Produced by Grant Macandrew, Jennifer Lee, and David Widger
The Prairie
by James Fenimore Cooper
Contents
INTRODUCTION
AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
INTRODUCTION
“The Prairie” was the third in order of Fenimore Cooper’s
Leatherstocking Tales. Its first appearance was in the year 1827. The
idea of the story had suggested itself to him, we are told, before he
had finished its immediate forerunner, “The Last of the Mohicans.” He
chose entirely new scenes for it, “resolved to cross the Mississippi
and wander over the desolate wastes of the remote Western prairies.” He
had been taking every chance that came of making a personal
acquaintance with the Indian chiefs of the western tribes who were to
be encountered about this period on their way in the frequent Indian
embassies to Washington. “He saw much to command his admiration,” says
Mrs. Cooper, “in these wild braves... It was a matter of course that in
drawing Indian character he should dwell on the better traits of the
picture, rather than on the coarser and more revolting though more
common points. Like West, he could see the Apollo in the young Mohawk.”
When in July, 1826, Cooper landed in England with his wife and family,
he carried his Indian memories and associations with him. They crossed
to France, and ascended the Seine by steamboat, and then settled for a
time in Paris. Of their quarters there in the Rue St. Maur, Sarah
Fenimore Cooper writes:
“It was thoroughly French in character. There was a short, narrow,
gloomy lane or street, shut in between lofty dwelling houses, the lane
often dark, always filthy, without sidewalks, a gutter running through
the centre, over which, suspended from a rope, hung a dim oil lamp or
two—such was the Rue St. Maur, in the Faubourg St. Germain. It was a
gloomy approach certainly. But a tall _porte cochère_ opened, and
suddenly the whole scene changed. Within those high walls, so
forbidding in aspect, there lay charming gardens, gay with parterres of
flowers, and shaded by noble trees, not only those belonging to the
house itself, but those of other adjoining dwellings of the same
character—one looked over park-like grounds covering some acres. The
hotel itself, standing on the street, was old, and built on a grand
scale; it had been the home of a French ducal family in the time of
Louis XIV. The rooms on the two lower floors were imposing and
spacious; with ceilings of great height, gilded wainscoting and various
quaint little medallion pictures of shepherds and shepherdesses, and
other fancies of the time of Madame de Sevigne. Those little shepherds
were supposed to have looked down upon _la mère beauté_, and upon _la
plus jolie fille de France_ as she danced her incomparable minuets.
Those grand saloons were now devoted to the humble service of a school
for young ladies. But on the third floor, to which one ascended by a
fine stone stairway, broad and easy, with elaborate iron railings,
there was a more simple set of rooms, comfortably furnished, where the
American family were pleasantly provided for, in a home of their own.
Unwilling to separate from his children, who were placed at the school,
the traveller adopted this plan that he might be near them. One of the
rooms, overlooking the garden, and opening on a small terrace, became
his study. He was soon at work. In his writing-desk lay some chapters
of a new novel. The MS. had crossed the ocean with him, though but
little had been added to its pages during the wanderings of the English
and French journeys.”
When, some months later, the story appeared, its effect was immediate
on both sides the Atlantic. It is worth note that during his French
visit Cooper met Sir Walter Scott. Cooper was born at Burlington, New
Jersey, 15th Sept., 1789, and died at Cooperstown, New York (which took
its name from his father), 14th Sept., 1851.
The following is his literary record:
Precaution, 1820; The Spy, 1821; The Pioneers, 1823; The Pilot, 1823;
Lionel Lincoln, or the Leaguer of Boston, 1825; The Last of the
Mohicans, 1826; The Prairie, 1827; The Red Rover, 1828; Notions of the
Americans, 1828; The Wept of Wish-ton-Wish, 1829; The Water-witch,
1830; The Bravo, 1831; The Heidenmauer, or the Benedictines, 1832; The
Headsman, 1833; A Letter to his Countrymen, 1834; The Monikins, 1835;
Sketches of Switzerland, 1836; Gleanings in Europe: 1837; (England)
1837; (Italy) 1838; The American Democrat, 1838; Homeward Bound, 1838;
The Chronicles of Cooperstown, 1838; Home as Found (Eve Effingham),
1839; History of the U. S. Navy, 1839; The Pathfinder, or the Inland
Sea, 1840; Mercedes of Castile, 1841; The Deerslayer, or the First
Warpath, 1841; The Two Admirals, 1842; The Wing-and-Wing (Jack o
Lantern), 1842; The Battle of Lake Erie, or Answers to Messrs. Burges,
Duer and Mackenzie, 1843; The French Governess; or, The Embroidered
Handkerchief, 1843; Richard Dale, 1843; Wyandotte, 1843; Ned Myers, or
Life before the Mast, 1843; Afloat and Ashore (Miles Wallingford, Lucy
Hardinge), two series, 1844; Proceedings of the Naval Court-Martial in
the Case of Alexander Slidell Mackenzie, etc., 1844; Santanstoe, 1845;
The Chainbearer, 1846; Lives of Distinguished American Naval Officers,
1846; The Red Skins, 1846; The Crater (Marks Reef), 1847; Captain
Spike, or the Islets of the Gulf, 1848; Jack Tier, or the Florida
Reefs, 1848; The Oak Openings, or the Bee-Hunter, 1848; The Sea Lions,
1849; The Ways of the Hour, 1850.
Ernest Rhys, 1907
AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION
The geological formation of that portion of the American Union, which
lies between the Alleghanies and the Rocky Mountains, has given rise to
many ingenious theories. Virtually, the whole of this immense region is
a plain. For a distance extending nearly 1500 miles east and west, and
600 north and south, there is scarcely an elevation worthy to be called
a mountain. Even hills are not common; though a good deal of the face
of the country has more or less of that “rolling” character, which is
described in the opening pages of this work.
There is much reason to believe, that the territory which now composes
Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and a large portion of the country
west of the Mississippi, lay formerly under water. The soil of all the
former states has the appearance of an alluvial deposit; and isolated
rocks have been found, of a nature and in situations which render it
difficult to refute the opinion that they have been transferred to
their present beds by floating ice. This theory assumes that the Great
Lakes were the deep pools of one immense body of fresh water, which lay
too low to be drained by the irruption that laid bare the land.
It will be remembered that the French, when masters of the Canadas and
Louisiana, claimed the whole of the territory in question. Their
hunters and advanced troops held the first communications with the
savage occupants, and the earliest written accounts we possess of these
vast regions, are from the pens of their missionaries. Many French
words have, consequently, become of local use in this quarter of
America, and not a few names given in that language have been
perpetuated. When the adventurers, who first penetrated these wilds,
met, in the centre of the forests, immense plains, covered with rich
verdure or rank grasses, they naturally gave them the appellation of
meadows. As the English succeeded the French, and found a peculiarity
of nature, differing from all they had yet seen on the continent,
already distinguished by a word that did not express any thing in their
own language, they left these natural meadows in possession of their
title of convention. In this manner has the word “Prairie” been adopted
into the English tongue.
The American prairies are of two kinds. Those which lie east of the
Mississippi are comparatively small, are exceedingly fertile, and are
always surrounded by forests. They are susceptible of high cultivation,
and are fast becoming settled. They abound in Ohio, Michigan, Illinois,
and Indiana. They labour under the disadvantages of a scarcity of wood
and water,—evils of a serious character, until art has had time to
supply the deficiencies of nature. As coal is said to abound in all
that region, and wells are generally successful, the enterprise of the
emigrants is gradually prevailing against these difficulties.
The second description of these natural meadows lies west of the
Mississippi, at a distance of a few hundred miles from that river, and
is called the Great Prairies. They resemble the steppes of Tartary more
than any other known portion of Christendom; being, in fact, a vast
country, incapable of sustaining a dense population, in the absence of
the two great necessaries already named. Rivers abound, it is true; but
this region is nearly destitute of brooks and the smaller water
courses, which tend so much to comfort and fertility.
The origin and date of the Great American Prairies form one of natures
most majestic mysteries. The general character of the United States, of
the Canadas, and of Mexico, is that of luxuriant fertility. It would be
difficult to find another portion of the world, of the same extent,
which has so little useless land as the inhabited parts of the American
Union. Most of the mountains are arable, and even the prairies, in this
section of the republic, are of deep alluvion. The same is true between
the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific. Between the two lies the broad
belt, of comparative desert, which is the scene of this tale, appearing
to interpose a barrier to the progress of the American people westward.
The Great Prairies appear to be the final gathering place of the red
men. The remnants of the Mohicans, and the Delawares, of the Creeks,
Choctaws, and Cherokees, are destined to fulfil their time on these
vast plains. The entire number of the Indians, within the Union, is
differently computed, at between one and three hundred thousand souls.
Most of them inhabit the country west of the Mississippi. At the period
of the tale, they dwelt in open hostility; national feuds passing from
generation to generation. The power of the republic has done much to
restore peace to these wild scenes, and it is now possible to travel in
security, where civilised man did not dare to pass unprotected
five-and-twenty years ago.
The reader, who has perused the two former works, of which this is the
natural successor, will recognise an old acquaintance in the principal
character of the story. We have here brought him to his end, and we
trust he will be permitted to slumber in the peace of the just.
J. F. Cooper Paris,
_June_ 1832
THE PRAIRIE
CHAPTER I
I pray thee, shepherd, if that love or gold,
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
—As you like it.
Much was said and written, at the time, concerning the policy of adding
the vast regions of Louisiana, to the already immense and but
half-tenanted territories of the United States. As the warmth of
controversy however subsided, and party considerations gave place to
more liberal views, the wisdom of the measure began to be generally
conceded. It soon became apparent to the meanest capacity, that, while
nature had placed a barrier of desert to the extension of our
population in the west, the measure had made us the masters of a belt
of fertile country, which, in the revolutions of the day, might have
become the property of a rival nation. It gave us the sole command of
the great thoroughfare of the interior, and placed the countless tribes
of savages, who lay along our borders, entirely within our control; it
reconciled conflicting rights, and quieted national distrusts; it
opened a thousand avenues to the inland trade, and to the waters of the
Pacific; and, if ever time or necessity shall require a peaceful
division of this vast empire, it assures us of a neighbour that will
possess our language, our religion, our institutions, and it is also to
be hoped, our sense of political justice.
Although the purchase was made in 1803, the spring of the succeeding
year was permitted to open, before the official prudence of the
Spaniard, who held the province for his European master, admitted the
authority, or even of the entrance of its new proprietors. But the
forms of the transfer were no sooner completed, and the new government
acknowledged, than swarms of that restless people, which is ever found
hovering on the skirts of American society, plunged into the thickets
that fringed the right bank of the Mississippi, with the same careless
hardihood, as had already sustained so many of them in their toilsome
progress from the Atlantic states, to the eastern shores of the “father
of rivers.”[1]
Time was necessary to blend the numerous and affluent colonists of the
lower province with their new compatriots; but the thinner and more
humble population above, was almost immediately swallowed in the vortex
which attended the tide of instant emigration. The inroad from the east
was a new and sudden out-breaking of a people, who had endured a
momentary restraint, after having been rendered nearly resistless by
success. The toils and hazards of former undertakings were forgotten,
as these endless and unexplored regions, with all their fancied as well
as real advantages, were laid open to their enterprise. The
consequences were such as might easily have been anticipated, from so
tempting an offering, placed, as it was, before the eyes of a race long
trained in adventure and nurtured in difficulties.
Thousands of the elders, of what were then called the New States[2],
broke up from the enjoyment of their hard-earned indulgences, and were
to be seen leading long files of descendants, born and reared in the
forests of Ohio and Kentucky, deeper into the land, in quest of that
which might be termed, without the aid of poetry, their natural and
more congenial atmosphere. The distinguished and resolute forester who
first penetrated the wilds of the latter state, was of the number. This
adventurous and venerable patriarch was now seen making his last
remove; placing the “endless river” between him and the multitude his
own success had drawn around him, and seeking for the renewal of
enjoyments which were rendered worthless in his eyes, when trammelled
by the forms of human institutions.[3]
In the pursuit of adventures such as these, men are ordinarily governed
by their habits or deluded by their wishes. A few, led by the phantoms
of hope, and ambitious of sudden affluence, sought the mines of the
virgin territory; but by far the greater portion of the emigrants were
satisfied to establish themselves along the margins of the larger
water-courses, content with the rich returns that the generous,
alluvial, bottoms of the rivers never fail to bestow on the most
desultory industry. In this manner were communities formed with magical
rapidity; and most of those who witnessed the purchase of the empty
empire, have lived to see already a populous and sovereign state,
parcelled from its inhabitants, and received into the bosom of the
national Union, on terms of political equality.
The incidents and scenes which are connected with this legend, occurred
in the earliest periods of the enterprises which have led to so great
and so speedy a result.
The harvest of the first year of our possession had long been passed,
and the fading foliage of a few scattered trees was already beginning
to exhibit the hues and tints of autumn, when a train of wagons issued
from the bed of a dry rivulet, to pursue its course across the
undulating surface, of what, in the language of the country of which we
write, is called a “rolling prairie.” The vehicles, loaded with
household goods and implements of husbandry, the few straggling sheep
and cattle that were herded in the rear, and the rugged appearance and
careless mien of the sturdy men who loitered at the sides of the
lingering teams, united to announce a band of emigrants seeking for the
Elderado of the West. Contrary to the usual practice of the men of
their caste, this party had left the fertile bottoms of the low
country, and had found its way, by means only known to such
adventurers, across glen and torrent, over deep morasses and arid
wastes, to a point far beyond the usual limits of civilised
habitations. In their front were stretched those broad plains, which
extend, with so little diversity of character, to the bases of the
Rocky Mountains; and many long and dreary miles in their rear, foamed
the swift and turbid waters of La Platte.
The appearance of such a train, in that bleak and solitary place, was
rendered the more remarkable by the fact, that the surrounding country
offered so little, that was tempting to the cupidity of speculation,
and, if possible, still less that was flattering to the hopes of an
ordinary settler of new lands.
The meagre herbage of the prairie, promised nothing, in favour of a
hard and unyielding soil, over which the wheels of the vehicles rattled
as lightly as if they travelled on a beaten road; neither wagons nor
beasts making any deeper impression, than to mark that bruised and
withered grass, which the cattle plucked, from time to time, and as
often rejected, as food too sour, for even hunger to render palatable.
Whatever might be the final destination of these adventurers, or the
secret causes of their apparent security in so remote and unprotected a
situation, there was no visible sign of uneasiness, uncertainty, or
alarm, among them. Including both sexes, and every age, the number of
the party exceeded twenty.
At some little distance in front of the whole, marched the individual,
who, by his position and air, appeared to be the leader of the band. He
was a tall, sun-burnt, man, past the middle age, of a dull countenance
and listless manner. His frame appeared loose and flexible; but it was
vast, and in reality of prodigious power. It was, only at moments,
however, as some slight impediment opposed itself to his loitering
progress, that his person, which, in its ordinary gait seemed so
lounging and nerveless, displayed any of those energies, which lay
latent in his system, like the slumbering and unwieldy, but terrible,
strength of the elephant. The inferior lineaments of his countenance
were coarse, extended and vacant; while the superior, or those nobler
parts which are thought to affect the intellectual being, were low,
receding and mean.
The dress of this individual was a mixture of the coarsest vestments of
a husbandman with the leathern garments, that fashion as well as use,
had in some degree rendered necessary to one engaged in his present
pursuits. There was, however, a singular and wild display of prodigal
and ill judged ornaments, blended with his motley attire. In place of
the usual deer-skin belt, he wore around his body a tarnished silken
sash of the most gaudy colours; the buck-horn haft of his knife was
profusely decorated with plates of silver; the marten’s fur of his cap
was of a fineness and shadowing that a queen might covet; the buttons
of his rude and soiled blanket-coat were of the glittering coinage of
Mexico; the stock of his rifle was of beautiful mahogany, riveted and
banded with the same precious metal, and the trinkets of no less than
three worthless watches dangled from different parts of his person. In
addition to the pack and the rifle which were slung at his back,
together with the well filled, and carefully guarded pouch and horn, he
had carelessly cast a keen and bright wood-axe across his shoulder,
sustaining the weight of the whole with as much apparent ease, as if he
moved, unfettered in limb, and free from incumbrance.
A short distance in the rear of this man, came a group of youths very
similarly attired, and bearing sufficient resemblance to each other,
and to their leader, to distinguish them as the children of one family.
Though the youngest of their number could not much have passed the
period, that, in the nicer judgment of the law, is called the age of
discretion, he had proved himself so far worthy of his progenitors as
to have reared already his aspiring person to the standard height of
his race. There were one or two others, of different mould, whose
descriptions must however be referred to the regular course of the
narrative.
Of the females, there were but two who had arrived at womanhood; though
several white-headed, olive-skinned faces were peering out of the
foremost wagon of the train, with eyes of lively curiosity and
characteristic animation. The elder of the two adults, was the sallow
and wrinkled mother of most of the party, and the younger was a
sprightly, active, girl, of eighteen, who in figure, dress, and mien,
seemed to belong to a station in society several gradations above that
of any one of her visible associates. The second vehicle was covered
with a top of cloth so tightly drawn, as to conceal its contents, with
the nicest care. The remaining wagons were loaded with such rude
furniture and other personal effects, as might be supposed to belong to
one, ready at any moment to change his abode, without reference to
season or distance.
Perhaps there was little in this train, or in the appearance of its
proprietors, that is not daily to be encountered on the highways of
this changeable and moving country. But the solitary and peculiar
scenery, in which it was so unexpectedly exhibited, gave to the party a
marked character of wildness and adventure.
In the little valleys, which, in the regular formation of the land,
occurred at every mile of their progress, the view was bounded, on two
of the sides, by the gradual and low elevations, which gave name to the
description of prairie we have mentioned; while on the others, the
meagre prospect ran off in long, narrow, barren perspectives, but
slightly relieved by a pitiful show of coarse, though somewhat
luxuriant vegetation. From the summits of the swells, the eye became
fatigued with the sameness and chilling dreariness of the landscape.
The earth was not unlike the Ocean, when its restless waters are
heaving heavily, after the agitation and fury of the tempest have begun
to lessen. There was the same waving and regular surface, the same
absence of foreign objects, and the same boundless extent to the view.
Indeed so very striking was the resemblance between the water and the
land, that, however much the geologist might sneer at so simple a
theory, it would have been difficult for a poet not to have felt, that
the formation of the one had been produced by the subsiding dominion of
the other. Here and there a tall tree rose out of the bottoms,
stretching its naked branches abroad, like some solitary vessel; and,
to strengthen the delusion, far in the distance, appeared two or three
rounded thickets, looming in the misty horizon like islands resting on
the waters. It is unnecessary to warn the practised reader, that the
sameness of the surface, and the low stands of the spectators,
exaggerated the distances; but, as swell appeared after swell, and
island succeeded island, there was a disheartening assurance that long,
and seemingly interminable, tracts of territory must be passed, before
the wishes of the humblest agriculturist could be realised.
Still, the leader of the emigrants steadily pursued his way, with no
other guide than the sun, turning his back resolutely on the abodes of
civilisation, and plunging, at each step, more deeply if not
irretrievably, into the haunts of the barbarous and savage occupants of
the country. As the day drew nigher to a close, however, his mind,
which was, perhaps, incapable of maturing any connected system of
forethought, beyond that which related to the interests of the present
moment, became, in some slight degree, troubled with the care of
providing for the wants of the hours of darkness.
On reaching the crest of a swell that was a little higher than the
usual elevations, he lingered a minute, and cast a half curious eye, on
either hand, in quest of those well known signs, which might indicate a
place, where the three grand requisites of water, fuel and fodder were
to be obtained in conjunction.
It would seem that his search was fruitless; for after a few moments of
indolent and listless examination, he suffered his huge frame to
descend the gentle declivity, in the same sluggish manner that an over
fatted beast would have yielded to the downward pressure.
His example was silently followed by those who succeeded him, though
not until the young men had manifested much more of interest, if not of
concern in the brief enquiry, which each, in his turn, made on gaining
the same look-out. It was now evident, by the tardy movements both of
beasts and men, that the time of necessary rest was not far distant.
The matted grass of the lower land, presented obstacles which fatigue
began to render formidable, and the whip was becoming necessary to urge
the lingering teams to their labour. At this moment, when, with the
exception of the principal individual, a general lassitude was getting
the mastery of the travellers, and every eye was cast, by a sort of
common impulse, wistfully forward, the whole party was brought to a
halt, by a spectacle, as sudden as it was unexpected.
The sun had fallen below the crest of the nearest wave of the prairie,
leaving the usual rich and glowing train on its track. In the centre of
this flood of fiery light, a human form appeared, drawn against the
gilded background, as distinctly, and seemingly as palpable, as though
it would come within the grasp of any extended hand. The figure was
colossal; the attitude musing and melancholy, and the situation
directly in the route of the travellers. But imbedded, as it was, in
its setting of garish light, it was impossible to distinguish its just
proportions or true character.
The effect of such a spectacle was instantaneous and powerful. The man
in front of the emigrants came to a stand, and remained gazing at the
mysterious object, with a dull interest, that soon quickened into
superstitious awe. His sons, so soon as the first emotions of surprise
had a little abated, drew slowly around him, and, as they who governed
the teams gradually followed their example, the whole party was soon
condensed in one, silent, and wondering group. Notwithstanding the
impression of a supernatural agency was very general among the
travellers, the ticking of gun-locks was heard, and one or two of the
bolder youths cast their rifles forward, in readiness for service.
“Send the boys off to the right,” exclaimed the resolute wife and
mother, in a sharp, dissonant voice; “I warrant me, Asa, or Abner will
give some account of the creature!”
“It may be well enough, to try the rifle,” muttered a dull looking man,
whose features, both in outline and expression, bore no small
resemblance to the first speaker, and who loosened the stock of his
piece and brought it dexterously to the front, while delivering this
opinion; “the Pawnee Loups are said to be hunting by hundreds in the
plains; if so, they’ll never miss a single man from their tribe.”
“Stay!” exclaimed a soft toned, but alarmed female voice, which was
easily to be traced to the trembling lips of the younger of the two
women; “we are not altogether; it may be a friend!”
“Who is scouting, now?” demanded the father, scanning, at the same
time, the cluster of his stout sons, with a displeased and sullen eye.
“Put by the piece, put by the piece;” he continued, diverting the
other’s aim, with the finger of a giant, and with the air of one it
might be dangerous to deny. “My job is not yet ended; let us finish the
little that remains, in peace.”
The man, who had manifested so hostile an intention, appeared to
understand the other’s allusion, and suffered himself to be diverted
from his object. The sons turned their inquiring looks on the girl, who
had so eagerly spoken, to require an explanation; but, as if content
with the respite she had obtained for the stranger, she sunk back, in
her seat, and chose to affect a maidenly silence.
In the mean time, the hues of the heavens had often changed. In place
of the brightness, which had dazzled the eye, a gray and more sober
light had succeeded, and as the setting lost its brilliancy, the
proportions of the fanciful form became less exaggerated, and finally
distinct. Ashamed to hesitate, now that the truth was no longer
doubtful, the leader of the party resumed his journey, using the
precaution, as he ascended the slight acclivity, to release his own
rifle from the strap, and to cast it into a situation more convenient
for sudden use.
There was little apparent necessity, however, for such watchfulness.
From the moment when it had thus unaccountably appeared, as it were,
between the heavens and the earth, the stranger’s figure had neither
moved nor given the smallest evidence of hostility. Had he harboured
any such evil intention, the individual who now came plainly into view,
seemed but little qualified to execute them.
A frame that had endured the hardships of more than eighty seasons, was
not qualified to awaken apprehension, in the breast of one as powerful
as the emigrant. Notwithstanding his years, and his look of emaciation,
if not of suffering, there was that about this solitary being, however,
which said that time, and not disease, had laid his hand heavily on
him. His form had withered, but it was not wasted. The sinews and
muscles, which had once denoted great strength, though shrunken, were
still visible; and his whole figure had attained an appearance of
induration, which, if it were not for the well known frailty of
humanity, would have seemed to bid defiance to the further approaches
of decay. His dress was chiefly of skins, worn with the hair to the
weather; a pouch and horn were suspended from his shoulders; and he
leaned on a rifle of uncommon length, but which, like its owner,
exhibited the wear of long and hard service.
As the party drew nigher to this solitary being, and came within a
distance to be heard, a low growl issued from the grass at his feet,
and then, a tall, gaunt, toothless, hound, arose lazily from his lair,
and shaking himself, made some show of resisting the nearer approach of
the travellers.
“Down, Hector, down,” said his master, in a voice, that was a little
tremulous and hollow with age. “What have ye to do, pup, with men who
journey on their lawful callings?”
“Stranger, if you ar’ much acquainted in this country,” said the leader
of the emigrants, “can you tell a traveller where he may find
necessaries for the night?”
“Is the land filled on the other side of the Big River?” demanded the
old man, solemnly, and without appearing to hearken to the other’s
question; “or why do I see a sight, I had never thought to behold
again?”
“Why, there is country left, it is true, for such as have money, and
ar’ not particular in the choice,” returned the emigrant; “but to my
taste, it is getting crowdy. What may a man call the distance, from
this place to the nighest point on the main river?”
“A hunted deer could not cool his sides, in the Mississippi, without
travelling a weary five hundred miles.”
“And what may you name the district, hereaway?”
“By what name,” returned the old man, pointing significantly upward,
“would you call the spot, where you see yonder cloud?”
The emigrant looked at the other, like one who did not comprehend his
meaning, and who half suspected he was trifled with, but he contented
himself by saying—
“You ar’ but a new inhabitant, like myself, I reckon, stranger,
otherwise you would not be backward in helping a traveller to some
advice; words cost but little, and sometimes lead to friendships.”
“Advice is not a gift, but a debt that the old owe to the young. What
would you wish to know?”
“Where I may camp for the night. I’m no great difficulty maker, as to
bed and board; but, all old journeyers, like myself, know the virtue of
sweet water, and a good browse for the cattle.”
“Come then with me, and you shall be master of both; and little more is
it that I can offer on this hungry prairie.”
As the old man was speaking, he raised his heavy rifle to his shoulder,
with a facility a little remarkable for his years and appearance, and
without further words led the way over the acclivity to the adjacent
bottom.
[1] The Mississippi is thus termed in several of the Indian languages.
The reader will gain a more just idea of the importance of this
stream, if he recalls to mind the fact, that the Missouri and the
Mississippi are properly the same river. Their united lengths cannot
be greatly short of four thousand miles.
[2] All the states admitted to the American Union, since the
revolution, are called New States, with the exception of Vermont: that
had claims before the war; which were not, however, admitted until a
later day.
[3] Colonel Boon, the patriarch of Kentucky. This venerable and hardy
pioneer of civilisation emigrated to an estate three hundred miles
west of the Mississippi, in his ninety-second year, because he found a
population of ten to the square mile, inconveniently crowded!