A LEAF FROM THE HERMIT’S LIFE.
The hermit and his red companion guided their steps toward the river,
whose banks they were not long reaching; and, at last, somewhat
fatigued, they ensconced themselves under a shelving ledge, secure
from the observation of foes on land and water.
The hour of their greatest peril approached--that both men knew, and
as they lay there waiting, Hewitt told the Indian the story of his
past--a story which the brave and devoted savage was entitled to
hear, that the white might be justified in his eyes.
“The Lone Man will tell Oonalooska all,” said Hewitt, answering to
the expectant look in his companion’s eyes, as an expression of pain
flitted across his face. He brushed something, very much like a
translucent pearl, from his bronzed cheek, and began:
“Many years ago the Lone Man dwelt beyond the Kiskepila Sepe, in the
great State, called by the whites Virginia. He was young then; though
white his hair now, he is not old. When he grew to manhood he took a
beautiful white maiden to his heart, and, in time, she gave the Lone
Man a laughing little boy.”
Here emotion overcame the strong man, and, for many moments, his face
was buried in his great hands.
“The Lone Man sighs for his boy,” he said at length. “Often the Lone
Man left his wife and little one, and journeyed to the great city of
Richmond. He never thought that a snake was creeping into his wigwam.
“One night the Lone Man returned to his lodge, and saw two shadows
beyond the window. A great storm passed over his heart, his head
burned with a strong fire, and he crept forward. From behind a giant
oak that spread its branches over his cabin, the Lone Man saw another
seated beside his wife, who rocked the cradle where slept his little
boy. The strange white man was a hunter, and one arm he had thrown
around the neck of Agnes.
“Hotter and hotter grew the Lone Man’s head, and when the hunter’s
lips--unbearded, for he seemed no more than a beautiful boy--touched
the rosy cheeks of Agnes, his rifle flew to his shoulder, and the
young hunter fell across the cradle, with a bullet in his brain.
“The Lone Man waited not to charge his wife with her unfaithfulness.
He darted into the forest with her shriek ringing in his ears, and
he swore, until death, to dwell alone in the great wood. He crossed
the Kiskepila Sepe, and found the cave near the Scioto, where he has
since dwelt alone. Since that dark night the Lone Man’s hand has
never drunk the blood of man, and until death it never drinks it.
Oonalooska, the Lone Man’s heart bleeds to meet his boy; but he will
never cross the eagle river again. Among the woods of the Ohio he
will die. But when the young hunter goes back to Virginia, he will
hunt for the hermit’s child and wife, and tell him what become of
them.
“Now, Oonalooska knows why the Lone Man sought the forests of Ohio.”
For a long time the Indian was silent.
“Oonalooska would know what became of the Lone Man’s squaw and
pappoose,” he said, at length. “The Shawnee believes that they are
not in the lodge of the Great Spirit.”
“I pray that they are not,” said the hermit, fervently. “I curse
the impulse that led me to shoot the young hunter without giving
him a chance for his life. Perhaps Agnes was not to blame. Oh, to
think that a moment of calm inquiry might have prevented my being a
murderer,” and a groan of agony burst from the hermit’s heart, as he
buried his face in his palms.
“Oona, when came Alaska to the lodges of the Shawnees?” asked the
cave man when he, at length, raised his head to the chief.
“When the snows of four winters rested upon Oonalooska’s head,” was
the reply.
“How many winters has Oonalooska seen?”
The Shawnee designated twenty-five, by counting his fingers.
“How singular!” murmured the hermit, lowering his head. “Twenty-one
years ago my hands were dyed with human blood, and twenty-one years
ago Alaska came to the Shawnees! Oh, the resemblance she bears to
Agnes! Heaven, solve the terrible enigma!”
He questioned the Shawnee no further regarding the Wolf-Queen; but
both lapsed into silence as they awaited the passing of the day.
Their work was to be done by night alone.
The afternoon was well spent, when the dip of oars assailed their
ears. Oonalooska glided from the hermit’s side.
More distinct grew the plash of oars, and presently six canoes,
loaded to the water with painted braves, flitted past the Shawnee’s
line of vision.
In the prow of the foremost canoe stood Tecumseh.
“Tecumseh is on the war-path,” said Oonalooska, returning to the
hermit. “The White Wolf is not with him. The Lone Man and Oonalooska
must tear the pale-faces from his people before the great chief
returns.”
The hermit saw the truth of the Indian’s words, and promptly
acknowledged it. Tecumseh had never been outwitted by a white man.
At length night came, and the twain left the ledge.
They glided to the opening through which they had emerged from the
cave, and reëntered the deserted home. It had been pillaged by the
savages; but the couple discovered some jerked meat that satisfied
their hunger, and from a secret cache Hewitt drew two rifles and a
quantity of ammunition.
Thus equipped they were leaving the deserted home, when from one of
the subterranean passages an animal bounded. It was the hermit’s dog.
“Wolf, old fellow, with us again,” cried Hewitt, patting the animal’s
shaggy back. “You shall go with us. Mebbe we’ll need your nose and
teeth.”
Leaving the cave, they hurried toward the Indian village, and
ensconced themselves in a thicket that commanded a tolerable view of
Tecumseh’s home.
From that thicket soon arose the hoot of an owl, three times
repeated; then all was still as the night.