"They are wrong."
"Possibly; I am far from justifying them."
"So that," the emigrant joyfully exclaimed, "we are free from these red devils."
"Do not rejoice yet; you will soon see them return."
"What, again?"
"They have only suspended their attack to carry off their killed and wounded, and probably to invent some other plan, to get the better of you."
"Oh, that will not be difficult; in spite of all our efforts, it will be impossible for us to resist that flock of birds of prey, who rush on us from all sides, as on a carcass. What can five rifles effect against that legion of demons?"
"Much, if you do not despair."
"Oh, as for that, you may be easy, we will not yield an inch; we are resolved to die at our posts."
"Your bravery pleases me," the stranger said, "perhaps all will end better than you suppose."
"May Heaven hear you, my worthy woman."
"Let us lose no time; the Indians may return to the charge at any moment, so let us try to be as successful this time as the first."
"I will."
"Good! Are you a man of resolution?"
"I fancy I have proved it."
"That is true. How many days' provisions have you here?"
"Four, at the least."
"That is to say, eight, if necessary."
"Pretty nearly."
"Good! Now, if you like, I will get rid of your enemies for a long time."
"I ask nothing better."
Suddenly the war cry of the Redskins was again heard, but this time more strident and unearthly than the first.
"It is too late!" the stranger said, sorrowfully, "All that is left is to die bravely."
"Let us die, then; but first kill as many of these Pagans as we can," John Black answered. "Hurrah! my boys, for Uncle Sam!"
"Hurrah!" his comrades shouted, brandishing their weapons.
The Indians responded to this challenge by yells of rage, and the combat recommenced, though this time it was more serious. After rising to utter their formidable war cry, the Indians scattered, and advanced slowly toward the camp, by crawling on the ground. When they found in their road the stump of a tree or a bush capable of offering them shelter, they stopped to fire an arrow or a bullet. The new tactics adopted by their enemies disconcerted the Americans, whose bullets were too often wasted; for, unluckily, the Indians were almost invisible in the gloom, and, with that cunning so characteristic of them, shook the grass so cleverly, that the deceived emigrants did not know where to aim.
"We are lost," Black exclaimed despondingly.
"The position is indeed becoming critical; but we must not despair yet," the stranger remarked; "one chance is left us; a very poor one, I grant; but which I shall employ when the moment arrives. Try to hold out in a hand-to-hand fight."
"Come," the emigrant said, shouldering his rifle, "there is one of the devils who will not get any further."
A Blackfoot warrior, whose head rose at this moment above the grass, had his skull fractured by the American's bullet. The Redskins suddenly rose, and rushed, howling, on the barricade, where the emigrants awaited them firmly. A point-blank discharge received the Indians, and a hand-to-hand fight began. The Americans, standing on the barricades and clubbing their rifles, dashed down every one who came within their reach. Suddenly, at the moment when the emigrants, overpowered by numbers, fell back a step, the stranger rushed up the barricade, with a torch in her hand, and uttering such a savage yell, that the combatants stopped, with a shudder. The flame of the torch was reflected on the stranger's face, and imparted to it a demoniac expression. She held her head high, and stretched out her arm, with a magnificent gesture of authority.
"Back!" she shrieked. "Back, devils!"
At this extraordinary apparition, the Redskins remained for a moment motionless, as if petrified, but then they rushed headlong down the slope, flying, with the utmost terror. The Americans, interested witnesses of this incomprehensible scene, gave a sigh of relief. They were saved! Saved by a miracle! They then rushed toward the stranger, to express their gratitude to her.
She had disappeared!
In vain did the Americans look for her everywhere; they could not imagine whither she was gone: she seemed to have suddenly become invisible. The torch she held in her hand, when addressing the Indians, lay on the ground, where it still smoked; it was the only trace she left of her presence in the emigrants' camp.
John Black and his companions lost themselves in conjectures on her account, while dressing, as well as they could, the wounds they had received in the engagement, when his wife and daughter suddenly appeared in the camp. Black rushed toward them.
"How imprudent of you!" he exclaimed. "Why have you left your hiding place, in spite of the warnings given you?"
His wife looked at him in amazement.
"We left it," she replied, "by the directions of the strange woman to whom we are all so deeply indebted this night."
"What! have you seen her again?"
"Certainly; a few moments back she came to us; we were half dead with terror, for the sounds of the fighting reached us, and we were completely ignorant of what was occurring. After reassuring us, she told us that all was over, that we had nothing more to fear, and that, if we liked, we could rejoin you."
"But she—what did she do?"
"She led us to this spot; then, in spite of our entreaties, she went away, saying that as we no longer needed her, her presence was useless, while important reasons compelled her departure."
The emigrant then told the ladies all about the events of the night, and the obligations they owed to this extraordinary female. They listened to the narrative with the utmost attention, not knowing to what they should attribute her strange conduct, and feeling their curiosity aroused to the utmost pitch. Unfortunately, the peculiar way in which the stranger had retired, did not appear to evince any great desire on her part to establish more intimate relations with the emigrants.
In the desert, however, there is but little time to be given to reflections and comments; action is before all; men must live and defend themselves. Hence Black, without losing further time in trying to solve the riddle, occupied himself actively in repairing the breaches made in his entrenchments, and fortifying his camp more strongly, were that possible, by piling up on the barricades all the articles within reach. When these first duties for the common safety were accomplished, the emigrant thought of his cattle. He had placed them at a spot where the bullets could not reach them, close to the tent, into which his wife and daughter had again withdrawn, and had surrounded them by a quantity of interlaced branches. On entering this corral, Black uttered a cry of amazement, which was soon changed into, a yell of fury. His son and the men ran up; the horses and one-half the cattle had disappeared. During the fight the Indians had carried them off, and the noise had prevented their flight being heard. It seemed probable that the stranger's interference, by striking the Indians with terror, had alone prevented the robbery being completed, and the whole of the cattle carried off.
The loss was enormous to the emigrant; although all his cattle had not disappeared, enough had been carried off to render further progress impossible. His resolution was formed with that promptitude so characteristic of the Northern Americans.
"Our beasts are stolen," he said; "I must have them back."
"Quite right," William answered; "at daybreak we will go on their track."
"I, but not you, my son," the emigrant said. "Sam will go with me."
"What shall I do then?"
"Stay in the camp, to guard your mother and sister. I will leave James with you."
The young man made no reply.
"I will not let the Pagans boast of having eaten my oxen," Black said, wrathfully. "By my father's soul, I will get them back, or lose my scalp!"
The night had passed away while the camp was being fortified. The sun, though still invisible, was beginning to tinge the horizon with a purple light.
"Ah, look!" Black continued, "here's day; let us lose no time, but set off. I recommend your mother and sister to your care, Will, as well as all that is here."
"You can go, father," the young man said. "I will keep good watch during your absence; you may be easy."
The emigrant pressed his son's hand, threw his rifle, over his shoulder, made a sign to Sam to follow him, and walked towards the entrenchment.
"It is useless to wake your mother," he said, as he walked on; "when she comes out of the tent, you will tell her what has occurred, and what I have done; I am certain she will approve of it. So, good-bye, my boy, and mind you are on the watch."
"And you, father—good luck!"
"May Heaven grant it, boy," the emigrant said, sorrowfully. "Such splendid cattle!"
"Stay!" the young man exclaimed, holding his father back, at the moment the latter was preparing to climb over the barricades. "What is that I see down there?"
The emigrant turned quickly.
"Do you see anything, Will—-whereabouts?"
"Look, father, in that direction. But what is the meaning of it? It must be our cattle."
The emigrant looked in the direction his son indicated.
"What!" he exclaimed joyfully; "why, those are our cattle. Where on earth do they come from? And who is bringing them back?"
In fact, at a great distance on the prairie, the American's cattle were visible, galloping rapidly in the direction of the camp, and raising a cloud of dust behind them.
The Count de Beaulieu was far from suspecting, as he carelessly prepared to light a cigar, that the lucifer match he employed would at once render him so important in the sight of the Indians. But, so soon as he recognized the power of the weapon chance placed in his hands, he resolved to employ it, and turn to his own profit the superstitious ignorance of the Redskins. Enjoying, in his heart, the triumph he had obtained, the Count frowned, and employing the language and emphatic gestures of the Indians, when he saw they were sufficiently recovered to listen to him, he addressed them with that commanding tone which always imposes on the masses.
"Let my brothers open their ears; the words my lips utter must be heard and understood by all. My brothers are simple men, prone to error; truth must enter their hearts like an iron wedge. My goodness is great, because I am powerful; instead of chastising them when they dared to lay hands on me, I am satisfied with displaying my power before their eyes. I am a great physician of the pale faces; I possess all the secrets of the most famous medicines. If I pleased, the birds of the air and the fish of the river would come to do me homage, because the Master of Life is within me, and has given me his medicine rod. Listen to this, Redskins, and remember it: when the first man was born, he walked on the banks of the Mecha-Chebe; there he met the Master of Life: the Master of Life saluted him, and said to him, 'Thou art my son.' 'No,' the first man made answer, 'thou art my son, and I will prove it to thee, if thou dost not believe me; we will sit down and plant in the earth the medicine rod we hold in our hands; the one who rises first will be the younger, and the son of the other.' They sat down then, and looked at each other for a long time, until at length the Master of Life turned pale, and the flesh left his bones; on which the first man exclaimed, joyfully, 'At length thou art assuredly dead.' And they regarded each other thus during ten times ten moons, and ten times more; and as at the end of that time the bones of the Master of Life were completely bleached, the first man rose and said, 'Yes, now there is no more doubt; he is certainly dead.' He then took the medicine stick of the Master of Life, and drew it from the earth. But then the Master of Life rose, and taking the stick from him, said to him, 'Stop! here I am; I am thy father, and thou art my son.' And the first man recognized him as his father. But the Master of Life then added, 'Thou art my son, first man; thou can'st not die; take my medicine staff; when I have to communicate with my Redskin sons, I will send thee.' This is the medicine staff. Are you ready to execute my orders?"
These words were uttered with so profound an accent of truth, the legend related by the Count was so true and so well known by all, that the Indians, whom the miracle of the match had already disposed to credulity, put complete faith in it, and answered respectfully—
"Let my father speak: what he wishes we wish. Are we not his children?"
"Hence," the Count continued, "I wish to speak with you, chief, alone."
Natah Otann had listened to the Count's discourse with the deepest attention: at times, an observer might have noticed a flash of joy cross his features, immediately followed, however, by a feeling of pleasure, which lit up his intelligent eyes: he applauded, like his warriors, perhaps more warmly than they, when the young man ceased speaking; on hearing him say that he would speak with the sachem alone, a smile played on his lips: he made the Indians a sign to retire, and walked towards the Count with an ease and grace which the other could not refrain from noticing. There was a native nobility in this young chief, which pleased at the first glance, and attracted sympathy.
After bowing respectfully, the Blackfeet warriors went down the hill, and collected about one hundred yards from the camping place.
There were two men whom the Count's eloquence had surprised quite as much as the Indian warriors. These were Bright-eye and Ivon; neither of them understood a syllable, and the young man's Indian science completely threw them out; they awaited in the utmost anxiety the denouement of this scene, whose meaning they could not decipher.
When left alone (for the hunter and Ivon soon also withdrew), the Frenchman and the Indian examined each other with extreme attention. But whatever efforts the white man made to read the sentiments of the man he had before him, he was obliged to allow that he had to deal with one of those superior natives, on whose faces it is impossible to read anything, and who, under all circumstances, are ever masters of their impressions; furthermore, the fixity and metallic lustre of the Indian's eye caused him to feel a secret uneasiness, which he hastened to remove by speaking, as if that would break the charm.
"Chief," he said, "now that your warriors have retired—"
Natah Otann interrupted him by a sign, and bowed courteously.
"Pardon me, Monsieur le Comte," he said, with an accent which a native of the banks of the Seine would have envied: "I think the slight practice you have had in speaking our language is wearisome to you; if you would please to express yourself in French, I fancy I understand that language well enough to follow you."
"Eh?" the Count exclaimed, with a start of surprise, "what is that you say?"
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the Count's feet he would not have been more surprised and terrified than on hearing this savage, who wore the complete costume of the Blackfeet, and whose face was painted of four different colours, express himself so purely in French. Natah Otann did not seem to notice his companion's agitation, but continued coldly—
"Deign to pardon me, Monsieur le Comte, for employing terms which must certainly have offended you by their triviality; but the few occasions I have for speaking French in this desert must serve as an excuse."
M. de Beaulieu was a prey to one of those surprises which grow gradually greater. He no longer knew were he awake, or suffering from a nightmare; what he heard seemed to him so incredible and incomprehensible, that he could not find words to express his feelings.
"Who on earth are you?" he exclaimed, when sufficiently master of himself to speak.
"I!" Natah Otann remarked carelessly; "why, you see I am a poor Indian, and nothing more."
"'Tis impossible," the young man said.
"I assure you, sir, that I have told you the exact truth. Hang it," he added with charming frankness, "if you find me a little less—what shall I say?—coarse, you must not consider it a crime; that results from considerations entirely independent of my will, which I will tell you some day, if you wish to hear them."
The Count, as we think we have said, was a man of great courage, whom but few things could disturb; the first impression passed, he bravely took his part; perfectly master of himself henceforth, he frankly accepted the position which accident had so singularly made for him.
"By Jove!" he said, with a laugh, "the meeting is a strange one, and may reasonably surprise me; you will therefore pardon, my dear sir, that astonishment—in extreme bad taste, I grant—which I at first evidenced on hearing you address me as you did. I was so far from expecting to meet, six hundred leagues from civilised countries, a man so well bred as yourself, that I confess I at first hardly knew what Saint to invoke."
"You flatter me, sir; believe me that I feel highly grateful for the good opinion you are good enough to have of me; now, if you permit, we will go back to our business."
"On my faith, I am so staggered by all that has happened, that I really do not know what I am about."
"Nonsense, that is nothing; I will lead you back to the right track; after the charming address you made us, you seem to desire speech with me alone."
"Hum!" the Count said, with a smile, "I am afraid that I must have appeared to you supremely ridiculous with my legend, especially my remarks, but then I could not suspect that I had an auditor of your stamp."
Natah Otann shook his head sadly; a melancholy expression for a moment darkened his face.
"No," he said, "you acted as you were bound to do; but while you were speaking, I was thinking of those poor Indians sunk so deeply in error, and asking myself whether there was any hope of their regeneration before the white men succeed in utterly destroying them."
The chief uttered these words with such a marked accent of grief and hatred, that the Count was moved by the thought how this man, with a soul of fire, must suffer at the brutalization of his race.
"Courage!" he said, holding out his hand to him.
"Courage!" the Indian repeated, bitterly, though clasping the proffered hand; "after each defeat I experienced in the struggle I have undertaken, the man who has served as my father, and unfortunately made me what I am, never ceases to say that to me."
There was a moment of silence; each was busied with his own thoughts; at length Natah Otann proceeded:—
"Listen, Monsieur le Comte; between men of a certain stamp there is a species of undefinable feeling, which attaches them to each other in spite of themselves; for the six months your have been traversing the desert in every direction, I have never once lost sight of you; you would have been dead long ere this, but I spread a secret ægis over you. Oh, do not thank me," he said, quickly, as the young man made a sign, "I have acted rather in my own interest than yours. What I say surprises you, I daresay, but it is so. Allow me to tell you, that I have views with reference to yourself, whose secrets I will unfold to you in a few days, when we know each other better; as for the present, I will obey you in whatever you wish; in the eyes of my countrymen, I will keep up that miraculous halo which surrounds your brow. You wish these American emigrants to be left at peace, very good; for your sake I pardon this race of vipers; but I ask you one favour in return."
"Speak!"
"When you are certain the people you wish to save are in security, accompany me to my village,—that is all I desire. That will not cost you much, especially as my tribe is encamped not more than a day's march from the spot where you now are."
"I accept your proposition, chief. I will accompany you wherever you please, though not till I am certain that myprotégésno longer require my aid."
"That is agreed. Stay, one word more."
"Say it."
"It is well understood that I am only an Indian like the rest, even to the two white men who accompany you!"
"You demand it?"
"For our common welfare: a word spoken thoughtlessly, any indiscretion, how trifling soever, would destroy us both. Ah! you do not know the Redskins yet," he added, with that melancholy smile which had already given the Count so much subject for thought.
"Very good," he answered; "you may be easy; I am warned."
"Now, if you think proper, I will recall my warriors; a longer conference between us might arouse their jealousy."
"Do so; I trust entirely to you."
"You will have no reason to repent it," Natah Otann replied, graciously.
While the chief went to join his companions, the Count walked up to the two white men.
"Well?" Bright-eye asked him, "have you obtained what you wanted from that man?"
"Perfectly," he answered; "I only wished to say a few words to him."
The hunter looked at him cunningly.
"I did not think him so easy," he said.
"Why so, my friend?"
"His reputation is great in the desert; I have known him for a very long period."
"Ah!" the young man said, not at all sorry to obtain some information about the man who perplexed him so greatly; "what reputation has he then?"
Bright-eye seemed to hesitate for a moment.
"Are you afraid to explain yourself clearly on that head?" the Count asked.
"I have no reason for that; on the contrary, with the exception of that day on which he wished to flay me alive—a slight mistake, which I pardon with my whole heart,—our relations have always been excellent."
"The more so," the Count said, with a laugh, "because you never met again, to my knowledge, till this day."
"That is what I meant to say. Look you—Natah Otann, between ourselves, is one of those Indians whom it is far more advantageous not to see: he is like the owl—his presence always forebodes evil."
"The deuce! You trouble me greatly by speaking so, Bright-eye."
"Suppose I had said nothing, then," he answered, quickly; "for my part, I should prefer to be silent."
"That is possible; but the little you have allowed to escape has, I confess, so awakened my curiosity, that I should not be sorry to learn more."
"Unfortunately, I know nothing."
"Still you spoke of his reputation—is that bad?"
"I did not say so," Bright-eye answered, with reserve. "You know, Mr. Edward, that Indian manners are very different from ours: what is bad to us is regarded very differently by Indians; and so—"
"So, I suppose," the Count interrupted, "Natah Otann has an execrable reputation."
"No, I assure you; that depends upon the way in which you look at matters."
"Good; and what is your personal opinion?"
"Oh, I, as you are aware, am only a poor fellow; still it seems to me as if this demon of an Indian is more crafty than his whole tribe; between ourselves, he is regarded as a sorcerer by his countrymen, who are frightfully afraid of him."
"Is that all?"
"Nearly."
"After that," the Count said, lightly, "as he has asked me to accompany him to his village, the few days we spend with him will enable us to study him at our ease."
The hunter gave a start of surprise.
"You will not do so, I trust, Sir?"
"I do not see what can prevent me."
"Yourself, Sir; who, I hope, will not walk, with your eyes open, into the lion's jaws."
"Will you explain—yes, or no?" the Count exclaimed with rising impatience.
"Oh, what is the use of explaining?—will what I say stop you? No, I am persuaded of that. You see, therefore, it is useless for me to say more; besides, it is too late—the chief is returning."
The Count made a movement of ill-humour, at once suppressed; but this movement did not escape Natah Otann, who at this moment appeared on the plateau. The young man walked toward him.
"Well?" he asked eagerly.
"My young men consent to do what our Paleface father desires; if he will mount his horse and follow us, he can convince himself that our intentions are loyal."
"I follow you, chief," the Count replied, making Ivon a sign to bring up his horse.
The Blackfeet welcomed the three hunters with unequivocal signs of joy.
"Forward!" the young man said.
Natah Otann raised his arm. At this signal the warriors drove in their knees, and the horses started like a hurricane. No one, who has not witnessed it, can form an idea of an Indian chase: nothing stops the Redskins—no obstacle is powerful enough to make them deviate from their course; they go in a straight line, rolling like a human whirlwind across the prairie crossing gulleys, ravines, and rocks, with dizzy rapidity. Natah Otann, the Count, and his two companions, were at the head of the cavalcade, closely followed by the warriors. All at once the chief checked his horse, shouting at the top of his voice—
"Halt!"
All obeyed, as if by enchantment: the horses stopped dead, and remained motionless, as if their feet were planted in the ground.
"Why stop?" the Count asked; "we had better push on."
"It is useless," the chief said, calmly; "let my Pale brother look before him."
The Count bent on his horse's neck.
"I can see nothing," he said.
"That is true," the Indian said; "I forgot that my brother has the eyes of the Palefaces; in a few minutes he will see."
The Blackfeet anxiously collected round their chief, whom they questioned with their glances. The latter, apparently impassive, looked straight ahead, distinguishing in the darkness objects invisible to all but himself. The Indians, however, had not long to wait, for some horsemen soon came up at full speed. When they arrived near Natah Otann's party, they stopped.
"What has happened?" the chief asked, sternly; "why are my sons running away thus? They are not warriors I see, but timid women."
The Indians bowed their heads with humility at this reproach, but made no answer. The chief continued—"Will no one inform us of what has happened—why my chosen warriors are flying like scattered antelopes—where is Long Horn?"
A warrior emerged from the ranks.
"Long Horn is dead," he said, sorrowfully.
"He was a wise and renowned warrior; he has gone to the happy hunting grounds to hunt with the upright warriors. As he is dead, why did not the Blackbird take the totem in his hand in his place?"
"Because the Blackbird is dead," the warrior answered, in the same tone.
Natah Otann frowned, and his brow was contracted by the effort he made to suppress his passion.
"Oh!" he said, bitterly, "the greathearts of the east have fought well; their rifles carry truly. The two best chiefs of the nation have fallen, but the Red Wolf still remained—why did he not avenge his brothers?"
"Because he has also fallen," the warrior said, in a mournful voice.
A shudder of anger ran through the ranks.
"Wah!" Natah Otann exclaimed, with grief, "what is he also dead?"
"No; but he is dangerously wounded."
After these words there was a silence. The chief looked around him, and then said—
"So; four Palefaces have held at bay two hundred Blackfeet warriors; killed and wounded their bravest chiefs, and those warriors have not taken their revenge. Ah! ah! what will the White Buffalo say when he hears that? He will give petticoats to my sons, and make them prepare food for the more courageous warriors, instead of sending them on the warpath."
"The camp of the Long Knives was in our power," the Indian replied, who had hitherto spoken for his comrades, "we already had them down with our knees on their chests, a portion of their cattle was carried off, and the scalps of the Palefaces were about to be attached to our girdles, when the Evil Genius suddenly appeared in their midst, and, by her mere appearance, changed the face of the combat."
The chief's face became still severer at this news, which his warriors received with unequivocal marks of terror.
"The 'Evil Genius!'" he said; "of whom is my brother speaking?"
"Of whom else can I speak to my father, save theLying She-wolf of the Prairies??" the Indian said, in a low voice.
"Oh! oh!" Natah Otann answered, "did my brother see the She-wolf?"
"Yes; we assure our father," the Blackfeet shouted altogether, happy to clear themselves from the accusation of cowardice that weighed on them.
Natah Otann seemed to reflect for a moment.
"At what place are the cattle my brothers carried off from the Long Knives?" he asked.
"We have brought them with us," a warrior answered, "they are here."
"Good," Natah Otann continued, "let my brothers open their ears to hear the words the Great Spirit breathes unto me:—the Long Knives are protected by the She-wolf: our efforts would be useless, and my sons would not succeed in conquering them; I will make a great medicine to break the charm of the She-wolf when we return to our village, but till then we must be very cunning to deceive the She-wolf, and prevent her being on her guard. Will my sons follow the advice of an experienced chief?"
"Let my father utter his thoughts," a warrior answered, in the name of all, "he is very wise: we will do what he wishes: he will deceive the She-wolf better than we can."
"Good; my sons have spoken well. This is what we will do:—We will return to the camp of the Palefaces, and will restore them their beasts; the Palefaces, deceived by this friendly conduct, will no longer suspect us; when we have made the great medicine, we will then seize their camp and all it contains, and the Lying She-wolf will be unable to defend them. I have spoken; what do my sons think?"
"My father is very crafty," the warrior replied; "what he has said is very good, his sons will perform it."
Natah Otann cast a glance of triumph at the Count de Beaulieu, who admired the skill with which the chief, while appearing to reprimand the Indians for the ill success of their enterprise, and evincing the greatest wrath against the Americans, had succeeded in a few minutes in inducing them to carry out his secret wishes.
"Oh! oh!" the Count murmured, aside, "this Indian is no common man, he deserves studying."
Still, a moment of tumult had followed the chief's words. The Blackfeet, recovered from the panic and terror which had made them fly with the feet of gazelles, to escape speedily from the ruined camp, where they had experienced so rude a defeat, had got off their horses, and were engaged, some in laying on their wounds chewed leaves of the oregano, others in collecting the cattle and horses which they had stolen from the Palefaces, and which were scattered about.
"Who is this Lying She-wolf of the Prairies, who inspires such horror in these men?" the Count asked Bright-eye.
"No one knows her," the hunter answered, in a low voice, "she is a woman whose mysterious life has hitherto foiled the most careful attempts at investigation: she does no harm to any but the Indians, whose implacable foe she appears to be: the Redskins affirm that she is invulnerable, that bullets and arrows rebound from her without doing her any injury. I have often seen her, though I have had no opportunity of speaking with her. I believe her to be mad, for I have seen her perform some of the wildest freaks at some moments, though at others she appears in full possession of her senses: in a word, she is an incomprehensible being, who leads an extraordinary life in the heart of the prairies."
"Is she alone?"
"Always."
"You excite my curiosity to the highest degree," the Count said; "no one, I suppose, could give me any information about this woman?"
"One person could do so, if he cared to speak."
"Who's that?"
"Natah Otann," the hunter said, in a low voice.
"That is strange," the Count muttered; "what can there be in common between him and this woman?"
Bright-eye only answered by a significant glance.
The conversation was broken off, and at the chief's order the Blackfeet remounted their horses.
"Forwards!" Natah Otann said, taking the head of the column again with the Count and his companions.
The whole troop set out at a gallop in the direction of the American camp, taking the cattle in their midst.
We are compelled, for the proper comprehension of the facts that will follow, to break off our story for a moment, in order to describe a strange adventure which happened on the Western Prairies some thirty odd years before our story opens.
The Indians, whom people insist so wrongly, in our opinion, in regarding as savages, have certain customs which display a thorough knowledge of the human heart. The Comanches, who appear to remember that in old times they enjoyed a far advanced civilization, have retained the largest amount of those customs which are, certainly, stamped with originality.
One day in the month of February, which they callthe Moon of the Arriving Eagles, and in the year 1795 or 1796, a village of the Red Cow tribe was in a state of extraordinary agitation. The hachesto, or public speaker, mounted on the roof of a lodge, summoned the warriors for the seventh hour of the day to the village square, near the ark of the first man, where a grand council would be held. The warriors asked each other in vain the purport of this unforeseen meeting, but no one could tell them: the hachesto himself was ignorant, and they were obliged to await the hour of assembling, although the comments and suppositions still went on to a great extent.
The Redskins, whom badly-informed authors represent to us as cold, silent men, are, on the contrary, very gay, and remarkable gossips when together. What has caused the contrary supposition is, that in their relations with white men the Indians are, in the first place, checked by the difficulties of the language—equally insurmountable, by the way, for both parties—and next by the distrust which every American native feels towards Europeans, whoever they may be, owing to the inveterate hatred that separates the two races.
During our lengthened residence among Indian tribes we often had opportunities for noticing what mistakes are made with respect to the Redskins. During their long evening gossips in the villages, or the hunting expeditions, there was a rolling fire of jokes and witticisms, often lasting whole hours, to the great delight of the audience, who laughed that hearty Indian laugh, without care or afterthought, which cleaves the mouth to the ears, and draws tears of delight,—a laugh which, for metallic resonance, can only be compared with that of negroes, though the former is far more spiritual than the latter, whose notes have ever something bestial about them.
Toward the decline of day, the hour selected for the meeting, the village square presented a most animated appearance. The warriors, women, children, and dogs, those inseparable guests of the Redskins, pressed round a large circle left empty in the centre for the council fire, near which the principal chiefs of the nation crouched ceremoniously. At a sign from an old sachem whose hair, white as silver, fell in a cloud on his shoulders, the pipe bearer brought in the great calumet, the stem of which he presented to each chief in turn, while holding the bowl in the palm of his hand. When all the chiefs had smoked, the pipe bearer turned the calumet to the four cardinal points, while murmuring mysterious words which no one heard; then he emptied the ash into the fire, saying aloud,—
"Chiefs, warriors, women, and children of the Red Cow, your sachems are assembled to judge a very grave question; pray to the Master of Life to inspire them with wise words."
Then the pipe bearer, after bowing respectfully to the chiefs, withdrew, taking the calumet with him. The council began, and, at a sign from the aged sachem, a chief rose, and bowing, took the word:—
"Venerated sachems, chiefs, and warriors of my nation," he said, in a loud voice, "the mission with which I am entrusted is painful to my heart: listen to me indulgently, be not governed by passion; but let justice alone preside over the severe decree which you will, perhaps, be compelled to pronounce. The mission which I am entrusted with is painful, I repeat; it fills my heart with sadness: I am compelled to accuse before you two renowned chiefs belonging to two illustrious families, who have, with equal claims, deserved well of the nation on many occasions by rendering it signal services; these chiefs, as I must name them before you, are the Bounding Panther, and the Sparrow Hawk."
On hearing these names, so well known and justly esteemed, pronounced, a shudder of astonishment and pain ran though the crowd. But, at a sign from the oldest chief, silence was almost immediately re-established, and the chief continued—
"How is it that a cloud has suddenly passed over the mind of these two warriors, and tarnished their intellect to such an extent, that these two men, who so long loved one another as brothers, whose friendship was cited among the nation, have suddenly become implacable enemies, so that, when they see each other, their eyes flash lightning, and their hands seek their weapons to commit murder? No one can say; no one knows it; these chiefs, when interrogated by the sachems, maintained an obstinate silence, instead of revealing the causes of their cruel enmity, which brings trouble and desolation on the tribe. Such a scandal must not last longer; tolerating it would be giving a pernicious example to our children! Sachems, chiefs, and warriors, in the name of justice, I demand that these irreconcilable enemies should be eternally banished from the tribe this very evening at sunset. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"
The chief sat down amid a mournful silence in this assembly of nearly two thousand people; the beating of their sorrow-laden hearts might almost be heard, such sustained attention did each one give to the words pronounced in the council.
"Has any chief any observation to offer on the accusation which has just been brought?" the old sachem said, in a weak voice, which was, however, perfectly heard in every part of the square. A member of the council rose.
"I take the word," he said, "not to refute Tiger Cat's accusation, for unfortunately all he has said is most scrupulously correct; far from exaggerating facts, he has, with that goodness and wisdom which reside in him, weakened the odiousness of that hatred; I only wish to offer a remark to my brothers. The chiefs are guilty, that is only too fully proved; a longer discussion on that point would be tedious; but, as Tiger Cat himself told us, with that loyalty which distinguishes him, these two men are renowned chiefs, chosen warriors, and they have rendered the nation signal services; we all love and cherish them for different reasons; let us be severe, but not cruel; let us not drive them from among us as unclean creatures; before striking, let us make one more attempt to reconcile them; this last step, taken in the presence of the whole nation, will, doubtlessly, touch their hearts, and we shall have the happiness of keeping two illustrious chiefs. If they remain deaf to our prayers, if our observations do not obtain the success we desire, then, as the case will be without a remedy, let us be implacable; put an end to this scandal which has lasted too long, and, as Tiger Cat asked, drive them for ever from our nation, which they dishonour. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"
After bowing to the sachems, the chief resumed his seat in the midst of a murmur of satisfaction, produced by his hearty language. Although these two speeches were contained in the programme of the ceremony, and everyone knew what the result of the meeting would be, the unreconciled chiefs had so much sympathy among the nation, that many persons still hoped they would be reconciled at the last moment, when they saw themselves on the point of being banished. The strangest thing connected with the hatred between the two men was, that the reason of it was completely unknown, and no one knew how to account for it. When silence was restored, the oldest sachem, after a consultation with his colleagues in a low voice, took the word.
"Let the Bounding Panther and the Sparrowhawk be introduced to our presence."
At the two opposite corners of the square, the crowd parted like overripe fruit, and left a passage for a small band of warriors, in the centre of which the two accused men walked. When they met, they remained perfectly calm, a slight arching of the eyebrows being the only sign of emotion they displayed. They were each about twenty-five years of age, well built, and active, and of martial aspect. They wore their grand costume and war paint, but their weapons were carried by their respective friends. They presented themselves before the council with great respect and modesty, which the assembly approved of heartily. After looking at them with a glance at once sorrowful and benevolent, the eldest sachem rose with an effort, and, supported by two of his colleagues, who held him under the arms, he at length spoke in a weak voice.
"Warriors, my beloved children," he said, "from the spot where you stood you heard the accusation brought against you; what have you to say in your defence?—are those words true? do you really entertain this irreconcilable hatred to each other? Speak."
The two chiefs bowed their heads silently. The sachem continued—
"My cherished children, I was already very old, when your mother, a child, whose birth I also saw, brought you into the world. I was the first to teach you the use of those weapons, which later became so terrible in your vigorous hands. Now that I am about to sleep the eternal sleep, only to wake again in the happy hunting grounds, give me a supreme consolation which will make me the happiest of men, and repay me for all the sorrow you have caused me. Come, children, you are young and adventurous, love alone ought to find a place in your hearts; hatred is a passion belonging to a ripe age, it does not become youth; offer one another those honest hands, embrace, like the two brothers you are, and let all be eternally forgotten between you. I implore you, my children; you cannot resist the prayers of an old man so near the tomb as I am."
There was a moment of supreme anxiety in the crowd; all waited with panting hearts for what was about to happen. The two chiefs directed a tender glance at the old sachem, who regarded them with tears in his eyes, then turned towards each other; their lips trembled, as if they wished to speak; a nervous tremor agitated their bodies, but no sound passed their lips; their arms remained inert by their sides.
"Answer," the old man continued, "yes or no. You must; I command it."
"No," they replied together, in a hoarse though firm voice.
The sachem drew himself up.
"It is well," he said. "As no generous feeling remains in your hearts, as hatred has eaten them up entirely, and you are no longer men but monsters, listen to the irrevocable sentence which your sachems, your equals, your relations, and friends pronounce upon you. The nation rejects you from its bosom; you are no longer children of our tribe. Fire and water are refused you on the hunting ground of your nation, we no longer know you. Chiefs who answer for you with their heads will lead you twenty-five leagues from the village; you, Bounding Panther, in a southern, and you, Sparrowhawk, in a northern direction; you are forbidden, under penalty of death, ever to set your foot again on the territory of your nation; each of you will take one of these arrows, painted of diverse colours, which will serve as a passport with the tribes through which you pass. Seek a nation to adopt you, for henceforth you have neither country nor family. Go, accursed ones! these arrows are the last presents you will receive from your brothers. Go, and may the Master of Life soften your tiger hearts! As for us, we know you no more. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"
The old man sat down again in the midst of general emotion; he veiled his face with the skirt of his buffalo robe, and wept. The two chiefs tottered away like drunken men, led to opposite corners of the square by their friends. They passed through the ranks of their countrymen, bowed down by the maledictions showered on them as they passed.
At the extremity of the village, horses were awaiting them. They galloped off, still followed by their escort. When each arrived at the spot where he was to be left, the warriors dismounted, threw their arms on the ground, and went off at full speed. Not a word had been uttered during the long ride, which lasted fourteen hours.
We will follow the Sparrowhawk: as for the Bounding Panther, no one ever knew what became of him; his traces were so completely lost, that it was impossible to find them again. The Sparrowhawk was a man of tried courage and energy; still, finding himself alone, abandoned by all those he had loved, a momentary feeling of discouragement and cold rage almost turned him mad. But his pride soon revolted, he wrestled with his sorrow, and after allowing his horse to take its necessary rest, he set out boldly.
He wandered about at hazard for many a month, following no precise direction, living by the chase, caring very little where he stopped, or the people with whom chance might bring him in contact. One day, after a long and perilous chase after an elk, which by a species of fatality he could not catch up, he suddenly found himself before a dead horse. He looked around him: no great distance off lay a sword, near which was a corpse, easily recognizable as that of a European by the dress.
Sparrowhawk felt his curiosity excited; with that sagacity peculiar to the Indians, he began ferreting about in every direction. His search was almost immediately crowned with success; he saw, at the foot of a tree, an old man with greyish hair and wild beard, dressed in tattered clothes, and lying motionless. The Indian quickly went up to examine the condition of the stranger, and try to restore him, if he were not dead. The first thing Sparrowhawk did was to lay his hand on the heart of the man he wished to succour. The heart beat, but so feebly, it seemed as if it must soon stop. All the Indians are to a certain extent doctors, that is to say, they possess a knowledge of certain plants, by means of which they often effect really wonderful cures.
While trying to restore the stranger, the Indian examined him attentively. Though his hair was beginning to turn grey, the man was still young, not more than forty to forty-five; he was tall and well-built; his forehead was wide and high; his nose aquiline; his mouth large, and his chin square. His clothes, though in rags, were well cut and made of fine cloth, which plainly showed that he must belong to a better class of society—the reader will understand that these delicate distinctions escaped the notice of the Indian—he only saw a man of intelligent appearance, and on the point of death; and though he belonged to the white race, a race which, like all his countrymen, he detested, and for good reasons—at the sight of such distress, he forgot his antipathy, and only thought of helping him.
Near the stranger there lay, in confusion on the grass, a surgeon's pocketbook, a brace of pistols, a gun, a sabre, and an open book. For a long time Sparrowhawk's efforts met with no success, and he was despairing whether he could raise the dying man to life, when a transient glow suffused his face, and his heart began beating more quickly and strongly. Sparrowhawk made a gesture of delight at this unexpected success. It was almost incredible! This warrior, whose whole life had been hitherto spent in waging war of ambushes and surprises with the whites, and committing the most refined cruelties on the unhappy Spaniards who fell into his hands, now rejoiced at recalling to life this individual, who, to him, was a natural enemy.
In a few minutes the stranger slowly opened his eyes, but he closed them again at once, as the light probably dazzled them. Sparrowhawk did not lose heart, and resolved to carry out a good work so well begun. His expectations were not deceived: the stranger presently opened his eyes again; he made an effort to rise, but was too weak, his strength failed him, and he fell back again. The Indian then gently supported him, and seated him against the trunk of the catalpa, at whose foot he had been hitherto lying. The stranger thanked him by a sign, muttering one word,beber(drink).
The Comanches, whose life is passed in periodical excursions into the Spanish territory, know a few words of that language. Sparrowhawk spoke it rather fluently. He seized the gourd hanging to his saddle bow, and which he had filled two hours before, and put it to the stranger's lips; so soon as he had tasted the water, he began swallowing it in heavy gulps. But the Indian, fearing an accident, soon took the gourd from his lips. The stranger wished to drink again.
"No," he said, "my father is too weak, he must eat something first."
The patient smiled, and pressed his hand. The Indian rose joyfully; took from his provision bag some fruit, and handed it to the man. Through these attentions the stranger was sufficiently recovered, within an hour, to get up. He then explained to Sparrowhawk, in bad Spanish, that he and one of his friends were travelling together, that their horses died of fatigue, while themselves could procure nothing to eat or drink in the desert. The result was, that his friend died in his arms only the previous day, after frightful suffering, and he should have probably shared the same fate, had not his lucky star, or rather Providence, sent him help.
"Good," the Indian replied, when the stranger ended his narrative, "my father is now strong, I will lasso a horse, and lead him to the first habitation of the men of his own colour."
At this proposition the stranger frowned; a look of hatred and haughty contempt was legible on his face.
"No," he said; "I will not return to the men of my colour, they have rejected and persecuted me, I hate them; I wish to live henceforward in the desert."
"Wah!" the Indian exclaimed, in surprise, "has my father no nation?"
"No," he answered, "I am alone, without country, relatives, or friends; the sight of a man of my colour excites me to hatred and contempt; all are ungrateful, I will live far from them."
"Good," the Indian said; "I, too, am rejected by my nation; I, too, am alone; I will remain with my father—I will be his son."
"What?" the stranger ejaculated, fancying he had misunderstood him, "Is it possible? Does banishment also exist among your wandering tribes? You, like myself, are abandoned by those of your race and blood, and condemned to remain alone—alone for ever?"
"Yes," Sparrowhawk said, sorrowfully, bowing his head.
"Oh!" the stranger said, directing a glance of strange meaning toward heaven, "oh, men! they are the same everywhere, cruel, unnatural, and heartless!"
He walked about for a few moments, muttering certain words in a language the Indian did not understand; then he returned quickly to him, and pressing his hand, said, with feverish energy:—
"Well, then, I accept your proposition; our fate is the same, and we ought not to separate again. Victims both of the spite of man, we will live together; you have saved my life, Redskin; at the first impulse I was vexed at it, but now I thank Providence, as I can still do good, and force men to blush at their ingratitude."
This speech was far too full of philosophic precepts for Sparrowhawk thoroughly to understand it; still, he caught its sense, that was enough for him, as he was too glad to find in his companion a man afflicted by similar misfortunes to his own.
"Let my father open his ears," he said; "he will remain here while I go and find a horse for him; there are many manadas in the neighbourhood, and I shall soon have what we want; my father will be patient during Sparrowhawk's absence. I will leave him food and drink."
"Go," the stranger said; and two hours later the Indian returned with a magnificent steed.
Several days were then spent in vagabond marches, though each took them deeper into the desert. The stranger seemed afraid of meeting white men; but with the exception of the story he had told of his narrow escape from death, he maintained an obstinate silence as to his past life. The Indian knew not then who he was, nor why he had ventured so far into the desert at the risk of perishing. Each time Sparrowhawk asked him any details about his life he turned the conversation, and that so adroitly, that the Indian could never bring him back to the starting point. One day, as they were rambling along side by side, talking, Sparrowhawk, who was rather vexed at the slight confidence the stranger placed in him, asked categorically—
"My father was a great chief in his nation?"
The stranger smiled sorrowfully.
"Perhaps," he answered; "but now I am nothing."
"My father is mistaken," the Indian said, seriously; "the warriors of his nation may not have valued him, but he still remains the same."
"All that is smoke," the stranger replied. "The love of country is the greatest and noblest passion the Master of Life has placed in the heart of man—my father had a revered name among his people."
The stranger frowned, and his face assumed an expression the Indian had never seen before.
"My name is a curse," he said, "no one will hear it uttered again; it has been like a brand seared on my forehead by the partisans of the man whom I, humble as I am, helped to overthrow."
Sparrowhawk made a gesture of supreme disdain.
"The chief of the nation must return to his warriors: if he betrays them, they are masters of his scalp," he said, in a firm voice.
The stranger, surprised at being so well understood by this primitive man, smiled proudly.
"In demanding his head," he said, "I staked my own; I wished to save my country. Who can blame me?"
"No one," Sparrowhawk replied, quickly; "every warrior must die."
There was a lengthened silence; Sparrowhawk was the first to break it.
"We are destined," he said, "to live long days together, my father wishes his name to remain unknown, and I will not insist on knowing it; still, we cannot wander about at hazard, we must find a tribe to adopt us, men to recognize us as brothers."
"For what purpose?"
"To be strong and everywhere respected: we owe it to our brothers, as they owe it to us; life is only a loan which the Master of Life makes us, on the condition that it is profitable to those who surround us. By what name shall I present my father to the men from whom we may ask asylum and protection?"
"By any you please, my son; as I am no longer to hear my own, any other is a matter of indifference to me."
Sparrowhawk reflected for an instant.
"My father is strong," he said, "his scalp is beginning to resemble the snows of winter, he will henceforth be called the White Buffalo."
"The White Buffalo; be it so," the stranger answered, with a sigh; "that name is as good as another; perhaps I shall thus escape the weapons of those who have sworn my death."
The Indian, charmed at knowing how henceforth to call his friend, then said to him, joyfully—
"In a few days we shall reach a village of Blood Indians or Kenhas, where we shall be received as if we were sons of the nation; my father is wise, I am strong, the Kenhas will be happy to receive us; courage, old father! this country of adoption will be, perhaps, worth your own."
"France, farewell!" the stranger uttered, in a choking voice.
Four days later they reached the village of the Kenhas, where a friendly reception was given them.
"Well," Sparrowhawk said to his companion, after they had been adopted according to all the Indian rites, "what does my father think? Is he happy?"
"I fancy," the other said, with a melancholy air, "that nothing can restore the exile the country he has lost."
Days, months, years, passed away: the White Buffalo seemed to have completely renounced that country which he was forbidden ever to see again. He had completely adopted Indian customs, and, through his wisdom, had so thoroughly acquired the esteem and respect of the Kenha nation, that he was counted among the most revered sachems.
Sparrowhawk, after giving on many occasions undeniable proofs of his courage and military talents, had gained also a firm and honourable place in the nation. If an experienced chief were required for a dangerous expedition, he was ever selected by the council of the sachems, for they knew that success constantly crowned his enterprises. Sparrowhawk was a man of clear mind, who at once understood the intellectual value of his European friend; obedient to the old man's lessons, he never acted under any circumstances without having taken his advice, and always followed his counsels: hence he speedily began reaping the advantage of his skilful conduct. Thus, when he two years later married a Kenha girl, and when his wife made him father of a boy, he took him in his arms, and presented him to the old man, saying, with great emotion:
"The White Buffalo sees this warrior, he is his son, my father will make a man of him."
"I swear it," the old man replied, firmly.
When the child was weaned, the father kept the promise he had made his friend, and gave him his son, leaving him at liberty to educate the boy as he thought fit. The old man, rejuvenated by the hope of this education, which gave him the chance of making a man after his own heart of this frail creature, joyfully accepted the difficult task. The child received from its parents the name of Natah Otann, a significant name, for it is that borne by the most dangerous animal of Northern America, the grizzly bear.
Natah Otann made rapid progress under the guidance of the White Buffalo. The latter had a few books by him, which enabled him to give his pupil a very extensive education, and make him very learned. Thence resulted the strange circumstance of an Indian, who, while following exactly the customs of his fathers, hunting and fighting like them, and who was now leading his tribe, being at the same time a distinguished man, who would not have been out of place in any European drawing room, and whose great intellect had understood and appreciated everything.
Singularly enough, Natah Otann, on attaining manhood, far from despising his countrymen, brutalized and ignorant as they were, felt an ardent love for them, and a violent desire to regenerate them. From that moment his life had an object, which was the constant preoccupation of his existence—to restore the Indians to the rank from which they had fallen, by combining them into a great and powerful nation. The White Buffalo, the confidant of all the young chief's thoughts, at first accepted these projects with the sceptical smile of old men, who, having grown weary of everything, have retained no hope in the depths of their heart: he fancied that Natah Otann, under the impression of youthful ardour, let himself be carried away by an unreflecting movement, whose folly he would soon recognize. But when able to appreciate how deeply these ideas were rooted in the young man's heart, when he saw him set resolutely to work, the old man trembled, and was afraid of his handiwork. He asked himself if he had done well in acting as he had done, in developing so fully this chosen intellect, which alone, and with no other support than its will, was about to undertake a struggle in which it must inevitably succumb.
He then sought to destroy with his own hands the edifice he had built with so much labour: he wished to turn in another direction the ardour that devoured his pupil, and give another object to his life, by changing his plan. It was too late. The evil was irremediable. Natah Otann, on seeing his master thus contradict himself, defeated him with his own weapons, and obliged him to bow his head before the merciless blows of that logic he had himself taught his pupil.
Natah Otann was a strange composite of good and evil; in him all was in extreme. At times, the most noble feelings seemed to reside in him; he was good and generous; then, suddenly, his ferocity and cruelty attained gigantic proportions, which terrified the Indians themselves. Still, he was generally good and gentle toward his countrymen, who, unaware of the cause, but subject to his influences, feared him, and trembled at a word that fell from his lips, or a simple frown.
The white men, and especially the Spaniards and Americans, were Natah Otann's implacable enemies; he waged a merciless war on them, attacking them wherever he could surprise them, and killing, under the most horrible tortures, those who were so unhappy as to fall into his hands. Hence his reputation on the prairies was great; the terror he inspired was extreme; several times already the United States had tried to get rid of this terrible and implacable foe; but all their plans failed, and the Indian chief, bolder and more cruel than ever, drew nearer to the American frontier, reigned uncontrolled in the desert, of which he was absolute lord, and at times went, fire and sword in hand, to the very cities of the Union to demand that tribute which he claimed even from white men.
We must not be taxed with exaggeration. All we here narrate is scrupulously exact; and if we now and then alter facts, it is only to weaken them. If we uncovered the incognito that veils our characters, many of our readers would recognize them at the first glance, and certify to the truth of our statements.
A terrible scene of massacre, of which Natah Otann was the originator, had aroused general indignation against him. The facts are as follow:—
An American family, consisting of father, mother, two sons of about twelve, a little girl between three and four years of age, and five servants, left the Western States with the intention of working a claim they had bought on the Upper Mississippi. At the period we are writing of, white men rarely traversed these districts, which were entirely left to the Indians, who wandered over them in every direction, and, with a few half-bred and Canadian hunters and trappers, were the sole masters of these vast solitudes. On leaving the clearings, their friends warned the emigrants to be on their guard. They had been advised not to enter into the desert in so small a body, but await other emigrants, who would soon proceed to the same spot; for a caravan of fifty to sixty determined men might pass safe and sound through the Indians.
The head of the American family was an old soldier of the war of independence, gifted with heroic courage, and thorough British obstinacy. He answered coldly, to those who gave him this advice, that his servants and himself could hold their own against all the Prairie Indians; for they had good rifles and firm hearts, and would reach their claim in the face of all opposition. Then he made his preparations like a man whose mind, being made up, admits of no delay, and he started against the judgment of his friends, who predicted numberless misfortunes. The first few days, however, passed quietly enough, and nothing happened to confirm these predictions. The Americans advanced peacefully through a delicious country, and no sign revealed the approach of the Indians, who seemed to have become invisible.
The Americans are men who pass most easily from extreme prudence to the most foolish and rash confidence, and on this occasion were true to their character. When they saw that all was quiet around them, and no obstacle checked their progress, they began to laugh and deride the apprehensions of their friends; they gradually relaxed in their vigilance; neglected the precautions usual on the prairie; and at last almost wished to be attacked by Indians, to make them feel the weight of their arms. Things went on thus for nearly two months; the emigrants were not more than ten days' march from their claim; they no longer thought of the Indians: if at times they alluded to them in the evening, before going to sleep, it was only to laugh at the absurd fears of their friends, who fancied it impossible to take a step in the desert without falling into an ambuscade of the Redskins.
One night, after a fatiguing day, the emigrants went to bed, after placing sentries round the camp, rather to keep wild beasts off than through any other motive; the sentinels, accustomed not to be troubled, and fatigued by their day's labours, watched for a few moments, then their eyelids gradually sank, and they fell asleep. Their awakening was destined to be terrible.
About midnight, fifty Blackfeet, led by Natah Otann, glided like demons in the darkness, clambered into the encampment, and ere the Americans could seize their weapons, or even dream of defence, they were bound. Then a horrible scene took place, the frightful interludes of which the pen is impotent to describe. Natah Otann organised the massacre, if we may be allowed to employ the term, with unexampled coolness and cruelty. The chief of the party and his five servants were stripped and attached to trees, flogged, and martyrized, while the two lads were literally roasted alive in their presence. The mother, half mad with terror, escaped, carrying off her little girl in her arms: but, after running a long distance, her strength failed her, and she fell senseless. The Indians caught her up; imagining her to be dead, they disdained to scalp her; but they carried off the child, which she pressed to her bosom with almost herculean strength. The child was taken back to Natah Otann.
"What shall we do with it?" the warrior asked, who presented it to him.
"Into the fire!" he replied, laconically.
The Blackfoot calmly prepared to execute the pitiless order he had received.
"Stop!" the father cried with a piercing shriek. "Do not kill an innocent creature in that horrible manner. Are not the atrocious tortures you inflict on us enough?"
The Blackfoot hesitated, and looked at his chief; the latter reflected.
"Stay," he said, raising his hand, and addressing the emigrant; "you wish your child to live?"
"Yes!" the father answered.
"Good!" he answered, "I will sell you her life."
The American shuddered at this proposition. "On what terms?" he asked.
"Listen!" he said, laying a stress on every word, and darting at him a glance which made him tremble to the marrow. "My conditions are these. I am master of all your lives; they belong to me; I can prolong or cut them short without the slightest opposition from you; but, I hardly know why," he added, with a sardonic smile, "I feel merciful today; your child shall live. Still, remember this; whatever the nature of the torture I inflict on you, at the first cry you utter, your child shall be strangled. You have it in your power to save her if you will."
"I accept," the other answered. "What do I care for the most atrocious torture, so long as my child lives?"
A sinister smile played round the chief's lips. "It is well," he said.
"One word more."
"Speak."
"Grant me a single favour; let me give a last kiss to this poor creature."
"Give him his child," the chief commanded.
An Indian presented the little girl to the wretched man. The innocent, as if comprehending what was taking place, put her arms round her father's neck, and burst into tears. The latter, frightfully bound as he was, could only bestow kisses on her, into which his whole soul passed. The scene had something hideous about it; it resembled a witches' Sabbath. The five men fastened naked to trees, the children twisting on the burning charcoal, and uttering piercing cries, and these stoical Indians, illumined by the ruddy glow of the fire, completed the most fearful picture that the wildest imagination could have invented.