TRUE HEART.
The band of Indians having Esther Morse in charge, led by the
treacherous Black Eagle, belonged to that portion of the Dacotahs or
Sioux, usually known among border men as _gens du large_, to distinguish
them from the _gens du lac_, who lived in villages on the borders of
Spirit Lake, and kept themselves aloof, in a very great degree, from
both plunder and murder. Scarcely divining the object of their leader in
conducting them through the rocky mountain passes, while another portion
had been sent off to attack the train of the white men, and totally
ignorant of his plans, they yet followed blindly on, believing that the
end would compensate them for their toil.
It was upon the very crest of a rocky spur of the mountain that he had
raised the war-cry of the tribe, intending only that it should lure the
Mormon still deeper into the fastnesses, and so place him completely at
his mercy, either for the disgorgement of hoarded gold, or it might be
for total robbery. Very much to his surprise, a single clear, ringing
voice, powerful as a trumpet, answered from a still higher point, and a
single horseman was seen picking his way down the steep mountain side,
holding every movement clearly within the range of his vision.
It was not wonderful that an object like this, appearing suddenly in
that lonesome place, should startle the superstitious men who composed
Black Eagle’s band. For an instant they huddled close together, watching
the horseman with a wild look of terror, thinking him the Manitou of the
mountain, or some messenger sent from the Walham Tanka, or Great Spirit
that dwells on high, who smiles in the sunshine, or frowns in the
thunder-cloud, whispers in the morning wind, or rolls his anger over the
earth in the rushing tornado.
Esther Morse watched the horseman with suspended breath, as he rode
along the verge of the beetling cliff. To her vivid imagination, he
seemed more like a warrior of the air, descending from the fleecy
clouds, than a mortal being. Then, as he descended toward them, and
became more distinctly visible, her fancy returned to earth, and she
could but regard him as a knight of romance coming to her rescue, with
eagle plumes, tinged with sunlight, his shield shaped with golden bars.
It was strange, but even in that moment, Esther forgot her peril, her
bonds, and her captivity. Strange, and yet is not our being twin-mated?
Are we not composed of widely different natures—different as bright day
from ebon night, yet, like them, bound in indissoluble fetters? One the
soaring spirit—the mystical essence of immortality, and the other, the
dull and sluggish clay that shall never know aught of eternal life; the
ethereal essence of endless being, and the lifeless clod of the valley;
the foreshadowing of things to come, and the inanimate pitcher that
shall yet be broken at the well; the subtle lightning of Divinity, and
the gross longings of dust. Ah! well, indeed it is, that:
“The soul itself dissolving from clay fetters, heavy, dreary,
With spirit wings can travel the land of dread and doubt;
Can revel in the brightness, when fainting and earth-weary,
And for itself the secret of the mystery find out.”
A short descent, and the turning of a sudden curve brought horse and
rider to the plateau upon which the band of Black Eagle were resting.
With the silent greeting, usual among the red-men, he was received, and
yet, more than one lip murmured audibly—Osse ’o.
Esther Morse watched his movements with keen interest. There was
something kingly in his presence, and commanding in his movements, that
convinced her he was a man of authority among the Indians. His dress
partook more of a white hunter’s, than that of a Dacotah chief. The
saddle and decorations of his horse bore evidence of having been
manufactured by the hands of an artist. His dress and moccasins were of
finely-dressed doeskin; a cap of soft fur sat easily on his head,
surmounted by a single eagle’s plume; around his neck, hanging upon his
bosom, as the Indians usually wear some favorite ornament, was a small
shield, exquisitely engraved, and studded with silver knobs.
Silver-mounted pistols were secured by a crimson sash, that girded his
waist, and in his hand he poised a spear of finer workmanship than ever
came from savage hands.
Surely this man was either an exquisite in his tribe or a man of
wonderful authority—no warrior ever displayed a form more lithe and
sinewy. His eyes were large, bright, and of a color rare among the
Indians. In the graded avenue or the broad prairie it would have been
difficult to match him in that haughty grace which gives command and
insures respect. There was a softness, too, in his deep, rich voice
which seemed inconsistent with his wild life, and once, when he turned
to look upon Esther, an encouraging smile stole over his lips, a thing
so unusual with his people that the young girl felt her heart beating
quick with wild hopes.
“The warriors of the Dacotahs are wandering far from their wigwams,” he
said, addressing Black Eagle, and looking with piercing eye around the
circle of his followers as if he read the motive of their journey.
“The moccasins of Osse ’o are not often heard so far from the Spirit
Lake,” was the evasive response.
“The prairie is open to every one. The _gens du large_ may roam
unquestioned to worship the Manitou in the giant caves of the mountain.”
“My brother is a _gens du lac_. Has he been seeking the Great Spirit?”
“When the war-cry of the Dacotahs rung upon his ears he thought himself
alone with the spirits of the mountain. But why are the horses of the
Black Eagle turned toward the setting sun? The trail they are following
leads away from their squaws and little ones.”
“The white man has many hoofs. His pouch is filled with the red gold.
The Dacotahs are poor. The buffalo and deer have been driven from his
hunting-grounds—the beaver and otter from the stream. The wild horse has
fled before the fire-weapon of the pale-face—the green maize is cut down
beneath the roll of his iron-shod wheels. The children of the prairie
seek food for their little ones in vain. The wigwam is empty. The
pale-face robbed the Dacotah and they but take their own back again.”
“The words of Black Eagle are like the trail of the serpent, crooked and
full of guile. His tongue is forked and his feet have lost the trail of
truth. There is neither hoof nor food of the pale man in his keeping.”
“They were beaten off—the pale-faces were thick as the berries of the
mahnononee.”
“The kernels of the wild rice are countless. The Dacotah is not a mole
that runs blindly into a trap. The fire-weapons of the pale-face are
death. Where are the wounded and the dead among the red-men?”
Quailing as Black Eagle did in heart before this straightforward
questioning, and well aware that the stranger knew the truth of the
matter, he yet prevaricated:
“The red-men fled. When they saw that the pale-face would sweep them
from the earth, they—”
“Stole this innocent girl and fled like cowardly wolves.”
Bitter indeed was the taunt contained in the words, and the iron frame
of the Black Eagle shook with the fury of his rage—a rage that he dared
not exhibit while the cool, unflinching eye of Osse ’o was upon
him—though he would not for a moment hesitate to seek revenge when he
could do so in safety to himself. When in the hour of darkness he could
strike assassin-like, or from some lurking-place send the stone-tipped
arrow on its deadly mission, Black Eagle never hesitated; but now his
coward eyes sunk under the gaze fixed upon him.
“What was your purpose in taking the girl?”
“Gold, gold.”
“And you brought her here into the almost pathless mountains, expecting
to find those here who would give you gold?”
It was another home thrust, and even those who had been the firm
followers of Black Eagle began to see that he had some secret purpose in
leading them thither. A quick suspicion that they had been imposed upon
and detained for the selfish purpose of their chief, when they might
have been plundering the train, or following in the trail of the
Mormons, picking off their cattle as opportunity offered, or by some
_coup de main_ stampeded their horses, disturbed them greatly.
“No,” replied Black Eagle, who had taken time to consider, for he dared
not mention the Mormons as being in any way connected with his plan,
“No; but the Dacotahs are not fools! They leave not a plain and open
trail. The paths through the mountains are known to them. They turn not
from the high precipice or grow faint on the upward path. Their enemies
can not follow. True Heart has not followed the hunting so little that
he needs to be told of these things.”
“Unbind the pale-face!”
It was the first words the poor prisoner could understand, the former
conversation having been carried on in the Indian language. But now she
felt that she had gained a protector, if not a friend, and with tears in
her eyes she ventured to thank him.
“The tongue of the pale-face,” he replied, “is twisted to the flattering
language of her tribe. It has learned to belie her heart,” and he turned
hastily away as if in anger.
The idol which Esther had raised so suddenly in her imagination was
shivered to atoms in a single moment; the man’s voice, so changed and
cold, struck a chill to her heart. Notwithstanding, she was very
grateful for relief from her bonds, and springing to the ground, felt an
exquisite relief in her freedom of limb. An Indian, at the command of
her deliverer, went to a little spring that gushed through clustering
ferns and tall grasses from a cleft in the rock behind them, and filling
a birchen cup with water, brought it all cool and sparkling for her to
drink. Another hastened to supply her with food, and Osse ’o took a
softly-dressed bear-skin from his saddle, and throwing it at her feet,
motioned her to rest.
There was something in the thoughtful kindness of this action that
filled her with gratitude again. She lifted her eyes to his face but did
not venture to speak. She saw that the man was evidently concealing his
real character. That he could not be an Indian was her first thought;
but as she looked again, the idea was discarded, for both color and
feature bore too strong proof of his descent to admit of doubt. But why
should he be so kind? It was altogether foreign to the red-man’s nature.
Could he also think of making her his bride? Had she unawares attracted
two savage lovers, who wished for a white slave in their wigwam? Again
the old fear came upon her, and with throbbing heart she bent her head
and gave way to a passionate burst of tears. But hope sprung to her
heart again. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and raising her head saw
Osse ’o standing with folded arms by her side.
“Let the maiden of the snowy skin dry her tears,” he said; “they will
wash all the roses from her cheeks. When the great and good Manitou
placed the red-men on the prairies he did not give them all hearts of
stone.” Then, as if swayed by some sudden impulse he again turned
sternly away.
“Will Osse ’o rob the Black Eagle of his prize?” When Black Eagle asked
this question True Heart stood directly before him upon the very brink
of the precipice, so near that a touch would have sent him headlong to
his death. He did not answer, but stood with his arms folded, looking
out upon the prairie.
“Let the Dacotahs scatter themselves on the mountain and watch the
coming of the pale-face,” replied Osse ’o, without deigning to answer
the question, until it was repeated imperatively.
“My brother knows that Osse ’o never stains his soul with blood—that he
keeps his hand free from plunder.”
“Why then come between me and my prisoner?”
“Is the Black Eagle afraid that a feeble girl will escape when
surrounded by his warriors? Is he a coward that he binds her as he would
a strong man at the stake?”
“No!”
“Does he think her tribe will pay him more gold when they know that he
has tortured her without cause?”
“No! But he does what he likes with his own prisoners, and allows no man
to interfere.”
“The taunt of Black Eagle falls like the wind upon the ears of Osse ’o.
He hears it not.”
Standing as the Eagle did a step in the rear of his companion, it
required but the raising of a hand to gratify his malice—to revenge the
insults he had received and free himself forever from molestation. This
was far too good an opportunity to be lost—too important a moment to be
neglected. The brawny arm was raised—was descending—at the instant Osse
’o turned and saw the movement, though little dreaming of the purpose.
“What does my brother see that he points far away upon the prairie?”
“The buffalo and the deer are being driven by the Manitou of fire!”
“True; but far beyond the rolling smoke the train of the pale-face winds
along, like a white serpent. The hoofs are many for they leave behind
them a long trail of dust.”
“Like the buzzards, they cover the hunting-ground of the red-man; like
the Manitou of starvation, they leave neither food nor grass behind.”
“Like them, the Dacotahs can raise the golden grain—the rustling maize,
and—”
“And be slaves! The Great Manitou gave to the children of the pale-face
the grain for his squaws and little ones; but to the children of the
prairie he gave the hunting-grounds. When the Dacotahs bow their neck to
the yoke, like the cattle of the pale-face, then will their glory
depart, the totem be torn from their breasts—their bows broken, their
arrows headless, and their glory depart forever!”
“When the red-man no more reddens his hand in blood—when the torture at
the stake is forgotten, and no scalp-locks fringe his leggins, there
will—”
“Osse ’o is always talking peace. He is a coward, and dare not go in the
war!”
Osse ’o turned from his companion, with a smile of scorn curving his
lips. Once more folding his arms, he looked forth on the distant
prairie, now a sea of surging smoke and flame.
Black Eagle crept close behind him; slowly his arm was uplifted. A
thrilling cry broke from the white girl: it was too late! The blow fell
with crushing force on the head of Osse ’o as it was slightly bent,
gazing into the distance. The powerful form of the young chief tottered,
his arms were flung wildly out, and he fell headlong over the precipice
into the horrible abyss below.
Black Eagle gave a low, exultant cry; and springing upon the captive
girl, lifted her to the white horse that Osse ’o had ridden down to the
cliff. Regardless of her shrieks and struggles, he bound her firmly to
the saddle; and calling to his warriors, prepared to descend the
mountain. The savages looked astonished when they saw the young girl on
Osse ’o’s horse, and Black Eagle standing by her, alone.
The chief saw discontent in their eyes, and condescended to explain.
“Osse ’o has fallen over the cliff,” he said; “his foot was not sure on
the path. He was like an eagle with broken claws. Let him go.”
There was no one to contradict this monstrous falsehood; for Esther had
fainted on the saddle to which she was bound.