A deep murmur of approbation satisfied the chief as to the sentiments

of his stern and determined band; and Ethelston, although he knew not

the meaning of the words which had been uttered, was struck by the

dignity with which they had been spoken, and by the rich and varied

intonation of War–Eagle’s voice.

“Reginald,” said he, “how much I regret that I could not follow your

Indian brother in his discourse. His attitudes brought to my mind the

orators of old, as represented to us by classic pen and chisel: it

seemed as if I could almost gather his meaning from his eloquence of

eye and tone!”

“Certainly,” replied Reginald, “whether the merit of oratory consists

in action, as held by the ‘old man eloquent who fulmined over Greece,’

or in the art of persuasion, by convincing the judgment while moving

the passions of the hearers, as held by the best authors who have since

written on the subject, War–Eagle possesses it in an eminent degree.”

“Yes,” replied Ethelston, “I admit the persuasive power, and the action

at once graceful and commanding, but I maintain that there is yet a

stronger element, the mention of which you, and the authors whom you

quote, have strangely neglected, namely, truth; that immortal essence,

which pervades the whole intelligent creation, before which falsehood

shrinks abashed, and sophistry vanishes into vapour. This it is that

guides the winged words of man direct to the heart of his brother; by

this, and this alone, did the voice of Luther triumph over the thunders

of the Vatican, and beneath its mighty influence the haughty Felix

trembled before the captive apostle. This is, if I mistake not, the

secret of your Indian friend’s oratory; every word that he utters finds

an echo in the breast of those whom he is addressing. The injuries that

he recounts are recent; the dangers against which he warns them are

real and present; and the vengeance to which he guides them, they pant

for with a thirst ardent as his own.”

“Far be it from me,” replied Reginald, “to disparage the might and

majesty of truth, or to doubt that in the end it must triumph over

error and falsehood, as certainly as Good shall obtain the victory

over Evil. Nevertheless, I hold, that as the object of eloquence

frequently is to ‘make the worse appear the better cause,’ and to guide

the hearers, not so much to their own real good as to the immediate

purpose of the speaker, there are some occasions, where he will more

effectively attain it by working on the prejudices, frailties, and

passions, than he could by the most direct appeal to justice or to

truth. If Felix trembled at the denunciations of Paul, the bolder and

mightier spirit of Wallenstein quailed before the wily astrologer,

who pretended to have interwoven his destinies with the mysterious

movements of the planets.”

“I see the scope of your argument, Reginald, and acknowledge its force.

It is because men obey the dictates of passion more willingly than

those of conscience, that they are more easily led by the factious

sophistry of a Cleon than by the virtuous wisdom of a Socrates.

Nevertheless, you will not deny that even sophistry and faction bear

testimony to the might of truth, by putting on her semblance, and

disguising themselves as her followers, thus do they achieve success,

until they encounter some champion strong enough to unmask and detect

them; as the Trojans fled before Patroclus clad in the armour of

Achilles, until Hector pierced his disguise, and killed him.”

“Is it not strange,” said Reginald, laughing, “that in this wild

and remote region, and amidst its wandering tribes, we should renew

discussions, which we so often held together in early days on the

banks of the Elbe and Rhine! I remember that you generally beat me

in argument, and yet permitted me to retain possession of the field

of battle. On this occasion I think we must draw off our forces, and

neither claim the victory. The Indians are already preparing for the

night’s expedition, and interests so dear to me depend upon its result,

that I look forward to it with the deepest anxiety. If War–Eagle is

correct in his calculation, that the Osages and their allies will

attack our camp to–night, it is uncertain whether they will carry

Prairie–bird with them, or leave her behind under a guard. We must be

prepared for either plan; and in dividing our force arrange it so, that

if we succeed, she may be sure of falling into the hands of those fit

and authorised to protect her. I will take with me Wingenund, and our

steady friends Baptiste and Pierre: do you remain with War–Eagle, Paul

Müller, and the main body reserved for the defence of the camp.”

“Be it so,” replied Ethelston, “I trust we shall not be long separated,

and that before this hour to–morrow we shall have rescued your

betrothed from her captors.” He added, with a smile, “Remember that in

our German expedition you made me many promises of discretion, which in

the excitement of action you were somewhat apt to forget; you must not

do so now that you are engaged in the cause of one, to whom your life

is perhaps dearer than it is to yourself.”

“Baptiste himself shall not be more cautious than I will be,” replied

Reginald, grasping his friend’s hand; and they parted to make the

requisite preparations for their respective duties.

CHAPTER III.

A SCENE IN THE TENT OF PRAIRIE–BIRD, WHO GIVES SOME GOOD ADVICE, AND

RECEIVES IN A SHORT SPACE OF TIME MORE THAN ONE UNEXPECTED VISITOR.—THE

CROWS LED BY MAHÉGA ATTACK THE DELAWARE CAMP BY NIGHT.—THE DEFEATED

PARTY ACHIEVE A KIND OF TRIUMPH, AND THE VICTORS MEET WITH AN UNEXPECTED

LOSS.

The evening passed away with the rapidity usual in that western region,

where twilight has no sooner thrown its dusky hue over mountain and

plain, than it again yields its place to the darker gloom of night;

and yet it were a libel upon nature to call by the name of gloom that

uncertain light in which that mighty landscape reposed. The moon was

half full, and her beams, scarcely piercing through the deep foliage of

the wooded vale, streaked with silver lines its mossy herbage; eastward

lay the vast expanse of undulating prairie, on which countless herds

of bison lazily cropped the dew–sprinkled grass, while high above the

scene towered the gigantic peaks of the Western Andes slumbering in a

light as cold and pale as their own eternal snow.

Nothing was heard to disturb the reign of silence save the distant

murmur of the streamlets as they plashed from rock to rock in their

descent to the quiet river that flowed beneath; or here and there the

stealthy foot of the panther or prowling bear. A few stars glimmering

in the vault above, and clouds of ever–varying shape flitted athwart

its surface, now hiding, and again partially revealing, the dark

outlines of forest, vale, and rugged cliff.

It was an hour and a scene calculated to inspire thoughts of awe,

piety, and gratitude towards the Creator; of love, gentleness, and

peace towards His creatures; and yet through those groves and glens

feet more stealthy than the panther’s step, foes more fell than the

prowling bear, now wound their silent way, bent on their secret errand

of destruction and of blood.

In one quarter Reginald, followed by Baptiste, Pierre, and six men,

moved swiftly across the prairie, under the guidance of Wingenund,

towards the camp of the Osages; in another, Mahéga led a numerous band

through the defiles before described, to surprise the encampment of

the Delawares; while at the latter place War–Eagle, aided by Attō and

his chosen warriors, was making all the necessary dispositions for

a stratagem by which he hoped to defeat the expected attack of his

enemies.

It was already several hours past midnight, the moon had withdrawn her

light, and Prairie–bird was buried in the refreshing sleep that visits

the eyelids of guileless youth; Lita slumbered on a couch of skins

stretched across the entrance of her mistress’s tent, before which at

a little distance the Osage sentry, seated by the breastwork thrown

up for the defence of the position, hummed a low and plaintive air of

his tribe. Suddenly his ear caught the sound of approaching feet,

and quick as thought the arrow was fitted to his bow–string, but he

checked the hasty movement, remembering that sentries were posted at

the base of the hill, who would not have permitted any hostile step to

approach unchallenged. As the new comers drew near he distinguished

through the gloom the figures of a man and a woman, the former short

and square–built, the latter slight and graceful.

“What do the strangers seek?” inquired Toweno, for he it was whom

Mahéga had left in charge of his camp, and who now guarded the tent of

Prairie–bird.

“Toweno is a great warrior among the Washashee; his voice is welcome

to the ear of a friend,” replied in the Osage tongue, the rough voice

of Besha, the horse–dealer. “The Upsaroka maiden wishes to speak with

Olitipa, the Great Medicine of the tent.”

“This is not a time for maidens to visit or to speak,” replied Toweno;

“the feet of the braves are on the night–path, and many wives who sleep

now will be widows ere the sun is up.”

“Besha knows it well,” answered the horse–dealer; “nor can he

understand how Toweno is in the camp while Mahéga and his warriors are

on the bloody–path.”

“The Pale–faces are cunning,” replied the Osage, “and Mahéga would

not leave the rich skins of otter, beaver, and bison, and the Great

Medicine of the tent, without a guard.”

“The Pale–faces will not come near the high–camp,” said Besha, casting

a rapid glance over the bales of fur and cloth. “Have you many warriors

left with you?”

“Four of the Washashee, and four times four of the Upsaroka, is the

band in camp[65]; but what does the woman desire of Olitipa?”

“She is the youngest and favourite wife of the Upsaroka chief,” replied

Besha, lowering his voice, “and she desires a medicine that his love

for her may never change; her heart is good towards the Washashee,

and her hands are not empty.” Here he whispered a few words to his

companion, and the girl timidly extending her hand placed in that of

the Osage a small roll of tobacco.

The grim features of the warrior relaxed into a smile, as his fingers

closed upon the scarce and much–coveted leaf[66], and without further

delay he moved to the entrance of the tent, and wakening Lita, desired

her to arouse her mistress for a conference with the bride of the

Upsaroka chief.

Although surprised at this unexpected summons, Prairie–bird hastened

to receive her visitor, supposing that some sudden illness or accident

must be the cause of her coming at such an hour. Her simple toilet was

soon made; and fastening to her girdle the bag containing the slender

stock of instruments and trifles that she always carried with her, she

stepped into the outer compartment of the tent, and desired Lita to

admit the stranger.

The Crow girl, led by Besha, came forward with apparent reluctance,

obviously under the influence of the greatest terror, and Prairie–bird

was, for the moment, annoyed at the admission into her tent of a man

whom she had only seen once or twice before, and whose appearance was

forbidding in the extreme; but quickly remembering that without him it

would have been impossible to communicate with her visitor, she desired

Lita to place three mats; and seating herself upon one, kindly took the

Crow girl by the hand, drawing her gently to that nearest to herself;

then motioning to Besha to occupy the third, she requested him in the

Delaware tongue, to explain the object of this nightly visit.

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

the ears of Olitipa.”

At a signal from her mistress, Lita, throwing a blanket over her

shoulder, stepped into the open air, and leaned against the breastwork

not far from the post of Toweno.

“Does the ‘Bending–willow’ wish all to be told?” inquired Besha of his

companion in a whisper.

Bending–willow, who had not yet dared to lift her eyes from the ground,

now timidly raised them; and encountering the kind and encouraging

glance of Prairie–bird, answered, “Let all be told.”

Having received this permission, the one–eyed horse–dealer proceeded to

relate, with more feeling than could have been expected from his harsh

and uncouth appearance, the story of his fair companion. She was the

daughter of the principal brave in the nation; both he and his only

son had fallen lately in a bloody engagement with the Black–feet. The

father had, with his dying breath, bequeathed his surviving child to

the protection of his chief, and the latter had fulfilled the trust

by giving her in marriage to his eldest son, a gallant youth, who,

although not yet twenty–five years of age, had already two wives in

his lodge, and had taken many scalps from the Black–feet, against whom

he was now absent on an expedition undertaken to avenge the slain

relations of his newly–espoused bride.

Bending–willow, who had not yet seen eighteen summers, was passionately

fond of her young lord, who now returned her affection with an ardour

equal to her own; this had moved the spite and jealousy of his two

former wives, who took no pains to conceal their hatred of her; and

although they dared not strike or ill–treat her as long as she remained

the favourite, they endeavoured by every means in their power to vex

and annoy her, and to bring her, by degrees, under the suspicion and

distrust of their husband.

It was to obtain from Prairie–bird a medicine by which she might secure

his continued affection, that Bending–willow had made this visit; and

she had come stealthily by night, in hopes of escaping thereby the

observation of her watchful colleagues.

During the horse–dealer’s recital, Prairie–bird glanced more than once

at the young woman’s countenance, of which she was enabled by the red

light of the wormwood torch that burnt near the centre of the tent, to

distinguish the features and expression; both were remarkably pleasing

and attractive, while the long black hair falling over her shoulders in

two plaits, interwoven with beads of various colours, was set off by

the delicate hue of the fawn–skin dress, which displayed to advantage

the symmetry of her slight and graceful figure. Prairie–bird took her

hand in silence, and the Crow girl fixed her eyes with guileless and

admiring wonder upon the surpassing loveliness of the “Great Medicine

of the tent,” which struck her the more forcibly, as she had come in

the expectation of seeing a person decked out and ornamented after the

fantastic fashion adopted among the Indian tribes by those who pretend

to supernatural powers.

After a brief silence, Prairie–bird, addressing her visitor through the

interpreter, said, “When the wives of the young chief scold and speak

bad words to Bending–willow, what does she reply?”

“She gives them bad words again, sharper and harder than their own,”

answered the bride hastily.

Prairie–bird shook her head, and continued, “Has Bending–willow watched

their faces when they scold and heap angry words upon her? How do they

look then?”

“They look ugly and spiteful as spotted snakes!”

“Bending–willow has come for a medicine to make the love of her husband

endure fresh and green as the valleys watered by the Nebraska! Does she

think he would love her if when he returns to his lodge he hears sharp

angry tones in her voice, and sees spiteful looks in her countenance?

The Great Spirit has made her face and voice sweet as the breath of

the morning; if she makes them ugly and harsh, the medicine of Olitipa

cannot preserve her husband’s love.”

The Crow bride cast down her eyes, evidently confused and puzzled by

this address. At length she inquired, in a subdued tone, “What, then,

is the counsel of Olitipa? What is Bending–willow to do when these

sharp tongues scold and rail at her?”

Prairie–bird opened the volume that lay beside her, and answered, “The

words of the Great Spirit are, ‘A soft answer turneth away anger!’

When the tongues of the women are bitter against Bending–willow, let

her give gentle words in reply; they will be ashamed, and will soon be

silent.”

“But,” said the quick–tempered bride, “the angry spirit gets into the

heart of Bending–willow: when fire is in the breast, cool water flows

not from the tongue!”

“Olitipa will give a medicine to her sister,” replied our heroine;

and opening a case that stood near her, she drew thence a small

hand–mirror. Presenting this to her visitor, she added, “When

Bending–willow finds the angry spirit in her heart, and bitter words

ready on her tongue, let her look at her face in this medicine–glass,

and say to herself, ‘Are these the soft eyes that the chief loves to

look upon?’”

The bride took the glass, and contemplated her features therein,

apparently not without satisfaction. But their expression was troubled,

for she was frightened at the words which Prairie–bird had told her

were those of the Great Spirit, and her eyes wandered from the book

to the maiden, as if she would willingly learn more of her mysterious

communion with the powers above.

At this crisis the wild war–cry of the Crows rang through the tent;

several shots followed each other in rapid succession, mingled with the

whistling of arrows and the clash of blows, while loud above the din of

conflict rose the voice of Toweno, urging and encouraging his men.

Besha started to his feet, and rushed from the tent to learn whence

came this sudden and unexpected attack, and Lita hastened to the side

of her mistress, as if resolved to share her fate, whatever that might

be.

Louder and nearer came the mingled cries and yells of battle, and a

stray rifle–ball pierced the canvass of the tent, leaving a rent in it

close to the head of Prairie–bird. She neither stirred nor spoke; and

as the wailing and terrified Bending–willow, the daughter and the bride

of warriors inured to scenes of blood, looked on the pale, calm cheek

of the Christian maiden, whose hand still rested on the mysterious

volume, she felt as if in the presence of a superior being, and crept

closer to her side for protection and security.

But we must leave the tent and its inmates, and turn to the scene of

strife without. The darkness of night was giving place to the grey hue

of dawn, and a faint streak of light was already discernible in the

eastern horizon, ere Reginald’s party, guided by Wingenund, was able

to reach the base of the hill on which the Osages were posted. His

intention had been to arrive there several hours sooner; but he had

been prevented by various obstacles, such as might be expected to occur

on a night–march through so rugged and difficult a country, and also by

the necessity of making a considerable circuit to avoid being seen by

the Crows encamped, as was before mentioned, on a hill on the opposite

side of the valley.

Reginald had no means of ascertaining the force that might be left to

guard the camp and the tent, and it appeared rash in the extreme to

attempt by daylight the storming, with only ten men, a position so

fortified by nature, and defended by warriors familiar with its local

advantages. But his impetuous ardour had communicated itself to all

his party, and it was unanimously agreed that the attack should be made.

In the sketch before given of the Osage camp, it was stated that the

hill was steep, and of a conical shape, sloping less abruptly towards

the valley, while the front that it presented to the prairie eastward

was precipitous and inaccessible. The attacking party had made their

approach from this quarter, rightly conjecturing that it would be left

unguarded. They succeeded in gaining the base of the cliff unperceived;

but in spite of the caution with which they advanced towards the more

sloping face of the hill, they were descried by the enemy’s outposts,

who discharged at them a flight of arrows, uttering at the same time

the shrill war–cry that had startled the party within the tent.

There being now light sufficient to enable the combatants to

distinguish each other, the rifles of the white men told with fatal

effect, and several of the Crows fell at their first fire; the

remainder retreated fighting, towards the breastwork above, whither

Reginald’s party pursued them with an impetuosity not to be resisted.

When, however, the Crows gained the protection of the breastwork, they

recovered from their temporary panic, and, animated by the example of

Toweno and the few Osages with him, let fly their arrows with precision

and effect.

The leader of the Osages, and one of his band, were provided with

rifles, and although the attacking party availed themselves of the

occasional shelter of trees and bushes in their ascent, two of them

received severe bullet–wounds from the marksmen securely posted above.

They were not unnoticed by the quick eye of Baptiste, who, having

reloaded his long rifle, deliberately waited until the Osage beside

Toweno showed the upper part of his head above the breastwork as he

aimed at Reginald, now within pistol–shot of him. The finger of the

savage was on the trigger, when a ball from the rifle of the guide

struck him in the centre of the forehead, and with a convulsive bound

he fell dead on the spot, overthrowing in his fall Toweno, whose rifle

was thereby for the moment rendered unserviceable.

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

the breastwork!”

Light as an antelope, and active as a mountain cat, the Delaware youth

had distanced all his companions in the ascent, and, regardless of the

fearful odds of numbers opposed to him, was already clambering over

the stockade, when an arrow pierced his arm, and a war–club, hurled

with equal force and precision, struck him on the head, and he fell

backwards at the feet of Reginald. The latter rendered desperate by the

fall of his Indian brother, caught from Baptiste the huge axe that hung

at his belt, and springing forward to the stockade, soon hewed himself

a passage through its wooden barrier—wounded slightly by an arrow in

his thigh, grazed by another on the cheek, his hunting–cap pierced

and carried from his head, it seemed as though his life were charmed

against the missiles of the enemy—and despite every obstacle, he stood

at length within the breastwork, followed by Baptiste and his brave

companions. The guide, whose cool and wary eye noted every movement,

had reserved the fire of the pistols in his belt, and twice, while his

young master was hewing with reckless daring at the tough barrier, had

an unerring ball from _them_ rendered powerless an arm raised for his

destruction.

Although still superior in numbers in the proportion of two to one, the

allied band of Osages and Crows were so discouraged by the storming

of their barrier, that they offered but a feeble resistance, each

endeavouring to provide for his own safety. Toweno alone, aided by one

of the bravest warriors of his band, determined in this fatal crisis

to execute the bloody orders of Mahéga; and by a preconcerted signal,

as soon as Reginald made good his footing within the breastwork, they

rushed into the tent of Prairie–bird.

From the beginning of the affray, the terrified Upsaroka bride had

never moved from the side of our heroine, on whose countenance she

fixed her anxious eyes, as if expecting from her some display of

supernatural power for their common protection; Lita clung also to the

arm of her mistress; and the Christian maiden, trusting to that Word

on which her hand and her heart alike reposed, awaited with patient

resignation the issue of a peril, of which she knew neither the nature

nor the extent. That the camp was attacked she was well aware, by the

shouts and cries of the combatants; but who the attacking party might

be, and whether likely to fail or to succeed, she had no means of

judging.

Besha had from the commencement of the affray shot several arrows from

the breastwork at the invaders; but seeing them press forward with such

determined resolution, he bethought himself of the bride, for whose

safety he was responsible, and retired within the tent, resolved, if

possible, to withdraw her from the scene of confusion while there might

yet be time for escape; but Bending–willow obstinately refused to quit

the side of Prairie–bird, and he was still urging his entreaties to

that effect, when the two Osages burst into the tent.

“Let the Medicine–woman of the Bad Spirit die,” shouted Toweno, as

he raised his tomahawk to strike; but Besha caught the descending

blow, and endeavoured to avert the murderous weapon from his hold.

Meanwhile the other Osage advanced to execute the fell purpose of his

leader, when the devoted Lita, throwing herself in his way, clung

to his upraised arm with the strength of despair. Slight, however,

was the resistance which she could offer; and the savage, throwing

her with violence to the ground, again raised his knife above the

head of his unresisting victim. Lita shrieked aloud, and the fate

of Prairie–bird seemed inevitable, when a warlike figure burst into

the tent, and Reginald Brandon, still wielding the axe of Baptiste,

stood in the midst of the group. His fiery glance fell upon the savage

about to strike his beloved, and swift as thought that terrible weapon

descending, clove the Indian’s skull.

By this time Toweno had freed himself from Besha, whom he had rendered

almost helpless by two severe wounds with his scalp–knife, and he now

flew at Reginald with the fury of a tiger at bay; but the presence

of Prairie–bird nerved her lover’s arm with threefold strength, and

parrying the blow which his opponent aimed at his throat, he passed

his cutlass through the body of the Osage, and threw him, bleeding and

mortally wounded, several yards from the tent. At this moment a shout

of triumph without, raised by Baptiste and his companions, assured

Reginald that the victory was complete, and that those of the enemy who

survived had fled and left him in possession of the camp. Then he cast

himself on his knees by the side of his betrothed, and as she leaned

her head upon his shoulder, a flood of tears relieved the suppressed

emotions caused by the fearful trial that she had undergone. Few and

broken were the words that passed between them, yet in those few words

what volumes of the heart’s grateful and affectionate language were

expressed!

The entrance of Baptiste recalled to the recollection of Reginald

the duties that still remained for him to perform, while the wounds

received by Besha in her defence pleaded with the maiden for such

remedies as she had within her power. After briefly explaining to her

lover the circumstances which had brought the horse–dealer and his

still trembling companion to her tent, she sought her stock of healing

ointments and salves; while Reginald, although slightly wounded, went

out to arrange with Baptiste and Pierre for the defence of their

newly–acquired possession, and to ascertain the loss which his party

had sustained. This last was less than he had feared it might prove;

and it was with heartfelt pleasure that he shook by the hand young

Wingenund, who had recovered from the stunning effects of the blow

which he had received in his gallant attack upon the breastwork.

“Let my young brother go into the tent,” said Reginald; “rest will do

him good, and the eyes of Olitipa will be glad to see him.”

As the youth turned away, Baptiste added, “Let not the man nor the Crow

woman escape; we may want them yet.”

Wingenund replied by a sign of intelligence, and entered the

compartment of the tent where he found his sister exercising her office

of charity.

We will now leave Reginald Brandon and his party busily employed

in repairing the breach made in the breastwork, in examining and

strengthening all the defences of the post (which they found much

stronger than they had expected), and in making all the requisite

preparations for the attack which they anticipated on the return of

Mahéga and his Crow allies. The booty, ammunition, and supplies found

in the camp exceeded their expectations, as in searching the Osage

lodges they discovered all the goods stolen by the latter from the

Delawares. The eyes of Baptiste and Pierre brightened at the sight of

this recovered treasure; those experienced hunters well knowing that

the Osage chief, when deprived of the means of offering presents or

bribes, would not long retain the friendship of his treacherous allies.

We will now go back for a few hours, and see with what success he met

in the expedition which he undertook against the camp of War–Eagle.

So confident did he feel in its issue, that he had prevailed upon

two–thirds of the fighting men of the Crows to join his party,

promising them abundance of scalps and plunder, as well as revenge

for the losses which they had sustained at the hands of Reginald’s

band. Having already carefully noted all the land–marks on the path by

which he meant to make his approach, he followed it with instinctive

sagacity, and a few hours’ rapid night–march along the base of the

hills brought him to the opening of the narrow valley, at the upper

extremity of which the enemy’s camp was posted. Here they slackened

their speed, and advanced in silence with noiseless step, Mahéga

stealing onward in front, darting his quick glance from side to side,

as if he would penetrate the gloom, rendered yet deeper by the trees

and rocks, beneath which they wound their cautious way. It was not long

before he was enabled to distinguish the site of the Delaware camp, by

the ruddy glare cast by the watch–fires on the surrounding foliage. The

Osage stopped and pointed out the welcome beacon to his followers—not

a word was spoken—every warrior there knew the preconcerted plan of

attack, and was aware that a careless step upon a dry stick might

discover and defeat it. Mahéga carried a rifle, and the discharge of it

was to be immediately followed by a flight of arrows from his party,

after which they were to rush on the surprised foe, with battle–axe and

tomahawk. Onward moved the dusky band; and it seemed as if fate had

given the enemy into their power. Not a deer nor a mountain–cat was

startled from its lair to give warning of their approach; and at length

Mahéga succeeded in creeping to the bushy summit of a hillock, whence,

at a distance of less than fifty yards, he commanded a view of the camp

below.

“For once have the cunning and watchfulness of War–Eagle failed him,”

said the triumphant Osage to himself, as he loosened the thong of his

war–club, and thrust forward the barrel of his rifle.

One by one of his followers crept forward, until they lay in line

beside him, behind the crest of the hillock, over which their eager

eyes looked down with savage anticipation upon the Delaware camp. The

moon had entirely withdrawn her light, and all the scene was wrapt

in impenetrable gloom, save where the camp–fires cast a red glare on

the bark and branches of the surrounding trees, and on the figures

which lay around, enveloped in blanket or in bison–robe; no sound

disturbed the deep silence of the night, except the nibbling bite

of the horses as they cropped the cool grass of the valley below the

camp. For a minute Mahéga contemplated, with fierce delight, the

helpless condition of his hated foes, then taking deliberate aim at

a blanketed form supported against the tree nearest to the fires, he

pulled the fatal trigger, and without waiting to see the effect of his

shot, he shouted his battle–cry, and sprang forward with his war–club

towards the camp. Scarcely had the bullet left his rifle ere the Crows

discharged their arrows, each aiming at the figure that he could the

most easily distinguish; then they rushed forward to complete the work

of destruction with knife and tomahawk.

Leaping into the camp, fifty of the savages were already in the

full glare of its fires, when a shrill whistle was heard, and the

simultaneous report of a dozen rifles echoed through mountain, forest,

and valley. So near were the marksmen, and so true their aim, that not

a bullet failed to carry a death or fatal wound; and the surviving

Crows now first ascertained that the figures which they had been

piercing were stuffed with grass, and wrapped in blankets or robes, so

as to resemble sleeping warriors! Great was their terror and dismay;

they knew neither the number nor position of their concealed foe,

and the master–spirit who had led them, and to whose guidance they

trusted for their extrication, was nowhere to be seen. Such had been

the impetuous haste of the Osage to satisfy his desire for vengeance,

that in his rapid descent upon the enemy’s camp he had caught his foot

in a tough and tangled ground–brier, and had fallen headlong forwards.

It happened that the very spot where he fell was the post of one of

the concealed Delawares, who grappled with him before he could rise to

continue his course.

Though taken thus by surprise and at disadvantage, the fierce Osage

lost not for a moment his courage or self–possession; seizing the

upraised arm of his antagonist, he wrenched the knife from his grasp,

and, swift as thought, drove it into the heart of his foe; then tearing

off the scalp, and suspending it to his belt, he looked upon the scene

of confusion and slaughter below. A glance sufficed to show him that he

had fallen into the trap that he had prepared for others, and that a

continued contest with an enemy armed with rifles, and securely hidden,

must be attended with great and unavailing loss. His own person had

not yet come within the light of the fires, neither had the groans of

the dying Delaware been heard amid the yells of the Crow attack, and

the succeeding report of the guns; thus was the Osage enabled to retire

unobserved a score of paces into the wood, bearing with him the yet

undischarged rifle of the Delaware whom he had slain; then he applied

his war–whistle[67] to his lips, and blew a loud and shrill recal.

Glad were his faithful followers and the terrified Crows to hear and

obey the signal; yet did they not leave the scene without further

loss, for ere they got behind the circle around which the camp–fires

shed their uncertain light, another volley was fired after them by the

enemy, and although none were killed by this second discharge, many

were so grievously wounded that they were with difficulty borne off by

their companions. It was some relief to them in their hasty retreat to

find that they were not pursued. Mahéga placed himself in the rear; he

even lingered many yards behind the rest, crouching now and then behind

tree or bush in hopes of being able to slake his burning thirst for

revenge—but in vain; War–Eagle was too sagacious to pursue by night,

in an unknown and broken country, an enemy who, although dismayed and

panic–struck, still out–numbered his band in the proportion of three to

one.

“Bloody–hand, the great warrior of the Osages, will not come again soon

to visit the Lenapé camp,” said War–Eagle, in answer to Ethelston’s

congratulations, as they stood surrounded by their victorious handful

of men on the spot whence they had just driven the enemy with so much

slaughter. “Let Attō count the dead,” continued the chief, “and bring

in the wounded, if any are found.”

“War–Eagle,” said the missionary, who from his concealment had been

an unwilling spectator of the late brief, but sanguinary skirmish,

“forbear to exercise here the cruel usages of Indian war; let the

wounded be cared for, and the dead be put to rest in peace below the

earth.”

“The ears of War–Eagle are open to the Black Father’s words,”

replied the chief sternly; “if any wounded are found, they shall

suffer no further hurt: but the scalps of the dead shall hang on the

medicine–pole of the Lenapé village, that the spirits of Tamenund and

his fathers may know that their children have taken vengeance on the

forked–tongued Washashee.”

Further conversation was interrupted by a cry uttered by Attō, who had

found the body of the unhappy Delaware slain by Mahéga. The whole party

hastened to the spot; and War–Eagle, without speaking a word, pointed

to the reeking skull whence the fierce Osage had torn the scalp.

Paul Müller, feeling that all reply would be ill–timed and unavailing,

turned away, and walked towards the feeding–place of the horses, while

the Delawares scalped and threw into an adjacent hollow the bodies of

the Crows and Osages who had fallen. Of the latter they counted two,

and of the former ten, besides a much greater number whom they knew to

have been borne off mortally wounded.

As the missionary strolled onward, accompanied by Ethelston, a low

moan caught his ear, and, stooping down, he discerned an Indian coiled

up in a position indicative of intense agony under the branches of

a juniper. They carried him back to the camp–fire, and on examining

him by its light, he proved to be a young Crow warrior, shot through

the body, who had dragged himself with difficulty for some distance,

and had then fallen exhausted to the ground. Doubtless he expected

to be immediately scalped and despatched; nor could he for some time

be induced to believe that those into whose hands he had fallen were

indeed endeavouring to alleviate his sufferings.

War–Eagle, faithful to his promise, rendered every assistance in his

power to the worthy missionary while thus employed; but it might easily

be seen, by the scornful curl of his lip, that he looked upon this care

of an enemy wounded in battle as an absurd and effeminate practice.

Day broke, and the dispirited band of Crow and Osage warriors returned

from their fruitless expedition, only to find a worse disaster at home.

Great, indeed, was their dismay, when they were met by a scout from

their village, who informed them that a party of white men had stormed

the Osage camp by night, and still retained possession of it, having

destroyed the greater proportion of those left to defend it. In his

description of the attack, the height, the strength, the daring and

impetuous courage of the young warrior who had led it were painted in

colours exaggerated by terror; yet the Osage chief had no difficulty

in recognising the hated rival who had struck and disgraced him, and

who was now master of the fate of her for whose sake he had toiled, and

plotted, and suffered so much.

Stung to the quick by these suggestions of wounded jealousy and pride,

he ground his teeth with fury that would not be repressed, and he

swore that before two suns had risen and set, either he or his rival,

or both, should see the light of day no more. His position was now

precarious in the extreme, all his goods and ammunition having fallen

into the enemy’s hands, excepting that which he and his few remaining

followers had about their persons. He knew that if he no longer

possessed the means of making presents, the Crows would abandon, if not

betray him at once, and he resolved to strike some sudden and decisive

blow before that thought should obtain possession of their minds.

This resolve imparted again to his manner its usual fierce and haughty

grandeur; and, although the Crows loved him not, they could not help

looking with a certain awe upon the man who, amid the confusion and

panic of the late disastrous attack upon the Delaware camp, had borne

away from the victorious enemy the bloody trophy which now hung at his

belt, and who, although he had lost by a single blow his lodges, his

supplies, and the Great Medicine of the tent, preserved unsubdued the

commanding pride of his demeanour.

The success of the stratagem which he now meditated will appear in due

season; meanwhile, we must return to the camp of War–Eagle, who began

his march at dawn of day, with the view of rejoining Reginald and his

band with the least possible delay.

Although he did not anticipate any attempt at reprisals on the part of

the Crows, to whom he had just given so severe a lesson, yet he was

aware of Mahéga’s having escaped, and well knew that he would leave

untried no schemes for obtaining revenge.

On this account the Delaware chief went forward to the front, taking

with him several of his warriors, whom he sent out from time to time

to examine the ground, and leaving Attō with Ethelston and Paul Müller

to bring up the rear. The latter could not be prevailed upon to abandon

the wounded Crow, whom he had placed upon his own horse, which he led

by the bridle, while Ethelston supported the sufferer in the saddle.

Ever since the occasion when Reginald Brandon had presented to Attō

the bear–claw collar as a testimony to his bravery, the Delaware had

attached himself more and more to the white men; and although, with the

instinctive sagacity of his race, he foresaw that the best exertions

of the two now in his company would fail to effect a cure of the

wounded man, he willingly and good–humouredly assisted their charitable

endeavours.

In this order they had marched for some hours, and the leaders of the

band having attained the summit of a ridge, already saw at no great

distance the two remarkable hills before mentioned as the favourite

encampment of the Crows. Encouraged by the sight, they descended the

opposite slope with increased speed, War–Eagle being most anxious to

learn the success of Reginald’s detachment. The whole band had passed

over the summit of the ridge, excepting the small party who escorted

the wounded Crow, when the latter grew so faint from the effects of

internal bleeding that they were no longer able to keep him in the

saddle, and deposited him gently on the grass. The poor fellow pointed

to his parched lips, and made an imploring sign for water. Paul Müller,

casting his eyes around, saw at a small distance a broken ravine or

fissure, in which he hoped that some rain–water might be found, and he

desired Attō to hasten thither with all speed.

The Delaware obeyed, and had approached within a few paces of its edge,

when an arrow from an unseen enemy pierced him through the breast; and

Mahéga, leaping from his concealment, killed the brave fellow with his

club, and attached another Lenapé scalp to his belt. He was followed

by eight or ten well–armed Crow warriors, who, passing him while he

stooped over his fallen enemy, hastened forward and surrounded Paul

Müller, Ethelston, and the wounded man. Great was their astonishment at

recognising in the latter a highly esteemed brave of their own tribe,

and greater still at observing that the two white men were so busily

engaged in tending and supporting him in his sufferings, as not to

have noticed their approach.

When Ethelston became aware of their presence, his first impulse

was to lay his hand upon a pistol in his belt; but, with the steady

self–possession of true courage, he saw at a glance that he should, by

unavailing resistance, only cause the certain death of himself and his

peaceable companion; so he continued his attentions to the wounded man,

and poured into his mouth the last few drops of a cordial which he had

reserved in a leathern flask.

Fresh from the slaughter of the unfortunate Attō, Mahéga now came

forward, and would have sacrificed the unresisting missionary to his

blind fury, had not one of the Crow warriors caught his arm, and

pointed in an attitude of remonstrance to his wounded comrade.

The Osage perceived at once that the time was not propitious for his

indiscriminate revenge, and contented himself with explaining by signs

to his allies that ere long the party now out of sight behind the hill

would reappear over its crest in search of their missing companions.

This hint was not lost upon the Crows, who forthwith deprived Ethelston

of his arms, and, tying him with a leather thong to the missionary,

hurried them along in an oblique direction towards an adjoining

thicket, while some of them relieved each other in the care of the

dying man.

War–Eagle was already far advanced in his descent of the hill on the

opposite side, when his progress was arrested by shouts and cries

from the rear. On looking round he perceived that these proceeded

from Monsieur Perrot, who was waving his arms, and with other

gesticulations, indicative of the greatest excitement, calling upon the

chief to return.

“Varicle, Varicle, come quick back!”

Although the latter had little regard for the character of the French

valet, he saw that something alarming had occurred; and hastening

to the spot, scarcely waited to hear his explanation that “Monsieur

Etelston, de Black Fader, and de vounded Corbeau, were not to be seen,”

but pushed on at once to the top of the hill, over which he had so

lately passed.

Casting his anxious eyes around, he looked in vain for the missing

members of his party; but he saw at a considerable distance on the

back trail the missionary’s pony quietly cropping the prairie–grass.

Having called one of his men to his side, and given him a few brief

instructions, he returned speedily towards the scene of the late

catastrophe, and, on approaching it, found the scalped and plundered

body of Attō, from which the Crows had carried off the arms, the belt,

and the bear–claw collar given to him by Reginald. Although deeply

grieved at the loss of the bravest of his followers, War–Eagle was

too much inured to scenes of strife and bloodshed to give way to any

emotion save the ardent desire for revenge; and he struck off alone

upon the enemy’s trail, some of his party following him at a distance.

As he approached the thicket, his attention was caught by a column of

smoke ascending from a point near the centre of it; and he judged that

the band must be very strong, either in their position or in numbers,

if they could have the audacity thus to light a camp–fire, in defiance

as it were of his pursuit. Influenced by this consideration, he waited

until his whole party had come up, when he again moved forward towards

the wood, cautiously watching every bush and shrub, in momentary

expectation of seeing the enemy start from the covert.

These precautions seemed, however, altogether unnecessary; for he

reached unmolested the spot whence he had seen the smoke ascend, and on

his arrival found that the fire was consuming the last mortal remains

of some human being, whose bones were mingled with its dying embers.

This he knew at once to have been the wounded Crow who had expired in

the arms of his companions, and to whom they had paid in their retreat

this hasty funeral rite, to prevent his body from being liable to any

indignities in the event of a pursuit. The quiver and tomahawk of the

deceased warrior were suspended by a branch over his funeral pyre, and

War–Eagle turned from the spot in moody, silent meditation. He felt

assured that the retreating party were now too far advanced for him to

overtake them, unless he gave up the idea of joining Reginald; and he

thought it by no means improbable that this attack had been devised for

the purpose of preventing that junction, so important to the safety

of both parties; wherefore he resolved to effect it without delay,

and afterwards to employ all possible means for the recovery of the

prisoners.

With this view he returned upon his steps; and having seen the last

honours paid to the remains of the faithful Attō, again proceeded in

the direction of the Crow camp.

As his little band drew near upon the prairie, it was distinctly

visible from both the fortified hills, and some fifty or sixty horsemen

galloped out from the higher of the two, with the apparent intention

of attacking him; but the steady front presented by the white men

and Delawares deterred them from approaching too near the glittering

tubes levelled to receive them, and they galloped and wheeled in rapid

circles over the prairie, taking care, however, to keep beyond rifle

range. At this juncture the cheering notes of a bugle rose on the air;

and Reginald, who had descried his friends, now came down with two men

from his little garrison to meet them. The Crows, seeing that further

opposition on the open ground was unavailing, retired with threats and

yells to their camp; and a few minutes afterwards the parties under

War–Eagle and Reginald were reunited within the little fortress so

hardly won by the latter, who now learnt, with unspeakable regret,

the capture of Ethelston and Paul Müller, and the death of the brave

warrior who had shared with him the perils of the first skirmish with

the Crows.

CHAPTER IV.

THE NEGOTIATION SET ON FOOT BY REGINALD FOR THE RELEASE OF HIS

FRIENDS.—BESHA BECOMES AN IMPORTANT PERSONAGE.

Scarcely had War–Eagle entered within the breastwork by the side of

his friend, ere his eager and indefatigable spirit prompted him to

inspect the defences of the new camp, and to guard every approach

open to the attacks of their dangerous neighbours. On this service

Baptiste willingly agreed to accompany the chief; and while they were

thus employed, Reginald undertook the painful task of communicating to

Prairie–bird the intelligence that her beloved instructor was, with his

friend Ethelston, a captive in the hands of the Crows.

Trials and sufferings of her own the maiden could bear with fortitude;

but her feelings towards the missionary were those of the fondest

daughter towards a parent; and when she thought of the risk that be

incurred of ill–usage or death at the hands of his captors, she burst

into tears, and exclaimed, “Oh, Reginald! cannot he be rescued ere it

be too late?”

At the sound of that voice, and the sight of those tears, Reginald’s

heart would have prompted him to rush headlong into the camp of the

Upsarokas; but he felt that he would thereby only sacrifice his own

life without effecting the object in view; and, moreover, he was by no

means certain whether Mahéga and his party had conveyed their prisoner

to the central camp.

The doubt and anxiety of his mind were plainly visible on his

countenance, when a low voice whispered in his ear, “May Wingenund

speak to Netis?”

“Surely, dear brother,” said Reginald, laying his hand kindly on the

youth’s shoulder, “when I remember that it was Wingenund who guided me

over the prairie to his sister’s tent, I were worse than ungrateful to

reject his counsel now!”

“That young woman,” he replied, pointing to the captive bride seated

in the corner of the tent, “is dear to the Upsaroka chief; she is his

youngest wife, and his heart is warm towards her. Let the one–eyed

stranger from the unknown tribes, who speaks many tongues, go back to

the Crow camp, and tell the chief that if his prisoners are hurt, his

bride shall be burnt alive; if they are set free, she shall return

unhurt to his lodge.”

“It is a brave device, dear Wingenund, and shall be executed without

loss of time; but can we trust the stranger?”

“Methinks you may,” said Prairie–bird, “for he received his wound in

defending me from those cruel men.”

“True,” replied Reginald; “let my brother speak to him in the Delaware

tongue, and explain the message he is to bear.”

“It is well,” answered the youth; adding, with an arch look, “and let

Netis not send him away with empty hands. There is cunning in the

stranger’s eye, he knows that Mahéga is poor; and he will rather make

friends with those who have something to give.”

“Be it so,” said Reginald, laughing; and he forthwith desired one of

his men to select from a package containing knives, powder, tobacco,

and cloth, a quantity equal to the usual Indian price for a horse.

Wingenund, having waited in silence the return of the messenger,

addressed the prisoner as follows:—

“Has the stranger a name in his tribe?”

“He is called Besha in the southern prairies.”

“Besha dwells among the Crows. They have shed the blood of white men

and Delawares in battle; his scalp belongs to those who have taken him.”

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

“But the heart of the white chief is great; he will not take Besha’s

life, neither will he bind his limbs. Besha is free to go where he

likes.”

The horse–dealer stared as if he did not quite believe his ears; but

Wingenund, without appearing to notice his surprise, proceeded.

“That is not all. Besha received a wound in defending Olitipa from the

Washashee. The white chief’s hand is open; it is quick to reward good

deeds, and to punish bad ones; the presents in that package, of knives

and cloth, tobacco and powder, are for Besha: he may return to the

Upsaroka camp, and his friends shall not say that he comes with empty

hands.”

The deep–set eye of the horse–dealer gleamed with pleasure as he fixed

it on the welcome bale, and heard these words. His first movement was

to rise from the ground, and place the right hands of Reginald and of

Wingenund on his heart in token of gratitude; then turning towards the

latter, he inquired, “Is there a dark cloud over the Upsaroka bride?

Will the white chief kill her, or make her a slave?”

“Let Besha open his ears,” replied the youth, earnestly, “and let not

the wind blow away good counsel. The Washashee and the Upsaroka have

taken captive two white men from this band; these have killed no red

man; they have done no harm. If any hurt be done to them, or their

lives be taken, the Upsaroka bride shall be burnt before the next

setting sun; but if they are sent back free and unhurt, she shall

return to her husband the same hour, and a present four times as great

as this shall be given to Besha.”

Having thus spoken, the youth placed the package in the horse–dealer’s

hands, and made him a sign to go. Before obeying this hint, the latter

whispered a few words to Bending–willow, in which he comforted her

with the assurance that he would labour incessantly for her release;

after which he departed towards the Crow camp, with a gait somewhat

tottering and uncertain, from the joint effect of the weight of his

burthen and the wound that he had so lately received.

We will now leave Reginald engaged in the sad yet dear employment of

comforting his betrothed, and striving, by a thousand suggestions, to

relieve her anxiety respecting the fate of her beloved instructor, and

her lover’s friend. Neither will we follow War–Eagle and Baptiste in

securing the important post which they had so unexpectedly won; but we

will return to the Crow camp, where Mahéga had newly arrived with his

prisoners, and where every thing was in a state of alarm and confusion.

Great had been the panic consequent on the double defeat which they had

sustained; nor had its effects been entirely removed by the successful

blow last struck by Mahéga, and the capture of the two white men. The

Osage chief had lost all his warriors, with the exception of four, his

baggage and ammunition were in the hands of the enemy, and he well knew

that his only remaining chance of retaining the support of his allies,

was in vigorously pursuing the success which he had so opportunely

gained. The Crow chief, on the other hand, disheartened by the loss and

disgrace which had befallen his tribe, and vexed beyond measure at the

detention of his son’s favourite wife, justly attributed both these

misfortunes to an alliance which had brought no increase either to his

power or his wealth.

Such was the state of parties when the council of the Upsarokas met to

decide upon the fate of their prisoners. The debate being carried on

in their own language, Mahéga was unable to gather the sentiments of

the several speakers, and he declined to sit in the circle, but stood

leaning against the outer post of the council lodge, his quick eye bent

upon the countenance of each successive speaker, as if he would read

there the purport of his harangue. One fierce and hot–headed warrior

proposed that the prisoners should be instantly put to death, and a

sudden attack be made with their whole force on the opposite hill,

which would be easily recovered, and an abundance of plunder acquired.

An older Indian next addressed the meeting in a persuasive tone, that

suited well the sharp and cunning expression of his countenance. He

argued, that the Crows had derived no advantage, but rather loss and

misfortune, from their alliance with Mahéga, and that it was their

interest to make friends with the newly arrived band, who were more

rich and powerful; wherefore he advised that the lives of the prisoners

should for the present he spared.

The debate was at its height, and the assembly apparently divided in

opinion, when Besha entered the council–lodge, and sat down in the

outer circle near to the entrance. All eyes were turned to him, as

the report of his capture had already spread through the village, and

his wasted appearance, as well as the bandages over his neck and arm,

showed that he had been wounded in the late affray. After a brief

silence, the chief desired that he would relate what had occurred, a

command which the horse–dealer obeyed without hesitation.

Although not gifted with any orational powers, he was a shrewd fellow,

thoroughly versed in all the wiles of Indian diplomacy, and well

aware, as a resident guest among the Crows, that his best chance

of a favourable hearing was to frame his speech according to their

interests, which happened in the present instance to tally with his

own. In relating the events which had occurred in the opposite camp,

he exaggerated the strength and wealth of the enemy, dwelling at large

upon the clemency shown to himself, and upon the desire evinced for

peace; stating, in conclusion, that he was the bearer of a specific

message, or proposal, to the great chief. At this announcement there

was a general murmur of curiosity, and Mahéga bit his lip with vexation

at his inability to understand what was going on.

At a signal from the chief, Besha proceeded to inform the council, that

Bending–willow, the bride of their favourite and absent war–leader,

was now a captive; and he recounted faithfully the circumstances

under which she had visited the white tent with him, and the terrible

threats held out respecting her in the event of any injury being done

to the white prisoners. The effect of this announcement was so great,

that it was visible even to Mahéga; nor was he surprised when Besha

explained to him, by order of the chief, that the council had decided

upon sparing the lives of the white men, at least until the return of

the war–leader and his band of braves, now absent on a foray into the

country of the Black–feet.

Agreeably to this decision, Paul Müller and Ethelston were confined

in a lodge adjoining that of the chief, under a Crow guard, to whom

strict orders were given to prevent their escape, and also to protect

them against any attempt on the part of Mahéga or his followers. Besha

was allowed to see them, and they learnt from him that their friends

had been completely successful, and had recaptured the Great Medicine

of the tent, as well as the ammunition and baggage. He further informed

them, that he would do all in his power to effect their release; adding

a significant hint that he should not be unwilling to receive tangible

proofs of their gratitude.

The captives were, upon the whole, much comforted by this interview;

and on his departure, Ethelston said, addressing his companion,

“Reverend father, we have cause to be grateful for the intelligence

communicated to us by this man, inasmuch as we expected no less than to

be put to an immediate and perhaps a cruel death. Yet, methinks, for

a messenger of good tidings, he has the most uncomely and villanous

countenance that ever I beheld.”

“I will not say that his face recommends him,” said Paul Müller,

smiling; “albeit the expression thereof may have been altered for the

worse by the loss of an eye. I have seen him more than once before

among the tribes bordering upon the Mexican frontier, and if my memory

serves me, he bore the reputation of being a crafty and designing knave

in his vocation; but I never heard him charged with cruelty or thirst

of blood.”

“What, then, do you think are the motives for the friendly exertions

which he professes to make in our behalf?”

“We will hope that they are partly owing to a grateful sense of the

treatment he has experienced at the hands of our friend Reginald, and

partly from the expectation of presents and rewards, which the Osage is

no longer in a condition to offer. Meanwhile, we must solace ourselves

in our captivity with the reflection, that my beloved pupil is safe

under the charge of friends upon whose fidelity and devotion we can

fully rely.”

Leaving the captives to comfort each other with these and other

similar suggestions, we will return to Reginald Brandon, who forgot

not, even in the enjoyment of Prairie–bird’s society, to occupy

himself constantly in devising plans for their liberation. In these he

was warmly seconded by War–Eagle and Baptiste; but, after carefully

reconnoitring the Crow camp, they agreed that it was too strong to

be carried by open attack by their small party, especially as they

had learnt from Besha that the husband of Bending–willow, the son of

the great chief, had just returned with his band, consisting of fifty

chosen warriors, from a successful foray into the Black–foot country.

The wily horse–dealer was allowed, in his mixed capacity of interpreter

and envoy, to pass from camp to camp; and, as both parties were

desirous of securing his co–operation, presents were liberally heaped

upon him; and his grey eye twinkled, as he cast it upon the increasing

pile of goods at the back of his lodge. “There will soon be enough to

exchange for a hundred beaver–skins,” said he to himself; “then Besha

will look for some fine horses, and go towards the east.”

While he was thus congratulating himself on his prospects of future

wealth, a tall figure darkened the entrance of his lodge, and the

young war–chief stood before him. “_White–bull_[68] would speak with

Besha,” said the former in a haughty tone, adjusting with dignity the

cream–coloured robe from which he took his designation.

“Let the young chief be seated,” replied the horse–dealer, making at

the same time a signal to one of his lads to offer food and a pipe to

his guest.

White–Bull’s first impulse was to refuse this hospitality, but he

checked it; and having tasted a morsel, and emitted two voluminous

puffs of smoke from the pipe, he turned to the horse–dealer, and said

in a stern deep tone, “Bending–willow is a prisoner in the white

tent! Besha took her there, he must bring her back, for the heart of

White–bull is dark—there is no light or pleasure without her.”

“The will of the bride was strong,” he replied; “she would take no

counsel from Besha; if he did not go with her she would go alone to

consult the Medicine of the tent; Besha went with her that none might

do her harm.”

“The ears of White–bull are not to be tickled by the songs of birds,”

said the young chief, fiercely. “Besha took her to the white men’s

camp, and he must bring her back before two suns have set, or his heart

shall be cut out from his body.”

“White–bull knows that there are two white prisoners here; let him

give them to Besha, and he will bring back Bending–willow before the

sun is in the west.”

“The white prisoners belong to the war–council,” said the young man

sullenly. “White–bull cares not whether they live or die; but he wants

his bride, whom the fool Besha led away to a place where she was caught

like a beaver in a trap; if he does not bring her back within two

sunsets, the blade of this knife shall be red. White–bull has spoken,

and his words are not wind!” So saying, the violent youth passed with

angry strides from the horse–dealer’s lodge.

Besha now found himself in an awkward predicament, in endeavouring to

extricate himself from which his first step was to consult the young

chief’s father, hoping that the latter would give his consent at once

to release the prisoners for the recovery of the favourite bride. But

the old man would not agree to the proposal, giving as his reason, that

the council had resolved either to take the lives of the prisoners,

or to make the enemy pay many horses and much goods for their ransom.

“Besha has a tongue,” continued the crafty old man; “he can speak with

the white men; he can tell them that if the bride is given up, their

friends shall be returned; they will believe him, and all will be well.”

Besha, though not particularly scrupulous in his morality, was startled

at first by this proposal of treacherous and deliberate falsehood

towards one who had spared his life and had given him his liberty,

besides loading him with presents; but his conscience being of an

extremely elastic texture, he soon reconciled himself to the idea by

the reflection that it was his best, if not his only chance of saving

his life from the fury of the incensed White–bull. He made no reply to

the old chief; but, as he went away, the two rogues exchanged a look

which satisfied them that they understood each other.

The horse–dealer proceeded without delay to the lodge where Paul

Müller and Ethelston were confined, into which he was admitted by

their guards. Having explained to the missionary that he was about

to visit the white men’s camp for the purpose of liberating him and

his companion by the recovery of the captive bride, he desired to be

furnished with a sign by which they would be induced to give her up

without hesitation; for Besha, in his rambles on the Mexican frontier,

had frequently met with the Spanish traders, and although he could not

read letters himself, he knew how they were used for the interchange

of communication at a distance.

Before giving any reply, Paul Müller explained the state of affairs to

his companion, and asked his counsel.

“Methinks we should trust the fellow,” said Ethelston, “for he has

hitherto befriended us: but let us not write any thing that can

endanger the safety of Prairie–bird.”

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

So saying, he took a small pocket–book from his breast, and wrote with

a pencil upon a leaf of it the following words:

“Ethelston and Paul Müller send their affectionate greeting. The bearer

says that he can liberate them if the captive bride is restored.

Reginald Brandon will consult with those about him, and do what he

thinks best. Let the safety of Prairie–bird, and of those who are now

her protectors, be the first object. Glad and thankful should we be to

embrace our dear friends again; but we are well and cheerful here: in

joy and in sorrow, in life and in death, we are in the hands of One who

rules all for the best. Farewell.”

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

opposite camp.

CHAPTER V.

DAVID MUIR AND HIS DAUGHTER PAY A VISIT TO COLONEL BRANDON.—THE

MERCHANT BECOMES AMBITIOUS; HE ENTERTAINS PROJECTS FOR JESSIE’S FUTURE

WELFARE, WHICH DO NOT COINCIDE WITH THAT YOUNG LADY’S WISHES.

While the events related in the preceding chapters were passing in the

great Western wilderness, the days of early summer glided smoothly on

at Mooshanne, uninterrupted by any incident worthy of record. Aunt Mary

continued her round of busy occupation with her usual indefatigable

activity. Never could there occur in the neighbourhood a case of

sickness or of sorrow to which she did not hasten to administer the

needful consolation; and in the town of Marietta her benevolent

exertions were assisted by Jessie Muir, whose attendance in her

father’s store enabled her to gather all the current news from the

numerous customers who frequented it.

“The merchant” (for so David Muir was designated by all who did

not wish to affront him) grew daily in importance and dignity. His

speculations in trade had been, for the most part, successful; and

two or three of his suggestions for the improvement of the town had

been adopted. A sharp attack of fever had subdued for a season the

domineering spirit of Dame Christie; and David found himself not only

respected by the neighbours, but even enjoyed the sweet though brief

delusion, that he was master in his own house.

Neither his pride nor his increasing wealth interrupted, however, his

close attention to business; and Colonel Brandon, finding that the

affairs entrusted to him were managed with great punctuality and skill,

treated him with corresponding confidence.

On a fine summer’s morning, about a month after Ethelston’s departure

for the Far–west, the merchant’s four–wheeled chaise stood before his

door, drawn, not by a sorry pony, but by a strong horse, the condition

and appearance of which betokened the thriving circumstances of the

owner. Jessie Muir, wearing a very becoming bonnet, and a shawl newly

arrived from England, had just cast a passing look into the oval mirror

in the back–parlour, and was busily employed in giving directions

respecting the contents of a parcel about to be placed in the seat

of the chaise, while Henry Gregson was listening with ill–dissembled

impatience to the repeated cautions given to him by David as to his

conduct during the brief absence which he meditated.

“Noo, Hairy,” (for thus was the name of Harry pronounced in David’s

north–country dialect,) “ye maun be vera carefu’ o’ the store, and see

that the lads attend weel to the folk wha come to buy, and that Jane

stays aye amang the caps an’ shawls and printed cottons, instead of

keekin out o’ the window at a wheen idle ne’er–do–weels in the street;

and as for the last lot of Bohea, ye can truly say it’s the finest that

ever cam’ to Marietta: I’m thinkin’ the minister’s wife will be fain

to buy a pun’ or twa. And, Hairy, mind that ye ... but the deil’s in

the lad! what are ye glow’ring at, over my shoulder, as if ye se’ed a

wraith, an’ no listening to what I’m sayin’?”

Here the merchant turned round, and his eye happening to fall upon a

parcel of fire–irons so carelessly placed on an upper shelf, that they

threatened the destruction of a pile of crockery below, he ordered

the shop–boy to secure the offending tongs, and, turning to Harry,

continued in a more complacent tone, “It’s nae wonder, lad, that ye

could na tak’ your een off they irons; they had like to make an awfu’

smash amaing the cups and saucers; I’m glad to see that ye ‘re so canny

and carefu’ o’ the goods.”

Harry bit his lips, and made no reply, while the merchant, who had

already seen Jessie take her seat in the chaise, was preparing to

follow, when he turned to the young man, and said in a low voice, “Ye

‘ll not forget that the mistress will need her gruel at midday?”

“I will take care that it is not forgotten, and I suppose, sir, the

glass of French brandy is to be put into it?”

“Glass o’ French brandy, ya daft chiel,” said the merchant, forgetting

for a moment the prudential whisper; then resuming it, he added, “Wha

talks o’ glasses o’ French brandy? Ye ken tho’ that the mistress has

no gotten her strength yet, and she said she would like just four

spoonfu’s o’ brandy in the gruel to gie’t a taste and keep the cauld

out o’ her wame. Ye ken the mistress’ ain spoon in the tea–cup–board?”

“Yes, sir, I know it well,” replied Harry, with demure gravity, adding,

half–aloud, as his principal drove from the door, “and a precious

gravy–spoon it is; before it is four times filled and emptied it will

make the largest wine–glass in the store run over the brim, and the old

lady’s tongue go like a mill–wheel. Never mind, for Jessie’s sake, I’ll

brew the gruel as stiff as my father’s grog, and bear Dame Christie’s

scolds without complaint.”

“He’s a canny, douce lad, yon Hairy,” said the merchant to his

daughter, as they jolted leisurely along the uneven, but picturesque

road that led from Marietta to Mooshanne, “and does na’ care to rin

about the toon like ither idle gillies, but seems aye content to min’

the store; did ye see, Jessie, how he caught wi’ ae blink o’ his ee the

airns that were about to fa’ amongst my best Wedgewood?”

Had the merchant not been occupied as he put this question, in guiding

the wheels between sundry deep ruts and holes in the road, he could

not have failed to observe the heightened colour that it brought into

Jessie’s countenance; for the maiden was conscious that at the moment

referred to, Harry’s gaze had been fixed, not upon the fire–irons or

the Wedgewood, but upon her own comely self.

It is one of the peculiar properties and triumphs of love, that,

not content with securing its own position in the human heart, it

delights in unsettling and metamorphosing the tenants by which it was

previously occupied. Under its wayward sway boldness becomes timidity,

and fierceness is transformed into gentleness, while bashfulness is

rendered bold, and simplicity has recourse to the devices of cunning.

Thus Jessie Muir, who was naturally of a frank open disposition, but

who had a secret presentiment that her father would reject the suit of

her lover if it were now to be declared, acquiesced demurely in his

observation respecting the attention shown by Harry Gregson to the

business of the store.

“Weel, a–weel,” continued the merchant, “he’s a gude lad, and no

ill–faured neither; I’m thinkin’, Jessie, that he and Jean will maybe

fancy each other; they’re aye thegither i’ the store, an’ the bit

lassie might gae further and fare waur than by takin’ up wi’ Hairy.”

This speech was too much for Jessie’s equanimity; the coolness with

which her father spoke of his servant–maid “takin’ up” with her lover,

stung her to the quick, and she replied tartly, “Father, I wish you

would mind your driving among these holes and stumps, instead of

talking about Jean and her idle nonsense. Indeed, father, that last

jolt nearly threw me out of the chaise.”

“Weel, Jessie, ye need na mak’ such a pother about a stump mair or less

atween Marietta and Mooshanne; and though I’ll no say that my drivin’

is like that of Jehu, the son of Jehoshaphat, ye need na fear that I’ll

coup the braw new chaise for a’ that.”

Jessie was well pleased to have turned her father’s thoughts into

another channel; and being a little ashamed of the momentary irritation

to which she had given way, she now exerted herself to please and amuse

him, in which she succeeded so well that they reached Mooshanne in

cheerful mood, and with wheels uninjured by hole or stump.

Colonel Brandon, seeing the merchant drive up to the door just as he,

with Lucy and Aunt Mary, were about to sit down to dinner, went himself

to the door, and, with the frank hospitality of his nature, invited

him and his daughter to share their family meal. This invitation was

no small gratification to the pride of David Muir, who had on former

visits to Mooshanne regaled himself with Monsieur Perrot in the pantry.

The boxes and parcels having been safely deposited, and the chaise sent

round to the stable, Lucy aided Jessie to uncloak and unbonnet, and in

a few minutes the party, thus increased, found themselves assembled at

the Colonel’s table.

“My worthy friend,” said the latter, addressing his guest, “you seem

to have brought an unusual variety of packages to–day; I suppose the

greater part of them are for Lucy’s benefit rather than for mine?”

“Maybe Jessie has brought a few things fresh frae Philadelphy for Miss

Lucy to look at,” replied David; “but the maist part o’ what I hae wi’

me the day, came late yestreen, by Rob Mitchell’s batteau from St.

Louis. There’s a wheen letters and parcels frae Messieurs Steiner and

Roche, which will, nae doubt, explain the settlement o’ the matter

anent your shares in the fur trade.”

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

colouring slightly.

“There’s nane, my bonny young leddy,” replied David, “excepting twa,

ane frae auld Miller, to acknowledge the receipt o’ the last ten

barrels o’ saut pork that I sent him, and anither frae Reuben Stiggs,

wha keeps the great outfitting store for trappers, to order an early

freight o’ blankets, bibles, religious tracts, scalp–knifes, and

whisky, for the Indian trade.”

In spite of her disappointment, Lucy could not forbear smiling at the

gravity with which the merchant enumerated this strange mixture of

goods ordered for a warehouse, to which the missionary and the trapper

both resorted for their respective supplies.

The dinner passed agreeably enough; and Jessie Muir having soon

recovered from the diffident shyness by which she had been at first

overcome, amused Lucy and Aunt Mary by her quiet, but shrewd,

observations on persons and things in Marietta; while the merchant

enjoyed, with evident satisfaction, several glasses from a certain

bottle of madeira, which he knew to have been for some years deposited

in his own warehouse.

As soon as dinner was over, the ladies retired to Lucy’s boudoir, where

she examined the contents of the packages which Jessie had brought

for her inspection, while Colonel Brandon looked over the letters and

papers from St. Louis. These proved to be of considerable importance,

as they announced that all the points in dispute with the other fur

company had been satisfactorily arranged, and that his own shares,

as well as those in which Ethelston’s property was chiefly invested,

had risen greatly in value. During the perusal of this correspondence

the Colonel spoke from time to time familiarly and unreservedly with

his companion. He had learnt from Lucy the attachment that existed

between Henry Gregson and the merchant’s daughter, and had formed an

internal resolution to contribute to its successful issue by advancing

to the young man a sum sufficient to enable him either to enter into

partnership with the merchant, or to commence business on his own

account; but it was not his intention to develope this scheme until

he had spoken with the elder Gregson; wherefore, he contented himself

for the present with sounding the merchant in vague and general terms

respecting the disposal of his daughter’s hand.

“My good friend,” said the Colonel, “now that we have despatched our

business, it occurs to me that I ought to remind you of a circumstance

which may not yet have entered your thoughts, namely, that your

daughter Jessie is grown up to be a very pretty, sensible, and discreet

young woman, and that having no son of your own, you ought to seek for

her a worthy husband, who might hereafter aid her in comforting the

declining years of Dame Christie and yourself.”

During this address the merchant fidgeted on his chair, and betrayed

other evident symptoms of uneasiness; but he made no reply, and

the Colonel continued: “I think I know of a young man who has long

entertained an attachment for her; and, if I am not mistaken, Miss

Jessie would be more likely to smile than to frown upon his suit.

Feeling myself not a little interested in his future prospects, I

should, if Mrs. Muir and yourself approve the match, willingly

contribute, as far as lies in my power, to their comfortable

settlement.”

“Really, Colonel Brandon, ye’re vera kind, I can no’ fin’ words

to thank ye,” stammered David, who seemed to have lost his

self–possession; and before he could recover it so far as to make any

distinct reply, Lucy came into the room; and taking the Colonel’s arm,

looked up affectionately into his face, saying, “Dear father, you

have given enough time now to business; come into my room and hear

one of Jessie’s Scotch songs. I have just been listening to one which

was written, as she tells me, by Robert Burns; it is so simple and so

beautiful, she has promised to sing it over again for you.”

The Colonel smiled, and followed his daughter, saying to the merchant

as they left the room, “We will speak further on that subject the next

time that we meet.”

As soon as the little party was assembled in the boudoir, Colonel

Brandon entreated Jessie Muir to fulfil her promise of singing again

the song which had given so much pleasure to his daughter. Blushing

slightly, Jessie complied, and sung, in a voice of much natural

sweetness, and without accompaniment:—

“Oh! wert thou in the cauld, cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea;

My plaidie to the angry _airt_,[69]

I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.

Or did misfortune’s bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw;

Thy _bield_[70] should be my bosom,

To share it a’, to share it a’.

“Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black an’ bare, sae black and bare;

The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there:

Or were I monarch of the globe,

Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign;

The brightest jewel in my crown

Should be my queen, should be my queen.”

The Colonel having bestowed not undeserved praise upon the taste and

feeling with which Jessie had sung her simple melody, added, “Yet I do

not remember these words among the songs of the Ayrshire bard. Lucy,

you have often read to me from the volume of his poems which came from

England; do you recollect having seen this song amongst them?”

“Indeed I do not,” replied Lucy; “yet it is so full of his peculiar

force of expression and feeling, that it is difficult to believe it to

have been written by any one else.”

“I have been told,” said Jessie, “that this song was found among his

papers after his death. This may be the reason why you have not seen it

in your volume.”

The conversation having once turned upon the subject of the writings of

Ayrshire’s immortal bard, whose fame was then spreading far and wide

over the habitable globe, it dwelt for some time upon the attractive

theme; and the tall pines were already beginning to cast their

lengthened shadows over the lawn, ere the merchant remembered that Dame

Christie might be “wearyin’” for his return, and perhaps scold him

for exposing himself and his daughter to the perils of the Mooshanne

stump–studded track in the dusk of the evening. The chaise having

been ordered to the door, David Muir put on his hat and cloak, while

Jessie donned her bonnet and shawl; and a few minutes saw them jogging

steadily away on their return to Marietta.

For some time, neither broke the silence of the deep forest through

which they were driving, for each had their own subject for meditation.

Jessie, whose spirit was softened by the songs of her father–land, and

had been touched by the gentle kindness of Lucy’s manner towards her,

looked steadily towards the west; and while she thought that she was

admiring the gigantic hemlock pines, whose huge limbs now came out in

bold relief from the ruddy saffron sky beyond, her musings blended in

sweet, but vague, confusion the banks of Allan, Doon, and Ayr, with

those of the river beside her, and pictured the “Jamies,” “Willies,”

and other “braw, braw lads” of Scottish minstrelsy, in the form of no

less a personage than Harry Gregson.

She was roused from her reverie by the voice of her father, whose

meditations had taken quite a different direction, as will be seen by

the conversation that ensued between them.

“Jessie, it’s a gae bonnie house, yon Mooshanne, an’ the mailen’s[71]

the best in th’ haill territory.”

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

live in it.”

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

“To say truth, father, I would rather live in a smaller house that I

might call my own.”

“But suppose ye might ca’ yon fine house your own, what wad ye say

then, lassie?” This inquiry was enforced with a significant poke from

the merchant’s elbow.

Jessie looked up in her father’s face, and seeing that it was unusually

grave, she replied, “Father, I do not understand what you are aiming

at. I am very happy in our house at Marietta, and wish for none better.”

“Ye’re a fule,” said the merchant, angrily. “I tell ye, Jessie, ye’re

no better than a fule; and when fortun’ hands oot her han’ to ye, ye’ll

no’ gang half–way to tak’ it. Hae ye no’ seen how oft Maister Reginald

comes to our store, and hangs aboot it like a tod round a hen–roost?”

“Indeed, father, I have made no such remark; and if Master Reginald did

often come to our store, it was for powder, or a knife, or some trifle

for Miss Lucy, and not for any other cause.”

“Hoot awa’ wi’ your pouther and knives, ye blind hizzie,” said the

merchant; “it was to see and speak wi’ yoursel”, and no’ for any other

cause.”

“Father, I am sure you are mistaken; Master Reginald would never so far

forget the difference in our rank and condition, and I should be very

sorry if he did.”

“What do ye mean, lass, about difference o’ rank and condeetion? Are

the Muirs no’ as weel–born as ony lord or duke in the auld kintra? Do

ye no’ ken that my mother’s father’s sister was married to Muir of

Drumliwhappit, an’ that he was near cousin to the Laird o’ Blagowrie,

wha married the sister o’ the Earl o’ Glencairn? Rank and condeetion,

indeed! as I tauld ye, just now, ye’re neither mair nor less than a

fule, Jessie. Why, the Colonel spak’ wi’ me anent the matter this vera

day, an’ said that he’d do what lay in his power to mak a’ smooth an’

comfortable.”

Jessie Muir was now, indeed, surprised; for she had hitherto imagined

that the idea of Reginald Brandon having taken a fancy to her, was one

of those crotchets which the merchant sometimes took up, and which

he would then maintain with all the pertinacious obstinacy of his

character; but she knew him to be incapable of a direct untruth, and

was therefore overwhelmed with astonishment at the communication last

made to her.

We should not faithfully portray Jessie’s character, were we to say

that she experienced no secret gratification when she learnt that her

hand was sought by one possessed of so many advantages of person and

fortune; but we should do her injustice were we not to add, that the

sensation endured only for a moment; and then, her heart reverting to

Henry Gregson, she thought only of the increased obstacles which would

now interfere with their attachment, and she burst into tears.

“Dinna greet, lassie, dinna greet,”[72] said the merchant, surprised

and somewhat softened by this unexpected emotion, and he muttered to

himself, “There’s no kenning the twists and krankums o’ a woman’s mind!

I tell her that she’s courted by a weel–faured young man, wi’ the best

prospects in the haill territory, and she taks on to greet like a

_skelpit wean_.”[73]

After various ineffectual attempts to draw from her any explanation of

the cause of her grief, he ceased to interrogate her, wisely resolving

to consult Dame Christie on the subject, and they drove on in silence

until they reached their home in Marietta.

As they entered the house they were met by Harry Gregson, who led

the way into the parlour, where he placed in the merchant’s hand a

paper which had arrived during his absence, and which proved to be

an extensive order for articles to be shipped for St. Louis on the

following day.

Whilst David Muir ran his eye over the list, calculating the amount of

profit which he might expect to realise from the whole, young Gregson,

observing the tears not yet dry upon Jessie’s cheek, cast upon her a

look of anxious affectionate inquiry, which seemed only to increase her

confusion and distress.

“Father, I am tired,” she whispered, in a subdued voice, “and will go

to my room to rest.” Having received his embrace, she turned towards

the door, where Gregson presented to her a candle that he had lighted

for her, and in so doing he took her hand and pressed it; she withdrew

it gently, and, in reply to his “Good night, Miss Jessie,” gave him in

silence a parting look so full of mingled tenderness and grief, that

his anxiety was no longer to be controlled, and he resolved to draw

from the merchant some explanation of her agitation. Seeing that he had

at length finished his careful perusal of the paper, he said, “I think,

sir, that Miss Jessie looks very unwell this evening; has any thing

happened to hurt or alarm her?”

“Naething, naething, my gude lad, only I tauld her some news that ought

to have made her blithe as a lavrock,[74] and she thought fit to wet

her een wi’ dool[75] anent it.”

“That is strange, indeed,” replied the young man; and he added, in a

hesitating tone, “I hope, sir, you will not think me impertinent, as I

take so much interest in all that concerns your family, if I inquire

what was the nature of the good news that you communicated to Miss

Jessie?”

“Why, Hairy,” replied the merchant, sinking his voice to a confidential

whisper, “as ye’re a discreet cannie lad, that’ll no crack[76] about

they things all ower the toon, I may just tell ye that, Jessie—“

“David! David!” screamed a shrill voice from the room above, “are ye

gaun to haver[77] there the lee–lang night?”

“Comin’ this moment, Christie,” said the obedient husband, leaving the

room as he spoke, with the air and countenance of one so thoroughly

hen–pecked, that Harry Gregson, in spite of his anxiety, laughed

outright; saying to himself, as many a lover has said before and since,

“How unlike is Jessie’s voice to that of her mother!”

CHAPTER VI.

BESHA PURSUES HIS CAREER AS A DIPLOMATIST.—AN AGREEABLE TETE–A–TETE

DISAGREEABLY INTERRUPTED.—THE STEPS THAT MAHÉGA TOOK TO SUPPORT HIS

DECLINING INTERESTS AMONG THE CROWS.

We left Besha engaged in an attempt to liberate the bride of the young

Crow chief, by proposing to Reginald and his party an exchange of

prisoners.

On arriving at the camp, he was allowed to pass by the sentries, and

took his way up the hill to the tent of Prairie–bird. As soon as the

object of his errand became known, a council was held, consisting of

Reginald Brandon, War–Eagle, Baptiste, Pierre, and Wingenund; and,

having heard the proposal made on the part of the Crows they proceeded

to deliberate on the course to be pursued.

They could have no hesitation in agreeing to an exchange of prisoners,

could that be effected upon equal terms; but the Crows insisted upon

the return of Bending–willow, as a preliminary step towards the release

of their prisoners, and to this Baptiste and Pierre were most strongly

opposed, especially the latter, who had experienced on more than one

occasion the proverbial treachery of the Upsaroka tribe.

Reginald was disposed, with the fearless generosity of his nature,

to be satisfied with binding them, by the most solemn obligations

recognised by their customs, to release their prisoners on the safe

return of Bending–willow; but his opinion was overruled by his

companions, and the horse–dealer’s mission wore a most unpromising

aspect, when he bethought him of delivering the note written by Paul

Müller to Reginald.

The perusal of this effected an immediate alteration in the sentiments

of the council, and the restoration of the captive bride was decided

upon. She was seated in the outer compartment of Prairie–bird’s tent,

when Besha entered, accompanied by Reginald, to inform her of her

liberation.

Pierre, who was still suspicious of some treachery, and who had some

knowledge of the Crow language, placed his ear at the corner of the

aperture, with the intention of discovering any under–plot that might

be going forward.

Besha, however, was too crafty to be caught in such a trap, or else

he did not intend to make Bending–willow the confidant of his real

intentions; so he simply announced to her that she was free to return

to her husband’s lodge, and that the white prisoners were to be

restored in exchange for her.

Shaking off the sadness by which she had been of late overcome, she

sprang to her feet, and her eyes sparkling with grateful joy, she

pressed her hand upon Reginald’s breast, then, looking round, she

pronounced distinctly the name of “Olitipa.”

On hearing herself thus called, Prairie–bird came forth from her inner

tent, and having learnt the intelligence that, by the restoration of

her new friend, the liberation of Paul Müller was to be effected,

she embraced the former and presented her with a necklace of coral.

Bending–willow returned the embrace with affectionate earnestness, and

was then led by Besha from the tent.

As they passed towards the stockade, Pierre, whose suspicions were not

yet entirely lulled, and who felt a deep interest in the safety of

Ethelston, came up to the horse–dealer, and whispered in his ear, “If

the tongues of the Crows or of Besha are forked, if the white prisoners

are detained or injured, many widows shall howl in the camp, and the

tongues of the wolves shall be red with Upsaroka blood!”

The prairie–guide spoke these words in a tone of deep meaning, and

Besha knew that he was not a man likely to utter an idle or empty

threat; he answered accordingly, “If Besha lives, the prisoners shall

return unhurt before the next sunset,” and, so saying, pursued his

unmolested way to the Crow camp.

While they were crossing the valley which separated the two

encampments, Reginald, War–Eagle, and Baptiste still lingered near the

door of the tent, discussing the events of the day, and expressing

their respective opinions as to the probable conduct of the Crows.

“What says Prairie–bird?” inquired Reginald, addressing the maiden, who

had been a not uninterested auditor of the discussion.

“Has not the Crow chief,” she replied, “given a faithful promise that

on the return of the bride he would restore my father and his friend

unhurt?”

“He has.”

“What, then, is the doubt?”

“The doubt is, whether the word of the Crow can be believed: whether he

may not still detain or injure his prisoners.”

Prairie–bird mused for a few seconds, as if debating within herself the

possibility of such falsehood; then raising her head, she said in a

tone of emphasis, “Fear not: my father and your friend will return to

us uninjured.”

“I accept the omen, sweet prophetess!” exclaimed Reginald, cheerfully;

“and will believe that their thoughts are honest and straightforward,

as you deem them, unless their conduct should prove the contrary; in

that event,” he added, turning to War–Eagle, “my Indian brother and I

will see what our own heads and hands can do to set free our friends.”

The chief replied not; but the sarcastic smile that played over his

dark features, showed how little he shared in Prairie–bird’s opinion of

Upsaroka faith.

Meanwhile, Bending–willow returned in safety to her lodge, where Besha

presented her, with an air of triumph, to her impatient lord. The other

wives and women retired while she related to him her adventures; and

from the mingled laughter and caresses with which he listened to her

narrative, it is probable that she confessed to him the motive that had

induced her to seek the Medicine of the white tent.

As soon as she concluded, he desired one of his young men to lead

before the lodge a favourite horse, swift, high–couraged, and strong,

from the back of which he had killed, with lance and bow, many a bison

cow. Placing the bridle of raw hide in the hands of the horse–dealer,

he said, “Besha has brought back the Sweet–scented–willow to its bed,

he shall not go away with empty hands. When he rides through the

village the warriors shall say that his horse is fit to carry a chief;

and if any speak to him bad words, let him tell them to beware, for

White–bull calls him brother!”

So saying, the young savage, who had now completely recovered his good

humour, half–lifted, half–threw the astonished dealer upon the horse’s

back, and turned again into the lodge to renew his caresses to his

recovered bride.

“All goes well!” thought Besha within himself, as he rode towards his

own quarters, proving, with professional skill, the paces and qualities

of his new steed. “All goes well! and this animal will fetch me two

hundred dollars in the lower Arkansas country; few such are to be

found there. I wonder where this Crow thief found or stole it? If I

can manage with fine words to get a few more skins from this tribe,

and a few more presents from the white men, I will join the summer

return–train from the Black Hills, and make my way back towards the

east.”

Indulging in these honest and disinterested meditations, the

horse–dealer arrived before his own lodge, where his Indian wife

awaited his coming with a savoury mess of bison–meat and marrow;

after despatching which he smoked his pipe, without permitting any

reflections concerning the prisoners whose cause he had so shamelessly

betrayed to disturb his appetite or his present lazy enjoyment.

It was fortunate for them that they had an advocate more honest

and zealous in a quarter where they least suspected it. This was

Bending–willow; who, after showing to her lover–husband the coral

necklace given to her by Prairie–bird, and repeating to him the kind

treatment that she had experienced in the tent, entreated him to use

his influence for the restoration of the prisoners.

This she was not able to effect, as he stated that they belonged to

the great council, who would decide upon their fate, after consulting

the Medicine; but she obtained from him a promise that he would in

the meantime protect them from all chance injury, as well as from the

violence of any personal enemy who might bear them ill–will.

The deliberations of the Indian tribes are, in fact, carried on in

a manner more strongly resembling those of civilised nations than

is usually believed; that is, a few leading men meet together, and

arrange the plan of operations to be pursued, after which they convoke

the grand council, by whatever name it may be called, and insensibly

lead its members to propose, second, and carry the measures previously

agreed upon. Thus it was with the Crows upon the present occasion.

The old chief of the band, as soon as he learnt the safe return of

Bending–willow, sent for his son the White–bull, whose rank as leader

of the braves entitled him to be present at a secret council; two other

warriors, of more advanced age and experience, were also admitted; and

these four being assembled, they entered upon their deliberations with

a freedom of thought and speech such as could not have been consistent

with the forms and usages of a public meeting.

It would be tedious to relate in order the various arguments that were

adduced by the several speakers in turn; suffice it to say, that the

father of White–bull, independent of his claim to authority as chief,

happened to be the oldest man and the greatest rogue present; all which

concurrent advantages gave a preponderating influence to his advice.

The result was, as might have been expected, its adoption by the

unanimous consent of his three companions; and, as the aftermovements

of the band were regulated by it, a brief sketch of its purport and

objects will not be misplaced.

His counsel, stript of Indian imagery and ornament, was that they

should for the present detain the prisoners; and in order to avoid the

consequences of the violent ebullition of resentment which might be

expected on the part of the white men and Delawares, that they should

instantly decamp, and marching towards the south and west by the most

intricate and difficult passes, make their way to the neighbourhood of

the district where Mahéga informed them that he had concealed his goods

and stores. These it was their intention, of course, to appropriate,

and afterwards to deal with their dangerous and haughty possessor as

might be found most expedient. Meanwhile it was certain that the allied

band would follow their trail for the recovery of the prisoners; and

if they did so, with their baggage and Prairie–bird’s tent, the Crows

had little fear of being overtaken, excepting when they chose to halt

for the purpose; if, on the contrary, the allied band should divide,

the chief knew that from the intimate acquaintance of his warriors with

the localities, they would easily find means to attack and overcome the

weakened party left in charge of the tent and its wonderful mistress.

The outline of operations being settled, it was further agreed that

the prisoners should be entrusted to the care of White–bull, who made

himself responsible for their security, and who was to lead the van of

the retreat, while Besha was summoned, and ordered to explain to the

Osage chief the proposed plan of operations, and that to him was to be

assigned the honourable post of defending the rear of the march.

In consequence of all these preliminary arrangements, a formal council

was summoned, at which they were proposed and agreed upon, with the

sanction of the Medicine, and a treaty was entered into with Mahéga, by

which he bound himself with his companions to fight faithfully for the

Crows, and to make over to them one half of his goods concealed in the

câche, on condition that they should do every thing in their power to

recover for him the Great Medicine of the tent, and his baggage now in

the hands of the Delawares.

These arrangements and agreements were no sooner completed than they

were carried into execution with a speed, order, and noiseless silence

peculiar to these roving tribes, whose fate is so often dependent upon

the secrecy and celerity of their movements.

While these things were going forward in the Crow camp, Reginald sat

by the side of Prairie–bird under the small cedar–tree in front of her

tent. Being still somewhat stiff from the wounds and bruises received

in the late attack, he gladly availed himself of that pretext for

enjoying a few hours of repose in the society of his beloved, while

he left the chief care of the defence of the camp to Baptiste and

War–Eagle.

His eye wandered occasionally across the valley below, and scanned

with an anxious look the opposite hill upon which the dusky figures of

the Crows were seen moving to and fro between the lodges and bushes,

until it returned to rest upon the lovely countenance of his companion:

that countenance, which was now lighted up by the parting rays of the

declining sun, beamed with emotions too deep for utterance.

Her love for Reginald was not like the love so often found in the

artificial world of society, a mere preference, engendered, perhaps, by

fancy, and nurtured by habit, accident, or mere congeniality of tastes;

but a single absorbing passion, the intensity of which she trembled

to acknowledge even to herself. All the poetry, the enthusiasm, the

yearnings of womanly feeling in her nature were gathered into a focus,

and nothing but her strong and abiding sense of religion prevented that

love from being idolatry.

As her eye fell upon the recent scar upon his forehead, and the sling

in which his left arm was enveloped, she remembered that twice already

had his blood been shed in her defence—twice had her life been saved

at the risk of his own. Tears of delicious gratitude, tears sweeter

than any smiles that ever dimpled the cheek of joy began to flow, and

half averting her face from her lover, she turned it thoughtfully

towards the western horizon.

The orb of the sun had just disappeared behind the rugged and

far–distant mountain range, whose towering and snow–clad peaks stood

out in clear relief from the deep masses of cloud whose wavy edges

still reflected his golden light. A mellowed haze wrapped as in a

saffron mantle the nearer hills, whose irregular forms, some rocky and

precipitous, others undulating and covered with dense forests of pine

and cedar, formed the foreground of the magnificent evening landscape.

A single star glimmered palely in the twilight heaven, a forerunner

of the thousand glorious lights about to emerge from its unfathomed

vault. To look up from nature to nature’s God was the habitual process

of Prairie–bird’s mind, a habit resulting partly from the fatherly

instructions of the missionary, but chiefly from her constant study of

the Scripture amid scenes calculated to impress its lessons most deeply

upon her.

Such a scene was that now before her; and as the deepening shadows fell

upon mountain, forest, and vale, a holier calm stole over the current

of her thoughts, and imparted to her eloquent features an expression

in which the sweet consciousness of reciprocated earthly affection was

blended with adoring gratitude to Him whose everlasting name is Love.

The earnest and affectionate gaze of Reginald was still riveted upon

her countenance, when a gentle sigh fell upon his watchful ear. Taking

her hand within his own, he whispered, “Is Prairie–bird sad?—Does any

sorrow disturb her peace?”

Dropping to the earth those humid eyes so late upraised to heaven,

she replied, in a hesitating voice, “Not sad, dear Reginald, but ...

afraid.”

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

of fear.”

“Afraid of too much happiness, of too much love. I tremble, and doubt

whether my thoughts are such as God approves.”

“Be not rash nor unjust in self–condemnation,” said Reginald, in a

chiding tone, while secretly delighted by a confession which his heart

interpreted aright; “think you that the Creator who implanted these

affections within us, and who has pronounced repeated sanctions and

blessings upon the bond of wedded love; think you, dearest, that He can

be offended at your love for one to whom you have plighted your troth,

and who, albeit in many respects unworthy of such a treasure, has at

least the merit of repaying it an hundredfold!”

“Unworthy!” repeated Prairie–bird, in a tone of reproachful

tenderness,—other words trembled upon her lips, but the instinct of

maidenly reserve checked their utterance, and she was silent.

“Nay, if you like not the word, it shall be unsaid,” whispered

Reginald, gently pressing the hand which he held within his own;

“and my whole future life shall be a constant endeavour to make it

untrue. Let me, however, guess at the secret cause of your fear, and

of the sigh that escaped you,—you were thinking of your dear fatherly

instructor, and were afraid that he would not return?”

“Indeed my thoughts were not of him at the moment,” she replied, with

earnest simplicity; “nor am I afraid on his account.”

“Why, is he not yet in the hands of an enemy whose cruelty and

treachery are proverbial? What if the Crow chief should, in spite of

his solemn promise, refuse to give up his prisoners?”

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

falsehood.”

“You speak,” said Reginald, “like one who has studied chiefly your own

heart, and the precious book now lying at your side; but even there

you may have read that the Almighty sometimes permits falsehood and

wickedness to triumph upon earth.”

“It is too true,” replied Prairie–bird; “yet I feel a strong assurance

that our friends will return to us in safety. I cannot tell whence it

comes—whether from a dream sent in the watches of the night, or the

secret whispers of some mysterious and unseen counsellor, but it brings

hope, rest, and comfort to my heart.”

“God forbid,” said Reginald passionately, “that I should say any thing

likely to banish such sweet guests from so sweet a home. But if the

Crow chief should be guilty of this treacherous act of falsehood, I

will endeavour to inflict upon him a vengeance so signal as shall deter

him and his tribe from any future repetition of the crime.”