Tradition tells us that long ago an Indian village nestled at the foot
of “Santana Peaks,” called Las Mesas. It was before the white man’s
ambition for new territory led him into the wild haunts of the savage;
before Anglo-Saxon enterprise transformed the West from a wilderness of
romance to a vulgar land of farms and ranches. Herds of buffaloes and
deer roamed the prairies; wild turkeys, geese and game birds were as
plentiful as the leaves on the trees; and the people were happy and
indolent.
Among the inhabitants was Fox-Deer, who had taken unto himself a
pale-face for a wife. He had an only daughter, called Lentalopa,
Laughing-Eye, and he loved her poor, heart-broken mother, whose soul he
gave to the Great Spirit in the forest, and whose body was laid to rest
among the flowers on the “Little Table.”
One evil day a band of white men, with a great train of wagons and an
Indian guide, passed through the gap of Las Mesas and were soon in view
of the little village. Immediately the war-whoop rent the air. The
soldiers and teamsters barely had time to corral their wagons and
prepare for battle before the fierce red devils were circling round and
round them, leaning low on their horses and gradually drawing in. The
lieutenant gave orders not to fire until the enemy came near enough to
the wagons to make every shot count a dead savage.
Each man stood in place, sighting down his musket, waiting breathlessly
for the order. Fox-Deer, clad in a buckskin suit ornamented with
silver, turned his horse towards the wagon corral and gave a signal. In
an instant every warrior was charging the temporary barricade, all
howling like a pack of fiends in hell. Then, from behind the wagons,
there came a hundred puffs of smoke, and a hundred Indians fell
lifeless on the sward.
Fox-Deer led his redskins back to the base of Las Mesas; the soldiers
reloaded their muskets and made ready for a second attack. In the
meantime several of the men reported to the lieutenant that the savages
had a beautiful white girl in captivity.... The lieutenant immediately
sent two men under a flag of truce to the Indians, with the information
that he would withdraw and leave them alone if they would surrender the
white prisoner into his hands.
The answer came back, as quick as a flash of lightning, from the ashy
lips of Wounded Hawk. He said that Laughing-Eye belonged not to the
pale-faces, that he had won her heart for bravery in fighting the
battles of Fox-Deer. “We love each other,” he said in tones of pathos
to the Indian guide, who acted as interpreter; “we have asked the
beautiful moon to melt our hearts into one, and its spirit came down
and danced for joy on the bosom of the silvery stream, because we were
happy. Go away and leave us alone, leave Laughing-Eye among the flowers
and the birds, close to her mother’s grave.”
The men returned and reported the effort to compromise with the Indians
unsuccessful. Wounded Hawk’s story was put down as one of those slick
lies characteristic of his race, and it was decided to attack the
village at once and finish the job of whipping the devils, who had been
rendered inferior by their first charge. As the soldiers drew up near
the wigwams, the golden sun was hanging over the western point of the
mountain. A beautiful valley swept off for miles to the north, and in
the green grass droves of antelopes and deer were playing. Around the
wigwams several squaws were seated upon buffalo robes and among them
was Laughing-Eye, downcast and frightened.
Fox-Deer asked for permission to send his child to a cliff on the
mountain where she could watch the battle without danger. “If the Great
Spirit decides against the poor Indian,” he said, “the white man can
take her, but if He answers her prayer, she will remain in the forest
with Wounded Hawk and be happy.”
Laughing-Eye gave the signal for battle by waving a branch of cedar
from the brow of Las Mesas, and a savage yell went up, as fierce as
mortal ever heard. Fox-Deer led his warriors forth, playing for two of
the highest earthly stakes—the happiness of his daughter and his own
life. In an instant the whites were surrounded. The Indians, riding at
full speed and lying low on the off-side of their ponies, poured volley
after volley of deadly arrows into their dismayed ranks. The lieutenant
fell mortally wounded; a dozen others were dead upon the ground. Closer
and closer the savages came and more hideous grew their war-whoops.
Laughing-Eye knelt upon the cliff to pray; no doubt she had learned to
lisp the name of God at her mother’s knee, and I fancy she asked Him to
restore safe to her bosom the young chief she loved. But the tide of
battle turned, turned at a moment when Wounded Hawk felt the flush of
victory and was almost ready to wave his love back to the joy of the
wigwam.
The surviving soldiers formed a little square, dropped to their knees,
and prepared to receive the last desperate charge of the savages.
Fox-Deer brought his men up, this time in silence. Pointing to the girl
on the brow of the peak and giving a signal which they all understood,
he led a mad rush. A deadly stream of fire poured forth from the little
group of determined whites, and then they sprang to their feet with
bayonets fixed. For a moment the fate of Wounded Hawk hung in the
balance. The struggle was as fierce as opposing forces ever waged.
Indian and Caucasian fell together, with the cold steel in each other’s
breasts, and their mingled blood crimsoned the grass-spears and the
daisies. There was a hush; a little flag bearing the Stars and Stripes
shot up just as the sun was setting. From the overhanging cliff a
scream of agony rent the air. Laughing-Eye understood and leaped upon
the rocks below, into the arms of death.
ANTONETTE’S LEAP
OR
THE LEGEND OF MOUNT BONNELL