THE PRISONER OF THE DACOTAHS.
On a gently-sloping bank, which fell greenly to one of the many streams
that empty into the north fork of the Platte, the Dacotahs had erected
their encampment. On the rich sward, and in the shade of clustering
trees, the wigwams had been hastily erected, and the business of savage
life commenced its course. The fires of the morning were just beginning
to send up white puffs and blue curls of smoke, that floated among the
forest-branches in a thousand fanciful wreaths, at which the painted
warriors gazed dreamily as they smoked in silent idleness around the
encampment. Half-clad children tumbled on the grass or rolled in and out
into the stream, rioting in the waves like water-dogs, and shouting out
their animal joy, till the whole prairie rung with it.
Outside the camp, snarling curs fought over the already well-picked
bones, or slunk off yelping, when punished for their constant thefts. In
the background, horses browsed luxuriantly on the tender foliage of the
trees which surrounded the little prairie with a belt of arching
greenness.
Through the openings of these trees, hunters could be seen in groups,
returning from the woods laden with game. The wigwams were built in a
large circle, apart from a lodge of superior dimensions that stood in
the center, and yet, in a way, guarding it. This lodge was gaudily
decorated, and the painted buffalo-skins which covered it were fastened
closely to the ground.
Every thing about this lodge was silent as night; there was no noise
from within, no sign that it was inhabited Not a curve of smoke came
from its cone-like top. Not a child played near it: so closely was it
guarded, that a savage footstep dared not venture within speaking
distance of it. Yet how still the lodge was—you would have thought it a
habitation of the dead.
The Black Eagle came from his night rendezvous and entered the
encampment, not with his usual savage pomp, but quite alone, and
stealthily, as if he would gladly have escaped observation. It was not
fear or modesty, but crafty cunning which rendered him so cautious. The
gold which he had received weighed him down with anxiety. His treachery
in holding the secret negotiation he well knew would, if once known,
destroy his popularity with the tribe. Besides this, it would enforce a
division of the spoils.
To place this gold in a safe hiding-place had been his first object;
compared to this, the safety of his prisoner had sunk into a secondary
consideration. More than once, in his rapid march toward the Dacotah
camping-ground, he had resolved to bury his treasure in some rocky
gorge, or hide it in the crevices of some unfrequented cañon, or sink it
deep in some swift-running stream. But avarice, the master demon passion
of his nature, forbade this. So long as possible, he yearned to detain
the gold in his own personal keeping. Thus, he brought it with him to
the tribe, and crept like a thief stealthily into the camp where he had
a right to command.
He entered his own wigwam, and after cautiously assuring himself that no
one was present to observe his action, thrust aside the brand from the
center fire with his foot, and buried his treasure deep, deep in the
ground underneath. He stamped it down close, scattered the ashes deftly
over the spot, heaped the brands together again, then breathing deeply,
as if a load had been lifted from his heart, gathered up his savage
dignity, and stalked forth into the encampment.
The Black Eagle paused to speak with no one, but strode forward to that
lone wigwam, and raising a corner of one of the skins, entered it.
An abrupt movement, and a wild sharp cry greeted him. Like a fawn, which
some deep mouthed hound has tracked to its hiding-place, Esther sprung
from a pile of furs, and retreating to the furthest bounds of the
wigwam, stood regarding the savage, her eyes full of wild terror, her
white lips trembling, and every pulse in her body quivering with horror
and disgust.
Black Eagle looked upon her in grim triumph.
“The daughter of the pale-face has been smiled upon by the Manitou of
dreams. The waves of sweet slumber have been surging in her ears,” he
said, toning down his deep, guttural voice into something like
gentleness.
“Why am I kept here? Tell me, why have I been so cruelly torn from my
father?” she cried, passionately. “How could you have the heart to
return our kindness in this way? Think of the Laramie. Did we not
befriend you then better than any of your own people?”
“Pale-face, your words fall on the ear of Black Eagle sweet as the song
for birds in spring-time; his heart drinks them in as the dry earth
opens itself to the summer rain—speak on.”
“You are cruel, unprincipled; you evade my question. Tell me, oh, I beg
of you, tell me for what purpose I am here. Why have I been made a
prisoner? If gold is your object, my father will give it you in handfuls
for my safe return.”
“The yellow dust of the pale-faced chief will yet be stored in the
wigwams of the Dacotahs.”
“What! Man, if you are a man, what terrible meaning is hid beneath your
words?”
“The Dacotahs are masters of the prairie! When the moccasin of his
enemies leave their print upon the trail, the warriors gather thick
around like the buzzards. He has robbed the red-man of his lands and
hunting-grounds—has driven the deer and buffalo away before the thunder
of his fire-weapon. They starve for food—he has plenty. They long for
the swift-footed horses—he has them by hundreds. Their little ones cry
for milk—his wigwams are filled with it.”
“Then you would basely steal his daughter and afterward plunder him.”
“Let the girl of the snowy skin listen. The words of the warrior are
few. Not his the tongue to prattle like the little pappoose, or tell of
his deeds like the squaw of an hundred winters. The Eagle of the
Dacotahs saw the young dove of the valley. He swept from his mountain
home on his broad wings and there was mourning and blackened faces in
the parent nest.”
“But why have you done this, if gold was not your object?”
“When a soft glance of the fiery-eyed sun steals into the wigwam of the
pale-faces, does he shut it out? When the smile of morning cleaves its
way through the shadows of night, does he hang thick blankets in his
way? The red-man is not a fool. He has eyes and he can see.”
“Why speak in riddles? Tell me plainly of your meaning, if you would
have me answer.”
“The daughter of the chief of the long rifles came to the wigwams of the
Black Eagle. He looked upon her and his heart grew sick of the brown
faces of his tribe. When he returns from the long trail, with aching
feet and tired limbs, the white-faced maiden shall make his wigwam
bright.”
“Still I can not comprehend. Your words are a mystery and your actions
shrouded,” answered Esther, turning deathly pale.
“Black Eagle would have a pale-face squaw to dress his venison and
fringe his leggins with the scalp-locks.”
“What! Your wife? Merciful heavens, you can not mean that!”
“The tongue of the pale girl is sweet; her hair is like the silk of the
maize, when browned in the moon of the falling leaf. She has turned the
trail of truth. She shall find a home in the wigwam of the red-man. The
Black Eagle has said it.”
“Never! I will die first.”
“The angel with wings like the thunder-cloud that stands by the dark
river comes not when the children of earth call. Many years yet the
moccasin of the wife of Black Eagle will press the prairie.”
“Your wife—the White Hawk—yes.”
“Waupee will wait upon the new wife of Black Eagle. She is put away from
the breast of the warrior.”
“Any thing but your wife.” The poor girl shuddered as she spoke the
hateful word. “Merciful heaven, am I reserved a fate like this?”
“The dove may beat its tender breast against its prison, but the coo of
its song will yet be music for the ears of its mate when it looks for
his coming with its wings folded.”
“I your mate! I dwell in your wigwam! Listen to me, treacherous man.
Sooner than submit to that, I would leap from the precipice and dash
myself into atoms on the jagged rocks beneath—leap into the deep stream
and float a disfigured corpse among the reeds on its shore—with my own
hand I will destroy the life God has given me, and escape with
self-murder from your loathsome power.”
Without deigning to reply to what he perhaps scarcely understood, the
savage whistled long and shrill. In a moment the poor, injured and
abandoned wife, Waupee, entered, shrinking and trembling as if in mortal
terror. A few words of command were given to her in her nation’s tongue
that the white girl could not understand, and without lifting her eyes,
Waupee departed.
“Let the child of the white man prepare!” continued Black Eagle. “The
Medicine of the tribe is hastening to prepare the marriage ceremony of
the Dacotahs. The maidens are weaving the bright flowers of spring, and
the warriors decking themselves in their best robes. The hour has come.
The wigwam of the sachem shall lift its mat for a new bride.
“Man! man! is there no mercy in your heart, no feeling, no pity?”
A whistle—a signal, apparently—fell upon the ear of the Indian. He
seemed greatly disturbed, and without reply, hurried from the wigwam. As
he lifted the covering on one side in passing, the form of the White
Hawk entered at the other.
“Waupee, White Hawk!” exclaimed Esther, clinging to her. “Save me from
this awful fate. Think of my father—think of my friends—of those that
love me, those that I love. For the sake of heaven, if I was ever kind
to you, save me now.”
The finger of the poor, discarded wife was pressed upon her lips, and
bending low she kissed the hem of Esther’s dress but did not speak a
word. But her movements were rapid as thought. From the folds of her
garments she drew forth a long and slender knife, placed it in the hands
of the prisoner, and almost before her purpose could be divined, glided
from the wigwam.
“Thanks, at least, for this,” muttered the prisoner under her breath.
“When all else fails, I will use your knife, poor Waupee.”
A step approached, and concealing the knife, she stood, white and
statue-like, awaiting the next phase of her destiny. It was only a girl
of the Dacotahs who brought food. In her desperation, Esther strove to
question her; but the girl stood motionless while she spoke, with her
eyes bent on the ground, but gave no word of reply.
She placed the rude meal, upon still ruder dishes of birch bark, on a
mat in the center of the wigwam, and went out, having performed her task
in profound silence. Filled with terrible apprehensions, Esther did not
touch the food, but, drawing the knife from her bosom, stood at bay,
ready to use it in self-defense, or, failing that, in self-sacrifice.
“Why should I not use it now—before he comes?” she murmured. “It is but
a blow, and I am safe. But oh, the dark labyrinth of that unknown
valley; my very soul shudders at the thought of threading it unbidden.
Better endure the black horrors of my situation a little longer,
trusting in a merciful God, than escape by crime.” A touch upon the arm
brought her with a wild leap from the ground where she had been sitting.
It was Waupee, the wife of Black Eagle.
“The daughter of the pale-face can cease weeping. Black Eagle is
listening for the hoofs of his enemies. He sees a great cloud of dust on
the prairie, and he has many foes. Eat in peace; he will take the trail
and ride toward the setting sun.”
Esther’s strength gave way now. She fell upon her knees, and sobbed out
her passionate gratitude, clinging to the poor Indian wife and lavishing
kisses on her robe and her hands.
An hour later, and, seated upon a but half-tamed steed, with a painted
warrior at either side, she was hurried forward toward the rocky cañon
known as the South Pass.