In spite of the emotion caused by her brother’s sudden appearance,

and by the recollection that, if discovered, his life would certainly

be forfeited, Prairie–bird retained sufficient presence of mind to

continue passing her fingers through the chords of her guitar, in order

to drown the noise made by Wingenund in removing the fastenings, and

effecting his entrance below the tent. At length he stood before her;

and, after gazing sadly, fondly, on his countenance for a few moments,

she fell upon his neck and wept! The figure was indeed that of her

favourite brother; but oh, how changed since she had last seen him!

Cold, wet, sleepless nights, fatigue, and hunger, had all combined

to wear and exhaust a frame which, although cast in nature’s fairest

and most graceful mould, had not yet reached the enduring strength of

manhood: his once gay attire was soiled and ragged, the mocassins on

his feet were of undressed bison–hide, torn, and scarcely affording any

protection against the stones and thorny plants with which that region

abounds; his light bow, with a few arrows still hung at his back, and

the hunting–knife at his girdle: this was all that remained of the gay

accoutrements with which he had been adorned in the Osage village;

yet, although the frame was emaciated, and the cheeks sunken, the

proud lustre of his eye told of a spirit unquenched by suffering, and

rising superior to the trials which had almost destroyed its earthly

tenement. Prairie–bird longed to ask a hundred questions in a breath:

how he had come? whether he had seen or learnt any thing of War–Eagle,

and of Reginald? but affectionate compassion for her young brother’s

sad condition overcoming every other feeling, she said to him, “Dear,

dear Wingenund, you are wearied to death, sit by me and rest; you are

starved, are you not?”

“Wingenund has not eaten for two days,” replied the youth, seating

himself gently at his sister’s side.

Fortunately, more than half of the evening meal apportioned to

Prairie–bird and Lita remained untouched in the tent, and the latter

instantly set before the youth some well–cooked cakes and bison meat,

luxuries such as had not passed his lips for many a day; and having

also placed a vessel of water within his reach, she went, with the

intuitive delicacy and sagacity of her sex, towards the opening of

the tent, so as to afford Prairie–bird an opportunity of speaking

unrestrainedly to her brother, and at the same time to secure them as

far as possible against interruption. Wingenund, with all his heroic

patience and self–denial, was a young half–starved Indian, and the

delicacies set before him vanished in a few minutes, as if they had

been placed before a famished wolf. Prairie–bird offered him a draught

of water, adding, with an affectionate smile, “My brother, ’tis well

that there is no more meat; a full meal is dangerous after so long a

fast!”

“It is enough,” replied the youth; “Wingenund is well now.”

“Tell me, then, how you have followed to this distant region, and

whether you have seen any thing of War–Eagle, and of—his friends?”

“Wingenund has seen none,” he replied; “nothing except the trail of

Mahéga, and that he would have followed to the big salt lake, or to

death.”

“But how has it been possible for you to pursue the trail undiscovered,

to find food, and to avoid strange Indians on the path?”

“Wingenund kept far behind the Washashee; their eyes could not reach

him; he has left on every day’s trail marks that War–Eagle will know;

they will speak to him as plainly as my sister’s Medicine–book tells

her the Great Spirit’s will. He will come soon, and his friends with

him.”

“But my brother has not told me how he procured food on this toilsome

journey?”

“When the Lenapé’s heart is full he thinks little of food,” replied the

youth proudly. He added, in a more subdued tone: “It was not easy to

find meat, for the Washashee had driven the bison from their path, and

Wingenund could not leave their trail. Twice he has met bad Indians,

who tried to kill him.”

“And how did he escape them, being without a horse?” inquired

Prairie–bird.

“They were too many for him to fight, and he ran from them; but being

weak with hunger, one Aricará overtook him by the waters of the

Arkansas. Wingenund shot him, and, plunging into the river, dived; and

the others never found him; but Wingenund lost his rifle, and since

then he has eaten only roots and fruit.”

The simple narrative of the hardships and sufferings which her young

brother had undergone for her sake, and which his emaciated appearance

attested but too well, brought fresh tears to the eyes of Prairie–bird;

but she checked them as well as she was able, and said, “Tell me yet

one more thing; how have you been able to reach this spot unperceived

by the Osage watchmen?”

“Wingenund saw from far the camp chosen by Mahéga; he saw that he

could not approach it in front; but the rocks behind are rough and

high; he made a rope of bark and grass, climbed up the height, and let

himself down from a pine–tree above the tent; but in case he should

be discovered and killed by the Osages, he has left an arrow where

War–Eagle is sure to find it, and the arrow will show him where to

come.”

“Dear, dear Wingenund, you are indeed a brother,” said the maiden,

deeply moved by the mingled foresight, patience, and devotion that he

had evinced. “You are, indeed, a worthy son of the ancient people.”

Here she was interrupted by a shrill cry; Lita was at the same instant

thrown rudely aside by Mahéga, who rushed into the tent, followed by

two of his warriors. Wingenund sprang to his feet; but ere he could

draw the knife from his girdle he was seized by the Osages, and his

arms pinioned behind his back.

Dark and louring was the frown which the angry chief cast upon his

prisoner. The Delaware youth quailed not before it; the hour of trial

had arrived, and the haughty spirit rising within him, triumphed over

all that he had undergone; all that he knew he had yet to undergo. He

drew himself to the full height of his graceful figure; and fixing his

bright keen eye full upon Mahéga, awaited his fate in silence.

“Has the cunning antelope of the Delawares run so far to see the den of

the Black Wolf?” demanded the chief, with a contemptuous sneer. “Has

the buffalo bull sent the calf on a path that he was afraid to tread

himself? Have the Lenapé girls sent one of their number to carry wood

and water for the Washashee warriors?”

Mahéga paused; and on finding that his cowardly and brutal jeers called

forth no reply, nor changed a muscle on the haughty countenance before

him, his anger grew more ungovernable, and he exclaimed in a voice of

thunder, “If the cur–dog will not bark, the whip, and the knife, and

the fire shall find him a tongue! If he wishes not to be torn in pieces

on the spot, let him say what brought him to the Osage camp, and where

he has left War–Eagle and his pale–faced friends!”

Neither to the threats nor the inquiries of Mahéga did Wingenund deign

to make any reply, and the enraged chief struck him across the face

with the heavy bull–hide whip suspended from his wrist[52]; the blow

was given with such force that it laid open the youth’s cheek, and

a stream of blood poured from the cut. At the sight of this unmanly

outrage, the self–control of Prairie–bird almost gave way; but a look

from her brother recalled her to herself, and checked the impulse which

would have led to the utterance of entreaty mingled with indignant

reproach.

“Speak not, my sister,” said the hero boy in the Delaware tongue;

“speak not to the cowardly Washashee wolf! Waste not your breath on one

who has only courage to strike when his enemy’s hands are tied!”

Mahéga fixed his eyes upon the maiden, and a sudden thought lighted up

his countenance with a gleam of malignant triumph. Approaching close to

her, he said in a stern low whisper, “To–morrow, before the sun goes

down, Olitipa becomes the bride of Mahéga, or that boy is burnt at a

slow fire with such tortures as the Lenapé never thought of in dreams!”

So saying, he ordered the prisoner to be carefully guarded, and left

the tent.

CHAPTER XIII.

WAR–EAGLE’S PARTY FOLLOW THE TRAIL.—A SKIRMISH AND ITS RESULTS.—THE

CHIEF UNDERTAKES A PERILOUS JOURNEY ALONE, AND HIS COMPANIONS FIND

SUFFICIENT OCCUPATION DURING HIS ABSENCE.

Notwithstanding the pains that Wingenund had taken to leave on the

trail such occasional indications as might assist War–Eagle in

following it, the progress made by the latter was much slower than

might have been expected by any one who knew the fierce desire of

vengeance that burnt within him. Several times did the impatience

of Reginald Brandon vent itself in words, which he addressed in an

under–tone to Baptiste.

“I fear that my Delaware brother has lost some of his energies, in

this great calamity which has befallen his tribe; when he followed the

Dahcotah trail his foot was light and swift; now, when more than life

and death may hang upon the events of an hour, his march is heavy and

slow as that of a jaded ox.”

“Master Reginald,” replied the guide, “you do the War–Eagle wrong. A

trail on this hard barren region is not like one in the prairies of

Illinois or Missouri, where, in every little bottom, there are patches

of long grass on which it is marked as plain as a high–road. We have

passed to–day several trails of strange Indians, probably Aricarás or

Upsarokas[53]; had the War–Eagle made a mistake and followed one of

these, we might have wandered several days before we recovered our

right route; watch his eye, it is bent on the ground, not a blade of

grass escapes it; he has not time for a word, even with you.”

“I believe you are right, Baptiste; yet I have now studied my Delaware

brother’s countenance and character for some time. I have seen him

under the influence of strong, ay of deadly passion, and I truly

wondered at his self–control; but there seems now to be a dull heavy

load upon his spirit, as if it were overwhelmed.”

“Look at your feet this moment,” quoth the guide; “and tell me if, on

this hard spot, you can trace the trail on which we are moving.”

“In truth I could not,” said Reginald, looking down; “I grant our

friend’s sagacity in following it, but what has that to do with the

state of his mind and temper, which we were discussing?”

“More, perhaps, than you think, Master Reginald. Along this very path

the steps of Mahéga and his warriors have passed, the hoofs of the

horse hearing Olitipa have trod it: it is now broad daylight, yet you

can see nothing; do you wonder, then, that you cannot discern the trail

of the thoughts and purposes that travel, in the dark, over the heart

of the Delaware?”

“Baptiste,” said Reginald, smiling, “I knew that you were a skilful

hunter, and an experienced woodsman; but I never before knew that you

were a philosopher!”

“Nor I either, Master Reginald; but perhaps I may not be one after all.

What is a philosopher?”

This blunt question from the sturdy guide, seemed somewhat puzzling to

his young master: and the former continued, laughing, “Well, I suppose

it’s some curious kind o’ crittur or other that we never heard of in

the woods; and you don’t seem to have met it often yourself, or you’d

not find it so hard to give a description of it!”

“You are right, Baptiste; it is a creature not very often met with,

either in the woods or in civilised life; but as I have likened you

to it, I am in duty bound to describe it to you as well as I can. A

philosopher is a man whose desires are moderate, and his passions under

due control; who can trace human actions to their real motives, and

effects to their true causes; who can read the character of others

without prejudice, and study his own without self–partiality; who can

bear prosperity without pride, and adversity without repining;—such is

my idea of a philosopher: the sketch is rough, but sufficient to give

you some notion of the object in view.”

The guide was, silent for a few moments; he took off his hairy cap and

twirled it several times round in his bony hands, as was his frequent

custom when perplexed. At length he replied, “Well, Master Reginald, if

that be what you call a philosopher, I’m sure War–Eagle is more like

one than I am, and perhaps you’ll not take offence if I say that he is

more like one than you are yourself: it comes natural to an Ingian to

read his neighbour’s heart, and hide what passes in his own; and, as to

governing his passions, I think you have seen enough to convince you

that, although they were as hot and wild as was the horse which you

bestride, they are now as obedient to the bridle as Nekimi.”

“I grant it,” said Reginald, reining in the proud steed alluded to

in the guide’s illustration; “I grant it; and see how earnestly our

Delaware friend is now bent upon his task; he has made a signal for the

party to halt, and is stooping to examine a blade of grass, as if life

itself depended upon his acute sagacity.”

It was, indeed, as the young man said; the Delaware chief had stooped

to examine a bunch of grass by the side of the trail, in which his

quick glance had detected a small object which would have escaped a

less–practised eye: with a subdued exclamation of surprise he seized

it, and concealed it for a moment in his hand, a ray of animation

lighting up his fine countenance; it was but for a moment, his

features almost immediately relapsed into their usual melancholy grave

expression; and drawing near to Reginald, he put into his hands a small

golden clasp, saying,

“My brother, War–Eagle knows it well; it was given by the Black

Father to Olitipa: the trail is clear as the great white pathway of

heaven.”[54]

Reginald took the clasp, and seizing the hand which held it, he pressed

it in silence to his heart: he had marked the varying expression on

War–Eagle’s countenance; he saw how a moment’s recollection had changed

the sanguine exultation of the lover, to the sad yet steady firmness

of the friend; and his heart yearned towards his Indian brother with

an affection that words could not express; but they were not needed;

his moistened eye and glowing cheek spoke volumes to his friend, and

War–Eagle bounded forward again upon the trail, his spirit excited by

an incident which, though slight in itself, had called forth high and

generous emotions.

A few minutes after the Delaware had resumed his post as guide, our

hero purposely fell into the rear of the party, and throwing the rein

loosely over the neck of his horse, turned the precious golden relic

over and over between his fingers, and pressed it a thousand times

to his lips; the ground over which they were travelling was a broken

series of ravines or ridges, and thus he was enabled to indulge in the

extravagant endearments which he bestowed upon the senseless trinket,

without being exposed to the curious eyes of his fellow–travellers, now

out of his sight.

He was aroused from his reverie by a terrific yell, accompanied by a

sharp sensation of pain; and on raising his eyes perceived at once that

he was cut off from his party by a mounted band of Indians, one of whom

had shot an arrow through the fleshy part of his thigh, into the flap

of the saddle, where it was still sticking. Instantly deciding that

it was better to trust to the speed of Nekimi than to the desperate

chance of forcing his way through the Indians in front, he struck the

steed with his heel, and turning his head towards the open prairie to

the left of the trail, went off at full speed, followed by several

mounted warriors; his first care was to secure the clasp within his

hunting–shirt; his next to examine the priming of his rifle, and of the

pistols at his saddle–bow; finding these all in order, he looked round

at his pursuers, who, although urging their horses by yells and blows,

did not gain upon Nekimi, even when going at an easy gallop.

Re–assured by finding the advantage which he had over his enemies in

the speed of his horse, Reginald cut the arrow where it pinned his leg

to the saddle, and then, without much pain or difficulty, drew the

shaft from the flesh. Being now satisfied that he had nothing to fear

from the wound, he turned the head of his horse in a direction parallel

to the trail on which his party had been marching, as he felt that his

ultimate safety must depend upon his not being separated from them.

A loud yell followed by a succession of rifle–shots announced to him

that the attack on his friends had commenced; and although the broken

nature of the ground still prevented him from seeing them, he could

gather from the sound that they were at no great distance; rightly

judging that they must be anxious respecting his own safety, he now

applied his bugle to his lips, and blew a clear blast, which Baptiste

immediately recognised as the concerted signal for “All’s well,” and

cheerily responded to.

The Indians in pursuit of Reginald reined in their horses, and stood

gazing at each other in astonishment, at sounds which had never before

reached their ear; and all, excepting one, wheeled to rejoin the

main body of their band; he who remained was evidently a chief, or

principal brave, his dress was splendidly adorned with scalp–locks,

eagle–feathers, and beads; and instead of the shaven crown and single

tuft of hair usually worn by the Pawnees, and other Indians of the

Platte and Missouri region, his long black hair streamed over his

shoulders, and fell upon the haunches of the wild spirited courser on

which he was mounted. When he found that the number of his enemies

was reduced to a single one, Reginald was not of a temper to consider

flight as any longer necessary; so he checked the speed of Nekimi, and

trotting to the summit of a rising ground in front of him, saw, at

a little distance, in the ravine below, the skirmish that was still

continued between his friends and the attacking party.

But he was not long permitted to remain an idle spectator; for

the Indian, having recovered from the surprise occasioned by the

bugle–call, was again approaching him at full speed. Reginald turned

his horse towards his assailant, and deliberately raising his rifle,

waited until the latter should be near enough to afford him a certain

aim; but the Indian observing his cool determined bearing, and having

some experience of the dangerous nature of the white man’s weapon,

suddenly wheeled his horse, and galloped to and fro in a zigzag

direction, sometimes advancing, sometimes retreating, with a rapidity

that left Reginald in doubt whether he were meditating an attack, or

desirous only of exhibiting his wonderful powers of horsemanship.

These doubts were, however, soon resolved; for in one of these swift

evolutions, when passing the spot where Reginald stood, at a distance

of fifty yards, the Indian suddenly threw himself half off his horse,

and hanging over its side, discharged from under the animal’s neck an

arrow, which whizzed close by Reginald’s ear; then, when he was himself

out of shot, resumed his seat in the saddle, and again wheeling his

horse, prepared to repeat a manœuvre which had so nearly been attended

with success.

On this second occasion Reginald was resolved to try his chance with

the rifle; and when his enemy, emboldened by the quiet and apparently

surprised demeanour of the white man, threw himself again over the

side of his horse, and came within a nearer range, our hero levelled

his rifle at the animal, whose body shielded completely that of his

opponent, and the ball taking effect behind the shoulder, both horse

and man rolled upon the grass.

[Illustration: REGINALD AND THE CROW CHIEF P. 312]

Reginald sprung from his saddle and hastened to the spot, hoping to

secure the Indian while still encumbered by the fallen horse; but the

active savage leapt upon his feet, and not having time to fit an arrow

to the string, struck a furious but unsuccessful blow at the young

man’s head, with his bow; then uttering his war–cry, rushed upon him

with a long sharp knife that he had drawn from his belt; but the Indian

had mistaken both the skill and strength of the opponent with whom he

thus rashly endeavoured to close, and in a moment Reginald’s cutlass

was buried in his chest. In vain he summoned all his remaining strength

to strike a last blow; both hand and eye refused their aid, and he fell

heavily forward upon the grass. Reginald, sheathing his cutlass, knelt

by the side of the wounded man, and strove to stanch the blood; but his

efforts were fruitless, the lungs were pierced, and it was evident that

death was fast approaching.

The Indian, still conscious of what was passing around, and

momentarily expecting the scalp–knife upon his forehead, the usual

fate of the conquered amongst those of his race, gazed in surprise

upon the countenance of the young man, who was now tending him with

compassionate anxiety: they could not interchange a word; the Indian

feebly raised his hand to his head with an inquiring look, and then

pointed to the knife. Reginald shook his head, as if to intimate that

he need be under no apprehension of that indignity; and then continued

his earnest but ineffectual endeavours to stanch the flowing blood,

while the sufferer’s head rested upon his shoulder.

During this time not a groan escaped from the lips of the savage

warrior: but feeling his end at hand, he gathered his dying energies;

and taking from his neck the magnificent collar which he wore,

made from the claws of a grisly bear, bound together with skins of

snow–white ermine, he gave it to Reginald, making him a sign that he

should wear it; then supporting himself in a sitting posture by the

end of his bow, which he had caught up from the ground, and with his

eye steadily fixed upon the snow–clad peak now visible in the western

horizon, the prairie–warrior breathed his last.

As soon as Reginald was assured that life was extinct, he stretched

the unconscious limbs, closed the eyes, gathered the massive hair

over the rigid countenance, and arranged the arms and accoutrements

decently beside the fallen chieftain, knowing well that it would not

be long before the body was borne off by those of his own tribe. There

was neither exultation nor triumph on the young man’s countenance, as

he looked from the lifeless form of his late adversary to that of the

steed, which lay dead beside him, on which, not many minutes before,

he was careering over his native plains in the pride and vigour of

manhood; he felt that the strength, the activity, the courage of the

savage warrior, were equal to his own; that it had depended upon a

single successful thrust whether of the two should be now taking his

last uncoffined sleep in the wilderness. Sad thoughts of his waiting

mother and sister, musings on the fate of Prairie–bird, stole upon

his heart, and he continued gazing almost unconsciously on the body

of the Indian, until he was aroused by a shrill blast from the bugle

of Baptiste; the signal–blast was “Beware:” and casting his eyes

around, he saw that the band of Indians who had been skirmishing with

War–Eagle’s party were advancing at full speed to the spot where he

stood. His spirit rekindled by this fresh excitement, he caught up

his rifle, and vaulting on the back of Nekimi, gave him the rein. The

pursuers soon found that their chance of overtaking him was hopeless;

and while they gathered round the body of their fallen chief, Reginald

rejoined his party, who received him with a shout of triumph that

reached the ears of the mourners on the far prairie.

As Reginald dismounted and walked gravely through the group to salute

War–Eagle, every eye was fixed upon the bear–claw collar around his

neck, and he received the silent homage which Indian warriors pay to

successful valour.

There was also a quiet dignified modesty in the young man’s bearing and

demeanour, which did not escape their observant and approving eyes.

“My brother is welcome,” said War–Eagle, extending his hand to greet

his friend; “he has killed a great chief; when the warriors tell their

deeds at the war–dance, the tongue of Netis will not be silent.”

“The red man of the prairie was brave,” replied Reginald; “he died like

a warrior. I trust his spirit is gone to the happy land.”

“Master Reginald,” said the guide, thrusting his large bony hand into

that of our hero, “it did my heart good to see the Ingian fall; he

sprang upon you like a tiger, and I feared he might catch you unawares.”

“No, Baptiste, no; he was a gallant fellow, and I am truly sorry that,

in self–defence, I was obliged to kill him; but the advantages were all

on my side; Nekimi was far swifter than his horse, and his knife was

no match for my cutlass. Do you know to what tribe he and his party

belonged?”

“Capote–bleu, Master Reginald—this is the first time you have seen

_Les Corbeaux_—Upsaroka they call themselves; they are a wild race.”

And he added, in a lower tone, “We shall see more of them before we go

much further.”

“In the skirmish which they had with you, were any wounded on either

side?”

“Not many, for the rascals galloped about in such an unaccountable

flurry, it wasn’t easy to make sure work with the rifle; but the Doctor

scored the ribs of one, and I think War–Eagle struck another; they kept

at a very unfamiliar distance, and their arrows were as harmless as

snow–flakes.”

“How fared it with Monsieur Perrot?” inquired Reginald, who saw the

light–hearted valet grinning with satisfaction at his master’s victory

and safe return, “did he not try his skill upon any of these marauding

Crows?”

“Well, I hardly know,” said the guide. “Master Perrot is like the bear

in the tree, he fights very well when he can’t help it; but I conceive

he’s not over fond of the red–skins ever since that Dahcotah handled

his wig so roughly! What say you, Monsieur Perrot?”

“Monsieur Baptiste is not altogether wrong,” replied the good–humoured

valet; “if one of those red Corbeaux come very near to peck me, I do my

best to pluck his feathers out; but I much rather see a fat partridge

or capon than one of them!”

The conversation between the Frenchman and the guide was interrupted by

War–Eagle, who made a sign to the latter, as well as to Reginald, that

he wished to speak with them apart.

“Brother,” said the chief, addressing our hero, “the Upsarokas are

many; their warriors are like the bison–herds; they will soon return to

our path, we must be ready for them. What is my brother’s counsel?”

“Baptiste,” said the young man, “you have more experience in these

matters than I have; speak first.”

The guide did not reply immediately; he bent his eyes upon the ground,

and his fingers rested on the head of the massive hatchet from whence

he derived his Indian name. When he spoke, it was with slow but

decisive enunciation. “War–Eagle has spoken truly, the Crows will

return in greater numbers; they will seek revenge for the death of

their chief; they are brave, but their arms are bad—we are few, but

our weapons can do service. My counsel is, that we choose a strong camp

and await their coming; we will then handle them so that they shall

not desire to interrupt us again; or perhaps they may offer to make a

treaty upon our own terms.”

“The words of Grande–Hâche are wise,” rejoined the chief; “he does not

waste his breath in blowing against the wind. What says my brother

Netis?”

“He says,” replied Reginald, with his characteristic impetuosity, “that

the counsel of Grande–Hâche may be good for our own safety, but it will

not bring us nearer to Mahéga. Netis would follow the Osage trail in

spite of all the Crows between the Platte and the Mountains.”

“My brother speaks like a warrior without fear,” said the chief in

reply; “yet we cannot follow the trail of the Washashee while fighting

by day and by night with the Upsaroka. War–Eagle will join the counsel

of Grande–Hâche to that of Netis. Let us choose a strong camp, bring in

plenty of meat, and prepare to receive the Upsaroka. I will steal away

alone in the night. I will follow the trail of Mahéga, and return to

tell my brother what I have seen. It is enough, I have spoken.”

Both the guide and Reginald approved the chief’s decision; and although

our hero would rather have accompanied him on the trail, he felt that

he would impede the progress of his Indian brother, whose fleetness of

foot was so much greater than his own; he therefore acquiesced with

cheerfulness, and they set forward to select a camp that should unite

the advantages of a defensible position to those of a plentiful supply

of water.

For several hours War–Eagle pursued the Osage trail without halting,

but his keen eye roved occasionally from side to side in search of a

spot favourable for encampment, while Reginald and Baptiste brought up

the rear of the party; the former mounted on Nekimi, prepared to gallop

forward to the front and give the alarm, in case of the re–appearance

of the marauding Crows. About an hour before sunset they reached a

valley watered by a small stream, the taste of which proved refreshing,

and free from the salt with which that region abounds; near the centre

of the valley was a thick copse of alder and willow, covering a space

of fifty or sixty yards square. On forcing his way through the outer

bushes, War–Eagle found an open plot of fine level turf, entirely

surrounded by the copse which sheltered it from view on all sides.

The Delaware, having brought his party into this natural encampment,

and picqueted the horses within the space above mentioned, made a

careful examination of the thicket, in which he was accompanied by

Reginald and Baptiste; they then selected the points from which they

could best command the approaches from different quarters; at these

they piled logs and branches matted with grass and turf, from behind

which secure though slight breastwork they could take deliberate aim

at any hostile party approaching from the prairie. Before dusk their

preparations were complete; the watch was set, and the remainder, after

a frugal supper, forgot the fatigues of the day in sleep.

The night passed without the occurrence of any alarm; and an hour

before daylight War–Eagle arose and prepared himself for his perilous

expedition, after the ancient fashion of his tribe; a fashion which the

Delawares, in common with most of the semi–civilised Indians, have in

these modern days neglected, if not forgotten.

Having smeared himself from head to foot with an ointment made from the

fat and marrow of deer, he painted his face and chest with stripes of a

dark colour, purposely making the form and device to resemble those of

the Missourian nations. He wore upon his legs a light pair of deer–skin

leggins, without ornament, supported at the waist by his belt; from

the latter was suspended on one side his tomahawk, on the other his

knife; he also stuck into it a brace of loaded pistols given to him

by Reginald, and within the folds secured some bullets and charges of

powder, as well as a few slices of dried buffalo–meat: his throat,

chest, and arms were naked, with the exception of a small light

blanket, which, when thrown across his shoulder, did not in the least

impede the free exercise either of his hands or feet. As speed was now

his chief object, he left both his rifle and his heavy war–club in the

charge of Reginald, who looked on with mingled feelings of admiration

and envy, while his friend was preparing for his solitary journey.

Knowing that War–Eagle, if successful in his undertaking, would see

the Prairie–bird, he longed to send by him a thousand messages of

love; yet he remembered and respected the feelings of his friend, and,

controlling his own, embraced him in silence.

As War–Eagle was about to depart, Reginald was surprised at seeing him

attach to his belt a small bunch of feathers, carefully tied together,

and he imagined that they might be in some measure connected with

his Indian brother’s totem, or heraldic designation; but the latter

resolved his doubts by saying to him and to Baptiste,

“War–Eagle will follow the trail of Washashee as swiftly as his feet

can run: whenever it is difficult to find, or divides in a fork, he

will stick one of these small feathers in the grass; let ‘Attō’ follow

first on the trail, he has been often on the war–path, and his eyes

are good; Grande–Hâche with his long rifle should come next: let my

brother go last with Nekimi, and let him always have eyes in his back;

the Upsarokas are cunning, and the wives of a dead chief are lamenting.

If War–Eagle lives, he will return quick and meet his brothers on the

trail; if he is killed, he will meet them afterwards in the fields

where his fathers hunt. Farewell.” So saying, the Delaware chief

pointed impressively to the distant ridge of the mountains, and left

the encampment.

After the departure of War–Eagle, Reginald busied himself, with the

aid of Baptiste in making further preparations against the expected

attack. On inquiring of the latter, he learnt, with much satisfaction,

that Attō or A–tō (_Anglicè_, “The Deer”), who had been designated

by the chief as leader on the trail in his absence, was a tried and

experienced warrior. His appearance, indeed, was not much in his

favour, for he was small and spare in stature, and his features, though

not positively ugly, were stern, and rarely lighted up by expression;

his eye was piercing rather than brilliant; and he scarcely ever spoke,

excepting in reply to a question: his swiftness of foot, which was

almost equal to that of War–Eagle himself, had procured for him the

appellation by which he was known in the tribe. It should however,

in justice to him, be mentioned, that he seldom ran _from_ an enemy,

for his courage was proverbial; and in a former expedition against

the Dahcotahs, he had made several escapes so extraordinary, that

his comrades had given him a name consisting of sixteen or seventeen

syllables, which we will not inflict upon civilised eyes or ears, but

which signifies, “The–man–who–cannot–be–killed–by–an–arrow.”

Reginald, finding that Attō was familiar with the English tongue, and

desirous to be on good terms with his new officer, addressed him as

follows:—

“Does Attō think that the Upsaroka will come to–day?”

“They will come.”

“Will they attack us in this position?”

“Perhaps; the Upsarokas are fools—they do not know the Lenapé.”

“Are you satisfied with the arrangements we have made for the defence?”

“Yes; but you should let the horses feed outside, with a guard, or they

will soon eat up the grass within; it will be time enough to drive them

in when the Upsaroka come.”

“You are right,” said Reginald, frankly, and he ordered it to be done

immediately.

Savages are extremely like ourselves in all that concerns the internal

workings of self–respect; and if Reginald already stood high in

Attō’s opinion for his courage and bodily advantages, the Indian was

disposed to think more highly of him when he found, even in a matter so

trifling, that the young man listened to and followed his counsel.

The forenoon passed without any tidings of the Crows; and Reginald,

impatient of a state of inaction, resolved to sally forth upon Nekimi,

and to make a sweep over the adjacent undulating prairie, to see

whether he could discover any signs of them.

Armed with his knife, pistols, and cutlass, he slung his spy–glass

over his shoulder, and vaulted on the back of his favourite, charging

Baptiste and Attō, now left in joint command of the garrison, to keep a

sharp look–out, and promising to return before dusk.

How did his blood dance with excitement as he found himself trotting

briskly across the virgin turf of that wild, boundless, vegetable

ocean; beneath him a steed, bold, eager, joyous as himself; above

him a blue immensity of unclouded sky; and around him breezes fresh

from the snowy chambers of the Northern Andes! Nor were the sources

of excitement from within wanting to complete its measure,—a

consciousness of youth, and health, and strength; a mind capable of

appreciating the wonders of nature, and of following them up to their

Almighty Framer; a heart filled to overflowing with the image of a

kindred being whose love he doubted not, and whom, in spite of dangers

and obstacles, his ardent and sanguine spirit whispered that he would

soon rejoin!

Again and again did he draw from his bosom the precious clasp, which

assured him that he was following her footsteps; and then replacing it,

he would stoop over the neck of Nekimi, and caressing his playful ear,

and gently pressing his flank, the noble creature caracoled, neighed,

and bounded beneath him, like the “wild and wanton herd” described in

one of the most exquisite scenes depicted by our immortal dramatist.[55]

Notwithstanding the excited flow of his spirits, Reginald did not

forget the object of his excursion: he not only noted carefully the

various remarkable features of the surrounding country, so as to

secure, in case of need, his retreat to the encampment, but he scanned

the side of every hill, and the bosom of every valley that he passed,

to see whether any parties of the Upsaroka were yet within view.

He had ridden many miles without seeing any thing alive, except a few

straggling buffalos and antelopes, and was on the point of returning

towards the camp, when he descried some moving body on the sky–line

in the eastern horizon: throwing himself from his horse, he adjusted

his telescope, and fixing it on the object, ascertained at once that

it was a large party of Indians on horseback. Although his glass was

of excellent quality, they were so distant that he could not count

them, but he was satisfied that they considerably exceeded a hundred.

Observing that their course was directed westward, he was able, by

descending an oblique ravine, to reach the edge of a copse which they

were likely to pass at no great distance, whence, himself unseen, he

might watch their movements, and form a more accurate estimate of their

force.

He had not been long stationed at the post which he had selected

for this purpose, when the band came full in view on the ridge of a

neighbouring hill.

That it was a war–party of the Crows he could no longer doubt, as their

dress and appearance were precisely the same, and they were following,

with the faultless sagacity of a pack of blood–hounds, the trail which

he and his companions had trodden on the preceding day.

Being completely sheltered from their view by the copse, he was able

to observe their movements, and to plan his own accordingly; he

counted upwards of two hundred and fifty mounted warriors; and his

impression was that their numbers amounted in all to nearly three

hundred: they moved forward upon the trail at an even pace until they

reached the brow of the hill, whence they could perceive, although

at a considerable distance, the thicket in which the Delawares were

encamped. Pausing here, they held a brief council: it was clear that

they suspected that the above–named wood contained those of whom they

were in pursuit; nor was it long before their lynx eyes detected a

slight column of smoke curling up above the trees, on seeing which

they shouted aloud, while their rapid and vehement gesticulations

sufficiently explained to Reginald the discovery that they had made.

It was evidently not the present intention of the Crows to make an

open attack; for they now divided their force into two bands, each of

which pursued its course along the back of the ridges which crowned

the valley wherein the encampment lay, and thus they would be enabled

to reach a point not far distant from their enemy on opposite sides,

before their approach could be perceived.

The position of Reginald himself was now critical, for in his eagerness

to watch the motions of the Indians, he had allowed them to get between

him and his own party; it only remained for him, therefore, to decide

whether he should endeavour to reach the camp unperceived, or, trusting

to the speed of Nekimi, ride boldly towards it; he chose the latter,

rightly judging the impossibility of escaping Indian eyes in so open

a country; and he thought it also probable, that if they meditated a

night attack upon the encampment, they would permit him to enter it

without showing themselves.

Having therefore examined the priming of his pistols, and loosened his

cutlass in the sheath, he pushed his way through the thicket, and,

emerging on the opposite side, rode deliberately forward.

Choosing the most open ground, he pursued his homeward way down the

valley; and though his eye glanced occasionally to the hills on each

side, not an Indian was to be seen, and in less than an hour he found

himself again within the precincts of the wooded camp.

The gravity of his demeanour, as he joined his companions, led them

to conjecture that he had seen some trace of their enemies, which

impression was confirmed amongst them when he led Baptiste and Attō

aside to hold with them a council of war.

Having briefly detailed what he had seen, he expressed his belief

that the Crows had divided their force for the purpose of attacking

the camp in the course of the ensuing night, and concluded by asking

their opinion as to the most advisable means of defence. After a short

deliberation, it was agreed that four men should watch at the opposite

sides of the thicket, each of whom being well sheltered behind a log of

wood already rolled to its edge, could detect the approach of an enemy

from the prairie, and that each should be provided with two loaded

rifles, so that in case of his being obliged to fire one to give the

alarm, he might still have another ready for immediate use.

These preparations having been made, and the horses brought within the

encampment, the little party sat down to their supper, and afterwards

smoked their pipes as unconcernedly as if neither Crows nor danger were

lurking in the neighbourhood. Night came on, and those whose turn it

was to sleep, announced by their heavy breathing that the hour of rest

was not unwelcome. Monsieur Perrot snored so loudly from beneath the

pile of blankets in which he had enveloped himself, that he more than

once received a slight admonition from the elbow of the half–awakened

guide, who lay beside him. Reginald, however, was in a mood which would

have no fellowship with sleep; his thoughts were of Prairie–bird, still

in Mahéga’s power, of his Indian brother, now far on his solitary and

dangerous journey, of the lurking foes whose attack he hourly expected,

and of the familiar faces at Mooshanne, whom distance and absence now

rendered doubly dear. The night was dark, for the young moon, after

traversing her appointed section of the southern sky, had disappeared,

and the twinkling stars threw but an uncertain light, rendered yet more

doubtful by the leafy branches which waved gently to and fro under the

light breath of the night breeze.

In order to give some employment to his unquiet spirit, Reginald

resolved to visit the several stations where his sentries were posted,

and, throwing his rifle over his shoulder, arose and commenced his

rounds. Moving with a slow and noiseless step, he went to each of

the posts in succession, and finding all the watchmen on the alert,

whispered to each a word of approbation. The last station that he

visited was occupied by Attō; and Reginald, sitting down behind the

log, conversed with him for a short time, in a low tone of voice, each

pausing at intervals, to listen and look out upon the valley. On a

sudden, Attō, touching his arm, pointed to a spot near the summit of

the neighbouring hill; and, following the direction indicated, Reginald

could plainly see a small light, as of a dry stick, which burnt for a

few seconds, and was then extinguished.

“Let Netis watch,” whispered the Indian; “Attō will return directly;”

and with these words he disappeared in the thicket.

Not many minutes elapsed ere he came back, and, in the same subdued

tone, said, “All is well now, the Upsaroka are coming, Attō saw the

same light on the other hill; it is a sign for both parties to attack

from opposite sides at once.”

“All is well, indeed,” thought Reginald, within himself. “This fellow

must have a strange stomach for fighting, when he applies such a term

to an expected conflict, where the odds are to be two or three hundred

to ten.”

These were Reginald’s thoughts for a moment; but his words were:

“Baptiste, Perrot, and I will remain at this post; you can spare us

also one of your warriors; you will guard the opposite post with three

others; there will remain one to move constantly round within the edge

of the thicket, to summon us to any point where the Crows may threaten

an attack. Is the plan good, what says my brother?”

“It is good,” replied the Indian, and they set about it forthwith in

earnest and in silence.

Reginald and Baptiste, having previously examined all the logs which

were now to serve for their defence, lost no time in selecting their

respective stations; the Indian warrior allotted to them was placed

between them; Monsieur Perrot, safely ensconced behind the fallen trunk

of an alder, was to load his master’s rifle, and when discharged,

to replace it by another; and the defenders of the camp were all

instructed not to fire until their enemies were so near as to afford a

certain aim.

The side on which Reginald was stationed was the most open to attack,

from its being adjacent to the brook that flowed through the centre

of the valley, the banks of which, being dotted here and there with

alder–bushes, afforded an occasional covert to an approaching enemy.

Nearly an hour had elapsed, and Reginald began to suspect that they

had mistaken the intentions of the Upsaroka, when Baptiste pointed

in silence towards the prairie, and on following with his eye the

direction of his companion’s finger, he saw a dusky object in motion.

Looking steadily forward, each with his finger on the trigger of

his rifle, Reginald and Baptiste could now distinguish the figures

of several Indians, creeping along the ground towards the thicket.

On a sudden the report of Attō’s rifle in the opposite quarter was

heard, and the creeping figures starting up, advanced with shouts

and yells, vainly hoping that the spot which they had selected for

attack was defenceless. When they were within a few paces, Reginald

and Baptiste fired at once, and the two leading Indians fell; most

of their companions retired in dismay, one only sprung forward with

desperate courage, and his evil destiny bringing him close past the log

behind which the guide was posted, the latter cleft the skull of the

unfortunate savage with his tremendous hatchet.

Maddened by disappointment, and by the loss of several of their

comrades, the Crows let fly a shower of arrows at the edge of the

thicket, and retreated on all sides, filling the air with their cries

and yells. Reginald, having crossed over to visit Attō at his post,

found that the Delaware had not fired in vain, for a reeking scalp

already hung at his belt, and it appeared that the enemy had retired

on this side also, as soon as they found themselves exposed to the

murderous fire of unseen marksmen.

Not long after this unsuccessful attack on the part of the Upsarokas,

day broke, and having mounted their horses, which had been left at

some distance, they returned towards the encampment; and galloping to

and fro, endeavoured, by every kind of insulting gesticulation, to

induce their cautious enemies to come forth, or at least to exhaust

their ammunition by firing at random; but Reginald’s party kept close

within their covert, taking no notice whatever of these bravadoes,

although several of the horsemen came within a distance which would

have rendered them an easy mark for the guide’s unerring rifle; their

insolence produced only a grim smile on his weather–beaten countenance,

as he whispered to Reginald.

“They are somewhat out of their reckoning as to the ‘Doctor’s’ range;

poor devils, if they’ll only keep off, I don’t want to hurt any more of

them. But if that long–haired fellow, capering on a brown horse, were

a Dahcotah, I’d make a hole in his hunting–shirt before he was many

minutes older.”

“I am glad to find you in a merciful humour, Baptiste,” replied the

young man. “I too would willingly avoid farther slaughter of these

Crows; and while fighting with them, we are losing time more precious

to me than gold.”

As he was yet speaking, his attention was caught by the sound of a

scuffle within the thicket, followed by a shout; and immediately

afterwards Attō and another Delaware came forward, dragging with them a

Crow, whom the quick eye of the former had detected lurking under dense

foliage of an alder–bush.

“Whom have you here?” exclaimed Reginald; “and where did you find him?”

“Upsaroka,” replied Attō; “he must have crept like a snake under the

grass, for the Delawares are not blind, yet he is here.”

The prisoner was a tall bold–looking youth, and he seemed resolutely

prepared to meet the fate which a spy and an enemy must expect in that

wild region.

“’Tis a fine lad,” said Baptiste dryly, “and he has given us a lesson

to keep a better look out; ’tis clear that he has crept down the brook,

while we have been watching those galloping thieves; tie the rogue’s

hands, my friend Attō, and let us scour the thicket from one end to

the other. Two or three such as him within the camp in the middle of

the night, would be apt to interfere with our rest.”

The prisoner having been bound, Attō proceeded with two of his

warriors to search every corner of the thicket, while Baptiste with

the remainder watched the various parties of horsemen who were still

hovering at a distance.

Reginald was left for a few minutes alone with the youth, whom he

looked at with mingled compassion and admiration, for it was clear that

he had devoted his own life to obtain a triumph for his tribe; and

although he had not the expressive intellectual beauty of Wingenund,

nor the heroic stamp of form and feature by which War–Eagle was

distinguished, yet there was a certain wild fierceness in his eye

betokening a spirit that awakened a feeling of sympathy in Reginald’s

breast. While looking steadfastly on the youth under the influence

of these feelings, he observed that the Delawares, in their hurried

anxiety to secure the prisoner, had bound the thongs so tightly round

his arms as to cause a stoppage of the blood, the veins around the

ligature being already swollen to a painful extent.

With the unhesitating generosity of his nature, Reginald stepped

forward, and, loosening the thong, left the youth at liberty; at the

same time he smiled, and, pointing to the knife in his belt, made the

sign of “No,” intimating that he should not repay this benefit by using

that weapon.

The quick–sighted savage understood him as plainly as if the hint had

been given in his own language, for he instantly detached the knife

from his belt and presented it to Reginald. There was so much natural

dignity and sincerity in his manner while doing so, that our hero, in

receiving his weapon, gave him in exchange a spare knife that hung in

his own belt, making at the same time the Indian sign for friendship.

The nerves which were strung to endure expected torture and a lingering

death, were not prepared for this unlooked–for clemency; the youth

spoke a few soft words in his own tongue, looking earnestly in

Reginald’s face, and had not yet recovered his self–possession, when

Attō returned with his companions, to report that the prisoner must

have come upon this dangerous war–path alone, as no other of his tribe

was lurking in or near the thicket.

“Attō,” said Reginald, addressing the Delaware; “this youth belongs by

right to the hand that took him, he is yours; I ask you to give him to

me, to do with him as I like.”

“The hand and the heart of Attō are both open to Netis; he is brother

to the war–chief of the Lenapé—Attō is glad to give him what he asks.”

“Attō is a brave man,” replied Reginald, “and worthy of his race; he

can see that this youth is on his first war–path; he came to the camp

to make himself a name; if the quick eye of Attō had not found him,

there would have been a war–cry in the night—is it not so, brothers?”

The Delawares gave their usual exclamation of assent.

“Brothers,” continued Reginald, “Attō has given this youth to me—I

thank him: the hand of Netis is not shut, it holds a collar which hung

upon the neck of a great warrior, it will not be ashamed to hang on the

neck of Attō.”

As he said this, he threw over the neck of the Delaware the magnificent

bear–claw collar which adorned his own. This was perhaps the happiest

moment of Attō’s life, for such a collar could be worn only by braves

of the highest rank in Indian aristocracy, and the acclamation with

which his comrades hailed the presentation of the gift, assured

Reginald that it had been neither unwisely nor unworthily bestowed.

The latter then turned towards the prisoner, and made him a sign to

follow towards the outer edge of the thicket, in the direction where

Baptiste and he had shot the two Indians who led the attack; their

bodies still lay where they fell; the youth gazed upon them with stern

composure. Reginald inquired by a sign if he knew them: he replied

in the affirmative; and he added, pointing to the nearer of the two,

a sign which Reginald did not comprehend; he turned to Attō for an

explanation.

“He says,” replied the Delaware, “that was his father.”

Reginald, much affected, placed the youth’s hand against his own breast

in token of regard, and made him understand that he was free to go

himself, and to remove the bodies without interruption.

The young Crow replied by a look of gratitude too expressive to

require the interpretation of language, and moving towards the body of

his father, bore it into the midst of his wondering companions, who

received him with repeated wailings and cries: none, however, seemed

disposed to believe in his assurance that they might take away the

other body likewise; he was obliged to return himself: and then one

of his tribe, seeing that he stood uninjured beside it, came out from

their ranks and assisted him to bear it off.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.—REGINALD PREPARES TO FOLLOW THE TRAIL.

For two days the band of Crows hovered round the encampment, sometimes

showing themselves on the adjacent heights, at others drawing off to

a distance, in hopes of enticing some of Reginald’s party to venture

into the open country; but although he himself chafed and fretted like

an impatient steed, he was sensible of the risk that must attend any

error or imprudence while in the neighbourhood of an enemy so crafty

and so strong in numbers, and he never permitted the watchfulness of

his little garrison to be relaxed for a moment: the horses were driven

to feed under the guard of two armed Delawares, and were not sent to a

distance whence their return could be intercepted, and the watches were

regularly set and relieved during the whole night.

On the third day the Crows, finding that all their endeavours to draw

their cautious enemy from the covert were vain, held a council of

war, after which three or four of their principal chiefs approached

the encampment, making, as they advanced, signs of amity and truce.

Reginald went out to meet them, accompanied by Baptiste and Attō,

leaving orders with the remainder of his party to hold themselves in

readiness against any attempt at treachery: halting at a spot not more

than eighty yards from the wood, he awaited the Crow leaders, who came

forward to meet him without any apparent suspicion or treacherous

design.

They had taken the precaution to bring with them the youth to whom

Reginald had already shown kindness, and whose presence they rightly

conjectured would facilitate the amicable nature of their mission.

Reginald acknowledged with a smile the friendly greeting of his young

protégé, and then drawing himself up to his full height, awaited in

silence the opening of the parley.

The Crow _partisan_[56] first glanced his keen eye over the persons of

those whom he was about to address, as if scanning them for the purpose

of ascertaining their qualities and character, and whether he should

best succeed by endeavouring to circumvent or to overawe them. Keen

as he was, his penetration was here at fault; for although no three

persons could be more dissimilar than those before him, yet, whether

taken collectively or severally, they looked like men who would not be

easily over–reached: his eye first rested on the spare sinewy frame and

impenetrable countenance of Attō; thence it glanced to the muscular

frame and shrewd hard features of the guide; and turning from them, it

found but little encouragement in the bright bold eye and commanding

form of Reginald Brandon.

Perceiving with the intuitive sagacity of an Indian that the latter was

the leader of his party, the partisan opened the parley by pointing his

forefinger at Reginald, and then pressing the closed fingers against

his own breast: he then pointed to himself with the same finger, and

afterwards stretching both arms horizontally, moved them up and down

with a vibrating motion, concluding his pantomime by again raising the

forefinger of his right hand vertically to the height of his forehead.

Reginald, who could not understand these gestures, turned to Attō,

saying, “Does my brother know what the stranger speaks?—if so, let him

explain.”

“He says,” replied the Delaware, “that he wishes to be friends with

you, and he tells you by the last signs that he is an Upsaroka, and a

chief.”[57]

“Tell him,” said Reginald, “that if his heart is true, and his tongue

not forked, we also wish to be friends with him and his people.”

The Crow replied by making the conventional sign for “good,” adding to

it that for “truth.”

On this being explained to Reginald, the latter desired Baptiste to

bring from the camp some tobacco, a pipe, and a few trinkets for

distribution among the Crows. On the return of the guide, the whole

party took their seats, Reginald placing the partisan on his right, and

the young prisoner whom he had released on his left. After the pipe had

been smoked with due gravity and decorum, he divided among his guests

some beads and other fanciful ornaments, according to their rank, with

which they seemed highly delighted; the chief in particular testified

his satisfaction by repeated gesticulations of friendship and affection

towards his white–brother, whom he invited to go and feast with him and

his braves: this invitation Reginald begged leave to decline; but he

desired Attō to explain to his guest that he would visit him on some

other occasion.

While these civilities were passing between the respective parties,

a great commotion was observed among the Crows stationed on the

neighbouring hill, some of whom were seen galloping to and fro, as if

communicating some unexpected intelligence. The partisan arose, and

took his leave with courteous dignity, explaining by signs that he

wished to ascertain what was passing among his people.

As he withdrew, the youth whose life Reginald had spared, turned

his head and gave the latter a look which he understood to convey a

warning, but it was so rapid that he could not feel assured that he had

rightly construed its meaning. Reginald remained for some time on the

spot watching the motions of the Crows, who had now gathered in their

scattered horsemen, and were evidently awaiting with some impatience

the return of their chief. Reginald’s eye was still fixed upon them,

when Attō, pointing to the eastward, whispered,

“Men are coming!”

Turning his head in the direction indicated, Reginald thought he

perceived a moving object in the distance.

“I see something in that quarter, but not distinctly; are you sure it

is a party of men?”

“Sure.”

“Mounted, or on foot?”

“Both,” replied the Delaware, without removing his bright keen eye

from the object: “they are upon our trail,” he added; “if they are not

friends, we had better return to the camp.”

Meanwhile Reginald unslung his telescope, and having at length brought

it to bear upon the advancing party, he exclaimed—

“By Heaven! there are white men as well as Indians, their horses, and

loaded mules!”

“How many?” inquired Baptiste.

“They seem to me to be fifteen or twenty strong: should their

intentions appear suspicious, we are near enough to retire into our

camp; if they are friends, they will soon see us, and approach without

fear or hesitation.”

The guide shook his head as if distrusting all new comers in that

remote region; but they were within rifle–shot of the covert, and

could, if necessary, retire thither under the protection of the fire of

those within it.

The Crows still hovered upon the summit of the adjoining hill, and

several minutes of breathless interest elapsed ere the approaching

band emerged from a hollow, upon a point of the valley where they were

now clearly distinguishable, and proved to be, as Reginald had said, a

mixed party of Indians and white men.

He was not aware that among the latter was a telescope as good, and a

horseman whose eye was more practised in the use of it than his own;

that horseman galloped out in front of his band, and advanced at full

speed to the spot where Reginald stood, and almost before the latter

could rightly use his faculties of sight or speech, that horseman flung

himself from his horse, and Reginald was in the arms of Ethelston.

There is nothing that stirs the heart to its very depths, more than the

meeting of a friend after a long separation; not such a friend as is

found in the ordinary intercourse of worldly society, but a friend whom

we really esteem and love, a friend whom we have learnt to cherish in

our bosom’s core,—this must have been felt by all (alas! they are not

very many) who have deserved and obtained such a blessing in life. How,

then, must these stirrings of the heart be increased if such a friend

comes to our aid and comfort when we thought him thousands of miles

distant, when we are in anxiety and peril, when he brings us the latest

tidings of our home! We will not attempt to describe the meeting of

the two long–separated and loving friends under such circumstances, nor

to relate one hundredth part of the inquiries which each had to make

and to reply to.

The reader is already in possession of the information which they had

to communicate to each other, and can easily understand how Ethelston

and his party, guided by the young Delaware, had followed the trail on

which they had been preceded by the bands of Mahéga and of Reginald:

the latter greeted with cordial pleasure Paul Müller, who now advanced

to offer him his friendly salutation, while Pierre Baptiste, and

Bearskin, who had weathered many a stormy day by flood and field

together, interchanged the grasp of their horny hands with undisguised

satisfaction.

In the meeting between the two bands of the Delawares there was less

demonstration, but it may be doubted whether there was less excitement,

as the last comers narrated to their comrades the bloody vengeance

which they had taken on some of their foes, and dilated upon that which

they anticipated in pursuit of Mahéga.

Ethelston’s party being provided with some coffee, sugar, biscuits,

and other luxuries, which had been long strange to Reginald’s camp,

the evening of their arrival was devoted to a great merry–making,

Monsieur Perrot undertaking the office of chief cook and master of

the ceremonies, both of which he executed with so much skill and

good–humour as to win the favour of all present. In the midst of the

feasting, the security of the encampment was never endangered by the

omission of due precautions; for the horses were driven in and the

sentries posted, as on the preceding night, Reginald being well aware

of the treacherous character of his Crow neighbours, and his suspicions

aroused by the slight, but significant look given to him at parting by

the youth whose life he had spared.

While they were seated round a blazing fire enjoying the good cheer

which Perrot had provided, Pierre, fixing his eyes upon the bear–claw

collar worn by Attō, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and springing

from his seat, went to examine it closer; having done so, he pronounced

slowly and with emphasis a name as long as a Sanscrit patronymic.

“What does that mean, Pierre?” inquired Ethelston, who had found in

the latter a guide of great shrewdness and experience.

“It is the name of the Upsaroka to whom that collar belonged, in our

tongue, ‘The man whose path is red.’ I saw it upon his neck last year,

when I was at the post near the Upper Forks. He came to trade with us

for a few knives and blankets—he was a great war–chief, and had killed

more Black–feet than any man in his tribe.”

“Well, Pierre, his own turn has come now; he will kill no more

Black–feet, nor white men either,” said Baptiste to his comrade.

“Did yonder Lenapé kill him, and in fair fight, man to man?”

“He was killed in fair fight, man to man; not by Attō, but by a young

war–chief whom the Lenapé call Netis,” replied the guide.

Pierre fixed his quick grey eye upon the athletic figure of Reginald

Brandon, who coloured slightly as he encountered at the same time the

glance of Paul Müller.

“It is true,” he said, “I had foolishly separated myself from the

rest of my party; I was intercepted in attempting to return, and only

escaped paying the penalty of my carelessness by the speed of my horse.

The Crow chief was better mounted than the rest of his tribe, and as

soon as I paused to breathe my horse he attacked, and slightly wounded

me; in defending myself, I killed him.”

“My son,” observed the missionary, “he died as he had lived, reckless

and brave; it rejoices me to hear you speak of the deed as one of

necessity and self–preservation.”

“I know not,” muttered Pierre, “what he calls necessity; but it’s a

fine feather in the youth’s cap, and our Delawares shall know it too.”

One of the most remarkable features in the character of this man was

the facility with which he acquired the habits and languages of the

different tribes among whom his roving life had thrown him; moreover,

he had the faculty of remembering with unerring certainty, any face,

or spot, or tree, or path, that he had once seen—so that his services

as guide and interpreter were highly valued; and as Pierre, though

a good–humoured fellow, was shrewd enough in matters of business,

he usually exacted, and had no difficulty in obtaining a liberal

remuneration from the rival leaders of the fur–trade companies; he was

tolerably well versed in the language of the Crows and the Black–feet,

the two great nations inhabiting the vast region between the upper

waters of the rivers Platte and Missouri; and there were few of the

roving tribes upon either bank of the latter among whom he could not

make himself understood. As an interpreter, he dealt fairly by his

employer, although he hated the Black–feet, in consequence of a warrior

of that tribe having carried off an Indian _belle_ to whom Pierre was

paying his addresses. This offence he had never forgiven, and it gave

him in all subsequent transactions, a natural leaning towards the

Crows, the mortal and hereditary foes of his successful rival’s tribe.

While Pierre related, in an under tone, to those Delawares of his party

who did not understand English, the victory obtained over the great

war–chief of the Crows by Reginald Brandon, the latter kept up a long

and interesting conversation with Ethelston, whom he found already

informed by the missionary of his engagement to Prairie–bird.

On this subject, Reginald, who knew the prudence of his friend’s usual

character, scarcely expected his sympathy or concurrence; he was

therefore the more agreeably surprised when he found him disposed to

enter into all his plans for the recovery of his betrothed, with a zeal

and enthusiasm almost equal to his own.

“The good missionary,” said Ethelston, “has told me much of the early

life, as well as of the character and qualities of Prairie–bird. I

cannot tell you how deeply she has engaged my interest; my own feelings

towards your sister render me capable of appreciating yours; and I

pledge my faith, dear Reginald, that I will spare neither toil nor

exertion, nor life itself, to aid you in this precious search.”

Reginald grasped his hand,—there was no need of words of gratitude

between them,—and ere long both turned to consult with Paul Müller,

as to their further proceedings. After due deliberation, they agreed

that on the following morning they should pursue the trail, regardless

of their Crow neighbours, whom they had now little cause to fear, and

that previous to starting they would hold a council, at which Reginald

should propose the distribution of their respective posts, on the line

of march, in the event of their wishing him to retain that of leader.

The night having passed without any alarm, Reginald summoned a general

council of war before daybreak: as soon as they were assembled he

told them, through Baptiste, who acted as interpreter, that they were

now strong enough to pursue the trail, without fear of interruption

from the Crows; and that if the latter were foolish enough to make an

attack, they would soon have cause to repent it. He then added that

War–Eagle their chief being absent on the war–path, it was necessary

for some one to act as leader until his return; and, as his party had

been joined by so many warriors of experience, he would gladly place

himself under the advice and guidance of the man whom they might select.

When Baptiste had finished this speech, the oldest warrior of

Ethelston’s party arose and said: “Is it not true that War–Eagle, when

he went, appointed Netis leader in his place?” (A murmur of assent came

from the lips of Attō and his party.) “Is it not true,” continued the

Indian, “that Netis is a brave and skilful warrior?—one who need not

be silent when the braves strike the war–post? His heart is true to the

Lenapé, and he will tell them no lies. If the white men are content

with Netis, the Lenapé wish no other leader. I have spoken.”

As the scarred and weather–beaten warrior resumed his seat, another and

a general murmur of approbation broke from the Delawares; and Ethelston

having spoken a few words of similar import to the white men, Reginald

found himself by universal acclamation chosen leader of the party.

After modestly thanking them for their good opinion, his first act was

to appoint Attō as guide upon the trail, desiring him to select any two

whom he might wish to assist him, in the event of its becoming forked,

or otherwise difficult to follow; Monsieur Perrot, with the provisions

and loaded mules, occupied the centre of the line of march, in which

comparatively secure post he was accompanied by Paul Müller, the main

body of the hunters and the Delawares being distributed before and

behind the baggage.

For himself Reginald reserved the rear–guard, where he retained

Ethelston, Baptiste, and a young Delaware, whom he might despatch upon

any emergency to communicate with the front. He also appointed four of

the best mounted of his men, two on each side of his party, to protect

the flanks against any sudden attack, Pierre being sent forward to

render any assistance to Attō that he might require.

These arrangements being complete, and made known to the respective

parties, they were about to set forth on their journey, when Attō

informed Reginald that the Crow youth was coming swiftly across the

valley towards the encampment, pursued at a distance by several

horsemen of his tribe; the lad was riding one of the swiftest and most

untamed of the wild horses with which that region abounds, yet he had

neither bridle nor saddle, guiding the animal with a leather thong,

which he had thrown round its nose, and urging it to its utmost speed

with a bow which he held in his right hand. A few minutes brought the

foaming little steed and its rider to the edge of the thicket, where

the latter, still holding the leather thong, stood in silence before

Reginald; his eyes were literally sparkling with indignant rage, and

he did not even deign to look behind him to see whether his pursuers

approached: the latter, however, did not choose to venture near the

encampment; but as soon as they saw that he had gained its shelter,

they gave a few loud and discordant yells, and disappeared behind the

hill.

The services of Pierre were now put into requisition; and as soon as

the youth found an ear that could understand his tale, he told it with

a rapidity and vehemence that showed the strong excitement of his

feelings: the story, as interpreted by Pierre, was briefly thus:—

The youth was present on the preceding day at a war–council, where

the Crows proposed a plan for inveigling the white men to a feast,

and then attacking them unawares, at the same time desiring him to

use the favour that he had found in their eyes as an additional

means for entrapping them: this he positively refused to do, and

boldly told the assembled chiefs that their counsels were wicked and

treacherous, and that he would in no wise aid or abet them. Indignant

at this remonstrance from a stripling, the partisan had ordered him

to be whipped severely with thongs, and to be tied hand and foot; the

sentence was executed with the utmost cruelty; but he had contrived

early in the morning to slip off his bands, and springing to his feet,

he seized the fleetest horse belonging to the partisan, and, leaping

on its back, galloped off to warn his protector against the meditated

treachery.

The truth of the tale required no confirmation, for the glow of

resentment burnt too fiercely in his eye to be dissembled, and the

light covering of antelope skin which he had thrown across his

shoulders, was saturated with his blood. Reginald’s first natural

impulse was to punish the perpetrators of this outrage, but he checked

it when he remembered the magnitude of the stake that bound him to the

trail, “Tell him, Pierre,” said he, “that I thank him for his single

tongue, and I love him for his honest brave heart. Ask him if there is

anything that I can do for him.”

“Nothing,” replied the youth to this question: “tell him that I have

warned him against the forked tongues of my tribe, because he gave me

my life, and was good to me, but I must not forget that his hand is red

with my father’s blood. The day is very cloudy; the Great Spirit has

given a hard task to the son of the fallen chief; his back is marked

like the back of a slave; he has lived enough.”

The voice of the youth faltered as he pronounced the last words; the

thong dropped from his feeble grasp, and as he fell to the ground, the

wild horse broke away and galloped across the valley. “He is dying,”

said Reginald, bending over him; “see, here below his hunting shirt is

the broken shaft of an arrow, which one of his pursuers has shot with

too true an aim.” While he spoke the young Crow breathed his last.

CHAPTER XV.

SHOWING HOW WINGENUND FARED IN THE OSAGE CAMP, AND THE ISSUE OF THE

DILEMMA IN WHICH PRAIRIE–BIRD WAS PLACED BY MAHÉGA.

We trust that the compassionate reader is now desirous to learn

something more of the fate of Prairie–bird and her unfortunate brother

Wingenund, whom we left a prisoner in the hands of the merciless chief

of the Osages. For a long time after the latter had left her tent, his

parting threat rung in her ears, that she must on the morrow give her

consent to be his bride, or by her refusal consign Wingenund to a cruel

and lingering death. Her busy imagination pourtrayed in vivid colours

the scene of torture, and the heroic fortitude with which she knew

he would endure it, and as she turned from that picture, the figure

of Reginald Brandon rose to her view, as if upbraiding her with the

violation of her plighted troth; torn by these contending struggles,

the poor girl sobbed convulsively, and the tears forced their way

through the fingers with which she in vain endeavoured, either to

suppress or conceal them. Lita threw her arms round her mistress’s

neck, and strove by her affectionate, yet simple, endearments to soothe

her grief: for a long time they proved unsuccessful, but when at last

she whispered,—

“The Great Spirit is very good; he is stronger than Mahéga; let

Prairie–bird speak with him as she often did when the Black Father was

with her—“

“True, Lita,” she replied, looking gratefully at the Comanche girl

through her tears; “you remind me of what I ought not to have

forgotten.”

The next moment, saw her prostrate upon her couch—the book of comfort

in her hand, and her earnest prayers ascending toward Heaven.

She rose from her devotions with a calmed and strengthened spirit; the

first result of which was a desire to converse with Wingenund, and to

decide with him upon the morrow’s fearful alternative.

Mahéga willingly consented to the interview, justly believing that it

would rather forward than retard his plan for compelling her consent,

compared with which the boy’s life weighed not a feather in the

balance, so he ordered him to be conveyed to her tent; and the guards

who conducted him having informed her that if she unbound his hands, he

would be instantly seized and removed, they retired to the aperture,

awaiting the termination of the meeting with their habitual listless

indifference.

Prairie–bird cared not whether they listened, as she spoke to her young

brother in English, of which she knew that they understood little or

nothing.

“Dear Wingenund,” she said, “you heard the threat uttered by that

savage, after he struck you?”

“I did.”

“Is there no device or means by which we can contrive your escape? we

may trust the Comanche girl.”

“I do not see any,” replied the boy calmly; “the eyes of the Osage

chief are open, the hands of his warriors are many and ready. It does

not matter; War–Eagle and Netis will be here soon; then all will go

well.”

“All well!” said Prairie–bird, shuddering. “Know you not, that

to–morrow I must consent to be the wife of the Osage, or be the cause,

and the witness of my brother’s horrible death?”

Wingenund looked at her with unfeigned surprise.

“The daughter of Tamenund—the Prairie–bird sent by the Great Spirit,

from an unknown land, to dwell among the lodges of the Lenapé—she who

has learnt all the wise words of the Black Father—she to become the

wife of that wandering wolf! Can my sister’s heart beat towards him?”

“Heaven knows how I loathe and dread him! worse than the most poisonous

snake in the prairie.”

“I thought so,” he replied. “And how ought a wife to feel towards the

man whom she marries?”

“To feel that he is the joy, the food, the treasure of her heart; the

object of her secret thoughts by day, of her dreams by night; that

when she prays to Heaven, his name is on her lips; that she loves him

as—as—“

“As Prairie–bird loves Netis,” said Wingenund, smiling.

The conscious girl blushed at the impassioned eagerness into which

her feelings had betrayed her, but she did not attempt to deny her

brother’s conclusion, and he continued more gravely: “Then my sister

could not be the wife of the Osage, without leading a life of misery

and falsehood. No, no,” he added, his bright eye kindled as he spoke;

“let to–morrow come; Wingenund is ready; he will show that wolf how the

Lenapé die. Let to–morrow come, and Mahéga shall learn that Wingenund

despises his hate as much as Prairie–bird scorns his love. My sister,

I have spoken it. The deeds of my fathers are before my eyes; the

blood of the ancient people is in my veins; words cannot change my

mind. Farewell! and when you see War–Eagle and Netis, tell them that

the Washashe fire drew neither complaint nor cry from the lips of

Wingenund.”

As he spoke, his agonised sister looked up in his face, and read but

too plainly the high, unconquerable determination legibly stamped upon

its proud expressive features. She saw that the instinctive feelings of

his race had triumphed over all the gentler impressions which she and

the missionary had endeavoured to implant, and, knowing that now she

might as well attempt to bend a stubborn oak as to effect any change

in his resolution, she embraced him in silence, and suffered the Osage

guards to lead him from the tent.

Composing herself by a strong effort of self–command, Prairie–bird

revolved in her mind various schemes for saving the life of her devoted

brother; one after another she considered and rejected, until at length

the idea occurred to her that perhaps she might contrive to work

upon the superstitious fears of Mahéga. With this view she examined

carefully all her slender stock of instruments and curiosities,—the

novelty of the burning–glass was past, the ticking of the watch given

to her by Paul Müller, though it might surprise the Osage, could not

be expected to alarm, or induce him to abandon his determination.

Then she cast her despairing eyes upon the few volumes which formed

her travelling library; among these her attention was accidentally

directed to the almanack which the good Father had brought to her,

from the settlements, when he gave her the watch, and she sighed when

she thought how often she had amused herself in the spring comparing

them together, calculating the lapse of time, and the changes of

season which they severally announced. Her observation of the sabbaths

had been most punctual, nor had it been interrupted by the toils and

privations of the journey, so she had no difficulty in finding the week

or the day then passing. “July,” she exclaimed, reading to herself

half aloud, “only two weeks of this sad month are yet past, methinks

they seem more like fourteen months than fourteen days! See here, too,

on the opposite leaf prophecies regarding wind and weather. How often

would the dear Father point these out to me, and strive to explain the

wonderful terms in which they describe the movements of the stars; he

was very patient, but they were too hard for me; I am sure he tried

to make me understand these strange words, ‘Aphelion,’ ‘Apogee,’

‘Perigee,’ but if he ever succeeded, I have forgotten it all. What is

this notice in larger letters? to–morrow, to–morrow it stands written,

‘Total eclipse of the sun, visible at Philadelphia, 9h. 42m.’—surely

surely it will be visible here too. I will trust to it, I will build

my faith upon it, and Wingenund’s life shall yet be saved.” So saying,

she clasped her hands together, and her lovely countenance beamed with

re–awakened hope.

Lita, who had been watching her mistress with affectionate solicitude,

and listening with childish wonder to her half–uttered soliloquy, was

overcome with surprise at this sudden change in her demeanour; she

thought that Prairie–bird had been conversing with some unseen being;

under which impression she approached, and asked, timidly,

“Has Olitipa seen a Good Spirit, and have her ears drunk words of

comfort?”

“Olitipa has received words of comfort,” replied her mistress, kindly;

“they seem to her words from Heaven; she trusts that she may not be

deceived; she will address her evening prayer to the Great Merciful

Spirit above, and retire to rest, at least to such rest as it may be

His will to give her.”

For many hours after Prairie–bird had been stretched upon her furry

couch did her thoughts dwell upon the solar eclipse now the foundation

of her hopes; she remembered how the missionary had explained to

her that it was visible at one hour in one part of the earth, at a

different hour in another part; then she wondered whether at the

spot where she now was it would be seen sooner or later than at

Philadelphia,—this doubt her science could not resolve, and it held

her long in anxious suspense; but overwearied nature at length claimed

her rights, and she sank into an unrefreshing dreamy slumber, in which

the images of Wingenund, Mahéga, and Reginald Brandon were stalking

confusedly over an eclipsed and darkened region of earth.

Early on the following morning Mahéga, who had resolved not to lose

this favourable opportunity for working upon the fears of Prairie–bird,

caused a pile of dry branches of wood to be placed round a tree, which

stood nearly opposite to her tent, to which he ordered Wingenund to

be secured with thongs of bison–hide; after which he and his warriors

seated themselves in a semicircle before their victim, passing the

pipe deliberately from mouth to mouth, as if to enjoy his suspense and

terror.

If such was their object, it met with little success, for the young

Delaware, in the brightest day of his youth and freedom, had never

worn so proud and lofty an air as that which now sat enthroned upon his

brow.

“A thousand warriors of the Lenapé, whose blood is in my veins, have

gone before me to the happy fields,—they knew not fear, and I the last

of their children will bring no shame upon their race; when I come they

will say, ‘Welcome, Wingenund!’ and before many winters and summers are

past, War–Eagle and Netis, Prairie–bird and the Black Father, will join

me, and the blue eyes of the Lily of Mooshanne will be there also, and

we will dwell in a land of streams and flowers, of numberless deer, and

abundant corn, unvexed by cold, or want, or pain.”

Such was the vision that rose before the mental eye of the youth, and

so completely was he engrossed by it, that he took not the slightest

notice of the group assembled to put him to a slow and agonising death.

Meanwhile Prairie–bird having prayed earnestly to Heaven to support

her, and pardon the deceit which she was about to practise, dressed

herself with more than usual care, and coming forth from her tent,

stood before Mahéga with a dignity of demeanour, to the effect of which

even his fierce and intractable nature was not insensible. He rose not,

however, at her approach, but contented himself with inquiring, “Has

Olitipa come to save her brother’s life, or to kill him?”

“Neither,” replied the maiden, firmly; “she is come to give good

counsel to Mahéga; let him beware how he neglects it!”

“Let not Olitipa’s speech travel in circles,” said the angry chief.

“Mahéga has said that this day she should consent to be his wife, or

she must see that feeble boy burnt before her eyes,—there are but two

paths,—which does Olitipa choose?”

“The feet of foolish men often wander where there is no path at all,”

replied Prairie–bird; and she added, with solemnity, pointing upward to

Heaven: “There is only _one_ path, and one Guide, the Great Spirit who

dwells above!”

Those of the Osages who were familiar with the Delaware tongue in which

she was speaking, looked at each other, as if wondering at her words,

but Mahéga, whose passion was only increased by her exceeding beauty,

answered vehemently,

“It is easy for Olitipa to talk and to make children believe that her

words are those of the Great Spirit—Mahéga is not a child.”

“If he compare his strength with that of the Great Spirit,” said the

maiden, boldly, “Mahéga’s is less than the least finger of a child.

Who can tell the power of the Great Spirit? The strong wind is his

breath,—the thunder is his voice,—the sun is his smile. If He is

angry and withdraws the sun, day is turned into night—darkness and

fear dwell in the hearts of men.”

The energy of her language and manner were not altogether without their

effect even upon the stern nature of Mahéga; nevertheless, he replied,

“These are but the notes of singing–birds. Mahéga waits for the choice

of Olitipa,—she becomes his wife, or the fire is kindled at the feet

of Wingenund.”

Prairie–bird cast an anxious glance athwart the blue vault above; not

a cloud was in the sky, and the sun shone with the full brightness of

an American July. She would not yet abandon hope, but, making a strong

and successful effort to maintain her composure, she said in a firm,

impressive tone, “Mahéga, let there be a bargain between us; you seek

Olitipa for a wife; if it be the will of the Great Spirit, she will

submit, and her brother’s life will be spared; but if the Great Spirit

is displeased, and shows his anger by drawing a cloak over the face of

that bright sun in the heavens, Mahéga will obey His will, and let the

brother of Olitipa go away unhurt.—Is Mahéga content that it shall be

so?

“He is,” replied the chief, “if the sign be such as he and the Osage

warriors may look upon with wonder; not a mist, or dark cloud.”

“It will be such as will make Mahéga _tremble_,” replied the maiden

with dignity. “Warriors of the Washashe, you have heard the treaty.

Before the sun has reached yon western peak, the answer of the Great

Spirit will be known.” Having thus spoken, she withdrew into the tent,

leaving the Osages gazing upon each other with undisguised awe and

amazement.

The maiden threw herself upon her couch in an agony of suspense,

greater than can be described! It was terrible to think that her

every hope of escaping from the dreadful alternative, was staked upon

a sentence in an almanack, of the correctness of which she had not

the slightest power to judge. Even the well–intentioned attempts at

consolation made by her affectionate Lita were of no avail; her unhappy

mistress entreated her to remain at the door of the tent, and report

whatever might occur; within and without a profound stillness reigned.

The prisoner stood motionless by the sapling to which he was bound;

Mahéga smoked his pipe in the full confidence of anticipated triumph,

surrounded by his warriors, who, less sceptical, or more superstitious

than their chief, looked and listened, expecting some confirmation of

the last words of Prairie–bird.

Although the sun could not be opposite the rock which she had pointed

out for nearly three hours, of which not a fourth part had yet elapsed,

the anxious girl began to imagine that hope was at an end. Visions of

future degradation and misery shot through her brain; she tore from her

hot brow the fillet that confined her hair, which floated in glossy

luxuriance over her shoulders. The reproaches of Reginald Brandon rung

in her ears. The loathed embrace of Mahéga crept over her shuddering

frame! At this crisis her eye fell upon the handle of the sharp knife

concealed in her bosom; she drew it forth; the triumph of the powers

of Evil seemed at hand, when a cry of surprise and terror from Lita

recalled her wandering senses. She sprang to the door; visible darkness

was spreading over the scene, and the terrified Osages were looking

upward to the partially obscured disk of the sun, over the centre of

which an opaque circular body was spread; a brilliant ring being left

around its outer ridge.[58]

Prairie–bird gazed upon the wondrous spectacle like one entranced; the

late fearful struggle in her breast had given a supernatural lustre to

her eye; her frame was still under high nervous excitement, and as,

with long hair floating down her back, she pointed with one hand to

the eclipsed sun, and with the other to Mahéga, well might the savage

imagine that he saw before him a prophetess whose will the Spirit of

Fire must obey. Under the influence of awe and dread, which he strove

in vain to conceal, he moved forward, and said to her, “It is enough!

let Olitipa speak to the Great Spirit that the light may come again.”

The sound of his voice recalled the mind of Prairie–bird to a

consciousness of what had passed. She answered not, but with a gesture

of assent motioned to him to withdraw, and supporting herself against

one of the trees that grew in front of her tent, she knelt beside it,

and, veiling her face in the redundant tresses of her hair, found

relief in a flood of tears. Overwhelmed by a sense of the merciful

interposition by which she and her brother had been saved, and by a

feeling of deep contrition for the sudden impulse of self–destruction

to which, in a moment of mental agony, she had yielded, she thought

neither of the continuance nor the withdrawing of the dark phenomenon

of external nature, but of the evil gloom which had for the time

eclipsed the light of grace in her heart, and the tears which bedewed

her cheek were tears of mingled penitence and gratitude.

Still, Nature held on her appointed course; after a few minutes the

moon passed onward in her path, and the rays of the sun, no longer

intercepted, again shed their brightness over earth and sky.

The Osages, attributing these effects to the communing of Prairie–bird

with the Great Spirit, stood in silent awe as she arose to retire to

her tent, and her secret humiliation became, in their eyes, her triumph.

Mahéga, finding that he had no pretext for refusing to release

Wingenund, and that his warriors evidently expected him to fulfil his

promise, ordered the youth to be unbound; and in the height of his

generosity, desired that some food might be offered to him, which

Wingenund scornfully rejected.

The Osage chief having called aside two of those most devoted to him,

spoke to them a few words apart; and then, addressing his liberated

prisoner in the Delaware tongue, he said, “The Osage warriors will

conduct Wingenund two hours on his journey: he will then be free to go

where he likes; but if he is again found skulking round the Osage camp,

nothing shall save his life.”

Wingenund knew that he was to be turned loose in a desolate region,

unarmed and half–starved, but his proud spirit would not permit him

to ask the slightest boon of his enemy; and without a word of reply,

without even directing a look towards his sister’s tent, he turned and

followed his conductors.

For several miles they pursued the back–foot[59] of the trail by which

they had come from the eastward, Wingenund being placed in the centre

without weapon of any kind, and the two Osages marching one before, and

the other behind him, being well armed with bow, knife, and tomahawk.

The youth, unconscious that they had secret instructions from Mahéga to

kill him as soon as they reached a convenient and sufficiently distant

spot, made no attempt to escape, but walked quietly between them,

considering within himself whether he should endeavour to rejoin his

party, or persevere in hovering in the neighbourhood of the Osages: if

a suspicion of Mahéga’s treachery did cross his mind, he allowed it

not to influence his bearing, for he moved steadily forward, not even

turning his head to watch the Osage behind him.

About five or six miles from Mahéga’s camp, the trail passed along the

edge of a low wood, which skirted the banks of the same stream that

flowed through the upper valley. This was the place where they proposed

to kill their prisoner, and hide his body in the bushes, the chief

having commanded that the murder should be kept secret from the rest

of his party. They had just passed a thicket on the side of the trail,

when the terrible battle–cry of War–Eagle rose behind them, and his

tomahawk clove the skull of the Osage in the rear. Quick as thought,

Wingenund sprang upon the one in front, and pinioned his arms; the

Osage tried in vain to disengage them from the grasp of his light and

active opponent. Brief was the struggle, for the deadly weapon of the

Delaware chief descended again, and the second Osage lay a corpse upon

the trail.

The brothers, having exchanged an affectionate but hasty greeting,

took the spoils from their enemies according to Indian fashion,

War–Eagle contenting himself with their scalps, and his brother taking

such weapons and articles of dress as his present condition rendered

necessary for his comfort and defence; after which, they threw the two

bodies into the thicket, into which the Osages had intended to cast

that of Wingenund, and continued their course at a rapid rate towards

the eastward, War–Eagle relating as they went the events which had

brought him so opportunely to the scene of action: they were briefly as

follow:—

When he left his party, he never halted nor slackened his speed until

he saw the smoke of the Osage camp–fire: concealing himself in the

adjoining wood, he had witnessed all the surprising occurrences of the

day; and in the event of the Osages actually proceeding to set fire

to the faggots around Wingenund, he was prepared to rush upon them

alone, and either rescue his brother or perish with him: but, with the

self–command and foresight of an Indian, he kept this desperate and

almost hopeless attempt for the last chance; and when to his surprise

and joy he saw the prisoner sent upon the trail with a guard of only

two Osages, he took advantage of a bank of rising ground, behind

which he crept, and moving swiftly forward under its shelter, gained

unperceived the thicket, where he had so successfully waylaid them.

Fearing a pursuit, the brothers never abated their speed throughout the

evening, or the early portion of the night. A few hours before dawn,

some scattered bushes near the path offering them a precarious shelter,

they lay down to snatch a short repose; a mouthful of dried bison–meat,

which remained in War–Eagle’s belt, he gave to his exhausted brother;

and one blanket covering them both, they slept soundly and undisturbed

until the sun was high in heaven.

CHAPTER XVI.

MAHÉGA FINDS THE BODIES OF HIS TWO FOLLOWERS SLAIN BY WAR–EAGLE.—SOME

REFLECTIONS ON THE INDIAN CHARACTER.—WAR–EAGLE RETURNS TO HIS FRIENDS,

AND THE OSAGE CHIEF PUSHES HIS WAY FURTHER INTO THE MOUNTAINS.

Mahéga waited anxiously the return of the two men whom he had sent with

Wingenund, being desirous to learn whether they had faithfully executed

the treacherous commission with which he had entrusted them. When he

found that the evening passed away, and that the successive hours of

the night brought no intelligence of them, he became alarmed lest they

should have fallen in with some hostile band of Indians; an occurrence

which, in addition to the loss of two of his warriors, would threaten

imminent danger to his whole party.

At the earliest peep of dawn he set out in search of them, accompanied

by three of his followers, giving orders to the remainder to observe

a strict watch during his absence. Traversing the little valley in

front of his camp with hasty strides, he struck into the eastward

trail, and followed it with unabated speed until he reached the spot

where the deadly struggle of the preceding evening had arisen. Here

the indications were too evident to leave a moment’s doubt upon his

mind; the grass on and beside the trail was stained with blood, and

from the neighbouring thicket were heard the snarls and yells of a

pack of wolves quarrelling over their horrible banquet; while high in

air several buzzards were wheeling round and round, as if endeavouring

to find courage to descend and dispute the prey with the quadruped

spoilers.

Dashing into the thicket, and driving the snarling wolves before him,

Mahéga found his worst fears realised, and his horror–struck warriors

stood in silence beside the mangled remains of their comrades. The

conduct of Indians under such circumstances is uncertain and various as

their mood, their impulse, their tribe, and their age. Sometimes they

indulge in fearful threats of vengeance; sometimes in the most woeful

howlings and lamentations; at others they observe a silence as still as

the death which they are contemplating.

The Osages, on this occasion, following the example of their leader,

spoke not a word, although the sight before them (far too horrible for

description) was sufficient to try the strongest nerves; it was chiefly

by the immoveable firmness of his character that Mahéga had gained

and maintained the despotic influence which he exercised over his

followers; neither did it fail him on this occasion, for he proceeded

to examine the mutilated remains of his deceased warriors with his

usual coolness and sagacity, in order that he might discover by whom

the deed had been perpetrated; on a close inspection of the skulls,

he found that both had been fractured by a tomahawk blow, which had

fallen in a direction almost vertical, but rather at a posterior angle

of inclination, whence he immediately inferred that they had been

killed by some enemy who had surprised and attacked them from behind,

and not in an open fight: after a long and careful observation of the

fractures, he was of opinion that they were made by the same weapon.

This inference, however, he kept to himself; and directing two of his

followers to pay such offices to the dead as were possible under the

circumstances, and then to return to the camp, he went forward with

the remaining Osage, to satisfy himself as to the manner in which the

calamity had occurred: he remembered to have seen Wingenund starting on

the trail, and, although he knew him to be bold and active, he could

not for an instant entertain the belief that a stripling, wearied with

a sleepless night, stiff from being so many hours bound with thongs,

and totally unprovided with arms, could have killed his two guards, who

were strong, wary, and well–armed men!

For some distance Mahéga continued his course in moody silence, the

beaten trail affording no indication sufficient to guide him in his

conjecture, but at length he reached a place where it crossed a small

rivulet, the flat banks of which were sprinkled with a kind of gravelly

sand: here he paused and examined every inch of the ground with the eye

of a lynx; nor was it long before he detected the foot–prints which he

sought, a smaller and a greater, the latter showing longer intervals,

and a deeper impression.

Rising from his stooping scrutiny, the eyes of the chief glared with

fury, as he turned to his follower, and, in a voice almost inarticulate

with rage, groaned the hated name of War–Eagle.

“It is,” he continued vehemently, “plain as the moon in the sky, the

trail of the cursed Lenapé and the light foot of his brother; see here,

War–Eagle has walked through the water, and Wingenund has sprung over

it; the dew has fallen since they passed, they are far before us; but

Mahéga must not sleep till their scalps are in his belt. Is Toweno

ready?” inquired the fierce chief, tightening his girdle while he

loosened the tomahawk suspended from it.

“Toweno is ready,” replied the Indian, “to fight or run by the side of

Mahéga from morning until night; his hand is not weak, nor are his feet

slow, but the great chief must not let the angry spirit bring a cloud

before his eyes.”

“Let Toweno speak,” said Mahéga, controlling his fierce impatience,

“his words will find a path to open ears.”

“War–Eagle,” pursued the Osage, “is swift of foot and cunning as a

twice–trapped wolf. He has not come upon this far war–path alone.

Wingenund has been prowling round the camp; and while Mahéga follows

the trail of War–Eagle, the youth may guide the pale–faced warrior

called Netis, with his band, to the encampment of the Washashe. Toweno

has need of no more words.”

Mahéga saw in a moment the truth and force of his follower’s

suggestion, and smothering for the moment his passion for revenge, he

resolved to return at once to his encampment.

“The counsel of Toweno is good,” said he; “when a friend speaks, Mahéga

is not deaf.”

Among the features that distinguish the character of the North American

Indian, there is none more remarkable, none more worthy of the study

and the imitation of civilised man, than the patience and impartial

candour with which they listen to the advice or opinion of others:

although so prone to be swayed by passion and governed by impulse,

the Indian seems to have a wonderful power of laying aside these

predispositions, when discussing a matter privately with a friend, or

openly in council. The decorum with which all their public discussions

are conducted has been observed and recorded by every writer familiar

with their habits, from the time of Charlevoix, and of the interesting

“Letters Edifiantes” to the present day. Colden, Tanner, Mackenzie,

and many others who have described the Northern tribes, concur in

bearing their testimony to the truth of this observation; Heckewalder,

Loskiel, Smith, Jefferson, confirm it in the central region; and the

Spanish writers bear frequent witness to it in their descriptions

of the Southern tribes whom they met with in their campaigns in

Florida and the adjacent country. In reading the account given of the

numerous tribes inhabiting the vast region between the Mississippi

and the Rocky Mountains, by Clarke, Lewis, Long, and others, the same

observation forces itself upon us almost at every page, and it is the

more remarkable when we reflect upon two facts: first, that we find

this characteristic attributed to forty or fifty different nations

inhabiting a continent larger than Europe, by the concurring testimony

of travellers from different countries, and holding the most opposite

opinions.

Secondly, we do not find a similar characteristic distinguishing other

savages, or nomadic tribes in Asia, Africa, or the Pacific Islands.

There is not a public body in Europe, from the British parliament down

to the smallest burgh meeting, that might not study with advantage the

proceedings of an Indian council, whether as described in the faithful

pages of the German missionaries, or, as it may still be seen by any

one who has leisure and inclination to visit those remote regions,

where the Indian character is least changed and contaminated by

intercourse with the whites. Such an observer would find his attention

attracted to two remarkable facts; first, that no speaker is ever

interrupted; and, secondly, that only those speak who from age, rank,

and deeds, are entitled to be listened to.

It is a popular and plausible reply to say, that discussions concerning

the complicated business of a great country cannot be carried on like

the unimportant “talks” of these savage tribes. This reasoning is

shallow and full of sophistry; for many of the Indian councils above

referred to have involved all the dearest interests of the nation;

their soil, their pride, their ancestral traditions, all were at stake,

perhaps all with little more than a nominal alternative, to be bartered

for the grasping white man’s beads, whiskey, and subsidies. In these

councils, every listening Indian must have felt that his own home, the

lodge built by his father, and the patch of maize cultivated by his

family, were dependent on the issue of the negotiation, and yet it

is not upon record that a chief or elder brave was ever interrupted

in his speech, or that the decorum of the council was infringed by

irregularity or tumult on the part of those who might have considered

themselves injured and aggrieved.

Even in regard to time, it is a great mistake to suppose that anything

is gained by interruption; for an obstinate talker will carry his point

in the end; and although the persevering exclamations and groanings,

and crowings of an impatient House of Commons may succeed in drowning

his voice, and forcing him to sit down, he will rise again on some

other occasion, and inflict upon his hearers a speech whose bulk and

bitterness are both increased by the suppressed fermentation which it

has undergone.