HOW THE THREE TRAVELLERS WENT TO GEORGE CLINTON'S.
This terrible revelation fell like a thunderclap upon the four
personages who sat at table. There was for some minutes a silence
caused by perfect stupor.
"You are indeed a sinister messenger, chief," said the old man,
bitterly; "whence do you get this news?"
"Perhaps you are mistaken," gasped the father.
"Listen," said the chief, sadly, "and you shall hear what has passed in
a few words."
"First sit down and break bread," cried the old man; "we are friends
and relatives, and this awful catastrophe affects you as well as us."
"You say truly," responded the young chief, seating himself.
"Eat and drink," said the old man; "then we will talk."
The meal continued, to the great astonishment of Oliver. He could
not understand the calm and sang-froid of these four men in presence
of such an awful event. He was half inclined to accuse them even of
coldness of heart.
He knew nothing of that Indian etiquette, more severe than that of any
other country, which requires this apparent coldness. He soon, however,
discovered how much he was mistaken, and how deeply all these brave and
loyal hearts were wounded by the fatal incident.
The repast was sad and gloomy. Nobody spoke. They ate as if it were a
duty which must be done.
After the hasty repast was over there was silence.
"You have come, sir," said the old man, addressing Oliver, "at an
unfortunate moment; pardon us if we seem rude and inhospitable. But
evil has fallen on us."
"You told me, sir," replied the young man, "that I was to become a
member of your family. Let me, then, share your sorrows as well as your
joys. I feel more on the subject than you think, being Bright-eye's
brother."
"Thank you; you are one of us," said the old man.
"You are my second son," cried the father.
"I thank you, and hope to prove myself deserving."
Everybody now rose from table, filled his pipe and lighted it, and
then, the repast having in the meantime been cleared away, seated
themselves by the fire.
"Chief," said the old man, "the time has come. We are ready to listen
to you with the deepest attention."
Rising and bowing to all, the chief, who affected stoical gravity, but
who had great difficulty in controlling his voice, spoke--
"Lagrenay's wife was never ill. Evening Dew was carried off by Tom
Mitchell from the squatters."
"Are you quite positive?" asked the grandfather.
"I am positive. The news was brought to me just now by a courier in
whom I have every confidence. He saw all that happened without himself
being seen."
A deep silence prevailed. None interrupted the old man.
"Allow me," he said, "to speak frankly to you, chief. You are my
relative; I remember your birth, and love you."
"My father is good, and knows I love him," replied the chief.
"I know it; but pardon me if I speak very plainly. There is a
hesitation in your words which alarms me excessively. I am sure you
have not told us all you think."
The chief bowed his head.
"I knew I was right," cried the old man; "you know far more than you
choose to say."
"No skin covers my heart, my blood runs red and clear in my veins; the
Wacondah sees and judges me. Let my father explain himself frankly.
I ought only to speak after him. His head is white with the snows of
wisdom. He is wise."
"Good, Numank-Charake, you are a great brave, despite your youth. Soon
you will be renowned in council. I know the motives which shut your
mouth. You love her."
The young man started.
"Do not deny it," said the old man. "I know it, as does my son, and we
rejoice both of us. She will be happy with one who is both strong and
brave. Not knowing our sentiments towards you, you have nobly hesitated
to accuse a near relative. You have acted well. But time presses, and
not a moment is to be lost. We know our cousin as well, or perhaps
better, than you do. We know also that falsehood never soiled your
lips. To keep further silence would be to commit a bad action--to make
yourself almost the accomplice of the ravishers. Speak out, then, like
a man."
"I obey," replied the young man, respectfully.
"And hide nothing, I pray," added François Berger.
"I will tell you everything," he said, "as you know my heart is given
to Evening Dew. I love her; her love is my joy, her voice my happiness.
On my return to the village, after my unfortunate expedition, Evening
Dew was no longer in her father's wigwam. I asked news of everybody; I
even ventured to ask you. Your answer filled me with discouragement.
I returned to my hut heartbroken with despair. My grandfather had
pity on me. Kouha-hande loves me, and spoke like a wise man. 'Go,' he
said, 'find Bright-eye at the spot agreed on; he is the brother of
Evening Dew; he will grieve with you, and perhaps give you good advice.
During his absence I will watch. If necessary, I will go to the hut of
the white man on the Wind River. Adieu, my son, and may the Wacondah
accompany you,' I obeyed my father. I put on my travelling moccasins,
took my gun, provisions, all that a hunter requires, and started. But
my soul was sorrowful; a sad presentiment froze me to the marrow of my
bones; Wacondah sent it."
"Courage, child," said the old man, kindly. "Wacondah is powerful and
just; He tries those whom He loves."
"Two hours ago I returned to the village of my nation. I was very
sad and uneasy. Without a word I left my comrades and friends, and
rushed to my wigwam. My father's father awaited me. He was gloomy and
thoughtful, and rose as I entered. I guessed at once what I had to
expect. This is what I learned. Kouha-hande is a sachem whose words are
not to be doubted. For two days, hid in the thickets, he watched the
hut of the squatter of the River of the Wind. The second day, before
the rising of the moon, there was a sharp whistle near the habitation,
and a man appeared. He was very pale, wore the costume of the hunter
of the prairies, and carried a rifle. At the distance the sachem could
not make out his features. Almost immediately, however, a second person
appeared on the scene, coming from the inside of the hut, and this was
the squatter himself."
"Are you sure of what you say?" asked the old man.
"Kouha-hande knew him," replied the chief.
"Go on," gloomily remarked old Berger.
"The two men approached each other, spoke for a long time in a low
tone, and then separated, after exchanging one phrase, which the
sachem heard distinctly. This phrase, which seemed to summarise their
conversation, was--"
"'You swear upon your honour that she will be quite safe and respected
in every way,' said the squatter."
"'As if she were my own sister or daughter, I swear unto you,' replied
the hunter."
"The two men then parted. That was all. Two hours passed away. Just
about the time when the blue jay begins its first song, the sachem, who
had remained still in his hiding place, his eye and ear on the strain,
heard a noise approaching rapidly, like that of a number of people
who, fearing no surprise, thought it useless to take any precautions.
They soon came in sight. They were no less than thirty palefaces, armed
with rifles. They surrounded the hut and attacked it on all sides."
"The squatter and his servants defended themselves like people taken by
surprise--that is, feebly."
"The assailants soon entered the hut. My grandfather now heard a great
tumult inside. But he was alone, could do no good, and therefore
remained in his hiding place. At the end of an hour the men came out,
escorting a fainting female, who was wrapped in a frazada. Satisfied
with the result of their expedition, they went off without even closing
the doors behind them. Kouha-hande waited some little time, and then,
convinced that the assailants had departed, went into the wigwam."
"All was in disorder. The furniture was overthrown and broken; the
squatter, his wife, and servants, tied and gagged, lay on the floor.
The sachem hastened to stir up the fire, then he lighted some torches,
after which he set all the people at liberty. Even then for some time
they were unable to move or speak."
"The squatter's wife wept, wrung her hands, and bitterly reproached her
husband with his cowardice, which had been the cause of the abduction
of her niece."
"And what did he say?" asked Berger.
"Nothing," said the chief; "he was overwhelmed, appeared struck by
stupor, remaining utterly motionless. Presently he seemed to recover
his spirits. Kouha-hande then offered to start in pursuit of the
ravishers, but the squatter refused, alleging that the trail was
no doubt by this time so cleverly concealed as to render pursuit
impossible. He left the punishment of the villains in the hands of
God. The sachem, seeing plainly that he was not wanted, went away. But
Kouha-hande was determined to reach to the bottom of the dark scheme;
instead of returning to his village, he followed the abductors."
"These, having apparently no fear of pursuit, had left ample traces
of their passage in the forest, and took not the slightest precaution
to conceal their route in a straight line through the forest. It led
direct to the Missouri. The sachem at once saw through the whole thing.
These hunters, the sachem declared, could only be the redoubtable
outlaws commanded by the extraordinary chief before whom all trembled,
white and red, in the prairie."
"Tom Mitchell," groaned the old man.
"Himself," said the chief. "The sachem, after exploring the two banks
of the river for many miles, came back to the village of his nation,
and told me what he had seen. This is my story. Have I well said?"
"You have," cried François Berger; "but let me speak. I am the only
one person in fault. I should never have separated from my daughter.
It is my duty to go in search of her. I will find her or perish in the
attempt."
He attempted to rise, but Oliver checked him.
"Pardon me, sir," he said, gently, "if I interfere in so delicate and
grave a matter. The friendship I bear your son, the cordial way in
which you have received me, compel me to feel as if I were personally
concerned in the matter. May I therefore be allowed to speak a few
words?"
"Speak," said the old hunter.
"Sir," replied the young man, modestly, "I have listened to every word
as recorded by the chief, and I believe every word as recorded by him.
It appears to me, therefore, in examining the facts, that the attack
of the hunters, arranged with the squatter himself, his repugnance and
refusal to pursue them, point either to treachery or a strange mystery,
which it would be wise to clear up."
"Unfortunately," said the old man, "we share your opinion. The
treachery is too flagrant to be doubted."
"You believe in treachery," urged Oliver.
"Base and cowardly treachery," cried Berger, striking the table.
"Be assured, then," continued Oliver, "and you will be a better judge
of the correctness of my opinion than I am, your enemies, whoever they
may be, have spies around you, spies employed to watch your movements,
and to report them at once. You Will not have been ten minutes on the
trail of the ravishers ere they would be on your track."
"Quite true," said the old man; "what is to be done?"
"A very simple thing, and one which I am very much surprised you have
not thought of before. We have only reached the village two hours ago;
I, as a stranger, am unknown to anybody, nobody troubles himself in any
way about me. Whither I go matters to no one. With your permission,
at nightfall I will start in company with Bright-eye. If our early
departure is noticed, we can easily give some reason. It is you who
are watched, and no one else. None, knowing the indomitable energy of
your character, will believe that you have allowed anyone else to go in
search of your daughter. We shall be three men, two of whom know the
desert well. The trail of one man is easy to follow, but not of three
wary hunters ever on their guard, at all events, without the spies be
discovered and killed. This is my opinion, and, frankly, I think it
good."
"You have spoken well," repeated the grandfather; "what you say is
just. We are proud to have you for a friend, and we thank you. It is
not necessary to reflect long without owning you are right. It would be
folly to contest the matter, my son, and I, therefore, gladly confide
to you the task of finding our child. Go, as you propose, this evening
at the setting of the moon, my grandson, the chief, and yourself."
"And you will succeed," said the father.
"I hope so, sir," responded the Frenchman; "rely upon it, I shall do
all I can for my new sister."
"My son was fortunate to meet you. God bless you all."
The two young people simply thanked Oliver by looks. It was eleven
o'clock at night when they started, without being noticed. We already
know how they met the outlaw.