“Wingenund is not a woman, that he should be frightened with big words;

when he speaks, the truth comes from his lips; and if he chooses to be

silent, the Upsaroka knives cannot make him speak,” replied the youth,

with a look of lofty scorn.

“Is it so?—we shall see,” cried White–bull, springing forward, at the

same time drawing his knife, with which he struck full at the naked

breast of the youth. Not a muscle moved in the form or countenance of

Wingenund; his eye remained steadily fixed on that of the Crow, and

he did not even raise in his defence the arm over which his blanket

was suspended. Nothing could have saved him from instant death, had

not White–bull himself arrested the blow just as it was falling, so

that the point of the knife scratched, but did not penetrate the skin.

Wingenund smiled, and the Crow warrior, partly ashamed of his own

ebullition of temper, and partly in admiration of the cool courage of

the young Delaware, said to his father, “Let him speak: there are no

lies upon his tongue.”

The old man looked for a moment sternly at his son, as if he would

have reproved him for his violence, in interrupting the business of

the council, but apparently he thought it better to let it pass; and,

turning towards Wingenund, he said, in a milder tone than he had yet

used, “Let the young stranger speak if he will, his words will not be

blown away; if he has seen a snake, let him show it, and the chiefs of

the Upsaroka will owe him a debt.”

Thus appealed to, Wingenund, slowly raising the forefinger of his right

hand, pointed it full upon Mahéga, saying, in a loud voice, “There

is the snake! Fed by the hand of the Upsaroka, clad in their gifts,

warmed by their fire, he now tries to bite them, and give them over to

their enemies, even as his black heart and forked tongue have before

destroyed those whom he called brothers.”

It is beyond the power of words to paint the rage of the conscious

Osage, on hearing this charge: he concealed it, however, by a strong

effort, under a show of just indignation, exclaiming aloud, “The

Upsaroka warriors are not fools, that they should believe the idle

words of a stranger boy, a spy, who stole into their camp by night, and

now tickles their ears with lies.”

“The young Lenapé must tell more,” said the old chief, gravely, “before

the Upsaroka can believe bad things of a warrior who has smoked and

fought with them, and has taken the scalps of their enemies.”

Thus called upon, Wingenund proceeded to relate distinctly the

circumstances narrated in the last chapter. His tale was so clearly

told, his description of the locality so accurate, that the attention

of the whole council was riveted, and they listened with the most

profound attention. A cloud gathered upon the brow of White–bull, and

the gigantic frame of Mahéga swelled with a tempest of suppressed

passion. Independently of the dangers that now threatened him, his

proud spirit chafed at the thought of being thus tracked, discovered,

exposed, and disgraced by a boy; and his fury was heightened by

observing the bright eye of the Delaware youth fixed upon him with

a steady searching gaze, indicative at once of conscious truth and

triumph. Still he resolved to hold out to the last; he trusted that

after the great services he had rendered in battle to the Crows, they

would at least believe his word, before that of an unknown youth,

who came amongst them under such suspicious circumstances. These

reflections passing rapidly through his mind, restored his disturbed

self–possession, and enabled him to curl his haughty features into an

expression of sneering contempt.

Great was the excitement among the Crows, as Wingenund described, with

unerring minuteness and accuracy, the dress and equipments of the

stranger with whom Mahéga had held the interview; and there was dead

silence in the council when the interpreter was ordered to inquire

whether he knew to what tribe the strange Indian belonged.

“Wingenund knows not,” he replied; “but he heard the name that was

taught to the Osage, as the battle–cry of his new allies.”

“_E–chĭ–pētă!_” shouted the impetuous White–bull, who had already

recognised in the youth’s description one of the warriors of the

Black–feet, the hereditary enemies of his tribe.

“It was not so,” replied Wingenund gravely. “_Ka–in–na_[86] was the

name; it was twice spoken.”

A deep murmur ran round the assembly, White–bull exchanged a

significant glance with the nearest of his braves, and again a profound

silence reigned throughout the assembly.

Mahéga now felt that the crisis of his fate was at hand, and that every

thing must depend on his being able to throw discredit on the tale of

Wingenund. This was not, however, an easy task, for he suspected Besha

of a secret leaning to the Delaware side, while the fierce and lowering

looks of the bystanders showed him how little was wanting to make the

smothered flame burst forth.

These indications did not escape the aged chief, who spoke a few words

in a serious and warning tone, the purport of which was to remind them

that the present council was sacred to the Medicine, and was not to

be desecrated by any violence or shedding of blood. He concluded by

saying, “Let the Washashee speak for himself, and let Besha give his

words truly, if he does not wish to have his ears cut off.”

Thus admonished, the horse–dealer lent all his attention to the Osage,

who came forward to address the council with an imposing dignity of

manner that almost made the most suspicious of his hearers doubt the

truth of the accusations brought against him.

Being now in front of the semicircle, which was not more than twenty

yards in width, he was directly opposite to Wingenund, who stood

forward a few feet in advance of its other wing. The contrast offered

by the stature and bearing of the accuser and the accused, the slight

active frame, the youth and grace of the one, and the haughty air and

gigantic bulk of the other, struck Ethelston so forcibly that he could

not forbear whispering to Paul Müller, “Worthy father, does not the

scene recall to mind the meeting between the Hebrew shepherd and the

giant of Gath?”

“It does, my son; and I misjudge the looks of the Osage if they

part hence without the shedding of blood. I have long studied his

countenance, and, however skilfully he has subdued its expression, I

can trace the full storm of passions raging within his breast.”

Further discourse was prevented by the commencement of the Osage’s

speech, which he delivered with a tone and gesture of indignation,

suitable to one who declared himself injured and belied.

He began by recapitulating the services that he had rendered to the

Crows, the faithful warriors that he had lost in their cause, and their

valuable presents concealed in the câche, to which he was even now

conducting them; on the other hand, he painted the injuries they had

received from the Lenapé, who had come into their country in league

with the white–skins, the bane of their tribe and race, that their

hands were still wet with Upsaroka blood; and “whose is the forked

tongue,” said he, “that is to cover with lies and dirt the fame of the

great chief of the Washashee, the sworn brother of the Upsaroka?—Who

but a boy, a stranger, a liar, and a spy, telling his idle dreams to

the council to break the friendship of warriors whom his cowardly

tribe, and their pale–faced allies, dared not meet in the field!”

During the whole of this tirade, which was delivered with much

vehemence and gesticulation, Wingenund stood motionless as a statue,

his calm eye fixed upon the excited countenance of his opponent with an

undisguised expression of contempt.

Receiving no reply, Mahéga continued: “Chiefs and brothers, you are

wise in council—men of experience; your ears will not be tickled

with the idle songs of this false–tongued singing–bird; a messenger

who brings such news to the great council of the Upsaroka—who tells

them that their brother who has fought by their side, and smoked at

their fire, is a forked snake, he must bring something better able to

convince them than the cunning words coming from his own lying lips!”

These words, supported by the commanding tone assumed by the Osage,

were not without their effect upon the minds of that fierce and

deeply–interested assemblage.

Wingenund waited until the speech of his antagonist had been translated

to them, when he replied, with unmoved composure, “If the Crow warriors

require better witness than words, it is not difficult to find; they

have already been told that the Kainna stranger gave to Mahéga a

present of a bow and arrows, which he hid in the rocks; Wingenund took

them out, and here they are.”

As the youth spoke he dropped the blanket that had been thrown over his

left arm and shoulder, holding up to the council the bow and arrows,

which all present instantly recognised as being made and ornamented by

the Black–feet.

“Are the warriors yet convinced,” continued the youth, raising his

voice, “or do they wish for more? If they do, let them seize the

Washashee wolf, they will find in his belt—“

He was not allowed to finish the sentence; the storm that had long been

brooding, now burst in all its fury. Mahéga, driven to desperation by

the damning evidence brought against him, and reckless of all save the

gratification of his fierce revenge, whirled his iron–pointed mace

around his head, and launched it with tremendous force at Wingenund.

Never had the latter, even for an instant, taken his falcon eye off the

Osage; but so swift was the motion with which the weapon was thrown,

that although he sprung lightly aside to avoid it, the spiked head

grazed and laid open his cheek, whence it glanced off, and striking an

unlucky Crow who stood behind him, felled him, with a broken arm, to

the ground. Even in the act of stooping to escape the mace, Wingenund

fitted an arrow into the Black–foot bow which he held in his hand; and

rising quick as thought, let it fly at his gigantic adversary, with

so true an aim, that it pierced the windpipe, and the point came out

at the back of his neck, close to the spine. While the Osage, half

strangled and paralysed, tugged ineffectually at the fatal shaft,

Wingenund leaped upon him with the bound of a tiger, and uttering aloud

the war–cry of the Lenapé, buried his knife in the heart of his foe.

With one convulsive groan the dying Osage fell heavily to the earth;

and ere the bystanders had recovered from their astonishment, his

blood–stained scalp hung at the belt of the victorious Delaware.

For a moment all was tumult and confusion; the few remaining Osages

made a rush towards Wingenund to avenge the death of their chief, but

they were instantly overpowered and secured with thongs of pliant bark,

while White–bull sprang into the arena of combat, and in a voice of

thunder shouted to his warriors to stand back and unstring their bows.

During the brief but decisive conflict the appearance of Wingenund was

so much changed, that Ethelston declared to his friend afterwards that

he should not have recognised him. The muscles of his active frame

swelled with exertion, while the expanded nostril and flashing eye gave

to his countenance an expression of fierce excitement, almost amounting

to ferocity. Now that the struggle was over he resumed, without an

effort, the habitual quiet gentleness of his demeanour, and turning to

Besha, said, “Let the Upsaroka chiefs look below the belt of that dead

wolf; perhaps they will find the signal whistle of the Kainna.”

The horse–dealer stooped; and searching, as he was directed, found a

small leathern bag, on opening which there fell out, as Wingenund had

said, the whistle of the Black–foot chief; a yell of indignation burst

from the assembly, some of the nearest of whom vented their rage by

bestowing sundry kicks upon the inanimate remains of the treacherous

Osage.

Popularity is a plant that springs up as suddenly, and perishes as

rapidly, among the tribes of the Western wilderness, as among the mobs

of Paris or of London; and Wingenund, whose life would scarcely have

been safe had he been found an hour earlier in the Crow camp, was now

its hero and its idol. To say that the youth was not elated, would be

to say that he was not human; for he had avenged the slaughter of his

kindred, and had overcome the most powerful and renowned warrior in the

Missouri plains, the fell destroyer of the race of Tamenund. But so

well had he been trained in the school of self–command, that neither

Ethelston, nor Paul Müller who had known him from his childhood, could

trace in his demeanour anything different from its usual quiet modesty;

and they waited, with no little impatience, to see what results would

ensue from this triumph in respect of their own release.

The Crow chiefs and warriors did not forget, in the excitement of the

scene just described, the threatened attack to which the treachery of

Mahéga had exposed them; and they now crowded round Wingenund, while

White–bull put many questions to him, through Besha, respecting the

position and apparent numbers of the Black–feet, to all of which he

answered with a precision that increased the high opinion that they

already entertained of his quickness and intelligence. White–bull

even condescended so far as to explain to him his own projects for

withdrawing his band from the neighbourhood of the formidable Kainna to

some more secure position. A slight smile curled the lip of the young

Delaware, as he said to Besha, “The counsel of the Crow chief does

not seem good to Wingenund: if White–bull will agree to his terms, he

will place the Kainna chief, and half a score of his best warriors, as

captives in this camp before to–morrow at midday.”

A general murmur of surprise followed these words; and White–bull,

somewhat nettled, inquired what might be the terms proposed.

“They are,” said Wingenund, “first, that the two white prisoners shall

be immediately restored to their friends; secondly, that the Osages

shall be given up to the Lenapé; thirdly, that there shall be peace and

friendship between the friends of Wingenund and the Upsaroka until the

snow falls again upon the earth.”

The leaders having conversed apart for a few minutes, White–bull said,

“If Wingenund fails, and the Kainna take many scalps from the Upsaroka,

what will happen then?”

“They will take the scalp of Wingenund too,” replied the youth calmly.

Again the Crow chiefs consulted together for some time, and at

length they resolved to agree to the terms proposed by Wingenund.

The medicine–pipe was brought, and was passed from the chief to him,

as well as to Ethelston and the missionary; after which Wingenund

said to White–bull, “There is no time to be lost; let sixty of the

best warriors be chosen, twenty to go with Wingenund, and forty with

White–bull; and let one be found, very large and tall; let him put on

the dress of Mahéga; Wingenund will take the whistle, and all will be

ready.”

A short time sufficed to collect and marshal the party; and Ethelston

was, at his own earnest request, permitted to join the band led by the

Delaware youth, being anxious to see the manœuvres about to take place,

and Besha having made himself responsible for his fidelity.

Wingenund led the way at a swift pace, until he gained the summit of

the first range of hills; nor did he slacken it until he had crossed

the valley beyond, and stood upon the opposite brow of the heights,

whence the Black–foot band was visible. Here he concealed and halted

his party, until he had crept forward and examined all the range of

hills within sight. As soon as he had satisfied himself that all

was quiet, he drew his party gently on, and at length succeeded in

hiding White–bull and his forty men behind some rocks in the steepest

and narrowest part of the gorge leading down to the glen below. His

quick eye had noted the spot before, and a more minute inspection now

convinced him that there was no other pass by which the enemy could

ascend the height, and that a handful of determined men might defend it

against ten times their number.

Having warned White–bull to keep his own men close, and to stir

neither hand nor foot until he heard the Lenapé war–cry, which was the

appointed signal, he retreated with his own band of twenty men to the

point where the interview between Mahéga and the Black–foot had taken

place, which was about forty yards higher up the mountain, and where

the gorge was almost as narrow and precipitous as at the pass below.

Here he concealed his men among the rocks, and Ethelston primed and

loaded three rifles, which they had taken from the Osages, and which

were now destined for the use of Wingenund and himself.

For several weary hours the youth watched in vain for the approach of

the Black–feet; and any nerves less steady than his own would have

been shaken by the remembrance of the disagreeable consequences that

might result from the failure of his plot. He lay, however, still and

motionless as the stone upon which his elbow rested, until, just as

the grey hue of evening was beginning to steal over the landscape, he

descried an Indian slowly ascending the steep, followed at a distance

by a long line of warriors. A low whistle from Wingenund warned his

party to be ready, but he moved not until the advancing band were

sufficiently near for him to recognise in their leader the chief who

had conferred with Mahéga on the preceding day.

While they were approaching in careless security, the Crows prepared

for the attack, each man being provided with a tough halter of

bison–hide, in addition to his usual weapons of bow, knife, and

war–club; and the leader of the Black–feet had already passed the lower

gorge (where White–bull and his party were concealed), ere he sounded

the signal preconcerted with Mahéga. Wingenund immediately replied by

a similar sound drawn from the whistle which he had secured, desiring

at the same time the Crow who wore the dress of the slain Osage to

show himself at the edge of the rock skirting the pass. The Black–foot

chief, completely deceived, toiled lazily up the steep and narrow

ascent, beckoning to his men to follow; and just as he reached the

upper station, Wingenund, seeing that twelve or fourteen of them were

now fairly caged between the party below and his own, leapt from his

concealment upon the astonished leader of the Black–feet, and dealing

him a blow on the head that stunned and disabled him, shouted aloud the

war–cry of the Lenapé.

No sooner was the signal uttered, than White–bull rushed from his

ambuscade, and seized the pass below; so that the unfortunate

Black–feet, enclosed between the two parties, panic–struck by the

suddenness of the attack, and the fall of their leader, could neither

fight nor fly; and in spite of their desperate but unavailing attempts

at resistance, were all in the course of a few minutes disarmed and

securely bound.

Meanwhile the main body of their comrades made a gallant attempt to

force the lower pass, but it was so stoutly defended by the Crows,

and was in itself so narrow and difficult, that they were soon forced

to retire with loss. Neither could those who succeeded to the command

bring them again to the attack. The war–cry of the Lenapé had never

before been heard in these glens, and the dismayed Black–feet thought

that the evil spirits were fighting against them; while to increase

their terror, Ethelston and Wingenund fired two of the rifles over

their heads, the bullets from which whistled past them, and the echoes

of their report, prolonged by the rocks and crags around, died away at

length like the muttered thunder of a distant storm. Terrified by the

suddenness of the attack, and by the noise of the fire–arms, ignorant

of the number, position, and even of the nation, of their unexpected

assailants, and fearful that another manœuvre might cut off their

retreat, they fled precipitately down the mountain–side, and halted

not until they brought their tale of disgrace and disaster into the

Kainna camp.

In the course of a few hours after the events above narrated, Wingenund

and White–bull stood together before the lodge of the aged chief of the

Crows, whom the former addressed as follows:—“My father, see there

the Kainna chief, and twelve of his best warriors; they are prisoners;

their life hangs upon my father’s breath; the promise of Wingenund has

not been blown away by the wind.”

Besha having duly translated this address, was desired by the old chief

(whose astonishment was scarcely exceeded by his delight) to bestow the

highest praise that he could express upon the young Delaware’s skill

and courage; to which effusion of complimentary eloquence he replied:

“My father, Wingenund has not seen many summers; he has no skill in

speech, nor experience in council; but he knows that the Great Spirit

loves a single tongue, and a true heart. Mahéga was cunning as a wolf,

swift as a deer, strong as a bison–bull; but there was poison in his

heart, and lies dwelt under his tongue, like snakes under a smooth

stone. What is the end? The mountain–buzzards pick his bones; and when

his children ask,—where is the grave of Mahéga? there shall be none to

answer. My father, when the sun has risen, the treaty shall be made,

the pipe of peace shall be smoked, and the Medicine of the white tent

shall bring many good things to the Upsaroka.”

Having thus spoken, Wingenund retired to the lodge of Besha; and

the captive Black–feet having been placed under a guard, White–bull

remained in consultation with his father, while the other warriors soon

forgot in sleep the fatigues of the past eventful day.

CHAPTER X.

WINGENUND AND HIS FRIENDS RETURN TOWARDS THEIR CAMP.—A SERIOUS

ADVENTURE AND A SERIOUS ARGUMENT OCCUR BY THE WAY.—SHOWING, ALSO, HOW

THE EXTREMES OF GRIEF, SURPRISE, AND JOY MAY BE CROWDED INTO THE SPACE

OF A FEW MINUTES.

The result of the consultation between White–bull and his father was,

that the terms of the treaty made with Wingenund should be strictly

observed; but lest the ingenuous reader should be misled into the

belief that this resolution was influenced by any considerations

of good faith or honesty, it may be as well to inform him that the

advantages and disadvantages of the two opposite courses were discussed

with the most deliberate calculation, and the path of honour was at

length selected upon the following grounds:—

_First._ It was expedient to make friends with the allied band,

inasmuch as the latter were formidable enemies, from their courage,

skill, and equipment.

_Secondly._ They had many bales of cloth, blankets, and other goods, of

which they would probably make liberal presents to their friends: and,

_Thirdly._ The Crows having just incensed and triumphed over their

hereditary foes the Black–feet, they might expect reprisals from the

latter; in which event, the alliance of a band commanding upwards of

twenty “medicine–fire–weapons,” was not to be despised.

Having embraced this resolution, and communicated it by secret

messengers to the principal braves and conjurers, the worthy sire and

son summoned them to a grand council on the following morning, at

which the treaty was ratified in due form; Wingenund, Paul Müller, and

Ethelston representing the allied band, and each party loading the

other with praises and compliments, until the oily tongue of Besha was

almost weary of translating and retranslating their expressions of

mutual amity and fidelity.

The four unhappy survivors of Mahéga’s band were now brought forward,

their arms being securely pinioned behind them, and Besha inquired of

Wingenund his wishes concerning them. It needed only a word from his

lips, and they would have been stabbed, burnt, or more slowly tortured

to death on the spot. The youth looked at them sternly for a moment,

and Paul Müller trembled lest the vengeful instinct of his race should

guide his decision; but he replied, “Wingenund will take them with him

to the Lenapé camp. War–Eagle, Netis, and the Black Father shall hold a

council, and what they think best it shall be done.”

Ethelston, Paul Müller, and Wingenund now prepared to bid adieu to

their Crow friends, it having been agreed that White–bull, accompanied

by some of his principal braves, should visit the Delaware camp on the

following day to interchange presents, and confirm the alliance thus

happily and unexpectedly commenced; and, as a further proof of his

friendly disposition, the Crow chief permitted Bending–willow to send a

girdle of delicate fawn–skin, adorned with feathers and stained quills,

to the “Great Medicine of the white tent.”

Wingenund had still kept possession of the three Osage rifles, one of

which was in the hands of Ethelston; and the other two he now loaded,

and offered one to Paul Müller.

“Nay, my son,” said the missionary, smiling, “these hands are not

skilled in the use of the firelock; neither do they desire to be

acquainted with any weapon more dangerous than this oaken staff. The

shedding of human blood would ill beseem a humble minister of the

Gospel of Peace.”

“The words of the Black Father,” said the youth respectfully, “are full

of goodness and truth; but he must not forget that the path lies over

rough and dangerous places; that there are four prisoners, who may

attempt to overcome or escape from us, and that we may meet enemies by

the way; therefore Wingenund wished to give the Black Father a weapon

to defend himself.”

“The motive, my son, was natural and blameless; nevertheless, I purpose

to abstain from handling any deadly weapon, and to entrust my personal

safety to Him who has so marvellously preserved us through trials,

captivity, and dangers innumerable. My children,” continued the worthy

man, in the English tongue, “before we depart hence to revisit our

friends, let us together thank God for the great mercies shown to us;

let us implore his further protection for ourselves and all dear to us;

and let us humbly entreat him, in his own good time, to soften, turn,

and enlighten the hearts of these benighted children of the wilderness,

so that they may hereafter, with us, be brought to his heavenly

kingdom.”

As he said these words, the venerable missionary dropped upon his

knees, Ethelston and Wingenund kneeling beside him, while he uttered a

fervent prayer, which embraced, in simple, yet eloquent language, all

the objects above alluded to.

Great was the surprise of the Crows at the attitude of the three, and

their sudden abstraction from all that was passing around; but Besha

having whispered to the chief that they were talking to the Great

Spirit, he made a signal that profound silence should be observed,

fearful that if they were disturbed, or anyways annoyed, they would

invoke evil upon himself and his tribe.

The prayer was concluded, and they were about paying their farewell

salutations to the chiefs, when the low wailing of a female voice from

an adjoining lodge caught the missionary’s ear—an ear to which the

accents of distress ever found immediate entrance. Having desired Besha

to inquire into the cause of her complaint, he learnt that she was the

wife of the man who had been struck down by Mahéga’s war–club, after it

had grazed the cheek of Wingenund, and that her husband was now lying

in a state of great misery and suffering. In spite of a gesture of

impatience from the Delaware youth, whose feet burned to be upon the

homeward path, the missionary approached the sufferer, and carefully

examined his condition. He found that the bones of the broken arm had

been joined with tolerable skill and success, and that it was well

secured by bandages to a straight splinter of pine–wood; but, whether

owing to the roughness of the treatment, or the pain he had undergone,

he was now in a high and dangerous state of fever. The missionary had

still concealed in his girdle a small bag, containing, among other

medicines, a few powders exactly adapted to the emergency; of these he

mixed one with a little water, and having given it to his patient, left

another with Besha, desiring that it might be administered at noon,

and that no meat should be given to him until the following day. “With

these remedies, and with the blessing of the Great Spirit,” said he, as

he retired, “the man will soon be well.”

“Did I understand rightly,” said Ethelston to Wingenund, “that

White–bull comes over to–morrow with his braves to complete the treaty

with us, and exchange presents?”

“It is so settled,” replied the youth.

“Would it not then be better to let him and his men bring with them

the Osage prisoners? They are four desperate men, and only we two are

armed; if they mutiny by the way, we shall be obliged to shoot them in

self–defence.”

“My brother does not know the Washashee and the Upsaroka,” said

Wingenund, smiling; “both of them love the Pale–faces and the Lenapé as

the wolf loves the deer. No, my brother, let the prisoners go with us;

our eyes must be open; if they try to run away or do us harm, the rifle

must keep them quiet.”

The youth spoke these words in a low, determined tone; and Ethelston

feeling that he could not gainsay their truth, listened while Wingenund

repeated the warning to the Osages in their own tongue, informing them

that if they made the slightest attempt to escape, or demonstration of

violence by the way, they would be instantly shot; a sullen and silent

inclination of the head, signifying that he was understood, was the

only reply; and once more greeting their Crow allies, the little party

moved off in the direction of the Delaware camp, Wingenund leading the

way, with a loaded rifle in his hand, the Black–foot bow and quiver

slung at his back, and a knife and pistol, taken from one of the

Osages, being fastened in his girdle; next came the four prisoners,

with their arms still pinioned, but their legs entirely at liberty;

Paul Müller and Ethelston brought up the rear; the latter carrying two

loaded rifles, one in his hand, and the other slung over his shoulder.

It was a beautiful summer morning, the grey mists had arisen from the

valley and curled in spiral folds round the rugged and precipitous

rocks that frowned above it. Short and scant as was the herbage, still

as it glistened in the early dew, and hung forth its diamond drops

in the sun, it imparted a touch of sweetness to scenery, the dreary

barrenness of which might otherwise have oppressed the mind of the

traveller with a feeling of desolation. Never, perhaps, over that,

or over any other mountain track, passed a lighter foot or a more

rejoicing heart than that of our young friend Wingenund. The dreams of

boyhood, dreams that a few weeks ago he had himself deemed visionary,

or at least remote, were already accomplished; he had won the gold

spurs of Indian chivalry: in the dance, or the council, or the field,

neither envy nor detraction could now forbid his mixing with the

braves and warriors of his tribe; and his heart exulted within him as

he thought of presenting to Netis and War–Eagle the scalp of their

arch–enemy, the insolent captor of Prairie–bird, the great warrior

of the Osages, slain by his own hand. These were feelings which the

boy–hero could share with none, for with Ethelston he was as yet little

acquainted, and Paul Müller he knew to be averse to all thoughts of

strife and conflict; still the feelings arose unchecked and unrepressed

within his bosom when he remembered the name by which he was called,

the deeds of those who had borne it before him; and mingled with these

memories of the past came the proud reflection, that wherever the

Delaware tongue was yet spoken among the scattered bands of the Ancient

People on the banks of Missouri and Ohio, of Susquehana and Miami, the

song of Lenapé warrior and Lenapé maiden would tell how the scourge of

their tribe, Mahéga, the Bloody–hand, had been slain by Wingenund, the

brother of War–Eagle!

The events of the preceding days had been to the youth the realised

romance of his life; and as he strode along the mountain side, he felt

as if his expanded chest were a world too narrow for the high emotions

that swelled within it.

Perhaps it may seem unnatural to the reader, that amidst all the

excitement of awakened hope, ambition, and exultation, the youth

forgot not for a moment the perils by which he was surrounded. It is

our business to describe the Indian character, not as it might be, if

designed “to point a moral or adorn a tale,” but as it is, with all

those lights and shades which distinguish it from that of white men;

and one of the most remarkable features—one which has also escaped

the observation of those writers who are chiefly quoted as authority

on this subject—is that power of reserved abstraction which the mind

of the Indian acquires as a result of an early and constant habit

of control over the will. Thus, during the wildest flight of his

imagination, and the highest aspirations of his ambitious hopes, under

an excitement which would have rendered an English youth of his years

blind, and deaf, and careless for the moment of all that was passing

around, the quick eye of Wingenund roved with incessant motion from

hill to vale, embracing every hollow that might contain an ambush, and

every crag near his path that might give shelter to a foe.

Ethelston conversed little with the missionary, for there was a

thought which lay close to his heart, and made its pulses throb more

quickly at every step that he made towards the Delaware camp. Already

they were within a few miles of it, when, in passing a streamlet that

flowed across their path, Wingenund suddenly turned and proposed to his

companions to refresh themselves with a drink.

Passing the Osages, he came back to Ethelston, and said to him, while

the missionary filled a small tin cup with water, “My brother’s eyes

have been shut, let him be ready now; one of the prisoners is free, and

has almost cut the bands of a second.”

Accustomed to dangers and emergencies, Ethelston did not start nor take

any outward notice of the young Delaware’s observation; but he replied,

“It is true, I have been heedless; but it is not too late to repair the

error: seize him while he is drinking, I will secure the others; do not

take life if it can be avoided.”

Wingenund took the hint and carried the cup round, offering a draught

to each of the pinioned Osages, without appearing to notice the severed

thong hanging from the wrist of the one who had freed himself.

Thus thrown off his guard, and thinking he was unsuspected, the Osage

stooped to drink from the cup, when Wingenund seized him with his left

hand, and, presenting a pistol to his breast, said to him in his own

tongue, “If you stir, you die.”

Reckless of consequences, and despairing of mercy in the Delaware camp,

the fierce Osage sprang upon the youth, and strove to wrench the pistol

from his grasp. Being a powerful man, he might have succeeded in the

attempt, had not a blow from the butt end of Ethelston’s rifle laid him

stunned and prostrate on the ground.

The three other prisoners, seeing their comrade’s helpless condition,

ceased from the violent efforts which they had been making to free

themselves, and by the time that he had recovered from the effects of

the blow, his arms were pinioned more strongly than before, and the

thongs by which the others were fastened were re–examined and secured.

While engaged in this operation, Wingenund showed to Ethelston a sharp

flint with which the Osage had cut his own bands, and had begun to

separate those of his next comrade in the line of march: a few minutes

more and his hands would also have been free, in which case the task of

our two friends would not have proved so easy.

Ethelston well understood Wingenund’s meaning as the latter showed him

the half–cut thong on the wrist of the second Indian, and he said, “I

confess I was blind, my young friend, and am ashamed of myself! you

will have but a low opinion of my talents as a warrior.”

“My brother’s eye may have wandered a little,” replied the youth,

smiling, “because he is not skilled in the Washashee tricks; but his

heart is in the right place, and his hand knows how to strike; a few

suns will rise and set before the skull of that dog forgets what my

brother bestowed upon it.”

“It was time to strike hard, because I did not wish to strike twice.

As I had requested you not to shoot, I felt that I had made myself

answerable for your safety, and if that second fellow had succeeded in

freeing his hands, we might have had some troublesome work of it. But

tell me, Wingenund, how did you, while walking in front, discover what

was passing behind you?”

“The Osage told me himself,” replied the youth, again smiling.

“I do not understand you, for assuredly he never spoke.”

“Not with his tongue, but plainly enough with his face. I looked round

once or twice, and my eye met his; I saw there was mischief, for he

looked too good. When I passed to ask you for the cup, I looked again,

quickly, but closer, and saw that his hands were free, though he kept

them together as before.”

Ethelston could not forbear laughing at the youth’s notion of the

ill–favoured Osage, “looking too good;” but feeling both amused and

interested by his replies, he again said, “I must own my admiration

of your quick–sightedness, for doubtless the Osage tried to make the

expression of his face deceive you.

“He has not the face of an Indian warrior,” said the youth, scornfully.

“When a deed is to be done or concealed let my brother try and read

it in the face of War–Eagle, or any great chief of the Lenapé! As well

might he strive to count the stones in the deepest channel of the great

Muddy River,[87] or the stars of heaven in a cloudy night!”

The party had now struck a broad trail, leading across the valley, and

up the opposite height, in the direction of the Delaware camp; the

Osage prisoners were therefore sent to the front, and ordered to march

forward on the trail by which means Wingenund enjoyed the advantage

of watching their movements, while he continued to converse with his

friends.

“I own,” said Ethelston, “that I had not before considered a command

over the muscles of the countenance as being a matter of so much

importance in the character of an Indian warrior.”

“Nevertheless the youth is right in what he says,” replied Paul Müller.

“Where cunning and artifice are so often resorted to, a natural and

unconcerned air of candour is an admirable shield of defence: the

quickness of sight which you lately observed in Wingenund, is an

hereditary quality in his race. The grandfather of Tamenund was so

celebrated for it, that he was called by a name signifying ‘The man who

has eyes in his back:’ he was killed only twenty years ago, during the

fierce irruption made by a band of the five nations into the valley of

Wyoming, to which the old man had retired in the hope of closing his

eyes in peace.”

“I have heard of that tragedy,” said Ethelston; “indeed, it occurred

while I was at school on the banks of the Muskingum; and often as the

boys went or returned, they used to frighten each other with cries of

‘The Indians!’ but I have since been much absent from my own country,

and never rightly understood who were the actors in that scene of

terror, and what were the tribes usually known by the name of the Six

Nations, for so I have always heard them called.”

“There were in fact only five,” replied the missionary; “for although

the Tuscaroras joined the confederation, they did not originally

belong to it. These five are known among white men by the following

names:—The Mohawks, Oneidas, Cayugas, Onondagas, and Senecas; and it

was a band of the latter that made the irruption into the valley of

Wyoming. I dare say that Wingenund knows more of them than I do, for he

often heard Tamenund speak of them, and he knew their history like the

traditions of his own tribe.”

“Wingenund has not forgotten,” replied the youth, “what his grandfather

taught him concerning the Five Nations. The names spoken by the

Black Father are those commonly given them; but they call themselves

otherwise.”

“Tell me, Wingenund,” said Ethelston, “the names by which they are

known among themselves?”

“The Mohawks are called Coningionah. The Oneidas, Oni–eut–kah; or ‘The

people of the standing–stone.’ The Cayugas, Senanda Wanandu–nah; ‘The

people of the great pipe.’ The Onondagas, Nundagekah; ‘People of the

small hill.’ The Senecas, Nundawâ–gah; ‘People of the big hill.’ But

the council name of the last is different.”

“What do you mean by the council name?”

“Many of the nations have more than one name, and the council name is

never spoken except by the chiefs and wise men in council; the women

and boys seldom know it; and if they do, they must not speak it.”

“Did Tamenund tell you the council name of the Senecas?”

“Yes; it is Oni–hoout, ‘Those who shut the door;’ because the Senecas

live the furthest to the south–west, and guard the others from the

approach of their enemies.”[88]

“It always appeared to me,” said Ethelston, turning to the missionary,

“that the variety and arbitrary alteration of Indian names present an

insuperable barrier in the way of any inquiry into their national or

local history.”

“Certainly, my son; the difficulty is great, and proceeds from various

causes:—First, because it is frequently, perhaps generally, the case

among Indian nations, that the son takes the name of the mother, and

not, as with us, that of the father. Secondly, there often are, as you

have just learnt from Wingenund, two or three names by which the same

person or tribe is designated. Thirdly, nothing is more common than for

a warrior to receive a new name from any daring or remarkable feat that

he may have performed, in which case his former name is dropped, and

soon forgotten: and, lastly, it must be remembered, that we, American,

Germans, and English, have obtained the greater part of our Indian

nomenclature, both as to persons and places, from the French; who,

in the various capacities of possessors, adventurers, missionaries,

voyageurs, hunters, and interpreters, have overrun almost the whole of

this continent before us.”

“It is, then, your opinion that the French travellers and writers from

whom these names have been chiefly derived, have been very careless and

inaccurate in their transcription of them?”

“Extremely so. When they first reached and descended the Mississippi,

they called it the ‘Colbert;’ afterwards, on finding what a magnificent

river it became when it received the waters of the Missouri, they

call it ‘La rivière St. Louis,’ by which name it was known for many

years, until insensibly it recovered its Indian appellation. When the

adventurers came to any unknown tribe, they called them by some name

descriptive of the accidental circumstances under which they first

saw them, and these names they have ever since retained. Thus, the

Winnebagoes in the north happened, when first visited, to be drying

fish in their camp, and thence obtained the pleasant name by which they

are now known, ‘Les Puans!’ Another band, some of whom had accidentally

been scorched, by the prairie and underwood near their encampment

taking fire, have ever since been called ‘Les Bois–Brulés;’ another,

‘Les Gros Ventres.’[89] The Dahcotah nation they have called ‘Les

Sioux;’ the Aricará, ‘Les Ris;’ and so forth, until it is difficult,

if not impossible, to recognise any of the original Indian names under

their French disguise.”

“I grant this,” said Ethelston. “Yet we must not forget that the

English have in several instances laid themselves open to the same

charge; otherwise the great nation to which our young friend belongs

would not have been called after a Norman baron! But you will surely

allow that the early French missionaries in North America were men of

great piety, learning, and enterprise?”

“It is true, my son, many of them were so; and none can feel more

grateful than I do to such of them as laboured sincerely in the service

of the Gospel. Yet I am bound to say, that in the best authorised

account which they sent to France from Natchez of the surrounding

country,[90] there is so much pedantry, prejudice, and fancy, mingled

with highly interesting information, that the book cannot be quoted as

one possessing historical authority. A writer who gravely infers that

the Mississippi Indians came from the north–eastern straits, from the

identity of the Choctaws with the people of Kamchâktâ (or Royaume des

Chactas), must expect that some of his other arguments and speculations

should be received with diffidence.—But see, we have reached the

summit of this range, and Wingenund’s sparkling eye is already fixed

upon the tent of Prairie–bird.”

“There it is!” said the youth; “they have moved it since I came away,

and placed it on that point nearer the stream.”

Little did he suspect what had occurred during his brief absence, as,

with a foot light and elastic as his heart, he put himself at the head

of his little party, and led the way swiftly towards the camp.

As the party drew near the camp they fell in with the outpiquet on

guard in that quarter, consisting of one of the Delaware braves and two

of his men, to whom Wingenund entrusted his Osage prisoners, adding,

“Give them water and food, but let them not escape.”

The brave looked full in the face of the youth, then his eye roved from

the scalp at his belt to the pinioned Osages, and a grim smile played

across his features; but they almost instantly relapsed into the grave

and gloomy expression that they had before worn; not another word was

spoken, and the three passed on towards the white tent. As they drew

near, they saw a group of hunters, among whom were Pierre and Bearskin,

sitting round a smouldering fire, some smoking, and others engaged in

mending their mocassins or cleaning their pistols and rifles. There

was neither joke nor song amongst them; and although they started up

to welcome their rescued and returning friends, the latter perceived

that something was wrong, and it was with aching and foreboding hearts

that they returned the friendly greeting, and passed onwards towards

the tent, before which they saw Reginald and Baptiste in earnest

conversation.

Reginald no sooner saw them, than he sprung forward to embrace

Ethelston, exclaiming, “God be praised for this great and unexpected

comfort!”

Ethelston looked in his friend’s face; and its expression confirming

his apprehensions, his lip grew pale and trembled; he gasped for

breath, as, pressing Reginald’s hand within his own, he said,

“Speak—speak! tell me what has happened?” then pointing to the tent,

he added, “Is she safe?—is she well?”

“She is safe—she is well!” replied Reginald; “nevertheless—“

Ethelston heard no more, but a deep groan relieved the oppression of

his heart, as he ejaculated, “Blessed be the God of Mercies!” and

covering his face with his hands, stood for a moment in silence.

Reginald was surprised at this extraordinary emotion in his friend,

usually so composed and calm, and at the deep interest that he took in

one whom, although betrothed to his intended brother–in–law, he had not

yet seen. But he added, gravely, “God knows, my dear friend, that my

gratitude is not less fervent than yours. Precious as her life is, it

has however been ransomed at a price dearer to me than aught else on

earth besides herself. Wingenund,” he continued, addressing the youth,

and affectionately taking his hand, “you are the son of a race of

heroes; is your heart firm? are you prepared to suffer the griefs that

the Great Spirit thinks fit to send?”

They youth raised his dark eyes to the speaker’s face; and subduing by

a powerful effort the prescient agony of his soul, he said in a low

tone, “Let Netis speak on; the ears of Wingenund are ready to hear

what the Great Spirit has sent.”

“Dear Wingenund, alas! War–Eagle, our beloved brother is—“

“Dead!” interrupted the youth, letting the butt of his rifle fall

heavily to the ground.

“Nay, not yet dead, perhaps worse than dead; for he is hurt beyond all

hope of cure, yet suffers torture such as none but himself could endure

without complaint.”

It was fearful for those who stood by to witness the agonising

struggle of emotions that convulsed the frame of the young Delaware on

receiving this announcement; for War–Eagle had been to him not only a

brother, but father, companion, and friend, the object on whom all the

affections of his young heart had been concentrated with an intensity

almost idolatrous! Yet even in the extremity of anguish he forgot not

the rude yet high philosophy of his race and nurture; he could not bear

that any human eye should witness his weakness, or that any white man

should be able to say that Wingenund, the last of the race of Tamenund,

had succumbed to suffering. Terrible was the internal conflict; and

while it was yet uncertain how it might end, his hand accidentally

rested upon his belt, and his fingers closed upon the scalp of Mahéga;

instantly, as if by magic, the grief of the loving brother was crushed

by the stoic pride of the Indian warrior.

“War–Eagle is not dead; his eyes shall look upon the scalp of his

great enemy slain by the hand which he first taught to use a bow; and

when he goes to the hunting–fields of the brave, our fathers may ask

him, ‘Where is the scalp of the destroyer of our race?’” Such were the

thoughts that shot like wildfire through the brain and through the

breast of the young Delaware, as with a countenance almost haughty

in its expression, he drew up his graceful form to its full height,

saying, “Where is War–Eagle? Wingenund would see him. Let the Black

Father go too; perhaps his healing skill might avail.”

“I will not deceive you, dear Wingenund; no human skill can avail our

departing friend. He is now within the tent; Prairie–bird watched with

him all the night; she spoke to him often words from God’s own book,

and they seemed to comfort him, for he smiled, and said he would gladly

hear more. She has retired to take a few hours’ sleep, then she will

return and resume her sad but endearing task.”

“Wingenund will go to him; but first let Netis say whence the wounds of

War–Eagle came. Have enemies been near the camp?”

With the eloquence of deep feeling Reginald briefly related the

circumstances attending War–Eagle’s devoted and heroic defence of

Prairie–bird from the bears.

Ethelston and Paul Müller listened with suspended breath, and as he

concluded exclaimed together, “Noble, brave, and generous War–Eagle!”

while the youth, pressing his lips together as if steeling his breast

against softer impressions, said in a low tone, “‘Twas well done; few

are the warriors whose single knife has reached the heart of a grisly

bear. Let us go on to the tent.”

Reginald led the way, and, lifting the flap, entered, followed by

Ethelston, Wingenund, and Paul Müller.

The chief was seated in the centre, propped by bales of cloth and

fur; his sunken eye was closed from sleeplessness and exhaustion, and

a blanket loosely thrown over his shoulders, covered the emaciated

remains of his once powerful and athletic frame. At his side lay his

favourite pipe, his war–club, knife, and rifle; while the faithful

Lita, stretched at his feet, strove in vain to restore their natural

warmth, by applying to them hot stones enveloped in the shreds of a

blanket, which she had torn up for the purpose. The entrance of the

party was not unmarked by the wounded chief, and a smile passed over

his wasted features when he unclosed his eyes, and recognised Wingenund

and the two others whom he had rescued from the Crows.

“The Black Father is welcome,” he said, in a faint, but cheerful voice,

“and so is the friend of Netis; and War–Eagle is glad to see the face

of his brother Wingenund.”

We have seen how the youth had, by a desperate effort, nerved himself

to bear, without giving way, the description of his brother’s wounds

and hopeless condition; yet when the feeble tones of that loved voice

thrilled upon his ear, when his eye fell upon the wasted frame, and

when he saw written upon that noble countenance proofs not to be

mistaken, of torture endured, and death approaching, the string which

had refused to be relaxed started asunder, and he fell senseless to the

ground, while a stream of blood gushed from his mouth.

Half–raising himself by the aid of his yet unwounded arm, War–Eagle

made a vain effort to move towards his young brother, and his eye shone

with something of its former eager lustre, as he said, in a voice

louder than he was deemed capable of uttering, “Let the Black Father

lend his aid and skill to the youth; he is the last leaf on the Unâmi

branch; dear is his blood to the Lenapé.”

“Dearer to none than to me,” said the missionary, raising and

supporting the unconscious youth, “for to him I owe my liberty, perhaps

my life. ’Tis only the rupture of a small blood–vessel; fear not for

him, my brave friend, he will soon be better.”

While Paul Müller, assisted by one of the Delawares who stood at the

entrance of the tent, carried the youth into the open air, and employed

the restoratives which his experience suggested, the chief mused upon

the words which he had last heard, and inquired, addressing himself to

Reginald, “What said the Black Father of his life and liberty being

given by Wingenund?”

“Tell the chief, Ethelston, what has befallen, and how you and Paul

Müller were rescued by Wingenund. In my deep anxiety for my suffering

friend, I was satisfied with seeing that you had returned in safety,

and never inquired how you escaped.”

Ethelston drew near to the wounded chief, so that he might distinctly

hear every syllable spoken, and said, “War–Eagle, as surely as

Prairie–bird owes her life and safety to your devoted courage, so

surely do the Father and I owe our lives and liberty to that of

Wingenund. Can you listen now, and follow me while I tell you all that

has happened?”

The chief gave a silent nod of assent, and Ethelston proceeded in

the simple language of true feeling, to relate to him the events

recorded in the last chapter. At the commencement of the narrative, the

chief, expecting, probably, that the escape had been effected by some

successful disguise or stratagem, closed his eyes, as if oppressed by

the torturing pains that shot through his frame; but he opened them

with awakened interest, when the scene of the council was described,

and at the mention of Mahéga’s name, he ejaculated “Ha!”—his

countenance assumed a fierce expression, and his hand unconsciously

grasped the war–club that lay beside him.

Reginald listened with deep interest, and even Lita, who had hitherto

appeared insensible to every thing except the sufferings of her beloved

lord, threw back the long hair from her eyes, marvelling what this

might be that so excited and revived him; but when Ethelston related

the catastrophe, how Mahéga had thrown his club, slightly grazing the

youth, and how the latter had, in presence of the assembled Crows,

killed and scalped the great Osage, the breast of the Delaware warrior

heaved with proud emotions, which quelled for the moment all sense of

the pains that racked his frame: his eye lightened with the fire of

other days, and waving the war–club over his head, he shouted, for the

last time, the war–cry of his tribe.

As the chief fell back exhausted upon his rude pillow, the gentle voice

of Prairie–bird was heard from the adjoining compartment of the tent,

calling Lita to explain the meaning of the loud and unexpected cry by

which she had been aroused from her slumber. Lita withdrew; and while

her mistress made her rapid and simple toilet, informed her of the safe

return of the Black Father and Wingenund, and that the latter having

been seized with a sudden illness, the friend of Reginald had remained

by the chief, and had communicated some intelligence, which seemed to

affect him with the most extravagant joy and excitement.

So anxious was the maiden to see her beloved preceptor, and so hastily

did she fold the kerchief in the form of a turban round her head,

that several of her dark tresses escaped from beneath it, and fell

over her neck. The first dress that came to her hand was one made

from a deep–blue Mexican shawl, of ample dimension, given to her by

the missionary. Fastening this round her slender waist with an Indian

girdle, and a pair of mocassins upon her delicate feet, she went forth,

catching up as she left the tent a scarf, which she threw carelessly

over her shoulders. Greeting War–Eagle hastily, but affectionately,

as she passed, she flew with a glowing cheek and beating heart to the

spot where the missionary still bent with anxious solicitude over the

reviving form of Wingenund.

“My father—my dear father!” she exclaimed, seizing his hand; “God be

praised for thy safe return!”

The venerable man embraced her tenderly, and after contemplating for

a moment her countenance beaming with filial affection, he placed his

outspread hands upon her head, saying, with impressive solemnity, “May

the blessing of God rest upon thee, my beloved child, and upon all

near and dear to thee, for ever!”

Prairie–bird bowed her head meekly while breathing a silent amen to the

holy man’s benediction, and then turned to inquire of her young brother

how he now felt, and of Paul Müller into the cause of his sudden

illness.

Wingenund was sufficiently recovered to speak to her gratefully in

reply, and to press the hand which she held out to him; but he was much

reduced by loss of blood, and the missionary, putting his finger to his

lips, enjoined him quiet and silence for the present. He continued,

however, in a low voice to explain to her the strange events that had

lately occurred, and how he and the friend of her betrothed owed to the

heroism of Wingenund their life and liberty.

While the maiden listened with absorbed attention, every passage in the

brief but eventful tale was legible on her eloquent countenance. As

Reginald stood at a little distance gazing earnestly upon its changeful

loveliness, he was startled by a suppressed ejaculation from some one

at his side, at the same time that his arm was seized and pressed with

almost convulsive force. He turned, and saw his friend Ethelston,

who, finding that War–Eagle had fallen into a tranquil sleep had

stolen out of the tent to the side of Reginald, where he first caught

a sight of the maiden as she listened to the missionary’s narrative.

Reginald again observed with astonishment that his friend, usually so

calm, trembled from head to foot: his eye rested upon the group with a

preternatural fixedness, and his lips moved inaudibly, like those of a

man scarcely recovered from a trance. “Gracious Heaven! what can have

happened? Edward, _you_ are not surely ill! that would indeed fill the

cup of our trials to the brim. Speak to me! let me hear your voice, for

your looks alarm me!”

Ethelston made no reply, but he pointed with his finger towards

Prairie–bird, and two or three large tear–drops rolled down his cheeks.

While this was passing, Paul Müller had brought his tale to a

conclusion, and his eye happening to light upon Ethelston, he continued

(still addressing Prairie–bird), “And now, my dear child, it only

remains for me to tell you the cause of our beloved young brother’s

weakened condition. The extremes of joy and of anguish will sometimes

sweep before them the mightiest bulwarks that can be raised in the

heart of man by his own unaided strength. Wingenund opposed to the

stroke of affliction sent from on high not the meek, trusting endurance

of Christian resignation, but the haughty resistance of human pride.

Already he sees and repents his error, and the mist is clearing away

from his eyes; but you, my dear child, have been better taught; you

have learnt, in all trials and in all emergencies, to throw yourself

upon the mercy of your heavenly Father, and to place your whole trust

in his gracious promises of protection. We are more apt to forget this

duty when our cup overflows with joy than when his chastening hand is

upon us; but it should not be so. Promise me, then, promise me, my

beloved child, that in weal or in woe, in the rapture of joy as in the

extremity of sorrow, you will strive to remember and practise it.”

Awed by the unusual solemnity of his manner, the maiden bowed her head,

and said, “I promise.”

Scarcely had she said these words, when Reginald came forward, leading

his friend Ethelston, who had by a strong effort recovered from his

extreme agitation, and regained something of his usual composure.

“Prairie–bird,” said Reginald, “I wish to make known to you, my most

faithful companion, my tried and attached friend Ethelston. You must

love him now for my sake; when you know him, you will do so for his

own.”

Leaning on the missionary’s arm, the maiden raised herself from her

stooping posture to greet the friend of her betrothed. “I have heard

much——,” she said, with her sweet natural dignity of manner; but she

suddenly stopped, starting as if she had seen a ghost, and clinging

closer to Paul Müller’s arm, while her earnest gaze encountered the

eyes of Ethelston fixed upon her with an expression that seemed to

shake the nerves and fibres of her heart. To Reginald their silence and

agitation was an incomprehensible mystery: not so to the missionary,

who still supported Prairie–bird, and whispered to her as she advanced

a step nearer to the stranger, “Your promise.” She understood him, for

he heard her breathe the Almighty’s name, as Ethelston also advanced

a step towards her; and again their looks dwelt upon each other with

a fixed intensity that spoke of thoughts too crowded, and confused,

and mysterious, for expression. At length Ethelston, whose strong and

wellbalanced mind had triumphed over the first shock of emotion,

addressed the maiden, saying, “Have the latter years been so happily

spent that they have quite banished from the mind of Prairie–bird the

memory of early days?”

At the sound of his voice the maiden started, as if she had received an

electric shock; her bosom heaved with agitation, and her eyes filled

with tears.

Again the missionary whispered, “Your promise!” while Ethelston

continued, “Has she forgotten her own little garden with the sun–dial?

and poor Mary, who nursed, and dressed, and taught her to read? Has she

forgotten the great Bible full of prints, of which she was so fond; and

the green lane that led to Mooshanne? Has Evy forgotten her Edward?”

“’Tis he—’tis he! ’tis Eddy! my own, my long–lost brother!” cried

the maiden aloud, as she threw herself into his arms; and looking up

into his face, she felt his cheek as if to assure herself that all

was not a dream, and poured out her grateful heart in tears upon his

bosom. She did remember her promise, and even in the first tumult of

her happiness, she sought and derived from him to whom she owed it,

strength to endure its sudden and overwhelming excess.

“’Tis even so,” said the missionary, grasping the astonished

Reginald’s arm; “for some time I had suspected that such was the

case; Prairie–bird, my beloved pupil, and your betrothed bride, is no

other than Evelyn Ethelston, the sister of your friend. My suspicions

were confirmed and almost reduced to certainty, during the first

conversations that I held with him in St. Louis; for he, being several

years older than you, remembered many of the circumstances attending

the disappearance and supposed destruction of his little sister by

the Indians, when his father’s house was ravaged and burnt. I foresaw

that they must meet when he left the settlements in search of you, and

though I prepared him for the interview, I thought it better to say

nothing to her or to you, but to leave the recognition to the powerful

voice of Nature. You see the result in that fraternal embrace, and I

have in a little bag, given to me by Tamenund when at the point of

death, proofs of her identity that would convince a sceptic, were you

disposed to be one—the cover of a child’s spelling–book, in which

her name is written at length (possibly by Ethelston), and a little

kerchief, with the initials E. E. in the corner, both of which were

in her hand when she was carried off by the Indian who spared and

preserved her!”

While the missionary felt beneath the folds of his dark serge robe for

the bag which he had always carefully kept suspended by a ribbon from

his neck, Reginald’s memory was busy in recalling a thousand indistinct

recollections of early days, and in comparing them with those of a more

recent date.

“Well do I remember,” he exclaimed, “missing my sweet little playmate

in childhood; and how all allusion to the terrible calamity that

befel our nearest neighbour and friend, was forbid in our family!

Scarcely ever, even in later years, have I touched upon the subject

with Ethelston, for I saw that it gave him pain, and brought a cloud

over his brow. Now, I can understand the wild and troubled expression

that came across her countenance when she first saw me near the Osage

camp, and first heard my voice, and how she started, and afterwards

recovered herself, when I told her of Mooshanne! How blind have I now

been to every thing save her endearing qualities, and the ten thousand

graces that wait upon her angelic form! See how like they are, now

that a tide of feeling is poured into the countenance of my steady

and composed friend. Jealous as I am of her time, and of every grain

of her affection, I must not grudge them a few minutes of undisturbed

intercourse after a separation of so many years! Come, worthy Father,

let us employ ourselves in tending and ministering to War–Eagle and

Wingenund, and let us not forget that to them, next to Heaven, we are

indebted for the life and happiness of every single member of our

miraculously reunited circle.”

“You have a warm and a kindly heart, my young friend,” said the

missionary, “and that is a blessing without which all the other

blessings of Heaven may fall like showers upon the Lybian desert. I

know how you must long to pour out your feelings of affection on this

occasion to your friend, and to your betrothed; but believe me, you

will not have done amiss by following the first promptings of your

heart. Let us, as you propose, endeavour to soothe and comfort the

sufferers; Wingenund is now sufficiently recovered to listen while

you relate to him these strange occurrences; only caution him not to

speak too much at present. I will return to the side of War–Eagle, and

although it be too late now for us to attempt any remedy for his bodily

pains, who shall limit the power of the Almighty, or circumscribe

the operation of his hands? Who knows whether He may not think fit,

even at the eleventh hour, to touch that stern and obdurate heart

with a coal from His altar? And, oh! my dear young friend, if such be

His blessed purpose, I would not forego the privilege of being the

humble instrument in effecting it for all the wealth, the honours, the

happiness, that earth can bestow.”

Reginald looked after the worthy missionary until he disappeared within

the tent, then sighing heavily, he said to himself, “If zeal, honesty,

and true piety can render any human means available, assuredly that

excellent and holy man’s attempt will not be made in vain; and yet I

fear that nothing short of a miracle can soften or subdue the stern

pride of War–Eagle’s spirit. How deeply anxious do I feel for the

issue! for I cannot forget that it was in defence of Prairie–bird that

he incurred this fearful torture, ending in an untimely death! His life

sacrificed that mine might be happy with her! Where, where, my generous

Indian brother, shall I find, among the cities and crowded haunts of

civilized man, truth, self–denial, and devoted affection like thine? At

least I will strive to fulfil the wish that I know to be nearest thy

heart, by cherishing in my bosom’s core thy beloved brother Wingenund!”

Thus meditating, Reginald sat down by the young Delaware, and strove,

by awakening his interest in the strange events lately brought to light

respecting Prairie–bird, to wean him from the deep dejection caused by

his brother’s hopeless plight.

CHAPTER XI.

CONTAINING A TREATY BETWEEN THE CROWS AND DELAWARES, AND THE DEATH OF AN

INDIAN CHIEF.

It is unnecessary to describe at length the occupations of the party

during the remainder of this eventful day; how the reunited brother

and sister called up a thousand long–stored, endearing remembrances;

how they looked upon the childish relics preserved by the missionary,

and how, after interchanging a rapid but interesting sketch of each

other’s history, they turned again to share with him and with

Reginald the melancholy and affecting duty of attending upon the dying

chieftain. His sufferings were now less acute, but mortification had

extended itself rapidly, and threatened hourly to terminate them

altogether, by seizing upon the vitals. His mind seemed tranquil and

collected as ever, only the watchful missionary, observing that he

listened more attentively to the voice of Prairie–bird than to any

other, he yielded his place beside the dying man to her, entreating her

to spare no efforts that might lead him, by the appointed path, to the

Fountain of Mercy.

Willingly did the maiden resume the task on which she had been employed

during the greater part of the preceding night; and after praying

fervently for a blessing on her labours, she proceeded to explain to

him again, in his own language, some of the simplest and most affecting

truths of the Gospel dispensation.

What an interesting spectacle for the contemplation of a Christian

philosopher! A heathen warrior, whose youth had been nurtured with

tales of fierce reprisal and revenge, whose path in life had been

marked with blood, war being at once his pleasure and his pride,

stretched now upon the ground, still in the prime of manhood, yet with

shortening breath and ebbing strength listening with deep attention

to the words of hope and consolation pronounced by the lips of her

who had been, through life, the secretly treasured idol of his heart!

Perhaps this earthly love, purified as it had long been from passion

and ennobled by the sacrifice that he had made to friendship, was the

channel through which the mysterious influences of the Divine Spirit

were appointed to flow; for his eager ear lost not a word of what she

uttered, and his heart was softened to receive from her lips, truths

against which, if delivered by another, its early prejudices might have

rebelled.

Partly by the religious creed of his race, and partly by former

conversation with herself and the missionary, he was already

impressed with a just view of the principal attributes of Deity,—His

omnipotence, goodness, and eternity. The chief endeavour of

Prairie–bird was now to convince him that the God of the Christians

addressed the same word, the same promises and invitations to the

Indians as to them, and that they also were included in the vast and

mysterious scheme of redemption; for this purpose she translated for

him, into the Delaware tongue, some of those magnificent passages in

Isaiah wherein the Almighty, after declaring his unity and irresistible

power, sends forth his gracious promises to the uttermost parts of

the earth, to the isles, to the wilderness, to the inhabitants of the

mountains, and those that dwell among the rocks, and concludes with the

assurance, “I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will

lead them in paths that they have not known. I will make darkness light

before them, and crooked things straight; these things will I do unto

them, and not forsake them.”

War–Eagle listened attentively, and gave the whole strength of his mind

to the consideration of the subject propounded! Some of these truths

he had heard before, but they had taken no fixed root, and had rather

been dismissed unheeded, than weighed and rejected. Now they presented

themselves under a very different aspect; for they were pressed upon

him with the most affectionate earnestness by the one whom he looked

up to as the most gifted and the most guileless of human beings; and

the Black Father also, for whom he entertained the highest esteem and

regard, and told him repeatedly that every truth, every thing necessary

for happiness after death, was written in that book from which she was

now reading; that it was, in short, the written command of Him whom he

had from his youth addressed as the Great Spirit.

Deeply moved by these reflections (aided as they may perhaps have been

by the operations of a mightier influence), the chief propounded to

his young instructress several inquiries, which it rejoiced her to

hear, as they indicated a softened and teachable spirit. Neither were

they difficult for her to answer, as she was familiar with almost

every page of the volume before her, and thus knew where to seek at

once a solution of every doubt and difficulty that occurred to her

simple–minded and ingenuous patient.

While she was engaged in this interesting and truly Christian task,

Reginald, Ethelston, and the missionary sate with Wingenund, and strove

to soothe and tranquillise the agitation into which the late disaster

had thrown him. Although somewhat weakened by loss of blood, he had

recovered his faculties, both of body and mind; but all the well–meant

endeavours of his friends to raise him from the deep depression of

spirits into which he had fallen were exerted in vain. He replied

gently, and without petulance, to various questions that they put to

him, and then sank again into desponding gloom, musing over the fading

fortunes of his family and of his tribe,—now about to lose him who was

the pride, the support, and the glory of both.

After several unsuccessful attempts, Ethelston touched at length upon

a topic which had in some degree the effect of arresting his attention

and engaging the more active powers of his mind; for on reminding

the youth that the Crows were to visit the camp on the morrow, to

interchange presents and conclude the treaty of peace, Wingenund

proposed to Reginald that he should summon Baptiste and Pierre, and

concert, with their advice, the course that it might be advisable to

pursue.

While they were employed in considering and discussing deliberately

the various plans proposed, Paul Müller and Prairie–bird continued,

sometimes together, and sometimes alternately, their attendance upon

War–Eagle, whose strength was rapidly declining, although his intellect

remained clear and unimpaired. Food he was unable to taste; but the

grateful smile with which he received now and then a cup of water from

the hand of Prairie–bird touched her sensibly; and there was a serene

composure upon his countenance, which encouraged her to hope that his

mind was in a peaceful frame, and that thoughts of war and strife were

gradually giving place to better and holier meditations.

The sun went down, evening fell, and the darkening hours of night found

the maiden still unwearied at her post, seizing, with instinctive tact,

every opportunity offered by his inquiries or remarks for quoting to

him from the Book of Life some appropriate and consoling truth; nor did

she retire to rest until she felt assured that exhausted nature had

extended the boon of slumber to her suffering patient.

Not even then did the faithful Lita quit the place that she had

chosen at the feet of the warrior whom she had so long worshipped in

secret; noticed or unnoticed, thanked or unthanked, whether hungry, or

thirsty, or sleepless, all was the same to her. In life her love had

been either unknown or despised; and now the last faint glimmerings of

hope were to be extinguished, without even the wretched consolation

of pity. During the watches of that night there were tears upon the

pillow of Prairie–bird; the eyes of Wingenund were sleepless, and

his heart loaded with sorrow. Sharp and frequent were the pangs and

shooting–pains that broke the rest of the departing chief; yet was

there, perhaps, none amongst them all whose sufferings were not light

in comparison with the silent and hopeless anguish of the Comanche girl.

The morning dawned with all the fresh beauty of summer in that mountain

region; and, agreeably to the resolution formed at the council held

on the preceding evening, the whole party was summoned to parade with

their best arms and accoutrements, so as to produce upon the Indians

a due impression of their formidable strength; at the same time that

various bales were unpacked, from which were selected the presents

intended for the principal chiefs and braves.

No great change had taken place in the state of War–Eagle, but

Wingenund had spent an hour with him alone; during which, among other

subjects of greater importance, he had mentioned the expected visit

of the Crows, and the conditions of the treaty which it was proposed

to make with them. To these the chief had given his assent, and had

deputed his young brother to act in his stead; after which he turned

again with renewed eagerness and anxiety to the subjects suggested to

him by Prairie–bird and the missionary.

The sun was not very high in the heaven, when the band of Crows were

seen descending the hill towards the encampment. They were led by

White–bull, accompanied by Besha, and were only twelve in number, all

magnificently clad in dresses of deer–skin, ornamented with coloured

feathers, stained quills, scalp–locks, and the other adjuncts of Crow

chivalry. Besha apologised for the scantiness of the deputation,

stating, that during the past night an attempt had been made by the

Black–feet to rescue their prisoners; and although it had not been

successful, the Crows could not venture, in the neighbourhood of such

dangerous foes, to weaken the defence of their camp, by sending away a

large body of its best warriors. To this a suitable and complimentary

reply having been made, the business of the day commenced by presenting

food to the Upsaroka guests.

A circle having been made, the white hunters were ranged on one side of

it, and the Delawares on the other: the former, being all armed with

rifles, and pistols, and hunting–knives, presented a very warlike

appearance; while the sinewy and weather–beaten frames of the latter,

armed as they were with rifle, war–club, and scalp–knife, inspired

the observant leader of the Crows with no wish to bring his band into

hostile collision with such a party. In the centre were seated Reginald

Brandon, Wingenund, and Ethelston, Pierre having taken his place near

the latter, and Baptiste occupying his usual station beside his young

master, and leaning upon his enormous hatchet. If the intentions of

White–bull were treacherous, he found no greater encouragement to

his hopes from a survey of the leaders,—men of powerful form, and

grave, determined aspect, with the exception of Wingenund, whose youth

and slight figure might have led a stranger to fear him less as an

opponent. He had, however, given such proof of his skill, courage,

and activity in Indian warfare, that the Crows did not look upon him

with less respect than upon the more experienced men by whom he was

surrounded.

When the Upsaroka deputation had finished the portion of bison–meat

set before them, Reginald gave them a treat, such as they had never

before enjoyed, in the shape of a tin–cup full of coffee, sweetened

with sugar, which they passed round, and tasted at first with some

reluctance, owing to its dark colour, taking it for “Great Medicine.”

After sipping it once or twice, however, they seemed to find it more

palatable, and drank all that was offered to them, and then the pipe

was lighted and smoked with due solemnity.

When these preliminaries were concluded, the business of the day was

entered upon, and was conducted with equal caution and distrust on

both sides; Besha being, of course, the interpreter, and moulding the

respective communications in the manner most likely, according to his

views, to ensure the continuance of the truce agreed upon; because he

had been most distinctly warned by Wingenund, that he would receive no

present until all the terms of the treaty were duly fulfilled, and that

then he might expect one liberal enough to adorn the wigwam of a chief.

The crafty horse–dealer had, at the same time, contrived to persuade

the Crows that the white men were secretly disinclined to the treaty,

and that they could only be induced to observe it by his own cunning

and contrivance.

This being the relative position of the parties, it may well be

imagined that the diplomatic arrangements were neither very long nor

difficult, and it was finally agreed that the Crows should, when

called upon, supply the party with a trusty guide, who should lead

them eastward by the route on which they would find the easiest

travelling and the best supply of bison; that an alliance for mutual

defence should exist between the parties so long as they were within

the boundaries of the Crow country, but that they should never encamp

nearer to each other than at a distance of twice the longflight of

an arrow; that so soon as they should emerge from the defiles of the

mountains, the Crows should supply their allies with twenty horses,

some of those which they had brought from the settlements being

travel–worn and exhausted; and that Besha was to have free leave to

come and go from one encampment to the other at all hours of the day or

night, in the event of any communication being necessary.

The allied band agreed, in consideration of the above conditions, to

present the Crows with a certain number of bales of cloth, a score of

blankets, and an ample supply of beads, paint, and knives; one–third of

the amount to be paid on the delivery of the horses, and the remainder

when the parties separated on the Great Prairie, at the eastern

boundary of the Upsaroka country.

These terms having been written down by Reginald, he read them slowly

one after the other, Wingenund repeating them to Besha, and he again

translating them to White–bull, who nodded his approbation as they were

successively recapitulated; after which Reginald and Ethelston, having

signed their names in pencil, desired Besha and White–bull to affix

their mark.

The former did so without hesitation; but the latter made all kinds of

excuses, and looked extremely puzzled, whispering his doubts and fears

to his interpreter, who, being a reckless fellow, and having seen more

of the world, could scarce forbear laughing in his face.

In truth, the Crow chief, though brave and daring in the field, was not

above the superstitions current in his tribe, and he entertained a kind

of vague notion that, by putting his mark upon the paper, he brought

himself under the power of the white man’s medicine.

Nevertheless, he was at length persuaded, and drew upon the paper,

with a hand not unskilful, the broad forehead and projecting horns of a

bison’s head, which design represented his consent to the treaty.

No sooner was the business concluded than the presents were brought

forth, and distributed according to the terms prescribed, Reginald

adding for the chief a hair–brush, in the back of which a small mirror

was set. Never had such a curiosity been seen in the Crow country, and

White–bull turned it over and over in his hand, contemplating it and

himself in it with undisguised satisfaction, while Pierre whispered

to Baptiste, “If Madame Bending–willow is in favour, she will have it

before to–morrow.”

The Crows now took their leave, amid many protestations of friendship

on both sides, and returned with all speed towards their own

encampment, White–bull’s mind being divided between delight at the

possession of his brush, and dread at the mysterious dangers he might

have incurred by putting his mark upon the white man’s paper.

The departure of their wild allies left the party at the camp leisure

to return to their ordinary avocations, and to the sad recollection of

their chief’s condition; indeed, a very short time elapsed before he

sent a message by Paul Müller, desiring that they would all come to him

without delay.

The tone of deep yet composed sadness in which it was delivered,

announced to most of those who heard it that War–Eagle was drawing near

to his end; and Reginald, passing his arm within that of Wingenund,

whispered to him, as he went, such words of sympathy as he thought most

like to soothe and console him.

“Dear Netis,” replied the youth, in a tone of the deepest melancholy,

“you are very good, but there is no happiness more for Wingenund!”

“Say not so, my young brother; you are still in the early spring of

life, and I hope, when these present sorrows are past, you will yet

enjoy a long and happy day of summer.”

“Wingenund’s spring and summer are both gone! but he does not complain:

it is the will of the Great Spirit, and Wingenund knows that what He

does is right.”

As he said these words they reached the tent, and the day being

extremely fine, the poles of that compartment were taken up, and the

canvass folded back, at the request of the chief, that he might once

more look upon the sun, and feel the fresh mountain breeze upon his

cheek.

Lita had retired into the inner tent, and Prairie–bird was seated at

his side, a cup of water being the only source of relief to which she

from time to time had recourse to cool his lips and recruit his ebbing

strength.

The whole party being gathered round him, Wingenund, Reginald, and

Ethelston somewhat in advance of the rest, he addressed the former in a

low but distinct voice, saying, “War–Eagle is going on the dark path,

from which he will not return; Wingenund will be chief of the Lenapé

band; has he any thing to say while War–Eagle is yet chief?”

“He has,” replied the youth, in a voice tremulous from emotion; “a

treaty has been made with the Upsaroka, does War–Eagle think it good?”

He then proceeded to enumerate its several terms and conditions.

“It is good,” said the chief, after a few moments’ reflection: “only

let Netis and Wingenund remember that the Upsaroka are double–tongued;

they hate the Black–feet, and will be glad to spend my brother’s powder

and blood in destroying their enemies. Let my brothers keep near the

home–path, and not wander from it to please the Upsaroka. Is there more

that my brother wishes to say?”

“There is more, my brother. Here are the four Osage captives taken

among the Upsaroka. Their deeds of blood are known to War–Eagle. Let

him say what shall be done with them.”

“Let them stand forward,” said the chief, raising himself with

difficulty from the blanket–cushion against which he had been reclining.

They were accordingly brought to the front of the circle, and stood

awaiting their doom with the fierce determined air of warriors who

knew and feared it not. The eldest among them was a fine powerful man,

who bore about him the marks of many a fray, and had been one of the

leading braves who followed the fortunes of Mahéga. He it was who acted

as spokesman in the dialogue that ensued.

_War–Eagle._ “Have the Washashee any thing to say that their lives

should not be given to the slow fire?”

_Osage._ “The warriors of the Washashee talk with their hands, when

their hands are not tied; they are not famous for their tongues.”

_W._ “Yet with their tongues they spoke smooth words to the Lenapé:

they called them brother; they ate, hunted, fought, and smoked with

them, and then joined the Dahcotahs, to kill the women and children of

their friends. If the tongues of the Washashee are not famous, they are

forked.”

_O._ “Mahéga was the war–chief of his tribe; when he went upon the

war–path, the Washashee followed. He is gone to the hunting–fields

of the braves, and they are not afraid to follow him. When War–Eagle

took his rifle and his club, and went out upon the war–path by night,

his warriors followed in silence. Who among them said, ‘Where does

War–Eagle go?’”

_W._ “War–Eagle never raised his rifle at a friend; he never called out

his braves to burn the wigwam of his brother; there was never a scalp

of woman or child taken by his hand. When he struck it was at an open

foe, or to save or avenge a friend.” He added in a subdued tone, “And

yet there is too much blood on the hands of War–Eagle; the Great Spirit

is angry with him for it.”

The Osage made no reply. The missionary interchanged a whispered word

with Prairie–bird, and the chief continued, addressing chiefly the

Delawares in their own language; “My brothers, we often pray to the

Great Spirit to forgive what we have done that is wrong. The Black

Father and Olitipa have told War–Eagle the answer that he gives; it is

written in the great book in which there are no lies: ‘The Great Spirit

will forgive us, if we forgive our brother; if we refuse to forgive our

brother, the Great Spirit will refuse to forgive us.’ War–Eagle has

done many things wrong; he hopes the Great Spirit will forgive him.

Shall he now kill the Washashee?” He then turned to the prisoners, and

said, “Let their bands be cut, and let them return to their own people

to tell them, that the Lenapé hurt not women nor children, nor men

whose hands are tied. Olitipa has read from the book that such is the

will of the Great Spirit, whom the white men call by the name of God,

and the heart of War–Eagle tells him that it is true.”

It is doubtful whether this speech caused greater surprise among

his own followers, or among the Osages, whom it restored to life

and liberty. Both, however, heard it with that absence of outward

emotion which characterises the red–skin race in North America;

so that Ethelston, who did not understand a word of the Delaware

tongue, was perfectly unconscious of anything having been said that

might materially affect the fortunes of the prisoners; and he was in

momentary expectation of seeing them led away to suffer, according to

the laws of Indian retribution, the deserved penalty of their cruelty

and treachery.

While Pierre was informing him of what had occurred, the Osage

spokesman resolved apparently to try the patience of the expiring chief

to the uttermost, and said to him, with a sneer, “War–Eagle is very

good to the Washashee; he knows that they have neither food nor arms;

there is not one knife among the four: they are among the mountains,

a whole moon’s journey from their village, surrounded by war–parties

of the Upsaroka and Black–feet, and on their return path must pass the

hunting–grounds of the Shiennes, the Kiowás, the Pânis, and the Mahas.

War–Eagle would rather that they were starved, and their bones gnawed

by the wolves, than see them die like warriors, and laugh at the Lenapé

in their death.”

Paul Müller looked anxiously at the chief to mark what effect would

be produced by this ungrateful and intemperate speech; and his

apprehensions were much relieved when he heard War–Eagle reply, in a

calm and unmoved tone: “There is no wonder that the Washashee think

others are like themselves, false–hearted and double–tongued. Had the

Lenapé intended that the Washashee should be killed, they would have

spared the Upsaroka and the wolves the task. War–Eagle intends that

they should live to be ashamed of their bad deeds. Wingenund will see

that they enter safely on the home–path. Now let them go; their words

are bitter, and they can neither speak nor believe the truth. War–Eagle

has no more time to waste with them.”

As he uttered this reproof, in a contemptuous rather an angry tone, the

chief fell back much exhausted upon his cushion, and the leading Osage

was about to make some violent reply, when Pierre, taking him by the

arm, hurried him and his companions to the outer edge of the circle,

saying to him, as he went, “Peace, fool! Is thy thick head so fond of

tasting a Lenapé tomahawk, that thou canst not hold thy tongue, when

thy saucy wagging of it might cost thy life? Peace, I say, or in spite

of the chief’s pardon, I will have thee and thy comrades tied down

again like fresh–caught colts.”

Having spoken words to this effect to the reckless and grumbling

Osage, Pierre re–entered the circle gathered round the chief, and

found, on his return, that a general silence prevailed. Wingenund was

sitting upon the ground, close to his brother, listening with the

deepest attention to the injunctions and counsel which the latter

was delivering, in a voice that became every moment more feeble and

indistinct. None present could overhear what passed; but at the

conclusion the two brothers sat for a few seconds in silence, each

pressing his clenched hand upon the heart of the other, after which

Wingenund retired a few paces back, while the chief, collecting his

remaining strength, said aloud to his devoted followers: “War–Eagle is

going to the land where his fathers dwell; he is sorry to leave his

brothers, but it is the will of the Great Spirit, who is the Master

of Life;[91] and when he speaks the Lenapé are silent, and obey. When

War–Eagle is gone, it is his wish that Wingenund should be chief of

the band: the blood of Tamenund warms his heart; and though he has

not seen many summers, his eyes have not been shut, nor have his ears

been closed against the counsel of wise men. My brothers, you have the

care of a great treasure, the care of Olitipa, the beloved daughter of

Tamenund, the sister who has cleared away the cloud that hid the sun

from War–Eagle, and the thorns that beset his path in the dark valley.

My brothers, let not one of you leave her until she is safe at the

white man’s boundary; and if you love War–Eagle, you will also love and

obey Wingenund, and Netis his adopted brother.”

A deep suppressed murmur was the only reply made by the gloomy warriors

around; but War–Eagle knew its import, and read its confirmation on

the determined countenances of those who had so often followed him to

strife and victory.

The mortal agony was at hand, and the chief, feeling its approach,

looked suddenly round as if he missed some one who should be there: his

utterance was scarcely articulate, but Prairie–bird caught the intended

sound of Lita’s name, and flying into the tent, speedily returned,

bringing with her the weeping girl. Again he contrived to make

Prairie–bird understand his wish, that an armlet of beads that he wore

should be taken off and hung round Lita’s neck; the chief smiled and

said, “Lita has been faithful to Olitipa, and very good to War–Eagle;

the Great Spirit will reward her.”

The destroyer was now rapidly tightening his fell coils round the vital

organs, but the chief still retained sufficient strength to press

the hand of each of his sorrowing friends in succession against that

generous heart which must so soon cease to beat. Wingenund was the

last; and as he stooped over his brother, whispered to him a word that

reached the ear of Prairie–bird; and while it richly rewarded her pious

and affectionate toil, lighted up at the same time the countenance of

the dying man with a smile of triumph that bid defiance to the pangs of

the grisly king of terrors. From the time that he received his fatal

wounds, not a groan nor a murmur of complaint had escaped him; and when

he resigned his parting breath, it was with the peaceful tranquillity

of childhood falling asleep.

“My children,” said the missionary, solemnly, “War–Eagle, the son of

Tamenund, is no more! In life none walked more uprightly than he,

according to the light that was given to him! He gave up his life

to save that of another, and after enduring grievous pains with the

heroism of an Indian warrior, he died with a full hope and trust in

the redeeming mercy of his God. Peace be with his soul; and may we all

rejoin him hereafter in the land where separation and sorrow will be

unknown!”

CHAPTER XII.

WAR–EAGLE’S FUNERAL.—THE PARTY COMMENCE THEIR HOMEWARD JOURNEY.—BESHA

EXERTS HIS DIPLOMATIC TALENTS FOR THE LAST TIME, AND RECEIVES SEVERAL

REWARDS, WITH SOME OF WHICH HE WOULD WILLINGLY HAVE DISPENSED.

It may well be imagined what a gloom was cast over the whole party

by the death of the Delaware leader; not only among those who, like

Reginald, Wingenund, and Prairie–bird, mourned for him as for a

departed brother, but even among the rough hunters and woodsmen, to

whom he had endeared himself no less by his dauntless courage than

by a thousand acts of kindness and generosity. As for his own trusty

Lenapé warriors their spirit seemed entirely broken; too proud to

weep or lament, they walked to and fro by the spot where his remains

still rested, casting upon the dark cloth by which they were covered

desponding and melancholy looks; and when Baptiste, whom they esteemed

as the long–tried friend of their late chief, tried to offer a few

words of consolation, hinting also at the virtues and qualities of the

surviving brother, they shook their heads and returned to cherish their

grief, like the wife of Phinehas, who when she heard that her husband

and her father–in–law were dead, and the Ark captured, regarded not the

consolation of her new–born child, but called it Ichabod, saying “The

glory is departed from Israel.”

“Ethelston,” said Reginald to his friends, “methinks the sooner we

strike our camp, and move from this sad spot, the better: it is

necessary, from the progress that mortification has made in the frame

of our lamented friend, that he should be buried immediately. Let us

speak to Wingenund, and see whether he wishes it performed according to

our customs, or according to those of his own people; for in this we

ought not to dictate to him.”

Having joined the youth, whom they found standing in an attitude

of dejection at no great distance, Reginald, after a few words of

kindly sympathy, proposed to him the subject under discussion. To the

surprise of both, they found him quite prepared for it. “Yes,” he said;

“War–Eagle said to Wingenund what he wished, and it shall be done this

day. First let us obey his commands about the Washashee; let them be

called before the tent, and let the hunters and the Lenapé be summoned

too.”

This was soon done; and the party being assembled, the Osages were once

more brought forward, their limbs having been freed from the thongs by

which they had been bound; and the general stock of meat, fresh as well

as dried, was also, by desire of Wingenund, placed before the tent.

These preliminaries being completed, the young chief addressed them

as follows: “Washashee, it is known to you that War–Eagle, forgiving

your bad deeds, gave you your lives—the Lenapé respect the wishes

of their great chief, and will not send you away with empty hands.”

He then desired that a fair proportion of meat, a rifle, with a

reasonable supply of ammunition, a knife, and a small package of Indian

presents should be given to each of the Osages. These orders having

been punctually, though reluctantly, obeyed by one of the Delaware

warriors, Wingenund continued: “if the Washashee fear to enter upon the

long home–path with so few men, they may camp under the shelter of the

Lenapé fires—they cannot be called brothers, but no harm shall be done

to them.”

“The Washashee,” replied the powerful Indian who has before been

mentioned as the spokesman of the Osages, and who now grasped his

restored rifle with an air of fierce exultation—“the Washashee have

no fear—they will go upon the path alone—they will not dwell a night

by the fires of the Lenapé camp. Wingenund is a young chief, and the

Lenapé need not be ashamed when they speak his name; his words and

his years are few, but his deeds will be told where the council of

warriors meet. His hand is open—but it is red with the blood of their

great chief: the Washashee thank him, but they cannot call the Lenapé

brothers. The Washashee have no more to say; before the night falls,

their feet will be far on the homeward path.”

So saying, the grim warrior stalked away with his three companions, the

assembled party looking after them in silence, until their forms were

lost behind a rock that projected into the valley.

“Proud and thankless scoundrels,” muttered Baptiste, half aloud to

the hunter who stood nearest to him. “Had my opinion been taken, they

should have been flogged with cow–hides out of the camp, and they

might have found their way as they could to their cut–throat friends

the Dahcotahs! ‘Twas always so with War–Eagle, and will be the same

with Wingenund! When the skrimmage was over, and his blood was cool,

there was no more cruelty in his natur’ than there is in that of a

Philadelphy Quaker.”

Wingenund having spoken for a few minutes with the missionary, a party

of half a dozen men were desired by the latter to dig a grave for the

deceased chief under a scathed and picturesque pine that stood alone

on a small natural mound near the river. It was a spot that seemed to

have been framed by the hand of the Creator for a sepulchre, rising as

it did in the centre of a wild and unfrequented vale, surrounded on

all sides by precipitous rocks, beyond which rose in the distance the

snow–clad summits of the gigantic mountain–range—the fittest natural

emblem of Eternity; while round the base of the mound flowed the

bubbling stream, a memento, no less apt, of the changeful and fleeting

nature of all the things belonging to this earthly scene.

The descending sun was just beginning to gild the peaks of the Western

Andes when the party assembled to pay the last tribute of affectionate

regard to the mortal remains of their late leader. Prairie–bird and her

faithful Lita attended, both having their faces veiled by a shawl, and

the former supported by her newly restored brother; nor was there one

of the party absent from the mournful ceremony, which was commenced (as

soon as the body, still enveloped and bound in dark cloth, was placed

near the grave,) by a brief address from Wingenund, in which he said:

“My brothers know that War–Eagle was a great chief; that the blood

of many warriors ran in his veins. The enemies of the Lenapé were

his enemies, and their friends his friends. When their warriors went

forth to battle, he was not the last; and when they returned, his

war–club could tell a tale.” A deep murmur of assent was uttered by the

Delawares, and Wingenund continued:—“War–Eagle loved the Lenapé from

his childhood; and in his last moments he prayed to the Great Spirit

for their happiness. He also told Wingenund that Olitipa and the Black

Father had read to him many wonderful things from the Great Spirit’s

Book; that he had thought much of them, and found them very good, and

very true: they had made his heart so glad, that he wished Wingenund

and his Lenapé brothers to hear them, that they might learn how to

please the Great Spirit, and to obey His will. Wingenund promised

War–Eagle, that when the Black Father told them the commands of the

Great Spirit written in the book, the ears of the Lenapé should be open

to listen to the words of his wisdom, and to let his counsel guide

their feet. My brothers, such were the wishes of War–Eagle, great chief

of the Unâmi band of the Ancient People. Wingenund has told them truly,

and he intends to obey them himself: his years are yet too few, that

he should advise others; let each of my brothers think of these things

wisely, and act as the Great Spirit shall incline his heart.”

A long and profound silence followed this speech; after which Paul

Müller, approaching the mound, desired that the body might be lowered

into the grave: when this was done, he addressed first the Delawares,

setting forth the virtues of the deceased chieftain, and laying the

greatest stress upon those which were of a more mild and peaceful

character. He touched also most feelingly upon the occasion on which he

had received the injuries from which he died; assuring the Delawares

that no length of time, nor changes of life, would ever efface from the

memory of Prairie–bird, or those to whom she was so dear, the devoted

heroism of her deliverer. “But, my beloved brothers,” said he in

conclusion, “great as was the gift that he gave to her, even his life

for hers, he received from her a gift much greater; for it is my humble

hope and belief, that through her entreaty and prayer, his eyes were

open to see things that he had never seen before; and, having once seen

their riches and their beauty, he desired that you, my brothers, should

see them too. He learnt what, I fear, you cannot yet understand,—that

it is the will of the Great Spirit that we should observe and study

His works, and copy them. Is it true, my friends? Is there sense in my

words?”

He paused for a reply. The elder Delawares looked at each other, and

then, as if by mutual consent, nodded their assent.

The missionary continued:—“Well, then, the Great Spirit is merciful

and just, kind and forgiving; loving peace and hating strife. How

do we try to please him? By hating peace, and being swift to shed

blood; by revenging where we ought to forgive, and dealing harshly by

those on whom we ought to have mercy. The Osages who are just gone

are wicked men; they have been guilty of treachery and cruelty; and

you are disappointed that you were not permitted to kill them, and

that Wingenund sent them away unhurt. They have been wicked, far more

wicked, towards the Great Spirit; they have disobeyed His commands,

despised His laws, destroyed the creatures of His hand, and have

insulted Him and braved His anger for weeks, for months, and years!

How has He treated them? He has given them water from His clouds, and

has brought the herds of bison to their hunting–ground, and has given

the sun to warm them by day, and the moon and stars to light their

path by night? And if even now one of them—nay, the very worst among

them, were to have his heart softened, and to turn to the Great Spirit,

and to say, ‘My Father, in heaven, I am sorry for all the wrong that

I have done, O forgive and guide me, for I wish to do so no more!’

it is written in that book, by the hand of the Great Spirit himself,

that He would forgive that sorrowful man, and bless him, and turn the

bitterness of his heart into gladness and joy sweeter than honey!

These things, my dear brothers, are not learnt in a day; but, I thank

God that by his blessing, and the affectionate and patient labours of

Olitipa, the eyes of War–Eagle were opened to see them; and he desired

that those whom he most loved should see and feel them like himself. We

will now take our last farewell of him on earth, after the manner of

those who love, fear, and obey the word of the Father of us all.”

Having thus spoken, the worthy missionary knelt by the side of the

newly filled grave, and concluded the solemnities of the occasion by an

affecting prayer in the English tongue; Reginald, Ethelston, and all

the hunters and woodsmen, kneeling uncovered, and finally joining in

that perfect model of supplication taught by the Redeemer himself to

those who, in whatever age or clime, are called by His name.

Having paid these last honours to their departed friend, the leaders of

the party withdrew to make the proposed arrangements for striking the

camp on the following morning, and for settling the line and order of

march.

The Delawares lingered for some time, as if unwilling to leave the

remains of their beloved chief, and at length slowly retired, one by

one, until there remained only our old friend Baptiste and a veteran

Delaware, who, from his feats of hardihood, and the stern fierceness of

his nature, was generally known by the name of Stony–heart.

“Grand–Hâche,” said the latter, addressing his companion, “it may be

all very good what the Black Father says, but Stony–heart does not

understand it. When War–Eagle said that the Lenapé should not kill

those who had taken the scalps of their warriors or of their women,

the Mad Spirit must have got into his brain! Stony–heart has seen many

winters, and has heard the talk of the wise men in council, but he

never heard such words as these.”

It must be confessed that Baptiste was not in his heart a very strong

advocate for the doctrine of forgiveness; we have already seen in a

former chapter that he was rather disposed to favour the Indian law of

retaliation; he answered, however, on this occasion cautiously.

“Stony–heart speaks true; yet he must remember that War–Eagle only

desired that his Lenapé brothers should hear what the Black Father had

to say on this matter; they can then decide whether his words are idle

or not. It will be easier for him to persuade the young than men who

like us have known for forty winters that the custom of the woods, and

of the prairie, is life for life, and scalp for scalp!”

“It will,” rejoined the other; “and Grand–Hâche will see that no good

will follow from having spared the lives of those four Washashee dogs.”

With this prophetic observation, Stony–heart rejoined his comrades, and

Baptiste joined the small group assembled before the door of the tent.

On the following morning the party began their homeward march,

Wingenund leading the way, followed by his Delawares, and accompanied

by Besha and the Crow guide, who had been sent for by a runner before

daybreak. The packed mules and horses were placed in the centre under

the special charge of Monsieur Perrot, whose fund of good–humour and

resource had never failed him, and who now performed the office of a

muleteer with the same readiness with which he fulfilled the respective

duties of valet to Reginald, and cook, messman, and buffoon to the

whole party. The rear was brought up by Ethelston and Reginald, the

latter still keeping his post at the bridle of Nekimi, the line of

march being closed by Baptiste and some of the most experienced

hunters, while Pierre was sent forward to aid Wingenund, he being

the most skilful and practised in the peculiar difficulties of the

dangerous region which they were now about to traverse.

For several days all went on as well as could be expected. The heat

was intense, and water was sometimes scarce; several of the mules and

pack–horses dropped down from exhaustion, and were left behind; the

stock of provisions was somewhat short, but the party twice fell in

with a small herd of buffalo, from which they procured a tolerable

supply; and, at camping time, they all assembled round the fire

in front of Prairie–bird’s tent, and, after their frugal evening

meal, wore away the time with conversation suited to the different

groups into which the party divided itself, some talking over former

campaigns, others cracking their jokes and enjoying the laugh which

invariably followed Perrot’s determined attempts to explain himself in

the Delaware tongue; while Reginald, Ethelston, and Prairie–bird lived

over again the days of their childhood, or recounted to each other some

of the most interesting incidents of the intervening years.