It was a sad but interesting council that was held in the little
fortress of "Tim's Folly" the day following that on which the grizzly
bear was captured.
The wounded missionary, lying in Big Tim's bed, presided. Beside him,
with an expression of profound sorrow on his fine face, sat Whitewing,
the prairie chief. Little Tim and his big son sat at his feet. The
other Indians were ranged in a semicircle before him.
In one sense it was a red man's council, but there were none of the
Indian formalities connected with it, for the prairie chief and his
followers had long ago renounced the superstitions and some of the
practices of their kindred.
Softswan was not banished from the council chamber, as if unworthy even
to listen to the discussions of the "lords of creation," and no pipe of
peace was smoked as a preliminary, but a brief, earnest prayer for
guidance was put up by the missionary to the Lord of hosts, and subjects
more weighty than are usually broached in the councils of savages were
discussed.
The preacher's voice was weak, and his countenance pale, but the wonted
look of calm confidence was still there.
"Whitewing," he said, raising himself on one elbow, "I will speak as God
gives me power, but I am very feeble, and feel that the discussion of
our plans must be conducted chiefly by yourself and your friends."
He paused, and the chief, with the usual dignity of the red man,
remained silent, waiting for more. Not so Little Tim. That worthy,
although gifted with all the powers of courage and endurance which mark
the best of the American savages, was also endowed with the white man's
tendency to assert his right to wag his tongue.
"Cheer up, sir," he said, in a tone of encouragement, "you mustn't let
your spirits go down. A good rest here, an' good grub, wi' Softswan's
cookin'--to say nothin' o' her nursin'--will put ye all right before
long."
"Thanks, Little Tim," returned the missionary, with a smile; "I do cheer
up, or rather, God cheers me. Whether I recover or am called home is in
His hands; therefore all shall be well. But," he added, turning to the
chief, "God has given us brains, hands, materials, and opportunities to
work with, therefore must we labour while we can, as if all depended on
ourselves. The plans which I had laid out for myself He has seen fit to
change, and it now remains for me to point out what I aimed at, so that
we may accommodate ourselves to His will. Sure am I that with or
without my aid, His work shall be done, and, for the rest--'though He
slay me, yet will I trust in Him."
Again he paused, and the Indians uttered that soft "Ho!" of assent with
which they were wont to express approval of what was said.
"When I left the settlements of the white men," continued the preacher,
"my object was twofold: I wished to see Whitewing, and Little Tim, and
Brighteyes, and all the other dear friends whom I had known long ago,
before the snows of life's winter had settled on my head, but my main
object was to visit Rushing River, the Blackfoot chief, and carry the
blessed Gospel to his people, and thus, while seeking the salvation of
their souls, also bring about a reconciliation between them and their
hereditary foe, Bounding Bull."
"It's Rushin' River as is the enemy," cried Little Tim, interrupting,
for when his feelings were excited he was apt to become regardless of
time, place, and persons, and the allusion to his son's wife's father--
of whom he was very fond--had roused him. "Boundin' Bull would have bin
reconciled long ago if Rushin' River would have listened to reason, for
he is a Christian, though I'm bound to say he's somethin' of a queer
one, havin' notions of his own which it's not easy for other folk to
understand."
"In which respect, daddy," remarked Big Tim, using the English tongue
for the moment, and allowing the smallest possible smile to play on his
lips, "Bounding Bull is not unlike yourself."
"Hold yer tongue, boy, else I'll give you a woppin'," said the father
sternly.
"Dumb, daddy, dumb," replied the son meekly.
It was one of the peculiarities of this father and son that they were
fond of expressing their regard for each other by indulging now and then
in a little very mild "chaff," and the playful threat to give his son a
"woppin'"--which in earlier years he had sometimes done with much
effect--was an invariable proof that Little Tim's spirit had been
calmed, and his amiability restored.
"My white father's intentions are good," said Whitewing, after another
pause, "and his faith is strong. It needs strong faith to believe that
the man who has shot the preacher shall ever smoke the pipe of peace
with Whitewing."
"With God all things are possible," returned the missionary. "And you
must not allow enmity to rankle in your own breast, Whitewing, because
of me. Besides, it was probably one of Rushing River's braves, and not
himself, who shot me. In any case they could not have known who I was."
"I'm not so sure o' that," said Big Tim. "The Blackfoot reptile has a
sharp eye, an' father has told me that you knew him once when you was in
these parts twenty years ago."
"Yes, I knew him well," returned the preacher, in a low, meditative
voice. "He was quite a little boy at the time--not more than ten years
of age, I should think, but unusually strong and brave. I met him when
travelling alone in the woods, and it so happened that I had the good
fortune to save his life by shooting a brown bear which he had wounded,
and which was on the point of killing him. I dwelt with him and his
people for a time, and pressed him to accept salvation through Jesus,
but he refused. The Holy Spirit had not opened his eyes, yet I felt and
still feel assured that that time will come. But it has not come yet,
if all that I have heard of him be true. You may depend upon it,
however, that he did not shoot me knowingly."
Both Little and Big Tim by their looks showed that their belief in
Rushing River's future reformation was very weak, though they said
nothing, and the Indians maintained such imperturbable gravity that
their looks gave no indication as to the state of their minds.
"My white father's hopes and desires are good," said Whitewing, after
another long pause, during which the missionary closed his eyes, and
appeared to be resting, and Tim and his son looked gravely at each
other, for that rest seemed to them strongly to resemble death. "And
now what does my father propose to do?"
"My course is clear," answered the wounded man, opening his eyes with a
bright, cheerful look. "I cannot move. Here God has placed me, and
here I must remain till--till I get well. All the action must be on
your part, Whitewing, and that of your friends. But I shall not be idle
or useless as long as life and breath are left to enable me to pray."
There was another decided note of approval from the Indians, for they
had already learned the value of prayer.
"The first step I would wish you to take, however," continued the
missionary, "is to go and bring to this hut my sweet friend Brighteyes
and your own mother, Whitewing, who, you tell me, is still alive."
"The loved old one still lives," returned the Indian.
"Lives!" interposed Little Tim, with emphasis, "I should think she does,
an' flourishes too, though she _has_ shrivelled up a bit since you saw
her last. Why, she's so old now that we've changed her name to
Live-for-ever. She sleeps like a top, an' feeds like a grampus, an'
does little else but laugh at what's goin' on around her. I never did
see such a jolly old girl in all my life. Twenty years ago--that time,
you remember, when Whitewing carried her off on horseback, when the
village was attacked--we all thought she was on her last legs, but,
bless you sir, she can still stump about the camp in a tremblin' sort o'
way, an' her peepers are every bit as black as those of my own
Brighteyes, an' they twinkle a deal more."
"Your account of her," returned the preacher, with a little smile,
"makes me long to see her again. Indeed, the sight of these two would
comfort me greatly whether I live or die. They are not far distant from
here, you say?"
"Not far. My father's wish shall be gratified," said Whitewing. "After
they come we will consult again, and my father will be able to decide
what course to pursue in winning over the Blackfeet."
Of course the two Tims and all the others were quite willing to follow
the lead of the prairie chief, so it was finally arranged that a party
should be sent to the camp of the Indians, with whom Brighteyes and
Live-for-ever were sojourning at the time--about a long day's march from
the little fortress--and bring those women to the hut, that they might
once again see and gladden the heart of the man whom they had formerly
known as the Preacher.
Now, it is a well-ascertained and undoubtable fact that the passion of
love animates the bosoms of red men as well as white. It is also a
curious coincidence that this passion frequently leads to modifications
of action and unexpected, sometimes complicated, results and situations
among the red as well as among the white men.
Bearing this in mind, the reader will be better able to understand why
Rushing River, in making a raid upon his enemies, and while creeping
serpent-like through the grass in order to reconnoitre previous to a
night attack, came to a sudden stop on beholding a young girl playing
with a much younger girl--indeed, a little child--on the outskirts of
the camp.
It was the old story over again. Love at first sight! And no wonder,
for the young girl, though only an Indian, was unusually graceful and
pretty, being a daughter of Little Tim and Brighteyes. From the former,
Moonlight (as she was named) inherited the free-and-easy yet modest
carriage of the pale-face, from the latter a pretty little straight nose
and a pair of gorgeous black eyes that seemed to sparkle with a private
sunshine of their own.
Rushing River, although a good-looking, stalwart man in the prime of
life, had never been smitten in this way before. He therefore resolved
at once to make the girl his wife. Red men have a peculiar way of
settling such matters sometimes, without much regard to the wishes of
the lady--especially if she be, as in this case, the daughter of a foe.
In pursuance of his purpose, he planned, while lying there like a snake
in the grass, to seize and carry off the fair Moonlight by force,
instead of killing and scalping the whole of the Indians in Bounding
Bull's camp with whom she sojourned.
It was not any tender consideration for his foes, we are sorry to say,
that induced this change of purpose, but the knowledge that in a night
attack bullets and arrows are apt to fly indiscriminately on men, women,
and children. He would have carried poor Moonlight off then and there
if she had not been too near the camp to permit of his doing so without
great risk of discovery. The presence of the little child also
increased the risk. He might, indeed, have easily "got rid" of her, but
there was a soft spot in that red man's heart which forbade the savage
deed--a spot which had been created at that time, long, long ago, when
the white preacher had discoursed to him of "righteousness and
temperance and judgment to come."
Little Skipping Rabbit, as she was called, was the youngest child of
Bounding Bull. If Rushing River had known this, he would probably have
hardened his heart, and struck at his enemy through the child, but
fortunately he did not know it.
Retiring cautiously from the scene, the Blackfoot chief determined to
bide his time until he should find a good opportunity to pounce upon
Moonlight and carry her off quietly. The opportunity came even sooner
than he had anticipated.
That night, while he was still prowling round the camp, Whitewing
accompanied by Little Tim and a band of Indians arrived.
Bounding Bull received them with an air of dignified satisfaction. He
was a grave, tall Indian, whose manner was not at all suggestive of his
name, but warriors in times of peace do not resemble the same men in
times of war. Whitewing had been the means of inducing him to accept
Christianity, and although he was by no means as "queer" a Christian as
Little Tim had described him, he was, at all events, queer enough in the
eyes of his enemies and his unbelieving friends to prefer peace or
arbitration to war, on the ground that it is written, "If possible, as
much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men."
Of course he saw that the "if possible" justified self-defence, and
might in some circumstances even warrant aggressive action. Such, at
all events, was the opinion he expressed at the solemn palaver which was
held after the arrival of his friends.
"Whitewing," said he, drawing himself up with flashing eyes and extended
hand in the course of the debate, "surely you do not tell me that the
Book teaches us to allow our enemies to raid in our lands, to carry off
our women and little ones, and to burn our wigwams, while we sit still
and wait till they are pleased to take our scalps?"
Having put this rather startling question, he subsided as promptly as he
had burst forth.
"That's a poser!" thought the irreverent Little Tim, who sympathised
with Bounding Bull, but he said nothing.
"My brother has been well named," replied the uncompromising Whitewing;
"he not only bounds upon his foes, but lets his mind bound to foolish
conclusions. The Book teaches peace--if possible. If it be not
possible, then we cannot avoid war. But how can we know what is
possible unless we try? My brother advises that we should go on the
war-path at once, and drive the Blackfeet away. Has Bounding Bull tried
his best to bring them to reason? has he failed? Does he know that
peace is _impossible_?"
"Now look here, Whitewing," broke in Little Tim at this point. "It's
all very well for you to talk about peace an' what's possible. I'm a
Christian man myself, an' there's nobody as would be better pleased than
me to see all the redskins in the mountains an' on the prairies at peace
wi' one another. But you won't get me to believe that a few soft words
are goin' to make Rushin' River all straight. He's the sworn enemy o'
Boundin' Bull. Hates him like pison. He hates me like brimstone, an'
it's my opinion that if we don't make away wi' him he'll make away wi'
us."
Whitewing--who was fond of silencing his opponents by quoting Scripture,
many passages of which he had learned by heart long ago from his friend
the preacher--did not reply for a few seconds. Then, looking earnestly
at his brother chief, he said--
"With Manitou all things are possible. A soft answer turns away wrath."
Bounding Bull pondered the words. Little Tim gave vent to a doubtful
"humph"--not that he doubted the truth of the Word, but that he doubted
its applicability on the present occasion.
It was finally agreed that the question should not be decided until the
whole council had returned to Tim's Folly, and laid the matter before
the wounded missionary.
Then Little Tim, being freed from the cares of state, went to solace
himself with domesticity.
Moonlight was Indian enough to know that females might not dare to
interrupt the solemn council. She was also white woman enough to scorn
the humble gait and ways of her red kindred, and to run eagerly to meet
her sire as if she had been an out-and-out white girl. The hunter, as
we have said, rather prided himself in keeping up some of the ways of
his own race. Among other things, he treated his wife and daughter
after the manner of white men--that is, well-behaved white men. When
Moonlight saw him coming towards his wigwam, she bounded towards him.
Little Tim extended his arms, caught her round the slender waist with
his big strong hands, and lifted her as if she had been a child until
her face was opposite his own.
"Hallo, little beam of light!" he exclaimed, kissing her on each cheek,
and then on the point of her tiny nose.
"Eyes of mother--heart of sire,
Fit to set the world on fire."
Tim had become poetical as he grew older, and sometimes tried to throw
his flashing thoughts into couplets. He spoke to his daughter in
English, and, like Big Tim with his wife, required her to converse with
him in that language.
"Is mother at home?"
"Yes, dear fasser, mosser's at home."
"An' how's your little doll Skippin' Rabbit?"
"Oh! she well as could be, an' a'most as wild too as rabbits. Runs away
from me, so I kin hardly kitch her sometime."
Moonlight accompanied this remark with a merry laugh, as she thought of
some of the eccentricities of her little companion.
Entering the wigwam, Little Tim found Brighteyes engaged with an iron
pot, from which arose savoury odours. She had been as lithe and active
as Moonlight once, and was still handsome and matronly. The eyes,
however, from which she derived her name, still shone with undiminished
lustre and benignity.
"Bless you, old woman," said the hunter, giving his wife a hearty kiss,
"you're as fond o' victuals as ever, I see."
"At least my husband is, so I keep the pot boiling," retorted
Brighteyes, with a smile, that proved her teeth to be as white as in
days of yore.
"Right, old girl, right. Your husband is about as good at emptying the
pot as he is at filling it. Come, let's have some, while I tell you of
a journey that's in store for you."
"A long one?" asked the wife.
"No, only a day's journey on horseback. You're goin' to meet an old
friend."
From this point her husband went on to tell about the arrival and
wounding of the preacher, and how he had expressed an earnest desire to
see her.
While they were thus engaged, the prairie chief was similarly employed
enlightening his own mother.
That kind-hearted bundle of shrivelled-up antiquity was seated on the
floor on the one side of a small fire. Her son sat on the opposite
side, gazing at her through the smoke, with, for an Indian, an unwonted
look of deep affection.
"The snows of too many winters are on my head to go on journeys now,"
she said, in a feeble, quavering voice. "Is it far that my son wants me
to go?"
"Only one day's ride towards the setting sun, thou dear old one."
Thus tenderly had Christianity, coupled with a naturally affectionate
disposition, taught the prairie chief to address his mother.
"Well, my son, I will go. Wherever Whitewing leads I will follow, for
he is led by Manitou. I would go a long way to meet that good man the
pale-face preacher."
"Then to-morrow at sunrise the old one will be ready, and her son will
come for her."
So saying, the chief rose, and stalked solemnly out of the wigwam.