AN ALLIANCE OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE.
Hearing this unexpected shot, Oliver was in the act of rushing to
assist his friend, whom he supposed attacked by some wild beast, when
the hearty and joyous voice of the Canadian was heard.
"Don't disturb yourself, my friend," he cried, "I have only been
providing our dinner."
And next minute he reappeared, carrying on his back a doe, which he
hung to one of the lower branches of the magnolia, and then began to
open.
"Handsome beast, is it not?" he said. "I believe the rascal was
listening. He paid dear for his curiosity."
"A fine beast and cleverly killed," replied Oliver, helping to skin the
animal.
"It is a pity to spoil a good skin. I am a pretty good shot, but you
should see my father shoot a tiger in the eye."
"That," cried Oliver, "seems extraordinary."
"I have seen him do it twenty times, and still more difficult things,"
said the other. "But such deadly certainty is pure habit. We live by
our guns--but to finish my story."
"Go on, my friend."
"My father was a child when we left Canada. He is now about
forty-eight. My grandfather taught him to be a hunter, and to bind
him to the tribe he married him when very young to a charming young
Indian, a relative of Kouha-hande, and my mother in consequence. We are
mere children. I am only twenty, and my sister but fifteen, lovely as
the breath of dawn, and whose real name is Angela, my father's wish.
But the Indians call her Evening Dew. That is all. I am a hunter. I
hate the English and the North Americans, who are worse than John Bull
himself, and I love the French, whose countryman I am."
"You are quite right. Few native-born Frenchmen are such strong
patriots as you. But now for your name."
"Have I not told you? My name is Pierre Berger, but the Indians, in
their mania for such names, call me Bright-eye, I hardly know why."
"Of course because of your admirable power of shooting."
"Well, perhaps you are right. I am a pretty good hand," said the young
man, modestly. "And now, my friend, I have to add that I reached here
yester evening at sundown, and that I am waiting for a friend, who will
be here shortly. It is now your turn to tell me your history, unless,
indeed, you have any motives for remaining silent, in which case a
man's secrets are his own."
"I have no secrets, especially from you, my dear Bright-eye, and the
proof is that if you will listen, I will tell you who I am and why I
came into this country."
"I shall be delighted to hear your story," cried the Canadian, with
evident delight.
From the very first moment when he saw the hunter and came to speak
to him, Oliver felt himself attracted towards him by one of those
movements of attraction or irresistible sympathy which spring from
intuition of the heart.
He had therefore, during his conversation, determined if possible to
make him a friend.
He thereupon told him his story in its most minute details, the
Canadian listening with the most profound and sustained attention,
without interrupting him by a single remark. He appeared sincerely
interested in the numerous incidents of a life wretched from its
commencement, and yet which the young man told frankly and simply,
without bitterness, but with an impartiality which indicated the
grandeur and nobility of his nature.
"Sad story, indeed," he cried, when the other had concluded; "how you
must have suffered from the unjust hatred of these people! Alone in the
world, without any to interest himself in you; surrounded by hostile or
indifferent people; compelled to suffer from dark and insidious foes;
capable of great things--young, strong, and intelligent, yet reduced to
fly into the desert, and separate yourself from your fellows. Pardon if
my cruel curiosity has reopened the wound which long since should have
been cauterised."
He paused, keenly watching the other's face.
"Will you be my friend?" he suddenly cried. "I already feel for you an
affection I can scarcely explain."
"Thanks," cried Oliver, warmly, "I accept your offer with delight."
"Then it is agreed: from henceforth we are brothers."
"I swear it," resumed Oliver.
"We shall henceforth be two to fight the battle of the world."
"I thank heaven we have met."
"Never to part again. You have no family. I will find you one, brother,
and this family will love you," he added.
"Heartily accept my thanks, Bright-eye," exclaimed Oliver; "life
already seems changed, and I feel as if happiness were yet possible in
this world."
"There can be no doubt about it. Believe me, it depends on yourself.
Look upon the past only as a dream, and think only of the future."
"I will do so," returned Oliver, with a sigh.
"And now to business. Young as I am, you will soon find that I enjoy a
certain amount of reputation among the Indians and trappers. Very few
would dare to attack me. I was educated in an Indian village, and, as I
believe I have already told you, I am here to keep an appointment with
a young Indian, my friend and relative. This Indian I now expect every
moment, and I shall introduce you to him. Instead of one friend, you
will have two devoted brothers. Now then," he added, laughing, "are you
not fortunate?"
"I am convinced of it," said Oliver.
"When we have finished our business in these parts--and you may help us
in this business--we will return to my tribe, of which you shall become
a member."
"I am wholly in your hands, Bright-eye," he said; "I make no
resistance. I only thank you."
"No thanks. I am useful to you today; you may be as useful, or more so,
tomorrow."
"Very well. But what is the affair that detains you here, to which you
just alluded?" asked Oliver.
"I must say that I do not know, though frankly I have my own
suspicions. My friend has not thought proper to explain as yet, but
simply gave me a rendezvous here, saying that I might prove useful.
That was enough for me, and, as you see, I am here. It would be an
act of indiscretion on my part to tell you anything I had not been
directly told. Besides, I may be mistaken, and speak to you of a wholly
different matter from the true one."
"You are quite right."
"To pass the time I will prepare supper."
"And while doing so tell what manner of man your friend is."
"He is a young man like ourselves, grandson of Kouha-hande. He is
himself a chief, and a noted brave. Though young, his reputation is
immense. He is tall, athletic, and even elegant of face. His features
are handsome, even to effeminacy. His glance, gentle in repose as that
of a dove, is, when his anger is aroused, so terrible that few can face
it. His physical force is stupendous, his cunning sublime. But you will
soon judge for yourself. His enemies call him Kristikam-Seksenan, or
Black Thunder; his friends call him Numank-Charake, the brave man, in
consequence of his mighty deeds."
"You have simply been describing a hero," said Oliver.
"You shall judge for yourself," smiled the other.
"I am extremely anxious to do so."
"You will soon have the opportunity. It is now five o'clock. In a few
minutes he will be here."
"What, after making an appointment so long ago, you expect him to keep
it to the minute!"
"Yes; it is the politeness of the desert, from which nothing absolves
but death."
"A summary excuse, truly," said Oliver.
"Listen," cried Bright-eye.
Oliver listened, and distinctly heard in the distance the trampling
of a horse, which suddenly ceased, to be followed by the cry of the
goshawk.
Bright-eye responded with a similar cry, and with such perfection that
the Frenchman mechanically raised his head in search of the bird.
Then the sound of a horse galloping recommenced, the bushes parted
violently, and a horseman bounded into the clearing, checking his steed
so artistically that next moment he stood like a centaur rooted to the
ground.
The rider was very much as Bright-eye had described him. There was
about him, moreover, an air of grandeur, a majesty which inspired
respect without repelling sympathy. One glance sufficed to fix him as a
man of superior nature.
It was the first time Oliver, since his journey on the prairies, had
seen an Indian so near, and under such favourable circumstances. He at
once formed a friendly opinion of him.
The chief bowed, and then pointed to the sun gilding the summits of the
trees.
"It is five o'clock. Here is Numank-Charake."
"I say welcome, chief. I know your extreme punctuality. Supper is
ready."
"Good," said the chief, alighting from his horse with one bound.
Bright-eye then placed his hands on his friend's shoulders.
"Let my brother listen. The hunter is my friend."
"Numank-Charake has read it in the eyes of Bright-eye," replied the
Indian, turning to Oliver; "I put my hand on my heart, what will my
brother give me in return?"
"My hand and my heart; that is," he added, with a smile, "all that is
not Bright-eye's."
"I accept my share; henceforth we are three in one, one in three.
Numank-Charake was once the Bounding Panther. Let that name be the name
of my brother."
They shook hands. All was done. According to the customs of the country
they were brothers, and held everything in common.
Almost on the threshold of his desert life, Oliver found himself
associated with two men noted as the most honest and doughty champions
of the prairie.