"At once, if you like," cried Samuel.
"At once let it be, I am not alone; I have two faithful servants and a Canadian hunter, whom I engaged in Boston. I have books, arms, horses, dogs—everything that a man can wish for."
"Delighted to hear it. Let us start."
Five minutes later they were galloping through the forest.
That part of the valley towards which they were going had undergone no change. The squatters had had no time to visit it, and it retained all its original beauty and primitive majesty. George Clinton appeared fully to know his way, entering at full gallop on the most out-of-the-way and rugged paths, followed by Samuel Dickson, who was in a charming humour, and appeared delighted to explore this part of his domains, for all on that side of the valley was his present from his brother.
"You ride as if you had known the country ten years at least," he said.
"I came here about a month before you, but I have been everywhere with Charbonneau."
"Who may Charbonneau be?"
"My hunter, a great big Canadian, as long as a fishing rod, as thin as a nail, and as honest as a Newfoundland dog. I got him out of a very great scrape, and he has been devoted to me ever since."
"Lucky for you."
"More than you think. This fellow was brought up in an Indian tribe; his life has been spent more or less in the desert. He has friends everywhere with trappers, with white and half-caste hunters; speaks all the most difficult redskin dialects, and despite his youth—he is not more than three-and-twenty—enjoys a great reputation on the prairie. He is called Keen-hand, because of his prodigious dexterity."
"An excellent servant," said Samuel.
"And a capital companion—always gay and contented; whichever way things go, he is always so philosophical I cannot but admire him. He is a perfect study. As an instance, he declared some time ago no squatter would ever see this place and go further."
"He was not far wrong. He is a sharp youth."
"You are right; but you shall judge for yourself."
"Then he has told you all about this country?" asked Samuel.
"In what way?" said George.
"I suppose he described the situation of the valley—its distance from all habitations?"
"Don't you know?" cried George.
"I know nothing. We have been travelling in the dark, and should all be glad of information."
"In the first place, two rivers cross the valley; that near you flows from the mountains of the Wind; the other, into which it discharges its waters, is the Missouri."
"Heavens! The Missouri! Then it runs through part of the United States. We are at home."
"Very nearly, though you are surrounded by red men, who, though very warlike, are generally friendly to the whites. Still, if you know the redskins you will not depend on them."
"Too true; and what nations are they?" he asked.
"Sioux and Dakotas, Piekanns, Crows, Hurons of the great lakes, with some Assiniboins and Mandans. A few others of no account are scattered about," he answered.
"A pretty lot; and no help near."
"Help is nearer than you think. About fifty miles distant is a fort belonging to one of the great fur companies. It has a garrison of fifty whites—Americans and Canadians, soldiers and hunters."
"Fifty miles is nothing," said Samuel.
"In a civilised country, yes; but in the desert it is as bad as fifty leagues," responded Clinton.
"I did not think of that," granted the squatter; "well, then, on the other side, what neighbours have we?"
"Some squatters, like yourselves, who have been two years on the Missouri. You are halfway between the two."
"Have these squatters much cultivated land?"
"They have been going ahead lately. It is already almost a village; soon it will be a town. But anyway, on one side or the other you are separated from men of your own colour by several Indian nations, whose villages it would be dangerous to visit, except in large numbers. In fact your only open route is the Missouri."
"That is something; but, if easy to go down, it is hard to ascend."
"Besides, both sides swarm with redskins."
"Hum! My dear George, that spoils all. What could put it into the mad head of my brother to bring us here? He is a lunatic; for the matter of that, so am I."
George could not help laughing.
"Laugh away, you young rascal," said the squatter; "but if we have to leave our bones here?"
"I hope it will not be so," replied George.
"Jehoshaphat! So do I. Your information is not pleasant; still I thank you. It is best to know the worst."
While speaking they kept on at as rapid a pace as the state of the ground allowed. They had left the forest, and had come out upon a green prairie, when suddenly they heard a gun fired.
"What is that?" cried the squatter.
"Charbonneau. I know the sound. Wait a minute."
And Clinton fired his rifle in the air.
Next instant there was a rush from out of a thicket, and two magnificent dogs of the same breed as Dardar came rushing out of a thicket, and, leaping at the young man to beg a caress, continued at the same time to growl at the squatter.
"Down, dogs, down!" cried the young man. "Down, I say, Nadeje, miss, and you the same, Drack; don't be mischievous. This gentleman, my fine fellows, is a friend; go and welcome him, to show what brave and intelligent beasts you are."
As if they had understood what their master said, the two dogs ceased to growl, and, going straight to Samuel Dickson, leaped up at him in the most friendly way. The squatter, a great dog fancier, was very much struck by their beauty, and at once caressed them with many a word of praise, which pleased both, but especially Miss Nadeje; she was a magnificent animal, with an almost pure white skin, spotted only here and there with black, and at once took the squatter under her guardianship.
Almost at the same moment a man appeared in the full costume of a hunter, a man with rather angular but very intelligent features; in his hand was the still-smoking gun. He bowed, and called off the dogs.
"Pardieu!" he cried, "That was a lucky shot of mine."
"Were you hunting?" asked the other, shaking hands.
"At this hour it were folly, and I am not yet mad. Sport is only good morning and evening, is it not?"
"That is my opinion," replied the squatter.
"Mr. Samuel Dickson, one of my best friends," said George, "and I hope soon one of yours."
"I hope so; I like his looks," laughed Charbonneau.
"Thank you," said the squatter.
"It is quite unnecessary, only I don't say the same to everybody. But I have known you some time."
"If not hunting, what were you doing?" asked George.
"Something has happened at the wigwam. Three travellers, two white hunters and an Indian chief, have reached your house, and demanded hospitality," he replied.
"Of course you did not refuse?"
"Of course I did not. Besides, two of the hunters are my friends, and the other is likely to become so."
"You know you are welcome to act; still, why look for me?"
"Well, I did not exactly look for you, but I wanted to give you warning; of course, I knew where you had gone."
The young man blushed, while the old man laughed.
"Now, then," cried Clinton, "let us go home."
"Wait one moment. About fifty yards in my rear the dogs opened cry. I ran and found—"
"A bear?" exclaimed the squatter.
"No, I would not have minded that. It was not a bear, but a man. He was lying insensible on the ground, his skull split open from a heavy fall, and a shot wound in his left arm. His horse was grazing close by. He appeared to be a traveller traitorously shot by an Indian. I thought I heard an explosion; at all events, the wretch fled before the dogs, just as he was about to rob the unfortunate."
"You assisted him?"
"How could I help it? I could not let him die like a skunk on the road; and yet it would have been wiser."
"Charbonneau!" cried the young man, "Is that really you?"
"You know me well, Master George. Well, despite myself, I don't like the look of this man, though he is handsome enough. He has a terrible expression, and you know it takes something to move me. Still, I feel an invincible repugnance for this man, whom I never saw before. The dogs were like myself; I had the greatest difficulty to prevent them tearing him to pieces. Nadeje was like a mad creature; she wanted to strangle him. Do you know, Master George, dogs never make a mistake?"
"A very good thing," said George Clinton; "but the man is wounded, likely to die. We are bound to succour him."
"I know it, and have done so. I have seen to him as I would to myself or one of my dogs. Still, Master George, mark my words, it is a bitter foe you shelter under your roof."
"It may be so, but we must do our duty."
"As you please. Still I shall watch him."
"Where is he?"
"Just under yonder cluster of oaks, which you see from here. It was after dressing his wound I fired a shot on chance."
"Did he say nothing?" asked George.
"He is still quite insensible."
"Let us join him, and if the dogs are so ill-disposed towards the stranger, watch them carefully."
"All right, Master George. Be quiet, dogs," said the hunter, turning back, followed by the two great dogs, the others making up the rear.
The cluster of oaks was soon reached; the wounded man still lay without life; the dogs howled, but, at a sign from Keen-hand, they stood back silent.
George and Samuel alighted, and examined the man.
He was a tall, well made, even elegant man of about thirty or thirty-five; he was deadly pale; his features were well chiselled and delicate; his long, jet black hair fell in waving curls on his shoulders; a black crisp beard hid the lower part of his face; his mouth, large and slightly open, showed magnificent teeth of dazzling whiteness; his strong and aquiline nose gave a terribly hard expression to his face, while his eyes, far too close together, and which were shut, were shaded by long lashes, and crowned by heavy eyebrows that almost touched.
The very sight of the man inspired instinctive repulsion, something like a chill, that sensation of terror and disgust which one feels at the sight of a reptile; still the man was handsome and elegant; he was well dressed, and his weapons were superior; his horse was extremely valuable.
He was, to all appearance, a prince among adventurers.
"Hum!" muttered Samuel Dickson, who was the first to speak; "I don't like his look at all."
"No more do I," said George; "still, we cannot let him die."
"Certainly not, since Providence has sent him here. Are we far from your hut?" replied Samuel.
"Not far off, are we, Charbonneau? But, then, how can we carry him?" continued George; "I don't see anything except a litter."
"Too long. Leave all to me. I will mount his horse; you can hand him up to me; I will then carry him in my arms to the wigwam—what say you?"
"Admirable!" cried George, as Charbonneau mounted and stood still, awaiting his burden.
George and Samuel then placed him before the guide. Charbonneau pressed his head against his chest, and started.
Going slowly, they were an hour on the journey.
The wigwam, as the hunter called it, was a charming habitation built of wood, upon the summit of an eminence, round which ran a silver stream, lined with well-constructed palisades.
"Your house is delicious," said Samuel Dickson, examining the residence. "You should be very comfortable."
"My good friend, I want for nothing except happiness."
"Are you going to have the blues again?" said Samuel.
"You know I hardly dare hope," replied George.
"You are very foolish. When you are rich, young, and loved, Master George, you ought to hope for the best."
"You are very cruel to joke with me."
"I do not joke, I only try to inspire you with courage. But, look, here are your guests coming to meet you, while your servants seem to me to be rather muddled and mixed," observed Samuel.
"It is the first time they have ever seen strangers."
"Then," said Samuel, laughing, "they will have a change today."
Three persons were advancing in the direction of the advancing troop. They were Bright-eye, Numank-Charake, the Huron chief, and Oliver.
They bowed ceremoniously to Clinton, who renewed the invitation given by Charbonneau; and then alighting, the wounded man was carried by Bright-eye and Oliver to the best bedroom, placed on the master's own couch, and at once attended to by one of the domestics, who knew something of medicine.
"What a disagreeable face!" murmured Oliver.
"He does not look pleasant," said Bright-eye.
"'Tis the face of a traitor," said the Indian chief, sententiously; "he should have been allowed to die."
"Hum!" cried Keen-hand; "There are others of my opinion."
"Let my brother watch carefully," remarked the Indian.
"Be not uneasy," smiled Charbonneau.
"In my opinion," said Bright-eye, "this man is one of the outlaws of the desert. I have seen him somewhere before. I must not only think over the matter, but put the master of the house on his guard."
Meanwhile the four men rejoined Clinton and Samuel Dickson in the drawing room, where copious refreshments awaited them.
As soon as the farmer had taken some slight refreshment and assured himself as to the comfortable position in which he was placed, he took his leave. The day was far advanced, and he had to meet his brother on a matter of business.
On leaving George, the squatter bent low on his horse, and after one last glance at the hut:
"Beware, my friend," he said, "of the wounded man. I think him an unmitigated rascal. Get rid of him."
"I will take your advice. I do not like him myself, and as soon as he can travel he shall surely go."
And, after mutual promises to meet again, the two friends parted, and Samuel rode off in hot haste. George watched him until he was quite out of sight.
He then sighed. The departure of Samuel had broken the last link between the charming events of the morning and the more matter-of-fact events of the evening. He now gloomily turned on his heel, and found himself face to face with the three travellers accompanied by Keen-hand.
"You are not going?" he cried.
"No," answered Bright-eye; "on the contrary, if you will allow us, we intend remaining some little time."
"You will give me great satisfaction," continued Clinton, "use my house entirely as your own."
The hunters bowed courteously.
"We have come to meet you," said Oliver, "because, having something to say, we prefer the open air."
"Yes," continued Bright-eye, "though the wounded man whom you have so generously entertained is as yet incapable of listening, your servants—"
"Are discreet and devoted," observed Clinton.
"We know that, and have taken no precautions against them."
"You would have been very unwise to do so. Morris and Stephen knew me from my birth. They love me as if I were a child of their own. I have no secrets from them and should be sorry to wound their feelings."
"I was prepared for that objection," said Keen-hand, "and was therefore careful to warn them."
"You have done well, Charbonneau, as I would not for the world offend those worthy fellows. And now, gentlemen, follow me, and I will take you where you can speak openly without fear of being overheard."
Saying which George moved away from the house and led them to a hillock, wholly without trees, overlooking the river, and whence he could see a long way.
"This is my observatory," he said, smiling.
"Admirably well chosen," replied Oliver.
On the invitation of Clinton everyone seated himself on the grass, and lit his pipe; then Bright-eye, who appeared general spokesman, addressed their host.
"We have learned from Keen-hand that you have not long left the cities of the United States to visit for a time the prairies of the Far West."
"I have no reason for making any secret of the matter."
"Everyone is master of his own actions," continued Bright-eye, "and we have no right to inquire in any way into your affairs. We only desire to indicate you as new to prairie customs."
"I am not very learned in the matter, and am therefore wholly guided by my hunter, who, despite his youth, is an old runner of the woods. But as I see no motive for this conversation, I should be glad if it were abridged."
"One question first—Are you prepared as a dweller in the desert to submit to its habits and customs?" asked Bright-eye.
"As long as they are just and reasonable," said the other, "I pledge my word to be guided by them."
"We find that your friend here described you well."
"Still you must be aware that you are keeping me waiting."
"Two words will explain," said Bright-eye; "we demand the body of the wounded man yonder."
"What to do?" cried Clinton.
"To apply Lynch law to him," coldly replied the hunter.
The young man shuddered, a livid pallor spread over his countenance; he looked at the hunters, who nodded their heads, with a glance of horror.
"What do you mean, gentlemen?" he cried; "Do you intend to torture this man, whose life hangs on a thread?"
"It is our right and our duty, not to torture him, but to try him, and execute the sentence, whatever it may be, at once."
"This is terrible!" cried the young man.
"You do not know him. If, for reasons best known to ourselves, we feigned not to know him, now that your friend has left we will tell you who the wretch is."
"No matter who he is," cried Clinton, fiercely, "all I know is that he is wounded and under the protection of my roof."
"Your sentiments of humanity do you honour," said Bright-eye, ironically; "they are well suited to civilised society, where the law defends you. In the desert they have no meaning. Every moment menaced with death, you must cut down your murderous foes without mercy."
"Better be victim than executioner," said George.
"If you like to present your breast to the enemies, that is your lookout; we beg to differ from you."
"But, gentlemen—" said Clinton, haughtily.
"You made a promise. Do you or do you not intend to be bound by it?" asked Bright-eye.
"This is your return for my hospitality."
"You are unjust, sir; we are but the instruments of public opinion, about to accomplish a painful duty, guided by our conscience and our sense of right. Do you give this man up to us, yes or no?" he continued.
"Take him, if you insist; but as on your private authority you judge this man, I will defend him."
"We are delighted to hear it."
"When do you intend trying this man who is dangerously wounded and nearly insensible?"
"He is not so ill as he pretends to be," replied Bright-eye; "and we intend trying him at once."
"Come, then, for the matter is getting wearisome," said George.
All returned to the house. Oliver and Numank had not spoken, but their firm step, their knitted brows, their flashing eyes, sufficiently indicated that they fully agreed with Bright-eye in his intentions.
When they entered the room where the wounded man lay he was quite conscious; his face, of an earthy pallor, had two red spots on the cheeks; the pearly sweat fell heavily from his brow; his eyes were half closed, but he could clearly see through his lashes. His attitude was that of a tiger at bay, unaware from what side danger was likely to come.
Bright-eye looked at him with such pertinacity that after a time he was compelled to open his eyes.
The Canadian smiled, whispered to Keen-hand, who nodded his head, and soon left the hut.
"Gentlemen," said Bright-eye in a loud tone, "we will at once proceed to instal the head of the court of Judge Lynch."
"You are the chief," said the others.
"I accept. You will be the accusers. I shall at once take my seat, as we are here to judge this man."
"You forget I am here to defend him," remarked Clinton.
"You are quite right," replied Bright-eye; "pray therefore attend carefully to the accusations I am about to make against him; you can then undertake his defence, if, indeed, when you know all, you care to do so."
The wounded man had appeared motionless and insensible to all around him, but on hearing the generous words of the young man, spoken in a gentle voice, he seemed to shiver all over, and, raising himself a little, looked keenly at George Clinton, with a glance of gratitude.
Bright-eye meanwhile reflected a moment, folded his arms, and throwing back his head spoke:
"Prisoner," he said, "you are before a terrible tribunal. Judge Lynch has been appointed to condemn you if guilty, to absolve you if innocent. Prepare yourself to hear and answer the charges made against you."
"I do not acknowledge the jurisdiction of Judge Lynch," said the man; "you are a tribunal of assassins."
"As you please," replied the Canadian; "but your silence will be treated as a confession of guilt."
The accused shuddered.
"Why, instead of leaving me to die in the prairie, was I brought here?" he asked; "Is hospitality a mere trick?"
"The man is right," cried George; "I cannot suffer such things to pass under my roof. I protest, in the name of humanity, against all that is being done. You dishonour me by acting in this manner here."
"The jurisdiction of Judge Lynch is universal in the desert," was the cold reply; "none can check it. This man is an outlaw of the prairies, a man of blood and crime. Louis Querehard, Paul Sambrun, Tom Mitchell, and half a dozen aliases—you see we know you well—eleven days ago you basely attacked an old man in charge of a young girl; you killed the old man from behind at the Elk's Leap. Where is the young girl?"
"Base calumny," cried the wounded man, sitting up suddenly; "I know not what you mean. I killed no old man."
"I repeat that you killed the old man and stole away the girl. I have the proofs," he answered.
The wounded man sat biting his lips with rage.
"This morning," continued Bright-eye, "you quarrelled with one of your accomplices, while crossing this valley, and fell from the treachery of your fellow bandit."
"Falsehood!" cried the wounded man.
"We shall soon see," said the Canadian, coldly, and putting his fingers to his lips he uttered a shrill whistle.
A noise was heard and several men entered. These were Keen-hand, two servants of Clinton, and a prisoner—a man of wretched, mean, and ignoble appearance.
"This is your accomplice," said Bright-eye.
"I don't know him," replied the wounded man.
"You don't know me?" cried the other; "Really now, have you already forgotten poor Camotte?"
"You declare this man unknown to you?" said the judge. "Well, be it so. Now, fellow," to the man Camotte, "will you confess?"
"Caray, yes," said the prisoner, "anything you like."
"Speak then," responded Bright-eye: "we wait."
"Miserable wretch," asked the wounded man, "are you a traitor?"
"My good sir, I object to be hung," he answered.
"It is useless to question that rascal," said the wounded man. "I will tell you all you want to know; but before we go any further it must be on one condition."
"We decline to accept conditions," was the reply.
"Then beware. I alone know where the young girl is concealed. Refuse my conditions and my secret dies with me."
"It is true," said Camotte, in answer to a look from Bright-eye.
"What are your conditions?" resumed the judge.
"My life, liberty, and three hours' start," said the outlaw; "also the company of my friend Camotte yonder," he added, with a sneer, as that individual shivered; "further, I require my horse, arms, and my valise. On these conditions you shall have the young girl: I swear it."
"Anything else?" continued the judge.
"One moment," observed George; "I ask for him eight days to recover from his wound, during which time he shall remain here under my guardianship and yours."
"We consent," said Bright-eye, gloomily; "now speak."
"The girl is concealed twelve miles away, in the Cavern of the Elk. I was going there with food when I was shot. Make haste."
Scarcely had he finished ere Oliver and the chief disappeared.
"Beware of my vengeance," cried Bright-eye, "if you have spoken falsely."
"I have spoken the truth," said the wounded man, and fainted.
We must go back a little in order to explain how the three hunters were driven to seek hospitality in the hut of George Clinton, and what were the motives of the deadly hatred they had vowed against the wounded, almost dying, man.
At the time of which we write nearly the whole American continent, north and south, was owned by Spain, which ruled her provinces with a yoke of iron, closed to all other nations with as much jealousy as ever was shown by China.
The United States alone stood free, independent.
The newly enfranchised people were, however, well aware that as long as the rest of the land was not free their work was unfinished.
Besides, it became necessary to give employment to the restless spirits let loose by the close of the war.
The Government at once set to work. The territory of the new republic was already immense, but thinly peopled, almost unknown, and occupied in many instances by wandering Indian tribes. These must first be got rid of.
The activity of the Americans is known. They rushed off into the desert, they erected forts to awe the redskins; hardy pioneers traversed the prairies and established settlements in the very heart of the Indian country.
Every encouragement was given to emigrants from Europe, who were received most hospitably.
The Government was favoured by circumstances; it was a rising power while Spain was falling to pieces.
The American Government at once offered to buy Louisiana of France, and meanwhile sent out small companies of free corps to attack the frontier of the Spanish colonies. But alongside those recognised by the authorities were other bands, men isolated from all civilisation, having no control to fear, recruited from the scum which froths up during troublous times; these bands made war on their own account, pillaged friend and foe, burned haciendas, and allied themselves with the redskins, taking their dress in order the more readily to carry out their nefarious designs.
Among these bands was one more formidable than all the others of sad and monstrous celebrity.
This troop of two hundred desperadoes, called themselves outlaws, and, it was believed, though no one exactly knew their headquarters, were established on the Missouri, whence they carried their depredations far and near.
Powerfully organised, submitting to strict discipline, this band had spies in every direction, who kept them well informed, not only as to the number and strength of caravans about to cross the desert, with their destination, but as to the expeditions sent out by Government against themselves. By these means they were always on their guard and never taken by surprise.
The chief of this terrible band was said to have only been six years in America, and yet he knew all the secrets of the desert; he was as clever as the most cunning and astute runner of the woods, quite equal to any redskin in deceit. He was supposed to be a Frenchman, though he spoke English, Spanish, and many Indian languages equally well. He was called Querehard, Sambrun, Magnaud, Tom Mitchell, and various other names.
But none knew his real one, though some did whisper that he was the chief of a certain fearful band who had played so terrible a part during the Reign of Terror.
Many asserted that he was not so bad as he was painted—that, in fact, though chief of this fearful crew, he always tried to prevent bloodshed, that he never allowed women and children to be ill-treated.
He was said to be very generous, and had as many friends as enemies.
Whatever the truth, Tom Mitchell was a kind of hero; the American and Spanish Governments had placed a price upon his head; but no one ever ventured to try for the reward of ten thousand dollars.
After the medicine council we have recorded, Numank-Charake and his two friends continued their journey.
On the seventh day, an hour before the setting of the sun, they reached a village built in the fork of two rivers.
The village was surrounded by lofty palisades, with a ditch full of water, and drawbridges.
The travellers came up just as these were being removed.
They were warmly received by an eager crowd.
Since his landing in America this was the first time Oliver had entered a real village of redskins.
He was surprised to find it so superior to what he expected. Instead of ordinary bison tents, or huts made with hurdles, mud, and thatch, it consisted of admirably constructed Canadian cabins.
These cabins stood in rows, with small gardens in front, while here and there were some real Indian wigwams.
Those Canadians who had retreated with their families to the tribe of Bison Hurons had introduced these habits. Hence the rather hybrid character of the village, which was half Canadian and half Indian.
Reaching the centre of the village Numank left his companions, while Bright-eye pointed out a most comfortable looking cabin and declared it to be his home.
At the entrance stood two men leaning on their rifles. One, nearly a centenarian, but still robust and very tall, had a large white beard; his eyes still shone brightly, his complexion was the colour of brick, while his ropy muscles could be seen through his parchment skin. His expression was gentle and full of courage. This was the grandfather of the hunter, an old soldier of Montcalm.
The second was Bright-eye's father, whom he resembled in every particular except age and height.
"They indeed appear a noble couple," whispered Oliver.
"Come with me," was the laconic reply.
In a few minutes they were at the door of the cabin. Bright-eye dismounted and took off his fur cap.
"I am back after a long absence. Give me your blessing."
"Take it with all our hearts," cried the two old men.
They then shook hands cordially, Oliver looking on with a deep sigh of envy and regret.
"He at all events has a family," he said.
"Come nearer, my friend," cried Bright-eye; and when Oliver stood beside him, he added, "this is Oliver, my friend. Eight days ago we met in the savannah, and we have never parted since. He loves me and I love him; he is a brave man and a most excellent hunter; our friend, the redskin, calls him Bounding Panther."
"He is welcome," said the old man; "all Frenchmen are our brothers; as long as he chooses to remain there is a hut to shelter him and a quarter of venison for his food."
"Well spoken, father," said his son, shaking hands with the young Frenchman; "we are French here. Welcome."
"Messieurs," replied Oliver, with a bow and a smile, "it is not with words we answer such words, but by acts."
"We welcome you as a second son; come in."
The horses were now taken away by a young Indian, and the whole party entered the house.
The hut, which was built with logs, was whitewashed both in and out, and had four windows.
Oliver entered a rather large hall, lit by two of the windows, with a plank flooring, and a roof supported by heavy beams; at one end was a large chimney, near the kitchen a table, some seats and chairs, two oaken dressers covered by utensils in brown earthenware, and a large old-fashioned clock composed the furniture.
Two doors led, one into the kitchen, the other into the guests' room, which was pointed out to Oliver.
There were three other rooms, one occupied by the two old men, one by Bright-eye, and one by his sister when at home.
All were furnished alike; a bed, a little table, several boxes, two or three chairs; some hideously coloured prints from Epinal were fixed on the walls, also pipes of all sorts and sizes, a French long gun, a powder horn, lead pouch, game bag, hatchet, a knife with its deerskin belt, that was all.
It was one floor, except a large loft above.
Behind the house there was stabling for six horses, a yard with fowls, a rather large garden, well enclosed and full of choice vegetables. It was the old man who took care of the garden as child's play.
When, having made some slight change in his toilette, Oliver returned to the hall dinner was on the table.
"Have you had good hunting lately?" asked Bright-eye.
"Not very good. Game gets scarce. Still I made three hundred and seventy dollars in a fortnight," he replied.
"Pretty fair; and what was your game?"
"The blue fox, near Hudson's Bay," continued the other; "I have been home three weeks. But you say nothing of your sister."
"I am not in the habit of questioning you, father."
"The boy is right," said the old man; "it is your place to speak."
"I suppose," cried the hunter, "Angela is in the village."
"No, my son, she is absent," continued the old man, "and I am sorry for it, as she was the joy of the house."
"Where is she then, father?" asked Bright-eye.
"About five days' march, with our cousin Lagrenay, the squatter of the Wind River. His wife has been ill, he is alone; having no one to take care of her, he came here and asked for Angela to stay a few days."
"My dear father, our cousin Lagrenay's settlement is a long way off, in the heart of the Indian country."
"You are right," said his father; "I fear I have acted with too great haste. I will fetch her home tomorrow."
"I will go with you, father."
"It is unnecessary. Your health, sir," addressing Oliver; "is it long since you left France?"
"Many thanks. I have been in America two months."
"Though so far off news is welcome. How is the king?"
"There is no longer any king," said Oliver, gravely; "France is now a republic like America."
While the stupefaction which this news caused was still at its height Numank-Charake entered.
"Welcome; be seated and eat," said the old man.
"I came neither to eat nor to drink," replied the young Indian, sadly. "I came to tell you that your child, Evening Dew, has been carried off by Tom Mitchell, the outlaw, and that we must at once save her."
This terrible revelation fell like a thunderclap upon the four personages who sat at table. There was for some minutes a silence caused by perfect stupor.
"You are indeed a sinister messenger, chief," said the old man, bitterly; "whence do you get this news?"
"Perhaps you are mistaken," gasped the father.
"Listen," said the chief, sadly, "and you shall hear what has passed in a few words."
"First sit down and break bread," cried the old man; "we are friends and relatives, and this awful catastrophe affects you as well as us."
"You say truly," responded the young chief, seating himself.
"Eat and drink," said the old man; "then we will talk."
The meal continued, to the great astonishment of Oliver. He could not understand the calm and sang-froid of these four men in presence of such an awful event. He was half inclined to accuse them even of coldness of heart.
He knew nothing of that Indian etiquette, more severe than that of any other country, which requires this apparent coldness. He soon, however, discovered how much he was mistaken, and how deeply all these brave and loyal hearts were wounded by the fatal incident.
The repast was sad and gloomy. Nobody spoke. They ate as if it were a duty which must be done.
After the hasty repast was over there was silence.
"You have come, sir," said the old man, addressing Oliver, "at an unfortunate moment; pardon us if we seem rude and inhospitable. But evil has fallen on us."
"You told me, sir," replied the young man, "that I was to become a member of your family. Let me, then, share your sorrows as well as your joys. I feel more on the subject than you think, being Bright-eye's brother."
"Thank you; you are one of us," said the old man.
"You are my second son," cried the father.
"I thank you, and hope to prove myself deserving."
Everybody now rose from table, filled his pipe and lighted it, and then, the repast having in the meantime been cleared away, seated themselves by the fire.
"Chief," said the old man, "the time has come. We are ready to listen to you with the deepest attention."
Rising and bowing to all, the chief, who affected stoical gravity, but who had great difficulty in controlling his voice, spoke—
"Lagrenay's wife was never ill. Evening Dew was carried off by Tom Mitchell from the squatters."
"Are you quite positive?" asked the grandfather.
"I am positive. The news was brought to me just now by a courier in whom I have every confidence. He saw all that happened without himself being seen."
A deep silence prevailed. None interrupted the old man.
"Allow me," he said, "to speak frankly to you, chief. You are my relative; I remember your birth, and love you."
"My father is good, and knows I love him," replied the chief.
"I know it; but pardon me if I speak very plainly. There is a hesitation in your words which alarms me excessively. I am sure you have not told us all you think."
The chief bowed his head.
"I knew I was right," cried the old man; "you know far more than you choose to say."
"No skin covers my heart, my blood runs red and clear in my veins; the Wacondah sees and judges me. Let my father explain himself frankly. I ought only to speak after him. His head is white with the snows of wisdom. He is wise."
"Good, Numank-Charake, you are a great brave, despite your youth. Soon you will be renowned in council. I know the motives which shut your mouth. You love her."
The young man started.
"Do not deny it," said the old man. "I know it, as does my son, and we rejoice both of us. She will be happy with one who is both strong and brave. Not knowing our sentiments towards you, you have nobly hesitated to accuse a near relative. You have acted well. But time presses, and not a moment is to be lost. We know our cousin as well, or perhaps better, than you do. We know also that falsehood never soiled your lips. To keep further silence would be to commit a bad action—to make yourself almost the accomplice of the ravishers. Speak out, then, like a man."
"I obey," replied the young man, respectfully.
"And hide nothing, I pray," added François Berger.
"I will tell you everything," he said, "as you know my heart is given to Evening Dew. I love her; her love is my joy, her voice my happiness. On my return to the village, after my unfortunate expedition, Evening Dew was no longer in her father's wigwam. I asked news of everybody; I even ventured to ask you. Your answer filled me with discouragement. I returned to my hut heartbroken with despair. My grandfather had pity on me. Kouha-hande loves me, and spoke like a wise man. 'Go,' he said, 'find Bright-eye at the spot agreed on; he is the brother of Evening Dew; he will grieve with you, and perhaps give you good advice. During his absence I will watch. If necessary, I will go to the hut of the white man on the Wind River. Adieu, my son, and may the Wacondah accompany you,' I obeyed my father. I put on my travelling moccasins, took my gun, provisions, all that a hunter requires, and started. But my soul was sorrowful; a sad presentiment froze me to the marrow of my bones; Wacondah sent it."
"Courage, child," said the old man, kindly. "Wacondah is powerful and just; He tries those whom He loves."
"Two hours ago I returned to the village of my nation. I was very sad and uneasy. Without a word I left my comrades and friends, and rushed to my wigwam. My father's father awaited me. He was gloomy and thoughtful, and rose as I entered. I guessed at once what I had to expect. This is what I learned. Kouha-hande is a sachem whose words are not to be doubted. For two days, hid in the thickets, he watched the hut of the squatter of the River of the Wind. The second day, before the rising of the moon, there was a sharp whistle near the habitation, and a man appeared. He was very pale, wore the costume of the hunter of the prairies, and carried a rifle. At the distance the sachem could not make out his features. Almost immediately, however, a second person appeared on the scene, coming from the inside of the hut, and this was the squatter himself."
"Are you sure of what you say?" asked the old man.
"Kouha-hande knew him," replied the chief.
"Go on," gloomily remarked old Berger.
"The two men approached each other, spoke for a long time in a low tone, and then separated, after exchanging one phrase, which the sachem heard distinctly. This phrase, which seemed to summarise their conversation, was—"
"'You swear upon your honour that she will be quite safe and respected in every way,' said the squatter."
"'As if she were my own sister or daughter, I swear unto you,' replied the hunter."
"The two men then parted. That was all. Two hours passed away. Just about the time when the blue jay begins its first song, the sachem, who had remained still in his hiding place, his eye and ear on the strain, heard a noise approaching rapidly, like that of a number of people who, fearing no surprise, thought it useless to take any precautions. They soon came in sight. They were no less than thirty palefaces, armed with rifles. They surrounded the hut and attacked it on all sides."
"The squatter and his servants defended themselves like people taken by surprise—that is, feebly."
"The assailants soon entered the hut. My grandfather now heard a great tumult inside. But he was alone, could do no good, and therefore remained in his hiding place. At the end of an hour the men came out, escorting a fainting female, who was wrapped in a frazada. Satisfied with the result of their expedition, they went off without even closing the doors behind them. Kouha-hande waited some little time, and then, convinced that the assailants had departed, went into the wigwam."
"All was in disorder. The furniture was overthrown and broken; the squatter, his wife, and servants, tied and gagged, lay on the floor. The sachem hastened to stir up the fire, then he lighted some torches, after which he set all the people at liberty. Even then for some time they were unable to move or speak."
"The squatter's wife wept, wrung her hands, and bitterly reproached her husband with his cowardice, which had been the cause of the abduction of her niece."
"And what did he say?" asked Berger.
"Nothing," said the chief; "he was overwhelmed, appeared struck by stupor, remaining utterly motionless. Presently he seemed to recover his spirits. Kouha-hande then offered to start in pursuit of the ravishers, but the squatter refused, alleging that the trail was no doubt by this time so cleverly concealed as to render pursuit impossible. He left the punishment of the villains in the hands of God. The sachem, seeing plainly that he was not wanted, went away. But Kouha-hande was determined to reach to the bottom of the dark scheme; instead of returning to his village, he followed the abductors."
"These, having apparently no fear of pursuit, had left ample traces of their passage in the forest, and took not the slightest precaution to conceal their route in a straight line through the forest. It led direct to the Missouri. The sachem at once saw through the whole thing. These hunters, the sachem declared, could only be the redoubtable outlaws commanded by the extraordinary chief before whom all trembled, white and red, in the prairie."
"Tom Mitchell," groaned the old man.
"Himself," said the chief. "The sachem, after exploring the two banks of the river for many miles, came back to the village of his nation, and told me what he had seen. This is my story. Have I well said?"
"You have," cried François Berger; "but let me speak. I am the only one person in fault. I should never have separated from my daughter. It is my duty to go in search of her. I will find her or perish in the attempt."
He attempted to rise, but Oliver checked him.
"Pardon me, sir," he said, gently, "if I interfere in so delicate and grave a matter. The friendship I bear your son, the cordial way in which you have received me, compel me to feel as if I were personally concerned in the matter. May I therefore be allowed to speak a few words?"
"Speak," said the old hunter.
"Sir," replied the young man, modestly, "I have listened to every word as recorded by the chief, and I believe every word as recorded by him. It appears to me, therefore, in examining the facts, that the attack of the hunters, arranged with the squatter himself, his repugnance and refusal to pursue them, point either to treachery or a strange mystery, which it would be wise to clear up."
"Unfortunately," said the old man, "we share your opinion. The treachery is too flagrant to be doubted."
"You believe in treachery," urged Oliver.
"Base and cowardly treachery," cried Berger, striking the table.
"Be assured, then," continued Oliver, "and you will be a better judge of the correctness of my opinion than I am, your enemies, whoever they may be, have spies around you, spies employed to watch your movements, and to report them at once. You Will not have been ten minutes on the trail of the ravishers ere they would be on your track."
"Quite true," said the old man; "what is to be done?"
"A very simple thing, and one which I am very much surprised you have not thought of before. We have only reached the village two hours ago; I, as a stranger, am unknown to anybody, nobody troubles himself in any way about me. Whither I go matters to no one. With your permission, at nightfall I will start in company with Bright-eye. If our early departure is noticed, we can easily give some reason. It is you who are watched, and no one else. None, knowing the indomitable energy of your character, will believe that you have allowed anyone else to go in search of your daughter. We shall be three men, two of whom know the desert well. The trail of one man is easy to follow, but not of three wary hunters ever on their guard, at all events, without the spies be discovered and killed. This is my opinion, and, frankly, I think it good."
"You have spoken well," repeated the grandfather; "what you say is just. We are proud to have you for a friend, and we thank you. It is not necessary to reflect long without owning you are right. It would be folly to contest the matter, my son, and I, therefore, gladly confide to you the task of finding our child. Go, as you propose, this evening at the setting of the moon, my grandson, the chief, and yourself."
"And you will succeed," said the father.
"I hope so, sir," responded the Frenchman; "rely upon it, I shall do all I can for my new sister."
"My son was fortunate to meet you. God bless you all."
The two young people simply thanked Oliver by looks. It was eleven o'clock at night when they started, without being noticed. We already know how they met the outlaw.
The sun had long since gone down, the night was dark and cloudy, not a star shone in the sky. George Clinton, seated on a bench before his door, awaited the return of Keen-hand and his two dogs, who had accompanied the three travellers a short distance; the two serving men had gone to bed.
George Clinton, half an hour before, had satisfied himself that his wounded guest slept soundly.
His eyes fixed on vacancy, the young man was dreaming, giving way to soft and melancholy reverie; his soul, borne on the wings of fancy, was far away; it was wandering in the realms of space after the beloved, after the idolised young girl, for whom he had sacrificed and abandoned everything, and the mention of whose name made him quiver with delight.
Suddenly he was awakened from his Elysian dream by an almost superhuman cry of anguish.
The young man started as if he had received an electric shock; he turned pale, clutched the barrel of his rifle, and then listened, trying in vain to pierce the intense darkness which wrapped all nature as in a winding sheet.
Some minutes passed, during which there was not a breath in the air, not the slightest sound. George Clinton breathed more freely, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Heaven be praised," he said, "I was mistaken."
Scarcely had he uttered these words, which he hardly believed, when the same frightful cry was repeated.
"It is a terrible warning," he cried; "some fearful crime is being accomplished. I cannot hesitate."
And, without another thought, he darted off in the direction whence came the lugubrious sound.
Almost ere George had quite disappeared in the darkness a shrill whistle, modulated in a certain way, was twice repeated; then a heavy black mass appeared crawling on the earth; this dark mass stopped at short intervals, and then again advanced. This strange phenomenon was soon followed by a second, a third, another, in all ten.
In a few minutes all were round the hut. Then a second whistle was heard, a signal of course, as they all rose and revealed ten armed men. They were ferocious-looking beings, with sinister features—true bandits of the prairies.
"We are the masters," said one; "the serving men sleep, the master is away, let us waste no time."
"Do you know where he is?" asked a second.
"I pretty well guess. The place is familiar to me. But let us be careful. I don't want to be caught."
"Be satisfied; Versenca and Jonathan never left their post, and Paddy is on the watch. All is safe."
"I am not more timid than another, but I like to be sure."
"We are losing time, and should act."
"Quite so, Sleepy; but I want to know why the captain, who must have heard our signal, is still quiet?"
"But you know the captain is wounded."
"True, but he is no puling girl to be affected for long by a wound. Let us go in and find him."
"'Tis useless, I am here," said a grave voice.
And a man leaning on his rifle and walking with some difficulty appeared before them in the doorway.
"The captain!" they all cried.
"Silence, boys," with an imperious gesture; "I am happy to see that you have not forgotten me."
"Forgotten you!" cried Versenca, boldly; "Do we not follow wherever you go? Are we not devoted to you body and soul?"
"Quite right," said the captain, with a bitter smile; "let us say no more about it. I am here, and all is well."
"And now, captain, we await your orders."
"Right! And how many are here?"
"Ten here ready to obey—three on the watch."
"Have you horses?—but of course, I need not ask. Bring them up and let us be off."
"With empty pockets?" cried Sleepy.
"What do you want?" asked the captain.
"Want!" exclaimed Sleepy, shrugging his shoulders; "Why, is not this wigwam very rich, and the owner absent? There can be no two opinions as to what should be done."
"Comrades," said Tom Mitchell, "the owner of this home found me wounded in the prairie and took me in."
"We know that—what then?"
"What then! Not only did George Clinton shelter me beneath his roof, but saved my life from the lynchers."
"Thank goodness," said Versenca, "that induced him to leave the hut by the exercise of cunning."
"Without violence, I hope," said Tom.
"Quite so; sent him on a false trail, that is all."
"Then you are agreed with me—no pillage."
"No pillage!" cried all; "Let us go."
None had entered the house, and now, on the order of the chief, they turned to go. George Clinton was before them.
"Gentlemen," he cried, standing resolutely before them, "what is the meaning of this visit in my absence?"
"Confound the fools who did not warn us."
"I was never far. I have heard nearly all."
"Much good may it do you; and now let us pass."
"On the contrary; I decline to let you pass," said Clinton.
"Good!" said Sleepy, rubbing his hands together; "After all there will be some broken bones here."
"Perhaps," continued Oliver, clutching his rifle.
"Ah! Ah! So the fun is going to begin," said the outlaw.
"Silence," cried the captain, sternly; "silence, and fall back." As soon as they had obeyed he advanced to Clinton.
"As you have heard our conversation," he said, "why do you try and oppose our free departure?"
"Because, as you know, I am answerable for your person. I promised you should not leave my house until you were quite cured of your wounds."
"Your solicitude for my health is charming," said the captain, ironically, "and I really know not how to thank you."
"I take little interest in you. My honour is concerned."
"You are not polite, while I try to be courteous. I will therefore simply remark that strength is on my side. Still I should be sorry to proceed to extremities."
"Menaces are useless. Will you return to the house?"
"The demand is ridiculous," cried the captain.
"How so?" said a voice, and at the same time two magnificent dogs bounded to where Clinton stood.
There was a moment of profound stupefaction on the part of the outlaws, who saw this succour arrive.
Tom Mitchell, however, stooped towards Sleepy and whispered a few words in his ear. The man nodded, turned away and disappeared.
"Beware!" said the captain; "I have hesitated to attack one man. But if blood is shed it is your fault."
"We shall see," said Keen-hand, appearing beside his master, "you are ten and we are five. What do you think?"
"Nothing," replied the chief, laughing; "but you seem to forget that we have the advantage of the situation. If we like we can take possession of the hut, whence I fancy my good friend will find it difficult to dislodge us."
"Without counting that we are master of the person of the owner of the wigwam," cried Versenca, triumphantly.
It was true. Assisted by the sentinels whom the outlaw had brought up behind, he had been seized.
He was at once taken inside and then secured with his servants, whom the noise had at last aroused.
But even this had not been done without a struggle. The two splendid dogs on seeing their master attacked had flown at the throats of the bandits, had knocked two down and throttled them in a minute; then, obedient to a whistle from Charbonneau, they had darted into a thicket, whence came a discharge of firearms. The three young men had returned.
The outlaws retreated into the hut, prepared to defend themselves to the last gasp. Battle was imminent.
"Stop," cried the voice of Oliver, "stop, for heaven's sake," and rushing forward he added, "Captain Tom Mitchell, I demand safety for myself and friends, and a truce until this unfortunate affair can be settled amicably. Speak."
"I consent at once," said the captain, frankly; "what has happened was not of my doing. Down with your arms. Let all retain their positions. As for you, sir, you may advance, you are entirely under the protection of my honour."
"I am here," replied Oliver, advancing.
The two men went into the house and seated themselves at a table near an open window.
"I am prepared to listen," said the captain; "I suppose you think I deceived you, or the young girl was gone."
"It was our opinion, sir."
"Don't be in the least uneasy," said the captain, "I only secured the girl as a hostage for my own safety."
"A hostage!" replied Oliver.
"Yes. I have an important question to treat of with her tribe. But let us speak of our own affairs."
"I don't understand you."
"I will explain, and you will find that all that has taken place today has been caused by yourself."
"Really," cried Oliver, "I understand you less and less."
"I have no doubt you are astonished," said the captain; "but we can come to an explanation in a few words, M. Oliver."
"You know my name."
"And a great many other things besides, as you will soon know," continued the other, coldly; "but let me explain. For reasons which it is unnecessary to mention, I had deep interest in making acquaintance with two new arrivals in this country, you, sir, and Mr. George Clinton. My plan of introduction was rough. My wound, which I inflicted on myself, and which is only a scratch, deceived you all. I am now personally acquainted with you both, and I am delighted. Still, things looked ugly for me—but what is the use of a battle in which half of us would be massacred? I want nothing of the kind. I have important business to transact and must go. In this instance I count wholly on you."
"On me, sir! By what title?"
"I cannot explain. I have promised to restore Evening Dew, and I will keep my promise. Just now she serves as a hostage. She is treated with the utmost deference and respect. Now let me pass at once. Delay is useless."
"But, sir—can I—" stammered Oliver.
"Save an outlaw, a man with a price on his head!" said the other, bitterly; "But I am not what I seem. One day—"
But Oliver was thinking, and, after some minutes of reflection, said, "It shall be as you wish."
"Thank you; and now away to your friends and take George Clinton with you," said the captain.
Oliver went out with the young American and soon returned.
"You are free to return with your companions," he said, on re-entering the hut; "I give you my word."
"Farewell until we meet again. We part friends."
"I have no hatred against you, but I sincerely hope we shall never meet again."
"It shall be as Providence wills," was the reply.
Five minutes later the outlaws were galloping away, and soon disappeared in the darkness.
"Who is this man?" murmured Oliver, sadly; "Is he one of those enemies who pursue me everywhere?"
At that moment his friends came up and his thoughts went into a different channel. Still he did not easily forget his interview with that extraordinary man, who seemed to know him, and by whom he was really fascinated.