AN OMINOUS RENCOUNTER.
"I will work him
To an exploit now rich in my device,
Under the which he shall not choose but fall."
The sun passed the meridian, on that summer day in 1821 and Harvey
Richter, the young missionary, came to the door of his cabin,
intending to set forth upon his walk to the Indian village. It was
rather early; the day was pleasant and as his wife followed him, he
lingered awhile upon the steps, loth to leave a scene of such holy
joy.
The year which the two had spent in that wilderness had been one of
almost unalloyed happiness. The savages, among whom they had come to
labor, had received them more kindly than they deemed it right to
anticipate, and had certified their esteem for them in numberless
ways. The missionary felt that a blessing was upon his labor.
An infant had been given them, and the little fellow brought nothing
but gladness and sunlight into the household. Ah! none but a father
can tell how precious the blue-eyed image of his mother was to Harvey
Richter; none but a mother can realize the yearning affection with
which she bent over the sleeping cherub; and but few can enter into
the rollicking pride of Teddy over the little stranger. At times, his
manifestations were fairly uproarious, and it became necessary to
check them, or to send him further into the woods to relieve himself
of his exuberant delight.
Harvey lingered upon the threshold, gazing dreamily away at the
mildly-flowing river, or at the woods, through which for a
considerable distance, he could trace the winding path which his own
feet had worn. Cora, his wife, stood beside him, looking smilingly
down in his face, while her left hand toyed with a stray ringlet that
would protrude itself from beneath her husband's cap.
"Cora, are you sorry that we came into this wild country?"
The smile on her face grew more radiant, as she shook her head without
speaking. She was in that pleasant, dreamy state, in which it seems an
effort to speak--so much so that she avoided it until compelled to do
so by some direct question.
"You are perfectly contented--happy, are you?"
Again the same smile, as she answered in the affirmative by an
inclination of the head.
"You would not change it for a residence at home with your own people
if you could?"
The same sweet denial in pantomime.
"Do you not become lonely sometimes, Cora, hundreds of miles away from
the scenes of your childhood?"
"Have I not my husband and boy?" she asked, half reproachfully, as the
tears welled up in her eyes. "Can I ask more?"
"I have feared sometimes, when I've been in the village, that perhaps
you were lonely and sorrowful, and often I have hurried my footsteps
that I might be with you a few moments sooner. When preaching and
talking to the Indians, my thoughts would wander away to you and the
dear little fellow there. And what husband could prevent them?" said
Harvey, impulsively, as he drew his wife to him, and kissed her again
and again.
"You must think of the labor before you."
"There is scarcely a moment of my life in which I don't, but it is
impossible to keep you and him from my mind. I am sorry that I am
compelled to leave you alone so often. It seems to me that Teddy has
acted in a singular manner of late. He is absent every afternoon. He
says he goes hunting and yet he rarely, if ever, brings anything back
with him."
"Yesterday he returned shortly after you left, and acted so oddly, I
did not know what to make of him. He appeared very anxious to keep me
at a distance, but once he came close enough for me to catch his
breath, and if it did not reveal the fumes of liquor then I was never
more mistaken in my life."
"Impossible! where could he obtain it?"
"The question I asked myself and which I could not answer;
nevertheless his manner and the evidence of his own breath proved it
beyond all doubt to my mind. You have noticed how set he is every
afternoon about going away in the woods. Such was not his custom, and
I think makes it certain some unusual attraction calls him forth."
"What can it all mean?" asked the missionary of himself. "No; it
cannot be that he brought any of the stuff with him and concealed it
in the boat. It must have been discovered."
"Every article that came with us is in this house."
"Then some one must furnish him with it, and who now can it be?"
"Are there not some of your people who are addicted to the use of
liquor?"
"Alas! there are too many who cannot withstand the tempter; but I
never yet heard of an Indian who knew how to _make_ it. It is only
when they visit some of the ports, or the Red river settlement, that
they obtain it. Or perhaps a trader may come this way, and bring it
with him."
"And could not Teddy have obtained his of such a man?"
"There has been none here since last autumn, and then those who
visited the village had no liquor with them. They always come to the
village first so that I could not avoid learning of their presence.
Let me see, he has been away since morning?"
"Yes; he promised an early return."
"He will probably make his appearance in the course of an hour or so.
Watch him closely. I will be back sooner to-day, and we shall probe
this matter to the bottom. Good-by!"
Again he embraced his wife, and then strode rapidly across the
Clearing in the direction of the woods. His wife watched his form
winding in and out among the trees, until it finally disappeared from
view; and then, waiting a few moments longer, as if loth to withdraw
her gaze from the spot where she had last seen him, she finally turned
within the house to engage in her domestic duties.
The thrifty housewife has seldom an idle moment on her hands, and Cora
passed hither and thither, performing the numerous little acts that
were not much in themselves, but collectively were necessary, if not
indispensable, in her household management. Occasionally she paused
and bent over her child, that lay sleeping on the bed, and like a fond
mother, could not restrain herself from softly touching her lips to
its own, although it was at the imminent risk of awaking it.
An hour passed. She went to the door and looked out to see whether
Teddy was in sight; but the woods were as silent as if they contained
no living thing. Far away over the river, nearly opposite the Indian
village, she saw two canoes crossing the stream, resembling
ordinary-sized water-birds in the distance. These, so in harmony with
the lazy, sunshiny afternoon, were all that gave evidence that man had
ever invaded this solitude.
Cora Richter could but be cheerful, and, as she moved to and fro, she
sung a hymn, one that was always her husband's favorite. She sung it
unconsciously, from her very blithesomeness of spirits, not knowing
she was making music which the birds themselves might have envied.
All at once her ear caught the sound of a footstep, and confident that
Teddy had come, she turned her face toward the door to greet him. She
uttered a slight scream, as she saw, instead of the honest Hibernian,
the form of a towering, painted savage, glaring in upon her.
Ordinarily such a visitor would have occasioned her no surprise or
alarm. In fact, it was rare that a day passed without some Indian
visiting the cabin--either to consult with the missionary himself, or
merely to rest a few moments. Sometimes several called together, and
it often happened that they came while none but the wife was at home.
They were always treated kindly, and were respectful and pleased in
turn. During the nights in winter, when the storm howled through the
forest, a light burned at the missionary's window, and many a savage,
who belonged often to a distant tribe, had knocked at the door and
secured shelter until morning. Ordinarily we say, then, the visit of
an Indian gave the young wife no alarm.
But there was something in the appearance of this painted sinewy
savage that filled her with dread. There was a treacherous look in his
black eyes, and a sinister expression visible in spite of vermilion
and ocher, that made her shrink from him, as she would have shrunk
from some loathsome monster.
As the reader may have surmised, he was no other than Daffodil or
Mahogany, who had left Teddy on purpose to visit the cabin, while both
the servant and his master were absent. In spite of the precaution
used, he had taken more liquor than he intended; and, as a
consequence, was just in that reckless state of mind, when he would
have hesitated at no deed, however heinous. From a jovial,
good-natured Indian, in the company of the Hibernian, he was
transformed into a sullen, vindictive savage in the presence of the
gentle wife of Harvey Richter. He supported himself against the door
and seemed undecided whether to enter or not. The alarm of Cora
Richter was so excessive that she endeavored to conceal it.
"What do you wish?" she asked.
"Where Misser Richter?"
"Gone to the village," she replied, bravely resolving that no lie
should cross her lips if her life depended upon it.
"When come back?"
"In an hour or so perhaps."
"Where Ted?"
"He has gone hunting."
"Big lie--he drunk--don't know nothing--lay sleep on ground."
"How do you know? Did you see him?"
"Me gib him fire-water--much like it--drink good deal--tumble over
like tree hain't got root."
"Did you ever give it him before?" asked the young wife, her curiosity
supplanting her alarm for the moment.
"Gib him offin--gib him every day--much like it--drink much."
Again the wife's instinctive fear came back to her, and she endeavored
to conceal it by a calm, unimpassioned exterior.
"Won't you come in and rest yourself until Mr. Richter returns?"
"Don't want to see him," replied the savage, sullenly.
"Who do you wish to see then?"
"You--t'ink much of you."
The wife felt as if she would sink to the floor. There was something
in the tones of his voice that had alarmed her from the first. She was
almost certain this savage intended rudeness, now that he knew the
missionary himself was gone. She glanced up at the rifle which was
hung above the fireplace. It was charged, and she had learned how to
fire it since her marriage. Several times she was on the point of
springing up and seizing it and placing herself upon the defensive.
Her heart throbbed wildly at the thought, but she finally concluded to
resort to such an act only at the last moment. She might still
conciliate the Indian by kindness, and after all, perhaps he meditated
no harm or rudeness.
"Come and sit down then, and talk with me awhile," said she, as
pleasantly as it was possible.
The savage stumbled forward a few feet, and dropped into a seat, where
he glared fully a minute straight into the face of the woman. This was
the most trying ordeal of all, especially when she raised her own blue
eyes, and addressed him. It seemed impossible to combat the fierce
light of those orbs, although she bore their scrutiny like a heroine.
He had seated himself near the door, but he was close enough for her
to detect the fumes of the liquor he had drank, and she knew a savage
was never so dangerous as when in a half-intoxicated condition.
"Have you come a long distance?" she asked.
"Good ways--live up north."
"You are not a Sioux, then?"
"No--don't like Sioux--bad people."
"Why do you come in their neighborhood--in their country?"
"'Cause I want to--_come see you_."
"You must come again--"
At this juncture, the child in the cradle awoke and began crying. The
face of the savage assumed an expression of ferocity, and he said,
abruptly:
"Stop noise--me tomahawk if don't."
As he spoke he laid his hand in a threatening manner upon his
tomahawk, and the mother sprung up and lifted the infant in her arms
for the purpose of pacifying it. The dreadful threat had almost
unnerved her, for she believed the savage would carry it out upon the
slightest pretext. But before that tomahawk should reach her child,
the mother must be stricken to the earth. She pressed it convulsively
to her breast, and it quickly ceased its cries. She waited until it
closed its eyes in slumber and then some impulse prompted her to lay
it upon the bed, and to place herself between it and the Indian, so
that she might be unimpeded in her movements if the savage should
attempt harm to her or her offspring.
Several moments now passed without the Indian speaking. The interval
was occupied by him in looking around the room and examining every
portion upon which it was possible to rest his gaze. The survey
completed, he once more fixed his scrutiny upon the young wife, and
suddenly spoke in his sententious, abrupt manner.
"Want sunkin eat."
This question was a relief, for it afforded the wife an opportunity of
expressing her kindness; but, at the same time, it caused a more rapid
beating of her heart, since to procure what was asked, she would be
compelled to pass out of the door, and thus not only approach him much
more closely than she was willing, but it would be necessary to leave
him alone with her infant until her return.
She was in a painful dilemma, to decide whether it was best to refuse
the visitor's request altogether or to comply with it, trusting to
Providence to protect them both. A casual glance at the Indian
convinced her that it would be dangerous to thwart his wishes
longer; and, with an inward prayer to God, she arose and approached
the door. As she passed near him, he moved and she involuntarily
quickened her step, until she was outside. The Indian did not follow,
and she hurried on her errand.
She had gone scarcely a yard, when she heard him walking across the
floor, and detected at the same moment, the cry of her infant. Fairly
beside herself with terror, she ran back in the house, and saw the
savage taking down her husband's rifle. The revulsion of her feelings
brought tears to her eyes, and she said:
"I wish you would go away, I don't like you."
"Kiss me--den I go!" said he, stepping toward her.
"Keep away! keep away!" she screamed, retreating to the door and yet
fearing to go out.
"Kiss me--tomahawk pappoose!" said the savage, placing his hand upon
the weapon.
The young wife placed her hands over her face and sobbed aloud. She
did not hear the cat-like footsteps of the savage, as he approached.
His long arm was already stretched forth to clasp her, when the door
was darkened, a form leaped into the room, and with the quickness of
lightning, dealt the savage a tremendous blow that stretched him limp
and lifeless upon the floor.
[Illustration: Dealt the savage a tremendous blow.]
"Move a limb and I will kill you!" shouted the young missionary, his
face all ablaze with passion. "Cora, has he harmed you?"
"No, no, no, Harvey; have you not already killed him?"
"Pity that I haven't. He is not fit to live."
"Dear Harvey, you are carried away by your passion. Do restrain
yourself."
Woman-like, the only emotion of Cora Richter was that of commiseration
for the poor wretch that had been stricken down by the hand of her
husband. She saw the blood trickling from his face and knew that he
was dreadfully injured. The missionary, too, began to become more calm
and collected; and yet, while regretting the occasion, he could but
think he had done his simple duty to his insulted wife. Had he been
prepared as he entered the door, he would have shot the savage dead in
his tracks.
Harvey picked up his rifle that lay in the middle of the floor, and
approached the prostrate Indian. After pushing and shaking, he gave
signs of returning consciousness, and at length arose to his feet.
His nose had bled copiously, and one eye was "closed," as if he had
been under the manipulation of some pugilist.
The wife brought a basin of water, and offered a bandage, while Harvey
proffered his assistance. But the Indian, without speaking, motioned
them aside, and made his way out the door. On the threshold he paused
a moment and looked back--and that look Harvey Richter will remember
to his dying day.
Both breathed freer when he had gone. They then looked in each other's
faces a moment and the wife sunk into her husband's arms.
"Did I not do right, Cora?"
"Yes; oh, yes; but, Harvey, this will not be the last of it. You have
made an enemy of that Indian, and he can never be made a friend."
"Such is often the result of doing your simple duty. Let us therefore
trust to God and say no more about it. Ah! here comes Teddy."
The Irishman at this moment entered the door. He was still under the
influence of liquor though he made ludicrous efforts to conceal it.
The wife found opportunity to communicate to her husband all that had
been told her, before the conversation had progressed far. The peril
which she had so narrowly escaped decided the missionary to be
severely just with his servant.
"Teddy, where have you been?"
"Won't that spake for itself?" he replied, holding up a handsome
string of fish. "Begorrah, but it was mighty poor luck I had hunting."
"I should judge you had discovered something unusual from your strange
actions."
The face of the Irishman flushed scarlet, and his confusion was
distressing. "Teddy," he continued, "I am displeased at the manner in
which you have acted for the last week or two. Had it not happened
that I left the village sooner than usual to-day, most probably my
wife and son would have been killed."
The fellow was completely sobered.
"What is it ye say, Mister Harvey?"
"For several days you have failed to return in the time you promised,
so that I have been compelled to leave them alone and unprotected.
This afternoon, an Indian came in the house and threatened the life of
both my wife and child--"
"Where the divil is he?" demanded Teddy, springing up; "I'll brake
ivery bone in his body."
"He is gone, never to return I trust."
"Be the powers! if I could but maat him--"
"Do not add falsehood to your conduct. He said that you and he have
met constantly and drank liquor together."
The expression of blank amazement was so genuine and laughable that
the missionary could hardly repress a smile. He felt that his last
remark was hardly fair. Teddy finally burst out.
"'Twas that owld Mahogany copperskin; but did I iver 'xpact he was up
to _sich_ a trick and he would niver have l'aved me a-fishing. Oorah,
oorah!" he muttered, gnashing his teeth together. "What a miserable
fool I _have_ been. He to come here and insult me mistress after
professin' the kindest regards. May I be made to eat rat-tail files
for potaties if iver I trust red-skin honor again!"
"It strikes me that you and this precious savage had become quite
intimate. I suppose in a few weeks longer you would have left us and
lived with him altogether."
The tears trickled down Teddy's cheeks, and he made answer in a meek,
mournful tone:
"Plaise forgive me, Mister Harvey, and Miss Cora. Yees both knows I
would die for yees, and it was little I dr'amed of a savage iver
disecrating this house by an ungentlemanly act. Teddy never'll sarve
yees the like agin."
"I have no faith in the promises of a man who is intemperate."
The Irishman raised his hand to heaven:
"May the good Father above strike me dead if I iver swallow another
drop! Do yees belave me now. Mister Harvey?"
"You must not place the reliance in your own power, Teddy. Ask His
assistance and you'll succeed."
"I'll do so; but, ye saa, the only mill where I could get the cursed
stuff was of this same Indian, and as I politely towld him I'd
practice wid me gun on him if he offered me anither drop, and, as I'd
pick him off now, after this shine, as quick as I would a sarpent, it
ain't likely he'll bother me agin."
"I hope not, but I have the same apprehension as Cora that he will
return when we least expect him. We must manage so that we are never
both away from the house at the same time. It is now getting well
along in the afternoon, Teddy; you may prepare your fish for supper."
The Irishman obediently moved away, and the young missionary and his
wife were left together.