudal castle, and the maiden’s

fancy (recurring to some of the tales which had found their way into

her slender library) peopled its lofty towers and spacious courts below

with a splendid host of chivalry, fairest and foremost amongst whom was

the proud and martial figure of Reginald Brandon!

Brushing a teardrop from her eye, she averted it from the castellated

bluff, and turned it westward, where was spread a gradually ascending

plain, covered with cedars, pines, and rich masses of various forest

growth; far beyond which the Great Peak, highest of the Northern Andes,

reared its majestic form, the setting sun shedding a flood of golden

light upon the eternal snow reposing on its crest. With admiring

wonder, Prairie–bird, to whom the dread magnificence of mountain

scenery was new, gazed on the mighty landscape stretched out before

her; she held her breath as the rays of the sinking sun changed the

golden fleecy haze around the distant peak to a rosy hue, and soon

again to a deeper saffron tint; and when, at last, it disappeared

behind the rocky barrier in the west, Prairie–bird covered her eyes

with her hands, as if to enjoy over again in memory a scene of such

surpassing beauty.

“Yes,” she exclaimed half aloud; “many of the works of man are

wonderful, and the fictions of his fancy yet more marvellous; even

visions such as rose before my imagination, when contemplating yon

rugged craggy height; but what are they, when compared to the living

wonders of creation! Almighty Creator—merciful Father! Thou hast led

the steps of thy feeble and helpless child to this wild and remote

mountain solitude! It is filled with Thy presence! Thou art her

protector and guide—her trust is in Thee!”

Mahéga gazed with awe on the maiden as, with parted lips, and eyes

upturned to the glowing western heaven, she seemed to commune with

some unseen mysterious Being; and the other Indians, watchful of their

leader’s countenance, kept at a respectful distance until her short

reverie was past, when the party resumed their march towards the spot

chosen for the evening encampment.

The journey over the ascending sandy plain before mentioned, occupied

several days, at the end of which they reached the opening of a fertile

valley, sheltered on three sides by steep ridges, well covered with

wood, and watered by a clear stream: far as the eye could reach, the

plain to the southward was studded with vast herds of buffalos grazing

in undisturbed security; the timid antelope bounded across the distant

prairie; and as the travellers entered the valley, the quick eye of

Mahéga detected on the velvet turf stretched beneath the northern

ridge, numerous tracks of the mountain deer and of the argali, or

bighorn, a species of goat, the chamois of the Rocky Mountains, found

generally among the most rugged cliffs and precipices; to the scenery

of which his long beard, bright eyes, and enormous twisted horn, give

a wild and picturesque effect. Mahéga was so struck with the singular

advantages offered by this valley, both as affording a sheltered camp,

ample pasturage for the horses, and a plentiful supply of game, that

he resolved to take up there his summer quarters, and in selecting the

spot for his encampment displayed the sagacity and foresight peculiar

to his character.

About a mile from the point where the valley opened upon the plain,

there was, at the base of the northern ridge, a curved and secluded

verdant basin of turf, the entrance to which was so narrow and so well

shaded by overhanging trees, that it was not visible from any distance,

and could not be approached on any other side, owing to the precipitous

height of the crags by which it was surrounded; on an elevated peak or

promontory, immediately above the opening which led to this natural

lawn, grew a number of thick, massive, dwarf cedars, from under the

shade of which a clear–sighted man could command a view of the whole

valley, and give early notice, to those encamped below, of the approach

of danger. Having satisfied himself that by posting a watchman there he

could secure himself against the unperceived attack of any foe, Mahéga

left three of his most trustworthy men in charge of Olitipa, and having

despatched the remainder of his party to kill buffalo, proceeded to

make a careful scrutiny of the valley, in order to ascertain whether

there were signs of Indians in the neighbourhood, and whether, in the

event of his being compelled to shift his quarters, he could find any

defile through which it might be practicable to effect a retreat.

For three whole days he pursued his search with unremitting toil,

during which time he ascertained that there were no visible traces of

Indians being near, and that three miles higher up the valley there

was a transverse opening in the northern ridge, which led to another

and a larger valley, through which flowed a river of considerable

magnitude. In the mean time the Osages had not been idle, and although

little pleased to perform menial services, such as are usually left

to their women, they pitched the tent of Olitipa, with much taste,

at the foot of a huge rock, and between two lofty pines; next to it

they constructed, at a distance of only a few yards, a lodge for their

chief, by stretching double piles of buffalo–hide over bent poles, cut

after their fashion; and again, beyond that, they raised a larger and

ruder skin lodge for themselves; the guitar, and the few moveables

belonging to Prairie–bird were carefully piled in her tent; and, as

a watch was stationed at the opening to the valley, she was free to

wander as she pleased among the trees which bordered the edge of the

lawn on which they were encamped.

“Surely,” said the maiden, casting her eyes upward to the beetling

crags above, and then letting them rest upon the green turf at her

feet, “if it be God’s pleasure that I should be a captive still, he has

granted me, at least, the favour of a goodly prison wherein to dwell.”

She observed with gratitude the change that had taken place in the

demeanour of Mahéga towards herself: so far from being harsh or

violent, he was respectful in the highest degree; and, whether the

change was owing to his fears, or to more creditable motives on the

part of the Osage, she followed the advice tendered by the missionary,

by treating him with courteous gentleness. Whenever he addressed her,

it was in Delaware; and her perfect familiarity with that tongue

rendered it easy for her to make such replies as the occasion might

demand,—sometimes ambiguous, sometimes mysterious, but always such as

were not calculated to irritate or offend his pride.

Venison and buffalo meat abounded in the Osage camp, the choicest

morsels being always set apart for the use of Prairie–bird; and Lita

gathered for her various kinds of berries, which are plentiful in that

region, some of them resembling the gooseberry, the serviceberry, and

others of excellent flavour; there was also found an esculent root,

called by the Indians “_o–ka–no–mi_,” of a farinaceous quality, which

the Comanche girl had often seen on her native plains, and from which,

when she had beaten and pulverised it between two flat stones, she

baked a kind of cake, that was by no means unpalatable.

The Osages had now been encamped nearly a week on this pleasant and

sheltered spot, dividing their time between their two favourite

occupations of hunting and smoking: neither had any fresh Indian trail

been discovered, to arouse their suspicion or their watchfulness.

Before retiring to rest, it was usual for Mahéga to come before the

tent of Prairie–bird; and she, aware of the helplessness of her

situation, came forth to meet him, receiving with guarded courtesy

the fine compliments which he thought fit to pay her, and replying

in a tone which, although not directly encouraging to his hopes, was

calculated to soothe the irritation which her former treatment of him,

and the recollection of his unsuccessful struggle with Reginald, had

left upon his mind.

And here we may pause to observe how the strange contradictions

that are found in the human character frequently produce a line of

conduct which would, at first sight, appear irreconcilable with all

probability, and yet which is in strict accordance with the secret

workings of the wayward will by which it is directed. Thus Mahéga, when

he first became smitten with the beauty of Prairie–bird in the Delaware

camp, where she was surrounded by friends and protectors, wooed her

with the rough impetuosity of his nature, and, finding his advances

rejected, he resorted, as we have seen, to brutal violence, his passion

being so much heightened by the obstacles which it encountered, that,

in order to gratify it, he provoked that quarrel with the Delawares in

which so much blood, both of his own people and of his allies, had been

already shed. Now that he was triumphant, and felt secure of the person

of his captive, a new and ardent desire had arisen within him,—a

desire to compel her to love him. In this pursuit, also, his proud and

haughty spirit led him to anticipate success; and thus, for a time, the

darker and more malignant feelings of his bosom slumbered undisturbed.

One evening, when he had held his customary talk with Prairie–bird,

he retired to his lodge, and the maiden to her tent, where she took

up her long–neglected guitar, and ran her fingers carelessly through

its strings. Lita sat by her side, braiding the front of a pair of

mocassins with stained quills of the porcupine; and, although neither

sigh nor tear betrayed her feelings, Prairie–bird, whose heart now led

her intuitively to dive into that of her companion, saw that sad and

busy thoughts were there: the Comanche girl, proud and reserved as she

was with others, had been won, by the gentleness of her mistress, to

entertain for her an attachment, that was now strengthened and cemented

by the trials and dangers which they had shared together. It might,

indeed, be supposed that, as both were now captives of the chief of

another tribe, the relation of distress and servant had ceased; yet

Lita seemed to think otherwise, and her attendance upon Prairie–bird

was, if possible, more devoted than before.

“For whom are you ornamenting those mocassins, Lita?” inquired the

latter, with a sad smile.

“For whom?” repeated Lita, casting up her dark eyes, and fixing them

on her mistress as if she would read her soul. The tone in which the

exclamation was uttered, and the look by which it was accompanied,

assured Prairie–bird that her conjectures were well founded.

When the heart is full, one overflowing drop tells the contents of the

golden chalice; and from the two words spoken by her companion, Olitipa

gathered her meaning as well as if she had replied, “Is there any other

being on earth but one for whom I can be braiding them?”

The voice of Prairie–bird trembled with a conscious fellow–feeling as

she said, “Lita,—I ask not to know your secret, but I pray to the

Great Spirit so to direct the steps of him for whom those mocassins are

made, that he may receive them at your hands, and wear them for your

sake!”

On hearing these words, a deep blush came over the face and neck of

the Comanche girl; a word of kindness had touched a spring which, in

her wild and wayward nature, would have been unmoved by fear or by

violence, and she threw herself into the arms of Prairie–bird, giving

vent to long–concealed emotions in a flood of tears.

Scarcely had she regained her composure and resumed her braiding, when

the quick ear of Prairie–bird caught the sound of a low chirrup, like

that of a grasshopper, close at the back of the tent: she remembered to

have heard that signal before; the blood fled from her cheek, and she

held her breath in agitated silence: again the sound was repeated, and

Prairie–bird stole to the corner of the tent whence it proceeded, and

stooping her head, said, in English, “If Wingenund is there, let him

speak.”

“My sister!” whispered the soft voice of the youth in reply.

“’Tis he! ’tis my dear young brother himself!”

“Is all quiet, Prairie–bird?”

“All is quiet.”

“Then Wingenund will pull out one of these tent–pegs, and creep in

below the canvass,—he has much to say to his sister.”