"My braves, you are a parcel of fools."
Clearing his throat after this plain statement, either for the purpose
of collecting his thoughts or giving his young warriors time to weigh
and appreciate the compliment, he continued--
"You chase the enemy as thoughtlessly as the north wind chases the
leaves in autumn. My wise chief Whitewing, and his friend Leetil Tim--
whose heart is big, and whose voice is bigger, and whose scalping-knife
is biggest of all--have come to our rescue _alone_. Whitewing tells me
there is no one at their backs. If our foes discover their mistake,
they will turn again, and the contempt which they ought to pour on
themselves because of their own cowardice they will heap on _our_ heads,
and overwhelm us by their numbers--for who can withstand numbers? They
will scatter us like small dust before the hurricane. Waugh!"
The old man paused for breath, for the recent fight had taken a good
deal out of him, and the assembled warriors exclaimed "Waugh!" by which
they meant to express entire approval of his sentiments. "Now it is my
counsel," he continued, "that as we have been saved by Whitewing, we
should all shut our mouths, and hear what Whitewing has got to say."
Bald Eagle sat down amid murmurs of applause, and Whitewing arose.
There was something unusually gentle in the tone and aspect of the young
chief on this occasion.
"Our father, the ancient one who has just spoken words of wisdom," he
said, stretching forth his right hand, "has told you the truth, yet not
quite the truth. He is right when he says that Leetil Tim and I have
come to your rescue, but he is wrong when he says we come alone. It is
true that there are no men at our backs to help us, but is not Manitou
behind us--in front--around? It was Manitou who sent us here, and it
was He who gave us the victory."
Whitewing paused, and there were some exclamations of approval, but they
were not so numerous or so decided as he could have wished, for red men
are equally unwilling with white men to attribute their successes
directly to their Creator.
"And now," he continued, "as Bald Eagle has said, if our foes find out
their mistake, they will, without doubt, return. We must therefore take
up our goods, our wives, and our little ones, and hasten to meet our
brothers of Clearvale, who are even now on their way to help us. Our
band is too small to fight the Blackfeet, but united with our friends,
and with Manitou on our side for our cause is just, we shall be more
than a match, for them. I counsel, then, that we raise the camp without
delay."
The signs of approval were much more decided at the close of this brief
address, and the old chief again rose up.
"My braves," he said, "have listened to the words of wisdom. Let each
warrior go to his wigwam and get ready. We quit the camp when the sun
stands there."
He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about an
hour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern sky.
As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if by
magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods, catching
horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size and
strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure.
"Follow me," said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest to
obey the orders of the old chief.
"Ay, it's time to be lookin' after her," said Tim, with something like a
wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his own
thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He strode
swiftly through the camp.
"Well, well," soliloquised the trapper as he followed, "I niver did
expect to see Whitewing in this state o' mind. He's or'narily sitch a
cool, unexcitable man. Ah! women, you've much to answer for!"
Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving his
horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing's steed.
Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart from
the rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at the
time the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking young
girl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, dark
eyes. The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any age
between fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship,
coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to such
an extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for an
Egyptian mummy. One redeeming point in the poor old thing was the fact
that all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visage
ran in the lines of kindliness. Her loving character was clearly
stamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that he who ran might easily
read.
With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave
the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with
equal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the
wrinkles on the part of the old. There still remained a touch of
anxiety caused by the recent fight on both countenances. It was
dispelled, however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed the
younger woman to prepare for instant flight. She acted with prompt,
unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work to
pack up his goods with all speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid to
tie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog.
"I say, Whitewing," whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow,
and glancing at the young woman with approval--for Tim, who was an
affectionate fellow and anxious about his friend's welfare, rejoiced to
observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as pretty--"I say,
is that her?"
Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.
"Is that _her_--_the_ girl, you know?" said Little Tim, with a series of
looks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning.
"She is my sister--Brighteyes," replied the Indian quietly, as he
continued his work.
"Whew!" whistled the trapper. "Well, well," he murmured in an
undertone, "you're on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim. Ye
think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are. Niver mind, the one
that he says he loves more nor life'll turn up soon enough, no doubt.
But I'm real sorry for the old 'un," he added in an undertone, casting a
glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire in
the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what was
going on. "She'll niver be able to stand a flight like this. The mere
joltin' o' the nags 'ud shake her old bones a'most out of her skin.
There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, but
Whitewing'll niver do that. I know him better. Now then"--aloud--"have
ye anything more for me to do?"
"Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses."
"Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes."
With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey,
the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.
Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief's reserve
wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.
"Mother," he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for the
old creature was rather deaf, "we must fly. The Blackfeet are too
strong for us. Are you ready?"
"I am always ready to do the bidding of my son," replied this pattern
mother. "But sickness has made me old before my time. I have not
strength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die. It is
better for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young ones."
"The young ones can take care of themselves," replied the chief somewhat
sternly. "We know not what Manitou thinks. It is our business to live
as long as we can. If you cannot ride, mother, I will carry you. Often
you have carried me when I could not ride."
It is difficult to guess why Whitewing dropped his poetical language,
and spoke in this matter-of-fact and sharp manner. Great thoughts had
been swelling in his bosom for some time past, and perchance he was
affected by the suggestion that the cruel practice of deserting the aged
was not altogether unknown in his tribe. It may be that the supposition
of his being capable of such cruelty nettled him. At all events, he
said nothing more except to tell his mother to be ready to start at
once.
The old woman herself, who seemed to be relieved that her proposition
was not favourably received, began to obey her son's directions by
throwing a gay-coloured handkerchief over her head, and tying it under
her chin. She then fastened her moccasins more securely on her feet,
wrapped a woollen kerchief round her shoulders, and drew a large green
blanket around her, strapping it to her person by means of a broad strip
of deerskin. Having made these simple preparations for whatever journey
lay before her, she warmed her withered old hands over the embers of the
wood fire, and awaited her son's pleasure.
Meanwhile that son went outside to see the preparations for flight
carried into effect.
"We're all ready," said Little Tim, whom he met not far from the wigwam.
"Horses and dogs down in the hollow; Brighteyes an' a lot o' youngsters
lookin' after them. All you want now is to get hold o' her, and be off;
an' the sooner the better, for Blackfoot warriors don't take long to get
over scares an' find out mistakes. But I'm most troubled about the old
woman. She'll niver be able to stand it."
To this Whitewing paid little attention. In truth, his mind seemed to
be taken up with other thoughts, and his friend was not much surprised,
having come, as we have seen, to the conclusion that the Indian was
under a temporary spell for which woman was answerable.
"Is my horse at hand?" asked Whitewing.
"Ay, down by the creek, all ready."
"And my brother's horse?"
"Ready too, at the same place; but we'll want another good 'un--for
_her_, you know," said Tim suggestively.
"Let the horses be brought to my wigwam," returned Whitewing, either not
understanding or disregarding the last remark.
The trapper was slightly puzzled, but, coming to the wise conclusion
that his friend knew his own affairs best, and had, no doubt, made all
needful preparations, he went off quietly to fetch the horses, while the
Indian returned to the wigwam. In a few minutes Little Tim stood before
the door, holding the bridles of the two horses.
Immediately afterwards a little Indian boy ran up with a third and
somewhat superior horse, and halted beside him.
"Ha! that's it at last. The horse for _her_," said the trapper to
himself with some satisfaction; "I knowed that Whitewing would have
everything straight--even though he _is_ in a raither stumped condition
just now."
As he spoke, Brighteyes ran towards the wigwam, and looked in at the
door. Next moment she went to the steed which Little Tim had, in his
own mind, set aside for "_her_," and vaulted into the saddle as a young
deer might have done, had it taken to riding.
Of course Tim was greatly puzzled, and forced to admit a second time
that he had over-estimated his own cleverness, and was again off the
scent. Before his mind had a chance of being cleared up, the skin
curtain of the wigwam was raised, and Whitewing stepped out with a
bundle in his arms. He gave it to Little Tim to hold while he mounted
his somewhat restive horse, and then the trapper became aware--from
certain squeaky sounds, and a pair of eyes that glittered among the
folds of the bundle that he held the old woman in his arms!
"I say, Whitewing," he said remonstratively, as he handed up the bundle,
which the Indian received tenderly in his left arm, "most of the camp
has started. In quarter of an hour or so there'll be none left. Don't
'ee think it's about time to look after _her_?"
Whitewing looked at the trapper with a perplexed expression--a look
which did not quite depart after his friend had mounted, and was riding
through the half-deserted camp beside him.
"Now, Whitewing," said the trapper, with some decision of tone and
manner, "I'm quite as able as you are to carry that old critter. If
you'll make her over to me, you'll be better able to look after _her_,
you know. Eh?"
"My brother speaks strangely to-day," replied the chief. "His words are
hidden from his Indian friend. What does he mean by `_her_'?"
"Well, well, now, ye are slow," answered Tim; "I wouldn't ha' believed
that anything short o' scalpin' could ha' took away yer wits like that.
Why, of course I mean the woman ye said was dearer to 'ee than life."
"That woman is here," replied the chief gravely, casting a brief glance
down at the wrinkled old visage that nestled upon his breast--"my
mother."
"Whew!" whistled the trapper, opening his eyes very wide indeed. For
the third time that day he was constrained to admit that he had been
thrown completely off the scent, and that, in regard to cleverness, he
was no better than a "squawkin' babby."
But Little Tim said never a word. Whatever his thoughts might have been
after that, he kept them to himself, and, imitating his Indian brother,
maintained profound silence as he galloped between him and Brighteyes
over the rolling prairie.