AN INDIAN LOVER.
In a fertile valley, through which ran a limpid, swiftly flowing
stream, not very far from the Indian reservation, dwelt a settler by
the name of Vance Bernard.
He was a man of striking appearance, and one who, always hospitable,
was friendly with no one.
He had been a miner in the Black Hills, it was said by those who knew
him, and having "struck it rich," had come to that part of the country
to establish a home.
Yet, when asked pointedly regarding Vance Bernard, those who professed
to know him could tell nothing regarding him, and there were those in
that scattered community who set him down as a man who was seeking to
hide himself away from his fellows.
Be that as it may, he went to work and "homesteaded" some land, bought
for cash many more acres, and erected the most comfortable house on
that part of borderland.
He paid good prices for labor, and all he undertook was well done.
Then, to the surprise of the other settlers, a wagon-train arrived
one day at Bernard's home, and there came with it a handsome woman of
thirty-eight, a youth of eighteen, and a maiden of fourteen, and these
were introduced as his wife and children.
For people supposed to have been reared in the East, they adopted
themselves strangely well to the new order of things, and within a few
days seemed perfectly at home in their surroundings.
The mother was a sad-faced woman, almost as taciturn as her husband,
and the son, Herbert, was a powerfully built young fellow, with a face
that was bold and determined, yet not wholly attractive.
His sister, Jennie Bernard, was a maiden of rare loveliness of form and
face, and the only ray of sunshine in the household, for the others
really made it gloomy at times.
Herbert Bernard appeared to care nothing for the warnings of the
settlers who dropped in at the house, not to go far from the place
until he knew the country well, for he would ride away alone in the
morning and be gone all day, showing, it seemed, that he was fully able
to take care of himself, if he was called a "tenderfoot."
Jennie, too, was wont to go for a ride alone, and be gone for hours,
while no anxiety appeared to be felt for her safety by either her
parents or brother.
Such was the family of Vance Bernard several years after their coming
to dwell in their border home.
They sought no friendships, returning no visits from their neighbors,
yet were ever hospitable to those who called.
Of course, a girl of Jennie Bernard's beauty could not but win
admirers, and even in that sparsely settled valley she had half a dozen
lovers, all of them most anxious to win her especial regard, yet not
one of whom was assured that he could do so.
But one lover Jennie had, to whom she was more friendly than to any of
the others.
This one was Red Hatchet, a young Sioux chief, and as handsome a
specimen of Indian manhood as could be found anywhere. Six feet in
his moccasins, possessing a superb physique, quick as a panther in
his movements, yet graceful as a deer, while his face was cast in an
intelligent and noble mold, that bespoke spirit and an undaunted nature.
He was a bold hunter, and was wont to come to the Bernard homestead
with pelts for sale, and game, and he always found in the settler a
ready buyer of what he brought.
One afternoon he was on his way back to his village, when he heard a
shot fired not far from the trail he was following, and then a cry, as
if of pain, or alarm, followed by a second shot.
The cry came from a woman's lips, he knew, and not an Indian's.
Quickly he bounded toward the spot from whence the shots had come, and
came upon a strange scene.
A horse lay dead in the trail, and standing near was Jennie Bernard,
the captive of two warriors.
As he drew nearer Red Hatchet beheld a third brave lying dead upon the
ground.
It was the sweet face of Jennie Bernard that had drawn the young chief
to her home more than to sell his pelts and game, and recognizing the
braves as bad men of his tribe, yet of considerable influence, he
rushed toward them determined to free the maiden.
They heard his bounding footsteps, turned, and beholding that he came
in anger, warned him off.
But on he came, several shots followed, and Red Hatchet, bleeding from
two wounds, stood by the side of the young girl, at whose feet, dead,
now lay the trio who had been her captors.
"They killed my horse, Red Hatchet, and as they ran upon me I shot that
one. I owe you more than life, my good friend," said Jennie, and she
grasped the hand of the young chief in both her own.
He made no response, but stood in deep, seemingly painful thought,
which, by a sudden intuition, Jennie Bernard seemed to read, for she
said quickly:
"Oh! this will cause trouble all along the frontier, for the Sioux will
listen to no reason as to the killing of those three evil men."
"The Snow Flower speaks the truth; but her lips must not tell the
story, no Indian or pale face must know. The Red Hatchet will hide his
bad braves in an unknown grave, their trails shall be covered up, and
no one must know, only the Snow Flower and the Red Hatchet."
"It is a fearful secret to keep, chief, yet I feel that you are right;
but you are wounded, so come with me to my home."
"No, the wounds of the Red Hatchet must not be known. They are
nothing--to an Indian," and he seemed proud at the thought that to a
white man they would be considered severe, indeed.
"Let the Snow Flower go to her home. The Red Hatchet has work to do
here," and he pointed to the bodies of the dead warriors.
And so Jennie started on her way homeward, for she had several miles to
go.
Arriving there she told her father all, and he, too, said that the
secret must be kept--the Indians must never know the truth.
When the dawn came the saddle and bridle left on the dead horse were
found upon the piazza, showing that the Red Hatchet had brought them
there under cover of the darkness, and that day Jennie rode with her
father to the scene, and the dead horse alone was a silent witness of
the tragedy enacted there.
The bodies of the Sioux braves seemed to have been spirited away, as no
trace of a trail could be found.
It was a couple of months before Red Hatchet again appeared at the
Bernard home, and he looked as though he had been seriously ill.
But he said nothing of the past, though from that day each month
brought him to the home of the Bernards, and the young girl could not
but know that he was her most devoted lover, and into her heart stole a
great dread of coming evil.