LITTLE FOX—NA-SHE-ESCHUCK.
The Indian was one of the worst specimens of his race—a creature
naturally brutal, who had been rendered more debased by an excessive use
of fire-water. As he clung to the door-post and looked at them out of
bleared and watery eyes, he was as disgusting a specimen of the _genus
homo_ as could be found between the two oceans.
“Let me talk to this critter,” said Cooney Joe. “I calculate I
understand the natur’ of the unadulterated, unb’iled, unwashed and
unclean drunken red, as well as any man in the great Nor’-west. I do, by
the livin’ hokies. Hyar, you ’possum, speak up, and speak quick; what
ar’ ye looking fur now?”
“Fire-water; poor Injun _very_ dry,” replied this noble red-man.
“Tire—much tire; walk durn good ways; _mus’_ hab fire-water.”
“You got to airn it fust, my noble red,” replied Joe. “Come, agitate yer
jaw; tell us what ye want.”
“S’pose you give Little Fox fire-water, den talk. How _can_ talk when no
hab drink? Ugh!”
“That’s the heathen philosophy, gents all,” said Joe, with a look of
supreme disgust. “No whisky, no news. Got sech a thing as a drain of
sperrits handy, ’square?”
Mr. Wescott left the room, and returned shortly with a small flask of
rum, from which he poured out a glass for the Indian, who drank it with
avidity, smacked his lips, and held out the glass for more.
“Hold on,” said Joe, pushing back the extended hand. “Not ef I know it,
Injin. That tongue of yours begins to double, anyhow, and I reckon
you’ll hev to do some talking afore you git any more rum.”
“Pottawatomie big warrior, _much_ brave,” replied the Indian, loftily,
striking his clenched hand upon his broad breast. “Give Injun rum.”
“I’ll give you a bat ’long side your old head ef ye ask fur more afore
you’ve done the work,” said Joe, angrily. “Come now, speak up. What d’ye
want?”
“Want rifle—want blanket—want _heap_ fire-water!” replied Little Fox.
“Got heap story to tell.”
“Lies, probably. Come, out with it, and ef it is any use to us, then
we’ll pay han’sum. That’s the time of day.”
“Want him _now_,” replied the Indian, with a surly glance at the
speaker. “No tell news widout you put him down here.”
“That won’t do, Injin,” said Joe. “You heard what the fellers done with
Black-Hawk, just now. I’ve only got to say the word, and you go away the
_sorest_ Injin in the Nor’-west. Tell us any really important news, and
we’ll give you a rifle, two blankets and a keg of rum, and you kin drink
you’self to death in a week.”
“Much _promise_—little _do_. Dat white man’s way,” replied the Indian.
“Little Fox no speak.”
“Will you speak if _I_ promise to give you what you ask?” said Captain
Melton, advancing.
“Loud Tempest will do what he says,” replied the Indian, with a drunken
leer. “Little Fox will believe him.”
“Very well, then; I promise to give you the rifle, blankets and rum, if
you tell us all you came to tell.”
“Give Injun stool; sit down like white man. Floor much dizzy; whirl
round _fast_. Ugh!”
By the not very mild assistance of Cooney Joe the Indian was seated on a
stool, with his back to the wall, and sat with drunken gravity waiting
to be questioned.
“Go on with yer story, you red nigger,” cried Joe. “And see yer, the
minnit you begin to _lie_—and oh, Lord, how he _kin_ lie when he lays
his tongue to it!—that minnit I jump on you and yer ha’r comes off.”
“Little Fox will speak with a straight tongue,” replied the savage,
drawing himself up. “Give injun more rum, and he talk _heap_ fast.”
Cooney Joe poured out a very mild dose of rum and gave it to the savage,
who gulped it down at once, and would have asked for more but that the
expression of Joe’s face taught him that such a measure would bring down
upon his head the wrath of the hunter, and he prudently refrained.
“Black-Hawk much mad,” he said. “See—white man take his village and
plant corn among the graves. That no right in white man.”
“No moril reflections, bummer,” said Joe. “Git on with yer yarn, or off
goes yer sculp.”
“Black-Hawk has a great army,” said the Indian. “His braves are coming
in from the plains and their faces are painted for war. The white men
must not sleep or they will all die.”
It is needless to follow word by word the disjointed narrative of the
drunken savage, interrupted as it was by appeals for rum, which was
doled out to him in very small quantities by Cooney Joe, who feared that
he would get too drunk to articulate. He sat swaying unsteadily to and
fro, and told a tale which confirmed their fears. Messengers had been
sent out to the various tribes, and all had agreed to follow the
standard of Black-Hawk and assist him in driving out the invaders of
their land. Nearly all the principal chiefs except Keokuk had given in
their adhesion, and bands of warriors were already on their way to the
place of rendezvous, not far from Rock Island, where there was a Sac
village and a fort. Doubtless the Indian misrepresented the plans of
Black-Hawk, but he told enough truth to make his story tally with the
preconceived ideas of the whites, and they looked at one another in
silent dismay.
“This is very serious,” said the captain of scouts. “This Indian has
earned his reward, and if he will come into the village to-morrow he
shall have the liquor; the rifle and blankets I can give him now.”
He went out and brought in a very good rifle and two blankets, which he
had obtained from the men. A flask of powder was added, and a mold to
run bullets, and Little Fox staggered away, happy as a lord, little
knowing that the possession of these articles would prove his
death-warrant. With the weapon in his hands he staggered toward the
village, where he was met by a young warrior of the Sac nation, whom, in
his drunken blindness, he did not recognize as the youngest son of
Black-Hawk, who was lurking about for information.
“My brother has a fine gun,” he said in the Indian tongue, endeavoring
to lay his hand upon the weapon. But Little Fox tore it away from him in
drunken wrath.
“Wagh! It is the gun of the white man, and the Sacs will fall before it
as the leaves when they are yellow,” he said.
“My brother is very rich. He must have taken much fur to buy so fine a
gun,” said the young Indian, who already showed the qualities which
afterward gave him a leading place in the tribe.
“Little Fox is the friend of the white man, and he can get a gun for
nothing,” was the reply. “When Black-Hawk comes with his warriors he
will find the white men ready.”
“Has my brother told the white men what Black-Hawk is doing?” said the
young Sac, vailing his rage.
“Little Fox can speak or Little Fox can be silent,” replied the
Pottawatomie. “Look: to-morrow he is to have enough rum to last him a
whole moon, because he is the friend of the white man.”
“Fire-water is good,” said the Sac. “Has my brother a canoe to carry it
across the river?”
The Indian shook his head, and a sort of hazy idea passed through his
clouded brain that he had already said as much as he ought concerning
the affair.
“I have a fine canoe,” continued the son of Black-Hawk. “Let my brother
bring the rum to the Point, and I will help him carry it away.”
The Pottawatomie nodded gravely, and went on his sinuous way, while the
young chief darted into the forest, and taking a circuitous course,
reached his father’s village at early morning. The old chief was in his
lodge, in an attitude of the deepest dejection, for he had not sought a
quarrel with the whites. Near him, seated upon a pile of skins, and with
a look of deep malice on his face, sat Black Will, holding his rifle in
his brown right hand.
“Ha! here comes Na-she-eschuck,” he said. “Now, Black-Hawk, let your
great heart awake and listen to the words of your son. Speak,
Na-she-eschuck; what are the white men doing?”
“They go about among the lodges they have built above our fathers’
graves and laugh because they have insulted Black-Hawk,” replied the
young Sac, fiercely. “Their ears are stopped to all thoughts of peace,
and they long for war. Let them get what they seek, since they will have
it so.”
“What did I tell you, Black-Hawk?” said Black Will. “The scoundrels do
not care for your great name, and they throw mud at you as if you were a
common Pottawatomie, and not the head chief of a great nation. Will you
bear this tamely?”
“Black-Hawk is an Indian,” replied the proud old man, drawing up his
stalwart form to its full hight. “But he does not seek for war. If the
white men will let us rest where we now are, I will send the warriors
back, and we will be friends.”
“Friends! Friends with the men who threw mud in your face and beat you
like a dog?” cried Black Will. “Come, I have been mistaken in you. I
thought you were a man ready to revenge your injuries, but the white men
have cowed you until you dare not lift a hand against them.”
Black-Hawk bounded to his feet with a terrible cry, and laid his hand
upon a weapon. But that Na-she-eschuck sprung between him and the object
of his wrath, it is doubtful whether the career of Black Will would not
have ended upon the spot.
“Hold your hand, great chief,” cried his son, forcing him back. “He sits
under the shadow of your lodge, and you have smoked the pipe with him.
Do not make yourself a dog since you have taken his hand.”
“He has insulted a great chief,” replied the old warrior, fiercely.
“But, he is right; Black-Hawk is a dog to listen to the words of the
white men, and to refuse to dig up the hatchet when so many warriors are
ready to follow him to the fight.”
“We _must_ fight,” said Na-she-eschuck. “Little Fox has been among the
white men, and has told them that the braves are gathering at the call
of Black-Hawk. He is a dead dog, and has taken a rifle and blankets, and
is to have much fire-water, because he has betrayed us.”
Black Will began to look uneasy.
“Has the scoundrel told them that I am here?” he asked.
“I can not tell. He is to come to the point above the island with the
price of his guilt, to-morrow, and I will be there to help him over the
river.”
A grim look crossed the face of Black-Hawk, as his son spoke.
“It is good,” he said. “One traitor shall die, because he has sold
himself for the fire-water of the white men. As for us, we will not
strike the first blow, but if they take up the hatchet against us, then
we will fight. But I will not remove.”
“It is better for us to strike the first blow,” said Black Will. “That
is the main thing in war—to strike such a terrible blow, that their
hearts will turn water in their bosoms. Look at me; I am of the blood of
the white men, but I am not _all_ white. A chief of the Sacs was my
father, and he is dead. He died in chains, because he dug up the hatchet
against the cowardly Chippewas. You have known and loved him, for you
fought by his side. Black-Hawk, Red-Bird was the father of the man who
speaks.”
“Ha!” cried the chief. “Red-Bird was a man, but he could not bear the
chains of the white man, and he died. Is my son the child whom he lost,
who was born of the French squaw, who followed him from Detroit?”
Black Will inclined his head slowly, and Black-Hawk took his hand in his
own and pressed it again and again to his bosom.
“Black-Hawk can understand how the son of Red-Bird should hate the white
man,” he said. “We will fight side by side in this war, and if we die,
let us die bravely. Are the warriors coming in, Na-she-eschuck?”
“They are gathering from every side. They have heard of the insult to
Black-Hawk, and their hearts are hot in their bosoms. They will behave
like men.”
“It is good,” said the chief. “Now we will go forth, and you shall see
how Black-Hawk shall give a traitor his dues.”
They left the lodge, and followed by the brother of Black-Hawk, and
Napope, a celebrated chief, moved down toward the river, where the rest
of the party concealed themselves while Na-she-eschuck brought out his
canoe and crossed to the other shore.