Whitewing was a Red Indian of the North American prairies. Though not a
chief of the highest standing, he was a very great man in the estimation
of his tribe, for, besides being possessed of qualities which are highly
esteemed among all savages--such as courage, strength, agility, and the
like--he was a deep thinker, and held speculative views in regard to the
Great Manitou (God), as well as the ordinary affairs of life, which
perplexed even the oldest men of his tribe, and induced the younger men
to look on him as a profound mystery.
Indeed the feelings of the latter towards Whitewing amounted almost to
veneration, for while, on the one hand, he was noted as one of the most
fearless among the braves, and a daring assailant of that king of the
northern wilderness, the grizzly bear, he was, on the other hand, modest
and retiring--never boasted of his prowess, disbelieved in the principle
of revenge, which to most savages is not only a pleasure but a duty, and
refused to decorate his sleeves or leggings with the scalp-locks of his
enemies. Indeed he had been known to allow more than one enemy to
escape from his hand in time of war when he might easily have killed
him. Altogether, Whitewing was a monstrous puzzle to his fellows, and
much beloved by many of them.
The only ornament which he allowed himself was the white wing of a
ptarmigan. Hence his name. This symbol of purity was bound to his
forehead by a band of red cloth wrought with the quills of the
porcupine. It had been made for him by a dark-eyed girl whose name was
an Indian word signifying "light heart." But let it not be supposed
that Lightheart's head was like her heart. On the contrary, she had a
good sound brain, and, although much given to laughter, jest, and
raillery among her female friends, would listen with unflagging
patience, and profound solemnity, to her lover's soliloquies in
reference to things past, present, and to come.
One of the peculiarities of Whitewing was that he did not treat women as
mere slaves or inferior creatures. His own mother, a wrinkled, brown
old thing resembling a piece of singed shoe-leather, he loved with a
tenderness not usual in North American Indians, some tribes of whom have
a tendency to forsake their aged ones, and leave them to perish rather
than be burdened with them. Whitewing also thought that his betrothed
was fit to hold intellectual converse with him, in which idea he was not
far wrong.
At the time we introduce him to the reader he was on a visit to the
Indian camp of Lightheart's tribe in Clearvale, for the purpose of
claiming his bride. His own tribe, of which the celebrated old warrior
Bald Eagle was chief, dwelt in a valley at a considerable distance from
the camp referred to.
There were two other visitors at the Indian camp at that time. One was
a Wesleyan missionary who had penetrated to that remote region with a
longing desire to carry the glad tidings of salvation in Jesus to the
red men of the prairie. The other was a nondescript little white
trapper, who may be aptly described as a mass of contradictions. He was
small in stature, but amazingly strong; ugly, one-eyed, scarred in the
face, and misshapen; yet wonderfully attractive, because of a sweet
smile, a hearty manner, and a kindly disposition. With the courage of
the lion, Little Tim, as he was styled, combined the agility of the
monkey and the laziness of the sloth. Strange to say, Tim and Whitewing
were bosom friends, although they differed in opinion on most things.
"The white man speaks again about Manitou to-day," said the Indian,
referring to the missionary's intention to preach, as he and Little Tim
concluded their midday meal in the wigwam that had been allotted to
them.
"It's little I cares for that," replied Tim curtly, as he lighted the
pipe with which he always wound up every meal.
Of course both men spoke in the Indian language, but that being probably
unknown to the reader, we will try to convey in English as nearly as
possible the slightly poetical tone of the one and the rough Backwoods'
style of the other.
"It seems strange to me," returned the Indian, "that my white brother
thinks and cares so little about his Manitou. He thinks much of his
gun, and his traps, and his skins, and his powder, and his friend, but
cares not for Manitou, who gave him all these--all that he possesses."
"Look 'ee here, Whitewing," returned the trapper, in his matter-of-fact
way, "there's nothing strange about it. I see you, and I see my gun and
these other things, and can handle 'em; but I don't know nothin' about
Manitou, and I don't see him, so what's the good o' thinkin' about him?"
Instead of answering, the red man looked silently and wistfully up into
the blue sky, which could be seen through the raised curtain of the
wigwam. Then, pointing to the landscape before them, he said in subdued
but earnest tones, "I see him in the clouds--in the sun, and moon, and
stars; in the prairies and in the mountains; I hear him in the singing
waters and in the winds that scatter the leaves, and I feel him here."
Whitewing laid his hand on his breast, and looked in his friend's face.
"But," he continued sadly, "I do not understand him, he whispers so
softly that, though I hear, I cannot comprehend. I wonder why this is
so."
"Ay, that's just it, Whitewing," said the trapper. "We can't make it
out nohow, an' so I just leaves all that sort o' thing to the parsons,
and give my mind to the things that I understand."
"When Little Tim was a very small boy," said the Indian, after a few
minutes' meditation, "did he understand how to trap the beaver and the
martin, and how to point the rifle so as to carry death to the grizzly
bear?"
"Of course not," returned the trapper; "seems to me that that's a
foolish question."
"But," continued the Indian, "you came to know it at last?"
"I should just think I did," returned the trapper, a look of
self-satisfied pride crossing his scarred visage as he thought of the
celebrity as a hunter to which he had attained. "It took me a goodish
while, of course, to circumvent it all, but in time I got to be--well,
you know what, an' I'm not fond o' blowin' my own trumpet."
"Yes; you came to it at last," repeated Whitewing, "by giving your mind
to things that at first you _did not understand_."
"Come, come, my friend," said Little Tim, with a laugh; "I'm no match
for you in argiment, but, as I said before, I don't understand Manitou,
an' I don't see, or feel, or hear him, so it's of no use tryin'."
"What my friend knows not, another may tell him," said Whitewing. "The
white man says he knows Manitou, and brings a message from him. Three
times I have listened to his words. They seem the words of truth. I go
again to-day to hear his message."
The Indian stood up as he spoke, and the trapper also rose.
"Well, well," he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "I'll go too,
though I'm afeared it won't be o' much use."
The sermon which the man of God preached that day to the Indians was
neither long nor profound, but it was delivered with the intense
earnestness of one who thoroughly believes every word he utters, and
feels that life and death may be trembling in the balance with those who
listen. It is not our purpose to give this sermon in detail, but merely
to show its influence on Whitewing, and how it affected the stirring
incidents which followed.
Already the good man had preached three times the simple gospel of Jesus
to these Indians, and with so much success that some were ready to
believe, but others doubted, just as in the days of old. For the
benefit of the former, he had this day chosen the text, "Let us run with
patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus." Whitewing
had been much troubled in spirit. His mind, if very inquiring, was also
very sceptical. It was not that he would not--but that he could not--
receive anything unless _convinced_. With a strong thirst after truth,
he went to hear that day, but, strange to say, he could not fix his
attention. Only one sentence seemed to fasten firmly on his memory: "It
is the Spirit that quickeneth." The text itself also made a profound
impression on him.
The preacher had just concluded, and was about to raise his voice in
prayer, when a shout was heard in the distance. It came from a man who
was seen running over the prairie towards the camp, with the desperate
haste of one who runs for his life.
All was at once commotion. The men sprang up, and, while some went out
to meet the runner, others seized their weapons. In a few seconds a
young man with bloodshot eyes, labouring chest, and streaming brow burst
into their midst, with the news that a band of Blackfoot warriors, many
hundred strong, was on its way to attack the camp of Bald Eagle; that he
was one of that old chief's braves, and was hasting to give his tribe
timely warning, but that he had run so far and so fast as to be quite
unable to go another step, and had turned aside to borrow a horse, or
beg them to send on a fresh messenger.
"_I_ will go," said Whitewing, on hearing this; "and my horse is ready."
He wasted no more time with words, but ran towards the hollow where his
steed had been hobbled, that is, the two front legs tied together so as
to admit of moderate freedom without the risk of desertion.
He was closely followed by his friend Little Tim, who, knowing well the
red man's staid and self-possessed character, was somewhat surprised to
see by his flashing eyes and quick breathing that he was unusually
excited.
"Whitewing is anxious," he said, as they ran together.
"The woman whom I love better than life is in Bald Eagle's camp," was
the brief reply.
"Oho!" thought Little Tim, but he spoke no word, for he knew his friend
to be extremely reticent in regard to matters of the heart. For some
time he had suspected him of what he styled a weakness in that organ.
"Now," thought he, "I know it."
"Little Tim will go with me?" asked the Indian, as they turned into the
hollow where the horses had been left.
"Ay, Whitewing," answered the trapper, with a touch of enthusiasm;
"Little Tim will stick to you through thick and thin, as long as--"
An exclamation from the Indian at that moment stopped him, for it was
discovered that the horses were not there. The place was so open that
concealment was not possible. The steeds of both men had somehow got
rid of their hobbles and galloped away.
A feeling of despair came over the Indian at this discovery. It was
quickly followed by a stern resolve. He was famed as being the fleetest
and most enduring brave of his tribe. He would _run_ home.
Without saying a word to his friend, he tightened his belt, and started
off like a hound loosed from the leash. Little Tim ran a few hundred
yards after him at top speed, but suddenly pulled up.
"Pooh! It's useless," he exclaimed. "I might as well run after a
streak o' greased lightnin'. Well, well, women have much to answer for!
Who'd iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance like that?
It strikes me I'll sarve him best by lookin' after the nags."
While the trapper soliloquised thus he ran back to the camp to get one
of the Indian horses, wherewith to go off in search of his own and that
of his friend. He found the Indians busy making preparations to ride to
the rescue of their Bald Eagle allies; but quick though these sons of
the prairie were, they proved too slow for Little Tim, who leaped on the
first horse he could lay hold of, and galloped away.
Meanwhile Whitewing ran with the fleet, untiring step of a trained
runner whose heart is in his work; but the way was long, and as evening
advanced even his superior powers began to fail a little. Still he held
on, greatly overtaxing his strength. Nothing could have been more
injudicious in a prolonged race. He began to suspect that it was
unwise, when he came to a stretch of broken ground, which in the
distance was traversed by a range of low hills. As he reached these he
reduced the pace a little, but while he was clambering up the face of a
rather precipitous cliff, the thought of the Blackfoot band and of the
much-loved one came into his mind; prudence went to the winds, and in a
moment he was on the summit of the cliff, panting vehemently--so much
so, indeed, that he felt it absolutely necessary to sit down for a few
moments to rest.
While resting thus, with his back against a rock, in the attitude of one
utterly worn out, part of the missionary's text flashed into his mind:
"the race that is set before us."
"Surely," he murmured, looking up, "this race is set before me. The
object is good. It is my duty as well as my desire."
The thought gave an impulse to his feelings; the impulse sent his young
blood careering, and, springing up, he continued to run as if the race
had only just begun. But ere long the pace again began to tell,
producing a sinking of the heart, which tended to increase the evil.
Hour after hour had passed without his making any perceptible abatement
in the pace, and the night was now closing in. This however mattered
not, for the full moon was sailing in a clear sky, ready to relieve
guard with the sun. Again the thought recurred that he acted unwisely
in thus pressing on beyond his powers, and once more he stopped and sat
down.
This time the text could not be said to flash into his mind, for while
running, it had never left him. He now deliberately set himself to
consider it, and the word "patience" arrested his attention.
"Let us run with patience," he thought. "I have not been patient. But
the white man did not mean this kind of race at all; he said it was the
whole race of life. Well, if so, _this_ is part of that race, and it
_is_ set before me. Patience! patience! I will try."
With childlike simplicity the red man rose and began to run slowly. For
some time he kept it up, but as his mind reverted to the object of his
race his patience began to ooze out. He could calculate pretty well the
rate at which the Blackfoot foes would probably travel, and knowing the
exact distance, perceived that it would be impossible for him to reach
the camp before them, unless he ran all the way at full speed. The very
thought of this induced him to put on a spurt, which broke him down
altogether. Stumbling over a piece of rough ground, he fell with such
violence that for a moment or two he lay stunned. Soon, however, he was
on his legs again, and tried to resume his headlong career, but felt
that the attempt was useless. With a deep irrepressible groan, he sank
upon the turf.
It was in this hour of his extremity that the latter part of the
preacher's text came to his mind: "looking unto Jesus."
Poor Whitewing looked upwards, as if he half expected to see the Saviour
with the bodily eye, and a mist seemed to be creeping over him. He was
roused from this semi-conscious state by the clattering of horses'
hoofs.
The Blackfoot band at once occurred to his mind. Starting up, he hid
behind a piece of rock. The sounds drew nearer, and presently he saw
horsemen passing him at a considerable distance. How many he could not
make out. There seemed to be very few. The thought that it might be
his friend the trapper occurred, but if he were to shout, and it should
turn out to be foes, not only would his own fate but that of his tribe
be sealed. The case was desperate; still, anything was better than
remaining helplessly where he was. He uttered a sharp cry.
It was responded to at once in the voice of Little Tim, and next moment
the faithful trapper galloped towards Whitewing leading his horse by the
bridle.
"Well, now, this is good luck," cried the trapper, as he rode up.
"No," replied the Indian gravely, "it is not _luck_."
"Well, as to that, I don't much care what you call it--but get up. Why,
what's wrong wi' you?"
"The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently, trusting
too much to my own strength. Let my friend help me to mount."
"Well, now I come to think of it," said the trapper, as he sprang to the
ground, "you have come a tremendous way--a most awful long way--in an
uncommon short time. A fellow don't think o' that when he's mounted, ye
see. There now," he added, resuming his own seat in the saddle, "off we
go. But there's no need to overdrive the cattle; we'll be there in good
time, I warrant ye, for the nags are both good and fresh."
Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he had
discovered along with that of his friend some time after parting from
him, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than the
ordinary Indian horses. The steed of Whitewing was a half-wild creature
of Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico.
Nothing more was spoken after this. The two horsemen rode steadily on
side by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over the
ground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentle
undulations of the plains; anon turning out and in to avoid the rocks
and ruts and rugged places; or sweeping to right or left to keep clear
of clumps of stunted wood and thickets, but never for a moment drawing
rein until the goal was reached, which happened very shortly before the
break of day.
The riding was absolute rest to Whitewing, who recovered strength
rapidly as they advanced.
"There is neither sight nor sound of the foe here," murmured the Indian.
"No, all safe!" replied the trapper in a tone of satisfaction, as they
cantered to the summit of one of the prairie waves, and beheld the
wigwams of Bald Eagle shining peacefully in the moonlight on the plain
below.