Thomas Cooper was a fine specimen of the North American trapper.
Slightly but powerfully made, with a hardy, weather-beaten, yet handsome
face; strong, indefatigable, and a crack shot--he was admirably adapted
for a hunter's life. For many years he knew not what it was to have a
home, but lived like the beasts he hunted--wandering from one part of
the country to another, in pursuit of game. All who knew Tom were much
surprised when he came, with a pretty young wife, to settle within three
miles of a planter's farm. Many pitied the poor young creature, who
would have to lead such a solitary life; while others said, "If she was
fool enough to marry him, it was her own look-out." For nearly four
months Tom remained at home, and employed his time in making the old hut
he had fixed on for their residence more comfortable. He cleared and
tilled a small spot of land around it, and Susan began to hope that, for
her sake, he would settle down quietly as a squatter. But these visions
of happiness were soon dispelled, for, as soon as this work was
finished, he recommenced his old erratic mode of life, and was often
absent for weeks together, leaving his wife alone, yet not unprotected,
for, since his marriage, old Nero, a favorite hound, was always left at
home as her guardian. He was a noble dog--a cross between the old
Scottish deerhound and the bloodhound, and would hunt an Indian as well
as a deer or bear, which, Tom said, "was a proof they Injins was a sort
o' warmint, or why should the brute beast take to hunt 'em, nat'ral
like--him that took no notice of white men?"
One clear, cold morning, about two years after their marriage, Susan was
awakened by a loud crash, immediately succeeded by Nero's deep baying.
She recollected that she had shut him in the house, as usual, the night
before. Supposing he had winded some solitary wolf or bear prowling
around the hut, and effected his escape, she took little notice of the
circumstance; but a few moments after came a shrill, wild cry, which
made her blood run cold. To spring from her bed, throw on her clothes,
and rush from the hut, was the work of a minute. She no longer doubted
what the hound was in pursuit of. Fearful thoughts shot through her
brain; she called wildly on Nero, and, to her joy, he came dashing
through the thick underwood. As the dog drew near, she saw that he
galloped heavily, and carried in his mouth some large, dark creature.
Her brain reeled; she felt a cold and sickly shudder dart through her
limbs. But Susan was a hunter's daughter, and, all her life, had been
accustomed to witness scenes of danger and of horror, and in this school
had learned to subdue the natural timidity of her character. With a
powerful effort, she recovered herself, just as Nero dropped at her feet
a little Indian child, apparently between three and four years old. She
bent down over him; but there was no sound or motion: she placed her
hand on his little, naked chest; the heart within had ceased to beat: he
was dead! The deep marks of the dog's fangs were visible on the neck;
but the body was untorn. Old Nero stood, with his large, bright eyes
fixed on the face of his mistress, fawning on her, as if he expected to
be praised for what he had done, and seemed to wonder why she looked so
terrified. But Susan spurned him from her; and the fierce animal, who
would have pulled down an Indian as he would a deer, crouched humbly at
the young woman's feet. Susan carried the little body gently in her arms
to the hut, and laid it on her own bed. Her first impulse was to seize
the loaded rifle that hung over the fire-place, and shoot the hound; and
yet she felt she could not do it, for, in the lone life she led, the
faithful animal seemed like a dear and valued friend, who loved and
watched over her, as if aware of the precious charge intrusted to him.
She thought, also, of what her husband would say, when, on his return,
he should find his old companion dead. Susan had never seen Tom roused.
To her he had ever shown nothing but kindness; yet she feared as well as
loved him, for there was a fire in those dark eyes which told of deep,
wild passions hidden in his breast, and she knew that the lives of a
whole tribe of Indians would be light in the balance against that of his
favorite hound.
Having securely fastened up Nero, Susan, with a heavy heart, proceeded
to examine the ground around the hut. In several places she observed the
impression of a small moccasined foot; but not a child's. The tracks
were deeply marked, unlike the usual light, elastic tread of an Indian.
From this circumstance Susan easily inferred that the woman had been
carrying her child when attacked by the dog. There was nothing to show
why she had come so near the hut: most probably the hopes of some petty
plunder had been the inducement. Susan did not dare to wander far from
home, fearing a band of Indians might be in the neighborhood. She
returned sorrowfully to the hut, and employed herself in blocking up
the window, or rather the hole where the window had been, for the
powerful hound had, in his leap, dashed out the entire frame, and
shattered it to pieces. When this was finished, Susan dug a grave, and
in it laid the little Indian boy. She made it close to the hut, for she
could not bear that wolves should devour those delicate limbs, and she
knew that there it would be safe. The next day Tom returned. He had been
very unsuccessful, and intended setting out again, in a few days, in a
different direction.
"Susan," he said, when he had heard her sad story, "I wish you'd left
the child where the dog killed him. The squaw's high sartain to come
back a seekin' for the body, and 'tis a pity the poor crittur should be
disappointed. Besides, the Indians will be high sartain to put it down
to us; whereas, if so be as they'd found the body 'pon the spot, may be
they'd onderstand as 'twas an accident like, for they 're unkimmon
cunning warmint, though they an't got sense like Christians."
"Why do you think the poor woman came here?" said Susan. "I never knew
an Indian squaw so near the hut before?"
She fancied a dark shadow flitted across her husband's brow. He made no
reply; and, on repeating the question, said angrily, "How should I
know? 'Tis as well to ask for a bear's reasons as an Injin's."
Tom only staid at home long enough to mend the broken window, and plant
a small spot of Indian corn, and then again set out, telling Susan not
to expect him home in less than a month. "If that squaw comes this way
agin," he said, "as may be she will, just put out any victuals you've
a-got for the poor crittur; though may be she wont come, for they Injins
be onkimmon skeary." Susan wondered at his taking an interest in the
woman, and often thought of that dark look she had noticed, and of Tom's
unwillingness to speak on the subject. She never knew that on his last
hunting expedition, when hiding some skins which he intended to fetch on
his return, he had observed an Indian watching him, and had shot him,
with as little mercy as he would have shown to a wolf. On Tom's return
to the spot, the body was gone; and in the soft, damp soil was the mark
of an Indian squaw's foot; and by its side, a little child's. He was
sorry then for the deed he had done; he thought of the grief of the poor
widow, and how it would be possible for her to live until she could
reach her tribe, who were far, far distant, at the foot of the Rocky
Mountains; and now to feel, that, through his means, too, she had lost
her child, put thoughts into his mind that had never before found a
place there. He thought that one God had formed the red man as well as
the white--of the souls of the many Indians hurried into eternity by his
unerring rifle; and they, perhaps, were more fitted for their "happy
hunting grounds," than he for the white man's heaven. In this state of
mind, every word his wife had said to him seemed a reproach, and he was
glad again to be alone, in the forest, with his rifle and his hounds.
The afternoon of the third day after Tom's departure, as Susan was
sitting at work, she heard something scratching and whining at the door.
Nero, who was by her side, evinced no signs of anger, but ran to the
door, showing his white teeth, as was his custom when pleased. Susan
unbarred it, when, to her astonishment, the two deerhounds her husband
had taken with him, walked into the hut, looking weary and soiled. At
first she thought Tom might have killed a deer not far from home, and
had brought her a fresh supply of venison; but no one was there. She
rushed from the hut, and soon, breathless and terrified, reached the
squatter's cabin. John Wilton and his three sons were just returned from
the clearings, when Susan ran into their comfortable kitchen; her long,
black hair, streaming on her shoulders, and her wild and bloodshot
eyes, gave her the appearance of a maniac. In a few unconnected words,
she explained to them the cause of her terror, and implored them to set
off immediately in search of her husband. It was in vain they told her
of the uselessness of going at that time--of the impossibility of
following a trail in the dark. She said she would go herself: she felt
sure of finding him; and, at last, they were obliged to use force to
prevent her leaving the house.
The next morning at daybreak, Wilton and his two sons were mounted, and
ready to set out, intending to take Nero with them; but nothing could
induce him to leave his mistress: he resisted passively for some time,
until one of the young men attempted to pass a rope round his neck, to
drag him away: then his forbearance vanished, and he sprang upon his
tormentor, threw him down, and would have strangled him, if Susan had
not been present. Finding it impossible to make Nero accompany them,
they left without him, but had not proceeded many miles before he and
his mistress were at their side. They begged Susan to return; told her
of the inconvenience she would be to them. It was no avail; she had but
one answer,--"I am a hunter's daughter, and a hunter's wife." She told
them that, knowing how useful Nero would be to them in their search,
she had secretly taken a horse and followed them.
The party rode first to Tom Cooper's hut, and there, having dismounted,
leading their horses through the forest, followed the trail, as only men
long accustomed to savage life can do. At night they lay on the ground,
covered with their thick, bear-skin cloaks: for Susan only, they heaped
a bed of dried leaves; but she refused to occupy it, saying, it was her
duty to bear the same hardships they did. Ever since their departure,
she had shown no sign of sorrow. Although slight and delicately formed,
she never appeared fatigued: her whole soul was absorbed in one longing
desire--to find her husband's body; for, from the first, she had
abandoned the hope of ever again seeing him in life. This desire
supported her through everything. Early the next morning they were on
the trail. About noon, as they were crossing a small brook, the hound
suddenly dashed away from them, and was lost in the thicket. At first
they fancied they might have crossed the track of a deer or wolf; but a
long, mournful howl soon told the sad truth, for, not far from the
brook, lay the faithful dog on the dead body of his master, which was
pierced to the heart by an Indian arrow.
The murderer had apparently been afraid to approach on account of the
dogs, for the body was left as it had fallen--not even the rifle was
gone. No sign of Indians could be discovered, save one small footprint,
which was instantly pronounced to be that of a squaw. Susan showed no
grief at the sight of the body: she maintained the same forced calmness,
and seemed comforted that it was found. Old Wilton staid with her to
remove all that now remained of her darling husband, and his two sons
set out on the trail, which soon led them into the open prairie, where
it was easily traced through the tall, thick grass. They continued
riding all that afternoon, and the next morning by daybreak were again
on the track, which they followed to the banks of a wide but shallow
stream. There they saw the remains of a fire. One of the brothers thrust
his hand among the ashes, which were still warm. They crossed the river;
and, in the soft sand on the opposite bank, saw again the print of
small, moccasined footsteps. Here they were at a loss; for the rank
prairie-grass had been consumed by one of those fearful fires so common
in the prairies, and in its stead grew short, sweet herbage, where even
an Indian's eye could observe no trace. They were on the point of
abandoning the pursuit, when Richard, the younger of the two, called his
brother's attention to Nero, who had, of his own accord, left his
mistress to accompany them, an if he now understood what they were
about. The hound was trotting to and fro, with his nose to the ground,
as if endeavoring to pick out a cold scent Edward laughed at his
brother, and pointed to the track of a deer that had come to drink at
the river. At last he agreed to follow Nero, who was now cantering
slowly across the prairie. The pace gradually increased, until, on a
spot where the grass had grown more luxuriantly than elsewhere, Nero
threw up his nose, gave a deep bay, and started off at so furious a
pace, that, although well mounted, they had great difficulty in keeping
up with him. He soon brought them to the borders of another forest,
where, finding it impossible to take their horses further, they tethered
them to a tree, and set off again on foot. They lost sight of the hound,
but still, from time to time, heard his loud baying far away. At last
they fancied it sounded nearer instead of becoming less distinct; and of
this they were soon convinced. They still went on in the direction
whence the sound proceeded, until they saw Nero sitting with his
fore-paws against the trunk of a tree, no longer mouthing like a
well-trained hound, but yelling like a fury. They looked up in the tree,
but could see nothing, until, at last, Edward espied a large hollow
about half way up the trunk. "I was right, you see," he said. "After
all, it nothing but a bear; but we may as well shoot the brute that has
given us so much trouble."
They set to work immediately with their axes to fell the tree. It began
to totter, when a dark object, they could not tell what, in the dim
twilight, crawled from its place of concealment to the extremity of a
branch, and from thence sprung into the next tree. Snatching up their
rifles, they both fired together; when, to their astonishment, instead
of a bear, a young Indian squaw, with a wild yell, fell to the ground.
They ran to the spot where she lay motionless, and carried her to the
borders of the wood, where they had that morning dismounted. Richard
lifted her on his horse, and springing himself into the saddle, carried
the almost lifeless body before him. The poor creature never spoke.
Several times they stopped, thinking she was dead: her pulse only told
the spirit had not flown from its earthly tenement. When they reached
the river which had been crossed by them before, they washed the wounds,
and sprinkled water on her face. This appeared to revive her; and when
Richard again lifted her in his arms to place her on his horse, he
fancied he heard her mutter, in Iroquois, one word,--"revenged!" It was
a strange sight, those two powerful men tending so carefully the being
they had a few hours before sought to slay, and endeavoring to stanch
the blood that flowed from wounds which they had made! Yet so it was. It
would have appeared to them a sin to leave the Indian woman to die; yet
they felt no remorse at having inflicted the wound, and doubtless would
have been better pleased had it been mortal; but they would not have
murdered a wounded enemy, even an Indian warrior, still less a squaw.
The party continued their journey until midnight, when they stopped, to
rest their jaded horses. Having wrapped the squaw in their bear-skins,
they lay down themselves, with no covering save the clothes they wore.
They were in no want of provisions, as, not knowing when they might
return, they had taken a good supply of bread and dried venison, not
wishing to loose any precious time in seeking food while on the trail.
The brandy still remaining in their flasks, they preserved for the use
of their captive. The evening of the following day, they reached the
trapper's hut, where they were not a little surprised to find Susan. She
told them that, although John Wilton had begged her to live with them,
she could not bear to leave the spot where everything reminded her of
one to think of whom was now her only consolation; and that, while she
had Nero, she feared nothing. They needed not to tell their mournful
tale--Susan already understood it but too clearly. She begged them to
leave the Indian woman with her. "You have no one," said she, "to tend
and watch her as I can do; besides, it is not right that I should lay
such a burden on you." Although unwilling to impose on her mind the
painful task of nursing her husband's murderess, they could not allow
but that she was right; and seeing how earnestly she desired it, at last
consented to leave the Indian woman with her.
For many weeks Susan nursed her charge, as tenderly as if it had been
her sister. At first she lay almost motionless, and rarely spoke; then
she grew delirious, and raved wildly. Susan fortunately could not
understand what she said, but often turned shuddering away, when the
Indian woman would strive to rise from her bed, and move her arms, as if
drawing a bow; or yell wildly, and cower in terror beneath the
clothes--reacting in her delirium the fearful scenes through which she
had passed. By degrees reason returned; she gradually got better, but
seemed restless and unhappy, and could not bear the sight of Nero. The
first proof of returning reason she had shown, was a shriek of terror
when he once accidentally followed his mistress into the room where she
lay. One morning Susan missed her; she searched around the hut, but she
was gone, without having taken farewell of her kind benefactress.
A few years after, Susan Cooper,--no longer "pretty Susan," for time and
grief had done their work--heard, late one night, a hurried knock, which
was repeated several times before she could open the door, each time
more loudly than before. She called to ask who it was at that late hour
of night. A few hurried words in Iroquois was the reply, and Susan
congratulated herself on having spoken before unbarring the door. But,
on listening again, she distinctly heard the same voice say,
"Quick--quick!" and recognized it as the Indian woman's voice she had
nursed. The door was instantly opened, when the squaw rushed into the
hut, seized Susan by the arm, and made signs to her to come away. She
was too much excited to remember then the few words of English she had
picked up when living with the white woman. Expressing her meaning by
gestures, with a clearness peculiar to the Indians, she dragged rather
than led Susan from the hut. They had just reached the edge of the
forest when the wild yells of the Indians sounded in their ears. Having
gone with Susan a little way into the forest, her guide left her. For
nearly four hours she lay there, half dead with cold and terror, not
daring to move from her place of concealment. She saw the flames of the
dwelling, where so many lonely hours had been passed, rising above the
trees, and heard the shrill "whoops" of the retiring Indians. Nero, who
was lying by her side, suddenly rose and gave a low growl. Silently a
dark figure came gliding among the trees directly to the spot where she
lay. She gave herself up for lost; but it was the Indian woman, who came
to her, and dropped at her feet a bag of money, the remains of her late
husband's savings. The grateful creature knew where it was kept; and
while the Indians were busied examining the rifles and other objects
more interesting to them, had carried it off unobserved. Waving her arm
around to show that all was now quiet, she pointed in the direction of
Wilton's house, and was again lost among the trees.
Day was just breaking when Susan reached the squatter's cabin. Having
heard the sad story, Wilton and two of his sons started immediately for
the spot. Nothing was to be seen save a heap of ashes. The party had
apparently consisted of only three or four Indians; but a powerful tribe
being in the neighborhood, they saw it would be too hazardous to follow
them. From this time, Susan lived with the Wiltons. She was as a
daughter to the old man, and a sister to his sons, who often said,
"That, as far as they were concerned, the Indians had never done a
kindlier action than in burning down Susan Cooper's hut."