ONEOTAH.
To say that the boys were surprised by these words would inadequately
describe the emotion that seized upon them as they listened to them—they
were literally dumbfounded.
“Great heavens! this is wonderful!” cried Percy Vere. “What do you think
of it?” he added, appealing to his cousin.
“I take all back; old Smo’ is by no means slow!” responded Cute. “I
don’t wonder that he can bamboozle the benighted Indians, for he has
completely kerflummixed me.”
The warriors, who had drawn nearer when Smoholler dismissed his spirit,
uttered an approving grunt. It may be that the Prophet had purposely
availed himself of this opportunity of displaying his divining power
before them.
“Is what I have told you true?” he demanded of the boys.
“It is,” Percy Vere admitted.
“Every word of it,” added Cute. “This beats spirit-rapping all hollow;
your spirit comes without a rap, and his information don’t cost a rap.”
“And having told me so much, I am led to believe you can also tell me
where I can find my father?” cried Percy Vere, eagerly.
The Prophet shook his head.
“I can learn from my spirit whether he is alive or dead, perhaps,” he
replied; “but _Monedo_ does not care to seek for a pale-face; he hates
the white race, as I do.”
“You have a queer way of showing it,” exclaimed Cute. “I should have
been like poor uncle Ned, without any hair on the top of my head, by
this time, if it had not been for you.”
“Why have you spared our lives?” asked Percy. “The Indian seldom extends
mercy to a captive, I have heard.”
The Prophet laughed disdainfully.
“You have heard and read many things about the Indian,” he replied; “but
they are spoken and written by the pale-faces, and there is little truth
in them. I have spared your life that you may bear a message to the
surveyor’s camp for me. But first you shall partake of food with me. You
must feel the need of some refreshment.”
“Well, I feel peckish, and no mistake,” answered Cute. “So if you have
got any fodder, just tote it along.”
“Something to eat would not come amiss,” said Percy Vere. “We intended
to have been back with game to our camp before this.”
The Prophet laughed in his forbidding manner.
“Your camp will not get any game on this side of the river,” he
rejoined. “A dozen of my warriors guard the mouth of the ravine, and it
will be sure destruction to the pale-face who attempts to pass through
it. You would have fallen into the ambush, had you not turned to the
right and ascended the cliff.”
“How did you know the direction we had taken?” asked Percy, curiously.
“A sentinel posted upon the cliff gave us warning. Nothing can escape
the vigilance of my scouts. They have eyes like hawks. Yonder camp is
hemmed in—they must recross the river or I shall drive them into it.”
He clapped his hands and an Indian boy came bounding toward him—a boy
with a graceful, lithe form, and step as bounding as that of an
antelope. He was handsomely dressed, and wore the same colors as the
Prophet, and was, evidently, his familiar attendant, or page.
Like the Prophet, he wore a head-dress taken from an animal, but his was
the head of an antelope. The sharp horns were left, and the whole face
of the animal preserved in such a manner that the boy’s face was
completely covered by it, and his dark eyes glistened through the
eye-holes; and so nicely was the skin fitted to his face, that he
appeared to be a boy with an antelope’s head.
“Jumping ginger!” exclaimed Cute, as the boy bounded lightly forward;
“what kind of a critter is that, anyway?”
“Glyndon was mistaken,” remarked Percy, thoughtfully, as he watched the
Indian boy’s approach.
“In what?”
“It was his tracks we saw. There’s no squaw in the party.”
“That’s so, by king! I never thought of it before; but you are right,
there isn’t.”
“Oneotah,” said the Prophet to the boy; “prepare some venison steaks for
us.”
The boy made a respectful obeisance.
“Yes, master,” he replied, in tones that were singularly clear and
bell-like, and then he hastened to obey.
Cute smacked his lips.
“Venison-steaks, _a-la-mode de Indian_!” he exclaimed. “I think I can
put myself outside of some without any difficulty.”
“I must confess to being rather sharp set myself,” replied Percy. “That
tramp through the thicket, and the lively fight afterward, have
freshened up my appetite to a degree.”
“The food will be quickly served,” said the Prophet. “See, Nature
spreads her table for us. Come.”
He led the way to a square bowlder that reared its form from the turf
beside a little streamlet that went purling by on its way to the river,
its clear, crystal water looking cool and refreshing. The Prophet cast
himself down beside the rock, and the boys followed his example. As they
glanced through the arches of the forest they saw several fires blazing
in different directions, and groups of Indians clustered around them.
General preparations for a meal were in progress.
The boys were impressed by the romance of the scene, and Cute conveyed
his idea of it by exclaiming, rather unpoetically:
“Say, Percy, ain’t this high? You said you would like to see Smoholler,
the Prophet, and here we are, invited to take an _al fresco_ dinner with
him.”
The Prophet raised himself upon his elbow, and regarded Percy Vere
earnestly.
“Why did you wish to see me?” he asked.
“Because I thought you might give me some intelligence of my father,”
answered Percy.
“Why should you think so?”
“Because you are a man of great intelligence. I heard so before I saw
you, and I am satisfied of it now.”
The Prophet inclined his head as if pleased with the compliment.
“You possess a wonderful power over the Indians, I can see—and I think
few parties of hunters could cross the river, which you watch so
jealously, unknown to you.”
“You are right; my spies are everywhere, my commands implicitly obeyed.
Along the course of yonder mighty river, from its rocky source to where
it empties into the ocean, there is no chief who is respected and feared
like Smoholler. Already my warriors outnumber the fighting men of the
other tribes, and daily I am gaining accessions to my ranks. They come
to listen to the recital of my dreams, and they remain, satisfied that
the power I profess is not an idle boast. You shall pay me a visit to
Priest’s Rapids, if you like, and I will show you the germ of a growing
nation. Ah! the day will come, and it is not far distant, when the
tribes of the Pacific Slope will be gathered into one grand confederacy
which will acknowledge Smoholler as its chief.”
The Prophet’s breast heaved and his eyes dilated with a fervid
enthusiasm, as he pronounced these words.
“An Indian emperor!” exclaimed Cute. “Bully for you!”
“And why not? The descendants of the Aztecs and Toltecs still roam these
plains and mountains. Why should not I revive the glories of Montezuma’s
empire?”
“Montezuma’s power fell before the white man’s advance, and I fear the
white settlers crowd too closely upon your projected empire,” replied
Percy Vere. “But it is a great idea, and that you may prosper is my
sincere wish. I would like to see the red-man raised to a better
position than that he now occupies. You are the best judge of his
capabilities. The white hunters are too prone to regard him in the light
of a savage beast—and not without some cause, either.”
“Cause? The first offense came from the white man!” cried the Prophet,
fiercely.
“It may be so; but, in our particular instance, if you had let us alone,
we should not have troubled you.”